by Graham Ison
“Yes, but wouldn’t that leave Jack Armitage with a bit of a stigma?”
“I don’t think so. The whole thing could be veiled under the guise of some complicated intelligence operation with international ramifications – you know the sort of stories they come up with. It happens all the time.”
“Does it?” asked Gaffney, not very hopefully. “We’d have to persuade MI5 to go along with that.”
Hussey smiled. “We can leave that to Sir Edward Griffin,” he said. “He started the bloody thing off. I think you’re worrying unnecessarily, John. All we do is release them both; Sir Edward can tell his blokes that it was part of a wider plan that didn’t come off – or for that matter, did come off. It matters not.”
“I wish I had your confidence, sir.”
“Ah, but then you’re not a commander,” said Hussey.
*
At ten past six on Thursday evening, the combined observation team assigned to Armitage had reported his leaving the Battersea flat. Strictly observing the speed limit – he didn’t want to be stopped by the police at this stage – he drove through Wandsworth and along the Upper Richmond Road. Negotiating the center of Richmond, he crossed the bridge into Twickenham, then followed the course of the river until he reached Teddington Lock. It was the same route that he had followed previously. Early once more, he parked again in Ferry Road and waited.
Meanwhile, the team concentrating on Dickson remained at the ready in the vicinity of his flat, north of Oxford Street.
Adhering strictly to the timetable, Armitage left his car and crossed the footbridge. This time he was more relaxed than before and made his way almost directly to the horse-chestnut tree and dropped his drink can into the slot in the trunk. With a quick glance round, he felt about for the screwed up newspaper, and stuffed it quickly inside his jacket; then he continued his stroll.
“I’ve got a couple of good shots of him, guv’nor,” said the voice through the earpiece of Dobbs’s personal radio. Dobbs raised his arm and spoke into the microphone secreted in his sleeve. “Thanks, Dick. Hang on there for the next one, will you.”
“Roger.” The voice of the photographer, lying flat on the roof of the block of flats in Strawberry Vale, acknowledged Dobbs’s instruction, and settled down to await the arrival of Dickson.
“Are you going to lift him now, sir?” asked Francis Wisley, the detective inspector who was Dobbs’s deputy in the case.
“Where’s Dickson? What’s the latest report?” The question was directed as much to Geoffrey Hodder as it was to Wisley; each was monitoring the radio transmissions of the other surveillance team.
“Still not left his place in town, sir,” said Wisley.
“What’s his game, then? Don’t tell me there’s been a change of plan. Anyway, we’re clear to nick Armitage, but we’ll let him run a bit, just in case Dickson’s playing a substitute today; just our luck, that’d be. You stay here, just in case, and I’ll go and collect the galloping major.”
Taking a sergeant, a constable and one of the MI5 officers, Dobbs crossed the bridge, following the path that Armitage had taken a few minutes before. Dobbs knew exactly where he was; the rest of the team had taken care of that, and as he stepped down into Ferry Road, he was just in time to see Armitage’s car turn right into Twickenham Road.
Dobbs had already arranged to have a marked police car standing by, and now tuned his car radio to the channel reserved for traffic division. As Armitage’s car headed along Strawberry Vale and into Cross Deep, the white Rover, with its two blue lights on the roof, pulled out of Waldegrave Road. The first that Armitage knew of its presence was when he heard a quick burst of siren and glanced in his rear-view mirror to see the flashing blue lights. In common with most motorists in such situations, he glanced quickly at his speedometer before pulling into the kerb.
It was not, however, a member of the uniformed crew of the police car who approached him, but a man in plain clothes, accompanied by two others, who appeared beside his door and opened it.
“Major James Armitage, I am a police officer,” said Dobbs. “Would you mind stepping out of the car, please.”
Armitage stepped out into the roadway. Although he had been expecting police action at some stage of the operation, the presence of the traffic car had confused him. Dobbs, however, knew that one of the more dangerous moments of policing was to attempt to stop a suspect vehicle when driving an unmarked police car.
