Читать книгу Cut to the Chase - Ray CW Scott - Страница 12

'Alan, I understand you are to be part of the Foreign Minister’s entourage next months when he attends that conference in London.’

‘That’s correct,’ Alan Kelsey replied. ‘I’m part of the security detail. Apparently there is a security scare in London at the present time, what with terror threats and fears of another London bombing.’

‘Yes, that is so,’ Francis Burton nodded in agreement. ‘In addition there are to be discussions with the British Government on the question of naval frigates or destroyers, some of our vessels are near to their use by date and will eventually have to be replaced.’

‘Yes, I had heard that was on the agenda.’

‘This is one of the reasons why I suggested you be included, with your experience in the R.A.N. we shall be killing two birds, security and naval knowledge.’

‘Thank you for your confidence in my abilities,’ replied Kelsey with a trace of sarcasm and Burton chuckled and spread out his hands. Prior to his joining ASIO Alan Kelsey had been a lieutenant-commander in Naval Intelligence in the Australian Navy. When the navy began to run out of ships, and money, many of its personnel had been declared redundant. Kelsey had sensed that advancement would be problematical so he had taken redundancy and had promptly been snapped up by ASIO.

‘David McKay is already there, as you know, he has been there for about three months. He is ostensibly the home correspondent on one of our dailies in London. We have another security detachment on call for the negotiations we shall shortly be holding with Indonesia and Taranga on the question of deep sea oil exploration in the Arafura Sea. So we have much on our plate at present.’

‘Yes, we’re pretty thin on the ground at present.’

‘Do you remember Murray Craddock?’

‘Will I ever forget him,’ snorted Kelsey.

‘We never did find him did we?’ said Burton. ‘How long ago was it the bastard defected and disappeared?’

‘Oh…what would it be, nearly twelve months ago now? He doesn’t seem to have surfaced in Moscow, so heaven knows where he is now.’

‘Well I think there’s a possibility we may have found him,’ rejoined Francis Burton dryly, referring to a note on his desk. ‘Or at least, we do have a clue as to his whereabouts.’

‘We do? Where?’

‘We believe he’s run to ground in England, and that he’s been there since he did a runner from here.’

‘England! Good God!’

‘Well he does have English antecedents, as I suppose many of us do if we go back far enough,’ Burton ruminated. ‘But his final destination must have been planned long before he finally made a run for it, with everything geared for a hasty departure.’

‘What led us to England?’

‘We’ve been lucky,’ commented Burton. ‘A member of the Russian embassy staff in London committed an indiscretion and was ordered home in disgrace. He had no wish to return to Mother Russia, especially with a cloud over his head which would have obviated further foreign postings, so he opted to defect.’

‘Bill Wainwright and the rest of MI 5 must be cock-a-hoop.’

‘He is and they are,’ Burton gave a snort of amusement. ‘Bill and his team are sorting out what this Russki brought with him, obviously the bloke thought he’d better bring something of value to stop them throwing him back! Bill was on the blower yesterday, apparently one of the files this bloke brought out with him indicates that Murray Craddock is somewhere in the Midlands working in a bookshop owned by a member of the British Communist Party, where he’s been since he buggered off from here.’

‘Do we know where?’

‘Not yet, Dave McKay is working on it; a process of elimination,’ grunted Burton, running the palm of his hand over his bald head. ‘He’s working with Colin Grimshaw of Five to try to isolate which Communist Party member runs a bookshop in that area. I think we may strike gold here.’

‘That’s good news.’

‘Also, according to the file that Five are checking now, Craddock is still in contact with some members of an espionage ring he was working with before he upped and left. We have no names but we know that somebody is still leaking information from here, this may put a stopper on it.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

‘When were you due to leave for London?’

‘Couple of weeks.’

‘How is your wife taking it?’

‘Badly,’ responded Kelsey ruefully. ‘She’s used to the enforced absences, but all our children are reaching teenage, they are becoming independent and bloody minded, especially the girls.’

‘Makes you wonder why we have children at all,’ sighed Burton. ‘I wish you, and especially Petra, joy.’

