A Conflict of Interests (24 page)

"That was a great lunch, Nick," Zellick said, breaking a lengthy silence. "And I've enjoyed talking about old times."

Vaudrey smiled. They had become acquainted in April 1967, when the CIA had quizzed him about counterinsurgency operations in Malaya and he had spent a fortnight at Langley as the guest of Walter Zellick, who had been detailed to look after him. Between then and August 1979, when Walter had been posted to Grosvenor Square as the resident CIA officer, they had met on only two subsequent occasions, once in Cyprus quite by chance and again in Paris during a symposium held by the Direction de la Surveillance Territoire on antiterrorist measures. In the last three years however, they had seen a great deal more of each other and if they weren't the closest of friends, they were at least congenial acquaintances.

"About Patterson," Vaudrey said idly. "You'll be pleased to hear the situation is developing nicely."

"That's kind of a vague statement, Nick." Zellick leaned across the table and tapped his cigar over the ashtray. "What exactly do you mean by nicely?"

"I mean I've found the right man to lean on Raschid al Jalud. His name is Coghill, a Detective Inspector with V District who at one time was in charge of the Whitfield investigation. You may have seen his photograph in the newspapers?"

Zellick nodded. "Why the past tense?" he asked casually.

"Because the case has been transferred to the Regional Crime Squad and Coghill is currently under suspension, pending the outcome of an inquiry by the Complaints Investigation Bureau into allegations of bribery and corruption." Vaudrey topped up the American's glass, then helped himself to another brandy. "It's all very fortuitous. I mean, we could easily have arranged for one of our own people to pass himself off as a police officer, but you can't beat the genuine article."

"Especially if he's been on the take."

"We don't know that," Vaudrey said evenly. "Neither does Jalud, though it may be politic to lead him to think so. Take it from me, by the time we've finished with him, Jalud will be only too eager to set Patterson up."

"Yeah? What makes you so sure Coghill will agree to act as the go-between?"

"It's a matter of psychology, Walter. Coghill is a great believer in crime and punishment and he has this simple conviction that nobody should be above the law. Now he's discovered there are exceptions to the rule and he's angry because certain people appear to enjoy a special kind of immunity. As a direct result of this, the investigation is being hamstrung and a killer is still at large, free as a bird on the wing. Offer him a chance to put this right and he'll grab it."

"I think you're being wildly optimistic, Nick."

Vaudrey shook his head. The American might have his doubts, but he fancied he knew his man. Coghill was the living male embodiment of the statue on top of the Old Bailey, sword upraised in one hand, scales weighed in the balance in the other and a blindfold around the eyes.

"Well, okay," Zellick said, "let's suppose you're right about him. How do we smuggle Patterson out of England, assuming you can lift him?"

"I don't see any difficulty. After all, there are quite a number of American bases in the UK and your planes are flying in and out every day."

There was, Vaudrey thought, no need for him to elaborate. They could put Patterson on a Military Air Transport cargo flight to the USAF base at Frankfurt am Main, then transfer him to the States. They could show what they liked on the flight manifest; spares, official mail and returned stores weren't subject to scrutiny by Her Majesty's Customs and Excise.

"I don't know," Zellick said thoughtfully. "All hell would break loose if this got out."

"I won't say anything if you don't," Vaudrey said.

"I was thinking of Coghill."

"The Official Secrets Acts will keep him quiet." He did not add that Coghill would never know whom he was working for, nor did Vaudrey mention the prefabricated evidence which would lead Coghill's superiors to question his mental stability if he did try to bring the affair out into the open.

"You've got to persuade him to sign the declaration first," Zellick pointed out.

"He already has, way back in 1974 when he was put on the list of CID officers who were to see all the Intelligence reports concerning the organization of the Provisional IRA active service units in England. Special Branch and the Antiterrorist Squad were adamant that every officer to be briefed by them had to sign the Official Secrets Acts first."

"Great. I guess everything's buttoned up, Nick."

"Not quite. There is the little matter regarding your side of the bargain."

"Don't give it another thought," Zellick said airily. "We'll take care of Noraid."

