Cowley was driving much too fast on the secondary road leading to Repton. He was still gritting his teeth at the fresh memory of Foulques and Barnshaw looking down at him in the Minister's office (And to think they were not even the Head of their respective services! Both had sent their second in command). A few last points to fix about the necessary cooperation between all the Intelligence Services and Special Forces, maybe up to some coordination of their action whenever the superior interests of the State would command... Cowley had easily translated as How can we manage to keep things under control with a new player in the game and particularly this stubborn, impetuous, disrespectful Scotsman in charge?
Actually, there was no real prospect of setting any formal connections between MI5 and MI6. The two old intelligence services remained firmly rooted in their tacit "non-ingerence" agreement. The only point in discussion was to decide whether the projected new organisation would get any independence at all or be submitted to a double tutelage. Cowley had counted on the Minister's support and had not been disappointed. The Home Secretary, fortunately, had been won to this cause for some time now, by Cowley's political protector who was reputed to have the PM's ear. Besides, he was not personally on the best of terms with either Foulques or Barnshaw, though he was bound to handle them carefully as long he had no good reason to get them fired. Cowley himself had had both men as colleague or senior officer during his previous career in the Services and didn't want to turn them into declared enemies at the very start of his great enterprise, which was even yet not precisely defined. He has just been freed from MI5 a couple of weeks ago, to become the special Minister's advisor in matters of inner security and terrorism. MacLaren's rescue had been his last mission with but not for MI5 and, in a way, could pass for a sort of personal favour since the lad was the son of a distant relative, Yet the implied offence was hard to ignore and it chafed.
So he was still fuming while tearing along at full speed on a particularly bumpy country road. Repton was isolated and not meant to be found on the ordinary maps of the region. Actually it was one of the most guarded and secret places in the country. Under the banal denomination of «medical rest house» a more disquieting and unavowable reality was hidden.
Unavowable but necessary thought Cowley while proffering his credentials to the guard at the gate. He felt disturbingly uncertain regarding the whole issue and angry at himself for being so. There was no question that he had a right to know who and what the man was, to which he has offered his protection while still being accountable to MI5, and that he couldn't deny this information from his former employer. Moreover he had decided to pierce through the many layers of secret which surrounded the young man's past and personality himself. He was counting for that on the skills and experience of Repton's specialists: Psychiatrists, Psychologists, Psychoanalysts, whatever «Psy» they called themselves, they were the best at this, and it was not the first time he had to rely on them for extracting the truth out of unconscious or refractory individuals. And refractory Bodie was, that was for sure, in spite of his jolly, easy-going attitude.
MacLaren's report was not very informative about Bodie's previous occupations, the merc appearing to have been exceptionally wary towards his cell-mate (had he smelled a spy? Smart boy!); there was just a hint about a gun-running business and it was based upon the declarations of one of the insurgents, after his capture, not Bodie's confidences.
"So, how's the lad?"
"Pretty well. He's improving every day, within hours, I'd say. Oh, he seems to be the resilient type, this boy, almost too lively and energetic sometimes." Affable and smiling, Dr Martin Harrington was a model of prudent evasiveness. Cowley cut him short...
"Can I have a talk with him?"
-"Hmm..." A second of hesitation. A shadow of embarrassment on the jolly face, "hmm, yes, I suppose...as soon as your colleagues are finished..."
"My colleagues?" Cowley asked sharply.
"Well, these gentlemen from MI6, you know..."
Cowley had had no regular link with MI6 since war time. The presence of his MI5 contact wouldn't have been surprising though he thought he had made it clear he wanted to be the only one to deal with this case and to carry out the interrogation. But MI6? What were they here for?
He had not long to wait for an answer: two men entered the room, of which one at least was known of him, and not for the best: Willis, Foulques' assistant, shadow-man and master of dirty tricks. The other was the average, nondescript, Whitehall civil servant.
"You already know Willis, I assume? This is Horton; he's in charge of the interrogation process."
