Borrowed Time

HUGH MILLER

Alistair MacLean’s UNACO Borrowed Time

HARPER

To Nettie, and to both generations of her kids

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

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28

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ALISTAIR MACLEAN’S BORROWED TIME

By Alistair MacLean

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

Malcolm Philpott’s attention was fixed on the television screen. He stared, unblinking, as the CNN camera panned across a pocket of hand-to-hand fighting and showed a mercenary sticking a knife in the chest of a Bosnian rebel. Over by the door behind Philpott, Secretary Crane gasped.

‘Brainless carnage,’ he hissed.

They were in the semi-dark of Philpott’s office, watching a video Philpott had switched on a moment before Crane entered. He had come in soundlessly, without knocking. He was known throughout the Secretariat building as Creeper Crane.

‘The footage is sixteen hours old,’ Philpott said. ‘An orchestrated local outburst we’d been expecting.’

‘Where?’

‘South of Banja Luka. The men in grey battle-dress are our people, Task Force Four.’

Desmond Crane stood with his back almost touching the door. His sallow skin looked tanned in the half-light from the shaded window. He winced as a TF4 man side-stepped a rifle-swipe and spun sharply, kicking his attacker in the ribs. Behind them another UNACO operative head-butted a mercenary who fell in the churned mud of the roadway.

‘Do you watch much of this stuff?’ Crane said, his words clipped, conveying censure.

‘Only what I have to. It pays to keep in touch. You weren’t suggesting,’ Philpott added coldly, ‘that I would watch combat footage for recreation?’

‘Heavens, no.’ Crane smiled, but his eyes stayed reproachful.

Philpott tapped his handset and the screen went blank. He pointed the remote at the window and touched another button. The vertical slats of the blind turned smoothly inward and the room brightened.

‘So.’ Philpott got behind his desk. ‘How can I help Policy Control?’

Crane laid a photograph face up on the desk in front of Philpott. It was a snapshot, black and white, and it showed Philpott himself, walking on a Manhattan street.

‘This must have been taken at least three years ago.’ Philpott picked it up and studied it. ‘That’s the amount of hair I still had in 1994, and the chalk-stripe suit went to the Salvation Army shop when I changed apartments a month before Christmas that year.’ He looked up at Crane. ‘What’s the significance?’

‘The picture was found by an NYPD detective among the possessions of a man called Arno Skuttnik who died last night.’

‘How did he die?’

‘Of a heart attack, in his one-room apartment at Waverly Place in Greenwich Village. You knew him, perhaps?’

‘The name isn’t familiar.’

‘Look at the writing on the back of the picture.’

Philpott turned it over. In smudged, pencilled longhand it said: Malcolm Philpott, Director of the United Nations Anti-Crime Organization (UNACO).

‘So he knew who I am.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Who was he?’

‘A seventy-year-old porter at the Washington Square Hotel. An immigrant who came to New York in 1964. Nothing exceptional is known about him — then again, nothing much at all is known about him.’

Philpott nodded patiently. ‘Do you think maybe he was engaged in espionage?’

‘Not at all. We’re pretty sure he never broke the law once in the thirty-three years he lived in New York.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

Crane stared. ‘I should have thought that was obvious.’

Philpott stared back. Crane was a man of middle years, roughly the same age as himself, but he possessed none of Philpott’s natural authority. Crane always had to reach for an effect. The reaching put him under strain, and it never failed to show.

‘Don’t you find it extraordinary, and a trifle alarming,’ he said, ‘that a porter in a Greenwich Village hotel had in his possession a photograph that identifies you as the Director of UNACO?’

‘Well, no …’

Crane’s mouth twisted. It was meant to be scornful, but again it was mainly strain that showed.

‘UNACO is not a secret organization,’ Philpott said. ‘True, we don’t advertise our existence. Our offices are unmarked, our phone numbers are not listed, and our agents and employees never acknowledge their affiliation. Our profile is minimal, but secret we are not.’

‘Yet this man, this porter, found out who you are.’

Philpott shrugged. ‘I have no theories about how he did that. But it wouldn’t have been too difficult, if he was determined.’