"Oh, come on, Walter, you know very well that's just a story we cooked up for the benefit of Caroline Brooke." Vaudrey allowed the statement to hang in the air for the time it took him to leisurely finish his brandy. Then he said, "What I really want is complete and unfettered access to the CIA computer at Langley. There is to be a formal agreement in writing, signed by the present director and witnessed by his deputy."

"You're out of your tiny mind."

"The memorandum consists of two copies," Vaudrey continued, unperturbed.

"You mean you've already drawn it up?"

"I thought it would save a lot of time if I did."

"Jesus H. Christ," Zellick said, awed by the other man's brazen audacity.

"Actually, he had nothing to do with it." Vaudrey left the table, went out into the hall and returned moments later carrying a black official-looking briefcase embossed with a crown and the initials EIIR in gilt. Unlocking it, he produced both copies of the memorandum and handed the carbon to the American. "It's brief and to the point," he said cheerfully. "Shouldn't take you more than a few minutes to read it."

It would, however, take Zellick considerably longer to appreciate the full import of the document and marshal his objections. Security of information was bound to be near the top of the list and, knowing how the CIA distrusted British Intelligence, Vaudrey had taken steps to preempt any argument on that score. A computer terminal with spare capacity was already
in situ
at the British Embassy in Washington, and he had stipulated that all printouts obtained from Langley would be dispatched to London by courier at irregular intervals. Although it would have been quicker to transmit the information by satellite, there were too many links in the chain, and the code that could not be cracked by a hostile intelligence service had yet to be invented. The service provided by the Queen's Messengers might be slow, but it was a lot safer, especially if there was no set pattern to their movements.

"Let's see if I've got this straight." Zellick looked up from the document, eyes gray as slate. "You want to be plugged into every major department — Europe, Asia and Latin America?"

"Until such time as you change the recognition code."

Vaudrey was under no illusions; no matter what the agreement said, the CIA would unilaterally terminate the facility. Exactly when they would do this was pure conjecture; at worst, the blocks would go on the moment the plane taking Patterson to Frankfurt was airborne, at best, the CIA might stay their hand until they were satisfied the British were unlikely to apply for his extradition. Neither possibility disturbed him. The USAF were obliged to clear their flight plans with Air Traffic Control at West Drayton and with their assistance, the estimated time of departure could easily be delayed for anything up to six hours. And if you asked the right questions, it was amazing how much information you could retrieve from a computer in that time.

"There's nothing like shooting for the moon, Nick." Eyes downcast, Zellick reached across the table and, as though guided by radar, unerringly found the ashtray and stubbed out his cigar. "If you could put this deal together, there's no limit as to how far you'd go."

The American wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know. In his own mind, Vaudrey was absolutely sure he would be the leading contender for the post of director general when the present incumbent retired. Alternatively, the Cabinet Office might well decide he was just the man to run the SIS, and a transfer to Century House as deputy control would be seen as a preliminary step in this direction. It wouldn't be the first time an outsider had been placed in charge of the Secret Intelligence Service, and he wouldn't be arriving empty-handed either. Nine-tenths of the information extracted from Langley would be of direct interest to the SIS and the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.

"How long have you been kicking this idea around?" Zellick asked out of curiosity.

"Less than a week. Since Thursday morning, to be precise."

The idea had been germinated by the loose minute Caroline Brooke had sent him about a possible connection between Raschid al Jalud, Orville Patterson and Karen Whitfield. Had she not been quite so meticulous, had the surveillance team assigned to Jalud been a little less observant, the operation would never have been conceived. It had therefore been triggered off by a stroke of pure luck, but of all the really big intelligence coups he knew of, Vaudrey could not recall a single one that had been planned in advance. However, to initiate a covert operation on the spur of the moment was one thing; carrying it through to a successful conclusion was quite a different proposition. Security was all-important and, in this connection, a breach of security usually occurred because too many people were in the know. It was for this reason that he had deliberately misled Caroline Brooke from the outset.

"I've got to hand it to you," Zellick said eventually. "This projected operation of yours is one of the boldest and most original I've ever come across. Trouble is, it will never get off the ground."

"You think your director will refuse to cooperate?"

"Why should he? Sure, we'd like to lay our hands on Patterson, but he's not worth the price you're asking."

