A Choice of Evils (7 page)

Once again, I played Ahmed’s tape and focussed on what I had heard. The voice had asked if I had suspected anything and ‘all our people are in place’…….’what people?’ I wondered. ‘What place?’ These sentiments were beginning to rattle me. Quite clearly, Ahmed had deceived me all along. Then there was Bruce’s link to the MOD? Was there more to this formula than what Ahmed had told me about? I had an uncanny feeling that what I had just heard on the tapes was not the language of a simple proposition. The voice obviously knew everything Ahmed had already told me! So why would I be minded to suspect anything different? My mind was now flashing a red alert. I had a feeling that I had been taken for a sucker somewhere along the line. Instinct told me I had talked myself into something much bigger than a simple gene cloning rivals ego!

The scotch bottle caught my eye. I felt in need of a stiff drink. I didn’t like the sound of this. Maybe I could opt out by returning the money? Give Ahmed some excuses………have a heart attack………dammit! Greed had replaced need. It had all sounded so simple from the beginning. What if I told Ahmed the deal is off? But then either way, I would be someone who knew something he shouldn’t know! Then what?

The implications unfolded in my mind as I slugged the scotch. Experience had given me a good instinct against unwelcome trouble. I was Mr Clever Dick wasn’t I? The guy who had kept out of trouble for 10 years but now, I felt I was walking straight back into it. Me! A retired thief.

I got up to pace up and down the sitting room. What was the best line of defence? Attack of course! Attack whom? Forget it. The only way I could preserve my interests was to carry out the theft and avoid signalling my suspicions. I would have to get this dammed formula and check it out myself. That’s it. I decided that’s what I must do.

Suddenly, I felt a wave of paranoia sweep over me. What if I was being watched? What if my phone was bugged? Jesus! What would happen when and if I handed over the formula? Would I get paid the rest of the money? And wouldn’t I still be someone who knew something they shouldn’t? It was beginning to feel creepy. What the hell was I doing agreeing to steal a British secret for the bloody Iranians? Of course I knew the reason. So did Ahmed. It was money. Lots of crispy money!

Dwelling upon my uncertainties, I hit the scotch bottle heavily and eventually went to sleep.

The next morning I awoke with a crick in my neck. My settee had been my bed fellow for the night and my head throbbed and throbbed like a banging drum. I stared at the empty scotch bottle on the carpet knowing why I was feeling the way I did just now then mobilised myself into the shower. The force of the water pummelled my body as it regenerated me with new life. Like an awakening zombie, I stood there emptied of thought as the water cascaded over me. Ten minutes later, the healing warmth of the water had revived my spirits a little as I slowly returned to feeling somewhat normal. As I consulted myself in the mirror, my eyes looked as if they had been awake all night while my body had been asleep. But some soothing eye Optrex would soon cure that, I thought.

Just as I started to dress, mouse burst into his jubilant laugh. It was 7.am. On this occasion I felt like punching him on the nose. He sometimes affected me like that. Next it was on with the radio, kettle and toaster. It was raining heavily out on the streets.

The news on the radio was depressing. An IRA bomb had exploded in central London. Casualties and property damage was reported. Then the usual interviews and on the spot reporters gave their accounts of gloom and doom about the economy followed by who was doing what to who in the royal family. The world seemed a mad place, yet it came quick to remind me that I was a part of the madness too.

As I munched through the toast, I began to think of the things I had learnt from the tapes. There was no need to play them again as I had absorbed all the details. Neither was there any point in kicking myself over having made a bad decision. I had made my own bed and now would have to lay in it. My meeting with Peter the pen this evening came to mind. As soon as I had got the security pass I would search Bruce’s Lab thoroughly then hopefully find what I was looking for.

Now the carriage clock was chiming 8 bells as I heard the click on my post box. The strong coffee and toast had lined my stomach. It was time for my walk to the paper shop. On my way out I checked my mail. A greeting card from Sharon said hello. Another from a bank manager told me my credit rating had gone up. But I never borrowed or indulged in overdrafts. What was mine was mine and nothing more. It was the way that I saw things even though ‘my way’ had often been paid for by other people’s money I had confiscated from the rich. As I saw it, the bank manager’s job was to exploit the poor. Well, they couldn’t have me. Besides, I was going to do very nicely – thank you. All being well!