‘Thanks…for nothing!’

‘They are called The Society of Asian Commerce,’ said Christine Norton as she riffled through the file. ‘I’ve never heard of them before so I did a check on them. They were formed three years ago but they don’t seem to do very much apart from hold meetings.’

‘What are they offering?’

‘$2,000 for a four hour seminar and a rah rah speech,’ said Christine. ‘Together with a supper segment back at the hotel afterwards that shouldn’t present too many problems.’

‘Does Saul know them?’

‘No, that is to say, he had heard of them but doesn’t really know very much about them. They seem harmless enough, no politics or religion, not on the face of it anyway, though you can never tell these days. They seem to be mainly interested in trade.’

‘All right, suits me,’ Wallace replied. ‘OK, see what you can find out about them and then if it seems satisfactory, cable acceptance. The date slots in with my trip.’

‘Not entirely, you’d have to stay for another two weeks, but Saul says he has another couple of nibbles from some other organisations that want to know something of trade and insurance practices in the Southern Hemisphere, he says it could make it worth your while and contribute something to your vacation expenses.’

She made one or two notations on the file. Christine Norton was a tall woman, about 5’10” tall and though a little lacking in the upper works was quite striking elsewhere. Her hair was fair and short around the back and sides but with a mass of curls on top. Wallace found her quite attractive to look upon, though he had heard that in the sexual sphere she played for the other team. He could believe it, there was a masculine look about her despite her use of clothes that emphasised her femininity. They had a strong rapport; she was an efficient lady and a good agent, with a sense of humour that closely tallied with Wallace’s.

Wallace tended to land many of his own speaking engagements locally through his own contacts, but as she obtained many more overseas they both did well out of each other. Her clients included many actors, most of them small time who were involved in the advertising, movie and television fields, which was her main bread and butter. In the main the faces of many of her clientele would be familiar to television viewers, who would recognise many of them when they appeared on the screen but would find it difficult to remember their names.

She had a few clients like Wallace who laid no claim to being thespians, who were in demand by commercial organisations and occasionally government utilities for end of year entertaining speeches at Christmas dinners or other business functions. Wallace’s overseas commitments were useful in that if he was going anyway, particularly to England where he still had relatives, a presentation or seminar could pay much of, if not all, air fares and expenses.

Since they had joined forces Wallace’s speaking assignments had sky rocketed within Australia, particularly interstate where there had previously been few contacts.

She lit a cigarette in a manner which tended to accentuate her masculine properties, and Wallace found himself smiling at the thought that Elsie’s friend had considered her worthy of mention to Elsie as a rival for Elsie herself. Saul, who had been mentioned, was Saul Prosser her London contact and he provided similar services in England, with emphasis upon the Home Counties, to those that Christine supplied in Sydney.

Saul and Christine were in the same line of business, they had a loose arrangement whereby they checked people and organisations for each other. When dealing with enquiries from people 12,000 miles away it was useful to have a local contact to check them out. There were no sexual doubts about Saul, Wallace had met him and his wife twice and had thoroughly enjoyed the nights out.

Two months had elapsed since the scary trip to Jakarta, the first two weeks had been spent looking nervously over his shoulder. He had seen Bramble; they had met for lunch a few weeks ago at a restaurant in the city. Bramble had graciously paid the bill.

‘What was it?’ Wallace had asked him, but Bramble eyed him askance.

‘Nothing much,’ Bramble had answered, which must have been the understatement of the year, Wallace was so affronted that he actually dropped his soup spoon.

‘Nothing much!’ he ejaculated and then dropped his voice as heads turned. ‘I lost about ten years of my life from that trip.’

‘All right…all right!’ Bramble had looked carefully around and then said, sotto voce. ‘It was a piece of confirmatory information regarding an incident that occurred, and someone’s intentions. It gave us advance information and enabled us to take necessary steps before something happened…I can’t say any more than that…except that it was damned useful…all right?’

‘All right,’ Wallace answered grudgingly.

‘Hell man, you were financially better off as a result, it was worth it wasn’t it? It was for me’

‘It bloody nearly wasn’t!’ Wallace had said cuttingly. ‘I nearly finished up in an Indonesian gaol with all the druggies.’

