The Falklands Intercept

In the shadowy world of British intelligence there is only one man Lady Nevinson, the National Security Advisor, trusts for a
highly-confidential
private investigation — Daniel Jacot.

Britain’s chief of military intelligence is mysteriously found dead in the chambers of a Cambridge college, the night before a
revelatory
lecture about Scott’s expedition to the Antarctic. There are no signs of a struggle and his door is locked from the inside.

The trail leads Jacot back to the Falkland Islands, where his hands were horribly disfigured during the 1982 conflict, forcing him to revisit painful memories and mistakes. As his private life and
investigation
start to run together, the signs increasingly point to an inside job involving the international spy community.

And now, they are after him…

A graduate of Cambridge, Crispin Black served in the Falklands and Northern Ireland before becoming an intelligence analyst at the Cabinet Office. He writes for The Times, Guardian, Telegraph and Independent on Sunday. The Falklands Intercept is based on his experiences, and is his first novel. He lives in Donhead St. Mary, Wiltshire, with his wife and two daughters.

‘One of the very best in the field.’
Jon Snow, Channel 4 News

The blood-red balls, symbols of the Medici, shone against the gilt background of the candle-filled sconces, the only source of light in the Fellows' Combination Room of St James'. They had been a gift from James I to commemorate the engagement of his
ill-fated
son Charles to Henrietta Maria of France. The French ambassador had arrived with the assent of Louis XIII while the court was lodged at the college. The sconces bore the arms of the college, the scallop shell of St James impaled on those of Henrietta Maria, the Fleur de Lys of the Capets and the six blood-red balls of her Medici ancestors against a gold background. A High Anglican foundation in a city of Puritans, the sconces had been hidden from Cromwell's men. At the Restoration Henrietta Maria had lavished money and property on the college. The High Anglicanism remained with choir services of glorious musicality. But so did the secrecy, intrigue and devotion to worldly pleasures. It was appropriate that the arms of a Medici princess whose father was assassinated, whose husband was beheaded and whose mother was widely suspected of poisoning and sorcery should adorn the college's walls and stained glass.

General Sir Christopher Verney drank off his glass of champagne ice cold and popped a small piece of rye bread into his mouth – it was deliciously covered with smoked salmon and a little soured cream. He thought what a splendid way to begin a meal. Recently promoted full general and appointed Chief of Defence Intelligence, chosen personally by the prime minister over strong competition from the navy and air force, his life was going through that period of achieved sweetness so similar for many to its earlier more vigorous counterpart – the sweetness of youth. Already
professionally
successful, tonight marked a personal fulfilment as well for Verney. He was in Cambridge to give the biennial St James lecture. Endowed by Charles II to please his mother it was designed for a distinguished individual to tell of his work and travels in
far-off
lands. Verney had come to lecture on Scott's 1912 expedition to the South Pole.

While serving as a staff officer in the Falklands War thirty years previously the region had cast its spell on him as on so many Englishmen before. Curiously, the Falklands are the same distance from the South Pole as London is from the North Pole. But the call of the South was strong. Standing as a young man on the windswept hills outside Stanley, overlooking the stormy Drake Passage, it seemed to him as if Antarctica was only a few steps away. Since then Verney had eschewed the normal pleasures of an ambitious army officer like polo and rugby and devoted his spare time to the history of Antarctic
exploration
, Captain Scott especially. Every detail of both of Scott's expeditions fascinated
him. The details of Scott's arrival at the South Pole – the navigation, the equipment, the food and most of all the personalities were almost an obsession.

The caressing shadows of the candles and silver on the long highly polished oak table framed the general's face. He looked what he was – a highly intelligent, experienced and decisive military man, current guardian of the British military's innermost secrets and instigator of its clandestine operations. He was chain-smoking as usual. But the clouds of smoke could not hide the restlessness and wariness behind the almost Roman exterior. He looked every inch the part, but not as though he was among friends. A tall figure in a scarlet tailcoat emblazoned with flat silver buttons approached Verney with a tray.