“I have a warrant for your arrest for passing classified information to an unauthorized person,” said Dobbs. “I must warn you that anything you say will be put into writing and may be given in evidence.” Armitage had heard the familiar sentence a hundred times on television, and had been expecting it ever since his first meeting with Gaffney when he had agreed to undertake the assignment. But it was still a shock. “I shall now take you to a police station where you will be charged.”
Armitage wasn’t quite sure what one was supposed to say in circumstances like this, and so he said the first thing which came into his head. Ironically it, was what most people said: “I think there must be some mistake.”
“I’m afraid there’s no mistake, Major Armitage.” He hoped to God there wasn’t; this bloke was pretty cool. And it was just possible that he had left a cache of obscene photographs in the DLB; Dobbs had known that happen before.
They drove the short distance to Twickenham police station to be greeted by a custody officer somewhat surprised that a Special Branch superintendent should be bringing in a prisoner.
“Turn out your pockets, Major Armitage,” said the sergeant.
Dobbs surveyed Armitage’s belongings when they were laid out on the charge-room table. They consisted of the expected contents of a man’s pockets: wallet, cigarettes, lighter, loose change, handkerchief, and in Armitage’s case, a military identity card. In addition, there was a piece of screwed-up newspaper. Carefully, Dobbs spread it out; in the center was one hundred pounds.
Dobbs smiled. “Your birthright for a mess of potage,” he said adapting the Genesis quotation. Armitage shrugged. “Put him in a cell,” said Dobbs to the custody sergeant. “I shall have him transferred to Rochester Row very shortly.” He turned to the sergeant who had been with him when the arrest was made. “Where’s the car?”
“Being brought in by one of the traffic blokes, sir.”
Dobbs nodded. “Good. Have that transferred to Rochester Row as soon as you can. And you can stand guard over it while it’s here; I don’t want any of our uniformed colleagues putting their grubby hands all over it.” The custody sergeant frowned, but straightened his face as Dobbs turned to him. “I shall leave my two officers here until Major Armitage is removed,” he said. “In the meantime, he is to have no contact with anyone, and that means solicitors as well.”
“But, sir, PACE—”
“I know all about the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, skip, and I know also, as you should, that if I say no contact, it’s no contact. If you get any press enquiries – and if you do, I shall mount a full-scale enquiry – you are to make no comment. You do not even admit to Major Armitage’s presence in this nick. And that includes any enquiries you might get from our own Press Bureau. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant.
That part of the operation had taken just over half an hour, and Dobbs, with the MI5 officer who had accompanied him, now made his way back to Teddington Lock. If things went according to plan, he would shortly have Dickson banged up alongside Major Armitage.
Aware that he was now back at the scene of events, Dobbs parted company with the Security Service man and sauntered casually over the footbridge from Ferry Road. Then he walked slowly along the towing path until DI Wisley caught up with him.
“One down and one to go,” said Dobbs. “What’s happening?”
“Dickson’s on the move, sir, on foot,” said Wisley, “but he’s going to be pushed to make it here at the usual time.”
*
Dickson h
adn’t vacated the flat in which he had entertained Armitage – and Tessa and Fiona – despite telling him that he had been transferred to somewhere north of London, a story which unsurprisingly had proved to be without foundation. The flat was in a block in one of the numerous little streets which nestled in the angle made by Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road, and the watchers had been able to set up a couple of good observation posts near it.
Dickson was a skilled operator and worked on the assumption that he was being watched constantly. His countersurveillance techniques were practised enough to give the impression that he was indecisive, and uncertain as to his precise destination. But that was only at the outset. Once he was satisfied that he was unobserved, he would carry on normally. Such was the expertise of the watchers that he had yet to discover their presence, but he still went through the drill.
