Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Read online

  CONTENTS

  Welcome

  The Balfour Conspiracy

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  The First Day

  Chapter Two

  The Second Day

  Chapter Three

  The Third Day

  Chapter Four

  The Fourth Day

  Chapter Five

  The Fifth Day

  Chapter Six

  The Sixth Day

  Chapter Seven

  The Seventh Day

  Winner Harris

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Killing Anniversary

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Book One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Book Two

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Book Three

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Connect with Ian St James

  Stay In Touch

  Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

  The Balfour Conspiracy

  Winner Harris

  The Killing Anniversary

  Ian St James

  Sixty Forty Publishing Ltd

  www.sixtyfortybooks.com

  Welcome to this three book collection featuring three early novels from Ian St James. We hope you enjoy reading them as much as we have enjoyed bringing them to a new digital audience.

  The Team at Sixty/Forty Books

  The Balfour Conspiracy

  Ian St James

  Sixty Forty Publishing Ltd

  www.sixtyfortybooks.com

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 1981 Ian St. James

  Copyright Digital Edition © 2012 Ian St. James

  The right of Ian St. James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Print Edition first published in 1981 by William Heinemann Ltd

  Digital Edition first published in 2012 by Sixty Forty Publishing Ltd

  ISBN Mobi 978-0-9571437-3-9

  www.sixtyfortybooks.com

  DEDICATION

  For Patsy and my family - for their never-failing help and patience

  PROLOGUE

  There is a danger that, to some degree, fissile products may fall into the hands of the irresponsible and even criminal groups. The need for national and international actions to safeguard against this must be emphasised.

  The Pugwash Conference on World Affairs meeting at Oxford

  Experience suggests that the first rule of politics is never to say never. The ingenious human capacity for manoeuvre and compromise may make acceptable tomorrow what seems outrageous or impossible today.

  William V. Shannon, "Vietnam: America's Dreyfus Case." The New York Times, 3 March, 1968

  Most of it was pieced together afterwards. Those who died carried most of their secrets to the grave. But enough had been gleaned along the way to make the file look respectable. Reputations were retained intact, at least those of the living, and nobody cared about the dead. It was Ross who labeled the file The Balfour Conspiracy. Naturally Twomey objected. He pointed out that Balfour was long since dead, and anyway Balfour could hardly be blamed for what happened years later. But Ross argued otherwise. He even quoted the Balfour Declaration: 'His Majesty's Government view with favour the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jews.' That had nothing to do with it according to Twomey, but Ross disagreed. Without Balfour, he claimed, there would not have been a Suzy Katoul. And without Suzy, who knows what would have happened? Twomey pulled rank in the end and had the file re-christened with the usual numerals, followed by the security code, so that it became simply 857509-AQT. But Ross's name stuck and thereafter everyone referred to it as The Balfour Conspiracy. Which pleased Ross no end because it gave the impression that the whole thing was a British cock-up and that the Americans were in no way involved. But that was Ross all over. He was as American as apple pie. Just as Twomey was old tweeds English and Orlov as Russian as the Bolshoi. It was the others who were hard to place.

  CHAPTER ONE

  "Patriotism is a kind of religion; it is the egg from which wars are hatched." Guy De Maupassant, My Uncle Sosthenes

  The First Day

  “We're making enquiries about Suzy Katoul," the English policeman said. Even without the quick glimpse of his warrant card, I would have known he was Special Branch. His eyes had already quartered the room, catalogued its contents, priced the chesterfields and the silver cigarette box next to the Zola first editions. Probably he overvalued the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece and underpriced the Kashan rug he was standing on - but even the insurance boys did that.

  "Has anything happened to Suzy?" I asked, anxious but not yet alarmed. Officials had made enquiries about Suzy before.

  No doubt because their lives are spent asking questions, senior policemen lose the habit of answering them. It must be true because he said: "When did you last see her?"

  "Three or four months ago."

  "Here?" he gestured at the room.

  I shook my head. "No. At her apartment in Paris."

  "That would be the one at 14 Avenue de Friedland, near the Etoile?" He said it without even looking at his notebook. His accent wasn't bad either.

  "Very good," I said.

  "And since then? Have you heard from her? A letter? A phone call perhaps?"

  "No." For Suzy and I to go months without communicating wasn't unusual - especially after our last meeting. Anyway, I h
ad only just returned from Brussels. Not that I volunteered the information. If they didn't know that already, they would get around to asking within the next few minutes.