It was raining heavily as I stepped outside with my umbrella to walk to the shops. A car passed by the curb and sprayed me with some filthy water. That was all I needed to start the day. A cyclist rang his bell and grinned as he passed by. I hoped he would fall into a puddle on his way to work.

The placards outside the shop screamed out the headlines about the war in Afghanistan, the economy and the royal family. I nearly stabbed someone with the umbrella tip as I lowered it to go inside. I got cursed for that and made haste to pay for my paper and head back home.

My mind raced ahead of my feet but got me home soaked to the bone. Some coffee, fresh clothes and a switch to classical FM radio was therapeutic. I listened to Mozart’s piano concertos and envied the luck of the idle rich. A read through The Times paper brought me back to reality with the world. It was now fast approaching 10.30am and I had some hours to waste before my meeting with Peter the pen.

From somewhere within came the inspiration to type some more of my novel. So at the typewriter, I pounded away the hours into the evening. A desire to eat brought my attention to the time. It was 7.30pm leaving me amazed where the hours had gone when I was typing. Another 6 pages had been added to my novel.

Almost in a trance, I left home for my local tandoori and within minutes was sitting at table placing my order. My meeting with Peter the pen was for 10pm.

The Indian waiter hovered over me awaiting my drink selection. I always drank lager beer with a curry meal so ordered my pint of Fosters. There were a lot of couples and some early pissheads lining their stomachs for a late drinking session in the pubs. I called a ‘hello’ to two car thieves I knew. They were obviously celebrating some good fortune with two girls who would even be impressed with the price of kippers. Some Indian background music serenaded the customers while they ate.

It was a good half hour before my meal arrived. Lamb madras with vegetable bahji and Palau rice. It was my usual combination with Nan bread. Exactly one and a half hours later, I was out the door bloated with a full belly.

I passed my car deciding to walk to the Warrior pub and was surprised to see Louise out walking. She was a pretty woman who had said ‘hello’ to me at Surrey Quays shopping centre. She was out to have herself a drink she was saying. What a shame, I thought, as I was on my way to meet Peter the pen. It was nice to see her again and not wanting to lose out on a potential promise, I gave her my phone number as we walked together for a short while. After an invited kiss, we parted at the Warrior pub having told her I had some business to attend to. She quite understood and promised to phone me. I really liked her.

Inside the pub, Peter was already there with his nose stuck into a newspaper at the bar. We exchanged a nod as I made contact with the barmaid’s eye. With our drinks in hand we made our way to a quiet corner table and got down to business. He passed me an envelope which I took to the gents and compared the forgery to the original. It was difficult to tell which was which. There would be no problems in passing through security with that. All I needed to do was put a plausible name and thumbnail photo on it. That was simple enough. I passed him the £150 as agreed. I could see he was pleased with that. Call me anytime, he invited. I liked Peter. He was very talented with his pens.

I bought him another drink as before and chatted about everything that was of no interest to either of us. Time was now pushing towards 11 o’clock and a nature call was creeping up on me probably due to the recent curry. Peter finished his pint ready to split. We left the pub separately and that was the last I saw of him.

The rain had now stopped and the night air had a cold nip in it but I needed the mile walk back to home. I was soon indoors sitting on the throne counting a hundred backwards. Typically the phone rang while my trousers were down but the butler on my answerphone took the message. Having finished, I learnt it was from Dave the weasel. He was waiting for me to phone him. This I did, and as if his hand was on his phone, he answered immediately. He had the information I wanted so we arranged a meeting for tomorrow at the Three Compasses pub in Rotherhithe Street at 11.30am. Dave was always brief on the phone and like Peter, economised with his words. That was understandable. Besides, I had some gremlins in my head that I may be being watched too. It was just a thought.

I put the passes away knowing I would be using mine tomorrow after my meeting with the weasel. I planned to gain entrance at the Tropical Lab’ just before 5pm and find a good hiding place until I was sure everyone had left the building. My tools would consist of penknife, screwdriver, gloves and twirls. The latter being a special set of retractable adjustable keys that thieves used for opening locks. They didn’t work all the time but had been useful in the past. Now all was sorted for tomorrow and I was ready for a good night’s sleep.

