Men Of Some Principle

PROLOGUE

I had a dream once. It was full of blackness and hopelessness. I was young, less than ten years old, possibly ill with a child’s fever in which everything felt bad. But the blackness was all-pervading. It wasn’t like the blackness of an unlit cellar. It was deeper, more intense. It wasn’t just its physical presence enveloping my whole being that I noticed, but the extreme depression it rendered on my mind. It was inexplicable, overbearing, hopeless and absolute.

There was no story to my dream, apart from a feeling of blackness. But what is blackness? For me it was like wading through thick treacle and making no progress. It devoured me and left me without any sense of meaning. You can have no sense of meaning and still survive. My dream was without goodness – only overwhelming badness.

I was trying to get to somewhere in this mire, but never quite making it. Trudging through the dark, I couldn’t see anything comprehensible. No monsters, no ghouls, no feeling, no light, only myself alone in this black nothingness.

If there is a hell, then this was it, or at least that’s how I felt at the time. But on the other hand, it may have been just a kid’s meaningless dream.

Anyway, I woke up and the black dream was gone. However, the memory of the dream stayed with me for the rest of my life.

It came back to me 50 years later with a vengeance, but this time I was awake.

CHAPTER ONE

It’s 7.30am on Putney Heath, London and I’m walking through the lanes to Barnes Station. I’ve taken this route every working day for the last 30 years without deviation. Today is particularly mediocre. It’s cloudy with no rain, still and warm, but without character. It’s January in the year 2003 and my briefcase is full of scientific drawings, reports and yellow Post-it notes with the numbers of MOD people I must phone within the next 24 hours.

I don’t notice the trees anymore as the journey has become so mundane; I just switch to auto-pilot and join the zombie crowd on their ritual march towards the station. We either walk with our heads down or converse with our friends on our mobiles, giving them an update on what we had for breakfast and what we have planned for the rest of the day. Gone are the days when we talked to each other face-to-face and, on parting company, bade farewell to each other with a kiss or a shake of the hands. Now it’s just a series of grunts, groans and gestures as there’s no time for lengthy salutations or goodbyes – there are targets to meet, people to phone and music to hear on earphones, which, for some, are worn constantly to escape the drudgery of everyday commuting.

My childhood and general upbringing were straightforward: good parents, pleasant home, first degrees in Physics and Chemistry (Cambridge), destined for great things, but it didn’t turn out that way. I became a Scientific Officer in the Civil Service, moved to MI5, got married, had two kids, and settled into ‘domestic bliss’ with a manageable mortgage and the prospect of a final-salary pension payout.

I’m now a grandfather and, at the age of 59, feel as though my best years have passed. I’ve had an interesting life, spent time abroad, enjoyed stimulating work, but now I must tolerate a nine-to-five existence until I’m put out to grass. So, here I am, waiting with others on the small platform for the 8.00 am train to Waterloo Station.

The train rolls in and I scramble to get a seat before the crowds burst in at Putney. I park myself next to a rather large lady and she shuffles to give the impression she’s making room for me when, in fact, she hasn’t moved an inch. I open my briefcase and read my diary to see what the week has in store.

I’m absorbed in my work, sitting with other brainwashed commuters who are either playing games on their mobiles or reading from various devices. I look around the train and see very few older men wearing suits. It’s mostly young men and women with backpacks instead of briefcases, tablets instead of books, trainers instead of shoes, with things plugged in their ears and a nondescript expression on their faces. How things have changed. I get distracted and drift away, lost in my thoughts…

There was a time, not many weeks ago in the Middle East, when I experienced complete contentment. It was a feeling of ease – not religious, but perhaps spiritual. All was right in the world. That’s what I thought. Well, it wasn’t quite like that. I was assigned to the UN team investigating whether or not Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction. I was a senior member and spent most of my time making assessments and filling out reports which followed surveys of various strategic weaponry plants. Despite being a senior member, I was several levels away from the Chief Weapons Inspector and I did what I was asked.

I remember sitting in the office on a day like any other, with the hustle and bustle of people coming and going, as the inspection reached its final stages. We’d spent several months in Baghdad compiling reports and we were all becoming a bit homesick. The office comprised of scientists like me, supported by administrative staff, many of whom were Iraqi. We all got on surprisingly well, which was probably due to the fact we were all working on the same project. The Iraqi women were particularly intelligent as well as being both friendly and polite. One of them had caught my attention and we subsequently struck up a relationship, sharing jokes and anecdotes during the course of the day. We had similar senses of humour. On one sunny morning she came to see me.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘You okay? It’s break time. I’m going to the supermarket; is there anything you want?’