‘And why did he want to know about you?’

‘I have no theories about that, either.’

‘The department is very unhappy with this, Mr Philpott …’

‘The department?’

‘Policy Control. We can’t accept a situation where a senior officer of a sensitive department in the United Nations is so … so careless in his conduct of his affairs that any riffraff can find out what his job is and even take pictures of him on the street.’

Philpott stood up and came around the desk. He was smiling one-sidedly, a clear sign of displeasure.

‘I don’t really care how Policy Control feels about the way I run my life. To be frank, in my day-to-day awareness of this vast environment we share, your department seems scarcely to exist.’

Crane looked as if he had been punched. ‘I think it would be easy enough,’ he blustered, ‘to demonstrate Policy Control’s existence, and the way in which it enforces revisions of departmental procedure within the UN structure. That includes departments which grandly imagine themselves to be above any form of restraint or governance.’

‘Mr Crane, I am accountable only to two people. They are the Head of the Security Council, and the Secretary General of the United Nations. That’s it. I explain myself to no others. Now if you’ll excuse me …’ Philpott pointed to the door. ‘I’ve got real work to do.’

Crane stumped to the door and jerked it open. ‘I’ll tell my director what you said, and that you show no willingness to co-operate.’

Philpott nodded, going back behind the desk. ‘You can also tell your director that I made a suggestion.’

‘Which is?’ Crane demanded.

‘That you whistle Dixie through any orifice of your choice.’

Crane jumped aside as C.W. Whitlock strode into the office.

‘Morning, gentlemen,’ he said breezily.

Crane went out and slammed the door.

Whitlock put a folder on Philpott’s desk. ‘What’s wrong with The Creeper?’

‘There’s a leak in his self-importance. What have you got?’

‘A heartfelt letter from a missionary in the Vale of Kashmir.’ Whitlock flipped open the folder.

‘Not another one of your cries for help?’

‘Smart of you to guess, sir.’

Whitlock was an instantly likeable man, in nature and appearance. He was a native Kenyan whose white grandfather’s genes had bestowed a light umber skin, a strong jaw and a firm mouth, which Whitlock softened with a moustache.

‘The letter was sent to the Security Council, they passed it along to us. Do you want to read it?’

‘Later, perhaps,’ Philpott said. ‘Summarize for me.’

Whitlock leafed down through the documents to find the letter and his notes. Philpott couldn’t help watching him. He was incredibly fastidious in his movements, a man who had been described by a former Secretary General as fitting his role so well that it might have been moulded around him. He breathed aptitude.

‘Here it is.’ Whitlock put the letter on the desk with the notes alongside. ‘It’s from the Reverend Alex Young, a Church of England priest. He runs a medical and teaching mission at Shahdara, a village near the town of Tangmarg in the Vale of Kashmir.’

‘What does he want?’

‘He’s asking the UN to do something to curb the growing violence of the Muslim separatists, and the increasing influence of drug peddlers in the region. In a recent flare-up a local doctor’s gardener was killed. The doctor in question is Simon Arberry, an American, who’s doing big things with his public medical centres.’

‘There was something in Scientific American …’

‘Currently the Arberry Foundation is setting up a free hospital for the people of the region,’ Whitlock said. ‘Anyway, among Reverend Young’s other concerns, he seems worried that the unrest and physical danger might drive the good Dr Arberry out of the area, which would set the public care programmes back a long way.’

Philpott picked up the top page of the letter. ‘“This is one of the most serenely beautiful places in the world”,’ he read aloud. ‘“It is a perfect spot to live, but the increase in drug trafficking and the disruptive influence of the extremists, fomenting ill feeling between Indian and Pakistani elements, threaten to plunge the region into bloody war.”’

He put the page back. ‘That’s hardly news to the UN,’ he said. ‘Most of our observers know the root of the trouble lies west of Kashmir.’

‘Afghanistan.’ Whitlock nodded. ‘I gather it all started for real when the Russians left.’