The last thing I remember was the grin on mouse’s face as I drifted away into fairy land. I remember feeling as snug as a bug in a rug. Whatever my dreams were, I had no memory of them when I awoke the next morning.

The maniacal laugh of micky mouse woke me with a startle. Seven o’clock was upon me again so I cut him short preferring to listen to the soothing chimes of the carriage clock. A measure of sanity had returned to my head. From bed to kettle to radio, I performed my ritual not forgetting to pop the toast in before I completed my ablutions. Today I would be wearing a suit and tie as I as I planned to enter the Tropical Research Lab’ in Blackfriars Road. I looked forward to collecting the information from Dave the weasel too.

More reports from the radio were about the war in Afghanistan and the many casualties of it. A bishop had been caught with his trousers down and a young choir boy had reported his abuse which was being investigated by the police. Apart from that, a report that the death sentence had just reduced the American population by one was criticised by the prisoner’s supporters who claimed the man was innocent. Was there anything nice happening in the world, I wondered.

Having digested that and my breakfast, I was ready for the paper shop. At least it was a dry day and I wouldn’t need to poke any one with my umbrella.

I felt a spring in my step as I examined the birth of a new day. A black cat stared at me as I passed, spoiling its joy of observing an unsuspecting sparrow. Was the black cat lucky for me? Or was I lucky for the bird? I wondered. I hoped some of it rubbed off on me.

Back home, I read the papers, had coffee, and geared my mind towards my plans for the day. Eleven o’clock arrived, so I decided to walk to the Three Compasses pub and set off to do so, noting my post box was empty as I left.

As usual Dave the weasel was already there when I arrived. His crusty old face creased into a smile. He looked somewhat tired, yet come to think of it, he always looked like that. But after a few drinks, he would soon exude a better complexion once his red nose had warmed up.

He shot out his hand as if mine was a life line. I pumped him a ‘hello’ and ordered the drinks knowing he would be looking for a dinner too. A mixed grill twice would go down well, he agreed. I noted two of his white shirt buttons were missing.

‘How’s it going Jack?’ He asked. I told him that in spite of an unhappy world I was still breathing. ‘Same with me,’ he answered. ‘Old soldiers never die, they only fade away,’ he grinned. A burning cigarette in his ash tray was exchanged for a fresh one as he inhaled deeply and I politely stepped back to avoid the smoke stream.

‘I’ve gone out of my way to help you Jack,’ he continued. ‘You must be chasing something big according to my information, but you’ll tell me that’s none of my business?’ He raised his eyebrows and just for a fleeting second, he looked the proverbial policeman again. Then just as quick his face returned to his starched smile. We had an understanding. I smiled and ordered us both a large scotch. Amid our small talk, his roving eyes followed the barmaid’s movements as her shapely body seemed to have a hypnotic effect upon him. But this was broken when her smile informed us our meals were ready.

At table, Dave went into a spasm of eating, hardly waiting for the previous mouthful to be chewed before the next one was lined up for demolition. In between his grunts of approval, his mixed grill was rapidly disappearing as if he were in competition of finishing first.

It was the best part of an hour before our meals were finished. A satisfied smile lit up his face as he volunteered to speak and from his tattered leather coat pocket, he produced two large sheets of paper. They were print outs about Ahmed and Bruce. This is how it read:

Hashemi Ahmed. Born 16.08.50

Occupation: Official Interpreter attached Iranian Embassy.

Current address: ‘Dreyfus’ Lyndon Gardens, Notting Hill Gate, London.

Domestic status: No known cohabitee.

Observations: Frequent flights to Teheran. Attends mosque (Stamford Hill)North London. Of interest to MI5/6. Suspected of covert intelligence gathering. Known to have contacts with Islamic revolutionaries.

Summary: Has resided at present address for past 3 months.

Specific: No known scientific interests in UK or EU. No trace/knowledge of joint collaboration with British scientists on government projects. End.