Paper Chase Read online

  Mr Leftera nodded and took a key off the wall.

  “This way.”

  Carter followed him up a gloomy stairway and into a small, grimy bedroom. There was not much light: the cracked windowpane had last been cleaned in about 1908, and the electric bulb just made the room seem darker. But Carter could make out a ramshackle bed with a sagging mattress, a coat-rack, a small table, and a chair with one leg missing.

  “Okay?” Mr Leftera inquired.

  “It’ll do,” Carter said.

  “Three pounds a night.”

  Carter paid for two nights and took the key.

  “How do I get to the harbour?” he asked.

  Mr Leftera pointed towards the window, which didn’t mean much.

  “We are next to St Lazarus Square, okay?”

  Carter nodded.

  “You go three blocks that way,” Mr Leftera said. “Find Athens Avenue. That runs along the waterfront. It’s all there.”

  “Thanks,” Carter said.

  Mr Leftera went downstairs, and Carter threw himself down onto the bed. Just half an hour, he decided, and then I’ll go out. Just half an hour. Seconds later, he was fast asleep.

  It may have been half an hour later when he awoke, it may have been longer. The door creaked open and shut, and Carter looked up to see a man leaning over his bed. He was a large man, barrel-chested, with grey hair cut very short and a disconcerting stare. It took a couple of seconds for Carter to remember who he was.

  “Kyle,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  The man did not offer an immediate reply. He continued to stare down at Carter, as if trying to make up his mind about something. Then, in a low murmur, he said, “The Lord abhors bloodthirsty and deceitful men.”

  “What was that?” Carter blinked. “How did you know I was here?”

  Kyle looked around the room until he came across Carter’s door key. He then returned to the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket.

  “What’s going on, Kyle?”

  Kyle continued to ignore Carter, and picked up Carter’s bag. He threw the contents onto the floor, knelt down, and began to sift through them.

  “For Christ’s sake,” Carter said irritably. “Will you stop playing silly buggers and tell me what you’re doing?”

  Kyle smiled grimly as he inspected Carter’s papers.

  “His mouth is filled with cursing and deceit and oppression,” he muttered. “Under his tongue are mischief and iniquity.”

  Carter shook his head in confusion.

  “I think I’m still dreaming,” he said. “Kyle, have you got a new job with the Cyprus police? Because if you haven’t, kindly stop going through my belongings.”

  Kyle put down the paper he was reading, stood up, and walked over to Carter’s bed. Then, without any hesitation, he hit Carter full in the face.

  “The talk of a fool is a rod for his back,” Kyle explained, and he went back to Carter’s possessions.

  Carter sat up and clutched his face.

  “Oh, God,” he moaned. “You mad bastard, you’ve broken my fucking nose. What’s the matter with you, Kyle? I’ve done nothing to you.”

  Kyle glanced at him sharply.

  “A truthful witness saves lives,” he declared, “but one who utters lies is a betrayer.”

  “Betrayer?” Carter said. “What do you mean? How have I betrayed you?”

  Kyle grunted, and continued to look through Carter’s papers, while their owner tried to stanch the blood pouring from his nose. If Kyle was looking for anything specific, he did not find it. Finally, he stood up and returned to the bedside.

  “I shall punish thee according to the fruit of thy doings, sayeth the Lord,” Kyle declared.

  “Punish me?” Carter said. “What on earth for? I haven’t done a thing. I honestly don’t know why—”

  “Who that was innocent ever perished?” Kyle interrupted.

  “Please Kyle, will you drop all this biblical gibberish and tell me what you want? I’ve told you I was sorry about the order. It wasn’t my fault, and you know it. As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m here. I heard a rumour that the Flavio’s in Larnaca. If you come with me to the harbour, we might be able to…”

  Carter did not bother to finish the sentence. Kyle was not listening, and he clearly was not interested in any proposition Carter might put to him.

  “And all the people among whom thou art shall see the work of the Lord,” Kyle said bitterly, “for it is a terrible thing that I will do with thee.”

