CHAPTER THREE
WHO KILLED UNCLE EDWARD?
The evening sun was dropping below the sparkling Mediterranean horizon as the couple finished their meal.
It was their favourite place. A table on the harbour wall, across the dusty road from the small bar run by Davros and Athena.
It reminded Major Bill Clayton very much of the Old Harbour in Paphos, before it had been ruined by tourists. This tiny fishing village of Kopufano was not that far from Paphos, but far enough away to have escaped the attentions of most visitors, and to remain unspoilt and undiscovered by the holiday trade. There weren't many places like Kopufano left in Cyprus these days. But because they lived on the island, Bill and his wife Catherine were able to explore the dusty tracks and rugged coastline away from the towering hotels with their sun beds and swimming pools.
Bill’s work at the Joint Services Signals Unit at Ayios Nikolaos in the Troodos Mountains was altogether different from his work in Northern Ireland. Intelligence work still, but altogether different. Here, he helped to run what was effectively a listening post on the Middle East. He knew, or could find out, everything that was going on in the region, much as he had known everything that was going on in Northern Ireland while he was there. Exhausted, he had left the province to sort itself out politically, having almost single handedly resolved the security situation. With top-level support from Downing Street and Washington, he had managed to rid the island of its arsenals of terrorist weapons, empty the terrorists’ bank accounts, and, finally, get rid of the terrorists themselves.
It had not been without its risks. His first wife of only a few months had been killed by a car bomb undoubtedly meant for him, after only a few weeks at the Army Headquarters outside Belfast. His Uncle had been assassinated in a quiet Sussex village, and a close colleague and trusted agent had been murdered – a murder he could perhaps have prevented if he had been a bit quicker off the mark. Not only was his own life under constant threat while he was there, but so was that of his new wife, Catherine. They had not been married then. She was a member of the SAS at the time they met, and a pivotal part of his intelligence team. Before being sent to Northern Ireland, she had served in Iraq, where she had been captured and tortured before escaping and somehow making her way back across the desert. Still traumatised, she had not hesitated to get involved again in active operations.
Catherine had eventually resigned from the Army, and she and Bill Clayton had married and moved to Cyprus, to get away from further danger, while the politicians got on with the long job of reconciling and uniting a previously divided but now peaceful island.
And today was a special day in that process. A day when the two sides of the political divide came together at a grand ceremony in Belfast to mark the island’s unification under the United States flag.
Busy though Bill was in Cyprus, there was now no immediate threat to his life as there had been in the past, and the couple had begun to relax and enjoy their return to civilised life. It was a life which allowed them time together, time to relax, and time to eat out at charming local restaurants like that run by Davros and Athena.
Davros still went fishing from time to time in his battered launch, but no longer made his living from the sea. He caught enough to supply his small café bar across the road from the tiny harbour, and friends and neighbours in the village eagerly bought anything left. Davros spoke very little English, but his wife, Athena, had attended university in Cambridge many years ago, and still had a love of the place and of the English people. The couple at their table on the harbour wall were always welcome, as it gave her the chance to practice the language. They also contributed more to the bar’s meagre income than the villagers could who chose to eat there. They were a nice couple, and Athena knew he worked for the British military somewhere high in the Troodos Mountains, where all the big dish aerials were sited, but she could only guess what he did.
Bill and Catherine had finished their early supper. A simple meal of local fish caught by Davros, with a green salad and boiled potatoes. They were enjoying a glass of Keo brandy as the air cooled and the sun set. The brandy was by way of celebration of the events in Belfast. But the tranquillity was broken by Athena, rushing from the café.
“Come quickly, come quickly,” she shouted waving her arms wildly. “Come quickly, and listen. Bad news from England.”
They rushed across the road and into the tiny kitchen at the back of the bar, in time to hear the end of the BBC World Service news.
By all accounts, the Belfast explosion, or possibly a series of explosions, had been bigger than anything ever seen before in Northern Ireland, or on the mainland.
It was certain that many people had been killed from among the VIPs and dignitaries attending the independence celebrations, and countless others injured, many seriously. It was too early to say who had died, but the news broadcast was immediately followed by solemn music.
The couple slowly retraced their steps to their table, and sat in silence for a few moments.
“Who the hell could have done that?” Bill asked, talking almost to himself as he looked out across the sea.
The girl shook her head.
“I doubt it was the Irish,” he said.
Catherine shook her head again. “I suppose that’s a problem for the Americans, now,” she said.
“We’ll have to help them,” he said. “It could just be al-Qa'Aeda, getting at us and the Americans at the same time. They’ve wanted to do that for years. We may even be able to pick something up from here.”
