The Vengeance Man (25 page)

"Defended?" I was totally baffled now. "Are you advocating greater defence expenditure or something?  No more
Defence
cuts?"  I silently wondered what the hell he was trying to get across.

"No, no." Mallalieu shook his head and paced the room again. "No. I'm doing this very badly."

I agreed with him. What on earth he was on about?

"What I'm trying to say is, just because you're sitting in your warm, cosy council flat in Walsall or Wigan or wherever, watching 'Match of the Day' on the box with a can of beer in your hand, doesn't mean that everything
really is
all right and some new
millennium
has arrived. That your cosy little world isn't threatened, and doesn’t need protecting."

"Oh, come on , Colonel.  Against who? Al Qa’ida? The Russians? The Yellow Peril from the East? You're not really going to tell me that someone's preparing some great threat to the UK because  people sprawl in front of the box drinking beer and watching celebrity crap on the telly?  Where's the threat? Global terror? I don’t think so."

"No, of course not. Although they're lots of people who would certainly take advantage of a weak Britain if we were daft enough to let that happen.
Ge
r
many and
France for starters. That's why all this Euro
pean nonsense is so dangerous.
No, what I'm really saying is that all these sheep in their cosy little pens,"  he waved a disparaging arm to indicate the rest of the population of the United Kingdom, "All these sheep need protecting so that they can sleep warm in their beds of a night." He swirled his drink and looked down at the glass. “Wasn’t it George Orwell who said something about, ‘We sleep well in the night because rough men stand ready to do violence on our behalf’? “

"OK. I see your point. But you still haven't told me what this great threat is, Colonel.  Protecting? Against what? Terrorism?" I persisted.

"Against themselves, as much as anything. Against their own reluctance - their ignorance - to act decisively to protect their cosy little world. Even to pay for that protection. Someone has to take the unpleasant decisions for them and do the messy things that have to be done. The things that they can't or won't do for themselves." He fiddled with his glass, eyes down.  "Let me ask you a question about democracy."

"I'm intrigued; wasn't that where we came in ?"

He grimaced at my sarcasm. "I’ll tell you about democracy. Do you think that a thousand sheep would vote for vegetarianism?"

I laughed,
"I think that there's a pretty fair chance of it." It conjured a beguiling image.

"Does that make vegetarianism right?"

I considered. "Well, if you're a sheep, being a vegetarian does have certain attractions...."

"What about the wolves?" Mallalieu eyed me keenly. "What about the wolves? Are they for vegetarianism?   A thousand sheep can pass resolutions favouring vegetarianism, bu
t it's useless unless the wolf
goes along with it too, isn't it?"

It was a neat point. "OK, but in a democracy we tame our wolves - or bang them up in nick."  A thought occurred to me. " Unless they're Northern Irish Paramilitaries, or Muslim clerics, of course."

Mallalieu pulled a face. "So we do, so we do." He pulled out the cork and topped up the glasses again, spilling some onto the reproduction Regency wine table. I mopped it up with my handkerchief and noticed that it wasn't reproduction. "But what do these democratic sheep do about marauding wolves from outside? The ones from the woods the other side of the hill?" He put the bottle down with a bang.

I reckoned he’s lost it. "What sort of wolves are we talking about here?  Mad dogs? Terrorists? People who won't play the game by democracy's rules or the Good Friday agreement? Osama bin Laden’s happy band of followers?" I was baffled.

"Ah, you get my drift. Yes. What
do
we do about terrorists and major drug dealers?"

I shrugged. "Jail them. Personally, I’d top some of the bastards."

"Kill them?" Mallalieu looked shocked. "What Minister of the Crown, democratically responsible to Parliament, would sign a convicted terrorist's death warrant? And capital punishment's finished now, except for buggery in Her Majesty's dockyards."

"Only if you're trying to commit arson the time," I matched his mood.

He smiled thinly and sat back. What was Tom Mallalieu up to? I was beginning to get his general drift - or so I thought. He didn't like democracy because it was weak. He didn't have a high opinion of "The People", whom he thought were sheep. He thought that someone else had to take the hard decisions for them.  He thought that someone had to protect the sheep from the wolves - himself?  Me? If anyone was a wolf, a carnivore in a pinstripe suit, it was Colonel Tom Mallalieu, late of the Intelligence Corps and the Parachute Regiment.

I looked carefully at him over the puddle of warm Armagnac, his eyes shadowed by the lamp, dark and unfathomable.  What sort of man was he, really?   Was he a patriot? Was he some kind of closet fascist - better suited to the SS?  No; plump, sexy Christina wouldn't let him be
that
,  that's for sure.  Or was he just some kind of realist looking out on a real world, trying to reconcile the fantasy of political theory with the nasty business of political survival?   An honest man trying to do a job in today's real world?   I can truthfully tell you at that moment Mallalieu completely baffled me: more – he intrigued me. What the hell was he leading up to?

“What's so important about terrorists and druggies all of a sudden? Is there one in the nick who needs to be hanged or something?"

He shook his head. "No, it was really a general point."  He looked at me again as if waiting for an answer to an unstated question.

"Well," I hazarded, "Are you suggesting that we get rid of society's enemies  - terrorists - to protect it?"

He stared back, his face mask-like. "You tell me."

I shrugged. "No contest; of course we should. Even at the risk of creating martyrs. Preferably while they're on the  job – remember the old Iranian Embassy, years ago?"  He nodded. "Well," I continued, "that's how you should deal with terrorists; top 'em on the job. Find out who they are where they are and take
‘
em out. Hope you’ve got the right boys and put ‘em down. Win the gunfight, crush the bastards so that no other bugger thinks the game's worth the candle 'cos he'll get blown away, too." I was vehement - savage almost. “Anyway, that's how I'd deal with terrorists."

