Алистер Маклин - Borrowed Time

‘In February this year, a search of a deceased hotel porter’s apartment in Greenwich Village uncovered a photograph of Malcolm Philpott, the Director of the United Nations Anti-Crime Organization.’

The clerk passed the picture to Sarah Lawrence.

‘Written on the back of the picture is Philpott’s name and his title within the UN.’

Lubbock was a pink-faced man with tiny jowls that trembled when he spoke. He turned now to look at Ms Lawrence.

‘To anyone concerned about security standards within the UN,’ he said, ‘it is troubling that such a picture should be found among the property of a humble working man. Humble is an adjective that sits well on the dead man, whose name was Arno Skuttnik. He was an immigrant with no criminal record, a man who kept to himself and roused no special curiosity in all the years he lived in New York. We have no way of knowing how he came by the photograph of Mr Philpott, or what use he intended to make of it, if any. The whole point is, the man was able to get that picture , which underlines the point, made several times in the past by my department, that UNACO has become so loosely controlled that everyday security has broken down.’

Sarah Lawrence nodded. ‘And what does the Department of Policy Control suggest?’

‘Immediate corrective measures,’ Lubbock said.

Ms Lawrence nodded again. ‘Would you specify?’

Lubbock glanced at Whitlock, who was listening attentively. ‘Since its inception, UNACO has enjoyed a measure of autocracy. The Director is answerable only to the Head of the Security Council, and to the Secretary General. UNACO’s various task forces, covert surveillance units, intelligence gathering bodies and its international liaison networks are administered without reference to any other bodies within the tightly unified structure of the UN.’

‘We know that much already,’ Ms Lawrence said.

‘It is our proposal,’ Lubbock continued, ‘that UNACO be brought under the UN’s conventional umbrella of set procedures and accountability. The Director should be answerable in the first instance to myself and should have no direct access to the Head of the Security Council or the Secretary General. Furthermore, UNACO’s activities should be open to scrutiny by my own officers and representatives of departments directly involved in funding, strategy and personnel deployment.’

Sarah Lawrence glanced at her notepad. ‘So let’s get it in a nutshell, Mr Lubbock. You propose that in view of certain evidence of laxity in the running of UNACO, the organization be pulled into line and forfeit its special status as a semi-autonomous body. Does that cover it?’

‘That’s more or less it,’ Lubbock said.

Ms Lawrence looked at the lawyers. They nodded.

‘Well now, Mr Whitlock.’ Sarah Lawrence smiled coolly. ‘I understand you’re appearing here on behalf of Mr Philpott, who is detained in foreign parts.’

‘That’s correct, ma’am.’

‘Your purpose here, as I see it, is to try to dissuade the Secretary General’s Office of the United Nations from actioning the restrictive measures proposed by the Director and Secretary of Policy Control against the organization for which you work, namely UNACO. Is that how you view it?’

‘Indeed it is.’ Whitlock stood up.

Ms Lawrence pointed to the lectern standing three metres from the table where she and the others sat. ‘If you’d like to come forward, I’m all ears.’

Whitlock brought his notes and stood for a moment with his hands on either side of the lectern, looking at each of the people before him in turn.

‘First of all, I want to say that the administration of UNACO does not deny that the photograph of Director Philpott was found in the property of a deceased hotel porter. It is not denied, either, that the finding of the picture could be seen to indicate slackness in UNACO’s security arrangements.’

Secretary Crane looked down with a tight smile. Whitlock did not miss that.

‘UNACO does, however, refute any allegations of laxness or irresponsibility on the part of its administration or its operatives.’

Now it was Lubbock who looked down, shaking his head.

‘We are aware,’ Whitlock went on, ‘that a simple denial is hardly a defence. It will be my purpose, therefore, as briefly as possible, to show that not only is UNACO the world’s premier crime-fighting body, but that its integrity and efficiency far surpass those of lesser outfits who cover their own shortcomings by pointing the finger – in this case, a sadly mistaken finger – at others.’

Lubbock looked as if he had been personally attacked. Crane had turned red.

‘Mr Lubbock has told us something about the dead man who was harbouring the picture of Director Philpott. In fact, Mr Lubbock has told us everything that he and his department could find out about the dead man, which isn’t much. The deceased’s name was Arno Skuttnik, he came to this country in the sixties, he led a quiet, law-abiding life. That’s it.’

‘If I might point out, Ms Lawrence,’ Lubbock cut in, ‘there is nothing else on the record that is of any significance.’ He shot a glance at Whitlock. ‘It isn’t our habit, as it may be with certain others, to pad out our case with inconsequential detail.’

Ms Lawrence waited to see if Lubbock had more to say, but he had withdrawn into tight-lipped staring. She nodded for Whitlock to continue.

‘When Secretary Crane brought the picture and the scanty story surrounding it to the attention of Director Philpott,’ Whitlock said, ‘it was decided that a thorough investigation should be mounted.’

He could see this was news to Lubbock and Crane. They glanced at each other and looked quickly back at their folded hands.

‘In spite of what Mr Lubbock just said, there is a lot of fascinating and significant detail in the history of Arno Skuttnik. With your indulgence, I would like to tell his story.’

Lubbock sighed noisily. ‘Ms Lawrence, is this really necessary?’

‘Mr Whitlock is essaying a rebuttal of what you told us,’ Ms Lawrence said. ‘On the face of it, I’d say it’s important.’ She nodded at C.W. ‘Please go on.’

Whitlock looked at his notes for a moment, then he said, ‘Arno Skuttnik was a spy.’

Ms Lawrence looked at Lubbock, who looked at Crane, who was gaping at Whitlock.

‘He was brought up and educated in Moscow, where his father, a Pole, was an inspector of factories. At the age of nineteen Arno was already a Kremlin discipline officer, which means he beat up political dissidents for a living, and by the time he was twenty-two he was a member of Stalin’s private staff.’

‘Can you prove any of this?’ Crane snapped.

‘Sure,’ Whitlock said.

Lubbock said, ‘How did you come by this information?’

‘I used means that go beyond your need-to-know status. But I can easily demonstrate the authenticity of the data to the Secretary General and his staff.’

Lubbock’s neck was turning purple.

‘And so,’ Whitlock said, ‘we are already in a position where it’s clear that no ordinary – or to use Mr Lubbock’s description, humble – individual, was in possession of Director Philpott’s picture. The man in question was a highly-trained Soviet agent, a ranking member of the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs, who eventually came to America to spy for the Soviets in 1966.’

‘I don’t believe any of this!’ Crane said. ‘It’s a ridiculous smokescreen!’

Whitlock picked up a folder with a clipped wad of papers inside. ‘Maybe we can dispose of further doubts on the point, Ms Lawrence. These are printout versions of all this information, together with details of sources. Perhaps you’d like to peruse it as I go along.’