‘The last Soviet troops pulled out of Kabul in 1989, and since then Afghanistan’s turned into a breeding ground for Islamic activist groups. Nobody’s clear on the details of the various schisms and squabbles, but they do involve territorial ambition, much of it centring on Kashmir.’

Whitlock looked at his notes. ‘A number of activist-terrorist groups are keen to extend the Pakistani-held Azad region of Kashmir to absorb the Indian-held areas. Some of them even want to take away the north-eastern territory, which has been occupied by China since 1962.’

‘Lord,’ Philpott breathed. ‘Can you imagine what that might lead to?’

Whitlock rummaged in his notes. ‘I have a status bulletin filed with the Security Council in August 1996.’

There was a tap on the door. It opened and Mike Graham put his head round the side. He looked troubled.

‘How’s the report coming?’ Philpott asked him.

‘There’s been a serious emergency,’ Mike said.

Philpott and Whitlock stared at him, waiting. Mike came into the room and closed the door. He wore jeans, cowboy boots and a black cotton shirt. He pushed the fingers of both hands through his dark hair.

‘My coffee machine broke down,’ he said.

Philpott grunted and waved at his miniature Gaggia machine on the long sideboard. ‘Help yourself.’

Whitlock found the Security Council status bulletin.

‘The meat of it is, in the summer of ‘96 a number of Islamic extremists, trained in Afghan terrorist camps, were infiltrating the Pakistani and Indian regions of Kashmir, rousing the rabble, spreading the message that Kashmir is rightly the territory of Muslim Pakistan.’

He ran his finger down the sheet and read out a section. ‘“Also, by sporadic acts of assassination and sabotage, they cause civil unrest and increasing disquiet among beleaguered minorities. The authorities in India and China, meanwhile, fear the loss of control.”’

Mike Graham came across with his cup of coffee. ‘Do I smell work?’

‘Too early to say.’ Philpott looked at Whitlock again. ‘Any conclusions in the bulletin?’

‘They said the problem still wasn’t serious, but events had to be watched closely. Any corrective steps taken by the Indian or Chinese authorities, or by both, could result in widespread conflict.’

‘This is the Islamic campaign in Kashmir you’re talking about?’ Mike said.

‘Well spotted, Michael,’ Philpott said. ‘So you don’t just read motorbike magazines all the time.’

‘Sure I do. But I have my radio on a lot and things filter through. What’s the pitch?’

As group leader of UNACO Task Force Three, Mike was entitled to know. Whitlock told him about the letter from Reverend Young.

‘Could I study a copy?’

‘Oh, use the photocopier, too, while you’re here,’ Philpott said. ‘And if you can spare the time, I’ve got a new shoe-polisher that might divert you for a while.’

‘What do you think?’ Mike said. ‘Is this a case for us?’

Philpott wasn’t sure. ‘We are an anti-crime organization. The crimes cited here are big enough to be classified as aggressive political activity, and that’s not our bag.’

Whitlock nodded. ‘Pretty much what I thought.’

‘But, as ever,’ Philpott said, ‘I’ll consider the matter, I’ll think long and hard about it, and I’ll issue a decision before the end of the week.’

Mike brought back the letter from the photocopier and handed it to Whitlock.

‘Have you any special interest in Kashmir?’ Philpott asked.

‘Not really.’ Like Whitlock, Mike radiated an amiable charm which he often used to deflect other people’s curiosity. He did that now. He smiled and shrugged. ‘You know me, sir. I like to keep up to speed on what’s being thrown our way.’

‘Fine,’ Philpott said, ‘as long as it doesn’t interfere with the speed of your report.’

As Mike left the office Philpott told Whitlock he had a favour to ask. ‘I want a thorough, confidential investigation into the background of a man called Arno Skuttnik who died, apparently of natural causes, at his lodgings in the Village last night. Make use of any resources you need. Keep all the details of your enquiry strictly off-record.’

‘Can I ask what it’s about?’

Philpott frowned for a moment. ‘Yes, all right.’

He told Whitlock about the snapshot, and how Secretary Crane was intent on using it as a lever to apply restrictive legislation against UNACO. ‘It’s a tiny problem at present, but soon enough we may need all the help we can get.’

