The Executioners Read online

  The Executioners

  Philip McCutchan

  © Philip McCutchan, 1986

  Philip McCutchan has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1986 by Hodder and Stoughton.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

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  1

  They — Whitehall, the media, France and so on — were calling it a mini summit, presumably because although President Ligot of France, the host country, would open the first session, the heads of state were not taking part themselves. But it was going to be big: in Paris the NATO and EEC brass were due shortly to meet their counterparts in the Soviet Bloc. The Russian Foreign Minister was coming, with a lot of the usual grim-faced officials and security men, plus men from Poland, East Germany, Czechoslovakia, Hungary. The British Foreign Minister was going to have a difficult role to play; the French Government wanted a closer link with the Iron Curtain countries by way of trade, sharing of resources, and some sort of arms deal. The British Government did not, less so did Washington. They all wanted to ease the tension between East and West and that was all. No firm matiness, no unilateral sacrifices, plenty of wariness, and a tightrope to be walked by the British delegation who would be in close scramble line telephonic communication with the Prime Minister, known basically to view the whole thing with the utmost suspicion. The Foreign Secretary knew quite well that his job was on the line if he boobed in the very smallest degree. The knowledge wasn’t going to help him when he got to France and the fanfare of trumpets and the French guard of honour in full dress with band. The Prime Minister could be a very tough nut when crossed.

  And there could be a link, as Shard knew, with what was happening today.

  It was a day of stifling heat; London was hell, Heathrow several degrees worse. Shard sweltered, his shirt collar damp and clinging. So much pouring sweat that he almost feared the effect on the Continental 7.65 mm automatic in his shoulder holster. With men from the special FO security section posted around, he had moved through the airport buildings behind the Russians, a departing Kremlin trade mission being given the VIP treatment en route for home and austerity. August: the holiday season in full swing, and the place littered with baggage and people, white, black, yellow or merely with a tan. A kind of bedlam, and the lounges and caféteria filthy as usual, unable to cope with mass muckiness. Britain’s front door, out and home, the knocker never polished, highly unimpressive but expressive of the inhabitants and possibly not much worse than was to be found in a number of other countries …

  Shard caught the eye of a man from the Yard: the Met had naturally been fully informed and was maintaining an eye, since Heathrow was part of their patch, but in fact this was to be a Foreign Office job, Shard’s job. Stanislav Asipov might or might not be important: time would tell. But Russian trade missions were often enough cover for something rather more lethal; and three days ago Stanislav Asipov had made a break for freedom, speeding out from a big Marks and Spencers’ branch in the Midlands during a courtesy tour. The freedom hadn’t lasted; sour-faced men, blank-looking persons in dark suits and hats, had chased and caught, and Asipov, white and frightened, had been marched back to his comrades. Now Whitehall wanted to know what was going on. The British Government didn’t like virtual kidnap on its sovereign territory and Moscow didn’t normally make such overt pounces. Hedge, Shard’s boss, had been beside himself with worry just because of the forthcoming Paris jaunt; there could be that link. Hedge had been so agitated that he had spilled a cup of Foreign Office coffee over a new suit and had managed to find a way of blaming Shard for it.

  Shard paused to light a cigarette; the man from the Yard drifted past. A detective inspector from the Diplomatic Protection Group: Shard, in his Yard days, had known him as a DC when he himself had been a newly-promoted detective superintendent.

  “Just gone into the VIP lounge, sir,” the Yard man murmured.

  “Right. Pass the word through. I’ll be down.”

  The Yard man sauntered on. Shard drew smoke down deep, blew out a dull brown cloud. He really ought to give up: he inhaled too much. But at times smoking was an occupational hazard, and in spite of it he was fit enough, hard enough. If he didn’t smoke he might eat too much and then his leanness would be replaced by the unhandy weight of a gut, which was much more of a drag on NHS resources than was smoking. Without paying the earth, you couldn’t get a meal without chips, the downfall of fit manhood. Look around you these days, and all you saw was fat. Fat young men with chip-fed stomachs that drooped over their trouser tops like sacks of flour, fatter middle-aged men, gross old ones, fat, doughy faces and pudgy arms, horrible adverts for the omnipotent chip pan. Ban chips and the race might survive to be fried in its turn by the next nuclear holocaust.

  As always, nuclear holocausts and Russia went together in men’s minds.

  Shard made his way, not hurrying, to an area where the general public was not admitted: down to the apron, where the Aeroflot jet stood ready to embark its passengers. A chartered aircraft, not a service flight, specially laid on for the trade delegation.

  As he walked out onto the concrete he was met by another plain clothes man: one of his own this time — Detective Sergeant Kenwood.

  “All right, Harry?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No mistakes. Right man first time.”

  Kenwood gave a brief grin. “Photo imprinted on my memory, sir!”