‘Calvados, please.' Verney wasn't good at dealing with servants. A basic insecurity
prevented
him from being anything other than off-hand. But this was the Fellows' Butler – most senior servant of a very rich college. In scarlet college livery and wearing his
campaign
medals – the South Atlantic Medal in pride of place. Verney had visited Cambridge a good deal over the last few years but he belonged to a different, less grand college. This was only the second time he had dined at St James'. The first time had been a quiet weekend supper to which his research assistant Charlotte Pirbright who was a fellow of the college had invited him. It had been fun and the food and wine delicious but not quite on the scale of this feast, and the Fellows' Butler had not been in attendance – he would have noticed the medal. They had both been part of
Operation Corporate
, the codename for the operation to recapture the Falklands, and Verney felt a strong bond with his fellow veterans. The general smiled. ‘I see you are a Falklands Veteran.'

‘Yes, General. Colour Sergeant Jones 74, Celtic Guards.'

Like all soldiers called Jones or Williams in regiments with large numbers of Welshmen Mr Jones was often addressed by the last two digits of his army number. The practice was surrounded by a difficult and nuanced etiquette. Young officers rarely addressed even their own non-commissioned officers with their numbers unless they were asked to. It was a weird Welsh form of the French process of “tutoyer”. For Jones to introduce himself to a general officer in this way was a sign of great respect.

A large, taciturn but cheery Welshman “74” smiled and poured out a glass of Calvados from the college's own estate in Normandy. General Verney smiled in response, almost as if he were a priest bestowing a blessing, and drank. Mr Jones smiled back, nodded his head slightly and moved to the next guest. He had a low opinion of many senior officers but this one was a Falklands veteran and deserved his respect. Jones still bore the physical scars of the conflict – small pieces of shrapnel from the Exocet missile detonated on the crowded decks of the landing ship they had found themselves on. He had been lucky not to lose a leg and on the coldest, dampest days of the bleak Cambridge winters when his old wounds played up he could be seen limping through the frosty courts of the college.

And sometimes still, at Christmas and on the Falklands anniversaries his brother's voice would come in the night. His brother Bryn. His younger brother. Mam had been
so proud when he too had joined the army. There wasn't much money and Mam was strict and religious – but she loved them. As the band played Auld Lang Syne on the
quayside
at Southampton he had promised her he would look after Bryn. And Bryn had laughed. The golden laugh of a boy going off to war – confident in himself and his friends – and his cause. In the care of his older brother. And sometimes still, Bryn's screams would come. No one dies quickly burning to death in the bowels of a landing ship. They could not get to him and the others. The heat was too intense and the stacked mortar ammunition was “cooking off” in the fire. But they could hear them dying – screaming for help. And he heard Bryn, screaming for him in Welsh. Just behind a twisted and jammed steel door. The left side of Jones' body showed more scars – in a final frenzy of effort he had tried to force the jammed door open. Every ounce of maddened strength hammering on the red-hot door with his broad shoulders. Bryn was inches away. But they had to go or die themselves. Jones had his own men to rescue. And there was shame in it.

The terrible irony was that Bryn shouldn't even have been on the ship. He had been despatched the previous day on a tractor and trailer carrying mortars and ammunition, but some useless officer had turned them back. It would have been a bumpy and
unpleasant
ride over the hills surrounding the landing beaches but better, far better than the death sentence of sitting on ammunition boxes in the bowels of a landing ship. Even if Argentine aircraft had attacked the ramshackle convoy at least Bryn would have had a chance. At the very least he would have died in the open. Jones brought his mind back to the present.

The next guest was a young lady don – Charlotte Pirbright. Jones smiled again. He took a strong interest in the younger fellows of the college. Pirbright was the proverbial English rose – an Antarctic historian by profession, originally from Oxford. If you took messages or parcels to her rooms as Jones occasionally did you could hardly miss the dark Oxford blue dominating the decoration. She was one of the prettiest girls ever to grace the college. The candlelight and the cloak-like effect of her black Oxford Master's gown made her look magnificent. Jones liked her and admired her looks – as did many of the sets of eyes in the room, both male and female, that flickered in her direction from time to time. In others she aroused stronger feelings. Jones had heard that she did most of the work for General Verney although his sources suggested that they were not ‘stepping out' or ‘courting' as these things were still referred to in parts of Wales.

