The Set Up, 1984: Classified Until 2064

Characters

David Bennie, 20, an unemployed Scot trained as a boat mechanic

Brian Baker, 30, the playboy son of an Oxford don and his Greek wife

Keith Brown, 38, from a poor British family from the London Docklands, owner of a carhire shop whose hobby is boats

Georgina Graves, 28, businesswoman girlfriend of Brian Baker

Janet Morris, 38, grammar school teacher, Keith’s partner and mother of Teddy, their four-year-old son

Niko Karras, 26, Greek Cypriot by birth whose family fled to Lebanon and then became refugees in Rhodes, Greece in 1975, where he works as a trawler like his father

Sally Eliades, 21, British girl whose father was Greek, who tried to run a bar in Rhodes, Greece

Tom Hill, late forties, British uneducated loner, carpenter and radiographer working Mediterranean boats

*William Casey, 70s, Director of the CIA in the Reagan Administration

*Oliver North, 40, Marine working at the National Security Council during the Reagan Administration

*Bob Anderson, former Secretary of the Navy, Deputy Secretary of Defense, and Secretary of the Treasury in the Eisenhower Administration and an oil and gas businessman

*Clark Clifford, corporate lawyer and lobbyist, counsel to presidents Truman, Kennedy and Carter Secretary of Defense for President Lyndon B. Johnson, chairman of First American Bankshares, the largest bank holding company in the Washington, D.C. area

*Max Hugel, businessman and Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency for Administration (DDA) and then as Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency for Operations

*Adnan Khashoggi, Saudi Arabian businessman and arms trader

*Bruce Rappaport, Ukranian born Israeli international businessman in oil, shipping, and finance, a founder of the Israeli Military Police

*John Shaheen, formerly part of Office of Strategic Services, predecessor of CIA, and president of Golden Eagle Refining Company and Macmillan Ring-Free Oil

* Indicates an actual historical person. Only North is still living.

Part 1 - The Set Up

Chapter 1

David, the beloved youngest child, sailed along on the confidence that comes with being the baby of the family. He had left school at sixteen but he was not lazy. The apprenticeship program at British Steel in mechanical and production engineering that he joined saw him excelling, even winning a prize for his performance—the only one offered that year. He expected to move directly from the apprenticeship into a choice job with British Steel. He expected his life would be easier than his parents’ lives had been. He had expected the world to add him to its ranks of the appropriately employed. Instead, his apprenticeship delivered him the scrounging life of the unemployed. It was not his fault. In September 1981, one month before the apprenticeship program was to end, all the apprentices were informed that there would be no work available at British Steel for them. David was eighteen and a recession had crippled the British economy. There were no jobs.

Still exuding the optimism of the young, he decided to see the world and for six weeks he wandered through Holland, Belgium, France, Germany, Italy, Spain, Yugoslavia, Spain and Greece, having a glorious, carefree time. Surely he would find work when he returned to the U.K.

When his funds ran out, he returned home, moved back in with Mam and Dad and lived on the dole while he looked for work. He was desperate for a job and applied everywhere he could. He even applied for a position with the British Antarctic Mission, although he knew it was a long shot. Confronted with the sagging economy, he seriously considered joining the Royal Navy as his brother had done.

David came from a family that had faced more than its share of life’s challenges. Living along Scotland’s northeast shoulder, money was hard to come by. The Bennies found compensation for their lack of wealth in the love and good humor that bound them to each other. They stuck together no matter what.

David had heard nothing from the British Antarctic Mission, but when he stopped by his parents’ house on a Sunday evening in time for supper, Mam told him a call had come in for him from someone in London. They’d left a callback number.

It was warm in the small cottage, especially warm for April. Mam was cooking something that smelled fishy in a large pot on the stove. The odors of fried onion and potato floating on the air reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since a hurried bowl of porridge ten hours before—but the chance of employment got him up from the table and to the phone.

He dialed the number Mam had scribbled down. A low female voice told him there might be a position for him if he could be in London by one p.m. Monday—tomorrow! Anxious to make some money, he said he’d be there, though it was nearly impossible. London was a good twelve hour drive even if he had a car. He momentarily felt guilty about asking Mam or Dad for cash, but this was a necessity. As the indulged wee one of the family, he’d learned early how to manipulate his folks. He turned from the phone and asked his sister if he could borrow her car to go to a job interview in London. He knew that if she said Yes, Dad would have to drive her to her job. He calculated, correctly, that Dad would rush to offer his own vehicle to David for the drive to London to save his sister inconvenience. Dad would happily take the bus to his work.