  Shard nodded; he carried a similar imprint in his mind, but the Russians were never fools and disguise was easy enough. So you didn’t go by the face; you went by the build, the walk, the carriage. He and Harry Kenwood had been shown film taken discreetly of the Russians while they had been cavorting around factories all over Britain — South Wales, Birmingham, Sheffield, Wolverhampton, Newcastle, Glasgow, Glenrothes. Just a simple, routine precaution with nothing specific in mind but this time it had paid off. Or it might — in the end — not pay off. Stanislav Asipov might turn out to be of no importance at all, and never mind what Whitehall had thought. In that case, there were going to be some red faces around the elegant corridors of state. Important or not, Moscow wasn’t going to like what was about to happen and it would be pointless to upset them over nothing.

  Shard moved to an unmarked car and bent for a word with the driver. Inside, in addition to the driver, were three plain clothes officers from Shard’s section, all armed but under strict orders not to show their weapons unless Shard gave the signal. Also in the area were other officers, disguised as airport workers, looking disinterested but nevertheless ready. Shard did not, in fact, expect much physical difficulty: the Aeroflot was right inside British territory and geographically a long way from take-off. The difficulty would be verbal. In point of fact Hedge, Shard’s immediate boss, had been adamant that there was to be no discussion. Do, he had said, don’t talk. Nip any talk in the bud, smartly. A fast grab and away. That was what Whitehall wanted. The talk would come later.

  “Easier said than done,” Shard had pointed out unoriginally. “The Russians aren’t going to part in silence, Hedge.”

  Hedge had flapped a hand. “Up to you,” he’d said distantly. “You’re a Detective Chief Superintendent, you should know how to cope.”

  “Yes, Hedge,” Shard had answered politely, and added, “How would you cope?”
<
br />   “I dislike being asked to teach people their jobs.”

  That had been that. Shard, who never needed Hedge’s tuition, had divined the pearl that lay behind the snapped words: Hedge had no idea how he would cope. Hedge wasn’t a field man any more, he belonged strictly to the backroom. He was happy there. It was safer and more comfortable and if things went wrong he could always shift the blame. That was why he was never too precise unless, as on this occasion, he’d had his orders from above. When that was so, the abode of blame was crystal clear and he had no worries; but he wouldn’t commit himself to the details of the work-out even so. Not his job. Fair enough — it wasn’t. But Shard, still basically a copper, was feeling a shade sunk in the depths of the diplomatic scene, the more so as a highly-placed official from the Russian Embassy was seeing the trade delegation off. And he wasn’t going to remain tongue-tied when the plain clothes men went in for the grab.

  Moving back from the unmarked car, Shard glanced at his watch: five more minutes if the schedule was kept to and the Russians didn’t overdo the departure conviviality. One or two of them had done just that, during factory lunches, and had been propped up by their security men, carried out like zombies to the waiting motorcade and thrust inside to blear their way back to base through the British countryside.

  But this time they were prompt.

  On the dot, they began coming out onto the apron, forty-seven of trade delegation plus obvious guards, twelve in number. Mostly squat and square, mostly unsmiling, they filed towards the waiting jet. Shard and Kenwood watched closely: there seemed to be no face that tallied with Stanislav Asipov. Shard’s guess looked as though it had been spot on: some facial distortion, just in case. The British — and how right, this time, the Russians were — could never be trusted. All the same, they hadn’t been very clever. They’d given the game away from the word go. One of the delegates was being propped up by two security men. He didn’t look drunk; he looked drugged. His feet scraped the concrete as he was propelled along and although he didn’t look like Asipov’s photograph the build fitted. A pity he wasn’t walking, but Shard was convinced he was Asipov. The build apart — he was just a little taller and less square than his mates — the Russians hadn’t in fact done a very good job in altering the outline of the face. That became obvious as the distance closed.

  Shard glanced at Harry. “The invalid one. Check?”

  Kenwood nodded.

  Shard glanced over his shoulder, left, lifted an eyebrow towards the unmarked car. The plain clothes men got out in a bunch. Shard indicated their quarry and they moved fast. Joined by Harry Kenwood, two officers approached each of the guards supporting Asipov. Shard went forward, right hand inside his double-breasted jacket.

  “Just a moment,” he said.

  For a few seconds there was a silence. Then more bedlam was added to the inferno of Heathrow. Through it, over it, Shard shouted that he had reason to believe kidnap was being attempted.

  *

  Hedge wrung his hands. “You should never have said that, Shard.”

  “There had to be a given reason.”

  “No there hadn’t. I made the very point! No talking.” Hedge stormed up and down his office, two tall windows, opulent desk, hat-stand, thick carpet all over in indication of his standing in the Foreign Office hierarchy. “Once a policeman, always a policeman. Whatever you say may be taken down in evidence … God help us all! No imagination, no initiative.” He paced on, like a pudgy panther. Shard waited for the fury to subside. To some extent, it did. Hedge went on, sounding plaintive now, “I’ve had the Minister of State on the line. There’s already been a complaint from the Soviet Embassy, Shard!”

  “Did you expect there wouldn’t be?”

  “Yes — no — oh, don’t be so impertinent, Shard. I say again, the word kidnap should never have been mentioned at all. They’re making a lot of that as one would expect. Kidnap! It’s — it’s insulting.” Hedge brought out a silk handkerchief and dabbed at his wobbling cheeks. “They say a country can’t be said to kidnap one of its own people in a foreign land. He was sick — Asipov was. A sick man who wanted to go home to Russia where he has a wife and family. That’s what they said.”

