The Falklands Intercept (3 page)

She looked up at him as he went into her office. ‘The Chief of Defence Intelligence, General Verney is dead.'

‘You're joking.'

‘No. Found early this morning in a guest room at St James' College, Cambridge. Looks like a heart attack. News embargo for now but it will become public soon.'

‘How awful.' Jacot was genuinely shocked. But after nearly a month working on the Middle East 18 hours a day he was looking forward to going on leave that afternoon.

‘I was due to go up to Cambridge today for his lecture. The car is ready outside. I last saw him at the Joint Intelligence Committee meeting last Wednesday. He was grumpy and agitated. He emailed me yesterday asking for a private chat on a matter of some urgency – using a private and unbreakable cipher. And now he's dead.'

‘Well, Lady Nevinson. Maybe it was his heart making him uncomfortable. He never stopped smoking.'

‘I need you go to Cambridge. Now, this morning. St James' is your old college isn't it? I have rung the Master.' Celia Nevinson was used to ordering men around. Most took it fairly well. Jacot never had a problem with her. She was clever, charming (when she wanted to be) and attractive in an English house-master's wife sort of way. But there was something strange. Her eyes contained only authority and the voice sounded confident. The hands drummed on the scarlet folder on the desk. Usually a sign of impatience, something about the rhythm suggested fear.

‘Get down there or up there or whatever it is these days, Jacot. Find out what
happened
. I am convinced it was a heart attack but we need to be sure. Anyway he wasn't in a bag or anything like that. Thank God. Poor man. I have already issued some
instructions
as you might expect. The Cambridge Police are handling the investigation. Because of who Verney was there will also be a Military Police detachment in attendance. There will be no, I repeat no, intelligence people there. None of the agencies and no military intelligence, except for you. We have had enough trouble recently, with code-breakers being found in suspicious circumstances, and then the cloak and dagger adolescents muddying the waters. If you see anyone you don't like the look of get the Cambridge Police to arrest them and let me know. Anyone under military discipline deal with
yourself
and hand over to the Military Police. Is that clear Colonel?'

‘Yes, Lady Nevinson.' Jacot felt a surge of excitement. She was clearly on a roll. It would mean foregoing a bit of his leave but it would be refreshing to get involved in something practical. Analysing secret intelligence had its own intellectual satisfactions, but even in a crisis-ridden world it was a bit like playing chess all day, every day. Ferreting around Cambridge as the National Security Adviser's emissary would be interesting.

‘I'll expect you back here whenever you have anything to report. The trains only take fifty minutes these days and my driver will pick you up at King's Cross. If you need to discuss anything sensitive in a hurry, ring me on your encrypted mobile phone. I will issue you with the Magenta bits and pieces in the car. If you run into trouble there's an emergency number to ring just in case. You are not to discuss this matter with anyone else – no one. Do you understand? I will brief the prime minister if necessary. Come on I will come with you to King's Cross Station.' She smiled wearily.

The staccato bureaucratic clarity softened the instruction and its implications. But the thrust was clear. Jacot was essentially to investigate the death of the most senior
military
intelligence official in the country and report on any developments personally – not to the police, not even to the heads of the UK's Intelligence services, not to Number 10 but to the National Security Adviser only. He was on his own.

Jacot got off the train at Cambridge station. Arriving in the university town always lifted his spirits and he cheerily hailed a taxi to St James'. It was an extraordinary place. As the taxi moved through the cold and rainy streets he mused on what had been discovered in this small damp Fenland town. Within a hundred yards or so, the length of an obscure street called Free School Lane, most of the key discoveries of the modern world had been made. At one end of the lane stood the Cavendish Laboratory where Lord Rutherford and his team had first split the atom. Half way down, the building blocks of life, DNA, had been discovered by Watson and Crick, in of all places a pub – The Eagle much beloved during the war by American bomber crews based nearby who came into town to let off steam after their daring daylight raids over Germany. Given the almost fifty per cent casualty rate they deserved a good time. Some even signed up for courses at the university and a few managed to stay on at the end of the war.

At the bottom of the lane was the entrance to King's College where a young don, Alan Turing, later to become a brilliant cryptologist at Bletchley Park, had written his famous paper
On Computable Numbers
, laying the theoretical groundwork for the entire computer age and more immediately the defeat of Nazi Germany. It was a source of great pride to the university and of chagrin to its rival which lay somewhere to the west of London. And of course the Americans were so put out by these extraordinary achievements that they cheerfully pretended they were their own. But that was enough pleasurable musing. He might find time for a pint in The Eagle at some point but he was here on business – an unexplained death of the head of British military intelligence.

