The Vengeance Man (24 page)

D
inner in Hampstead

Mallalieu’s social life was certainly up market.

He lived in an ordinary house in a Hampstead terrace if you can call three stories of Georgian elegance ordinary. Adjusting my blue silk tie and hoping that the pale grey flannel suit struck the right note, I pressed the bell.

Christina Mallalieu greeted me. She was a large, expansive woman, a souvenir of his days in Germany. Despite her bulk, she had the elegance and poise of an ambassador's wife; which, as she was one of the many daughters of some obscure Westphalian baron, was hardly surprising.   The place looked like one of those pictures you see in 'Homes & Gardens', all yellow lamp light, gleaming silver and softly polished wood of indeterminate age. 'Die Meistersinger' muzaked quietly in the background.

We had a straightforward meal of paprika meatballs and small dumplings served with noodles and green salad. It was all a bit Teutonic. But the wine came
unmistakably
from the better slopes of Bordeaux and the Mallalieus were relaxed and witty.  Christina retained that well-preserved femininity that makes men look at some women speculatively, although she must have been well on the wrong side of fifty. 

She also had a good sense of humour, which complemented Mallalieu's dry air of purpose well.  She shared a couple of gags about the new government in Berlin with me but then looked stern; "No more speaking German!  Even with you. The
Herr Oberst
doesn't remember it well enough, now we've stopped courting....   Anyway, you  will
ruin
my English accent.  And that took years to get it  just wrong enough to charm elderly Englishmen at  parties.  No more humour.  It is forbidden!   Don't you realise," she lowered her voice sepulchrally, and rolled her eyes, "
I'm Cherman!"

I spluttered with laughter, and Mallalieu looked pained. I liked Christina. She was fun and I could see how Mallalieu might have been attracted to and manipulated by this strong minded and funny woman.  I was.

After some kind of creamy mousse, made from plums of all things, she brought coffee and ushered us into a narrow room lined with books and trophies that Mallalieu presumably used as a study.

"And now I'm going to leave you two men to talk. I know that you probably want to bore each other with some disgraceful business, so the less I know about it, the better.   It will be just like another of your dreadful reunions, I know.  Anyway, there's a serial on television I want to watch. See you later." And with a smile for me and a kiss on her husband’s head, she left us alone.

Mallalieu stretched and passed me a cup of coffee.

"A remarkable woman," I said.  "Great character.  And a great meal."

Mallalieu smiled a slightly pained smile.  "Yes; Christina's not short of character, that's for sure." A distant look came to his eye and I had a sudden intuition that the attractive Mrs Mallalieu might have sometimes been a bit of a handful.  He collected himself.

"Anyway, down to business.  Are you allowed to drink spirits?"

"I have been known to take the odd drop, Colonel."

"No, I meant since your kidney problems after Iran, Kurdistan,  are you allowed them?"

"Yes, in moderation."

He grunted and pulled open the bottom of a breakfront bookcase to take out a black flask-like bottle.  I recognised its type instantly from my days with the
Ecole des Parachutistes
near Toulouse. "Ahah - Armagnac!"

Mallalieu grunted appreciatively. "Hmph.  Trust you to know.  One of the better kept secrets of France. I prefer it to cognac. Dam' sight cheaper, too."

We sat facing one another, swilling
Marquis de Montesquiou
around our small glasses. The burnt raw smell took  me back to days of sitting on a dusty parched airfield, beneath a hot sun in a sky of washed-out
travail bleu
, and the lean, hard French paratroopers, superbly trained and proudly confident. I could never understand how such men lost Viet Nam and Algeria, but I could understand why they'd fought on at Dien Bien Phu.   Pride.

Mallalieu sat in the swivel chair and stretched his long legs. He looked relaxed and contented. He didn't say any thing, so I decided to take the bull by the horns. "Well, Colonel, what was it that you wanted?"

"That's a bit direct," said Mallalieu. "Even for you."

"Sorry. But you've obviously got something on your mind, otherwise you wouldn’t have invited me round for a little chat. After all, the company rules are minimum social contact outside hours."

"True." He took a mouthful of the Armagnac and changed the subject. "How are you feeling these days?"

"You asked me that this morning. I'm fit. Charlie turns me over in his sweat box twice a week. I run two miles a day; but I think you were right not to send me on to the Bull Pen. I'm not really fit enough. But I could be, given time. But why ask me? Charlie Younger's got all the 
Physical Asse
s
sments."

"Hmm. I meant more, well, in yourself, if you see what I mean."

I didn't. "I'm fine. I'm not
deolali
[4]
if that's what you're getting at."

Another long pause stretched out. The drink was getting warmer in my hands. Obviously ill at ease, Mallalieu got up and paced the tiny room, peering closely at his own book titles as if seeking a particular book, or inspiration. He had what looked like a complete set of Kipling, I noticed: and lots of Folio Society volumes.  Even, right at the top, an Almanac of Gotha. I wondered how he got the books down from the top shelves, just below the ceiling.  They must have been ten feet up and I couldn't see a library stool anywhere. Outside a telephone rang down the hall, very faint and muffled by the door. It stopped abruptly, but I couldn't hear Mrs Mallalieu's voice answering. I wondered if they had any help, a maid or a cook. No, that meal was definitely German - she'd cooked it.

Again to break the silence, I said, "Colonel, you asked me to come and see you tonight because you said you had a job that you couldn't give to someone in the Pen ..."

"Yes." Mallalieu stopped pacing and seemed to come to a decision, settling himself in the chair and staring keenly at me over his glass. The dark amber fluid swirled around. "Tell me, do you believe in democracy?"

I was taken aback. "Yes, of course.   Doesn't everybody? I thought  it was compulsory round here."

