The Chessboard Spies, page 5
part #3 of Stephen Fletcher Series
The delicacy of the International situation stirred Fletcher into action. The Middle East was like a barrel of gunpowder and if a shipment of arms was being negotiated, British Intelligence had to know about it. His first call was to Nico, the proprietor of a small bar close to the waterfront. A bar which Fletcher used as a base and a post office. But Nico also had his own chain of contacts which had served Fletcher well in the past. From Nico’s bar he spent the day touring the seaport and the capital spreading his net. He wanted news about the syndicate and news about Kaddir, and he was prepared to pay for it.
When he eventually returned to his hotel it was late in the afternoon. He took a shower, changed, and went in search of the American party. He found them in the lounge bar talking to an Englishman — a tall, rotund, pompous looking man with a red face and a central bald patch to his greying hair, who appeared to commandeer the conversation. In the American party was Carol Marsh, Carl Lipman, the tall man Fletcher had seen at Ali’s club, and a small, dumpy man, with close-cropped hair and wearing thick-lensed spectacles. A quiet word with the floor waiter and a quick exchange of a few drachmas and Fletcher had all their names. The Englishman was called Wilson, the tall American — Young, and the small, bespectacled man, Marlow.
Fletcher watched and listened from the background, but as soon as it turned dark he had to leave them. It was time to report to Spencer. He went to Athens by train and from the station made his way discreetly to Spencer’s bungalow.
‘You’re late,’ Spencer said gruffly as he admitted him.
‘I didn’t know we had arranged any particular time,’ Fletcher replied evenly, but took note of Spencer’s manner. It was an indication that something was up.
‘We didn’t, but I did,’ Spencer growled. ‘We are going to a meeting.’
Fletcher didn’t inquire further. Spencer wasn’t in a communicative mood. He followed him to his garage.
‘Keep out of sight,’ Spencer said.
Fletcher got into the rear of the car and buried himself in the well-upholstered seat. Spencer drove swiftly out of his drive and on to the road which took them away from Athens to the mountains to the North.
Fletcher remained silent, prepared to let Spencer make the first move.
‘You did well, Stephen,’ Spencer said eventually, ‘but they are on the warpath.’ By ‘they’ Fletcher knew he was referring to London.
‘Whom are we meeting?’ Fletcher asked.
‘Can’t give you any details, blast it,’ Spencer grumbled, ‘except that it’s one of them, and Maxwell’s crew.’
‘He’s back is he?’ Fletcher asked.
‘Yes, arrived yesterday.’
‘Empty-handed?’
‘No, he got results.’ Spencer cursed a passing motorist who had come perilously close to them. ‘Don’t ask any more questions,’ he said. ‘We’ll soon be there.’
‘You’re the boss,’ Fletcher sighed.
‘No, I’m not,’ Spencer retorted. ‘They are.’ Fletcher half smiled. Spencer liked to be left alone. He didn’t like having London breathing down his neck. It made him even more touchy than he normally was.
The road started to wind its way up the wooded slopes of the foothills, and Spencer sat forward in his bucket seat looking for some sign of identification. When he found it, he gave a grunt of satisfaction, and swung the car off the road and over a rough track through the trees. Presently, they came to a large private residence. As Fletcher got out, he saw there were three other cars parked outside the entrance. A light was suddenly shone in his face.
‘All right,’ Spencer barked. ‘He’s with me.’ The light was extinguished and the figure brushed past Fletcher.
‘Americans?’ Fletcher asked, but got no reply.
They were met at the entrance door by a small man, neatly dressed in a plain grey suit and striped tie. He had a pleasant face, with balding hair and innocent blue eyes. He looked a quiet, domesticated businessman, but as Spencer grunted and growled, Fletcher realized he was the man from London.
The man from London shook Fletcher’s hand, but offered no form of introduction.
They were taken into a large, well-lit room, furnished in the contemporary style, with a picture window through which could be seen the lights of the capital. There were two other men in the room — Maxwell and another American who was also not introduced. He was a tall man, with a serious face and a stooped gait.
The man from London commented on the view from the window and then covered it with thick draped curtains. He offered each of his visitors a drink and then got down to business.
‘Well, gentlemen, shall we go into the boardroom?’ He ushered them into an adjoining room with a large, central, polished table. On a side table stood a ciné projector opposite a wall screen. The man from London glanced at the assembled company seated at the table.
‘Three months ago,’ he said, ‘the British and American Ambassadors in Paris were approached by a group of representatives from the Arab countries, who were in Paris attending a monetary conference. Their approach had no official backing, but it was made with the blessing of various sections of their respective Governments. The gist of the approach was threefold. Firstly, they claimed that the majority of Arab Governments were becoming alarmed at the slow, but strangling grip, the Soviets were getting on their economy and their armed forces. They wanted encouragement from the West for a move in policy towards further alignment with the U.S.A. and Britain. They also wanted a large financial loan from the U.S.A. to bolster their monetary fund, and more Western investments. Finally, they requested that the P.M. makes a personal intervention to bring about a treaty with Israel and the restoration to the Arab countries of their territories now occupied by the Israelis. It was felt that as the U.K. has a long history of dealings in the Middle East they would be considered less controversial than if the U.S.A. intervened.’