He looked up at the glorious gateway of the college with its huge gilded scallop shell, symbol of St James, glistening in the sunlight. A friendly porter in a dark blue bowler hat emerged, explained to Jacot where he would be staying and grabbed his suitcase. Jacot would settle himself in later. First, he had a body to attend to. He walked through the First Court towards Medici Court which lay next to the river. Verney's rooms were just to the left of the Bridge of Sorrows which straddled the river Cam connecting the two sides of the college. At first sight it could have been the scene of any suspicious death, much rarer in the ancient English university towns than the television would have us believe – except that alongside the blue and the curiously comforting roman hats of the Cambridgeshire Constabulary were, as promised by Lady Nevinson, the scarlet slashed peak caps of the Royal Military Police. One of the British Army's most senior officers had died very suddenly in unexplained circumstances. It was only right that they should
be there.

He recognised a major from the Special Investigations Branch of the RMP, the people who investigated real crimes, rather than the more run of the mill pub brawls that
characterised
most modern garrison towns.

The military police major looked hassled. ‘Redcaps', as the rank and file knew them, were never quite comfortable being questioned about their activities. Disliked by most of the junior ranks in the army they had a thankless task. Most soldiers had had a run in with them at some point in their career. Jacot remembered being arrested by a detachment on Cyprus. He and some friends were enthusiastically attending a wine festival officially “Out of Bounds to Troops”. He shouldn't have been there and it was fair enough that the Cypriots did not want their festivals overwhelmed by refreshed British soldiers, even young Foot Guards officers. But the military policemen who had rounded them up and returned them to their base, and extended periods of extra-duties as a result, seemed a little officious. This time round Jacot was certainly pleased to see them. To a man they were trained in observation skills and more importantly for his present purposes to brief succinctly.

‘I am Colonel Jacot from the National Security Adviser's office.' He flashed his
military
identity card. ‘What happened?'

‘Found about eight o' clock this morning. Both doors to his rooms locked from the inside and a small chock inserted beneath the inner door. Standard security at night for someone like that I suppose. Somebody called the Fellows' Butler, whatever that is, took him up his breakfast just after eight. No reply to the knocking. Door appeared to be locked and bolted. In the end this butler type and the head porter broke down the door. And there he was, lying dead in his bed. No blood. No signs of a struggle. No cyanide fumes. No gas. No poisonous snake slithering into the pantry. No weird stuff either – wigs or high heels like that case in London a couple of years back. Thank God. All the windows of the set of rooms overlook the river. No way in. No way out. Not formally identified yet but almost certainly General Verney the current Chief of Defence Intelligence. Body about to be taken away for a post mortem. I was despatched down here by the Provost Marshal no less, who also told me to expect you sir. Seems to be a big flap on – more than just about a dead general I would say. That's all I can tell you Colonel. We await the post mortem.'

‘Has anyone been inside?'

‘I doubt it. Only the people that found the body and the local police. The nearest Provost detachment is in Wisbech and we had a car here just a few minutes after the Cambridge Police. And the Provost Marshal's orders were absolutely specific about keeping people out.'

‘Can I see the body? I used to know him.'

It was Verney all right. Lying under a duvet drawn taught as if for an inspection at Sandhurst. It looked as though he had died in his sleep. The set of the face itself was
peaceful, like someone's grandfather dying at the end of a long life in a rather nice room overlooking the River Cam. Jacot moved on from the body inspecting the room itself. He glanced around for a quick first impression and then divided the room into segments in his mind and inspected each one in turn, in detail. He began with the windows
overlooking
the river – mullioned, as you would expect. They might even have been the
originals
when this part of the college was built in 1560. Like those dark and tragic chambers at the Tower of London there were letters scratched into the glass. Jacot could see a number of scallop shells scratched into the central window and, as was well-known to just about everyone in the college over the years, the initials “WS” in 17th-century script. No one knew who WS might have been and despite the best efforts of some very clever History and English dons there was no record of a William Shakespeare ever being put up in the college, let alone matriculating there. What a prize that would have been if the great poet and dramatist William Shakespeare himself had been a Jamesian. The truth of it was that these were casual graffiti – the equivalent of “Kilroy woz here” or “Chris fancies Carol” rather than cryptic messages from the past.

One window was open but the set of rooms was on the second floor overlooking the river. Access to the windows from below would have been challenging for a Himalayan climber and impossible to accomplish without equipment or without being seen. The façade of this bit of the college was floodlit till quite late. In theory someone could have abseiled down from the roof. Again difficult to do without being seen but Jacot decided he would go up on the roof later. Dangling ropes digging into 17th-century brickwork would surely leave behind some kind of trace, but it was a long shot.

