The Vengeance Man (7 page)

I called her number. There was no answer, so I took a cab and pottered off to the City, partly for an excuse to wander in the fresh air, partly to drop by the flat to see if she was still around. After an hour or so drifting around jewellers and tea shops, I took the lift to the flat. The name plate puzzled me; 'Mr and Mrs A.M. Cornish.'  Vicki had obviously moved. I pressed the bell. Maybe they had her forwarding address.

The man who answered the door was fleshy, dark, in his mid thirties, and wore the smooth striped shirt and discreetly dotted silk tie of the City man. I could smell the whisky on his breath.  I introduced myself and explained why I was there. Immediately the dark face flushed. His reply shook me.

"I've heard all about
you
. Well, Mrs Cornish," he emphasised the words, "
my wife
,
is out, and she won't want to see you again."

I stood there wordlessly. I hadn't expected that. Vicky? Married?

"Didn't you hear me?" he added aggressively.

"Yes. I'm sorry. Married?” I was taken aback. What do you say? “I didn't know. I've been away," I mumbled.  A puff of warm opulent air floated out of the flat. It smelt of cigars and expensive perfume. I felt deflated and tired. He  eyed me
aggressively
, probably fuelled by a mixture of drink and apprehension.  It made him over-react.

"I know all about you and Vicky," he started accusingly. "Well, she's
my
wife now, we're married and we're very happy."   He gabbled.   "I've bought this flat from her company, so it's my property, so don't you dare come round here causing trouble.  I know what you do,... so hitting me won't do you any good,"  he added, rearing away with alarm.    I realised I'd taken a step towards him.

I shook my head, "No, no, I hadn't heard... "

He looked at me, suddenly confident. "Have you been in prison?"

"Prison?" I was startled. "Of course not."

"I'm sorry, it's just that you look, so, well - ill. And you've lost a lot of weight, from Vicky's picture. She still has one. I think she was quite ... fond of you. But you disappeared, and well, I met her.  I'm sorry."

He was apologising uselessly. Babbling.  Pratt. It was time to go. This was all a mistake.

“No.   I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to disturb you. Or Vicky. You see, I didn't know she was married now." I walked towards the lift, while he stood irresolute in the door of the flat. The red leather moccasins leered incongruously from beneath the dark suit trousers.

"She sent you an invitation, you know. To the wedding . "

"Yes?" I stood waiting for the lift. "I was in hospital, I expect."

"Oh.   He looked embarrassed and confused. "I'll tell her. She didn't know. She was quite - you know, upset when she couldn't get in touch with you. I think she was quite hurt; if you know what I mean. You never wrote or phoned, did you?"

"Yes. I know.  Thanks."  The lift arrived. "I'll send you a wedding present."

"No, no, there's really no need. I didn't mean that."

"Perhaps." I got in. The doors started to close.
"Give her my love, and say goodbye for me."

"Goodb ...".  The doors cut him off.  What a pratt. I could see him in twenty years time. Fat, balding, a successful stockbroker in a Surrey mock-
T
udor pile. Probably a Daimler and screwing his secretary. And  monogrammed red slippers from Jermyn Street.   Poor old Vicky.

Nevertheless, I was shaken by the visit.

Not just by the hostility, which I could understand, but by the rejection.  Of all the women I've known, I would have laid money on Vicky Barnes still being around. And I was puzzled by his remark about 'prison'.  As I wandered listlessly to the underground I caught a glance of myself in a black glass window: bomber jacket, gaunt, with eyes startlingly bright in dark rimmed smudges and the shirt collar away from my neck. No wonder Cornish thought I'd been in the nick. All I needed was a brown paper parcel to complete the image.     I looked like Central Casting's idea of a dope fiend in a James Dean movie.     

Taking a deep breath, I determined to fatten myself up before starting back to work.

You can always find another woman.  They’re like busses. Another one will always come along soon.

Anyway, I had to report back for duty.

London

After nearly nine months away, my return to Di
r
ectorate Special Forces was a low key affair.