"That's my own personal responsibility," Cowley said stiffly, "I have all the necessary permission."
"It is?" Willis was not easily taken aback.
"From Philip Barnshaw, for starters, and he takes his orders from a higher place, as you know perfectly well."
A higher place indeed. There was no need at this point to mention Cowley's connection to the PM himself.
Willis was unfazed. "MI5 has no competence in that matter, it's all under my department's jurisdiction."
"How come?" There was, of course the fact that the man had been found on foreign soil and was fighting as a mercenary, to support an insurgency the Western Powers didn't want to acknowledge openly. But still?
"This is a case of international terrorism." Willis looked very satisfied with the effect of his announcement. "There's a strong suspicion this guy has been involved in an illegal weapons trade to the Palestinian 'Liberation Front' through Jordan."
Cowley frowned. This was something he couldn't ignore, or deny the jurisdiction of MI6 upon. Inwardly he blamed himself for sloppy research. How thoughtless of him! Very uncharacteristic. Since when was he disarmed by a young scoundrel's good looks?
"How did you find out?"
Willis smiled with unhidden pleasure. "Come on, George, you must know we have our informers everywhere, even inside the so-called 'Fronts of Liberation'."
Go to hell with your 'George', Willis, do I call you Edmond?
"Yes, and there is nothing like a thick wad of her Majesty's pictures to open the heart and memory of the staunchest patriot," Cowley commented acidly.
"Well, not everybody has your steadfast integrity, George." In spite of the apparent irony, the unwilling tone of respect in Willis' voice was unmistakable. For the shortest while, the man looked surprised and almost ashamed of his admission.
Cowley seized his advantage. "I want to be part in the procedure. And to get the reports."
His opponent had recovered his composure. "Why? It's not MI5's business. And you are not even with MI5 any more."
So, this was the moment to lay down his master card. "You know with whom I am now, Willis. He likes to be informed directly. And more so if there is the least risk of putting the Government in a false position with the Israelis. (And by my own fault, he thought bitterly, that's precisely what I did by giving my protection to the young rascal while I was still linked to MI5).
The other man was visibly hesitating. "And," Cowley added with reluctance, "I can help. I saved the boy's life; he trusts me."
"That's right," Horton spoke for the first time, "We need all the help we can get. Up to now our results have been about nil." He turned to Cowley. "The suspect is especially contrary-minded, even under heavy psycho-active medication."
"You drugged him!" Cowley didn't know why he felt angry. He had done the same many times.
"Not before everything else – apart from bodily harm - had been tried," protested Horton, "He is able to retreat deep inside and get out of reach at will. The chemicals make him confused and uncoordinated, but not more talkative, whatever the stuff I use; I never saw such resistance." There was a hint of admiration in Horton's tone.
"I want to see him," said Cowley.
"He's not in any condition to take another interrogation now." Horton objected.
"I see no objection." Harrington hastily replied to the three others' surprise. He looked ill at ease, perhaps wishing not to appear to be taking sides and yet unable to confront Cowley's claim of authority. Or maybe was he aware that Cowley wielded more power than he showed?
"I don't intend to interrogate him," Cowley pursued, "I just want to see him. Now. Alone."
"As you like," Willis' tone was indifferent. "As long as you share with us any bit of information you can come across. Don't forget the interests at stake." He turned to Harrington. "We'll be here again tomorrow morning for another session."
Cowley stayed by the door for a short while, scanning the surroundings. The ward nurse to whom he had presented his security badge had returned to his desk, midway in the corridor, and was monitoring the rooms through a large electronic board that displayed a dozen small screens. The man, stoutly built and morose faced, glanced at him and pushed a button; the steel door slid open to a windowless, sparsely furnished bedroom.