  Carter began to edge away from the bed. One glance at Kyle’s red face and bulging eyeballs made it plain that Kyle was beyond any form of rational persuasion.

  “I’m calling the manager,” Carter said. “This is getting—”

  Kyle leaped onto Carter and pinned him to the bed. Then he clamped one beefy hand across Carter’s face, and wound his other arm around the back of Carter’s head. Kyle took a deep breath, and jerked his elbows apart. With a muffled crunch, Carter’s neck broke.

  Kyle got off the bed, and nodded in satisfaction.

  “So perish all thine enemies, O Lord,” he declared.

  Chapter Three

  “THAT DOES IT,” Ogden declared. “I’m definitely complaining.”

  “Me too,” the Laird said. “It’s totally unacceptable.”

  “Why,” Beauchamp said, “he’s almost as bad as that man Stringer.”

  “Quite unprovoked, too,” said the Vicar.

  The cautionary letter from the D-G had finally arrived. It was headed, “Dear Pensioner”, and was brusque to the point of rudeness. Ogden & Co. were told that under no circumstances could they reveal any information about their careers. Failure to heed the warning would result in loss of pension, prosecution, and imprisonment. The letter was signed “P. Lazenby, Director-General”.

  “How shall we play this?” Ogden asked. “Complain by letter, or demand to see the chap and let him have it verbally?”

  “Oh, verbally,” Beauchamp said.

  “With both barrels,” the Laird said.

  “I think you’re being quite ridiculous about this. Why don’t you just shut up and do as the man asks?”

  The dissenting voice belonged to the Vicar’s wife, Sybil. She was a sturdy, angular lady, who spent much of her life disapproving of things. She disapproved of frivolity, facetiousness, and insubordination. Her husband’s friends were guilty of all three, so she disapproved of them too.

  “The D-G’s quite right, of course,” she said. “You’re obliged to keep totally silent about your careers. I really don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

  “The fuss,” Ogden said, “is about the way they’re treating us. You should have heard that chap Springer: a nasty, foul-mouthed street urchin, with the manners of a Cossack. It was quite uncalled for.”

  “So’s this letter,” the Laird added, jabbing his pipe-stem at the offending missive. “All these crude threats, as if we were a bunch of convicts on probation. We had no intention of writing our memoirs, or talking to the Press. Why should we?”

  “The D-G isn’t to know that,” Sybil said. “And you shouldn’t take it so personally. It’s a stereotyped letter, and it’s worded to cover all categories of Pensioner.”

  “Things have obviously gone downhill since we left,” the Vicar sighed. “Did I tell you, Sybil, they’ve abolished the inter-service cricket matches?’

  “You’ve told me about twenty times, Godfrey.”

  “Oh,” the Vicar grunted. “Well it’s not good enough, that’s all.”

  “You silly men,” Sybil chided, “can’t you see, it’s become another world? They employ specialists. Trained people. Not your sort, at all. I know it’s sad, but—but I suppose it’s progress, isn’t it?”

  “Specialists,” the Laird said witheringly.

  “Trained people,” Beauchamp spat.

  “Ruffians, you mean,” the Vicar said. “Louts like Stringer. What’s he trained in, eh? What’s his speciality?”


  “He’s got an honours degree in hooliganism,” Ogden said. “But look, chaps, Slinger may just be an aberration. I’ve been thinking about what Sybil’s been saying, and she’s right: the old firm’s much too big for the D-G to write to all retired staff—”

  “Exactly,” Sybil said.

  “—and I suspect he didn’t write this wretched letter. Some dimwitted secretary did it for him.”

  “Of course,” Sybil nodded.

  “So,” Ogden went on, “the D-G probably hasn’t even read what’s been sent out in his name. The chances are he’d be incensed if anyone told him.”

  “That’s a point,” Beauchamp said.

  “In fact,” Ogden concluded, “I bet the D-G’s a thoroughly decent chap who’d put a stop to this nonsense if anyone complained. So let’s complain.”

  “Oh really,” Sybil snorted. “For a moment, I thought you were going to be sensible about this.”