Whitlock picked up his folder. ‘I’ll see what I can do, sir.’

2

Inside UNACO Mike Graham was known to be a fiercely practical operator, a man of action. A top-level UN communiqué of November 1996 described him as ‘a swift, focused instrument of international law and order’. He was a man who would have attracted medals had he served in a conventional army. His superiors and his colleagues knew all that, but what they remembered most about Mike Graham was that, years ago, terrorists had murdered his wife and baby son.

The drawn-out agony of his loss damaged Mike brutally, and for months afterwards he was beyond consolation. When grief had finally run its course he moved from New York to Vermont and there he took up a solitary off-duty existence — tranquil, controlled, relatively happy. That outcome was achieved, in great part, by the patient friendship of Lenny Trent, an agent of Drugwatch International. Now, an hour after reading the letter from Reverend Young in Kashmir, Mike was suddenly reminded of his old friend.

The clergyman’s letter had stirred a buried ache. On a computer in the Secure Communications Suite, Mike called up the UNACO records archive. A quick title-search produced a memo from the World Health Organization — known internally as WHO — which gave details of a haul of highly refined drugs taken from a farm worker travelling to south China from the Vale of Kashmir. The drug courier had killed himself before he could be interrogated.

Mike prompted the system for more details, and up popped the name of his buddy, Lenny Trent. It was at the top of a telex from Drugwatch International marked for the attention of the Secretary General, WHO:

Origination Date — 28 December 1996. Source — agent Lenny Trent. Message reads:

Two heroin mules arrested today at the border of Burma and Thailand were from the Vale of Kashmir. Both were first-time offenders, carrying exceptionally fine H. While detained pending interrogation both swallowed potassium cyanide. Trail now as dead as they are.

Mike checked with Drugwatch International, a UN affiliated body, and learned that Trent was currently in Seattle, preparing a case against a Chilean drug runner caught importing cocaine inside hundreds of fish destined for the Pike Place Market.

Mike called Seattle; Lenny’s assistant got a message to her boss, who was interrogating a courier; Lenny sent back word that if Mike could get to Seattle for ten the next morning, he would have an hour free. A rendezvous was set up.

Next morning Mike boarded a Washington-bound heli-shuttle on the roof of the UN Secretariat building. He was in Seattle by 9:45, and at two minutes to ten a taxi delivered him to the Seattle Art Museum on University Street. He entered the building, made his way to the café, and found Lenny Trent waiting at a table on the far side of the room.

‘I got you coffee,’ Lenny said, standing, spreading his arms wide. ‘Let people talk. Gimme a hug.’

They embraced, slapping each other on the back. ‘You never write,’ Lenny said as they sat down. ‘You never phone …’

‘I keep meaning to. And yesterday I did.’

‘Because you need to know something, or you want a favour.’

‘Yeah. Well.’ Mike tasted his coffee and shrugged.

Lenny grinned. He was short, wiry, with big grey eyes behind Armani steel-framed glasses. His hair, exposed for most of each year to tropical and subtropical sun, was lighter on top than at the sides.

‘One question before we hit business,’ he said. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Truly? Where it matters?’

‘Truly. I miss my wife and my son every day of my life. They are my last thought before I sleep, always. But that’s as it should be. I’m OK. I function, I can entertain hope, and I’ve a strong impulse to survive.’

‘Even though you’re in a suicidal occupation.’

‘Even though.’

‘Good. I needed to know that.’

‘And you?’

‘Still divorced. Still drinking. Still hoping for a change, and still working too hard to do anything but go with the current.’ Lenny slapped the table gently. ‘To business. How can I help you?’

‘I have to tell you a story first,’ Mike said. ‘I’ll try and keep it interesting. It’s about a bully-boy called Paul Seaton. You remember in 1984, when the US began to help the mujahedin to fight the Soviets in Afghanistan? One of the key figures in that operation was Paul Seaton, a New Yorker from the Lower East Side. A very, very tough character. He was dropped into Kandahar to train Afghan rebels in the use of advanced weapons.’