For the first time since his only visit to the London hospital, he stood in front of the man. No, the boy, made still more boyish-looking by his blue and white striped pyjamas and his ultra-short hair trim. Too short. Cowley frowned and took a step forward, to have a better look on the dark head sunk in the pillow. The hair looked moth-eaten in places. Shaven! They had shaved his hair around the frontal lobes and other significant areas.
Mouth dry, Cowley proffered his hand, brushing against one thick eyebrow, and lightly rubbed the bare spots. He licked his finger: gooey and sharp, with a metallic under-flavour. He went closer and bent over the raised bed-head. Almost unconsciously he stroked again the boy's brow and temples. They were damp, shining with a thin, unhealthy sweat.
The young face, much paler than he remembered but less gaunt, was half-turned to him, eyes closed; the skin briefly shivered under the caress and the funny long lashes fluttered against his palm before the lids opened to an absent stare. Cowley held his breath. Where had the intent, deep ultra-marine gaze gone? Drowned into twin black holes that had engulfed its light and life.
"How do you feel, laddie?" It wasn't uttered loudly but the sound of his voice, imperceptibly shaky and strangely thick, arising in the unnatural surrounding silence, almost made him wince. Padded walls, he noticed belatedly.
The dark, misty pupils eventually focused on him. "Who…who are you?"
Startled, Cowley stepped back. From this new angle, he had a better view of the upper part of the man's body, his heaving chest, his left arm stretched out, partly dangling from over the bed's safety railing, his hand, his wrist…The look of his wrist made Cowley cringe. There, unmistakably, was a bruised circle.
Dr Harrington was going to have to give some explanation. Cowley gathered all the inner calm he was capable of and got closer again. He laid a steadying palm on the boy's slightly quivering hand. "Don't be afraid, laddie. It's me. Cowley. George Cowley."
The boy stared at him, in evident confusion. "I don't know you. Never seen you." He withdrew his hand from the other man's grip and shut his eyes, visibly exhausted.
"You don't remember me? No memories at all? From Africa? From the London hospital?"
The young man shook his head. "No."
Cowley considered the problem for a little while. "What do you remember? Before this moment?"
"I…I was in another room. With three men. They asked me questions." He was speaking too fast, stumbling on his words. "I couldn't answer them."
"Don't worry. I won't push you. Just relax and think. Do you remember being brought to this place?"
The kid's effort to concentrate was painful to see. "No."
Cowley's voice sounded exaggeratedly mellow to his own ears. "Listen. You don't know where you are. You don't know the people who brought you here. You don't know what you have done before. Do you know who you are?"
"Yes!" was the swift reply, "I am Bodie."
"Bodie what?"
"Just Bodie."
This, at least, was something he could recognize. His mind leaped back to the time (was it only two weeks ago?) when they had first met in that gloomy bush shack. The lad was then wounded, severely beaten, starving, filthy, feverish, almost dying but oh, so much livelier than the sad wretch of a man he had in front of him now. An awkward feeling, which he thought had been forcefully ripped from him ages ago, was palpitating in his guts again. This is your work, George Cowley.
But who is Bodie? Wasn't that the question from the beginning? Even for the guy himself, perhaps. He recalled the outcome of his half-aborted research into the man's past: sailor, mercenary, arms dealer, possibly deserter, all in a limited span of time, given his age. The resulting picture was that of a fugitive, a man on the run.
He bent over the bed and plunged into the black pupils' void, as dim as a starless night, wondering whether this desolate emptiness wasn't the final haven, the end of the road for the breathless runner. And then, at this very point, Cowley changed his mind.
Never until now, in a life devoted to the service of public interest, had he given precedence to compassion on duty; nor had he ever contemplated getting in the way of an enquiry he had himself started to gain intelligence in matters of international terrorism. He pondered. In a way, if he thought further, he wasn't changing his mind, actually. Bringing Bodie to this place was his doing. Handing him to the Repton specialists was his idea. But carrying out the interrogation himself had been his will. And still was.
He put a comforting hand on the youth's shoulder. "Bodie, do you want to recover your memory?"
