Keys to the Kingdom (6 page)

CHAPTER 8

London

Worley watched the faces of his fellow Londoners as he exited from the Underground and turned in the direction of the twin-towered office block in Vauxhall housing the British Secret Service. After his meeting with Burfield he had returned to his small house in Kew and collapsed on the bed. He had woken in the late afternoon and had been disorientated for a few minutes. The smells of spices and oriental cooking that had in the past dominated the house were now overlaid with the musty smell of emptiness. It had been over a year since he or anyone else had stayed in the house and it was beginning to show. The antique furniture that he had collected over the past twenty-five years appeared opulent when compared with the stark utilitarianism of the standard furniture supply by the Foreign Office for his flat in the compound in Riyadh. His books still lined the shelves of his living room and his collection of Classical vinyl LPs stood in the wooden racks he had made with his own hands. The house had always given him a cosy feeling but now he felt like a stranger re-visiting part of his previous life. Visitors would think the house quintessentially male, devoid of a woman’s touch. Several women had lived there with Worley but his lifestyle eventually drove them away. He had never considered children. Not that he disliked them. He just thought it was better that Harry Worley’s line should end with him. The world he had come to know was no place for children.

‘Come in, Arthur,’ Burfield cupped his hand around the mouthpiece of his phone. ‘Be with you in a trice,’ he said sotto voce.

Worley entered the room and sat in the chair before Burfield’s desk. He switched off his brain and looked out through the window at the offices of M15 directly across the river. It was curious that the twin organs of the British Secret Service should have been located in the direct line of sight of each other.

Burfield quickly terminated his phone call. ‘I wondered whether you were going to bother after all,’ he said slipping the fingers on his hands through each other as though he was praying. ‘So we’ve come to put our hand in the wound after all. But I suppose it just proves that there’s more of Saint Thomas in us than Saint George. At least your colour seems to have come back a bit. Yesterday you were looking decidedly green about the gills.’

‘I’m sorry for being such a bore, Geoff’ Worley forced a smile. ‘Humour me on this one. If Gallagher is dead then I can assure you that I will stop and desist with the pursuit.’

‘How have things been these last two years?’ Burfield asked.

‘Fine,’ Worley answered nervously. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Saudi’s a strange station, isn’t it?’

Burfield’s eyes seemed to bore into him. Worley smiled. ’It’s been awhile since you were in the field. It’s not all fun and games.’

‘No gin and tonics by the pool then,’ Burfield returned the smile.

‘Let me look at the file and I’ll get out of your hair.’

‘Firstly, Arthur, I want it clearly understood that I am not the enemy,’ Burfield sat back in his chair. ‘I’ve been mulling things over since yesterday and of course I’m willing to believe that you saw someone who closely resembled Gallagher in Riyadh. I’m bothered most by what this obsession does to you. If you’d seen how you looked yesterday through my eyes, you would have adopted a similar stance to mine. I simply will not allow one of my oldest and most trusted friends to destroy himself because thirty years ago his brother happened to get himself murdered in the ‘dirty war’ in Northern Ireland.’ Burfield was at his most affable. ‘Forget the Gallagher file and spend a few pleasant days in London before going back to the snake pit. It’s history. The last ball was bowled years ago. Let it stay buried.’

‘Let’s go look at the file,’ Worley said standing up.

‘If you insist,’ Burfield said. He rose slowly from behind his desk and set his rangy frame in motion in the direction of the door. ‘No need to go down to the vaults as in days of yore.’ He opened the door and ushered Worley through. ‘Must have cost a bloody fortune to put all the files on computer but the boffins had a field day.’ They strode along a corridor that seemed to stretch ahead forever. ‘You up to speed on computers or will you need one of the operators to help you.’

‘I think I can handle it myself, thanks very much.’

‘Good,’ Burfield stopped before an unmarked door on the corridor, slipped a plastic card into a security point and pushed the door open when the green light on the grey plastic panel illuminated.

‘I’ve organised a temporary password for you,’ Burfield said as he opened the door exposing a small office containing a desk on which stood a computer terminal and a printer. The only other piece of office furniture in the room was a chair.

Worley had the distinct impression that the terminal had been specifically set up for him. He wondered whether Burfield had also organised the information within Gallagher’s file. God but he was becoming paranoid. Maybe Geoffrey was right and he was over-reacting to the sight of the Gallagher-like apparition in Riyadh. Perhaps it was all in his head. His thoughts cleared and he began to see how he must appear to Burfield. He looked at the machine standing on the table. This was the moment of truth. If he refused to switch on the computer he would be accepting that Patrick Joseph Gallagher was dead. It would also mean that he would be giving up forever any possibility of avenging Robert’s death. That was something that he could never do. If there were any chance, no matter how minutely small, that he could lay his hands on the man who had murdered his brother he was going to take that chance. If Gallagher were alive, he would pursue him with his last breath.

