The Savage Day

1

Execution Day

They were getting ready to shoot somebody in the inner courtyard, which meant it was Monday because Monday was execution day.

Although my own cell was on the other side of the building, I recognized the signs: a disturbance from those cells in the vicinity from which some prisoners could actually witness the whole proceeding, and then the drums rolling. The commandant liked that.

There was silence, a shouted command, a volley of rifle fire. After a while, the drums started again, a steady beat accompanying the cortège as the dead man was wheeled away, for the commandant liked to preserve the niceties, even on Skarthos, one of the most unlovely places I have visited in my life. A bare rock in the Aegean with an old Turkish fort on top of it containing three thousand political detainees, four hundred troops to guard them and me.

I’d had a month of it, which was exactly four weeks too long and the situation wasn’t improved by the knowledge that some of the others had spent up to two years there without any kind of trial. A prisoner told me on exercise one day that the name of the place was derived from some classical Greek root meaning barren, which didn’t surprise me in the slightest.

Through the bars of my cell you could see the mainland, a smudge on the horizon in the heat haze. Occasionally there was a ship, but too far away to be interesting, for the Greek Navy ensured that most craft gave the place a wide berth. If I craned my head to the left when I peered out there was rock, thorn bushes to the right. Otherwise there was nothing and nothing to do except lie on the straw mattress on the floor, which was exactly what I was doing on that May morning when everything changed.

There was the grate of the key in the lock quite unexpectedly as the midday meal wasn’t served for another three hours, then the door opened and one of the sergeants moved in.

He stirred me with his foot. ‘Better get up, my friend. Someone to see you.’

Hope springing eternal, I scrambled to my feet as my visitor was ushered in. He was about fifty or so at a guess, medium height, good shoulders, a snow-white moustache, beautifully clipped and trimmed, very blue eyes. He wore a panama, lightweight cream suit, an Academy tie and carried a cane.

He was, or had been, a high ranking officer in the army, I was never more certain of anything in my life. After all, it takes an old soldier to know one.

I almost brought my heels together and he smiled broadly. ‘At ease, Major. At ease.’

He looked about the cell with some distaste, poked at the bucket in the corner with his cane and grimaced. ‘You really have got yourself into one hell of a bloody mess, haven’t you?’

‘Are you from the British Embassy in Athens?’ I asked.

He pulled the only stool forward, dusted it and sat down. ‘They can’t do a thing for you in Athens, Vaughan. You’re going to rot here till the colonels decide to try you. I’ve spoken to the people concerned. In their opinion, you’ll get fifteen years if you’re lucky. Possibly twenty.’

‘Thanks very much,’ I said. ‘Most comforting.’

He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and threw them across. ‘What do you expect? Guns for the rebels, midnight landings on lonely beaches.’ He shook his head. ‘What are you, anyway? The last of the romantics?’

‘I’d love to think so,’ I said. ‘But as it happens, there would have been five thousand pounds waiting for me in Nicosia if I’d pulled it off.’

He nodded. ‘So I understand.’

I leaned against the wall by the window and looked him over. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

‘Name’s Ferguson,’ he said. ‘Brigadier Harry Ferguson, Royal Corps of Transport.’

Which I doubted, or at least the Corps of Transport bit, for with all due deference to that essential and important branch of the British Army, he just didn’t look the type.

‘Simon Vaughan,’ I said. ‘Of course, you’ll know that.’

‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘But then I probably know you better than you know yourself.’

I couldn’t let that one pass. ‘Try me.’

‘Fair enough.’ He clasped both hands over the knob of his cane. ‘Fine record at the Academy, second lieutenant in Korea with the Duke’s. You earned a good MC on the Hook, then got knocked off on patrol and spent just over a year in a Chinese prison camp.’

‘Very good.’

‘According to your file, you successfully withstood the usual brainwashing techniques to which all prisoners were subjected. It was noted, however, that it had left you with a slight tendency to the use of Marxist dialectic in argument.’

‘Well, as the old master put it,’ I said, ‘life is the actions of men in pursuit of their ends. You can’t deny that.’

‘I liked that book you wrote for the War House after Korea,’ he said. ‘A New Concept of Revolutionary Warfare. Aroused a lot of talk at the time. Of course the way you kept quoting from Mao Tse Tung worried a lot of people, but you were right.’

‘I nearly always am,’ I said. ‘It’s rather depressing. So few other people seem to realize the fact.’

He carried straight on as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘That book got you a transfer to Military Intelligence, where you specialized in handling subversives, revolutionary movements generally and so on. The Communists in Malaya, six months chasing Mau Mau in Kenya, then Cyprus and the EOKA. The DSO at the end of that little lot, plus a bullet in the back that nearly finished things.’