"Peace through superior firepower?"

"Yes, if you like. Plus good intelligence."

"Do you think that's what most other people would think?"

I nodded. "Yes, and that's where you're wrong about democracy. I reckon that if you went to your mythical council house in Reading or Walsall or wherever and asked them, that's what
they'd
say.  They'd vote for it in a flash.  That's what the democratic view of the majority is. Especially if the Sun says it is."

I remembered the pub conversation about the Meekin case.  "Any referendum on hanging would win. You know it would. They don't like terrorists any more than they like paedophiles..." I suddenly realised what I'd said, but ploughed on quickly:  "That's really what most people want. That's real democracy. They want to see the bad guys dealt with. Hanged. Cut their goolies off..." An image of Spicer and the three Brixton muggers popped unbidden into my mind; I suppressed it quickly.

I'd said too much.

He nodded. "I agree. So why doesn't it happen?"

We both knew perfectly well why it doesn't happen.   "Because politicians haven't the guts for it?  Because we're manipulated by a trendy liberal press that’s only democratic  provided you agree with what they say is right?  Because we're all
so b
l
oody
politically correct now that we daren't make a squeak?  Because the politicians, the BBC and the media are too well educated and too comfortable to soil their hands?” I slurped some of the Armagnac. This was boring. “Hell, I don't know.”

"Yes," he agreed. "It's all those things." He mused, stretching out to contemplate his elegant suede chukka boots. "I thought that's how you'd feel."

The warm Armagnac, the comfortable chair and the good meal had all taken their effect. I was relaxed and slow thinking; too slow-thinking.

"Yes," he said again. "I knew you were the right man.  I just had to be sure."

Too late an alarm sounded in my mind as
I refocussed concentration
. "Now hang on, Colonel; taking out arms dealers is one thing.
.
. I mean that was Bosnia, Italy, and government, not private bloody enterprise.
.
."

He cut me off short. "Just listen to what I have to say, first.   What do you know about international crime?"

"Not a lot; there's a lot of it about...."

"Precisely. You could argue that some of the really big criminal bosses are almost respectable, now .
.
.

I broke in. "Sure. They even
get to become Italian Prime Ministers or EU Commissioners.  They haven't quite been invited to address the UN yet, but I get your drift."

"They probably will be." Mallalieu smiled grimly. "Who do you think has kept the Mafia in business over the years?"

I shrugged. He'd lost me again. "The local population?  Weak governments? Corruption?   Public support?" I trailed off.

"Aha ! But whose public support?"

"I don't know. Italians, American ...

He rounded on me, eyes gleaming. "Exactly. "'

"What, American?"

"Precisely. Whose interest is it in for the Mafia
to succ
e
ed?"

"I don't know...the Mafia?"  What the hell was he on about
now
?

"What do you know about the Mafia?"

"Bunch of Yank crooks?   No ... there's a Russian Mafia now."

Mallalieu looked hard at me.   "What about it being just a small part of a much bigger international organisation?   An organisation that goes across the whole world."

I was taken aback. "An organisation... What? Like an international company?"

"Yes, that's about it - a big multinational."

"Linked? What? Sort of like Crime Inc?"

"As far as the Americans and Russians are concerned, that is just what it is. Crime Incorporated. A big institution, with lots of branches."

I was taken aback. "Well, fine. But what's it to do with me...
with us?"

Mallalieu looked thoughtful. " That depends." He eyed me, appraising, cautious. "I'm going to tell you a number of things now that I don't want repeated; ever. Do you understand?"

I shrugged. "I can keep a secret. I'm still under the OSA."

"Yes, you are.  I'm glad you reminded me."  He paused, psychologically bunching up to pounce. "Well, this is very much covered by the Official Secrets Act. It's as big a thing as you're ever likely to hear.  But I had to be sure that you were sound first."

For the first time that evening I felt a stirring of real interest. When someone like Mallalieu says you're 'sound' it means he's going to invite you to join his club – whatever that club may be.

"Well, " he went on, "There
is
an international crime organisation. Oh, it's not like IBM, or Microsoft, with a big marble headquarters and potted palms and executives and all that stuff. But the idea’s pretty much the same. It does the same job. And it's big.
Global.
Looking for new business. New profits. Probably the biggest World Organisation of them all. Branches – if that’s what you want to call them -
a
ll over the world.
Of course, most of the people who work for it don't know that they
’re
working for crooks. They work for... subsidiaries: for associates. But in every country, in every continent, there is a network, a small group of like-minded men in charge, who know exactly what they're doing."

"A sort of international Mafia?" I hazarded.

"That is
exactly
what it is. But it's bigger, much bigger than the Mafia. Imagine that the American Mafia, the Italian Mafia , the Moscow fat cats, Cosa Nostra, the Colombian drug barons, the big banks, some governments..."

I stopped him. "Banks?"

He smiled. "I thought you'd enjoy that.  Yes, banks.  Big international banks. All working for the organisation. Funding it; cleaning its money, facilitating its operations. And that's just the start: banks, finance, business...."

"Hang on," I broke in. "What you're saying isn't new. I thought that all criminal organisations, sorry, successful, criminal organisations, eventually go legit in the end. Clean up their act. Launder their money to become respectable. There was even a book about it, 'The Firm' or something , where the Mafia run their own  tame law company..."

He raised a hand to stop me. "I know. But I'm talking about something much, much bigger. Think of a major international corporation with global control over legitimate international companies, crooked companies, criminals, drugs, links them all together."