The Falklands Intercept (20 page)

‘Under the control most likely. And at that level it always helps to get good reports from the Americans. At least it's not the prime minister this time.' Jacot smirked but got no sympathetic response. He continued, ‘The Americans helped us in the Falklands… eventually. With equipment and intelligence. NSA would have been monitoring
communications
in the area. Most people are aware that despite the various treaties their bases in Antarctica are listening as well as scientific stations. They could well have had ships at sea just outside the Exclusion Zone around the islands. Whatever they say, they were well in with the Argentine junta. Hard to conjure up now but as long as you were anti-communist few questions were asked about much else. Maybe they had an NSA installation in Argentina. Who knows how they found out? But however they did it, the most senior CIA official in the UK certainly knew about Verney's little
faux pas
at a big dinner in Cambridge thirty years later.'

Ingoldsby was suddenly animated. ‘But why would the Americans need anything on Verney. He was everything the Americans wanted. He even dressed as an American, with generals' stars rather than what our chaps usually wear. He was slavishly, comically, institutionally
pro-American. Straight out of central casting. One of the type who appeared to revel in the Special Relationship and its core military belief that the whole point of the British Army is to act as junior partner to the Americans. Forget the petty humiliations. Forget what we once were. Forget that we might have our own interests. As long as we suck up to Uncle Sam we'll have wars to fight and careers to pursue.'

‘Yes thank you Ingoldsby', said Nevinson. ‘Daniel and I and most of the country as far as I can see share your well-expressed views. But you have a good point. There was a wobble with the new prime minister a few weeks ago on Afghanistan but it passed. There was apparently a terrible scene. I think he has realized that with one stroke of the pen he could get us out of the whole thing. I think a few glasses of whisky had been taken and he was seriously considering it. Luckily or rather unluckily to people of our kidney the grown ups were summoned in short order to administer the smelling salts. Interestingly, one of the people brought into to administer to the PM's late emerging doubts was Verney. As you say he was a true believer.'

Jacot asked, ‘How do you know all this? It's a very small circle around him.'

Nevinson looked at Ingoldsby. ‘We have someone, a Magenta someone.'

Jacot was astounded but brought himself under control. ‘Maybe Verney had changed his mind.'

Ingoldsby nodded. ‘I think that was what was going on. We had begun to pick it up from other sources. Verney wanted to get us out of Afghanistan in double quick time and seemed to be having qualms of conscience about the next impending Americano-British war. It may have partly been an inter-service thing. The Navy smarting from their
exclusion
from Afghanistan and the loss of their carriers are lobbying hard to get involved against Iran – if it comes to that.'

There was absolute silence again in the room.

Jacot rolled his eyes. ‘OK so what do we do? Go to the PM?'

Ingoldsby looked extremely nervous and licked his lips. ‘Forget it. He wouldn't believe us. And we only know because we have the cheek to be spying on his inner circle.'

‘I see what you mean'.

Ingoldsby wasn't entirely convinced. ‘I have to say I remain puzzled.' He looked at Lady Nevinson. ‘Would it be all right if I brief the good colonel on one or two little details?'

She nodded.

‘Listen Colonel, I think you should know that we had been looking into General Verney for some time. I cannot go into the details but he came to our attention some months ago in a routine check. It may surprise you in these difficult times that we have any energy left in the Security Service that is not devoted to pursuing Islamist extremists. But since the Cambridge Spies we have always taken our own internal security very
seriously
. It is well known now that Mrs Thatcher insisted on unmasking the unfortunate Anthony Blunt as the so-called Fourth Man when she came to power in 1979. What no
one knows is that, as part of the process, we at MI5 received what was in effect a huge corporate bollocking. Blunt had been one of our officers – he slipped through the vetting net during the difficult early war years. I had only just joined at the time but one old boy, then at the top of the service, who had an interview with the good lady at the time on the subject of Blunt said it was one of the roughest experiences of his life.' Ingoldsby smiled. ‘He refuses to go to the new film with Meryl Streep in case the nightmares return.' She made it clear that there were to be no more vetting cock-ups, ever. So since then we have always put a lot of effort into making sure that the people on our side, remain on side. To be honest it hasn't been that difficult now that no one cares about sexual
orientation
or stuff like that. We no longer have to ask new recruits or even generals in charge of intelligence that awkward question “Have any of your girlfriends, shall we say, not been girls at all?”'

They all laughed. The tension was receding.

