The Vengeance Man (12 page)

CHAPTER 11

Whitehall's Revenge

I had every reason to be uneasy.

Brigadier Peters was grim as I went in, and shook my hand.  To my surprise Tony Bell was already in there, along with the new Chief of Staff, an amiable Irishman I didn't know well, but liked. They looked serious.  Suddenly I felt bad news was on the way.   You know the signs. I’d walked into trouble. Was it the Spicer thing?

We all sat down.

"Well, " said Peters, "The last time you were in here I said you weren't going to like it."  He paused, and looked me straight in the eyes. Peters' nickname had been 'The Axeman' when he'd been CO of  22, I suddenly recalled.  "I'm afraid you're going to like this even less."

My stomach went tight.  The brigadier put on a pair of gold rimmed half moon reading glasses and read from a piece of paper in his hand.

"I've been instructed by the Adjutant General's staff that you are to be made redundant forthwith…"

I must have made a noise, b
e
cause he held up a restraining hand and went on, "You are to be discharged as a compulsory redundancy on the grounds that you are no longer medically up to the standard required. You are entitled to a full redundancy package, all resettlement courses and the statutory periods of terminal and accrued leave."

He took the glasses off and looked hard at me, dangling the gold half rims from a loose hand. "Not good news I'm afraid.  They've decided that your services are no longer required." He rubbed his nose and looked at the ceiling.  "Of course I've fought it.   I've even played one of my few cards with the Adjutant General personally.  The Chief of Staff has done little else but argue about you for the last week.   No good, I'm afraid. They're determined to see you go.  And there's not a damned thing we can do about it."

He waved the glasses at the other two. Tony looked stricken and the Chief of Staff shrugged helplessly.

Peters got up and began to roam his office. 

"I thought that we'd fixed it all up after Iran.  And especially after your excellent operation in Italy. Six were besides themselves. Delighted. I thought that would show them what a good operator you really are. But they are adamant.  Attorney was a disaster
as an operation far as they’re concerned, however successful it was in fact.
A political one anyway, or so they tell me. The whole Iranian business looks like going critical soon, anyway. Something to do with the PM and the President, no less.
. . The problem seems to have been that your Kurdish sidekick’s little escapade at that airbase delayed some shifty undercover deal with the Yanks, apparently. And you’re to blame. You were to be their sacrificial lamb after all those Parliamentary Questions, and we stopped that.  That's not how we do things while I'm in this chair.  Well, they didn't like that. They weren't pleased at all. They thought that some bloody ex-newspaper man in Number Ten could give me orders, and then we'd just jump.  Well I told them where to shove it, and I told them no. I’ll not be bullied by second rate ex-editors who come in here and tell me they’re giving me orders. Cheeky sod.  But I'm afraid this present mob are power mad.  They really
do
think they're running the country.  But we can't have Ministers or their bloody lapdogs telling us who will and won't serve in the Army. Christ! Where would it stop?  Secret Party-approved selection lists for the next senior promotions board? Like the Germans? Like the
Bundeswehr
?  Absolute bloody nonsense... .”

He paused and rubbed the bridge of his nose again.  "But now they've shafted us on the redundancy issue, I'm afraid, and, as I say, there's not a damn' thing we can do.  We've been outflanked. Very clever. By a bunch of politicians " He sighed. “Anyway,
you’re to go. Redundancy.  The Attorney General’s come up with some backstairs legal advice, or so I’m told. I've registered my objection, but they don't give a damn. The Minister has the power to order it on administrative grounds. Bastard.”

Or some ambitious civil servant on the Army Board who's been advising the politicians just how to use the Army’s rules so he could become Permanent Under Secretary one day, I thought. "Can't I appeal...?"

Peters held up his hand. "Hold on.  We've done a deal with the  Military Secretary.  You go quietly under compulsory redundancy.  They won't bring charges against you.  You're not fit to serve at present anyway." He put up a hand again to stifle my protests. "No, you're not . Don't let's kid ourselves. Remember, I've seen all the documentation. You should see what the psychiatrist..."

"Hepworth?" I asked.