Jacot stood for several minutes looking at the room wall by wall, his head turning slowly. He repeated the process a second time, the head moving slowly and
methodically
and his gloved hands flexing and un-flexing as he reached a peak of concentration. At the end he stood perfectly still for a moment and then walked through to the sitting room. Painted in white and gold – and hung with pictures of 18th-century Cambridge – it was a beautiful room befitting a distinguished and honoured guest. The bookshelves were stacked with standard editions of the great works bound in striking scarlet leather. The rooms were a kind of Don's dream – the ideal space in which to study, entertain and hold forth – the essence of the Cambridge spirit. A devout man, at least a man devout in the Jamesian style could study and devote himself to God in such a set of rooms. And live well too. Wasn't an elegant and civilised life a compliment to the Creator? A sceptic would find the rooms a validation of cool rationality and a comfortable setting in which to undertake academic investigation before the darkness closed in forever. Jacot doubted whether Verney had been a religious man. Like his hero Captain Scott maybe he just took things as they came and sought what comfort there was in a contingent universe by relying on himself. Perhaps his religion was himself and his career – it seemed a popular if ultimately depressing philosophy these days. Somewhere in that glittering career there must be something, thought Jacot, that could explain Verney's sudden death – even if it
was only the smoking.

Jacot returned to the bottom of the staircase and the military police who were already becoming convinced that the whole thing was due to natural causes – middle aged men died suddenly in their beds with great regularity despite modern medicine and
diagnostics
. They also died at moments that could be very convenient for some of those left behind. John Smith and Robin Cook sprung to mind but no one would suggest that in a modern country like Britain there could have been anything untoward. Indeed not. And Jacot would be very surprised if the post mortem showed anything unusual or remotely suspicious.

But something wasn't quite right. The college wasn't full of shifty characters straight out of central casting who would not look him in the eye. At first sight the most likely explanation seemed to be the most innocent. But the atmosphere was somehow wrong. It was as if the walls themselves of these beautiful Elizabethan and Jacobean buildings had suspicions. It was hard to put your finger on but he had seen and felt it before. On the Falls Road in West Belfast many years before, when just after a soldier had been shot by the IRA everyone was polite and a little wary as you might expect. But no one had seen anything. Just as in a Hammer Horror film when everyone but the luckless late arrival at the Transylvanian inn knows that it's not a good idea to go up to the castle late at night during a full moon, but no one dares say anything or even wants to.

But we should be grateful at least, thought Jacot, for some small mercies. Individuals important to the state and/or privy to its secrets had on occasion died suddenly in more embarrassing and distressing ways than this. At least Verney hadn't keeled over in a brothel or in the arms of a young girlfriend. Such circumstances were difficult to manage in the modern world. It should be possible to establish what exactly happened away from the public eye – less stressful for Verney's family and friends and much less stressful for the secret parts of the British state.

The military policeman was hovering. ‘But what if I may ask is a gentleman like you doing down here and why the flap? He was in his late fifties – it's a peak time for
middle-aged
men.'

Jacot smiled. ‘We shall see.' He turned away and walked north across the court to the rooms he would be staying in. He had acquired all the information he needed, for now. The body had been positively identified. The military police were unsuspicious. Nevertheless, it was clear from Lady Nevinson's briefing that she suspected foul play. She hadn't spelled it out but he had not been sent down here as a “Sherpa” to assist and gently oversee a routine investigation. She expected him to find out what exactly had been going on. He would spend the morning ferreting around. If he needed to brief her he could get a late train back to London.

He had better get on with interviewing the various people involved. The American officials had been allowed to go back to London and Washington. They were apparently above suspicion. But, if necessary, Jacot could easily get access to them later – and he
would. He was unpopular with certain parts of the embassy. He invariably called it the American High Commission and enjoyed making some of the more militant and neo-con members of the CIA station feel uncomfortable. But others at Grosvenor Square respected him for his judgement, sense of humour and obvious patriotism. Inside the DNA of every American was a verse or two of The Star-Spangled Banner and the most educated and civilised understood that others too loved their own countries just as much as they did theirs. But they were getting fewer on the ground.

There was another sickness abroad in the intelligence machine on both sides of the Atlantic which Jacot and many others were trying to stand against with limited success. Intelligence was meant to be an honest effort to find out what was going on in the world, an intellectual quest to understand and make sense of an increasingly complex world without fear or favour. The process was like trying to put together a complex jigsaw puzzle. But, crucially, in the style of the purist 1930s jigsaw enthusiasts who tried to solve the puzzle without the benefit of a picture on the front of the box. Jacot did not mind so much what those in charge of his or any other country chose to do about the various pressing and alarming issues that sometimes intelligence helped to illuminate. That was a decision for those set above him in the machine. But he did mind very much about the process of intelligence analysis. It could never be free of the usual human frailties of ignorance, pride or sheer wrong-headedness but it was becoming on both sides of the Atlantic more and more a vehicle for ambition or political partiality. Verney had had many qualities but the one he was particularly known for was his uncritical almost
unconditional
admiration of Uncle Sam. Not that there were any dissenting voices. To get ahead in the British army these days you had to have a high opinion of Uncle Sam or at least fake one. In a way the US armed forces were like a dealer to our own. They supplied the conflicts which the military junkies craved but which we were too small to undertake off our own bat.