Dickson emerged from the block of flats and stood, looking up and down the street. A dark-skinned couple, a boy and a girl, were strolling by on the other side. The boy’s arm was around the girl’s waist, and she was leaning into his body. Both wore students’ uniform: dirty jeans and shapeless sweaters. A man with a briefcase walked swiftly in the opposite direction, eyes fixed on the ground; an office-worker perhaps, on his way home and heading for the tube station. Dickson watched dispassionately; they could be part of a surveillance team. He knew all about MI5 and they were good. But perhaps these people were what they seemed. He glanced at the parked cars, bordering both sides of the street, but there was no one sitting in any of them. He wouldn’t have expected it. He looked for vans; they were the usual vehicles used by watchers, but there was none.
Finally, the street was devoid of pedestrians – visible ones anyway – and Dickson set off at a slow stroll. He had to be careful. This particular day was special and he could not afford for anything to go wrong. There was no adrenalin pumping, just ice-cold reserve. He was fully in command of himself, and his years of training and experience had been brought into play to ensure the success of what he was doing. He had done it before in other countries and on other assignments, and had lived to do it again. He never took chances, although sometimes he had been forced into making sudden decisions, but every move had been planned carefully, as had the whole range of possible alternatives. Dickson would be a difficult man to catch. As a consequence, the entire journey was going to include every known twist of avoidance behavior, which would make life very difficult for the watchers.
The combined resources of Special Branch and MI5 had amassed a formidable surveillance team, some twenty-four in all. The SB team, under the redoubtable Detective Inspector Dave Wakeford, were deployed on foot; so were some of the Security Service people, but they also had a number of vehicles, including vans, one or two cars, and three motorcycles. By a miracle, they were all on the same radio network; some achievement, even in these days of modern communications. The control room was situated at the Security Service operational headquarters, but was monitored from New Scotland Yard in case urgent reference to police indexes was needed; and Detective Inspector Francis Wisley at Teddington had a personal radio linked into the operation so that he could alert Terry Dobbs when the target was approaching the DLBB.
Dickson strolled into Rathbone Place and made his way casually towards Oxford Street where he turned right, apparently making for Marble Arch. The watchers deployed themselves carefully. All too often in the past they had encountered avoidance techniques and they were waiting for Dickson to do something designed to throw them. They weren’t disappointed. When he reached Newman Street, Dickson paused at the traffic lights, looked around, and then crossed over. Then he turned to his left, retracing his route, but on the opposite side of the road. “He’s at it again,” said one of the watchers into his wrist microphone.
Dickson looked into one or two shop windows, then turned and walked to the kerb. He waited for some seconds, glancing around, before hailing a cab going towards Marble Arch.
This information was transmitted to control, together with the plate number of the cab. By now, the controller had Dickson’s and the surveillance teams’ precise locations plotted on a huge street map of central London. He noted that one of the motor-cyclists, call-sign Delta, was now waiting in Rathbone Place. “He’s yours, Delta,” said control, and repeated the plate number. Then he moved the magnetic disc bearing a large letter D into Oxford Street behind the red marker indicating the cab, and waited.
“He’s done a U-turn,” said Delta. “I’m right behind him.”
“Is that a woman?” asked Detective Sergeant Randle, the SB liaison officer.
The controller grinned. “Sure is,” he said. “Best motorcyclist in the business.” He looked at the map again, and started to issue instructions to the radio operator to move the other mobiles to locations where they would be instantly available to take over from the girl motor-cyclist should the journey prove to be a long one; it was necessary to prevent suspicion being aroused. “Well,” said the controller, stretching his arms above his head, “it doesn’t look as though he’s going to Teddington.”
“Could be going to Waterloo to catch a train down there, I suppose,” said the Special Branch man, also looking at the map.
The controller nodded, non-committally. “Anybody’s guess.”
“Past Center Point. New Oxford Street. Right into Shaftesbury Avenue. Delta over.” Then a little later: “Naughty! He’s jumped the lights, and across into Endell Street.”