The man paused and took a drink from a glass. The four other men sat waiting for him to continue, knowing that they were being given facts known to very few.
‘After consultations between London and Washington an unofficial reply was given to the delegation. It was the green light. Create the appropriate internal temperature and we would act. Needless to say, gentlemen, this was a major diplomatic victory for the West. The Soviets have had their eyes on the Middle East from the outset of their Bolshevik revolution, and had almost achieved the first stage of their domination in that area. Now we have the opportunity of stalling them.’
Again he paused, and looked at each man’s face in turn.
‘But we are in great danger of letting this opportunity slip between our fingers,’ he said gravely.
The men remained silent, waiting for him to spell out what they had all come to fear.
‘The Soviets were informed of this approach. They were given the full details.’ The man sighed. ‘Which means that once again we have a traitor in our midst. Unless, of course,’ he added brightly, ‘one of the delegates is working for the Russians.’
The man raised his eyebrows as if inviting comment. Maxwell spoke up.
‘Why should it be one of either party?’ he asked. ‘If these delegates represented strong factions in their own country, then the field is much broader.’
The man from London smiled.
‘It is possible, I agree,’ he said, ‘but we think otherwise. Immediately London and Washington agreed to go ahead they drafted a term of reference, a sort of step by step sequence of conditions. These were given to the delegates and also sent to each of our Embassies in the Middle East. Needless to say it was given maximum security, which means that not more than three people in each Embassy knew of its existence. Within twenty-four hours of its issue a copy turned up in the Kremlin!’
The last remark brought various forms of reaction from the assembled company. Fletcher grunted, a habit he was prone to doing to cover his embarrassment, or display his disapproval. Maxwell was more vocal. He swore. Spencer growled like a wounded lion and the tall, academic-looking American withdrew a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles from his jacket pocket and started to clean them, furiously, with a white linen handkerchief.
‘Each of the Embassies which was informed,’ the man continued, ‘both British and American, are now undergoing an intensive security check. Until they are cleared they will all be considered a security risk.’
No wonder Spencer was not in the best of spirits, Fletcher thought. Such a situation would hinder him in his work.
‘Now that the Russians know what we are up to they have started the necessary counter moves. They intend to both discredit the West and prove to the Arabs that they have the upper-hand in the Middle East. How they intend to do this we do not know.’ The man paused and added forcibly, ‘Yet.’ He took another drink from his glass. ‘But we do know that at the moment they appear to have the edge. In the past three months four men have been assassinated. Two in Iraq, one in Jordan, and one yesterday in Aden. All of these men were influential Government people who were supporters of the pro-Western move. It is obvious, gentlemen, that the Soviets are going to unleash a reign of terror on all the various Government heads they suspect, or know, are supporters of the new wind of change.’
‘Won’t this weaken their cause?’ Fletcher asked.
‘Yes,’ the man replied firmly. ‘If it can be proved. But each assassination has been carried out openly in front of people, and by what appears to be local assassins.’
‘Appears?’ Spencer growled.
‘Let us say that the assassins have appeared to be natives, fellahin, or what you have.They could have been disguised, but I rather think not. It is taking a risk. After very close investigation by the Iraquis and Jordanian officials, and I may add by both of our intelligence networks, there is no evidence of any local Soviet agents being involved. Which makes us suspect that they are being imported in especially for these operations.’
Again there was a wave of resentment in the room.
‘We also know that Breznov was given the task of strengthening the bonds between the U.A. Republics and the Soviet Union, and as we are all aware, Breznov is both a Soviet diplomat and number two in the K.G.B. On July 4th Breznov flew into Baghdad, but returned to Moscow on the same day. Whilst in Baghdad he met the Iraqui Defence Minister. He is a pro-communist sympathizer and not one of those who support a move to the West. Unfortunately Breznov’s visit was unexpected and we were unable to get any information of what took place at that meeting. On July 5th Breznov flew into Cairo. On the 6th he had a meeting with the Egyptian Foreign Secretary and the Iraqui Defence Minister, who had also flown into Cairo on the 5th. The day after that meeting, Breznov returned to Moscow. On the same day, both the British and American Embassies are given a copy of the report of Breznov’s meeting by their respective Intelligence Services. Very good work, gentlemen, but let me give you a word of warning. Think carefully before you use your contacts again, because we believe that the leak was an official one!’
Again Fletcher coughed. All the time he had been dealing with Ali he had felt that something was out of line. It had been too easy.
‘Well! I’ll be dog-garned,’ Maxwell said incredulously.
The man from London made a gesture with his hands.
‘Please, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Although we believe the leak was intentional, we still believe that what you have got was an authentic copy of the report which was submitted to the President.’ He turned to the tall American. ‘Isn’t that so?’
The American put on his spectacles as if he was going to read from a report.
‘Yes, that is so,’ he said in a polished Yale accent. ‘The two reports are identical. They were both taken with the same camera. There are slight movements of position which indicates that whoever took the shots made two separate attempts. We believe that the reports are authentic.’