  “But I am,” Ogden insisted. “They might be letting in riff-raff like Swinger at the lowest ranks, but I’m sure the D-G’s still the right kind of fellow. Let’s see him.”

  And so, despite Sybil’s misgivings, Ogden and his friends fixed an appointment to see the Director-General at MI5 headquarters in Curzon Street. As they were shown into his office, they were somewhat surprised to see that the D-G wore a brown suit. They were even more surprised to see Geoff Stringer sitting by the D-G’s desk.

  “Good morning,” the D-G said. “I understand you want to lodge a formal complaint about something.”

  “That’s right,” Ogden said. “But I think it would be best if Mr Slinger wasn’t present. You see, the complaint partially concerns him.”

  “Thought it might,” the D-G nodded. “That’s why I’ve asked Mr Stringer to join us.”

  “Indeed,” Ogden blinked. “Oh well, if that’s how you do things around here, so be it. To begin with, we want to complain about Springer’s approach to us the other day.”

  “What was wrong with it?” Stringer asked.

  “Pretty tactless choice of venue, wasn’t it?” the Laird said. “A colleague’s funeral. Couldn’t you have found a better opportunity?”

  “No,” Stringer said. “It meant I could get four of you in one hit. Saved me a lot of travelling, didn’t it?”

  “I suppose it did,” Beauchamp said drily. “And that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

  “Then,” Ogden continued, “there was Mr Swinger’s tone. Without any provocation, he spoke to us in a rude and threatening manner.”

  “Crap,” Stringer said briskly. “I was there to lay down the law. That’s exactly what I did.”

  “There he goes again,” the Vicar said indignantly. “It really won’t do, you know.”

  The D-G’s face remained expressionless.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Ogden said. “This letter we’ve received. It was sent in your name—”

  “Right,” the D-G agreed. “I wrote it.”

  Ogden stared at him in disbelief.

  “You wrote it,” he repeated. “But—but…

  “Bit crude, wasn’t it?” the Laird said. “Bit rough around the edges?”

  “What’s the matter?” Stringer said. “Is there a spelling mistake in there?”

  “That’s not what I meant. Don’t you think it was impolite?”

  The D-G exchanged glances with Stringer, and smiled.

  “It wasn’t meant to be rude,” he said. “It was businesslike, that’s all. We want you to know exactly where you stand.”

  “You could put the message across more delicately,” Beauchamp said. “A spot of tact wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Come on, gentlemen,” the D-G said, “we’re all grown men. There’s no need to get worked up over a simple cautionary letter.”

  “In forty years here,” Ogden said firmly, “I never once received a letter like that. With respect, none of your predecessors would have sent it out.”

  The D-G shrugged indifferently.

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said.

  “And what about the cricket?” the Vicar demanded.

  “Eh?”

  “The inter-service championship.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Well,” said the Vicar, “Stringer says you’ve abolished it. I think it’s a jolly bad sign. What’s this outfit coming to when Pensioners are insulted and nobody plays cricket any more?’

  “Hear, hear,” said the Laird.

  “Quite right,” Beauchamp agreed.

  The D-G took a deep breath, and slapped his hand down on the desk.

  “That’s enough,” he decided. “I’ve heard all I’m going to. Now listen to me, you characters. You were given those warnings because some of your colleagues have been breaking their confidence. Too many people have been publishing memoirs, writing articles on Intelligence, and generally chattering to the Press. It’s got to stop.

  “Mr Stringer was perfectly entitled to speak to you when and where he did. It seems to me that your complaint about his manner is the same as your complaint about the cricket: things aren’t matching up to your high social standards. Well, that’s just too bad.

  “And I’m not apologising for my own letter. I was making a point, and if you haven’t understood it, I’ll repeat it one more time: don’t discuss your careers with anyone. Don’t talk to the Press, the publishers, or any other inquiring soul who comes knocking on your front doors. Ignore my warning, and you’ll be in big trouble. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot of work to do. Good morning.”

  Chapter Four

  “WELL?” SYBIL SAID. “What did you expect?”

  The others said nothing, and continued to stare down at the Vicar’s drawing-room carpet with hurt, indignant expressions.

