Confessor (22 page)

“Whenever he became anxious during an interrogation,” Carole continued, “he’d come back to the way Philby was never broken. He had a kind of complex about it.”

“But he was so good damned,” muttered Herbie. Even Carole, who had known him for a long time, could not tell whether he was playing with the English language or simply making a genuine error. Like others, Carole had noticed that, since his final operation, Herbie’s mangled English—which he used partly out of devilment and partly as a cloak to enlarge his dumb ox exterior—had all but disappeared.

“So, Carole, you knew when he was really strung out?” Bex asked.

“I could tell as a rule, yes.”

“Had he shown any symptoms of that in the month or so before he was killed?”

“Well, yes. A little, yes. But I put that down to something else entirely.”

Bex immediately veered away from the obvious follow-up question. “Any strangers? Odd mail? Cards? People? Anything during that month that seemed to be out of the norm?”

Carole shook her head, and Herbie took in the fact that she did not actually answer the question for the machines she knew must be taping her.

“Tell us, Carole. Don’t nod your head. Just tell us if there was something,” he said aloud.

She looked uncertain, dazed, as though something was there in the front of her mind that she could not, or did not, wish to share with them. Herbie decided that this was the moment for him to step in. “We know about Claudius Damautus, Carole. If it has anything to do with that …?” He left the question trailing.

“Oh.” She gave a simple little sound of surprise. “How do you know about that, Herb?”

“Took his room apart. Watched some of his tapes. He was very good.”

“He was more than good. He was one of the most brilliant magicians alive.” The tiniest of sobs on the word “alive.” “He had that extraordinary talent which made people believe—or at least made them suspend their disbelief.”

“Count Bex out.” Herb did his daft grin. “She doesn’t like magicians. Can take them or leave them.”

“Then they probably threaten you, Bex.” Carole smiled brightly. “That’s how it goes with some people. They don’t like to be fooled, so they get aggressive about it. They won’t go with the flow.”

Bex Olesker stiffened, even bridled a little. “I just think it’s a rather childish kind of entertainment, that’s all.”

“Well, Gus would’ve disagreed with you. He said we now live in a new golden age of magic; because people’ve become so disillusioned with life, they want to see the impossible performed and the laws of the universe altered. It was Gus’s life.”

“I thought the art of interrogation was his life.”

“Yes, that also, and several other sides of what the novels call the Secret World. Gus held that the tradecraft—the methods in the field—and the techniques of entrapment and interrogation run on parallel lines to the theory and practice of the performance of magic.”

“That why he kept so quiet about it? Why he didn’t share it with his friends?”

“Mainly, yes. Gus knew more about magic than practically anyone alive. He was internationally known and revered as Claudius Damautus. Truly.”

“Yet he didn’t come out of the closet. He was a closet magician.”

“To a certain extent, yes. There were some people in the Service who knew.”

“Like the old Chief and BMW?” Herb had the decency to smile.

“You picked up on them? I always knew you were good, Herb, but that’s
very
good.”

“I got some help.”

“And you think it was because of the magic that something occurred during the period just before his death?” Bex gently brought her back to the real matter in hand.

Carole nodded again, then said, “He was really hyped up all that week. The reason he was in Salisbury that night was to give a private performance and demonstration to a group of invited magicians.” She turned to Herbie. “I lied to you about that charred piece of metal. It
was
a small badge. One he wore with great pride—showed that he was a Member of the Inner Magic Circle.”

Herbie nodded. “So, that week?”

“He always got stressed out before he performed—the same with interrogations.” She gave a little laugh, then added that his performances and interrogations were almost the same thing. “You ever heard of Robert-Houdin?”

“Father of modern magic,” Herbie supplied with just a hint of superiority. Then a knowing smile spread over his craggy face. “This is the French guy Houdini got his name from, yes?”

“Yes, Herb. Gold star and a green rabbit. You’ve been boning up on magic history.”

“Is interesting.”