To my surprise my desk was filled by a pompous ex-Greenjacket with a blue chin, dark wavy hair which he self-consc
i
ously brushed back while he talked and a deep, patronizing voice.  And he could talk all right. Apparently he had done great things in  the Balkans and had once got an MBE for being brave somewhere.  Big deal. I concealed my irritation and went looking for my mate,  Alex Jackson.  He'd visited me in the hospital bearing a bottle of  The Balvenie. As I couldn't touch alcohol at the time it had been a pointless exercise, but the thought was good.

It had made me laugh too, to see the affronted Matron's face before she ordered Alex out for trying to lead me astray.  "What are you thinking of?  Are you trying to kill him?"  she had indignantly demanded in her lilting Welsh.  "Out you go! Out with you. Disgraceful!"  Alex had grinned.

"Why not, Lady?  He's tried to kill me often enough!"  This was true, because I had left Alex  in the lurch on a couple of occasion -- but never deliberately.  Sometimes it just happens that way.

I tore myself away from the patronizing questioning of the new recruit.  De Court  was his name, which prejudiced me even more.  "Where's Alex?"  I demanded.

De Court looked shifty.  "Haven't you heard? You'd better  talk to the boss," he said, and that was all I could get out of him.  Fuming, I stomped off to find Tony Bell.  When I found him, I wished I hadn't.

"Alex is dead. " Tony looked me square in the eye.  "I wanted to be the one who told you. No-one else.  He got run over on the Kuwait-UAE road by a truck."

I must have looked appalled.  "Yes.  It  shook us too.  Alex was one of the best."

"When?  Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"Last month.  You were away on leave and anyway, it wouldn't have done you any good to be told.  He'd gone out to relieve James Davidson as our Liaison Officer in the Gulf.  Things are coming to the boil out there. Apparently it happened at dead of night.  Dead straight road. Driving to the airport. The tanker just went straight over the Rover.  Killed them both. All very odd. "

I was staggered; Alex, and James as well.  Two of our best men, gone.  For what?  "It can't have been an accident, Tony.  Can it?"

Tony remained impassive.  "The police record says it was.  It was a big 36 tonner. Water tanker. Mercedes artic, driven by a Baluch. He'd no form and reported it himself.  The poor little sod was wetting himself by the time the UAE Security Police had finished with him.  No, officially its kosher: an accident." He looked  at me closely. "Are you all right?"

"Sure, sure. " But I wasn't.  Captain Alex Jackson,  Special Boat Section, Royal Marines, was the nearest thing to a friend -- someone you can go to if  you've got trouble -- that  I had: 
had
  had, I thought.  Now he was gone.  I'd been going to tell him all about  the shitty little psychiatrist and the hospital and the dreams.  It would have been a laugh. I'd never again have the chance to sit quietly bullshitting  and swapping stories  in the corner of the pub with square faced Alex with the broken nose, who talked out of the side of his mouth in that slightly high pitched voice.  Five foot six, and
very
sensitive about his height. And his silly ginger hair.  Alex. Now I never would.  And lanky, languid ex-Etonian James Davidson was one of our best Arabists, trusted by every pro-Western Government and police force in Saudi, Kuwait and the Gulf States.  It was hard to take in.

"The funeral?"

"Over: gone.  Beginning of the month.  In their local church. You were convalescing; it was the Director's decision not to tell you.   Rosemary wanted it quiet.  No regiment, no uniforms; just local.  She wasn't very happy.  Blames us.  Not fair really.  Probably easier to pass off all her feelings on to us. "

"Should I go and see her?"

"Your call: I'd recommend telephoning first.  She's not a happy lady."