  “I did warn you,” she added.

  “You did indeed, Sybil,” the Vicar murmured wearily.

  “It’s all changed,” Sybil said, as she poured out more cups of tea. “It isn’t the Athenaeum any more. And you’d better get used to the fact.”

  There was a clear note of satisfaction in her voice which Ogden found highly provocative.

  “We were fully entitled to complain,” he said irritably. “They’ve no right to send ill-mannered young yahoos out to harass—”

  “They’ve every right,” Sybil said. “They did it, didn’t they? And with the D-G’s full approval.”

  “He’s another yobbo,” Beauchamp said. “That was the real shock. Wears a brown suit, if you please. I mean, spivs like Stringer can creep into the best outfits. Can’t be helped, I suppose. But fancy putting one of them in charge of the show. In charge, for heaven’s sake!”

  “Bloody disgrace,” the Laird agreed, and he blew out a cloud of angry pipe-smoke.

  “Such a distasteful man,” said the Vicar. “You know, after all that, I’m sorely tempted to write my memoirs, just to spite the fellow.”

  “Hear, hear,” Ogden said. “It never occurred to me to put pen to paper. But if the wretched people are going to make such a song and dance about it, I’m willing to think again.”

  Sybil puckered her lips.

  “Childish,” she observed.

  “Trouble is,” said the Laird, “what the devil have we got to write about? I don’t know about you chaps, but my time in MI5 wasn’t exactly brimful of excitement. Oh, there was a spot of occasional fun—”

  “The cricket matches,” nodded the Vicar.

  “—but none of what the public wants: heavy-duty espionage intrigue, moles, microfilm, all that stuff. In fact, my career was so bloody dull I’ve forgotten most of it.”

  The others sighed in agreement.

  “Our best times were during the war,” Ogden said. “They taught us codes and ciphers and things, and showed us how to use guns. Pity I never had to use ’em. Anyway, after the war it all rather dried up. I expected a bit more excitement in MI6—that’s why I transferred. But that turned out to be even more boring than MI
5.”

  “Is that why you came back to us?” Beauchamp inquired.

  “’Fraid so,” Ogden admitted. “Oh, I did pick up one or two good tales along the way. But nothing to build an entire memoir on.”

  “What sort of tales?” the Vicar asked.

  “The odd dirty trick here and there,” Ogden shrugged. “A spot of illegal bugging. A couple of kidnappings.”

  The Laird waved his hand disdainfully.

  “We all know stories like that,” he said. “I know some pretty scandalous things about Northern Ireland. Nothing first-hand, though.”

  “In that case,” the Vicar said brightly, “why don’t we pool all our stories? Between us we might have enough for a memoir.”

  Sybil frowned sternly at her husband.

  “Godfrey—” she began.

  “Now that’s an idea,” Beauchamp said. “If we strung them all together…”

  “You’ll go to prison,” Sybil said. “Are you men deaf as well as stupid? The D-G warned you—”

  “To buggery with the D-G,” the Laird declared. “We’ll leave the country.”

  Sybil snorted.

  “We aren’t all as rich as you, Fergus Buchanan. Some of us have to live on our pensions—MI5 pensions, which will be cut off, no matter where we are.”

  “I’m not that bloody rich,” the Laird grinned, “I need the pension too. But that’s not the point. If the memoirs are good enough, we’ll be paid handsomely for them. No more need for crumbs from MI5’s table, eh?”

  “What a lovely idea,” the Vicar sighed.

  “It’s an established formula,” Beauchamp said. “We publish, the Government bans, the public buys, and we make a killing.”

  “Rubbish,” Sybil insisted. “Absolute rot. Look, you silly men: MI5 memoirs are ten a penny. Your ‘established formula’ has been used so often that there’s a glut on the market. People have had enough of old spy stories, and they don’t want any more, unless they’re really sensational, and yours jolly well aren’t.”

  The others glanced at each other uncomfortably.

  “So,” Sybil concluded, “you don’t stand to make any money. But you do stand to lose your pensions, and you might go to gaol.”