The controller was at his map again, redeploying his mobiles. “Beats me,” he said. “What the hell’s he up to?”
Meanwhile, Dave Wakeford’s team of Special Branch foot-surveillance officers were swearing and cursing, and piling into a battered transit van that the DI had thoughtfully arranged to have parked in a side-street against just such an occurrence.
“I’m putting someone in to leap-frog you, Delta,” said the controller.
“Don’t bother. The roads are too narrow. There are bits of pavement sticking out in Endell Street; I nearly came off just now,” said Delta. “Long Acre – Bow Street – past the magistrates’ court…”
“How fitting,” murmured the sergeant with an irony that was lost on the controller.
“Right into Russell Street and stopping, Delta over.”
Wakeford and his team, having broken just about every traffic law on the statute book, were now only yards behind the lone motor-cyclist, and the transit braked sharply just before reaching the Russell Street turn. “Out quickly,” shouted Wakeford, and the half of his team that were with him baled out and spread. He let them go. “Control from Zulu One,” he said into his sleeve. “He’s into the Covent Garden complex, strolling. Get the rest of the Zulu team down here ASAP, over.” And he too followed Dickson.
Observing the movements of a target in a crowded area like Covent Garden is easier than it might at first seem. Provided that the watchers are stationed at strategic points, it is a case simply of handing the target over from one to the other; but the placing of watchers – if they are not to be noticed – requires great skill and experience. Dave Wakeford possessed both.
Dickson sauntered through Central Avenue, occasionally stopping to gaze into shop windows with no apparent purpose in mind.
“Control from Zulu Four. He doesn’t seem to be going anywhere particular. Keeps looking at his watch; I reckon he’s got a meet. Over.”
“Control from Zulu Two. Gone through the alleyway to the Henrietta Street side; still window-shopping. Coming back again. Gone through to the other side now – still looking at shops. Oh Christ, he’s coming back again, into the center. He’s leaning over the railings now, looking down into the lower court – where the steak bar and the pub are.”
Dickson continued to wander aimlessly about the old market, looking in shop windows and poking around in the merchandise on the open stalls. He stood awhile in the center, watching the accomplished performance of an accordionist who managed to combine his musical talents with some footwork that would hav
e done credit to a Cossack. Dickson seemed engrossed in the show, but suddenly glanced up and carefully scanned the people standing on the other side of the ring of spectators, clearly looking for someone who was looking at him rather than at the accordionist. It was an old trick, and one with which the watchers were familiar; it was the man immediately behind Dickson who was watching him.
The control-room officers, and Dobbs and Hodder at Teddington, were now debating what Dickson was up to; it was well past the time that he should have made his collection at the DLB. Gaffney could have made an accurate guess, but prudence dictated that he and Tipper had to wait in silence – and ignorance.
“Now he’s having a cup of coffee, lucky sod. I reckon he’s waiting to make a meet, Zulu Five over.”
Dickson was indeed taking things easily, sitting at one of the tables in the center of the complex, sipping coffee and reading an evening paper. But he was never relaxed; from time to time he looked around, shooting searching glances in unexpected directions. He could have been waiting for someone, expecting them and seeking them, but the team knew better; he was looking for watchers.
“We’re on the move again, Zulu Seven over.” The transmission was backed by snatches of accordion music.
“Looks like back to Russell Street, Zulu Six over.”
“He’s making a call from one of those phones in Russell Street; dammit, I can’t get near enough to see what he’s dialing, Zulu One over.” It was Wakeford back on the air.
There was a three or four-minute pause, then: “Zulu Six to control. On foot… across Bow Street… he’s done a right into Catherine Street. Now into Aldwych, going towards Kingsway, on the north side. He’s stopped. Christ! He’s looking at the menu in the Waldorf Palm Court. Anyone got any money?” There was a pause, then: “Panic off… on the move again… Zulu Six over.”
