by Albert Able
Known to his closes friends and associates simply as The Boss, a term inherited from his SAS days, Sir Adrian Jordan had, as the last head of SONIC, been frequently required to send his small team into action, usually to rectify situations too sensitive for the public’s perception of democracy to explain. Then with the Cold War over, they had more frequently been called upon to remove an occasional upstart dictator or drug baron.
Their last and most dangerous commission had been the destruction of The Syndicate, the powerful international crime organisation led by five unscrupulous, disaffected industrial tycoons. The leader, a lawyer and disgraced diplomat; the second in command, a debarred lawyer; the other three, former industrial tycoons, each of whom had been caught with their fingers in the cookie jar of the public companies they were controlling.
The Boss, together with the skill and daring of his prime agent, Alex Scott, believed that they had finally eliminated them all.
Unknown to them, however, the leader had cunningly slipped through their fingers in the final encounter.
Alex arrived promptly at the appointed time, ten o’clock.
“Mr Scott?” questioned the smartly attired porter.
“Correct,” Alex confirmed with a smile.
“Follow me please, Sir Adrian is expecting you.”
Alex followed obediently. As they paced silently across the great reception hall, Alex was aware of numerous faces he presumed to be of old members, staring questioningly from the lifeless portraits adorning the ancient walls. As he stared back, he became increasingly aware of the artisan nature of the characters; several were outlandishly attired artists or bohemian sculptors, but perhaps even more surprisingly, mixed amongst them were a number of haughtily posing gentlemen, in a variety of military uniforms.
“Thank you Henshaw.”
Sir Adrian interrupted Alex’s thoughts as he entered a large panelled room.
“Good morning Alex. Thank you for coming at such short notice.”
He held out his hand.
Alex warmly accepted the gesture. “Always a pleasure, Boss.” His face creased in a cheeky smile: “I just didn’t expect you to be as member of the Chelsea Arts Club?”
“Ah, I see you need to improve your impoverished education.” The Boss looked despairingly at Alex. “You see, this is one of the few London clubs where women are allowed membership!” He gave an exaggerated wink. Then taking hold of Alex’s elbow, he steered him purposefully to a well-worn high backed leather-bound chair.
“Now, look here. Are you genuinely telling me that you do not know the history of this distinguished establishment?”
“No, but I think you’re about to tell me?” Alex settled into the comfortable chair.
“Very well then - and only to improve your woefully inadequate knowledge of our great British military history.”
The Boss looked away and waved his hand in a wide gesture: “This club has and still exists as a gathering place for students from the Chelsea College of Art, who have always regarded it as ‘their club,’ as did numerous broader minded middle-aged citizens in the past. People of many different social and economic groups easily mix here, when they would almost certainly not be able to do so elsewhere.”
The Boss looked towards Alex, his expression clearly recalling his pride in the Club’s distinguished history. “But that is probably why it was in this very room that the ‘Artists Rifle’ regiment was formed during the First World War.”
He pointed to a carefully polished plaque over the mantle place. “It was undoubtedly their unconventional attitudes and open minds that ensured the success and survival of those scruffy undisciplined artists and why almost certainly they eventually evolved into the now legendry SAS.” Sir Adrian sat back and raised a bushy eyebrow.
Alex shook his head in genuine wonder “Honestly, I had no idea.”
Now he also understood the presence of the uniformed portraits staring from the rather drab ancient walls.
“Anyway history lesson over, I have a more urgent and worrying matters to discuss.”
Sir Adrian sat back in his chair as Henshaw reappeared with two large crystal glasses, one of which clinked occasionally as the ice cubes and a slice of green lime moved around in the clear liquid.
“Thank you.” Sir Adrian muttered as Henshaw placed the glass on a coaster in front of him.
“I understand freshly pressed orange juice for you, Sir?”
“That’s correct, thank you.” Alex smiled gratefully as Henshaw positioned the glass on the table and then seemed to glide silently away, the door of the lofty old room closing noiselessly behind him.
“Alex, I need to run some facts past you.” The Boss carefully picked up his drink.
“Now I know that SONIC no longer exists and you have your own successful enterprise now but - and here is the problem. I recently had that funny old feeling about some strange goings on and it smells exactly like Syndicate.”
Alex had idly wondered what his old master could have wanted and had visualised that perhaps some piece of security equipment had failed or perhaps he needed a minor surveillance job. So when without any preamble the name ‘Syndicate’ was announced, his pulse quickened as that familiar old adrenalin flush pumped into his veins and his instincts were instantly alerted.
“Syndicate, you think? Surely not?” Alex repeated casually, trying to sound disinterested and took a measured taste of his orange juice.
The Boss was not fooled; he knew his man too well and raising his own glass he took a gusty draught, savoured the flavour for a moment and then deliberately replaced the glass on the coaster.