‘Pitcher to the well,’ I said. ‘You know how it is.’

‘And then Borneo and the row with the Indonesians. You commanded a company of native irregulars there and enjoyed great success.’

‘Naturally,’ I said. ‘Because we fought the guerrillas on exactly their own terms. The only way.’

‘Quite right, and now the climax of the tragedy. March 1963, to be precise. The area around Kota Baru was rotten with Communist terrorists. The powers that be told you to go in and clear them out once and for all.’

‘And no one can say I failed to do that,’ I said with some bitterness.

‘What was it the papers called you. The Beast of Selengar? A man who ordered the shooting of many prisoners, who interrogated and tortured captives in custody. I suppose it was your medals that saved you and that year in prison camp must have been useful. The psychiatrists managed to do a lot with that. At least you weren’t cashiered.’

‘Previous gallant conduct,’ I said. ‘Must remember his father. Do what we can.’

‘And since then, what have we? A mercenary in Trucial Oman and the Yemen. Three months doing the same thing in the Sudan and lucky to get out with your life. Since 1966, you’ve worked as an agent for several arms dealers, mostly legitimate. Thwaite and Simpson, Franz Baumann, Mackenzie Brown and Julius Meyer amongst others.’

‘Nothing wrong with that. The British Government makes several hundred million pounds a year out of the manufacture and sale of arms.’

‘Only they don’t try to run them into someone else’s country by night to give aid and succour to the enemies of the official government.’

‘Come off it,’ I said. ‘That’s exactly what they’ve been doing for years.’

He laughed and slapped his knee with one hand. ‘Damn it all, Vaughan, but I like you. I really do.’

‘What, the Beast of Selengar?’

‘Good God, boy, do you think I was born yesterday? I know what happened out there. What really happened. You were told to clear the last terrorist out of Kota Baru and you did just that. A little ruthlessly perhaps, but you did it. Your superiors heaved a sigh of relief, then threw you to the wolves.’

‘Leaving me with the satisfaction of knowing that I did my duty.’

He smiled. ‘I can see we’re going to get along just fine. Did I tell you I knew your father?’

‘I’m sure you did,’ I said. ‘But just now I’d much rather know what in the hell you’re after, Brigadier.’

‘I want you to come and work for me. In exchange, I’ll get you out of here. The slate wiped clean.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Quite reasonable people to deal with, the Greeks, if one knows how.’

‘And what would I have to do in return?’

‘Oh, that’s simple,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to take on the IRA in Northern Ireland for us.’

Which was the kind of remark calculated to take the wind out of anyone’s sails and I stared at him incredulously.

‘You’ve got to be joking.’

‘I can’t think of anyone better qualified. Look at it this way. You spent years in Intelligence working against urban guerrillas, Marxists, anarchists, revolutionaries of every sort, the whole bagshoot. You know how their minds work. You’re perfectly at home fighting the kind of war where the battlefield is back alleys and rooftops. You’re tough, resourceful and quite ruthless, which you’ll need to be if you’re to survive five minutes with this lot, believe me.’

‘Nothing like making it sound attractive.’

‘And then, you do have one or two special qualifications, you must admit that. You speak Irish, I understand, thanks to your mother, which is more than most Irishmen do. And then there was that uncle of yours. The one who commanded a flying column for the IRA in the old days.’

‘Michael Fitzgerald,’ I said. ‘The Schoolmaster of Stradballa.’

He raised his eyebrows at that one. ‘My God, but they do like their legends, don’t they? On the other hand, the fact that you’re a half-and-half must surely be some advantage.’

‘You mean it might help me to understand what goes on in those rather simple peasant minds?’

He wasn’t in the least put out. ‘I must say I’m damned if I can sometimes.’

‘Which is exactly why they’ve been trying to kick us out for the past seven hundred years.’

He raised his eyebrows at that and there was a touch of frost in his voice. ‘An interesting remark, Vaughan. One which certainly makes me wonder exactly where you stand on this question.’

‘I don’t take sides,’ I said. ‘Not any more. Just tell me what you expect. If I can justify it to myself, I’ll take it on.’

‘And if you can’t, you’ll sit here for another fifteen years?’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, I doubt that, Major. I doubt that very much indeed.’

And there was the rub, for I did myself. I took another of his cigarettes and said wearily, ‘All right, Brigadier, what’s it all about?’

‘The Army is at war with the IRA, it’s as simple as that.’

‘Or as complicated.’

‘Exactly. When we first moved troops in during ’69 it was to protect a Catholic minority who had certain just grievances, one must admit that.’

‘And since then?’

‘The worst kind of escalation. Palestine, Aden, Cyprus. Exactly the same only worse. Increasing violence, planned assassinations, the kind of mad bombing incidents that usually harm innocent civilians more than the Army.’

