Motorbike Men

by Duncan James

  “Our man in Harare, Group Captain Bowman, did more than Jarvis ever did, as I’ve said before,” grumbled Watkins.

  “I tend to agree,” said the Foreign Office man. “If we are going to move Jarvis, it might be a good idea to do it sooner rather than later, in case that nuclear job suddenly needs their attention.”

  “Yes, that would certainly be a major operation, and could be tricky, as we discussed earlier,” said Algar.

  “Is this the nuclear physicist?” queried Burgess of the Home Office.

  “That’s the case,” confirmed Algar. “We will get an update on that when we meet next week, but it does seem as if the threat is real and growing.”

  “If it does need some kind of action by Section 11, it will be a big operation needing very careful planning and co-ordination, probably over a long period of time. It might just be beyond Jarvis. It’s probably time he had a change of scenery, anyway” continued Forsyth, “so if there’s anyone better than him, I would recommend getting him in place as soon as possible.”

  “Anyone in mind, Robin?” asked Watkins, from Defence.

  “One of your chaps, as a matter of fact,” replied the Cabinet Secretary. “The only man I know of who could handle that sort of organisation is Major Bill Clayton.”

  “Of Northern Ireland fame, you mean?” (read ‘Their Own Game’ by Duncan James)

  “That’s the fellow. In Cyprus now, but not far short of finishing his tour, I should think.”

  “Won’t he be a bit out of touch, after three years abroad?” queried Burgess.

  “People like Clayton, doing that sort of work, make sure they don’t get out of touch,” replied Watkins huffily.

  The whole committee knew exactly whom Sir Robin Algar was talking about, and his background. They talked for some time about his suitability, and how he might be persuaded to take on the role of Head of Section. The debate about whether or not Jarvis should be replaced appeared to be over almost before it had begun.

  ***

  CHAPTER THREE – WHO KILLED UNCLE EDWARD?

  The evening sun was dropping below the sparkling Mediterranean horizon as the couple finished their meal.

  It was their favourite place. A table on the harbour wall, across the dusty road from the small bar run by Davros and Athena.

  It reminded Major Bill Clayton very much of the Old Harbour in Paphos, before it had been ruined by tourists. This tiny fishing village of Kopufano was not that far from Paphos, but far enough away to have escaped the attentions of most visitors, and to remain unspoilt and undiscovered by the holiday trade. There weren't many places like Kopufano left in Cyprus these days. But because they lived on the island, Bill and his wife Catherine were able to explore the dusty tracks and rugged coastline away from the towering hotels with their sun beds and swimming pools.

  Bill’s work at the Joint Services Signals Unit at Ayios Nikolaos in the Troodos Mountains was altogether different from his work in Northern Ireland. Intelligence work still, but altogether different. Here, he helped to run what was effectively a listening post on the Middle East. He knew, or could find out, everything that was going on in the region, much as he had known everything that was going on in Northern Ireland while he was there. Exhausted, he had left the province to sort itself out politically, having almost single handedly resolved the security situation. With top-level support from Downing Street and Washington, he had managed to rid the island of its arsenals of terrorist weapons, empty the terrorists’ bank accounts, and, finally, get rid of the terrorists themselves.

  It had not been without its risks. His first wife of only a few months had been killed by a car bomb undoubtedly meant for him, after only a few weeks at the Army Headquarters outside Belfast. His Uncle had been assassinated in a quiet Sussex village, and a close colleague and trusted agent had been murdered – a murder he could perhaps have prevented if he had been a bit quicker off the mark. Not only was his own life under constant threat while he was there, but so was that of his new wife, Catherine. They had not been married then. She was a member of the SAS at the time they met, and a pivotal part of his intelligence team. Before being sent to Northern Ireland, she had served in Iraq, where she had been captured and tortured before escaping and somehow making her way back across the desert. Still traumatised, she had not hesitated to get involved again in active operations.