Burfield watched Worley as he took his place in front of the computer and threw the switch that set the machine in operation. You poor demented fool, he said to himself as the screen brightened. If the hierarchy were ever to get wind of the waste of departmental resources on the quest for a dead man, then both he and Arthur would be on their way double quick. He was in the unenviable position of having to draw up a list of Middle East operatives who were to be made redundant. He had a certain loyalty to Arthur but the obsession with Gallagher was worrying. It was one thing to inaugurate a vendetta against an IRA terrorist but it was quite another to attempt to dredge up the terrorist’s body to satisfy one’s own delusion. The moment Arthur had switched on the computer he had in effect written his own name on Burfield’s list.

‘What’s the password?’ Worley stared at the prompt on the screen asking for his password.

‘Waterloo1815,’ Burfield said resignedly. He’d had enough of this silly game. He was done humouring Arthur. He had tried to tell him how it was and the stubborn fool had refused to accept his advice. Arthur was bowled out and all that was required was for him to begin the long walk to the pavilion. And nobody would be clapping when he arrived there. What a bloody waste of a talented agent. Still that was life.

Worley typed in the letters and the logo of the Service’s electronic database appeared before him.

‘Just follow the on-screen instructions,’ Burfield said moving towards the door. ‘It was designed so that even fools like me could follow it.’ He looked back and saw that Worley was already engrossed in reading the directions. ‘Close the door when you’re finished. Good luck.’ Burfield felt a great sadness descending on him. Things had gone dreadfully wrong for Arthur somewhere along the line. Maybe it had something to do with the way brave old Sir Harry Worley had dumped his family in England while he had played the Imperial Pasha in Riyadh with his Saudi friends. Or perhaps it had been the demands by a rejected woman on a child not yet ready to accept the responsibilities of being the man of the family. Or maybe he shouldn’t have been made responsible for a rebellious younger brother. Whatever and whenever it was, the die was cast for Arthur Worley. He closed the door softly behind him.

Worley read carefully through the details of the life and crimes of Patrick Gallagher. The text was sprinkled with the names familiar with every student of terrorism. Gallagher had been right there with all the big names. As he scrolled through the text Worley read the exploits of George Habash, Abu Nidal, Yassar Arrafat and Carlos the Jackal. There were references to the IRA, the Red Army Faction, the Japanese Red Army, Fatah and the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. Gallagher had plied his trade on a worldwide basis after Northern Ireland became too hot for him. There were reports of his involvement in blowing up British Army barracks in Germany, planning the massacre at Lod Airport, involvement in the hijacking of the Achille Lauro, the murder of Airey Neave in London. The list went on and on, an endless litany of death and destruction. Nowhere was there a mention of Robert Worley. His brother had simply been one among the many who had died because their paths had crossed with that of Patrick Gallagher. It was hard to believe that one human being could have been so dedicated to the creation of chaos in so many innocent lives. He scrolled down engrossed in the history of Gallagher after he had left Ireland. The file continued for page after page. Evidence from associates and enemies alike testified to Gallagher’s prowess as a terrorist. And then in 1989, a report that the Russians had caught Gallagher and his Mujahidin friends in an ambush in Afghanistan. It was one of the last actions of the Russian intervention. He moved to a description of the engagement by an American SEAL named of Frank Terman. He testified that Gallagher had been a casualty and had been buried in an unmarked grave. The report was accompanied by a photo of the dead and bloodied terrorist. Worley enlarged the photo and saw the face that he thought that he had seen in Riyadh. The man in the photo certainly appeared to be dead. Worley removed a photo from his inside pocket. It had been encased in plastic to preserve it. It showed a group of PLO fighters sitting on the back of a lorry leaving Beirut in the evacuation of 1981. Gallagher sat in the middle of a group directly facing the camera. He wore combat fatigues and cradled an AK-47 in his arms. Most of the men around him had their khafiyas wrapped around their heads to cloak their identities. Gallagher’s black and white checked khafiyah hung loosely about his neck. There was a look of defiance on his handsome face. That look said ‘you’ll never beat me’. He sat staring at the image. This man had somehow fooled the intelligence community into believing that he was dead. He switched on the printer connected to the computer. He pushed the print button and after a few second a sheet of paper with the impression of the final photo of Gallagher exited. Worley folded the sheet of paper and put it into his pocket. He switched off the computer and left the room.