“Yes, Syndicate - and I’ll tell you why.” The Boss put his hands together in front of his face and tapped his index fingers together, remaining deep in thought for a brief moment, before looking up again at the attentive Alex. “You know they’ve built this new GCHQ at Cheltenham. Spent untold millions on this futuristic ‘Mushroom’ as the locals call it. Well, now all MI5 and MI6’s communications, together with a few other bits and pieces, are housed under the one roof. All in the interests of efficiency I understand. The trouble is, that although the service is now manned by a bunch of well meaning people, each loaded down with draws full of flowery certificates and all sorts of degrees or diplomas for this that and the other; trouble is, there isn’t anyone there who understands what real action is.”
The Boss wrinkled his forehead and shook his head in disbelief before rolling his dry lips. “They don’t understand it because they dumped us all!”
He growled, took a short sip of his drink and looked Alex in the face. “Bit early for a Gordon’s and Tonic I know, but it helps me think!”
The Boss put the glass down again.
“At least the one little thing they got right, Alex.” The Boss’s eyes twinkled thoughtfully as he picked up his glass again but did not drink. “Although they closed us down formally, occasionally they still call on me for a bit of advice, informally of course. Usually minor things, so I didn’t consider it to be too important when I received a call from old Watkins. Do you remember him?”
Alex nodded. “The analyst chap, who used to live almost permanently in the basement at Horse Guards?”
“That’s him. Well, they kept him on, mostly as a sort of filing clerk just to let him work out his time so that he could claim maximum pension and all that. Anyway, he’s been working away in his little warren deep inside the Mushroom, almost unnoticed ever since they transferred him there.” The Boss shook his head in wonder.
“Anyway, whilst he was filing some routine reports recently, he came across a couple of very strange items and his natural suspicious mind was further aroused when he also spotted an unusual duplication of the notes referring to two Vietnamese citizens both of whom were travelling first to the UK with one Commercial Visa and then to Norway with a
nother Commercial Visa. Then they travelled on to China with yet another, but the Commercial applicants were different on each occasion.
“Now there’s nothing really strange about that. Businesses conduct overseas contracts through a variety of different commercial, often offshore vehicles for a variety of legitimate reasons.” The Boss paused. “However, had Watkins not read a short article in his morning paper, those simple facts would not have meant anything. But when he learned that two Vietnamese computer wizards on an incentive trip to New York had been killed in a mysterious helicopter explosion, his curiosity was naturally alerted and so he decided to research the case in greater depth.
“Two days ago he called me here on my mobile telephone and explained it all to me.” The Boss pulled the instrument from his pocket and placed it on the table. “Not supposed to use them in the Club of course but in here, providing you’re alone nobody cares. Anyway, I asked him to report back as soon as possible with the result of his inquiries. I had been hoping that he could be here this morning to report to both of us in person. So now, here’s where I started to get that bad feeling. I have since learned that Watkins did not report for work yesterday and is not answering his home telephone. He lives alone, so someone from the department called at the house to check that he was okay but apparently he was not at home!”
The Boss looked at Alex. “I’m sorry but I suspect that he has been got at, had an accident or something!”
Alex sat up. “What kind of accident? Are you saying that he’s been murdered?”
“I don’t have the details yet,” the Boss looked grave, “but I felt that old tingle,” he scratched the back of his neck, “and it has never failed me before.” He shook his head slightly. “It feels far too much like a Syndicate-style situation to be ignored.”
Alex looked up thoughtfully at the ancient oil painting above the fireplace as he absorbed the shocking possibility. “But I thought that we’d cleaned them out.”
He focused on the eyes of the soldier staring defiantly from the portrait. “My God if you’re right....” He didn’t finish as the door opened and Henshaw coughed politely.
“Most urgent call, Sir Adrian.” He proffered the walkabout telephone.
“Thank you, I’ll take it here.” The Boss took the instrument and Henshaw left.
“Hello, to whom am I speaking?” The Boss said into the telephone innocently. “Ah yes, do you have anything?”
The Boss’s face was grave as he listened.
“Oh dear,” he said with feeling. “Well, thank you for that. Keep me posted please.”
Looking grim he put the telephone on the table.
“Seems as though I still have a few reliable contacts,” he pursed his lips, and then took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.
“I’m afraid that poor old Watkins was found in some alleyway here in London, he was unconscious and apparently stoned out of his mind. They took him to Accident and Emergency at St Mary’s Paddington but he never regained consciousness.”
The Boss stared at the wall. “You asked if I was saying he has been murdered. Then yes, I am saying just that. What do you think?”
Alex was silent for a moment he needed to think. The idea that the Syndicate may be raising its ugly head again was astonishing and yet the potential challenge gave him an almost painful thrill.
“I think you had better let me see how good your contacts are. I’d like to have a little look at the facts and so I’d want to start at GCHQ Cheltenham, always assuming you can get me in there?”
The Boss smiled, leaned across and slapped Alex’s knee accepting the challenge. “Twenty four hours, my boy, just give me twenty four hours.”
***
Hans de Wolf and Alex Scott had remained close friends ever since they served together in the Royal Navy as fresh young officers.