  Catherine had eventually resigned from the Army, and she and Bill Clayton had married and moved to Cyprus, to get away from further danger, while the politicians got on with the long job of reconciling and uniting a previously divided but now peaceful island.

  And today was a special day in that process. A day when the two sides of the political divide came together at a grand ceremony in Belfast to mark the island’s unification under the United States flag.

  Busy though Bill was in Cyprus, there was now no immediate threat to his life as there had been in the past, and the couple had begun to relax and enjoy their return to civilised life. It was a life which allowed them time together, time to relax, and time to eat out at charming local restaurants like that run by Davros and Athena.

  Davros still went fishing from time to time in his battered launch, but no longer made his living from the sea. He caught enough to supply his small café bar across the road from the tiny harbour, and friends and neighbours in the village eagerly bought anything left. Davros spoke very little English, but his wife, Athena, had attended university in Cambridge many years ago, and still had a love of the place and of the English people. The couple at their table on the harbour wall were always welcome, as it gave her the chance to practice the language. They also contributed more to the bar’s meagre income than the villagers could who chose to eat there. They were a nice couple, and Athena knew he worked for the British military somewhere high in the Troodos Mountains, where all the big dish aerials were sited, but she could only guess what he did.

  Bill and Catherine had finished their early supper. A simple meal of local fish caught by Davros, with a green salad and boiled potatoes. They were enjoying a glass of Keo brandy as the air cooled and the sun set. The brandy was by way of celebration of the events in Belfast. But the tranquillity was broken by Athena, rushing from the café.

  “Come quickly, come quickly,” she shouted waving her arms wildly. “Come quickly, and listen. Bad news from England.”

  They rushed across the road and into the tiny kitchen at the back of the bar, in time to hear the end of the BBC World Service news.

  By all accounts, the Belfast explosion, or possibly a series of explosions, had been bigger than anything ever seen before in Northern Ireland, or on the mainland.

  It was certain that many people had been killed from among the VIPs and dignitaries attending the independence celebrations, and countless others injured, many seriously. It was too early to say who had died, but the news broadcast was immediately followed by solemn music.

  The couple slowly retraced their steps to their table, and sat in silence for a few moments.

  “Who the hell could have done that?” Bill asked, talking almost to himself as he looked out across the sea.

  The girl shook her head.

  “I doubt it was the Irish,” he said.

  Catherine shook her head again. “I suppose that’s a problem for the Americans, now,” she said.

  “We’ll have to help them,” he said. “It could just be al-Qa'Aeda, getting at us and the Americans at the same time. They’ve wanted to do that for years. We may even be able to pick something up from here.”

  “I suppose you might.” she replied.

  “We should have been there, you know,” he said to her, quietly. “Today. We were invited.”

  “I know.” she replied.

  “If it hadn’t been for you, we would probably have gone, too.” he said. “In a strange sort of way, I quite wanted to go, really, although I wasn't entirely sure.”

  “I had a feeling we shouldn’t,” she replied.

  “You al
ways were a canny chap,” he said.

  “I just didn’t want to go back, after all this time.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “We’re so happy here,” she said. “I didn’t want to break the spell.”

  “You’re right, of course,” he said. “I had mixed feelings about it myself, to be honest. About meeting the old crowd again.”

  “We may never meet some of them again, after today.”

  They reached across the table, and held hands.

  “Take me home,” she said.

  They crossed the road to pay for their supper. Athena and Davros were in animated conversation.

  “I’m so sorry,” Athena said to the couple. “Terrible, terrible.”

  They nodded, and walked to the car, arm in arm.

  Neither of them had noticed the two men on a motorbike, who followed them discretely to their home at Mercury Barracks.