  Special Branch didn't wait that long. "You've been away recently, I believe?"

  "Do you?" I served his question back at him, which upset him enough to flush his face pink.

  "Don't waste time, Mr. Brand. This is desperately urgent and I'd appreciate your cooperation."

  "And I'd appreciate yours," I said flatly. "Has anything happened to Suzy?"

  That really nettled him and it sounded in his voice. "Most people work with us quite readily - but perhaps you don't like policemen?"

  "Not political ones. Or those who won't answer a simple question."

  The American interrupted. "Will you buy don't know for an answer?"

  "Don't know?" I echoed, looking at him. He was short and squat, barrel-chested and powerfully built, like a fair-haired gorilla in a well-cut suit. Earlier the English policeman had introduced him as Major Ross, an American colleague. "But you think something's happened to her?"

  He shrugged, watching me closely. "She's missing."

  "And she's not in Paris," LeClerc ventured. "We do know that."

  "So you all turn up here?" I stared at them. "An Inspector from Special Branch, another from the Surete Nationale, and—" I paused for another look at the American. "And Major Ross."

  Ross smiled. "Well, you do have a rather special relationship with the lady."

  "It's of a non-political nature," I pointed out.

  "She hasn't got a non-political nature," he said emphatically.

  I was more than half inclined to agree with that, so I said nothing and waited. The ormolu clock showed 6:15 p.m. and I was ready for a drink, but choosy with whom I shared my Chivas Regal. Deep down I wished they would go away and spoil someone else's evening.

  "Of course you know she's been involved with the Palestinian Liberation Movement for years," Ross said.

  "Everyone knows that."

  He smiled bleakly. "Until some months ago, when she joined an even more fanatical bunch of terrorists."

  "One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter," I pointed out.

  "You're defending them?"

  "Not exactly. But I've been reporting the world's wars and its politics for thirty years now. It's a dirty game - whoever plays it."

  He disagreed. "International politics are quite different from individual acts of terrorism."

  "I doubt the poor bastards fried by napalm in Nam would agree with you."

  His look sharpened. "You're anti-American?"

  "Some of my best friends are Americans."

  We were getting on like a house on fire until Special Branch ruined it. "We really were hoping for a better reception," he complained. "In fact we are relying on your help." Which sounded almost plaintive until he added, "One way or the other." And that sounded ominous.

  "We need to find Suzy Katoul," Ross said.

  "And quickly," LeClerc chimed in.

  "I'm sorry, but I can't help you," I answered truthfully. "I’ve no idea where she is."

  "You're going to help," Ross said grimly. "And we're going to find her. There's just a chance she'll listen to you - if we reach her in time."

  Something in his voice held my attention long enough for me to notice things missed earlier like fatigue, which showed as dark smudges beneath his eyes, and anxiety, which turned his voice to a dry croak at times. Major Ross didn't strike me as the kind who frightens easily, but at that moment I guessed him to be as nervous as a kitten. And when I looked at them as people, instead of depressing symbols of state authority, Special Branch and LeClerc seemed drained and edgy as well.

  "Hadn't you better tell me what this is all about?" I asked quietly. The Chivas Regal beckoned like an old friend and I joined it at the sideboard.

  Special Branch opened his briefcase. "You'll have to sign the Official Secrets Act first. I take it you've not signed it before."

  "Bloody right I haven't! I write the news - you suppress it."

  "Well, you'll have to make an exception this time, won't you?" he said spitefully, the inevitable buff folder already half open on his knees.

  "Wrong! This time you'll have to make an exception." I glared at him, the whiskey bottle in my hand still poised over the open mouth of the glass. "I'm not signing anything until I know what this is all about. Not even then, if I forfeit my rights."

  The long silence was eventually broken by the sound of whiskey splashing into the glass. Glancing up I caught their hungry eyes on the bottle and reluctantly I poured three more. "Weren't you warned about drinking on duty?" I asked Ross, as I handed him a glass.

  "No," he shook his head. "Only about falling over."

  "The Official Secrets Act," Special Branch reminded.

  "Could be written in Hebrew for all I care."

  "Why Hebrew?" Ross queried. "You anti-semitic too?"

  It was all a bit much when the three of them were sitting there drinking my twelve-year-old scotch. I didn't even bother to answer.