"That's where you're mistaken," Vaudrey said mildly. "It's on record that Patterson was involved in the biggest drug smuggling racket of the whole Vietnam war. I know he was a brilliant combat soldier and I'm also aware that he became a damn good field agent, but he didn't have the brains, the necessary connections or the ability to organize an operation of that magnitude. Common sense tells me the knowhow was supplied by influential friends within the CIA and it was they who set up the numbered accounts in Switzerland on his behalf after he'd killed those two FBI agents in Galveston."

"You should pack your bags and go to Hollywood," Zellick growled. "The movie industry is always on the lookout for a good scriptwriter."

"There was a much simpler way of dealing with the problem," Vaudrey continued unabashed. "To quote a CIA euphemism, they could have arranged for Patterson to be 'terminated with extreme prejudice,' but they didn't. Instead, they provided him with a number of false passports and got him out of the States. One wonders why they went to so much trouble over this man and there can only be one answer to that question. At some stage, Patterson must have warned them he had taken out an insurance policy, and that if anything unpleasant should happen to him, the FBI or the attorney general would receive a very interesting dossier."

"It gets better all the time."

"How right you are," Vaudrey said affably. "You're anxious to question Patterson because the CIA has good reason to believe some of these men are still with the agency."

"You couldn't be more wrong, Nick." Zellick was good-humored, a little condescending and very, very patient, as though conversing with a mentally retarded child. "Read our telex again, the one we sent you in October 1980. There was no CIA involvement in drug smuggling, and Patterson had resigned from the agency eighteen months before the shoot-out occurred in Galveston. We circulated his description and background information to British Intelligence when we learned he was working for the Libyan government because we have a common interest in maintaining stability in the Middle East. There are no, repeat no, sinister implications."

"Really?" Vaudrey pursed his lips, then said, "Tell me something, Walter. Why didn't the FBI get in touch with Interpol?"

"You checked?"

"The moment I received your telex. A friend of mine from Scotland Yard happened to be seconded to Interpol Headquarters at St. Cloud at the time and I rang him out of sheer curiosity."

"I don't know." Zellick shrugged. "I guess the FBI must have slipped up."

"Or else they'd been led to believe Patterson was dead."

"I'm getting awfully tired of this game, Nick. I think it's time I was on my way."

"Yes, of course. What airline will you be using? Pan Am or TWA?"

"Jesus." Zellick sighed and shook his head. "You never give up, do you?"

"I've no reason to, because I can't lose. We'll catch this dissident agent of yours and when we do, we'll make him an offer he can't resist and he'll tell us where to look for his insurance policy." Vaudrey picked up the carbon copy of the memorandum that Zellick had discarded, slipped it into the manila envelope together with the original and handed it to the American. "However, on the whole, I think it's infinitely preferable that we enter Langley via the front door rather than the back, don't you?"

"You may have a point," Zellick conceded reluctantly.

"I'm glad we understand one another." Vaudrey took Zellick by the arm, gently steered him into the hall and opened the front door. "About your flight," he added as they shook hands, "may I suggest you travel on British Airways Concorde? We can't afford to waste time and it would be helpful if you completed the round trip to Washington in a day."

"I'll think about it."

"You do that, Walter."

Vaudrey closed the door behind the American and thought he had earned himself another brandy. Then, remembering that the telephone in the hall had been disconnected, he decided he'd better plug it in again before returning to the dining room. It started to ring as he backed out from under the table and got to his feet. Lifting the receiver, he heard Caroline Brooke say, "Thank God I've got you at last."

From a few staccato sentences, it rapidly became evident that her problems were over while his were only just beginning. All of a sudden, for reasons nobody could have foreseen, his sleight-of-hand had become impaired and the juggling act was about to come tumbling down. He felt vulnerable, the whole rosy future he had so recently visualized now in jeopardy.

"We've no choice," Caroline said, winding up. "Like it or not, we've got to release all the information we have on Patterson. The police are certain the real identity of the killer is known to us and there will be hell to pay if we continue to deny them access."

"No." Vaudrey was conscious his voice sounded hoarse and instinctively cleared his throat. "No, that's quite the wrong way to handle this situation. Our information is top secret and it won't help them one bit to know the man they're after is called Patterson."

