The following morning, before being transported to the moor, the squad recounted to Mackinnon what they had told journalists of the incident in far off Lashkar Gah. Each of them gave a part of the whole to establish beyond doubt that responsibility was joint and several. They emphasised that they were simply repeating what Noel had described.
When they had gone, Mackinnon sat for a long time in his little office, its walls covered with Commission maps colourfully hatched to record years of saturating Lochaber moorland with spruce and pine. He reflected on a diversity of labour which had accomplished the task.
They had come from every part of the Kingdom. Most were middle class men seeking fresh air and a brief experience of freedom from commercial smuttiness. A few were motivated by whatever their peculiar devotion to ecology happened to be, tree hugger or conservationist. These few rarely stayed for more than three months, unable either to stomach the ruthless tree felling that was the outcome of the process or to spectate as existing habitats were destroyed. Armed Forces personnel were not exceptional among these hunters of catharsis. Noel had been one such, and his demons had killed him in the wilds of Lochaber.
Mackinnon picked up the desk telephone and called police headquarters at Fort William. Chief Inspector Henderson listened briefly then advised him that he should speak directly to Special Branch and connected them both via a closed link to an anonymous building used by the clandestine organs of State.
Special Branch listened as the forester repeated the story of Lashkar Gah told him by the squad. When the call had ended, Special Branch went to find his chief.
“The Lashkar Gah story is well and truly out there, Boss,” he said. “I had the forester at Lochaber on the special link. The lieutenant’s chums have repeated every gory detail as told by the man himself. Daily News are to report it verbatim.”
The Commander arose from his chair. “What the hell,” he said, “nothing we can do about it. Let’s go talk to Chummie. He’ll be nicely settled in by now. We’ll take your car.”
Glasgow Royal Infirmary was well accustomed to a uniformed presence, indeed during weekends there seemed at times to be more policemen than nurses stationed around casualty wards where the grievously bashed were often attended by both legal and medical services simultaneously.
Bandaged heads were frequently attended by blue uniforms. Chummie’s arrival had attracted a jovial “Truncheon? On a Monday? Must have been a long weekend,” from a youthful doctor on encountering the bandaged head surrounded by constabulary.
The decision to have Chummie admitted to a busy general hospital had been quite deliberate. The bustling environment would help reassure Chummie that he was out of the twilight, and there was security in public places where attempted skulduggery would be publicly admired and endlessly reviewed on CCTV.
“Hello, again,” Special Branch said to the supine biker as the uniformed policeman at the bedside stepped respectfully aside. “Let me introduce you to my boss,” and an expression of rotundity appeared behind him.
“Ah, yes,” the Commander said, “awkward when nobody can use names, don’t you think?”
The biker reached out his hand and the surprised Commander took it, his scalp reflecting brightly on a Georgian window. “My name is John Smith, no previous convictions. Or none that I can remember,” the biker said in an accent that was unmistakeably Liverpudlian.
“What a coincidence,” the Commander replied, “we all share the same name. How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” the Scouser said. “Perhaps we can talk? When I am discharged from here, that is, I could come to see you.”
“Be delighted to arrange it,” the Commander said. “We can revisit old times together, talk about places we’ve been, passports we’ve used…”
“At last,” the Scouser said. “Something I can look forward to.”
The Commander came to the point. “The Establishment decided to kill you off, only officially of course,” the Commander seated himself, “so you needn’t worry. It seems that you relapsed in transit. The autopsy is being written up as we speak. Head injuries are unpredictable I’m told. Your funeral will be a quiet affair, in accordance with your last wishes. Seems you managed a few last words before passing away.”
“Well, well,” the activist remarked. “Did I go to heaven or to hell?”
“Purgatory,” the Commander answered, “where we score your misdeeds. You see, yesterday we found out who you really are. You should be able to confirm it, considering how your amnesia is retreating so fast. Turns out your name isn’t John Smith after all. You will never inherit a potato crisp fortune.”
“My heart was set on it,” the activist said. “ How did you find out who I am? I ask out of curiosity only.”
“You were on file all the time,” Special Branch said. “When we blew the dust away, there you were.”
“So what are we to do with you?” the Commander said after a pause. “It happens that we are officially shocked and horrified that the US muzzled a report by one of our boys in Afghanistan. So shocked and horrified that we carelessly allowed you to decease before you could holiday with pals in Virginia or wherever. America has an identity for you, which we know to be false, and a burial will be registered in that fictitious name. You see the bother you are putting us to?”
“Sorry for that,” the activist said, “but I was a tax payer for a while,” and the uniformed policeman who stood within earshot raised his eyes to the ceiling.
“You once told an old friend of ours about a family member, something about Balikpapan. Seems you also didn’t care for CIA supporting right wing folks like General Montt in Guatemala, or the military dictators in Paraguay, Uruguay, Chile, Argentina, including the incredible Somozas. And that was only what the CIA was doing in South America.”
“You should see how well fortified US embassies are all over the world. Shows the love foreign folks have for them.”
“Quit while you are ahead,” Special Branch put in. “The stupid message stuck to a toilet wall started a chain of events that is doing much harm to the United States in places a long way east of here. You’ve done serious damage. Think about it. Now that you are officially deceased the boys in Langley can do whatever they like, should they catch you alive.”
The activist stared at him, then at the Commander’s impassive roundness. He raised a hand and touched the bandaging which encircled his features, reminding both officers of a wimpled nun, despite facial hair crawling up from the whiteness towards both cheekbones. The Commander looked at a chart stuck to the plastered wall. “Anyway, now you are dead you have to speak to us from beyond the grave or you could become dead a second time. Better all round if we take care of you for a bit longer.”
“I feel poorly under any kind of stress,” the exposed features drooped, “I get confused, forgetful.” The voice sounded forlorn.
“Let me rephrase,” the Commander said, playing with a strand of hair on his scalp. “We earnestly wish that you will co-operate with us on matters concerning your past life generally. In secure surroundings of our choice and in confidence, of course.”
“Put like that,” the Scouser replied brightly, “how can I refuse?”