The Widow's Son

Chapter Two: The Borough-3

The grey coloured Ford car was on time crossing the unguarded border and was carefully approaching Harwood's parked, battered Land Rover on the Sligo Road at a little after three o'clock on the autumn morning. As nobody could be seen inside the suspect vehicle, the driver of the Ford increased his speed with renewed confidence. Nevertheless, time spent in murdering others had taught them to keep their Uzi machine pistols close at hand.

Geoffrey was three hundred yards further on from his Land Rover, well hidden in a shallow trench he had prepared behind the stone pillar of a gateway leading into a field used by grazing cattle. When the car was almost on top of him he powerfully threw a newly designed tyre shredder across the carriageway, causing all four tyres of the Ford to burst and the car to slam heavily into a ditch twenty yards on. On reaching the vehicle Harwood withdrew the two syringes of the toxic Botulinum poison from the small bag he carried. It was the standard service issue toxin in that day and age. Both syringes were emptied into the IRA murderers whose heads were embedded into the broken windscreen. Next, he carefully unscrewed the caps of two metallic tubes that remained in his holdall until they made an audible click. These he laid side by side inside his bag on the rear seat of Ford. He sprinted back to his Land Rover before the pale greenish-yellow liquid slowly emerged from one. As he drove hastily away from the scene towards Belcoo, another car approached on the same side of the road as the crashed Ford. The colourless gas from his second phial mixed with the coloured liquid at the precise time that extra car stopped beside the crashed Ford. There was nothing left of either vehicle and nothing recognisable left of the bodies inside the Ford, but parts of the two bodies from the other car were identifiable. One was a woman of twenty-four years and the other, a child of five.

The number of times Harwood visited the surgeons' clinic was not recorded in his personal file nor was there any medical prognosis, but Adam, in one of his 'need to gossip moments', had declared that the incident had led Geoffrey to be obsessed with detail.

'Before all that happened he was never interested in the specifics of how an operation was to be undertaken. He just wanted the who and the where and leave the rest up to him, but not now he's been shunted home to Group and placed in charge. When he was out on the streets he was good. But now it's all numbers to him. Even the number of paperclips needed before Branch has finished with a folder is itemised. He's a pain in the arse, Ezra. They have a name for it. Obsessive compulsory personality disorder, OCPD. His is the obsession with perfection.'

If Adam had my security clearance, and read of the circumstances of Harwood's experience in Ireland, he might have looked at Geoffrey's subsequent behaviour less critically, but, then again, I never came across a side of Adam's nature anything but confrontational and at the end of the day does any assassin give a toss about what a psychiatrist called a surgeon thinks of them, because I certainly didn't.

* * *

My attempt to extract more from Geoffrey on the timing of this appointment had not worked; his renowned reputation for stubbornness was well earned.

“As you are Group's official Biblical Joseph, Patrick, I think it's time to change seats.” With that royal pronouncement he rose from behind the multi-functional desk and with another melodramatic sweeping gesture offered the chair to me. I remained where I was.

“Why so much interest in this Russian going between two points that are well known to us, Geoffrey? Surely if there was anything of interest he would be going somewhere we do not know of? Can't a detail out of Faction, at MI5 do their job and simply follow and report on him?” He stared at me as would a father at his dull-witted child.

“No, I think not and I wonder about your powers of assimilation, dear boy. This one is a big fish swimming in our pool, Joseph. Note the word—our. He would spot a follower and what's more, expect one. He's fresh out of Syria with a hands-off sign plastered on him by the Yanks. Oliver doesn't like that, nor do I. Oliver wants it treated by Group before other departments become too deeply involved, i.e. we do not want 5 and their guns looking at our Raynor. Okay?”

His fingers started tapping the top of the desk where he stood with his eyes flashing towards that watch of his. He seemed to be in a hurry, but as I only had old rugby games to watch I didn't move.

“If you're not feeling in a symbolic take-over mode, Joseph, let's involve your man Solomon and have a quick breakdown on what's going on around the world.” Another theatrical wave directed towards the door. I still wasn't budging.

“At this stage, Geoffrey, I have no wish to know who Solomon may be, and I'm not moving anywhere until I know why this Razin, or Raynor, is so special that he warrants me giving up my sofa and my televised sport.”

“It is simple, dear boy, look upon it as one more job for Queen and country that requires your deft hand of experience. Nothing more than that, I can assure you. You are the exact man for the work. After it's finished you can triumphantly pat yourself on the back for your outstanding efforts in Ireland and if you wish go home.” He had moved towards the office door and opened it ajar, letting in the sounds from the Hub. His voice became more distinct and louder as his fidgeting increased.