Carole noticed that the grammar was not quite perfect. Mentally her guard came up. “Well, Robert-Houdin once wrote that a magician is really an actor playing the part of a magician. There are a lot of people in the magic arts who don’t believe that, but Gus did. I guess Gus also thought that about interrogators. In fact, I know he did. He gave you a nice year of questions, Herb. You remember how he came at you?”

“Never three days alike.”

“Yes, he would chop and change the rhythm, but his style was always the same.”

“Sure.”

“Carole.” Bex was moving in close again. “He was tense before this demonstration—performance—lecture—whatever it was, in Salisbury, the night he died?”

“That’s what I said.”

“More than usual or less?”

“More. Definitely more. Gus rehearsed and practiced every day of his life—and there’s a difference to rehearsing and practicing in magic. Just to know how a trick is done does not mean you know how to do it. He was always a little strung out, but the whole of that day he was odd.”

“How was he the last time you saw him? When he left for Salisbury?”

Carole swallowed, and tears started in her eyes. “He …Well, he …He was very demonstrative when he left. Old Gus was always a touchy-feely person with me, but that night, looking back, it was more.”

“How more?” from Herbie.

“Clung a lot. Held me very close. Longer than usual.”

The words floated into Herb’s head and he just stopped himself from saying,
The Long Goodbye
.

The silence between words was too long, so both Herbie and Bex began to speak at once, their words clashing, fast.

“Do you …?”

“Carole, did you …?”

Herbie gave way to Bex:

“Carole, can we go back a bit?”

“To where?”

“To something you said earlier. Maybe I haven’t done my homework properly. Maybe this should be Herbie’s question …”

“Then let Herbie ask it.” For the first time Carole Keene showed a touch of antagonism.

“Okay. Let me try to ask it, and Herbie can take over. Gus was a fulltime interrogator, right?”

“He was Chief of Interrogation, yes. He was also Officer Commanding Warminster. This place.”

“As Chief Interrogator of the SIS, how much would he have to know about the daily work of the Service?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Because earlier you said that Gus viewed the theory of intelligence gathering in the field as parallel to the theory of magic as a performing art.”

“Yes.”

“What you’re getting at, Bex, I think, is how much does an interrogator have to know about life in the field? Right, ja?”

“Ja—yes.”

“Let me answer that, Bex.” Herbie’s face crinkled into a friendly, funny uncle kind of look. “I can tell you, because I knew him. Gus knew every damned thing worth knowing about the collection of intelligence. Tradecraft, false flags, black bag ops, surveillance, cover, multilayers of cover, legends. You name it, Gus knew it, outside in.”

“Do you believe it, then?”

“Believe what?”

“What Carole says about Gus. That the theory and practice of your job run parallel to the theory and practice of magical entertainment?”

Big Herbie gave a giant shrug, his arms lifting and falling to his sides again. “How the bugger I know, Bex? I know nothing about magic theory.”

“Better read it up.” Carole was really smiling now. “Better still, Gus has written a long monograph about it. Two years ago he did a lecture for a very select audience. He didn’t let on that
he
was a magician—used a disguise: even I didn’t recognize him when I first saw him—but he was so damned clever. I have a copy somewhere, a copy of his lecture notes.”

“We have a look at them?”

“Better. We did a video at the time. His position was that if a very few, selected, intelligence professionals learned the principles of magic as a performing art, they would be able to function at a higher level in the field. He used to say that Operation
Fortitude
, the deception operation set up to disguise
Overlord
—the D Day landings in Normandy during World War II—was one of the best pieces of stage magic ever performed. That, and the famous British magician Jasper Maskelyne’s work in the Middle East.”

“What he do, then, Carole?”

“Maskelyne? Many things. He moved the Suez Canal, and shifted Alexandria Harbor several miles from where it really was. Had a unit called the Magic Gang out there during WWII.”

“You serious about this?” from Bex.

“Absolutely. I’ll find the video and you can watch it. It’s very entertaining. Gus suited his actions to the words: performed as he explained.”

“Okay, we’ll take a …” Bex began, but the telephone in the room started to purr urgently.

“Ja?” Kruger picked up.

“You got a copy of
The Times
down there?” Tony Worboys asked at the distant end.

“No idea, but we can get one.”