"That's the fellow. Quacks like that don't understand people like you. And me ,” he added. He eyed me with a bright birdlike eye, head cocked on one side.  "What did you say to upset him, by the way? He's no friend of yours. "

I waved my hands, helpless.

"
I
don't think you're barm
y.    If
you
exhibit 'schizoid psychotic tend
e
ncies,' then so does every one who makes it through SAS selection," he added uselessly. "Myself included."   He stared back down at the bit of paper.  "So you go; there's no fuss, and the matter ends there.  Like I said, bad news. Appeal if you like but it will only delay the inevitable."

I sat dejected in the chair. What to say? "What happens now?" I heard myself.

"It's not as bad as it seems.  By being selected for compulsory redundancy, you'll get a gratuity of £80,000.  You'll stay on the books being paid for another
eight
months as part of the normal re-settlement package , so there's plenty of time to look for a job.  And,
"he paused and looked at me to gauge  my reaction, "And, I think that we may even have solved that little problem for you. " He looked at Tony, who nodded.

"Good," said Peters.  "I think that you may find that what we've got lined up for you may actually be precisely what you want. "

I was still trying to take in what was happening to me.  I didn't want to go, but it looked as if the decision was being taken for me.  And he was right; £80,000 was a good screw. But I wasn't happy. "OK; I understand what you're saying, Brigadier.  It's not how I saw myself leaving. What's this job?"

Peters looked at me with a very slight smile.  "I don't know," he said unexpectedly.  Perhaps Tony can enlighten you”.

I was puzzled, and Tony broke in for the first time.  "The Director isn't in the picture on this," he said addressing me.  He turned to Peters, "I've got Tom Mallalieu outside, if you want him in?"

The Director held his hand up.  "No.  I think that's a matter for you and our friend here." He eyed me, "Tom Mallalieu knows you from his time here as Chief of Staff.  You can trust him. He's been told all about you -- and all about this nonsense." He waved a dismissive hand at the file in front of him.  "Listen to what he's got to offer.  Tony and the Chief of Staff have done a lot for you."

I didn't know what to say.  I had the feeling that my life was running past me and I wasn't in control. That's probably because I wasn't.  I needed time to sort out the bits and pieces.  I looked  back to the Director.  "So there's no chance of staying in?"

He shook his head firmly. "No.  None at all. You've got to leave the Service.  It's the only decent chance you'll get. Take it. Of course you can try and appeal if you want to, but believe me, you'd be wasting your time. They want you out and this lot would start spreading stories about you. Don’t be in any doubt about that.”

“Stories?”

“Oh yes….that you’re sick…” He tapped his head. “Barmy. Overstressed. A danger to the rest of us and the Army’s reputation. You know the kind of lies and smears this lot spread behind people’s backs… poisonous. They’d lie to their friends in the media tomorrow if they thought it made them look good politically. Don’t kid yourself. Threats  of a court martial… ‘
SAS Man In The Frame’
type headlines. Looks good for them, you see.  Little men from Whitehall interviewing you under caution and dropping hints about loss of pension, prison – that sort of thing. I’ve seen it already in the last year or two. Even drove one bloke, one of the Whitehall civil servants, to suicide… . Believe me, this lot are totally unscrupulous, you mark my words. They’ll pressure you, if you don’t play ball…”

I was shaken. “What’s your advice, Sir?”

“I strongly advise you to take it. As I said, listen to Tom Mallalieu." He stood up. "Eighty grand's not to be sneezed at, you know," he added unexpectedly. "Not at your time of life. I wouldn't mind that myself. That’d buy a few lunches at the Special Forces club, if nothing else." He grinned, looking twenty years younger.

I was ushered out of the office with handshakes and bonhomie, but with a  clear understanding that I was out.  Finished.  In a daze I found myself being  led into the visitor's room to meet Tom Mallalieu.

*
             
*
             
*

Colonel Tom Mallalieu was one of the legends of the murky world of the Special Forces.  He'd spend most of his life drifting between the Parachute Regiment or Intelligence jobs and looked  a lean and tanned forty eight, which, for a man nearer sixty wasn't bad at all.  The story was that when Lloyds had first suggested a specialist insurance company to do the high risk insurance work for the City of London, he had been one of the first men they head hunted.  The specialist insurance cover  hadn't fooled any of us.  You don't do the rounds of the SAS, SBS and best special operations men in the business to recruit a few insurance investigators to look after the Arab sheiks and Russian millionaires’ personal kidnap security.  I mean. it's just got to be cover for something.