“I suppose you might.” she replied.
“We should have been there, you know,” he said to her, quietly. “Today. We were invited.”
“I know.” she replied.
“If it hadn’t been for you, we would probably have gone, too.” he said. “In a strange sort of way, I quite wanted to go, really, although I wasn't entirely sure.”
“I had a feeling we shouldn’t,” she replied.
“You always were a canny chap,” he said.
“I just didn’t want to go back, after all this time.”
“Why?” he asked.
“We’re so happy here,” she said. “I didn’t want to break the spell.”
“You’re right, of course,” he said. “I had mixed feelings about it myself, to be honest. About meeting the old crowd again.”
“We may never meet some of them again, after today.”
They reached across the table, and held hands.
“Take me home,” she said.
They crossed the road to pay for their supper. Athena and Davros were in animated conversation.
“I’m so sorry,” Athena said to the couple. “Terrible, terrible.”
They nodded, and walked to the car, arm in arm.
Neither of them had noticed the two men on a motorbike, who followed them discretely to their home at Mercury Barracks.
But the men had gone out of their way to avoid attracting attention. Not for them the usual 1,000cc Honda or BMW or Kawasaki that they might have used in London, or Washington or Moscow. Instead, they had picked up a 50cc Vespa motor scooter, typical of the sort used by all the local Cypriots for carrying their produce to and from market, complete with wicker basket. Except that this one, although it had been specially adapted to sound like all the others, had a supercharged engine in case of need. An RAF Hercules had delivered it, together with a very dilapidated Citroën 2CV van – also with a suped-up engine – that they and the other members of their small team also used form time to time, just for a change.
***
It was some three weeks after the Belfast tragedy that a young, tanned local man rang the doorbell at the Claytons’ home. It was a Saturday afternoon, and Bill was inside watching football on satellite TV, while Catherine pottered about in the small but neat garden. She heard the doorbell, and went to answer it so as not disturb Bill.
The young man politely touched the brim of his battered straw hat.
“Feesh?” he said. “You want fresh feesh?”
He thumbed towards the old Citroën van outside.
“I haff plenty feesh, fresh today,” he announced with a heavy accent. “You look?” he invited Catherine, taking a step towards the van.
“Cheap,” he added
She nodded, and followed the youth down the short path to the road.
“See!” he said proudly, waving towards the trays of fish laid out in the back of the van.
“See! This red snapper; awful tasty!” He proudly held up a plump fish by its tail.
“What are those?” asked Catherine, pointing.
“Ah!” said the young man, stooping to pick up a handful of smaller silver fish from the tray.
“Ah!” he said again. “Dees – I not know for sure how you call them.”
Obviously his English was poor.
He looked hard at Catherine with his bright blue eyes, as if summing her up.
“Dees …. ,” he said again, fumbling for words, and shaking his head.
He paused for a moment, still looking intently at her.
Eventually he said, in perfect English. “Actually, I think the bloody things are sardines. But I need to see the Major urgently. Is he in?” he asked, knowing very well that he was.
Catherine was taken aback, but only for a moment.
“Wait,” she said. “I’ll get him to come and look at the fish.”
She turned towards the house.
“Incidentally, they are sardines,” she said with a grin.
The young man, whoever he was, politely touched the frayed brim of his hat, keeping up the pretence, and carefully replaced the fish on to their tray.
Catherine returned with Bill, now equally mystified.
They all peered into the back of the van.
“I have a message for you,” said the young man quietly. “I’m told you will remember from Northern Ireland days that nothing was to be put on paper about your particular operation. ‘No paper, no leaks’, I believe was the theory. Which is why I’m here, trying to sell this stinking stuff,” he explained.
“Go on,” said Bill.
“There’s a chap coming over from London, due later today, who wants an urgent but private meeting with you,” the man continued. “Both of you.”
“Who?” asked Bill.
“Sir Robin Algar, Cabinet Secretary. Says you know him.”
Bill frowned. What on earth could he want? he wondered.
“Over here for a private long weekend break, with his wife,” explained the man. “That’s the cover story. Would like to join you for lunch tomorrow at your favourite place in Kopufano. He thought about 1230 hours would be nice for a drink first. OK?”
“OK,” replied Bill. “We’ll be there.”
“So shall I,” said the man. “But you won’t see me. Now what about these damned fish?”
“I’ll have half a dozen sardines,” said Bill, reaching for his wallet. “I’m rather partial to those on a barbeque.”
“And I think the Captain next door might like the snapper,” said Catherine. “Try him.”
“I’ve got to try the whole damned road, now I’ve started,” said the man, “or someone will smell a rat.”
