Di5, THAT BRANCH of the British Secret Intelligence Service which concerns itself with counter-espionage and the activities of secret agents and subversion within the United Kingdom, does not officially exist, although its offices are to be found in a large white and red brick building not far from the Hilton Hotel in London. Di 5 can only carry out an investigation and has no powers of arrest. It is the officers of the Special Branch at Scotland Yard who handle that end of things.
But the growth of international terrorism and its effects in Britain, particularly because of the Irish problem, were more than even Scotland Yard could handle and in 1972., the Director General of Di5, with the support of 10 Downing Street, created a section known as Group Four with powers held directly from the Prime Minister of the day to co-ordinate the handling of all cases of terrorism and subversion.
After ten years, Brigadier Charles Ferguson was still in charge. A large, deceptively kindly-looking man, the Guards tie was the only hint of a military background. The crumpled grey suits he favoured, and half-moon reading glasses, combined with untidy grey hair to give him the look of some minor academic in a provincial university.
Although he had an office at the Directorate General, he preferred to work from his flat in Cavendish Square. His second daughter, Ellie, who was in interior design, had done the place over for him. The Adam fireplace was real and so was the fire. Ferguson was a fire person. The rest of the room was also Georgian and everything matched to perfection, including the heavy curtains.
The door opened and his manservant, an ex-Gurkhanaik named Kim, came in with a silver tray which he placed by the
fire. ‘Ah, tea,’ Ferguson said. ‘Tell Captain Fox to join me.’
He poured tea into one of the china cups and picked upThe Times. The news from the Falklands was not bad. British forces had landed on Pebble Island and destroyed eleven Argentine aircraft plus an ammo dump. Two Sea Harriers had bombed merchant shipping in Falkland Sound.
The green baize door leading to the study opened and Fox came in. He was an elegant man in a blue flannel suit by Huntsman of Savile Row. He also wore a Guards tie, for he had once been an acting captain in the Blues and Royals until an unfortunate incident with a bomb in Belfast during his third tour of duty had deprived him of his left hand. He now wore a rather clever replica which, thanks to the miracle of the microchip, served him almost as well as the original. The neat leather glove made it difficult to tell the difference.
‘Tea, Harry?’
‘Thank you, sir. I see they’ve got the Pebble Island story.’
‘Yes, all very colourful and dashing,’ Ferguson said as he filled a cup for him. ‘But frankly, as no one knows better than you, we’ve got enough on our plate withojAiie Falklands. I mean, Ireland’s not going to go away and tJj^Kre’s the Pope’s visit. Due on the twenty-eighth. That onr^give^is’Sleven days. And he makes such a target of himself. YouM think, he’d be more careful after the Rome attempt on his life.’ ‘
‘Not that kind of man, is he, sir?’ Fox sipped some of his tea. ‘On the other hand, the way^things are going,”^erh2ps he won’t come at all. The South American connection is of primary importance to the Catholic Church and they see us as the villain of the piece iff this Falklands business. They don’t want him to come and the speech he made in Rome yesterday seemed to hint that he wouldn’t.’
Til be perfectly happy with that,’ Ferguson said. ‘It would relieve trie of the responsibility of making sure some madman or other doesn’t try to shoot him while he’s in England. On the other hand, several million British Catholics would be bitterly disappointed.’
‘I understand the Archbishops of Liverpool and Glasgow
have flown off to the Vatican today to try to persuade him to change his mind,’ Fox said.
‘Yes, well let’s hope they fail miserably.’
The bleeper sounded on the red telephone on Ferguson’s desk, the phone reserved for top security rated traffic only.