I sat in silence, staring out of the window.  I'd really wanted to talk to Alex.  He was the only guy I'd ever really been able to talk to about the serious things.  Like how scared I was at parachuting - every time.  And I knew that deep diving scared Alex shitless; which you don't admit to all your mates, particularly if you're a hot-shot captain in the SBS, with a pretty wife and two nice little daughters.   Plum; one of them was called Plum: Victoria really.  The little one was Lucy.  What a …  Shit.   I realised I'd better call Rosemary, though she'd never been a great fan of the Regiment or Alex's friends.  "Jesus.  Jesus. "

Tony eyed me again.  "Anyway, we've got other things to talk about.  You're due to go and see the Director at 1100.  We'd better have a little chat first. "

"Chat?  Why?"  I was wary.  Tony was trying to tell me something.  "What's to chat about?  What's going on?"

Tony was bland, reassuring. "Oh, lot's of things. What's going to happen to you for a start."

"And what is going to happen to me?   I'd assumed I was going back in there. " I gestured with my thumb back at the Special Operations Group Office.  "You can't really want that Rupert on the team.  He looks like a Tory MP."

Tony pulled down the corners of his mouth in a wry grin.  "Actually, his father is one."   he said, surprising me.  "Henry's did good work in the
Iraqi thing
. He's good. He got an MBE..."

"Henry?  Henry!  Who the bloody hell is
Henry
?  If that's what gets through selection these days, then Training Wing's up the spout. OK, so he got a medal in
Basra
or somewhere. We've all got bloody medals.  But it's hardly Afghanistan is it? Or a Queen's Gallantry Medal? And a bloody medal doesn't necessarily fit him for the team. "

Tony remained calm.  "He's your stand-in.  And he's a damned sight fitter than you are.  Look at yourself.  Come on, be honest.  Could
you
do the London Marathon in three  hours?"

I had to be honest.  "Of course not.  But I will be fit again."

Tony looked to me up and down and shook his head. "Well De Court can. Look," he said, "for Christ's sake be reasonable.  You're never, never going to be fit like that again.  You're past it.  We both are. 
You know that.
It's time to start thinking. About the future."

"Is that what the Director wants to talk about?"

"Yes, that.  And other things. "

"What other things?"

"Look," said Tony, pleading, "I can't go into it all now.  I don't like what's happening.  And I want you to know that my recommendation was that you stay. "

I went cold. "Stay? You mean I'm going?  Tony was embarrassed. "What? Posted?  I can't go back to Training Wing. No.  Not again. I know I'm not in shape: but it'll come."

Tony looked hunted.  "Look, I've told you all I'm supposed to.  Oh Christ, you'll hear it from the Director soon enough."   There was a long pause and he licked his lips.
"Look, I'm sorry.  It's not my fault. The Whitehall bastards want to bin you. "

"Bin me?"  I tried to absorb it, feeling sick in my  stomach.  "Why?  Why bin me?  Where?  Back to  Regimental duty?"  I grasped at a sudden straw.  "Or are they posting me somewhere else?  Not MOD?"

"No.  You. You don't understand.  It’s all to do with the Iran thing. They want you
out
.  Number Ten: the Cabinet Office. The spin doctors. They want you away. Redundancy. Sacked. Any bloody thing. Out. There’ve been questions about you in the House."

I cannot explain how I felt at that moment.  Out?  Redundancy?  Oh, I knew that there were cuts going on.  But they weren't for people like me.  Redundancy and cut backs were for fat old colonels in Base Ordnance Depots in British Army of the Rhine or sitting out their time on Salisbury Plain.  Not me.  Why me? What was so wrong with Kurdistan?

Tony must have picked up my thoughts.  "They weren't very happy about your Kurdistan stunt. There was a hell  of a row.  Iranians going on the telly: al Jazeera. British provocations and deliberated attacks on Iran. Diplomatic protests, stuff in the papers, questions in Parliament;  all that kind of stuff. They even raised it at the UN."

"How the hell could anyone blame Attorney on UK? We didn’t leave a trace. Anyway, we did it for the Yanks, surely? It was never down to us. "

"I'm afraid it was.  The Iranians got hold of one of the Turkish guys who had been your minder out there.  Some kind of Kurdish scout. Went  native in the hills with the Pesh Merga after you left,  then decided to take on an Iran
i
an Air Force base single handed.  Unbelievable, really. He ended up by driving a Land Rover through a couple of check points then crashing through an Air Base perimeter.  Drove it down the flight line. Smashed a  line of parked jets apparently. Ballsy stuff."