‘Well you didn’t, did you? If you had we’d have sorted it.’ Bramble had said, but Wallace had not been so sure. He had applied himself to his soup again, using a new spoon that an observant waiter had supplied after recovering the former one from the floor. Wallace had resolved that he would ask for much more money the next time…if there was a bloody next time!

‘It’s time for lunch!’ Christine announced and rose to her feet. She was a stylish dresser and as she walked over to her wardrobe for her jacket Wallace could understand how Elsie’s busybody friend could have jumped to the wrong conclusion. As she turned around she became aware of Wallace’s gaze and she smiled. He smiled back and also rose to his feet.

‘Usual place?’

‘Sure, why not.’

Ironically it would be the same restaurant where Elsie’s friend had done her snooping act. Now he came to think of it, the presence of Elsie’s friend that day had been the most fortuitous event of his life, though he had been unaware of being observed at the time. It had provided the trigger action that had finally ended a most unsatisfactory marital relationship.

‘How was Indonesia?’ Laurie Frazer asked. It was the first time Wallace and Frazer had met since his return from Jakarta.

‘Oh all right,’ Wallace answered lamely. ‘But once was enough. I have another trip later this year, I’m off to the UK in August.’

‘Let me know if you go to Scotland,’ he answered. ‘I have relatives up there.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Wallace said gravely.

Saul Prosser had come up with some speaking engagements, they were nothing too spectacular but they made it worthwhile staying the extra two weeks. Wallace called upon Christine again and checked off the itinerary. He would be in England for about six weeks. There were six engagements that could easily pay the fare and accommodation costs and leave a little over. He also had friends and relatives who could put him up if required, and possibly some of Laurie Frazer’s in Scotland if there was time to cross the border.

‘It may be an idea if we cast around for something in the States and come back that way,’ suggested Christine.

‘I’m game,’ Wallace said. ‘See if you can find anything.’

‘I’ll drop a line to John Springfield,’ she said, naming a contact of hers in the same business in New York.

As Wallace walked out from her office he was reasonably content, it seemed that there would be sufficient engagements over the next four months to keep the wolf from the door, plus six weeks in England. It would be ideal if John Springfield was able to find a couple of presentation opportunities in America as Wallace travelled westwards across the States en route to Australia.

There was another call from Bramble who suggested a meeting with Wallace. Wallace reluctantly agreed when Bramble mentioned there may be something in it for Wallace’s bank balance. The meeting took place in Bramble’s office.

‘What is it this time?’

‘Oh nothing much’

‘That’s what you said last time and I had security police chasing me from one end of Jakarta to the other.’

‘Well this time you haven’t got to deliver anything or pick anything up.’

‘Then what the hell do you want me to do?’

Bramble pursed his lips, clearly the interview was not going the way he wanted it.

‘We have a man based in London, he does some journalistic work, freelance work for…’he named a well known London daily ‘…and they know nothing of his intelligence connections.’

‘What the hell is there for us to spy on in England?’ Wallace asked crossly. ‘Does he hang around Lords to see if they’re doctoring the pitch?’

‘We just like to know what is going on. England does not always tell us everything….look what happened during the war.’

‘Eh?’ This was a common innuendo uttered by anti-Pom Australians, Wallace had no doubt that Winston Churchill’s perfidy would be mentioned in a minute. He decided to let it go and said. ‘So you want me to go around England ferreting out intelligence?’

‘No we do not. Just call on the man for a general chat. He knows where places and things are, and he can’t be everywhere at once. If there is something he thinks we should know about then you could possibly have a quick look for him…us. There is, however, one small task you could do for us’

‘Like Jakarta?’

‘We need to keep some tabs on a man living in England,’ Bramble continued, ignoring Wallace’s pointed sally. ‘He caused us much trouble when he was here, he betrayed classified information and various other things when he lived and worked here and we have reason to believe he may still be active’

‘I’ll be damned if I’m getting involved with anything like that again,’ Wallace snapped angrily. ‘The answer is NO!’