“Originally, I was instructed by those above to invite you to a slap-up meal to celebrate the highly complimentary remarks coming their way from the Home Office after the Sinn Féin member Donald Donaldson opened up fully to the Northern Ireland enquiry. Using him in the way you did was a pure work of genius. He will be suitably taken care of when he's finished delivering all that's been siphoned away. The talks in Belfast are going well, with the concessions coming along just fine. I'll tell you the truth, Joseph.” He held on to the long chrome door handle, still keeping it ajar.

“When your name was first put forward I was against promoting you to Controlling Officer, Ireland, but I must give credit where it is due. I had you marked down as nothing more than a meat and potato street plod. A good plod I grant you, but only as good as the next Irish bullet. Despite my misgivings I have to bow to your commendable action in the CO Ireland seat.” Another pause. His silence coincided with some sort of isometric exercise pushing clenched fists into alternating hands, thereby leaving the door to softly close, accompanied by an electronic clicking of the lock to the safe before it retracted into the floor. He passed no comment on his toys.

“Partial retirement packages had been settled upon, dear boy. Withdrawal from the line with a peaceful few years ahead overseeing some NATO dispatches, or a seat at the American desk at Vauxhall and then it goes pear-shaped as they say. Up pops one of old Fraser Ughert's pet poodles. A certain Armenian German chappie by the name of Henry Mayler. Who else other than you could I appoint as Director General at Group at this point in time to look after him?” He looked at me for an answer, or perhaps some sign of gratitude. When only a quizzical look was forthcoming, he carried on.

“The arrival of the Russian package is a pain in the backside I'll grant you, but he comes second to Fraser's operative. Mayler is a German with strong Armenian roots. Top drawer material and once again exclusively ours, or more to the point—Ughert's. Mayler is who we are off to see when we can finish with the formalities here.”

I butted in. “Henry, Geoffrey? Sounds more English or French than German. And he's a long way from Armenia. Did he lose his way?”

“Complicated situation and I'm only too pleased to confess to my incomprehension of it all. You, being Ughert's pseudo son, or at least close relative can put his mind to it and unlock the secrets. Case notes are in your floor safe. Most of the documentation on Razin is in here.” He went to open the top drawer of the shiny chrome filing cabinet that stood alone against the wall by the doorway opposite the desk. The drawer wouldn't open.

“Ah, yes! I should explain. When your office door closes the whole cabinet will lock until opened from the console built into your desktop. Incidentally, this door,” he held the long chrome handle once more, “is opened from the corridor by your palm print, an ingenious device fitted to the wall. I had absolute control over all the gizmos installed and the interior design of the whole Hub. In the dayroom, adjacent to here,” he pointed to his right, “that you will have to see some other time, I installed a lot more ultra-modern equipment, all in keeping with the rigours of the job you understand, dear boy. Nothing beyond the necessary parameters. At a push you could use the dayroom on a permanent basis, but it wasn't designed for that. It was intended as a place to think and ponder.”

That was Geoffrey Harwood's world. The one where methodical systems were the key to success; pigeon-holes filled, but never overflowing. Rooms for a lie down and rooms for sleeping. Safes popping silently in and out of hideaway locations and press button A for a shave and B for the tissue paper to stem the blood. I almost burst into laughter before I successfully managed to push away images of him locking and unlocking doors to test whatever technological devices were on the other side. Happily I managed to focus on business rather than upset him.

“I've got this Russian Razin in one corner of my mind and the English named Armenian German in the other, but I've got nothing to connect them, Geoffrey. Why are we going to see this Henry Mayler chap and not knocking on the Russian Consulate's front door?”

“There was a bit of trouble involving the two of them about a week ago in Northern Syria. Ughert dealt with it by extracting Mayler. Razin hyphen Raynor, please don't forget the file name, made his own way here. When we're all finished with Mayler we're posting him off to Canada with all the relevant legend materiel and a fistful of gratitude. It's being finalised as we speak. What you need to find out is what led to that trouble in Syria. Why, is another question we should be asking. Hopefully you can find it in Berkshire and in Uncle Fraser's notes which are neatly filed for your later pleasure in here, dear boy.” With theatrical aplomb he opened the drawer smiling as he did so, which I never knew he was capable of doing.

“You can read them when you finally use Joseph's chair or, if bored, stretched out on the heated spa bed in the dayroom of which I am completely ignorant.”

Bored by standing, he returned to what was to become my chair. As he sat he inadvertently allowed it to swivel, slightly causing his mouth to gape open and the mousey eyes behind his glasses to open wide in surprise. Settling into a more balanced position he continued in his appraisal of the situation.

“The wheel needs to spin, Joseph.” At precisely that moment the blue light on the inset console started to flash.

“I think it would be best if you take it sitting here, dear boy, and that way the game can begin in earnest.”