Red Crystal (13 page)

As she walked back to the apartment Gabriele reflected that social unrest would give rise to all sorts of opportunities – opportunities that shouldn’t be missed. But how long would it take for the situation to deteriorate? She would have to study the British news regularly to make sure she kept in touch.

Giorgio was watching television when she got back. He was obviously morose and bad-tempered. He would be better later, when he’d had a few drinks. In the meantime she left him well alone.

At six a news bulletin was announced. With pleasant anticipation, Gabriele settled down to watch. She imagined the newcaster’s opening words:
Last night the home of the distinguished soldier, Generale Fausto Lamberti, was gutted by fire …

The newscaster appeared. He began to speak.

The smile vanished from Gabriele’s face. She listened incredulously.

‘… Generale Lamberti was shot in the knees as he left a restaurant in Milan last night …’

She stared at the screen, speechless.

It was nothing short of betrayal.

The others had kept their main plan a secret. They had purposely not told her. They had not trusted her. She had been excluded. It was a bitter humiliation.

Angrily she stood up and switched off the television.

She thought suddenly: This is the end.

‘We’ll leave tomorrow.’

Giorgio shot her an angry look. She touched his cheek. ‘Will you come with me?’

‘Where to?’

She said carefully, ‘To Britain. Eventually.’

Giorgio asked resentfully, ‘But what is there to do in Britain?’

‘What there is to do,’ Gabriele said, ‘is to operate on our own. And to drive in the first splinter.’

N
ICK
R
YDER TURNED
into the grim dark street near King’s Cross and thought: It’s places like this that make people give up hope.

The Barley Mow was half-way along, its tattered red and white façade the only splash of colour in the unremitting grey of the largely derelict buildings. Above the pub hung a sign depicting an incongruous sunlit harvest scene complete with joyful farmers.

Nick pushed open the ornate glass doors of the public bar and paused while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was already one-fifteen but Nugent wasn’t there. He wasn’t surprised; he’d been dealing with Nugent for eighteen months now, and the man was never on time. Buying himself a half of bitter, he sat down in a place where he could watch the door.

The other occupants of the bar were students, railwaymen on their midday break, travellers who frequented the numerous cheap hotels in the area. Nick could only guess at their occupations, of course, but he was rarely wrong. He’d made a habit of watching people ever since he was a kid in Barrow, hanging around outside the Crown, waiting for his dad to come out.

It seemed a long time ago. It seemed a long time since he’d joined Special Branch. Almost three years in fact. It was eighteen months since the Paris uprising.

Nugent eventually turned up at two-fifteen, dirty, dishevelled, and jumpy as a rabbit. One look at his sunken eyes and white glistening skin and Nick knew that Nugent was in a bad way.

‘Hi,’ Nugent began in an urgent whisper, ‘got things for you.’ He reached awkwardly into a trouser pocket and, with a shaking hand, pulled out some much folded papers. ‘Latest stuff. Hasn’t been around before.’

‘Let’s have a look then.’

Nugent held on to the papers, his eyes darting nervously up and down. ‘It’s good stuff. Er … Ten quid maybe?’

‘Price of horse gone up, has it?’

Nugent exhaled through his teeth. ‘Yeah. Prices are high –
high
.’

‘I’ll see what I can do. But I’ve got to look at the stuff.’

Nugent hesitated and Nick could see that he was reluctant to part with the papers before firming up on the deal. But defeated by his own desperation he suddenly handed them over. Nick glanced through the material. Three different broadsheets. Nothing amazing …

And a pamphlet.

He stared at the cover. This was different all right. Trying not to show too much interest, he flicked slowly through it and almost gasped.

Nugent leant forward in his seat. ‘Something, isn’t it?’

Nick thought: You can say that again. During his time in Special Branch he’d never seen anything like this.

Aware of Nugent watching him he made an effort to hide his excitement. ‘It’s
okay
,’ he conceded. ‘Though I’ve seen quite a bit of it before.’