The relationship had taken on another meaning when the pair who had been posted, with their ship, to the Far East were relaxing ashore one evening, when the café they were sitting in was blown apart by a terrorist bomb. Alex, by sheer fluke escaped the worst of the blast and then ignoring the risk from the small arms fire being poured into the wrecked café by the attackers, managed to drag his unconscious colleague from the rubble to safety, where he was able to control the bleeding from Hans’ mutilated leg until the Paramedics arrived.
In spite of the emergency surgery Hans eventually lost the leg but it was Alex’s selfless action that had saved his life. Since that terrifying day their lives had crossed several times, often in the most harassing circumstances, especially in those early SONIC years, and now, appropriately, they were partners in their own highly successful Security and Surveillance business.
Hans was by profession a diamond assessor but his passion had always been electronics. It was in the course of his lifelong experience in that field that he had developed some highly advanced radio signal detection devices and so was now able to use them exclusively to advance their sophisticated fledgling security business.
Named CTB Securities, they operated from a workshop in Sheppard’s Market.
When they first started up it was the Boss who had recommended the installation of the new security system at the ‘Horse Guards offices’. The system had so impressed the department chief that they were also awarded the contract to ‘up-grade’ systems in several other offices. Subsequently the Boss, thrilled by his protégé’s success, arranged for Alex and Hans to be invited to a promotion at a high level Foreign Office trade reception where he was convinced they would find even more eager buyers.
The prospective clients were mostly Western Government agencies and initially appeared to show little interest in their product. Later however over the top of the statutory cup of tea, they received several whispered requests for clandestine employment of their special services.
Alex told them with a stern face: “You need to understand that this technology is not for sale other than for legitimate activity!”
None the less each of the potential buyers nodded polite understanding and passed over their ‘business cards’.
When it was all over Hans approached the Boss, demanding emphatically:
“Our services are only available to the home team, right?”
“Understood, and don’t worry. I can tell you who’s kosher and who’s not out of that lot,” the Boss agreed cheerfully. He changed the subject. “So come on now, I’ve been trying to work it out. What does it stand for, this ‘CTB’?”
The Boss had asked finally giving up trying to guess the meaning.
Alex insisted: “OK, but only because you gave us our first contract and it stays in house?”
“Of course,’ he asked eagerly. ‘So what is it then?’
“It’s very simple really,” Alex smiled at Hans. “CTB is short for CATCH THE BUGGERS.” Alex chuckled.
The Boss’s face sank in despair. “My God and to think you were my best operator?”
***
Following his meeting with the Boss at the Chelsea club, Alex called on Hans and explained the mystery of the dead agent Watkins and his intention to do the Boss, ‘a bit of a favour,’ by having a quick look at the situation.
“I also think it would be a bit of a challenge if I could get into GCHQ - complete with one of our new micro transmitters?”
Hans laughed, and said: “I’d need to set it up for a very short range and post myself in a car park nearby, otherwise even the micro-compressed transmission could be detected - but I do agree it would be fun to try.”
He limped towards the door then turned with a cheeky grin on his usually passive features. “How many years will you get if caught?”
“Oh, eight to ten, I guess,” replied Alex, happily.
“Um,” Hans mumbled, “might just be worth it, at least it would keep you from sponging on me for a few years!”
<
br /> Hans did not mean it, of course, it was just the playful banter that had been a feature of their long relationship. Alex, a Jerseyman, was always accused by Hans of being “tighter than any Jew” and Hans, a Dutchman and one of the very few Gentiles ever to work with the exclusive International Diamond Executive, was, Alex would accuse, like the original ‘copper wire’ Dutchman.
In Holland, legend has it that copper wire was invented when a Dutchman, reputed for his thrift, held on to one side of a copper penny and a Jewish gentleman held onto the other, each emphatically claiming ownership of the coin. Neither would let go; eventually they both pulled so hard that the penny began to stretch. They continued to pull until the coin became the first ever length of copper wire. Naturally they both went on to make a fortune.
The following day equipped with the pass and documents supplied by the Boss, Alex found himself at the entrance of GCHQ.
The guard read from the pass: “Mr Scott?”
“That’s me.” Alex smiled weakly. “I have an appointment to see the head of archives.”
“OK Sir. Just fill out this form please and state the nature of your business in the last column.” The guard turned away to answer another query. Alex quickly completed the simple questionnaire and passed it back across the counter.
The guard returned and looked at Alex as if he had never seen him before. “Can I help you?’ Oh yes,’ he suddenly remembered, ‘an appointment, wasn’t it?”
He picked up the form, glanced at it briefly, then tore the bottom section off and placed it tidily into a tray. He then slipped the remaining piece into a clip-on badge with VISITOR PASS in fluorescent orange blazon across the top.
“Pin this on please, sir, and wait over there. Someone will be with you in a couple of minutes.”
Alex obediently pinned on his ‘Visitors Pass’ and waited as instructed. Within five minutes a smartly suited young man appeared. “Mr Scott?” He held out his hand. “How do you do, I’m Roger Miller. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