There can be few more glorious and worldly pleasures than dining at the high table of a wealthy Cambridge college. The night before the St James lecture was by tradition a feast with all manner of food and drink brought in from the college's estates across Europe. Vintage champagne – the dons of St James' liked it a degree or two above
freezing
– and the setting of Cambridge normally set off a crackling atmosphere as
distinguished
guests mixed with the stars of the academic firmament.

But not tonight. Mouths smiled but many eyes barely concealed nervousness and distrust.
The great and the good of the Western intelligence elite were all gathered in one place. In addition to the heads of the London Stations of the major Western agencies – a number of senior officials from both the CIA and Mossad had flown in for the
occasion
. Security ministers from the British government were also in attendance
accompanied
by “C”, the head of MI6, and the Director Generals of MI5 and GCHQ. Armed security was tight. They should have been able to relax. Men and women with nerves strong enough to order assassinations and look a Doomsday scenario in the eye without flinching seemed nervous. Most of them knew General Verney professionally. Most knew that he was to speak on some sensational new research about Captain Scott. So far, so good. They knew also that in the morning he would make some remarks about the state of the Western intelligence effort in Iran. On this they were less sure. It was a Monday night away from the office – time to relax. The next day would be the 100th anniversary of Scott's arrival at the Pole. But the senior British officials would be hard at work back in Whitehall as soon as the lecture had finished in the morning. The prime minister had called a conference on Iran for the Thursday and there was work to do. It would rely heavily on an intelligence assessment currently before the Joint Intelligence Committee. In the usual Whitehall way the intelligence picture had been massaged so that the prime minister would be given the feeling that he was being presented with options. To the military and the intelligence establishment there was only one option – to stick with the Americans all the way.

‘General.'

‘Master?' Verney was alert.

‘We wait with bated breath to hear your views on Captain Scott – although to be frank I am surprised that there is much new to say.'

‘Master I mustn't give too much away but I think I am right in saying that no one with an intelligence background has ever tested the various accounts of the expedition, or Amundsen's for that matter.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, Scott's account quickly passed into legend. There has been some debunking of Scott as a heroic figure. Chippy most of it. And his critics have tended to build up Shackleton at his expense, famously making him a role model for pre-credit crunch Wall Street if you remember. Amundsen benefited from this as well. Amundsen the Norwegian hero from a humble background versus Scott, pillar of the Edwardian
establishment
. Amundsen a hero and the consummate professional. Scott an incompetent amateur. The modern explorer Ranulph Fiennes tried a rehab job in his great biography but the debunkers are back in time for the hundredth anniversary.'

‘But this is really a cultural and literary matter – not hard science.'

‘Well up to a point I would agree.' Verney lit another cigarette. ‘But it is more than that. No one has ever carried out a close reading of Amundsen's diaries in a hardheaded historical way. This is what he was saying about an individual, say, or the weather on this
particular day and then comparing it with what we know from other sources. Tricky I know on a small expedition but nevertheless it has never been done. Even more
importantly
, no one has ever tested Amundsen's navigational calculations. He and Scott appear to have gone to the same place but it wasn't like Everest – you know you are at the top because there is nothing else above you. And you can photograph yourself with other peaks in the background which prove that you made it. Both Amundsen and Scott thought they had made it but how do we know?'

‘Yes, I see what you mean. Interesting stuff Verney and I am sure the audience will be fascinated tomorrow.'

‘General, long time no see.' A tall and dapper American leaned across the table to address Verney.

‘Well, Mr. Dixwell, indeed. Master, this is Mr. John Dixwell the head of the CIA's London Station.'

‘Oh yes, very good to meet you. You are always welcome in this college Mr. Dixwell if you are a spy. Sixty years ago Bletchley Park and St James' College were practically the same thing – although I do hope our food was better than theirs, even in wartime. When I arrived here as a young don in the 1960s there were senior members trying to recruit me every night into the intelligence services. I have to say though that we are proud that none of the so-called “Cambridge Spies” came from this college. We prefer to call them the “Trinity Spies” after our large next door neighbour that educated most of them.'

A ripple of polite laughter went up the table in response to the master's anti-Trinity quip. Learned heads were thrown back and sips of wine taken. The effect was like an elegant and donnish Mexican wave.