‘
Can’t
have,’ Nugent said sharply, ‘It’s new.’

‘Maybe,’ Nick admitted quickly. ‘Where d’you find it?’

Nugent looked away and muttered evasively, ‘Dunno …’

Nick handed him twenty pounds in fivers. ‘Here. But I can’t promise that much every time. It always depends on how good the stuff is. Understand?’

Nugent’s hands clutched the money as if it were about to save his life. ‘Gotta go now.’

Nick said quickly, ‘If you find any more like this, you’ll let me know?’

Nugent started to get up. Suddenly he paused, his face taut with indecision. ‘There’s something—’

‘Yes?’

‘A split.’

‘Where?’

‘In the SSL. And in other groups. Maybe.’

‘What other groups?’

Nugent fidgeted nervously. ‘Dunno. Not sure. Just know there’s a group off on their own …’

He rose abruptly and was gone.

Nick followed in time to see Nugent disappearing in the direction of Camden Town. Within five minutes the twenty quid would be in the hands of a pusher and Nugent would be happy again. For a while.

Nick took the Tube back to Victoria, resisting the urge to look at the pamphlet tucked in his pocket.

He hurried into the office. The seventh floor was almost empty. There was a lot on at the moment: a top IRA man in the country and a visiting delegation from Bulgaria. Conway was in, however, lounging in his chair, looking half-heartedly at some papers. As Nick made for his desk, Conway looked up and brightened visibly. He was obviously in the mood for a chat.

‘Blimey,’ he said, eyeing Nick with amusement. ‘You look more like a Trot every day.’

Nick sat down at his desk. ‘Thanks.’

‘Well, enjoy it while you can.’

Conway obviously had a gem of information to impart. Nick leafed through the pile of neglected paperwork in the in-tray until Conway could bear it no longer. ‘We’re on a big surveillance job next week, up in Neasden, you and me included.’

‘Damn!’ Nick said automatically. He loathed jobs like that at the best of times.

‘Thought you’d be pleased. It’s the strike at the photographic processing place.’

Conway finally achieved his reaction. Nick exclaimed, ‘But that’s purely
industrial
. Why aren’t Munro’s section handling it?’

‘Rent-a-mob have been seen on the picket lines. They want us to have a look see. Also they’re a bit overstretched.’

‘So are we!’

‘Trouble is, our students have been a bit quiet of late,’ Conway pointed out. ‘Whereas quiet is the last word for what’s happening on the industrial front.’

It was true. On the surface anyway. Since Paris the students had been reasonably quiet. The last Vietnam rally, though large, had passed off without incident. Now, with galloping inflation and a wage freeze, all the trouble was on the workers’ front.

Nick shook his head wearily and, putting an elbow on the desk, shielded his eyes with a hand to show that the conversation was over. Conway prattled on for a few minutes about duty allocations and finally gave up. ‘You know, Ryder, sometimes I think Box 500 would be more your line. I’ve heard say they never even talk among
themselves
…’

Nick let the remark pass.

Conway wandered off and Nick pulled out the crumpled papers that Nugent had given him. With great self-control he looked at the broadsheets first. He had recognized two immediately and was certain he already had them on file. They were, he knew, printed by an extremist intellectual group called the Federation for Workers’ Control. Their publications were always in the same vein –
workers must unite … form rank-and-file committees … take the offensive in every strike
. The print style of the third sheet was different from the other two and it probably came off another press. He would try to find out which. He put the sheets on one side to look at again later.

The pamphlet.

He picked it up and began to read.

It was about twenty pages long and entitled
Strike Back!
The first few pages dealt with the basic philosophy of an urban guerrilla. It was strong reading. ‘Kill as a matter of course – it is the guerrilla’s sole reason for being. Do not kill in anger or haste. Kill carefully, coldly …’ He recognized the ideas; they were very similar to those in the
Mini Handbook
written by the Brazilian revolutionary Marighella – a book which had just been openly published in Germany, Italy and Britain, although, to Nick’s mind, such writings counted as blatant incitement, and should be banned.