‘We shall pay you, of course,’ Bramble remarked mildly.

As the plane banked preparatory for the descent into Heathrow Wallace could see the City of London spread around to the left. The sight of the city, old when Norman William reached it, stirred the blood. From previous visits he could remember the atmosphere that the city generated, of all the overseas cities Wallace had visited only Paris and New York had a similar effect. A mixture of the hustle and bustle, the various streets of all shapes and sizes that ran to no set pattern, the underground railways and the many surface rail termini, together with the vast numbers of buildings of great antiquity in which the history of the nation was enshrined.

This atmosphere was engendered in both London and Paris and visitors could never fail to be affected by it. With the monarch still living in Buckingham Palace, in London there was yet another link to the country’s past of well over 1,000 years.

Sydney, it was true, has much of the same atmosphere about it, but of history there is far less, the furthest one could go back in the history of the Australian nation was 1788. In London there were buildings still in use that pre-dated Sydney, in fact some went back to the 1100’s, with excavations revealing foundations of others that went back to Roman times.

Wallace was not pleased that he had committed to meeting the ASIO or ASIS man in London, it still seemed astonishing to Wallace that Australia should have somebody undercover in London who was officially attached to the High Commission. Apparently his name was David McKay and Wallace gathered he had been in the field for some years.

He could not recall the name from his clerical sojourn at ASIO but then he was hardly in the area of the James Bond men and would have had little contact with any field staff. Wallace’s expertise had been in counting paper clips and checking that the tea trolley arrived on time.

The first step would be the hotel, maybe a quick shower and then a quick tour around the city to see some of the sights before turning in. The first priority was to be rid of jet lag; he had no wish to be falling asleep all over the place and at all sorts of odd times during the day, particularly when crossing streets.

Saul Prosser greeted Wallace enthusiastically as he entered his office, shook him warmly by the hand and escorted him to a chair. It was very late in the afternoon; Wallace had had to thread his way through office workers who were on their way home. Saul’s secretary was also clearing her desk preparatory to departure. She was a middle aged lady of severe appearance, yet Wallace knew from past experience that she had a sweet nature that belied her grim exterior.

‘With you in a moment, old son,’ Saul said and busied himself with some papers before dialling on his telephone. ‘Do you like women wrestling in mud?’

‘What…Yes…I beg your pardon?’ Wallace stumbled, not sure whether he was speaking to him or not.

‘Do you like…hallo James…!’ Saul launched off into a conversation with whoever was on the other end of the line.

Mud wrestling, Wallace pondered. Well, why not. It would be no worse than some of the other dens of iniquity Saul had dragged him into in past years.

Saul was about 5’9” in height, fairly broad and with a bald head, with a pair of twinkling eyes that were guaranteed to captivate any lady between the ages of 20 and 60. He had a trace of a northern accent, supplanted by some Cockney as he had been living and working in London for about 30 years.

He was said to have been more than a useful hooker in his younger days when he played for Harlequins, and had once been considered for England selection. He had married fairly late in life at the age of 35, and had decided to give the game up after breaking his collar bone, three ribs and his left arm during a fracas with London Welsh. He had finished up at the bottom of a scrum that had collapsed after which the game had then degenerated into a brawl. He had been aware of pains in his chest but had played on and then tackled a London Welsh forward as he flung himself over the line for a try. He believed he had broken his collarbone on the forward’s hip, his left arm against the post, while his ribs were maybe fractured during the previous fight. His wife then asserted herself and said ‘No more!’, but after a week or so in hospital and his arm in a sling for weeks Saul’s fervour for further punishment had abated.

Aside from the noble art of Rugby, his business had suffered badly while he had been languishing in his hospital bed and he had to concede that business took priority, especially as it put bread on the table.

He had decided to retire, but had then attended the Wales versus England game at Twickenham a few months later and broken his thumb in an argument with a partisan Welshman who had broken his left knuckle on Saul’s head. They had finished up in the same out-patients ward – and the same Magistrate’s court! Apparently they were still communicating with each other via Christmas cards and telephone whenever there was a game on. To Wallace it seemed to be an odd way of making friends.