Mallalieu was one of those men who seem to be natural colonels. It was hard to imagine him as a dozy young lieutenant, lost in a wood in the dark.  He exuded an air of effortless command  and poise, which, allied to his crisp authoritative  manner and good memory for faces and names, made him still, ten years after leaving the service, 'The Colonel'.  He never played on it, but it was hard to visualize anyone clapping him on the back and calling him "Tommy".  Once I'd seen an American do it; Colonel Tom's silky disapproval and fractionally raised eyebrow had said  far more than mere words.

He greeted me warmly in the light, airy visitors room and shook my hand with genuine pleasure.  Tony had disappeared, I noticed.

"How do you feel?"  was his first question.

"Ok.  I'm not 100 per cent, but getting there. "

"Good.  Good." He eyed me speculatively, the dark mobile face on one side.  "How do you feel about all this?"  He pointed at a file on the coffee table. I assumed it was me.  I shrugged.

"How do you expect me to feel?"

"Are you bitter?"

"Of course I'm bloody bitter.  Wouldn't you be?"

"No.  I'd say to myself that I was 35, no longer 100 percent fit, being given the freedom to carry on doing outside what I had been going in the service, getting £80,000 in my pocket, and the choice to do whatever I wanted to, without restrictions,  plus a good offer of salary and expenses. Sounds a good deal to me"

I looked at him steadily, thinking hard.   It did, too; the way he put it.  "You're wrong.  You've got your analysis twisted. "

"Oh?"  He looked  anxious and opened the file.

"Yes. " I let the pause lengthen.  "I'm only 34. "

The harsh bark of his laugh echoed round the room and he slapped the file shut. 

He leaned back and looked at me.  "What went wrong?"

I told him in some detail.  I didn't spare myself or anybody else.  Finally I stopped.  He glanced through the file and looked  up.  The blue eyes bored into me.

That Iran business - what on earth made you so late in getting away?"  He tapped  the file.  "You should have got out of that town – Hasak? - immediately."

"Don't I know it.  Jamal stayed behind to kill  - no,
execute's
the right word - a prisoner he took." The eyebrows reformed their interrogative arch. "It was a revenge killing," I explained.  "The prisoner was a policeman; Iranian militia.  He'd killed Jamal's sister the year before. "

"Ah." He nodded knowingly.  "Bad stuff.  Arab blood feud, eh?"

"Kurdish blood feud, Colonel.   Worse.  So Jamal made a big production out of it and cut his throat in public. Ceremonially. "

Mallalieu didn't flinch. "Bloody fool.  That's positively self indulgent; surely he could have just shot him and be done with it?"

"I suppose so.  But you know these Kurds, Colonel.  They've got to be seen to be men, whatever that means. They all see themselves as the heirs of Saladin."

Mallalieu snorted.  "So, as a result, you all got delayed and then had to fight your way out? Is that it?”  I agreed.

Mallalieu slung the file back down and
harrumphed
.  He sat back, concentrating into me.  "And you? How about you?  In yourself, I mean?"

"I'm all right. "

He looked at me for  what seemed a very long time.  He seemed to come to a decision.  "Well, what about you?"

I was irritated and provocative.  "You tell me."

Again the long ha
r
rumphing noise. He stared at me.  It seemed to go on for hours. "Yes," he said, "I will.   From here you can either go out onto the streets and feel sorry for you
r
self, or,"  and he added for emphasis, "
Or
you can come and work for me as the assistant Coordinator of Operations for Special Insurance Services, my company. You'll  get  a good salary that matches your present one, and expenses that you don't get here at all, and,
and
,  provided you do the job well, you'll get shares and bonuses.  And," he sprawled back in the chair hands behind his head.  "Provided you do it right, you'll be confirmed as our new Coordinator of Operations when Bill Luxton retires within the next 12 months.  Suit you?"