“Rotten fish, more like it,” said Bill.
The man wrapped the sardines in a piece of old newspaper, counted out the change and said “Sank you” before walking round to the house next door.
***
Robin Algar was there when they arrived. But no longer the Sir Robin Algar that Bill had dealt with before. No smart striped suit, with white shirt and gold cuff links. No neatly knotted silk tie, or polished black shoes. This time, the country’s most senior public servant, Head of the Civil Service and Cabinet Secretary, was in faded beige Chinos, open-necked floral short-sleeved shirt and sandals, wearing a straw hat as protection from the mid-day sun, sitting on a green plastic chair and sipping cheap local wine.
He was alone.
He greeted Bill warmly as he was introduced to Catherine, whom he had not met before.
“It’s so nice to see you,” he began. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve left Betty, my wife, sunning herself by one of the pools at the Coral Beach Hotel in Paphos. I didn’t think she’d be too interested in our little chat.”
Athena bustled over to get more drinks. The menu was the same as always.
“There are live fish in the tank, caught by Davros only this morning, if you want to choose something really fresh,” she explained, pointing to the large glass container at the front of the shop, with fish of all shapes, sizes and colours, as well as lobsters, swimming about, awaiting their fate.
“I don’t think I could!” said Algar. “I shall let my friends here choose, as they come here often.”
“We usually go for baked fish, with boiled potatoes and salad,” explained Catherine. “Simple but good.”
“How about some fresh prawns to start?” suggested Athena.
“Sounds perfect,” said Robin Algar. “And perhaps a bottle of your best white wine, to go with it. This is my treat today.”
Athena wasn’t at all sure they had a ‘best’ wine, but nodded and gave Bill and Catherine a sideways glance. They knew what she meant!
As soon as she had gone, Robin Algar said, “You probably know, Bill, that the structure of our intelligence services has been changed somewhat, and that I now play a bigger role than I did. The old post of Permanent Secretary, Intelligence, Security and Resilience has been abolished, and the responsibilities passed to me. That means that I now chair the Joint Intelligence Committee. But I’m sure you must be dying to know the reason for this clandestine meeting. I’m not used to this sort of thing, y’know,” he added, rather embarrassed.
“Neither are we, as a matter of fact,” replied Bill, “not any more. But you’re right about our curiosity – it’s killing us, although we guessed it must have something to do with that terrible incident in Belfast.”
“In a way, it has,” replied Algar. “That really was an appalling climax to years of hard work and patient diplomacy, not to mention your own very personal role in the run up to it. But I’m pleased to say that the Americans have settled in very well, and that progress is being made as planned under their leadership. Ireland is still basically peaceful, for the first time in decades.”
“Well, that’s good news at least,” replied Catherine.
“I’ve been giving a good deal of thought – and time – to who could have been behind the atrocity that day,” said Bill. “As you probably know, my role here is to monitor what’s going on in the region, and we work closely with the Americans and other allies, as well as with GCHQ and the security services. I’ve made a start checking through all the transcripts and intercepts, going back several months, to see if I can find any clue as to who might have been responsible, but so far I’ve drawn a blank. Even mobile phone chat between people we have a special interest in has not given us any sort of lead, using a key-word search and everything. It could be anyone, and not necessarily from this part of the world - al-Qa'Aeda, the Taliban, Iran, anyone.”
“It’s good of you to go to that trouble,” said Algar, “but like you, no-one seems to have anything like a clear idea of who could have been the perpetrators. The Americans are still in a dreadful state of shock over the event, as they had been responsible for the security arrangements for the celebrations, and thought they had covered everything.”
“We should have been there, you know,” said Catherine. “We were invited, but decided not to go.”
“Me too,” said Robin Algar. “I also decided not to go, although I really should have gone, to support the Prime Minister. But I honestly felt I’d had enough by then.”
“That was partly why we didn’t go, as well,” agreed Catherine. “It was tempting, but we were so happily settled here, we really didn’t want to go back.”
“How long have you been here now?” asked Algar.
“Getting on for two years,” replied Bill Clayton. “It took you officials and politicians such a long time to sort out your part of the plan, didn’t it, but the time has gone quickly, really.”
“You’ll be looking for a new posting soon, I suppose?” suggested Algar.
“I’d rather not think about it!” said Clayton. “We’ll stay here as long as you like, thanks.”
“I can understand that,” agreed Robin Algar, looking out over sparkling Mediterranean.
“But I’m up for promotion again soon – I turned it down once, to come here instead, you know,” said the Major.
“I had heard,” replied Algar. “And that’s one of the reasons why I’m here,” he added, mysteriously. “But there’s something I need to tell you first – something you need to know after all this time about an incident which happened while you were in Northern Ireland.”