‘I’ll come with you, if that’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’m getting bored sitting around here.’

All staff were entitled to breaks but these were usually taken in the restroom, which tended to get stuffy and overcrowded. I felt like a change.

She said, ‘That’s great. Let’s go.’ And we were off.

We made our way towards the car park. We’d spoken many times before, as I’ve said, and often had coffee breaks together. Rania was a young Iraqi who provided administrative support to the team. She was about 32, maybe more, westernised (no burka), well qualified and extremely ambitious. She was great fun – a real character and I got on well with her. She’d studied Archaeology at university and knew all about the ancient sites in and around Baghdad. I think her parents were devout Muslims, or so she said, but she wanted to discover other worldly things whilst still honouring family traditions. I suppose she was a bit of a rebel, although she stuck to her Islamic convictions.

‘What sort of day are you having?’ I asked casually as we walked down the street.

‘The usual. Mostly photocopying for you lot, although I can’t say I’ve seen anything on weapons of mass destruction. I think it’s what you English would call flogging a dead horse.’

‘So you read as well as photocopy?’ I asked.

‘Of course, otherwise I’d lose my mind.’

‘But you might be right about the weapons,’ I said. ‘Trouble is, there’s so much suspicion in the West that we’ve got to keep going – tick all the boxes, dot the i’s and cross the t’s, and all that kind of thing.’

We bought a couple of samosas and some orange juice and got on to the subject of Archaeology. I asked whether she’d be willing to show me around some of the archaeological digs south of the city. I’ve always been interested in ancient sites and was getting bored of filling in what I thought were meaningless forms. Besides, it would be different. Any spare time we got was usually spent playing pool in the mess.

Rania thought for a moment and then said, ‘Okay, but I shouldn’t be seen with you in public for too long. I can probably get a pass to make it all legitimate and we can make a visit after work.’

Rania had long, thick black hair and radiant eyes which seemed to penetrate anything that drew her attention. She was slim, tall and bespectacled with a studious air but, at the same time, projected a mature presence. She was attractive although not overly so – more intriguing and mysterious. She was full of intelligent conversation and that’s what I liked about her. That and her smile. Her smile was beautiful – a work of art.

I said, ‘Okay, that would be great. Whenever it’s convenient.’

‘Tomorrow, if you like, but if I do show you around, you’ll have to promise me you won’t take photographs; the guards forbid it.’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Let’s exchange numbers just in case something crops up.’

We returned to the office, which was full of scientists working on reports, analysing figures, making comparisons and entering data on the computer. The West was certain Saddam was hiding something and was determined to find proof. These were our instructions – to find proof, but nothing had turned up so far. The Head of Resources, John Matheson, had been specially chosen by the Cabinet to lead the UK division of the UN Inspectorate. They wanted someone who was target-driven, cunning and subservient, a bit like Uriah Heep. John fitted the bill perfectly. He was a pedantic, over-zealous data freak who was set on finding some evidence – almost anything would do. He was about 48 years old, balding, thin and with a long nose that supported heavy glasses. Of course, he was younger than me, more ambitious and certainly more dangerous. He reminded me of Mr Burns from The Simpsons.

‘Found anything yet, Rob?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ I replied. ‘I’m beginning to think we’re on a fruitless mission. We’ve been out here for months and no one in the team has found anything suspicious.’

‘That’s not what I want to hear. I want a more positive approach. With all your intelligence, you must be able to find something?’ he said.

‘If it’s not there, I can’t find it,’ I replied.

‘Just find something – anything!’

‘I’ll do my best, John,’ I said, trying to keep him happy.

The next day I drove Rania to a well-known dig south of the city centre, about ten kilometres down the road. It was a beautiful day – clear, sunny, very warm and refreshing. She was wearing one of those tight dresses – just tight enough to show off her neat curves without making it too obvious. Over this she wore a long shawl to avoid the guards ogling and asking awkward questions.

She showed her pass to one of the guards. He eyed me suspiciously. ‘He’s with me,’ she said as I handed over my card.

‘Go through,’ the guard barked.