‘Anyway, as a result we do random checks on people. Bit like the police sticking up road-blocks for breath-testing. They are usually authorized by Lady Nevinson. We did one on Verney. It wasn't quite random. There had been a little detail which surprised us. Turned out to be a false alarm. I can assure you Verney wasn't spying for the Americans or anyone else. I am even more sure than you might think. Given the closeness of our gallant troops in the field to the Americans we have long had a little programme in place to make sure that they did not exert too much influence on impressionable young
officers
. Indeed, as part of Magenta, Verney's Aide-de-camp until three months ago was a young and very bright Intelligence Corps captain, who worked for us.

‘It's one thing for the CIA to blackmail a senior British official. My guess is that this kind of thing may have been even more prevalent in the Cold War – lots of people with left wing connections at university and so on that could have proved to be career
impediments
. But to go from an old habit of common or garden intelligence blackmail to murder is a different thing altogether.'

Nevinson nodded. ‘I agree. Why kill? It does not quite ring true of the Americans. Of course they tried many times to kill Castro, who got his revenge fairly quickly. And they have bumped off other inconvenient leaders by all accounts. But a British general? Well done Jacot, anyway. We are clearly getting closer.'

‘One more thing for you Ingoldsby', said Jacot. ‘Jones said Dixwell was arguing so hard with Verney that he had an asthma attack. He distinctly heard the sound of an inhaler being pressed. Could you find out if Dixwell is an asthmatic? Today, if possible. I think it may be crucial.'

The desk sergeant quickly slid both his copy of the Evening Standard and a small
half-eaten
Scotch egg under a file on his counter. There wasn’t time to straighten his tie. The Commander of the Metropolitan Police’s Special Branch swept past in uniform
accompanied
by a man of medium height and bland features wearing a light brown covert coat. They went immediately upstairs to the Superintendent’s office.

Half an hour or so later two uniformed and two plain-clothes men came into the police station. By this time the desk sergeant was immaculate and his counter contained only one highly sharpened pencil and his occurrences ledger, open at a new page and laid absolutely straight on top of the counter.

‘Where have you lads suddenly emerged from if I may ask?’

‘Suspected break in, Harley Street. Some punter phoned in. But we had a look around and nothing to report.’

‘I better enter it into the ledger and give it a code number.’

‘Go ahead mate. We are off to the canteen.’

But only three of the men went downstairs to the canteen. The fourth went upstairs to the Superintendent’s office.

By the time the time the commander of special branch and his nondescript friend left the station the desk sergeant had come to the end of his shift.

Jacot “sported his oak”. They still did things the old way around here. 74 had set out a half bottle of sherry – Manzanilla, ice cold as he liked it. He sat down in a faded but
comfortable
leather armchair and looked out of the sash windows at the River Cam and the Bridge of Sorrows, which connected the two halves of the college. It was a picture
postcard
view of Cambridge – reproduced in a thousand travel brochures – and greatly
re-assuring
. Cambridge and its way of looking at the world stood for something. Life was in some ways rational and civilised and that would prevail. That the image of this
rationality
was so well loved made it more powerful. Even Hitler had held his hand against the great university town – other than a lone Heinkel bomber in the summer of 1940 trying to attack the railway station the town had escaped largely unscathed. It was a satisfying piece of trivia that calmed and fortified Jacot. He leaned back and took a long pull at a glass of the ice-cold sherry. Putting the glass down he slowly peeled off his black silk gloves. The burned flesh was still angry and sometimes painful even after all these years. The only healthy skin was a small patch beneath where his watch had been. The flash from the exploding missile had incinerated his army watchstrap but for a split second before it fell away the body of the watch shielded his skin underneath. He was left with a perfect circle of unburned skin. He cupped both hands around the ice cold and refilled glass – as soothing as Flamazine, the gooey paste used to smother severe burns in the 1970s and 80s. He drank more sherry. It was the hour before dinner and the court was quiet – just a few footfalls. On his own staircase only the creaking of ancient timbers. Even baby Odo sleeping next door was quiet – connected by a baby alarm to his mother Hildegard who was almost certainly in the library less than a hundred feet away. Jacot had chatted to her on the staircase. She would hurry back if the child cried but usually little Odo slept through the night. Jacot was puzzled. He wasn't sure but something did not quite add up.

Would the Americans really have sought to murder Verney? He switched on his iPod and through the high tech speakers came the sublime sound of the first movement of Mozart's Flute and harp concerto – pitch perfect, he could have been listening to it in a concert hall. Joyful, lively and serene all at the same time. Music sometimes helped him to think clearly – as did small quantities of alcohol. He wasn't looking at it the right way. Relaxing the mind would give him a recharged perspective. Jacot dozed.

‘Confirm target is in the room.'