“Which incident?” asked Bill, curiously. “There were so many.”
“Personal, really,” replied Algar, “and one which I remember you took very hard and did your best to resolve.”
“Not the death of my first wife?” asked Bill, casting a glance at Catherine.
“No, no, not that,” responded Sir Robin. “The murder of your uncle, Edward Benbow.”
“Surely not a new development after all this time?” asked Bill.
“Not that, either,” said Algar. “Rather, an old development you didn’t know about at the time, but which I must now tell you about.”
“This sounds interesting,” remarked Catherine. “I remember the time well, since Bill and I actually went to the scene of the murder. A pretty village in Sussex, it was.”
“Fittleworth,” Bill reminded her. “That’s where Uncle Edward lived. Not that he was a blood relation as such. He married my aunt, but he was a nice enough chap, and did well in the Army – Royal Artillery.”
“Did well afterwards, too,” Catherine reminded him. “Worked for the Foreign Office I seem to remember.”
“Let me briefly remind you of what happened,” said Sir Robin, “and please correct me if I get anything wrong. You will recall that Benbow was shot by two men who drove passed him on a motorbike. A man fishing on the river nearby saw the incident, but was not close enough to be a witness of any value. Sussex police got nowhere with their investigation, and it was eventually you, Bill, who stumbled across the fact that it was an IRA weapon that had been used.”
“The forensic people eventually managed to link the murder weapon to three crimes in Northern Ireland,” said Bill, frowning, “but only because I rescued the bullets from the Sussex police.”
“Quite,” agreed Algar. “And before that, you went off on a wild goose chase because of an envelope with your uncle’s name and address on it.”
“I remember,” said Bill. “That damned envelope caused me no end of trouble.”
“At one time, it even led you to believe that Alistair Vaughan, the Head of Security at the Bank of England, had arranged for your uncle to be killed,” Algar reminded him with a smile.
“That was because you passed the envelope to him, Sir Robin – it contained the list of terrorist bank accounts which he was supposed to deal with,” Bill said. “And our double agent friend had also set us off on a wild goose chase by suggesting that Vaughan was an IRA fund raiser, with links to a Libyan arms dealer.”
“And your uncle was an arms inspector at the time, checking up on Libya’s promise to give up their weapons of mass destruction. So it was a perfectly plausible conclusion to reach, given what you knew, that Benbow’s murder was somehow linked to our own operation in Northern Ireland.”
“Exactly,” agreed Bill.
“Which it was,” confirmed the Cabinet Secretary. “But not quite in the way you suspected, I fear.”
“How do you mean?” asked Catherine.
“Let me explain,” said Algar. “Your uncle, Bill, was a clever man. Retired as a major in the gunners, got a degree in nuclear physics afterwards and worked for the Foreign Office as an arms inspector, much of the time in Iraq until he retired again. He was recruited later on a special contract for his work in Libya.”
“Agreed,” said Bill.
“And this is where I have to tell you things you didn’t know,” said Robin Algar, taking a sip of his wine. “Edward Benbow was actually an arms dealer. He was helping Libya to sell illegal arms to terrorist groups and others, in spite of their declared policy of giving that up. He was also negotiating to sell nuclear secrets to Iran, as a matter of interest.”
Bill and Catherine sat back, aghast.
“I find that impossible to believe,” said Bill. “My uncle was always a pillar of society.”
“So he appeared,” responded Algar. “But he had been under surveillance for some time. The fact was, though, that he was far too useful for us to have pulled him out immediately. We needed to let him continue trading, so to speak, to identify his network of contacts and gather sufficient evidence to be able to take political action at some time in the future.”
“I’ll be damned!” muttered Bill. “I had no idea.”
“And you were supposed to know everything,” Catherine reminded him, with a grin.
“Don’t be hard on Bill,” Robin said. “The last people you ever suspect of any wrong doing are your own relatives.”
“That’s true enough,” Bill agreed. “But it still doesn’t explain why he was murdered or by whom, does it? We know it was an IRA weapon, and that the gun was eventually discovered in the flat of Father Sean Doyle, our double agent friend.”
“This gets even more difficult for me to have to explain,” said Sir Robin. “Edward Benbow had made a lot of money shipping arms to the IRA, and was about to make a lot more until you and your colleagues arranged for the good ship ‘Hercules’ to be blown out of the water. That was stuffed full of a new consignment for them, and your uncle had several hundred thousand pounds riding on their safe delivery. He was furious. He could see his very lucrative business coming swiftly to an end unless he managed to get you out of the way.”
