Disorderly Elements (21 page)
Read Disorderly Elements Online
Authors: Bob Cook
“You mean they didn't believe you had a Moscow ferret?”
“They weren't sure and, under the circumstances, they preferred not to believe it. I needed something else to tip the scales, something that would convince them of the gravity of the situation.
“So I decided to bring you into it. I knew that if I got Frank Schofield to make inquiries in Rome, it would eventually get back to Langley. Given the Company's traditional doubts about security at the Firm, I knew you would want to find out what was going on. And I was right. When you arrived at Percy Street on the 21st, I was fully aware of what you were after. I couldn't believe my good fortune when you left your fingerprints all over the filing cabinet, and switched the typewriter ribbon.”
“You checked all that out?” Rawls said incredulously.
“Oh yes. You see, I needed to prove that the Company was involved in the affair. Of course, I knew perfectly well that you were only snooping, but that wasn't the way I presented it to Owen.
“As far as my superiors were concerned, it was proof positive that you also knew we had a ferret in London, and that you were trying to track him down. Up until then, nobody wanted to believe that we had a Moscow plant, and nobody wanted to spend two million on Plato. Your arrival changed all that.”
“I bet,” Rawls said. “And Bulgakov's involvement made up their minds, I guess.”
“Bulgakov was a positive godsend. He knew about my first trip to Europe, and he knew about your arrival. I suppose he couldn't keep his nose out of it, but when he became involved it set everybody's mind racing.”
Wyman lit a cigarette and blew out a long trail of smoke.
“What happened in Germany?” he asked.
“I nearly got killed, that's what happened. Bulgakov warned me away, so I figured he had something to hide. I snooped around in Erfurt, and found out that Neumann was a real nut after all. That was your best move, Wyman. Everybody thinks that Communist mental hospitals are full of sane dissidents. Nobody ever stops to think that they've got real screwballs too. When I found out the truth about Neumann, things started to click. Then I was taken by some of Bulgakov's friends, and they threw me out of the country. Bulgakov thinks the whole thing's a real scream.”
“I'm sure he does,” Wyman grinned.
Rawls shook his head.
“I still don't get it,” he said. “How did you know I'd get to Geneva?”
“The typewriter ribbon,” Wyman said. “I'd typed all my memos to Owen on it. I also wrote a few notes of my own on it, and when I realized you'd exchanged the ribbon, I guessed that you would find out about the bank account. That didn't bother me too much, since I'd already laid my plans. It was known that I was the agent for the account, and therefore it would be presumed that the beneficial owner was somebody else: the elusive Plato. But nobody knew that I had opened the account with a false passport, and that the beneficial owner was Michael Wyman.
“Hence, it would only be a question of time before you appeared in Geneva to force the bank into giving you Plato's identity. I wanted you to try it, so that you would get my letter and come here.”
“Why?”
“I want you to tell my former masters what has happened. You must explain to them that there is no infiltrator in the Firm, as far as I know, and that Plato does not exist. My dealings with the Firm are finishedâ you must make that quite clear.”
“Why me? Why not tell them yourself?”
“They probably wouldn't believe me. They were seldom inclined to believe me when I was employed by them, so I doubt if they would believe me now. Besides, it will sound better coming from a disinterested party like yourself.”
“They'll want their money back.”
“They can't have it.”
“They'll kill you for it.”
“No.” Wyman shook his head emphatically.
“What makes you think you're safe? They can send out a hitman any time they like. And there's your fiancée⦔
“No,” Wyman repeated. “There's an added twist. You see, I'm not quite the happy imbecile I've been taken for. I have placed signed documents in the hands of various European lawyers. These documents explain all that has happened, in minute detail. Should anything happen to me, or my fiancée, these documents will be given to the editors of certain left-wing European publications that have little sympathy for Britain.
“I'm sure you can imagine what would happen if this story were published. The Firm would be internationally disgraced, and the Government would have a lot of talking to do. I'd be obliged if you explained all this to the Firm when you see them. Owen will be delighted.”
Rawls gazed at Wyman in silence for a few moments. He found it hard to credit the Englishman with the sort of ingenuity he clearly possessed. Wyman looked and sounded like a plump, overgrown schoolboy. It occurred to Rawls that Wyman's success lay entirely in his ability to convince others of his own ineptitude and harmlessness. Rawls' face creased into a broad grin.
“Shit!” he exclaimed. “You've really screwed them, haven't you?”
Wyman nodded solemnly.
“One more thing,” Rawls said. “Why did you do it? Maybe that's a stupid question, but I don't understand.”
“You wouldn't. And I'm not sure if I can explain it to you properly.”