CHAPTER 9

Langley, Virginia

Alan Simpson stared out the window of his office on the fourth floor at the CIA Headquarters in Langley. As Head of the Middle East Group, Simpson had the luxury of a view over the forest surrounding one side of the building. Those less fortunate were obliged to gaze on the large car parks on the other three sides of the complex. He had just finished listening to the tape of the conversation that had taken place two days before in Houston between Terman and Bradley. He was lying back in his ergonomically designed chair ruminating on the folly of the fools in American society who thought of themselves as geopolitical geniuses. He had spent a great deal of his life working in, and studying, the Middle East. He spoke a half dozen Middle Eastern languages and had a Ph.D. from Harvard in Middle Eastern studies. Yet some octogenarian multi-millionaire peckerwood had taken on the role of God and had decided that he was going to bring down the House of Saud. The only plus point was that Linkletter hadn’t connected with the local militia and decided to trim the US Government by blowing up the Capitol.

‘Sit the fuck down,’ Simpson said without moving his head. ‘You’re makin’ me nervous.’

‘Calm down, baby,’ Lucius Adams paced the floor of the office. ‘This is fucking dynamite,’ he laughed. ‘These two fucking goombahs are trying to undermine the political system of the US’s main ally in the Arabian Gulf. If it wasn’t so serious it’d be funny. You know what I’m sayin’.’

‘It’s a load of hot air,’ Simpson flicked himself forward and looked his old friend in the eye. Lucius Adams had been named after a pope and a president of the United States but he was neither pious nor presidential. He was the chief trouble-shooter for the Defence Intelligence Agency and he was one of the smartest and most ruthless men Simpson had ever known. If he was in a tight spot and he was given the choice of having only one man in his corner, Lucius Adams would be that man.

The tape ran out and the machine clicked off automatically.

‘Look at what we’ve got so far,’ Simpson said. ‘Some old and now dead asshole with a gripe against the Saudis has hired a washed up former SEAL to make life difficult for the Al Sauds. Terman bringing down the Al Sauds, don’t make me laugh. Have you any idea how many of those fuckers there are and how well protected they are? Those guys breed like rabbits. You got more new princes and princesses on the payroll every day. I don’t care how good Terman’s friend is. It’s a bullshit operation and you know it.’

Adams dropped smoothly into one of the office chairs. ‘I heard tell that Linkletter was involved in the ‘Kennedy business’.’

‘God almighty,’ Simpson said spitting his chewing gum into a waste paper basket. ‘Everybody in Texas over sixty and with more than a million dollars in the bank is rumoured to have had something to do with the ‘Kennedy business’. Don’t you go all Jim Garrison on me now, Lucius.’

‘Yeah man,’ Adams chuckled to himself. ‘The question is what are you goin’ to do about it, you know what I’m sayin’. You’ve been in this Saudi business since the beginnin’. Terman isn’t in this thing by chance. Don’t tell me you’re not behind this crap operation. What’s on your mind, bubba?’

‘I didn’t start it,’ Simpson said. ‘This was all Linkletter.’

‘So you got deniability,’ Adams smiled.

‘Yeah, but we know it’s going down. We should put a stop to it.’

‘So what. The Saudis knew what was going’ down on 9/11. You read the missing 29 pages from the report Bush sent to Congress.’

‘What happens if Terman’s friend manages to cap the Al Sauds?’             

Adams burst out laughing. ‘You gotta be kiddin’. This guy is one step from a geriatric. He’ll stir up some shit and maybe provide us with an economic opportunity.’

Simpson sat forward. ‘What’s on your mind?’

‘The Saudis effectively control the oil price through their production policy. These boys are hyper sensitive to local uprisings. Gallagher might just cause enough problems to cut supply. Meaning the price of oil increases.’

‘So?’ Simpson said.

‘For such a clever motherfucker you sure are dumb. We keep our eye on the situation and put every cent we can raise into oil futures.’

Simpson thought for a moment. He had two ex-wives receiving alimony and four children looking to go to college. He needed every dollar he could get. Perhaps Lucius had hit on a sweet deal. ‘We’ll be in the shit if anyone finds out that we knew about the Linkletter deal and did nothing.’

‘Then we got to make sure that anyone that knows we know doesn’t live to tell the tale. Know what I’m sayin.’

Simpson ran through a list of the people he’d involved in the operation to watch Terman. They all knew he was on Terman but they had no idea why. ‘Terman’s the only one that can link me in.’

‘Then he goes. That’s where I come in. But for now you put it out that Terman’s a rogue.’

‘I gotta think about this,’ Simpson said.

‘We don’t have much time. The clock is tickin’.’ He moved his index finger back and forth. ‘Tick, tock.’