Nusret. Bloody Nusret.

"Where was this?"

"Tabriz, I think. Just over the border.   Anyway, they got him: half dead. Better if he'd been chopped, 'cos the Iranian goons worked him over apparently and he spilled it all.  Landrover, the attack on Hasak. The lot.  Even mentioned you by name."

"By
name
?"

"Not your
real
name, obviously. But he knew your work handle. And the Iranians had a field day with the Rover. Big display of British and foreign equipment, aiding the Kurdish rebels, British Secret Service, the SAS, gold sovereigns, stuff like that."

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.  Mind you, Sal must be laughing somewhere.  Fuck.

"It was all over the papers about three months ago.  You were still in hospital, I think.  Undercover Britons in Secret Attacks on Saddam, etcetera. That kind of stuff. One of the awkward squad actually mentioned you by name at Prime Minister’s Questions.  You’re even in Hansard.” He grinned mirthlessly. “So you can see you're not the Cabinet Office's favourite heavy. Number Ten went ballistic. PM’s personal poodles wanted to come over and give us grief directly. Demanded to see you. Personally. Chief of Staff told them to fuck off….  And I won't tell you what those pompous turds in the FCO are calling you."

Shit.

Tony's voice went on, but I was only half listening. Nusret. Poor, decent honest Nusret.  He'd obviously gone for the big one. Big public revenge. 'I will revenge my brother,
Sayeed
': and the silly sod had blown it.  "….Of course they topped him,"  Tony was saying,  "Word is they wanted to do a show trial, but the poor bugger wasn't fit to be seen in public. So they put the Landrover on display and blamed HMG and gave the poor sod a Penkovski special.."

"A
what
?"

"Executed him by feeding him into a furnace. Slowly. Feet first. And filmed it as an example of what happens to enemies of the Great God’s regime on earth.  The Ayatollah’s revenge, I think they call it. Apparently it's a bit of an Iranian speciality to keep the faithful in line nowadays. Anyway, I don't think you should plan on taking any holidays in the Tehran Hilton for a while.  But there are some desk warriors in the JIC who'd probably give you a free ticket to share the entertainment. You really aren't flavour of the month, I'm afraid. Ministers have even denied your existence in the House. And you can imagine how much this bunch of control freaks enjoyed
that
."

Shit.   Shit, shit, shit.

Poor little Nusret. So that was where his Intiquam had led him. If ever a man deserved revenge on his enemies, it was Nusret. And it was all my fault. I'd given him the bloody tools to do it.  Shit. If ever a man deserved revenging, it was Nusret. 'My brother,' I'd called him. What a bloody farce.

"Are you all right?"
said Tony.

"Yup. I'm fine. Shit happens."

"Right. Glad you haven't lost your sense of proportion.  I didn't know how you'd take it.  We've been pretty worried about you, you know."

Sure you have, Tony. Bastards. Worried enough to try to get rid of me as an embarrassment.  Me. After all I've done for them. They're worried about me; so, remove the source of their worry. Very logical. Very MOD.  I'd give them something to bloody worry about.

"Let's go and see the Director. We don't want to be late.  I expect he's got a way out. He's good at this kind of stuff. It's not as bad as it seems, you know. I think you'll find the system will take care of you."

Sure, Tony, sure. Poor bloody Nusret. Burnt alive. And
they’re
trying to kick me out, that's taking care, is it?  Alex dead. James dead. My mates. What the hell was going on?  I couldn't take it all in.

No wonder I'd always hated coming back from leave.

You always come back to trouble.

*
             
*
             
*

The interview  with the Director went nothing like I expected it to go.  Brigadier Peters stood up as we went in, lean, rangy and with the sandy hair going grey.  With his pin stripe suit and gold watch chain he looked more like a successful banker than the Director, Special Forces. He seemed older and greyer than the last time I'd seen him. Tireder, too.