‘The purpose of terrorism is to terrorize,’ I said. ‘The only way a small country can take on an empire and win. That was one of Michael Collins’s favourite sayings.’

‘I’m not surprised. To make things even more difficult at the moment, the IRA itself is split down the middle. One half call themselves official and seem to have swung rather to the left politically.’

‘How far?’

‘As far as you like. The other lot, the pure nationalists, Provisionals, Provos, Bradyites, call them what you like, are the ones who are supposed to be responsible for all the physical action.’

‘And aren’t they?’

‘Not at all. The official IRA is just as much in favour of violence when it suits them. And then there are the splinter groups. Fanatical fringe elements who want to shoot everyone in sight. The worst of that little lot is a group called the Sons of Erin led by a man called Frank Barry.’

‘And what about the other side?’ I asked. ‘The Ulster Volunteer Force?’

‘Don’t even mention them,’ he said feelingly. ‘If they ever decide to take a hand, it will be civil war and the kind of bloodbath that would be simply too hideous to contemplate. No, the immediate task is to defeat terrorism. That’s the Army’s job. It’s up to the politicians to sort things out afterwards.’

‘And what am I supposed to be able to achieve that the whole of Military Intelligence can’t?’

‘Everything or nothing. It all depends. The IRA needs money if it’s to be in a position to buy arms on anything like a large enough scale. They got their hands on some in rather a big way about five weeks ago.’

‘What happened?’

‘The night mail boat from Belfast to Glasgow was hijacked by half-a-dozen men.’

‘Who were they? Provos?’

‘No, they were led by a man we’ve been after for years. A real old-timer. Must be sixty if he’s a day. Michael Cork. The Small Man, they call him. Another of those Irish jokes as he’s reputed to be over six feet in height.’

‘Reputed?’

‘Except for a two-year sentence when he was seventeen or eighteen, he hasn’t been in custody since. He did spend a considerable period in America, but the simple truth is we haven’t the slightest idea what he looks like.’

‘So what happened on the mail boat?’

‘Cork and his men forced the captain to rendezvous off the coast with a fifty-foot diesel motor yacht. They offloaded just over half a million pounds’ worth of gold bullion.’

‘And slipped quietly away into the night?’

‘Not quite. They clashed with a Royal Navy MTB early the following morning near Rathlin Island, but managed to get away under cover of fog, though the officer in command thinks they were in a sinking condition.’

‘Were they sighted anywhere else?’

‘A rubber dinghy was found on a beach near Stramore, which is a fishing port on the mainland coast south of Rathlin, and several bodies were washed up during the week that followed.’

‘And you think Michael Cork survived?’

‘We know he did. In fact, thanks to that grand old Irish institution, the informer, we know exactly what happened. Cork was the only survivor. He sank the boat in a place of his own choosing, landed near Stramore in that rubber dinghy and promptly disappeared with his usual sleight of hand.’

I moved to the window and looked out over the blue Aegean and thought of that boat lying on the bottom up there in those cold grey northern waters.

‘He could do a lot with that kind of money.’

‘An approach has already been made in his name to a London-based arms dealer who had the sense to contact the proper authori ties at once.’

‘Who was it? Anyone I know?’

‘Julius Meyer. You’ve acted for him on several occasions in the past, I believe.’

‘Old Meyer?’ I laughed out loud. ‘Now there’s a slippery customer if you like. I wonder why they chose him?’

‘Oh, I should have thought he had just the right kind of shady reputation,’ the Brigadier said. ‘He’s been in trouble often enough, God knows. There was all that fuss with the Spanish Government last year when it came out that he’d been selling guns to the Free Basque movement. He was on every front page in the country for a day or two. The kind of thing interested parties would remember.’

Which made sense. I said, ‘And where do I fit in?’

‘You simply do exactly what you’ve done in the past. Act as Meyer’s agent in this matter. They should find you perfectly acceptable. After all, your past stinks to high heaven very satisfactorily.’

‘Nice of you to say so. And what if I’m asked to act in a mercenary capacity? To give instruction in the handling of certain weapons. That can sometimes happen, you know.’

‘I hope it does. I want you in there up to your ears, as close to the heart of things as possible, because we want that gold, Vaughan. We can’t allow them to hang on to a bank like that, so that’s your primary task. To find out exactly where it is.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Any information you can glean about the Organization, faces, names, places. All that goes without saying, and it would be rather nice if you could get Michael Cork for us if the opportunity arises, or indeed anyone else of similar persuasion that you meet along the way.’

I said slowly, ‘And what exactly do you mean by “get”?’

‘Don’t fool about with me, boy,’ he said, and there was iron in his voice. ‘You know exactly what I mean. If Cork and his friends want to play these kind of games then they must accept the consequences.’