‘I’ve a fuzzy recollection,’ Lenny said, flapping his fingers at the side of his head. ‘Was there a CIA connection somewhere?’

‘I’ll get to that. Paul Seaton was a hard instructor, even by mujahedin standards. To graduate from the first stage of his combat course you had to shoot down a Russian helicopter with a ground-to-air Stinger missile. If the pilot survived, you had to kill him with your bare hands.’

‘I heard about that. The Reagan administration sat on the details, but George Bush’s boys finally blew the whistle about what went on out there in the name of democracy.’

‘Seaton was unquestionably a talent,’ Mike said. ‘He had a genius for subversion, but he had never been stable. In 1986 he was known to be turning to Islam, and in 1987 he went native. He vanished into the hills with his own murderous little group of fundamentalists. At that time he declared he was a sworn enemy of the government of Afghanistan and the mujahedin movement. And that was the last official news of him.’

Mike paused to take a mouthful of coffee.

‘Two years ago, however, on a satellite picture taken on a routine pass over Amritsar in northern India, somebody looking a lot like Paul Seaton showed up at the head of a drug convoy travelling through the hills north of the city.’

‘Well, well.’ Lenny was suddenly more alert. He pushed his spectacles along his nose. ‘For a long time our people in India and Pakistan have been catching rumours about an American who runs drug convoys. His main route, allegedly, is along the border with Pakistan and Kashmir, then down the western territories of India as far as Firozpur in the Punjab. Until now, I was inclined to dismiss the stories as myth.’

‘Seaton’s real, no mistake. And I’ve studied the satellite picture enough times to be sure it’s him leading the horse convoy.’

‘So,’ Lenny said, ‘apart from a professional curiosity about criminal developments, what’s your special interest in Seaton?’

Mike made an effort to look blank. ‘It’s nothing I’d call special.’

‘Aw, come on …’ Lenny was openly sceptical. ‘I know you, remember? I know your different kinds of intensity. And I could do a monograph on your grades of determination. Tell me straight — are you harbouring one of those fashionable private agendas? Or a plain old personal grudge?’

‘I might be. Let’s just say Paul Seaton is owed a comeuppance. It’s been owed a long time, but certain recent events mean there’s an outside chance I can maybe do something about it.’

‘Even up the score?’

‘Something like that.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Find out all you can about Seaton. If he’s in the drug trade, you’re the man to find out more.’

‘I’ll do what I can. Leave it with me.’ Lenny looked at his watch. ‘Let’s have some more coffee. Then we can swap gossip until it’s time for me to go back and terrorize another dope courier.’

UNACO occupied an entire floor of the Secretariat building on the UN’s East River site. Two hundred and sixty employees, eighty of them specialists, handled the daily administration of the world’s most efficient crime-fighting body. Thirty prime-rated field agents, recruited from international police and intelligence agencies, formed the core of the ten Strike Forces, and each Strike Force had its own suite of rooms within the network of UNACO departments. On his return from Seattle, Mike went directly to Strike Force Three’s ‘withdrawing rooms’, as Philpott called them.

To get there he had to pass through General Communications, a big, buzzing room filled with computers, telex machines, printers and satellite TV receivers. The department was staffed by twenty multilingual operators and twenty-three communications technologists, all of them women.

As Mike passed through, nodding and smiling from one desk to another, he saw what he was used to seeing: polite curiosity behind the warm smiles, a subtle prying as one individual after another looked for signs of pain still burning in him.

Behind the mahogany door with TF3 lettered on it, Mike sat down at one of the computers. He took a Zip disk from his shirt pocket and inserted it into the drive slot. A copy of Reverend Alex Young’s letter came up on the screen. Mike read it again, picturing the scenario, trying to view it from the standpoint of a priest dedicated to the nurture of a place and its people:

I risk repeating myself, Reverend Young wrote, when I say the Vale of Kashmir is an area of exceptional beauty, both physical and ethereal, a centre of harmony and growth, and it breaks my heart to foresee what the signs make plain — this wonderful place being sundered and ultimately destroyed by the incursions of greed, corruption, and brute violence.