‘I’ve booked you in at the Bonnington…is that OK?’

‘Er…yes…OK!’ Wallace replied, hoping that there would be nobody there who may be in one of his audiences over the next few days.

They had dinner first at an establishment that was very respectable. They went over the arrangements for Wallace’s London engagements and everything seemed satisfactory.

‘Did you find out anything about the Society of Asian Commerce?’

‘Not a fat lot, except that they pay their bills,’ said Saul. ‘So do the Renown Insurance Company, the Pyramid Metal Group and Woodersons Bank. I’m also having discussions with Barclays Bank who want an entertaining speaker for a dinner they are holding to celebrate the opening of a new branch somewhere in the City.’

‘How do I fit into that?’

‘Australian, old son,’ Saul raised his glass while his eyes followed a tight skirt as it circumnavigated their table. ‘Barclays are interested in Australia.’

‘They were interested in Australia some years ago and opened a few branches, then they pulled out. Are they interested again? They must be mad.’

‘Well, that’s for them to work out,’ Saul commented. ‘But as you know many foreign banks…not that we are foreign of course…’ he added hastily ‘…are now trying to gain licences overseas, not only in Australia, and Barclays are one of them.’

‘So you want an address about Australia?’

‘Yes, the Australian banking scene, you can throw in something about mining, the flora and fauna, and a few cricket or Rugby jokes will always go down well.’

‘Christ! What the hell do I know about banks?’

‘History is all that is needed, old son. Call into the ANZ or the National Bank in London, they’ll fill you in.’

Wallace wasn’t entirely satisfied and muttered into his soup. But he had to agree Saul had worked hard on his behalf, and though these were relatively minor assignments, they paid some of the travelling expenses for a trip that was mainly social. From then on they chatted about other things and examined other tight skirts as they meandered around the restaurant. Wallace idly wondered whether the management employed these girls just to walk around in the vicinity of Saul’s chair to retain his custom.

The mud wrestling was better than expected, one of the girls was stripped naked by her assailant during the one tussle which brought about cheers from the audience, but it didn’t really do much for Wallace as the mud acted as a skin tight garment. He had expected to see a wholly male audience but was surprised to see a high proportion of the fairer sex present; they seemed to do more shouting at the combatants than the men.

As a spectacle he had to concede it was exhilarating or maybe it was the Scotch that Saul persisted in pushing in his direction. It was late when he returned to the hotel with the promise of an early morning call from Saul. Saul departed whistling after appropriating two bottles of beer from the refrigerator, his piercing whistle went right through Wallace’s eardrums.

The next day Wallace made a few phone calls, and checked with Saul ostensibly to see if he’d reached home safely but actually to check whether he had had any more possible dates for him, but he hadn’t. Wallace also rang Christine Norton to see how things were going in Australia and she did have a possible date about three months hence. She said she’d keep him informed.

Finally Wallace rang an old school friend named Ben Wakefield, they had been at school together in Australia and also members of the same cricket and football clubs, before Ben’s English parents had decided they didn’t like Australia and dragged Ben and his sister Elizabeth back with them despite their protests. Wallace usually contacted him when he was in England, and they still exchanged Christmas cards and e-mail messages. Ben was overjoyed to hear from Wallace, and they left the dates open.

‘Anytime, old son,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll be here. Just give me a call when you get here.’

Wallace had not previously heard of Woodersons Bank but gathered that it was one of the numerous merchant banks that frequented the city whose names were bandied around whenever there was a take-over battle in progress. The occasion was their 150th anniversary so Wallace adapted the address that he had already designed for Barclays and it went down surprisingly well. As he sat down with the applause still ringing in his ears he felt the satisfaction of a job well done.

After the dinner was over and everyone congregated in groups for general chats, he was surrounded by many who wished to offer their congratulations and to have a brief chat. One of them was a man who looked to be in his early thirties, with piercing blue eyes and a shock of fair curly hair. He hovered around until the last admirer had shaken Wallace’s hand and then he bored in.

‘G’day,’ he said, instantly stamping himself as an Australian. ‘Well done. My name is Dave McKay.’