The answer was long in coming. "I…not sure…" There were hints of anguish and wariness in the faltering words.
"What do you want, Bodie?"
A quick reply this time: "Get out, I want to get out!"
"You will. I promise you, you will. Do you trust me, Bodie?"
Silence. And yes, why should he trust him? Cowley sighed. Not before having voiced the promise aloud had he realised how much he wanted to see the lad out from those walls, wholesome, and free.
There never will be a next session, Cowley swore to himself fervently, while driving less recklessly than he had indulged in before on his way to Repton, because Bodie was lying asleep in the rear seat of the car. Under powerful tranquillisers; for the last time, he hoped.
The talk with Harrington had been easier, or at least less awkward than he had first feared. The Head of Repton was primarily a physician, after all, still young, at the start of a very promising carreer, with stellar academic records and a hitherto immaculate reputation; recently promoted to this post, of which he seemed not to have measured all the implications fully, he must have bitterly resented being forced to break his Hippocratic oath so patently (the Repton methods, though somehow irregular in their aim at efficiency, were usually more subtle). In their earlier meeting, Cowley had perceived the man's desire to be relieved from both his moral and statutory responsibility. The first goal was easy to reach; the second much less so.
Eventually, and to his own surprise, he had managed to slip through the net of bureaucratic regulations without having to make a phone call to the Home Office, which could have been a little tricky given his current, still not well defined, position and the indisputably "foreign" nature of the case. His credentials as the Minister's special advisor, joined to his natural authority, had been enough, thanks God. All due reports could be postponed. He had time to polish up his argument, the rationales of which were getting clearer in his mind as he was thinking about them: The Repton team, like the MI6 interrogators, had failed in their attempts to break the suspect's resistance and their methods, had they been allowed to continue, could even have ended in damaging the man's brain irremediably, so he had seized the last chance to salvage the situation by using his personal influence on the man. Yes, that was the best line of defence.
"Defence". The word and the notion cut deep into Cowley's unusually wavering stream of consciousness. His left hand hit the wheel and the car swivered. "Defence"! He cursed inwardly. Why should have he to seek for a defence? How could he have put himself in such a false position at the very time he was on the point of achieving a life-long project of national importance, an undertaking that should prevail over any personal feeling or interest? To those vital questions there was no answer. Or, rather, he realised bitterly, the only true answer was one he couldn't accept; it was absurd, and dangerous, and humiliating.
Meanwhile, the – not so innocent – living cause of his turmoil was soundly asleep behind. Soon he'd have to feed him, to shelter him and, summing it up, take care of him wholly.
Cowley sighed and took the road up North, direction: Scotland.
The journey ahead was long. He had time to think. Maybe too much time for his peace of mind. He had to admit that he had taken his decision on the spur of the moment, something very out of character for him, and worse, at the least suitable time. Though…perhaps not: to see things from another perspective, he now had more freedom and more free time than he ever had in all the course of his career; to be in between two official positions had its perks: months of delayed vacations to take if he wanted to, no one to be directly accountable to, except two politicians who trusted him while not liking his current adversaries too much (though bound to show them some consideration)…Yes, the situation wasn't as dire as he had first feared. So why did he feel so bleak inside? Blast it! Had he suddenly turned into a sentimental old weakling?
Notwithstanding, he had a task to fulfil and needed a convenient place for that purpose. The family house in Drymen, north of Glasgow, he had discarded at once. Whatever might happen during the interrogation process, having his older sister as witness would certainly be the most improper thing he could picture. The obvious choice was Angus' place in Aberfoyle; his cousin was always disposed to lend him the little lodge by the loch. He had often used it, alone or with a friend, during the fishing season. It was quiet, remote from the village, hidden by the hill and the woods from all viewers: perfect!
Somehow appeased by this prospect, he put on speed. The purpose of a successful interrogation was the only justifiable excuse for his transgressions. And he was resolute to achieve it. At any price.
End of Chapter Two