  But the men had gone out of their way to avoid attracting attention. Not for them the usual 1,000cc Honda or BMW or Kawasaki that they might have used in London, or Washington or Moscow. Instead, they had picked up a 50cc Vespa motor scooter, typical of the sort used by all the local Cypriots for carrying their produce to and from market, complete with wicker basket. Except that this one, although it had been specially adapted to sound like all the others, had a supercharged engine in case of need. An RAF Hercules had delivered it, together with a very dilapidated Citroën 2CV van – also with a suped-up engine – that they and the other members of their small team also used form time to time, just for a change.

  ***

  It was some three weeks after the Belfast tragedy that a young, tanned local man rang the doorbell at the Claytons’ home. It was a Saturday afternoon, and Bill was inside watching football on satellite TV, while Catherine pottered about in the small but neat garden. She heard the doorbell, and went to answer it so as not disturb Bill.

  The young man politely touched the brim of his battered straw hat.

  “Feesh?” he said. “You want fresh feesh?”

  He thumbed towards the old Citroën van outside.

  “I haff plenty feesh, fresh today,” he announced with a heavy accent. “You look?” he invited Catherine, taking a step towards the van.

  “Cheap,” he added

  She nodded, and followed the youth down the short path to the road.

  “See!” he said proudly, waving towards the trays of fish laid out in the back of the van.

  “See! This red snapper; awful tasty!” He proudly held up a plump fish by its tail.

  “What are those?” asked Catherine, pointing.

  “Ah!” said the young man, stooping to pick up a handful of smaller silver fish from the tray.

  “Ah!” he said again. “Dees – I not know for sure how you call them.”

  Obviously his English was poor.

  He looked hard at Catherine with his bright blue eyes, as if summing her up.

  “Dees …. ,” he said again, fumbling for words, and shaking his head.

  He paused for a moment, still looking intently at her.

  Eventually he said, in perfect English. “Actually, I think the bloody things are sardines. But I need to see the Major urgently. Is he in?” he asked, knowing very well that he was.

  Catherine was taken aback, but only for a moment.

  “Wait,” she said. “I’ll get him to come and look at the fish.”

  She turned towards the house.

  “Incidentally, they are sardines,” she said with a grin.

  The young man, whoever he was, politely touched the frayed brim of his hat, keeping up the pretence, and carefully replaced the fish on to their tray.

  Catherine returned with Bill, now equally mystified.

  They all peered into the back of the van.

  “I have a message for you,” said the young man quietly. “I’m told you will remember from Northern Ireland days that nothing was to be put on paper about your particular operation. ‘No paper, no leaks’, I believe was the theory. Which is why I’m here, trying to sell this stinking stuff,” he explained.

  “Go on,” said Bill.

  “There’s a chap coming over from London, due later today, who wants an urgent but private meeting with you,” the man continued. “Both of you.”

  “Who?” asked Bill.

  “Sir Robin Algar, Cabinet Secretary. Says you know him.”

  Bill frowned. What on earth could he want? he wondered.

  “Over here for a private long weekend break, with his wife,” explained the man. “That’s the cover story. Would like to join you for lunch tomorrow at your favourite place in Kopufano. He thought about 1230 hours would be nice for a drink first. OK?”

  “OK,” replied Bill. “We’ll be there.”

  “So shall I,” said the man. “But you won’t see me. Now what about these damned fish?”

  “I’ll have half a dozen sardines,” said Bill, reaching for his wallet. “I’m rather partial to those on a barbeque.”

  “And I think the Captain next door might like the snapper,” said Catherine. “Try him.”

  “I’ve got to try the whole damned road, now I’ve started,” said the man, “or someone will smell a rat.”

  “Rotten fish, more like it,” said Bill.

  The man wrapped the sardines in a piece of old newspaper, counted out the change and said “Sank you” before walking round to the house next door.

  ***

  Robin Algar was there when they arrived. But no longer the Sir Robin Algar that Bill had dealt with before. No smart striped suit, with white shirt and gold cuff links. No neatly knotted silk tie, or polished black shoes. This time, the country’s most senior public servant, Head of the Civil Service and Cabinet Secretary, was in faded beige Chinos, open-necked floral short-sleeved shirt and sandals, wearing a straw hat as protection from the mid-day sun, sitting on a green plastic chair and sipping cheap local wine.