“Try me. You owe me that much.”
“Very well. I've no doubt that you've read the file on me quite carefully. You know that I'm an academic, and that I've served the Firm faithfully for about thirty years.
“To spend a lifetime in both these fields, one must have a beliefâno, âbelief' isn't a good word for it, that implies some thing conscious. Let's call it a deeply imbedded assumption about what one is doing, and why one does it. You might call it patriotism, but it's nothing so crude.”
“I think I know what you mean.”
“I hope so, because it isn't easy to describe one's most fundamental convictions. Individual opinions about single issues: those are easy to explain. But the fundamental source of all those opinionsâthe well-spring of one's ideas and beliefsâhow do you explain that? It's an interesting epistemological dilemma.”
Rawls coughed uncomfortably.
“I'm sorry,” Wyman smiled. “I'll put it this way: I believed in a particular scheme of things, a system, if you like. I believed that this system went beyond trifling questions of money and power. What mattered most, as far as I was concerned, was that the system took care of its own, and loyalty was repaid with loyalty. And above all, Mr Rawls, the system
worked
. We governed nations with it, we won wars with it, and we knew it was the envy of the world. It was just and reasonable, and it spawned some of the finest minds on this planet.”
“Yeah,” Rawls said. “I've heard all that before somewhere.”
Wyman laughed.
“I know. But unlike the politicians who put such phrases in their speeches, I genuinely believed it all. I never actually
stated
these opinions, because I regarded them as self-evident truths. And then, just a few weeks ago, reality caught up with me.”
“You mean you got fired. So what?”
“That's right, but it wasn't simply a question of âgetting fired'. It was made clear to me that I was no longer of any use to anyone. I was treated with all the sympathy and consideration that one affords a used contraceptive. There was no recognition of my work or loyalty, merely a desire to be rid of a spent component. I was hurt and insulted.”
“So you got your revenge by creaming your people for two million. That's what I call an eye for an eye.”
“I can't defend my actions on moral grounds, and I admit that I wanted to exact some form of vengeance. That may be puerile, but if you rob someone of the moral framework they've lived by for nearly sixty years, you must expect them to behave amorally, I think.
“Besides, there were other considerations. My fiancée is expecting a child, and I still have alimony to pay on my last marriage. Since I'm not receiving a pension from either the Firm or my College, my conscience won't be too troubled by what I've done. Does that explain my motives, Mr Rawls?”
“I guess so. I've got a feeling one or two other people are going to be fired over this.”
“Perhaps,” Wyman said.
“That doesn't bother you?”
“It bothers me slightly less than my predicament bothered them. The only person I owe an apology to is yourself. I've put you to a lot of trouble and expense, and there isn't much I can do except offer you my heartfelt apologies. And a drink.”
Rawls leaned back and grinned sheepishly.
“Okay,” he said. “Whisky and soda, and we'll call it quits.”
“Splendid,” Wyman said, and they both laughed.
O
WEN PUT DOWN the telephone receiver and stared blankly at the opposite wall. He took a couple of paracetamol and suppressed an urge to vomit all over his desk.
“The bastard,” he croaked. “The utter bastard.”
He tried to collect his thoughts, but nothing fully registered. Wyman had invented the whole storyâit was a total fiction. He had stolen the two million pounds and was now completely untouchable. He had deceived everybody and walked off scot-free. He had humiliated Owen and the Minister in the eyes of the Prime Minister and the Americans. And the worst of it was, he probably couldn't care less.
“The bastard,” Owen repeated. “How could he?”
It occurred to Owen that Wyman had not just done this for the money. He had wanted to disgrace the Firm; he had taken revenge in the form of an elaborate, and expensive, practical joke.
“The utter bastard,” Owen said. Shock seemed to limit his vocabulary.
He pressed a button on his intercom and asked for a cup of tea.
He looked out of the window and shook his head. Where had they gone wrong?
There was, he reflected, one small crumb of consolation in all this. The original panic could now be forgotten: there really was no infiltrator in MI6. He sighed in relief as Mrs Hobbes walked in.
“Here's your tea, Mr Owen,” she said. “White, no sugar.”
All the characters and events portrayed in this work are fictitious.
DISORDERLY ELEMENTS
A Felony & Mayhem mystery
PUBLISHING HISTORY
First U.K. print edition (Victor Gollancz): 1985
First U.S. print edition (St. Martin's): 1986
Felony & Mayhem print edition: 2006
Felony & Mayhem digital edition: 2014
Copyright © 1985 by Bob Cook
All rights reserved
E-book ISBN: 978-1-63194-035-4
To my parents
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