‘So you see, gentlemen, your work was not in vain.’ The man from London smiled. ‘As to the contents of the report … Well, gentlemen, it contained nothing we didn’t know already or would not have found out as a matter of course. Statements of mutual foreign policy between the Soviet Union and the U.A.R.’s. and agreement for the supply of various defensive types of weapons.’
‘Which explains why the Egyptians allowed the leak,’ a voice said. It was Maxwell.
‘If it was the Egyptians,’ the man from London retorted pointedly. ‘We think it was by the Russians, to distract us from whatever they are up to.’ He looked around the assembled company.
‘Any comments?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Fletcher said in his deep, resonant voice. ‘Why send Breznov? What he accomplished could also have been achieved by someone who attracted less attention.’
‘Why indeed?’ the man sighed. ‘I think we have come to the point when we stop giving answers and let you gentlemen get on with it.’ He looked meaningly at Spencer who stood up and walked over to the ciné projector. From his pocket he withdrew a reel of film, and mounted it in the projector.
‘Breznov was supposed to have left Cairo the day after his meeting with the Egyptian Foreign Secretary,’ he said gruffly, ‘but he didn’t. Someone like Breznov flew out. Breznov remained in Cairo for one further day to meet these two men.’
He threw a switch which started the reel.
‘This is the rear entrance to the Soviet Embassy,’ he explained. ‘These shots were taken at four p.m. on the day Breznov was supposed to have flown to Moscow.’ A car drew up outside the gate and a man got out. It was the Iraqui Defence Minister.’ The next man is a newcomer,’ Spencer said. From another car a man appeared. Spencer froze the film to show the man in full flight from the vehicle to the entrance gate. ‘This is our mystery man,’ Spencer confessed. ‘We are hoping you can help us, David.’ He had directed his remark to Maxwell.
Fletcher studied the still on the screen. The man was small, portly, wearing a white linen suit and hat. His features were blurred, but he was unmistakenly of Eastern origin with a round, dark face.
‘He was staying at the Carlton Hotel,’ Spencer explained, ‘under the name of Mohammed Mizar. He had a U.A.R. passport. He left the day after the meeting on a flight for Tehran.’
‘Tehran!’ Maxwell explained. ‘Got him! He is Muzaf Kabul, a member of the Persian Communist Party.’
Spencer gave a satisfied grunt and switched off the lamp.
‘Nice work, John,’ Maxwell said from across the table.
Spencer retrieved the spool and returned to his seat.
‘This Persian, Kabul?’ the man from London asked, taking command again. ‘What about him?’
The tall American adjusted his spectacles.
‘He’s from the North of Iran,’ he said. ‘Comes from peasant stock. Evidently showed promise at school and a well-to-do landowner took him under his wing. Eventually he got a degree at Tehran University. Since then he has moved about. He was sacked from a Government appointment when his political views became known. He can speak several languages fluently and got a job with an International Trading Company.’
The American looked at his colleague, Maxwell.
‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘Only that he is not one of the Communists’ front boys. However, some of our latest reports indicate that he is becoming one of the powers behind the scenes. If the party is ever given official recognition he will be the man they will have to deal with.’
‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ the man from London said quietly. ‘We now know who we are dealing with.’ He dropped his head momentarily and then braced himself.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said in a crisp, but quiet voice, ‘we don’t know very much, but we know a lot more than we did three days ago. We know the outcome of Breznov’s talks at official level. We also know he stayed in Cairo one further evening and had a secret meeting with the Iraqui Defence Minister and a prominent Communist from Persia.’ He looked around the assembled group. ‘We also know that the Russians are rubbing up the Turks at the diplomatic level. Turkey, Iraq, Persia — somewhere there is a common denominator. The Russians have to do something to restore their prestige before the pro-West advocates get complete control.’ He paused. ‘My guess is that it is somewhere in the East.’
In the East! Something clinked into place in Fletcher’s brain. It was not often that reference was made to the ‘East’ in Middle East dealings, but he had heard it quite recently. Ali had used the same expression, when he had referred to Kaddir. Kaddir came from the East, and Timovsky had struggled with a name not unlike Kaddir …
‘Do you agree?’ the man had directed his question to the tall American.
‘Russian strategy in the past has been to lower the temperature at the diplomatic level to a cold front before making their move. This at the moment appears to be directed towards Turkey.’ The American fingered his spectacles. ‘We know that the Russians would like to see our fangs removed from our bases in Eastern Turkey. They probably know that we are negotiating for bases in Persia. We also know that Turkey and Iraq have certain differences. Perhaps they are plotting to put pressure on to Turkey and Persia. It is early days. Our intelligence in the East has had top priority recently and they have not given any indication of trouble.’
Fletcher saw a frown appear on Maxwell’s face. The East was one of his responsibilities. Fletcher appreciated how he felt.
The man from London sighed.
‘At this stage it is all surmise,’ he said regretfully. ‘We are not presuming to teach you gentlemen your job. You have given us admirable service. I am sure we can leave this problem with you!’
He stood up and said cheerfully, ‘Care for a drink?’