"It's all very well for you to take such a lofty attitude, Nicholas," she told him vehemently, "but I'm the one who's on the firing line."

"And if you kindly give me a chance to get a word in edgewise, I'll provide you with some overhead cover." He paused long enough to weigh the conflicting factors and decide on a course of action, then said, "I don't want the CIA or Raschid al Jalud dragged into this. Instead, you may tell them we think Pittis could be Oswald Pemberton, a former intelligence officer in the United States Army who served with the Green Berets in Vietnam and was given an honorable discharge in 1971. You can also say he first came to our notice when the SIS told us they'd heard he was working for the Libyan government and was believed to have passed through the United Kingdom on several occasions. If pressed, you can let it be known that Century House wanted us to keep an eye out for him without involving Special Branch. You get the idea?"

"Yes, but I don't think my angry Scotsman is going to be very impressed, Nicholas."

"I haven't finished yet," Vaudrey snapped. "I want you to stress the fact that this man has at least four different aliases to our knowledge, but that they all have one common denominator, the Christian name beginning with an O, the surname with a P. Then go on to suggest in your usual tactful fashion that perhaps Special Branch should carry out a simultaneous check at Heathrow, Gatwick, Luton and Stansted airports to see if any airline has a passenger booked on one of their flights with the same initial letters."

"I'll be told I'm teaching my grandmother to suck eggs."

"Sometimes one has to."

"Yes, but—"

"No buts, Caroline. Just get on with it."

Vaudrey put the phone down, went into the dining room and helped himself to another brandy. As he saw it, there were three possibilities: Patterson might already be on his way out of the country, the police might pick him up at one of the airports or he might evade arrest and go to ground until the hunt lost momentum.

Although somewhat thin on the ground, the surveillance section had been covering the principal airports ever since Caroline Brooke had tentatively identified Patterson, and there was reason to believe they wouldn't allow him to slip through their fingers. The fact that Patterson was still in England a week after Karen Whitfield had been murdered was a good sign. Or was it? There was a blank period unaccounted for between the time he'd moved out of the flat in Highgate on Thursday morning and the discovery of the two dead men in Linsdale Gardens early this afternoon, and it was conceivable Patterson had been out of the country for all or part of the intervening four days. Vaudrey told himself that kind of speculation was unproductive, put the disturbing thought out of his mind and concentrated on the other two possibilities.

If the American was alarmed by any unusual activity at the airport and took off, the game plan would still be more or less viable, though it would be much more difficult to execute. It would be damn near impossible to execute should Patterson end up in police custody. Somehow, he would have to persuade the director of public prosecutions to make the American an offer he couldn't refuse, the location of his insurance policy in exchange for a rigged trial. Plead diminished responsibility, spend five, perhaps six years in Broadmoor with the criminally insane until the affair was forgotten by the public, then walk out a free man. Vaudrey supposed Patterson might find that infinitely preferable to a life sentence of thirty years.

It was a practical solution, but although his contacts throughout Whitehall were legion, none of them had sufficient clout to make it happen. He wondered if he should involve the director general, then rejected the idea out of hand; he was unlikely to get any support from that quarter, and could well find himself in the shit instead. His only hope was an assistant principal in the Foreign and Commonwealth Office who claimed he was on first-name terms with the secretary to the prime minister. However, that particular avenue would have to wait until Zellick returned from Washington with the memorandum signed by the director of the CIA. Meantime, there was nothing more he could do except keep his ear close to the ground.

Two hours seven minutes to go. Patterson stared at the naked redhead occupying the center pages of
Playboy
magazine and contrived to appear relaxed and unconcerned, even though there were butterflies in his stomach and his mouth was tinder-dry. It wasn't his fault that he'd picked a lousy day to travel, but he certainly hadn't made things any easier for himself by presenting the return half of the airline ticket to the girl at the Lufthansa desk. With an apologetic smile, she'd told him the 1503 flight to Munich was fully booked, and so was the shuttle via Frankfurt which left fifteen minutes later, but then little miss efficiency had said she'd heard British Airways had spare capacity on their flight to Munich departing at 1740 hours and he'd been maneuvered into a position where he'd had to say, "Okay, get me a seat with them."