‘Confirmed.'

‘Confirm outer cordon in place'

‘Confirmed. Moving through.'

‘Await my command. Out'

Jacot woke with a start. His body tensed. He could hear voices – military voices. He was still half asleep. He relaxed. Of course, it was the baby alarm picking up the dialogue from a film. Two men talking to each other – with strange accents. Jacot smiled – just like the dialogue in
Munich
– a film he had much enjoyed. Things were downloaded in so many ways these days it was hardly surprising that a baby alarm occasionally picked them up. One of the voices had been gravelly like Richard Burton's. Maybe it was
Where Eagles Dare
playing on someone's computer. Good choice thought Jacot. Burton and Eastwood were great. Somehow, the film combined a great nostalgia for the Second World War with pleasant memories of skiing holidays while young. It was, according to some sources at least, the prime minister's favourite film. That was probably why one afternoon Lady Nevinson had asked, rather sheepishly for her, if he could lend her the DVD. Another glass of Manzanilla would go down well.

There were footsteps on the staircase. It wasn't the girl from the next floor. Subconsciously his mind and ears had become accustomed to Hildegard's footsteps. He could even tell whether she was carrying Odo or not. These footsteps were men. The only people in a Cambridge college who climbed staircases like that were the rugby hearties or the dining club types as they sneaked up on an unsuspecting victim on one of their rampages. Burly blokes treading carefully and lightly in order not to be heard. The early evening intake of sherry had dulled his wits.

The fight instinct took over. His body was screaming out for a weapon – he could almost feel the comforting weight of a 9 Millimetre pistol in his hand. His hands worked by instinct – the right thumb as if to take the safety catch off and the left hand into the pocket to check for the spare magazine clip. He would need both magazines to have a chance against them. But there was nothing – he was unarmed. Panic kills. Jacot moved quietly into the small bathroom at the back. The mullioned window was difficult to push open but Jacot was outside within seconds. It wasn't great standing on a narrow ledge eighty feet above the Cam but it was better than being inside. It was too high to jump. Even if he could somehow get back to ground level somewhere in the college and summon help it would not solve his problem. This was not a casual operation – it was an ambush. Whoever it was who was after him would have “cut offs” in place – men in the street at both ends of the college. Once they had flushed him out they would cut him down. He wouldn't even be safe in the police station from men like this. Special forces of some kind – probably retired and working on the international circuit. Taking out a
difficult
Brit in a Cambridge college was a breeze compared to Afghanistan or the West Bank.

He was expected at dinner. It would not be long before 74 despatched someone to check up but that was not going to help now. And they would come after him when they
realised he was no longer in the rooms. They probably thought he was hiding there. Should he try to take them on as they came through the window after him? It was
tempting
but with at least two and possibly more in the team it would be wiser to run for it. The music stopped. They knew he wasn't there.

Jacot had scrambled round the mullioned window and was perched on top of its overhang. On the wall twenty feet away he could see the reflection of a torch dancing on the wall. They were coming through the window. Where to go? There was no obvious route for escape. No drainpipes or anything that immediately looked useful. He could go down but they would be able to shoot him easily. He had to go up. They could kill him up here and that would be that. They would not even have to shoot him. Just throw him off the roof. But up looked the better bet. He had scanned the roof outline of the college many times over the years delighting in its quirks and crenellations, but his concern had always been aesthetics rather than escape.

A pair of buttresses ran from the top of the roof to the top of the chapel roof a further thirty feet or so high. If he could get onto the chapel roof he would be safe. His own little Fort Zinderneuf that he could defend against all comers. But he would have to ‘chimney' in mountaineering slang – force his back against one side of the buttress and his feet against the other and shimmy up. It would be difficult. And, oh God, he didn't have his gloves on. He went for it. One foot and one hand on the facing buttress. Back and the other hand pressed behind him. Each shimmy lifted him about eighteen inches. His hands were agony on the rough limestone – his scarred flesh felt thin and dry as he jammed his hands into any gaps or crevices he could find. He could not look down but could hear the window being opened. They would assume he had gone downwards.

Jacot's back was on fire but he was at the ledge leading onto the chapel roof. Something thudded next to his head and he heard the hiss of a silenced bullet. He heaved himself up and was over. Safe, for now at least. But he wasn't going to be safe in Cambridge for long. These days it wasn't all guns and bullets. He had to be careful they did not kill him some other way. He could see most of Cambridge from the roof of the chapel.

They would be waiting but they could not wait long in college – not this time. Their orders would be specific – kill the target and don't get caught. Above all, don't hurt anyone else. But still time to get out. He looked around. There was a door to a small tower at the southwest corner but it was locked. Just as well – they would have the exits from the chapel covered. He could stay and attract attention but best to get out and get far away.