“Do that. You’re in the guest suites?”

“Sure.”

“Go back to the Dower House and call me when you have a copy of
The Times
.”

“Both of us? I got Bex here as well.”

“You’re talking to Carole?”

“What else?”

“Leave the rest of that to Bex. I need to speak with you, okay.”

“I go, I go, look how I go.” Herb cradled the telephone. “I got some funny business to attend to. See you for lunch, Bex, and see you later this afternoon, Carole. Want to watch that video of old Gus.”

There were copies of all the British dailies in what used to be called the Mess in the big house. Herb liberated
The Times
and walked quickly back to the Dower House, where he called Worboys on the secure phone.

“Turn to the small ads.” Worboys sounded a trifle smug.

“Got it.”

“Second column of the personals. Starts with the word ‘Claudius.’”

Herbie ran a big finger down the column. “Yesu!” he said when he read the five lines.

“Interesting, huh?”

“Maybe a coincidence. Who knows, Tony? Coincidences happen.”

“I want you to go through his papers. See if you can pull the name out of his files.”

“I’ll try. How you get on with the folks at Five?”

“The folks at Five, as you put it, have agreed to share their product. The PM tore them apart. They’ve had an Iraqi in their pockets for some time and he’s one of the team here. Tell you about it later.”

“So what’s going to happen?”

“Compromise. Surveillance on the bomb planters. Follow them home, then roll ’em up. But, before that happens, I want you to see if there’s a link in Gus’s files.”

“Gotcha.”

Herbie turned back to the newspaper. The personal ad in question read:

CLAUDIUS
my king, I am here just as I told you I would be. The sands of time are running out and I long to see you again, just as I long to watch you work your magic. Just send me a sign and I will be there for you. Greetings, Jasmine.

T
HE POLICE AND SECURITY
Service surveillance teams were in place early. At two in the afternoon men and women loitered, walked with purpose or sat in the back of closed vans, covering the four target areas—Piccadilly Circus Underground station, Bond Street, Trafalgar Square and Berwick Street in Soho. During the day the last was a clutter of stalls, forming the famous Berwick Street Market selling flowers, fish and vegetables. At six in the evening it would begin to clear, though there were always quite a lot of people around.

The teams placed themselves at either end of Berwick Street, while a pair of watchers occupied an upper room above a butcher’s shop, giving them a view of the entire street.

Bond Street was more difficult because of its length. In all they had twelve teams working the pavements, while pairs of officers visited each shop, warning managers and assistants regarding anyone who accidentally left a briefcase or package inside. It was an exciting afternoon for the staffs of shops on Bond Street, as they were told to call a telephone number straightaway, not to hang around but simply state the name of the shop, the article left by accident, a quick description of the person who left it and a code word,
Tybalt
.

By the wonders of modern electronics, the message would immediately patch through to the earpieces of the watchers, who, at one point, seemed to outnumber the actual civilians going about their business along this Mayfair thoroughfare.

They saturated Trafalgar Square and the large concourse of Piccadilly tube station, which is very big and almost impossible for ultrasafe surveillance. As one of the watchers was heard to remark, “Trying to find a terrorist in Piccadilly Underground is like trying to find the twelve of clubs in a deck of cards.” Apart from the many tunnels and platforms, there is a great circular concourse around the ticket machines, small shops, entrances and exits to Piccadilly Circus. There are also the big banks of escalators, and this Underground station is reckoned to be the most used in the whole of London.

Changing shifts and places, twelve teams went onto the platforms, up and down the escalators, walked the passages and had the circular concourse covered completely. The operation was so large that the professional watchers of the Security Service had to be tripled by police officers trained in surveillance techniques.

It was the same in Trafalgar Square, and the entire business called for a lot of dressing up, the use of reversible coats, the changing of hats, briefcases, handbags, umbrellas and the like. The officer in charge of MI5’s watchers complained that he was undermanned and really needed things as they were in the old days when he could bring people in by the busload. By one that afternoon the Security Service had requested assistance from the Secret Intelligence Service, an action that made senior members of the SIS rub their hands with glee.