The whole goddamned business had been a mental aberration on his part. Not counting the money in his billfold, he still had close to four hundred pounds in Deutschemark traveler's checks and could have flown to Cairo and back, but no, he'd had to be too clever by half. By the time the girl from Lufthansa had confirmed the reservation with British Airways, it had been too late for second thoughts. Copenhagen, Rotterdam, Brussels, Paris, Geneva, were all feasible escape routes, but there was no way he could have approached either the Scandinavian Airways, KLM, Sabena, Air France or Swissair desks without her seeing him, and it was essential he keep a low profile. In the circumstances, it was also vital he not allow himself to get boxed in, and it was for this reason that he'd decided to stay in the main concourse and give the departure lounge a miss until the very last moment.

Some instinct prompted Patterson to look up from his magazine at the same moment that a man in a dark blue pinstripe approached one of the clerks on the British Airways desk. He watched their heads come together, saw the clerk turn to her companion, exchange a few words and reach for the clipboard on the counter. It wasn't necessary to possess a Mensa IQ to guess she had asked for the passenger list for the 1740 flight to Munich. A faint hope that he was allowing his imagination to run riot was dispelled when she pointed to the Lufthansa desk.

Patterson laid the magazine aside, picked up his luggage and strolled toward Heathrow Underground station as casually as he knew how. He had no plan in mind, only a notion to get clean away and find a place where he could merge into the background, somewhere where his American accent would be accepted without comment. As he neared the exit, it occurred to him that there were a number of USAF bases in the Cambridge area.

The news had come like a bolt out of the blue, a brief announcement at 4:27 on Capitol Radio, and even now, hours after the first terse report, Coghill found it hard to believe that Harry Mace was dead. He supposed his reluctance to accept it had a lot to do with the fact that he was largely responsible for what had happened. No need to ask himself what Harry had been doing in Linsdale Gardens; the poor old sod had gone there looking for Oscar Pittis because he'd told him to check out the rental agencies and one of them had come up with an address.

Coghill reached for the bottle of Chivas Regal on the table and poured himself another large double. There was, he thought, a lot to be said for a good old-fashioned wake. As far as he knew, there wasn't a drop of Irish blood in his veins and the whiskey had been malted in the Highlands, but that was only a minor quibble. He raised the glass to his lips in a silent toast, then put it down again to answer the phone. It was a bad mistake and he regretted lifting the receiver the moment he found he had Janice on the line. Nothing she said about police harassment made a great deal of sense, but he gathered the CIB officers had been to see her again.

"What did they want this time?" he asked.

"Nothing much." She laughed mirthlessly. "It seems the Inland Revenue plans to prosecute me and Eric for tax evasion. They say they can prove that some of the names on our deduction cards were fictitious."

"And were they?"

"How would I know? I wasn't the wages clerk." Her voice was a shade too defensive and he suspected the worst.

"I think you should talk to a solicitor, Jan."

"Do you know one who doesn't expect to be paid for his services?"

"No, but you needn't worry about that. I'll foot the bill."

"That's big of you, Tom," she said. "Really big, considering the trouble you've got me into. You and your sticky fingers — I wish to God I'd left you before you joined the Obscene Publications Squad."

"You don't know what you're saying."

"That's just where you're wrong," she snapped.

The phone went dead as Janice hung up on him. A split second later, Coghill heard a faint click and knew there were eavesdroppers on the line.

18.

Patterson rolled out of bed, walked over to the window and opened the curtains. The dawn chorus had woken him at some ungodly hour, and from then on the festering sore on his cheek had kept him wide awake. He sidestepped to the vanity unit, peered into the mirror above the washbasin and grimaced at the yellow matter seeping from under the adhesive bandage. Gritting his teeth, he raised one corner of the sticking plaster and ripped it off to expose an ugly raw patch encrusted with pus. He soaked a facecloth under the cold water tap, then cleaned the infected wound as best he could before covering it up with a fresh and larger-sized bandage. After that, he washed, shaved, brushed his teeth and changed into a pair of khaki linen slacks, a plaid shirt and a pair of stout walking shoes he'd purchased from a sports outfitters off the Charing Cross Road.