Peering through the pierced Gothic parapet he took stock of the situation. His
opponents
were well concealed but with luck only expecting the obvious. If he could get off the chapel roof and across the river he would be safe.

In reality his predicament was nowhere near as serious as his opponents supposed. The courts and chapels of Cambridge colleges were easier to climb than they looked. In
the 1930s it had been a popular undergraduate pastime. In those days most of the
colleges
were locked at ten o'clock. The great front doors bolted as in medieval days against the dangers of the night. The academic communities turned in on themselves. College porters patrolled the obvious and easy points of access. The women's colleges were secured even earlier. Any undergraduate out and about late at night had to have leave from his tutor and wear a college gown. They were easily spotted by the bulldogs and proctors who formed the university police – porters from the colleges and young often athletic dons who patrolled the streets of Cambridge keeping order. But human nature being what it was, there were always young men in pursuit of conviviality or female
companionship
who were reluctant to be locked in at night. They climbed in and out of the colleges undetected. Some of the more daring sort then developed these skills not for the pursuit of pleasure but for the thrill of climbing itself. There are no hills worth climbing nearby so what better way to keep in trim for the Alpine season than climbing the sheer faces and looming overhangs of the university's own buildings. Most routes had been covered over the years and Jacot was comforted by the thought that there must be more than one way of the St James' Chapel roof.

Indeed there was: a workable route off the chapel, onto the roof of the library and then down onto the Bridge of Sorrows and then away. It was a sheer drop of some sixty feet onto the library roof. But horizontal bands of stone in the corner of the buttress would make it possible. A very chunky looking lightning conductor clamped periodically to the wall every few feet would make it easier. It was going to hurt his hands but it could be done.

Ninety seconds later without mishap he dropped lightly onto the library roof – unseen thanks to the medieval passion for screens and tracery which concealed him from the ground. But God his hands hurt and by now they were bleeding. He kept low and crawled the final few feet to where the library roof overlooked the bridge. He could see that in order to get onto the roof of the bridge he was going to have to jump for his life. But by then he would no longer be far above the town and if he slipped the worst that would be involved would be a dunking rather than death. The drop was twenty feet but just doable if he gripped the edge of the guttering and let himself down full length. He would have to push off with all his strength to avoid two large stone gargoyles
obstructing
his descent. He made it just and without any injury. A twisted ankle at this stage would be disastrous. He would lie low on the roof for some minutes – enough to make the opposition nervous. And then come to earth where they wouldn't expect him. It took only a short crouching run across the top of the bridge and a quick scramble down a nicely grooved buttress on the other side and he was once again at ground level.

He was fit for his very late forties. Nothing dramatic like running marathons but long brisk walks in the Dorset countryside at the weekends. Some jogging and a lot of
press-ups
during the week. And every year, without fail – skiing in Switzerland – preferably in the shadow of the Eiger.

He had slipped his iPhone into his pocket before bugging out. It was off. But you could in certain circumstances be followed even if the phone was off. Jacot could not be sure. In any case if the people who were trying to kill him were who he thought they were then they had access to all kinds of electronic surveillance equipment. There might be a van somewhere in Cambridge at this very moment listening out for him. And even if he managed to slip through the electronic net his opponents might have voice recognition software – if he spoke on a mobile phone or even a landline anywhere within a few miles of Cambridge the system would alarm and very quickly they could get a fix on him and that would be that. He dropped the iPhone gently into a hedge. There was only one thing for it – get out of Cambridge and then call for help. He ran all the way across “The Backs”, slowing down only when he reached the Madingley Road. He wrapped his right hand which was oozing blood in a handkerchief, dusted himself down and took a deep breath. Sheltering in the shadowy lee of the hedge he looked carefully around checking to see that he was not being followed. There was plenty of traffic and a few people. It looked as though he had made it.

Actually he was feeling rather pleased with himself. He had outwitted, outclimbed and outrun a group of professional ex-special forces hit-men. Two had come into his rooms. There were probably at least four more in support. Not bad for a day's work. A few minutes later he hailed a taxi and within half an hour found himself in Ely. Celia Nevinson had given him an emergency number which he rang from a call box. It rang and rang and made some very odd noises but eventually someone picked up.

‘Hello. Hello.'

‘Daniel, are you OK?'

Jacot was amazed – the voice at the end of the line was Monica's.

‘Dan don't explain. We have just found out. Where are you?'

‘Ely, outside the cathedral.'