“How did he intend to do that?” asked an increasingly incredulous Clayton.
“Simple,” replied Algar. “He had a contract out on you.”
“You mean he wanted Bill killed?” stuttered Catherine. “His own nephew? His own flesh and blood?”
“That’s exactly what I do mean, I’m afraid,” admitted Sir Robin.
“But somebody got him first, thank the Lord,” said Catherine. “But why would the IRA do that, when he was supplying them with weapons? It just doesn’t make sense.”
“It wasn’t the IRA,” replied Algar. “He was taken out to protect you, Bill. You were deemed to be infinitely more valuable than he was, so we had to get rid of him before he harmed you in anyway.”
Bill and Catherine sat in disbelieving silence.
“But the murder weapon?” asked Bill. “It was an old IRA hand gun. I checked that out myself.”
“Planted deliberately,” said Algar. “A red herring, specially for your benefit, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll be damned!” exclaimed Bill again, lapsing into further silence.
“Do you mean that the Government actually sanctioned the murder of my uncle?” he eventually asked.
“Yes. That’s the way it was, Bill,” replied Algar. “It was you or him, and we wanted you to keep on with what you were doing. We got to him first, thank goodness.”
“Who exactly is ‘we’?” asked Bill. “The two men on a motorbike? Were they part of it?”
“They were ours,” replied Sir Robin simply. “And that brings me to the most difficult part of my visit. I have to tell you about the organisation they worked for.”
He paused. “I could do with some more coffee, could you?”
“And a Brandy,” said Bill, attracting Athena’s attention. “But why do you need to tell me now, after all this time?”
Algar looked at him closely.
“Because we want you to take over the organisation, that’s why. We want you to run it.”
Bill and Catherine looked at him in stunned silence.
“But why me?” asked Bill eventually.
“Because Cabinet colleagues agree with me that there is no one better,” said the Cabinet Secretary simply. “The man currently in charge – you may know of Alan Jarvis – has proved himself not to be entirely satisfactory, judging by recent events, and we have agreed that he should be replaced quickly. That’s strictly confidential at the moment, of course. Jarvis knows nothing, yet.”
“I’ve heard of Jarvis,” said Bill. “He was a Section head in SIS, wasn’t he?”
“He’ll go back there,” replied Algar.
“But he is a Civil Servant, and I’m not,” said Clayton, almost looking for an excuse to refuse the post.
“You would become one if you accepted my offer.”
Clayton shook his head.
“Let me tell you briefly about the terms that have been agreed if you should decide to take over Section 11,” offered Sir Robin. “You will be given immediate and substantive promotion to full Colonel, and your retirement from the Army would carry with it a full pension in that rank. MOD will sort out all the details. Your new appointment would be in an equivalent Civil Service rank, on maximum salary, with a further pension in that rank when you eventually retire. I shall make all those arrangements. A flat in London goes with the job too, by the way. Section 11 is a top-secret organisation, and you would report direct to me.”
“I have heard about Section 11, of course,” said Bill, “but I really know nothing about it.”
“That’s good news, in a way,” said Algar with a smile. “At least it means that the security surrounding it is tight. If you don’t know, then no one else will. Let me tell you in a few words about its role. You will obviously be given a full briefing before you join, if you should so decide.”
When the Cabinet Secretary had finished, Clayton said, “Sounds interesting enough, but I hope you don’t expect me to decide now. If you do, the answer’s ‘No’.”
“Of course you must discuss all this with Catherine,” agreed Algar, “but the sooner you can make a decision, one way or the other, the better from everyone’s point of view. We have a particularly difficult and sensitive operation coming up, and I’d like the new Head of Section to be in on it from the start.”
“I’ll get word to you as soon as possible,” agreed Bill.
“A simple yes or no will do,” said Algar. “But now I must get back, or my wife will wonder what has happened to me.”
He stood to leave.
“Shall I ring for a taxi for you?” offered Catherine.
“Kind of you, but my transport is already here.”
They looked around, but there was no vehicle in sight. Only an old Citroën 2CV, which clattered along the quayside. It stopped near them, and the young man in a tattered straw hat struggled out of the drivers seat.
“I remember now,” said Bill. “He called yesterday selling fish, and said he would be around today.”
“We’ve been keeping a watchful eye on you again, ever since the Belfast incident. Just in case.”
He shook hands with Bill and Catherine, and walked across to the van.
“Hardly a staff car,” grinned the Cabinet Secretary, as he climbed awkwardly into the passenger seat, “but it will do to get me back to the hotel. By the way, it will be on your inventory if you take over!”
“And so shall I,” said the man in the straw hat. “I never did sell that red snapper, either.”
***