But this pamphlet went further, much further. He read on grimly. There were detailed instructions on how to incite violence on picket lines and in demonstrations. Then half-way through there was a section headed ‘Meet Violence With Violence!’ One page was devoted to a drawing of a Molotov cocktail. The next to written instructions and a detailed recipe for what was called ‘Easy Brew’ – an explosive mixture of garden chemicals and diesel fuel – plus instructions on how to detonate it with a common wristwatch. There were specifications of incendiary devices, more sophisticated detonators, and letter bombs. Then at the end there was the really grown-up stuff. Plastics – the military RDX type was recommended ‘if available’ – and, in enormous detail, how to parcel and detonate the stuff, and where to place it in cars and buildings for maximum effect.

There was a final page of exhortations to ruthless direct action. ‘Activate – Pulverize, Energize, Polarize! Fabricate crystal splinters!’

Nick stared at the explosives section for several minutes. He’d never seen anything so cool and detailed. A complete idiot’s guide to killing.

It would have to be checked for accuracy. He phoned the Home Office Branch of the Royal Armament Research Establishment at Woolwich and asked them to check the copy he’d be sending over.

He made five photocopies of the pamphlet, collated and stapled them, and sent one by messenger to the armaments people. Then he went along to see the boss.

Straughan was in. He eyed Nick sharply, making an obvious effort to suppress his distrust of jeans and long hair. ‘Yes, Ryder. What can I do for you?’

‘I thought you might like to see this, sir.’

Straughan glanced through the pamphlet, frowning as he came to the explosives section. Eventually he murmured, ‘Bloody hell – that’s all we need. Everything in writing. Any ideas on this yet?’

‘No. Only just got hold of it.’

‘Source?’

‘A student – or rather an ex-student. An addict.’

‘And where did he get it?’

‘Don’t know. And he wouldn’t say. But he used to be heavily involved with the left at the LSE – mainly the Socialist Students’ League.’

The DCS pulled at his face as if it were india-rubber. ‘This doesn’t look like student stuff to me. It’s far too – advanced. I’d have thought they picked this up from the Spanish Anarchists or the IRA or people like that. They’re the only ones with this sort of knowledge—’

‘
Lots
of people have this sort of knowledge,’ Nick insisted.

The DCS looked unconvinced. ‘Well—’

‘We know that the IRA have connections with the Palestinians. And that there’s a Swiss arms connection between the Basque Separatists and some of the Italian groups …’

The DCS stabbed a finger at him. ‘Exactly! The professional terrorists. Not the
students
.’

‘But I’m not saying the students
produced
this thing. I’m saying they might
use
it. We should find out exactly who’s handing out these things and who’s receiving them.’

‘Look …’ The DCS’s voice assumed a tone of long-suffering tolerance. ‘If any of the pros want to go on a bombing rampage they’re going to use their own people, aren’t they? I mean they’re not going to use a bunch of wild kids, not unless they’ve gone out of their minds, are they?’

Nick tightened his lips and thought: Here we go again. ‘Yes, but the students have their
own
causes, their own targets—’

‘Such as?’

‘Oh, unemployment, bad housing – the capitalist system in general.’

‘But they’re not organized,’ the DCS said slowly and patiently, as if explaining something to a small child. ‘Who’s going to give them the explosives? Who’s going to provide the back-up? Where’s the money to come from? The foreign groups aren’t going to help and the Soviets sure as hell won’t be interested in the lunatic fringe—’

‘But they’re in contact with several groups who
are
Soviet-backed. Indirectly.’

‘No. No. I just don’t see it. Students are all hot air and demos and shouting. Always have been. No, these kids have just picked up this pamphlet because they think it’s smart.
Clever
. They picked it up abroad, no doubt.’