Mallalieu waved impatiently. "No, no, I didn't mean like that. I meant, do you believe that it works? Do you believe  in it?"

"Sometimes. Wasn't it Churchill or someone who said that no political system was really any good, but democracy was the least bad?"

Mallalieu smiled thinly. "Yes. Something like that. But will it win?"

"Win?"

"Yes. Triumph over its rivals?   Survive, even?"

"I don't see why not. It's a pretty hardy plant."

"No, it's not. Did you realise that over eighty percent of the members of the United Nations are un-democratic by  our standards?"

"Sure - I read it in the Economist every week.  But it seems to be popular enough. Look at the profits the LSE makes from overseas students."

What the hell was Mallalieu up to? I was certain that he hadn't invited me here for a political
soirée
and a quiet chat over the brandy about the problems of the contemporary world.

"The problem with democracy as a system is that its very qualities, the ones that we admire and like, breed the seeds of its own destruction.  It's a self-indulgent and inefficient way of running a modern state."

I gathered that he wasn't very keen on democracy. "Colonel, are you suggesting we should hand the whole lot over to Brussels? Anyway, I thought we’d done that already.
That’s democracy for you
"  A thought struck me. "You're not advocating a coup or anything like that, are you?"

"Don't be bloody silly - who'd want to take over this shower?" He refilled the glasses. "No, what I mean is that democracy invariably panders to the lowest common denominator,  the most - numerous, I suppose, group of voters in society, and bribes them."

"Bribes them?"

"Yes, by giving them what they want."

"So, what's wrong with that?  Isn't that just another definition of democratic politics?"   I could be as cynical as Mallalieu, if that was the game he wanted to play. This was nonsense. What was he up to?

"It's just that we're bribing the very people who aren't really qualified to make the best lo
ng-term judgements for society.
"  He looked up and saw my face, and said, "No, let me finish. I'm not saying that ordinary people
are fools or vill
ai
ns, or even just badly educated
. It's just that the average voting family sitting in a council house in Walsall or wherever  can't honestly be expected to worry about what's best for the country. They're too busy worrying about the husband's job, whether Sharon's another under-age pregnancy, will Kevin get his GCSE in woodwork and a job, have they got enough for their package holiday this year, what's on the telly, soap operas, celebrities, footballers,  stuff like that?  Christ, they don't care.   Look at the turnouts for local elections for God's sake. People are apathetic. More folks vote for reality TV shows than for their local councils….
Lots
more
."

A distant memory of the Meekins on the telephone popped into my mind.  "So what's wrong with that? I'd rather have that than everyone being an active member of some crackpot political party."

He ignored me. "We pander more and more to that ..." he searched for the word and rejected them all, " ... that
class
of person, and they control our destinies. Indirectly."

I couldn't help smiling. I knew Mallalieu was a bit of backwoodsman, but I hadn't got his card marked as an eighteenth century Tory. I tried to fathom what he was getting at. Was he recommending oligarchic government, like some drunken young fogey undergraduate?  I shrugged. "Well, that's the People’s democracy for you. The greatest good for the greatest number. Rule of the majority, like it or lump it."

"But that's just the point. In other words, the
tyranny
of the majority. We've even got a cultural tyranny of the lowest common denominator.  Look at the television: Eastenders, Coronation Street, Celebrities,
Big Brother . . .
bloody rubbish like that."

"Maybe they don't all want to see the English National Opera made compulsory viewing
?
"

Mallalieu pulled a face. "Neither do I.  But that's beside the point.  While these happy masses are being kept sweet with free dole handouts, benefits, council housing, a Health Service full of artificial jobs and all that nonsense, the real world still goes on outside. You can't run a modern state on bread and circuses."

I took his point. "So what are you suggesting as an alternative? Cut off the dole? Close down the NHS?  Stop free bus passes for pensioners? You'd have rioting in the streets, once the protest machine got busy with that."

"Don't joke about it.   Reforming the public services is the last thing the politicos dare try and do. Too many cosy votes
there
. The point is, that's why you can't expect politicians to solve the problems of a democratic society. They're terrified of civil disorder, of losing popularity. The truth is Democracy hamstrings them. Their hands are tied; they're prisoners of their own
popularity and
press cuttings. It's the tyranny of the majority.  That's my point."

I was puzzled. Mallalieu's mobile face was earnest and sincere. "So what are you saying, Colonel? Bring back national service? That you think that we should have a change of government? A military coup?"

"No, no" He was shocked. "You've not understood at all. What I'm trying to say is that they're - we're - all fiddling while Rome burns down around us."

I couldn't smell any smoke. I thought he was over-reacting and told him so.

Mallalieu changed tack. "What I'm saying is that we've muzzled the mob and tamed it.  But the mob, the new mob, now effectively prevents us dealing with long term threats to its own comfort. Through its institutions, like the tabloid press, television...
the BBC wailing on about cuts. That sort of thing.
"

"So?" Mallalieu was uncomfortable. "Colonel, I don't disagree with your theories. I'm sure Cromwell
and Hitler would have agreed."
He flushed. "But we can't change the  world
to suit ourselves, can
we? Anyway, the mob in their safe council house cages don't seem a problem to me. Life seems to go on all right. "

Mallalieu didn't like that. "You shouldn't equate Cromwell with Hitler," he snapped.  "Cromwell spent most of his career trying to make his brand of democracy work. He only gave up in despair at the end. And Hitler was elected
democratically
-- several times.   Don't ever forget that.  But we do agree on one thing."

"Do we? What's that?"

"That phrase of yours about the mob in their council house cages is exactly right. They're well bribed and relatively happy. But while we're giving them bread and circuses, the country still has to be defended."