  He was alone.

  He greeted Bill warmly as he was introduced to Catherine, whom he had not met before.

  “It’s so nice to see you,” he began. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve left Betty, my wife, sunning herself by one of the pools at the Coral Beach Hotel in Paphos. I didn’t think she’d be too interested in our little chat.”

  Athena bustled over to get more drinks. The menu was the same as always.

  “There are live fish in the tank, caught by Davros only this morning, if you want to choose something really fresh,” she explained, pointing to the large glass container at the front of the shop, with fish of all shapes, sizes and colours, as well as lobsters, swimming about, awaiting their fate.

  “I don’t think I could!” said Algar. “I shall let my friends here choose, as they come here often.”

  “We usually go for baked fish, with boiled potatoes and salad,” explained Catherine. “Simple but good.”

  “How about some fresh prawns to start?” suggested Athena.

  “Sounds perfect,” said Robin Algar. “And perhaps a bottle of your best white wine, to go with it. This is my treat today.”

  Athena wasn’t at all sure they had a ‘best’ wine, but nodded and gave Bill and Catherine a sideways glance. They knew what she meant!

  As soon as she had gone, Robin Algar said, “You probably know, Bill, that the structure of our intelligence services has been changed somewhat, and that I now play a bigger role than I did. The old post of Permanent Secretary, Intelligence, Security and Resilience has been abolished, and the responsibilities passed to me. That means that I now chair the Joint Intelligence Committee. But I’m sure you must be dying to know the reason for this clandestine meeting. I’m not used to this sort of thing, y’know,” he added, rather embarrassed.

  “Neither are we, as a matter of fact,” replied Bill, “not any more. But you’re right about our curiosity – it’s killing us, although we guessed it must have something to do with that terrible incident in Belfast.”

  “In a way, it has,�
� replied Algar. “That really was an appalling climax to years of hard work and patient diplomacy, not to mention your own very personal role in the run up to it. But I’m pleased to say that the Americans have settled in very well, and that progress is being made as planned under their leadership. Ireland is still basically peaceful, for the first time in decades.”

  “Well, that’s good news at least,” replied Catherine.

  “I’ve been giving a good deal of thought – and time – to who could have been behind the atrocity that day,” said Bill. “As you probably know, my role here is to monitor what’s going on in the region, and we work closely with the Americans and other allies, as well as with GCHQ and the security services. I’ve made a start checking through all the transcripts and intercepts, going back several months, to see if I can find any clue as to who might have been responsible, but so far I’ve drawn a blank. Even mobile phone chat between people we have a special interest in has not given us any sort of lead, using a key-word search and everything. It could be anyone, and not necessarily from this part of the world - al-Qa'Aeda, the Taliban, Iran, anyone.”

  “It’s good of you to go to that trouble,” said Algar, “but like you, no-one seems to have anything like a clear idea of who could have been the perpetrators. The Americans are still in a dreadful state of shock over the event, as they had been responsible for the security arrangements for the celebrations, and thought they had covered everything.”

  “We should have been there, you know,” said Catherine. “We were invited, but decided not to go.”

  “Me too,” said Robin Algar. “I also decided not to go, although I really should have gone, to support the Prime Minister. But I honestly felt I’d had enough by then.”

  “That was partly why we didn’t go, as well,” agreed Catherine. “It was tempting, but we were so happily settled here, we really didn’t want to go back.”

  “How long have you been here now?” asked Algar.

  “Getting on for two years,” replied Bill Clayton. “It took you officials and politicians such a long time to sort out your part of the plan, didn’t it, but the time has gone quickly, really.”

  “You’ll be looking for a new posting soon, I suppose?” suggested Algar.

  “I’d rather not think about it!” said Clayton. “We’ll stay here as long as you like, thanks.”