  “It wasn’t what Asipov said.”

  “Oh? What did he say, then?”

  Shard said, “Mostly Russian but a few words in English. ‘I want to stay,’ he said.”

  Hedge looked a shade better. “Well, of course, that’s something. I understand there were fisticuffs. Is that so?”

  “Yes,” Shard answered briefly.

  “A pity —”

  “Unavoidable, if the orders were to be carried out.” Shard was angry: his jaw still felt as though it had been dislocated, and Kenwood had a black eye. “I suggest you report as much to the Foreign Secretary.”

  Hedge seemed to stiffen to attention at the mere mention of his God. Shard had the feeling that he was about to be accused of sacrilege, of taking names in vain. But all Hedge said was, “I shall report, of course. The next thing’s Asipov himself.”

  “An interrogation?”

  “When possible, yes. When the doctors say so … he’s been taken to Westminster Hospital, under guard of course. Held incommunicado.”

  “I know that,” Shard said pointedly. Hedge didn’t comment; his attention was being directed elsewhere. There was a loud buzzing sound and he was looking agitated, staring at one of his windows.

  He said, “Ring for my secretary, Shard. Tell her to bring the fly-killer. I believe it’s a bluebottle. Nasty things, bluebottles. Absolutely crammed with disease germs.” Then he went back to business. “Your French assignment, Shard. I may take you off it.”

  Shard raised an eyebrow. “Is the Foreign Secretary not going — because of this new business with Asipov?”

  “He’s still going, but you may not. You’re going to be needed here now, for a while at any rate.”

  “If I don’t go who will?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Hedge said. Then he flipped a fat hand, dismissingly. “That’s all for now, Shard. I’m sure you have things to see to. I’ll let you know when Asipov’s available — in the meantime, keep yourself handy. No going home until I say so.”

  Shard left the room as Hedge’s secretary came in armed with the fly-killer; Miss Fleece had a predatory gleam in her eye as though she liked killing bluebottles, the act of pursuit bringing some excitement to her daily routine of files and telephones. Shard went down to the security section, which was housed in the basement. He would not be sorry if he missed the Paris assignment; personal guard duties were not much in his line, but the Foreign Secretary, being a bigwig, needed a senior man in charge of the security arrangements. Paris was a hot spot these days, with blowings-up happening all the time, and there was to be a drive through the city in company with the French President — purely in his capacity as host — and a lot of brass from both NATO and the EEC. A real get-together, and such assignments were misery for the minions; long hours, a lot of hanging about, boring speeches and too much food — either that, or none at all if events so dictated. Always difficulty in finding an opportunity to pee, and standing guard when your VIP had found his opportunity. Inspection of the loo first — a bomb could always have been planted in the cistern and you were duty bound not to trust the hosts.

  Shard chatted with Harry Kenwood, whose eye was darkening fast. Kenwood told him that his Detective Inspector had just gone off sick: his car had been run into from behind and he’d had no head restraint. Result, a badly ricked neck that had left him with a sideways slant and a good deal of pain. A fine time to choose, Shard thought, but it couldn’t be helped. The DI would be in plaster for a long while; something wrong with his back as well, Kenwood said gloomily, he might even be on traction. With a number of other matters on their plate currently, they were going to be a little thin on the ground command-wise if anything else happened to blow.

  *

  The call to Westminster Hospital didn’t come in until lat
e that afternoon, by which time Shard had been busy recapping such as was known about Stanislav Asipov. The Russian, whose first visit to Britain this was believed to be, was in charge of a project concerned with the supply of natural gas — something similar to the pipeline that had caused such anguish to the American Government back in 1982, but not on this occasion being anything to do with the piping of gas through to the EEC. It was purely domestic to the Eastern Bloc countries and Asipov had come over to study British techniques and also to acquire some British materials. His loyalty had never been in question; he was known to be a good communist, a hard worker at his job and for the party, a family man with a wife and three children, two boys and a girl, plus an aged widowed mother living in Kharkov, which was his own home town. Asipov was thirty-nine years old, was an asthmatic, a non-smoker because of this, and a non-drinker on the grounds that alcohol impaired efficiency and his life was devoted to working for Russia. The Moscow authorities would have been grieved to learn that so much information was available in Britain, but there were always ways and means of acquiring knowledge when necessary and they might have suspected it. There was a good deal more detail, all of which Shard committed to memory, since a full personal knowledge of a man was of immense value in interrogation and when the subject got the idea that all was an open book he was usually inclined to let go the guard on his tongue. Or if not usually, then often enough. It was a line to be followed in any case.

  Asipov was lying in bed in a private room and the guard was strong: no less than four plain clothes men provided by the Yard, all armed. There was a nurse at the bedside, and Shard was met at the door by a doctor.

  “I understand he’s fit for questioning,” Shard said.

  “Right — up to a point.”

  “What does that mean, Doctor?”

  “It means I’ve had my arm twisted. He’s not well — you’ll see that for yourself. But someone in Whitehall has spoken, as if I need to tell you. Don’t press him too far, though.”