I parked the car and we walked towards the ruins. They were magnificent in their antiquity – tall pillars surrounded by broken walls with sculptured figures looming above the many rocks that were scattered over the site.

‘This is an old burial site that was probably constructed around 500 BC. It would’ve taken some 20 years to build.’ She pointed to the west side of the site and said, ‘Look at those two figures facing each other on top of the hill. The one on the right is supposed to be a giant serpent, while the one on the left is a lamb. The statues were intended to symbolise the relationship between the power and the cunning and the meek and the mild. The ancient rulers believed there would always be conflict between these two forces with the meek becoming the more dominant in the end – similar to the predictions of the Bible, where it says the meek will inherit the earth.’

I walked towards these figures and felt a sense of awe. They were massive and overpowering. The serpent’s body was partly curled on the ground with its neck looming towards the sky, its head lunging threateningly towards the lamb. The latter was placed on a carved piece of rock, cowering from the serpent and only inches away from its fangs. The two represented a wonderful work of art set against the setting sun, with the call to prayer echoing around the whole area.

Compared to their surroundings, the figures were gigantic and reminded me of two experiences I’d had as a child. The first was at Southend-on-Sea where a full-sized replica of Drake’s Golden Hind floated in a small pit filled with water and surrounded by high walls. The size of the warship relative to the enclosed space gave me a claustrophobic feeling. My senses were telling me that such a vessel should be out at sea and not confined in a small place. The second experience was at the British Museum where a massive model of a blue whale hung, contained within a relatively small hall. I felt dwarfed by this specimen, more so because it hung in an enclosed place. Again, I felt claustrophobic. Both experiences had unsettled me.

However, the figures I gazed upon at the dig were not unsettling, just inspirational. Yes, they were big and I felt dwarfed, but not in the same way as my earlier experiences. This may, of course, have been because I was older and wiser and less threatened by things I didn’t understand.

Anyway, at that moment, out of the blue, I felt a complete contentment, a freedom from all life’s worries – the mortgage, the responsibilities, the difficult relationships and the complexities of Western life. Add to that being accompanied by an unusually attractive woman at an historic ruin, facing two mesmerising statues in the hot desert and the net result was a feeling of absolute completeness.

It was one of those moments – a spiritual experience that I couldn’t explain. I wasn’t ‘born again’ or spontaneously converted to any particular religion; it was just an ‘enlightened’ moment of fulfilment.

It only lasted an instant and then the feeling was gone. Back to reality. However, rather like my black dream, it was a feeling I would remember forever.

Without thinking, I held Rania’s hand. She drew it away quickly. ‘No, Rob, not in public.’

‘How about in private, then?’ I joked.

‘Who knows, let’s wait and see.’

I wasn’t surprised at the rejection and should have known better. I guess I was trying to be spontaneous. But our eyes did meet and I detected a certain mutual interest. Not necessarily sexual – I was old enough to be her father – but something far deeper.

Anyway, that was the last time I saw Rania in Baghdad. The next day she resigned to follow a career, I understand, in Archaeology.

After a few more days of work, John came running into the office with an inane but triumphant grin on his face. ‘We’ve found something.’

‘What?’ we all cried.

‘It doesn’t matter; it’s enough. Now go home and prepare.’

‘Prepare for what?’

‘For a great big battle, I expect,’ he joked.

‘What have you got? We have a right to know.’

‘It’s enough for our purposes,’ he said.

‘Enough to talk about battles? That’s insane,’ I said. ‘Unless you disclose what you’ve got, I for one will assume you’ve got nothing. I’ve found nothing and no one in this room has, so what’s the deal?’

‘That’s negative, Rob, and you know it. All will be revealed in good time. Now you can all go home; your job here is done.’

The train stopped. I woke up with a jolt. We’d arrived at Waterloo.

CHAPTER TWO

The 1930 corridors of MI5 looked more like a clinical waiting room than a high-tech scene from a Bond movie. After the usual security checks and clocking-in ceremonies, I’d walk through these dreary tunnels every day on my way to the project offices or my laboratory. I’d been offered promotion to Senior Scientific Officer on many occasions, but didn’t want the responsibility or the political wrangling that went with the post. There was always conflict between the smartly suited operatives and the lab boys, mostly about the interpretation of facts and how the Government wished to project itself. Because of my training I dealt with the truth and rational thinking; the smart operatives dealt with their careers and how best to survive. I was, therefore, never really popular with the establishment, but the grey-suited men used me