  Ross rubbed the side of his jaw and looked speculatively at Special Branch. "You know, I wonder if your Official Secrets Act applies? After all, it's not necessarily a matter of British security."

  My ears pricked up. Help from an unexpected quarter? I wondered if they would go away to debate the issue, fail to agree and never return.

  "We're going to have to tell him," Ross pointed out. "Whether he signs or not." Which stumped them all for a moment, until Ross turned traitor and had a brain-wave. "How many times a year do you visit the States?" he asked.

  I shrugged. "It varies. Six or seven I suppose. Sometimes more."

  "And if you were unable to go? Would it impair your livelihood?"

  I write about politics for the British press and syndicate a column through Europe. Mobility of movement is essential. And Ross knew it. In a voice sweeter than syrup he asked, "Ever had any trouble getting an entry visa?"

  I shook my head.

  "You will," he smiled. "I guarantee it. Unless you cooperate."

  LeClerc cleared his throat. "And I speak for the Minister of the Interior. You could have a lot of problems at the Rue des Saussaies. Access to France could become impossible for you."

  Special Branch smirked and sipped my whiskey. "You could even have trouble renewing your British passport."

  "It's just been renewed."

  "Really?" he seemed genuinely interested. "Genuine or forged?"

  "Are you kidding?"

  He sighed and scratched the side of his nose. "Forgeries are getting so good these days, it's sometimes impossible to tell them from the real thing. I know a chap who had his declared false and was unable to leave the country for eight months." He tut-tutted to show how concerned he was. "Turned out to be genuine in the end, but you'll never believe the trouble he had."

  I groaned. "You three prove my point about politics. It's a game for dirty players. You're all eminently qualified."

  Ross accepted it as a compliment and smiled like a benign uncle. "We're just working for the taxpayers." He hitched his belt in a notch, as if to show he wasn't getting fat on it. "Let's kick a few ideas around. I'm sure we'll sink our differences," his smile broadened. "Isn't that what you British do? Sink your differences?"

  I sank half my whiskey instead and carried the rest back to my chair. Special Branch fumbled with his papers, until an encouraging nod from the American loosened his tongue. "We're concerned about an incident which happened yesterday," he said. "In the afternoon. A half-sized container was loaded aboard a freighter at Felixstowe, nothing special about it, just one amongst fifty or sixty the vessel was carrying. The ship, the Marisa, put to sea at just after seven on a routine, once-a-month scheduled trip to Marseilles. About seven hours later they were fifty miles or so south of the Scilly Isles when they sighted a distress flare. A minute later another flare pinpointed a yellow life-raft with four people in it - a girl and three men. The f
reighter picked them up and the girl went up to the bridge to say thank you to the Captain. Meanwhile one of the men, speaking mostly French but with a smattering of English, asked to be taken to the radio cabin to send an urgent message. Then all hell broke loose. All four of the castaways produced pistols, Mausers probably from what we can make out, and they wrecked the radio equipment. The girl on the bridge warned the Captain to stand by to receive a boarding party and a minute later a launch loomed out of the darkness, possibly an ex-MTB or something of the sort, big Merlin engines, easily capable of outrunning the freighter."

  He paused to sip his whiskey and accept a cigarette from an open packet held out to him by LeClerc. When he finished blowing smoke rings, he continued. "One of the officers fancied himself a hero or something, because he tried to grab the gun from the girl. There was a scuffle and the officer was shot." He shook his head. "We're not even sure if he was killed by the girl or one of her boyfriends. Anyway, while all that was going on, half a dozen men boarded the freighter, opened the hatches and lifted our container out with a winch and lifting tackle transferred from the launch. The whole thing was over inside half an hour. The castaways and the rest of them got back to their patrol boat and vanished into the night - taking our container with them. And with its radio and flares and other equipment smashed up, all the freighter could do was to divert course and steam full speed to Cherbourg where they reported the incident."

  "Some incident," I said, thinking that the whole story had been hushed up. Not a word of it had reached the wire services.

  LeClerc took over. "The local police contacted my department and I reached Cherbourg three hours later." He scratched a balding spot on the crown of his head, the gesture a man might make when he's puzzled. "Identification's always difficult. In this case the boarding party was all hooded anyway, so the only possible descriptions were of the four castaways. And most attention focused on the girl - because she was the leader." He gave Ross a wry grin of apology. "If nothing else, all witnesses are agreed on that."

  Ross stared at me. "And we're quite sure who the girl was."