‘I see. And where does Meyer fit into all this?’

‘He’ll co-operate in full. Go to Northern Ireland when necessary. Assist you in any way he can.’

‘And how did you achieve that small miracle? As I remember Meyer, he was always for the quiet life.’

‘A simple question of the annual renewal of his licence to trade in arms,’ the Brigadier said. ‘There is one thing I must stress, by the way. Although you will be paid the remuneration plus allowances suitable to your rank, there can be no question of your being restored to the active list officially.’

‘In other words, if I land up in the gutter with a bullet through the head, I’m just another corpse?’

‘Exactly.’ He stood up briskly and adjusted his panama. ‘But I’ve really talked for quite long enough and the governor’s laid on an MTB to run me back to Athens in half an hour. So what’s it to be? A little action and passion or another fifteen years of this?’

He gestured around the cell with his cane. I said, ‘Do I really have a choice?’

‘Sensible lad.’ He smiled broadly and rapped on the door. ‘We’d better get moving then.’

‘What, now?’

‘I brought a signed release paper with me from Athens.’

‘You were that certain?’

He shrugged. ‘Let’s say it seemed more than likely that you’d see things my way.’

The key turned in the lock and the door opened, the sergeant saluted formally and stood to one side.

The Brigadier started forward and I said, ‘Just one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You did say Royal Corps of Transport?’

He smiled beautifully. ‘A most essential part of the Service, my dear Simon. I should have thought you would have recognized that. Now come along. We really are going to cut it most awfully fine for the RAF plane I’ve laid on from Athens.’

So it was Simon now? He moved out into the corridor and the sergeant stood waiting patiently as I glanced around the cell. The prospect was not exactly bright, but after all, anything was better than this.

He called my name impatiently once more from halfway up the stairs, I moved out and the door clanged shut behind me.

2

Meyer

I first met Julius Meyer in one of the smaller of the Trucial Oman States in June, 1966. A place called Rubat, which boasted a sultan, one port town and around forty thousand square miles of very unattractive desert which was inhabited by what are usually referred to in military circles as dissident tribesmen.

The whole place had little to commend it except its oil, which did mean that besides the sultan’s three Rolls-Royces, two Mercedes and one Cadillac, our American friends not being so popular in the area that year, he could also afford a Chief of Police and I was glad of the work, however temporary the political situation made it look.

I was called up to the palace in a hurry one afternoon by the sultan’s chief minister, Hamal, who also happened to be his nephew. The whole thing was something of a surprise as it was the sort of place where nobody made a move during the heat of the day.

When I went into his office, I found him seated at his desk opposite Meyer. I never did know Meyer’s age for he was one of those men who looked a permanent sixty.

Hamal said, ‘Ah, Major Vaughan, this is Mr Julius Meyer.’

‘Mr Meyer,’ I said politely.

‘You will arrest him immediately and hold him in close confinement at central police headquarters until you hear from me.’

Meyer peered short-sightedly at me through steel-rimmed spectacles. With his shock of untidy grey hair, the fraying collar, the shabby linen suit, he looked more like an unsuccessful musician than anything else. It was much later when I discovered that all these things were supposed to make him look poor, which he certainly was not.

‘What’s the charge?’ I asked.

‘Import of arms without a licence. I’ll give you the details later. Now get him out of here. I’ve got work to do.’

On the way to town in the jeep, Meyer wiped sweat from his face ceaselessly. ‘A terrible, terrible thing all this deceit in life, my friend,’ he said at one point. ‘I mean, it’s really getting to the stage where one can’t trust anybody.’

‘Would you by any chance be referring to our respected Chief Minister?’ I asked him.

He became extremely agitated, flapping his arms up and down like some great shabby white bird. ‘I came in from Djibouti this morning with five thousand MI carbines, all in excellent condition, perfect goods. Fifty Bren guns, twenty thousand rounds of ammunition, all to his order.’

‘What happened?’

‘You know what happened. He refuses to pay, has me arrested.’ He glanced at me furtively, tried to smile and failed miserably. ‘This charge. What happens if he can make it stick? What’s the penalty?’

‘This was a British colony for years so they favour hanging. The Sultan likes to put on a public show in the main square, just to encourage the others.’

‘My God!’ He groaned in anguish. ‘From now on, I use an agent, I swear it.’

Which, in other circumstances, would have made me laugh out loud.

I had Meyer locked up, as per instructions, then went to my office and gave the whole business very careful thought which, knowing my Hamal, took all of five minutes.

Having reached the inescapable conclusion that there was something very rotten indeed in the state of Rubat, I left the office and drove down to the waterfront where I checked that our brand new fifty-foot diesel police launch was ready for sea, tanks full.