Dad followed the script as David had expected he would, even offering David money for petrol. Bless his parents. They always came through.

David had no time to consider what to wear to this hastily set up job interview for a position that remained as murky as an oily puddle. As there was no time to lose, he wolfed down a bowl of Mam’s special soup, grabbed a satchel, and tucked in a comb for his shoulder length hair, deodorant, his toothbrush, toothpaste, and a towel. He grabbed his denim jacket, his sunglasses and the satchel, hugged each parent goodbye, and dashed off to start the long road trip south in Dad’s car. Mam passed him a thermos of hot tea as he rushed out the door.

He pulled off the motorway when he was an hour outside London and caught a cat nap in the car for a few hours. Then he ploughed through the unfamiliar London traffic to the office building in a fancy hotel complex near the Thames. Very little cash remained from Dad’s handful of bills; the petrol stops had eaten up most of his reserve. He certainly did not have the cash to park the car in the hotel’s garage.

He found himself bouncing from amusement and elevated good humor to anxiety and back. This was at worst a lark, something new to add to the unusual experiences he collected like some folks collect people. But what was he to do with Dad’s vehicle? He decided to ask the doorman, who wasn’t much older than David himself. He pulled the aged VW up to the apex of the half circle drive and stopped. He read panic and disapproval in the doorman’s face. Okay, he could use that.

Excuse me, sir, he began. The man’s badge said, Andrew so he resurrected his Doric, the Old Scottish that had been his first language, as he explained that he’d been called to an emergency by his granny who was staying in the hotel. He’d driven all night and in his rush had neglected to bring his wallet. Such an embarrassing situation. Could Andrew suggest any place he could park his car while he ran up to see Granny?

Andrew looked him over. The way the young man in the dinged, disreputable VW dressed supported his story—shorts and sandals with a denim jacket and long hair pulled into a ponytail. Aye, it must be an emergency. Folk who entered these doors did so in high end suits with Calvin Klein ties and matching handkerchiefs peeking from their breast pockets. Andrew rode the bus to work each day, but his supervisor drove and parked in the parking garage beside the hotel. His boss had called in sick this morning, so his parking slot should be available. He doubted anyone would be checking a tired VW parked in that reserved space on the top floor of the parking garage next door. He explained how the young man could find the spot—D-18—and wished him luck, then shooed him out of the drop off circle as an elegant Mercedes pulled in. D-18. He hoped it was a sign. D for David and 18 for his age.

David parked Dad’s car, ran his toothbrush around his mouth, pulled up his shirt and applied deodorant, locked the VW, and walked quickly back to the hotel entrance. The slip of paper on which he’d written where to come for his interview was in his shorts pocket, and he unfolded it as he strode into the lobby, moving toward the lifts and pushing UP. He was the only rider heading to the ninth floor, so no one witnessed his turning the wrong way and having to retrace his steps to locate the room. When he knocked, he thought he recognized the female voice that called to come in. He turned the knob and pushed the ornate wooden door with its opulent decorative moulding forward, following it into the room.

The room appeared to be a waiting room. Half a dozen men, most of them roughly his age, were, well, waiting. The pretty blonde girl behind the desk looked terribly busy as she moved back and forth responding to the buzzing intercom, answering the phone, and rifling through the filing cabinet, mostly coming up empty handed. She seemed stressed. He approached her desk and waited for her to turn from the filing cabinet, trying to insert himself into the moment between her one task and the next to tell her who he was. Yes, thank you. Take a seat. She replied without looking at him, though he caught her eyeing his naked legs as he followed her instructions and moved toward the chairs. Girls were always admiring his legs. Why else would he wear shorts in the frigid temperatures of London in March?

He chose the empty chair halfway between the entrance and the other door off to the right that the girl kept anxiously glancing at. As he settled into the upholstered armchair, he noticed the other men arrayed around the room, each seated with an empty chair between him and his neighbor, each of them dressed carefully in a dark suit, white shirt, and blue narrow-striped tie. Only one deviated from that uniform, and his deviation was barely perceptible: small British flags flocked across his blue tie. David was clearly the outlier among those waiting to be interviewed. The humor in the situation struck him, along with the ridiculousness of his own behavior, driving like a bat out of hell twelve hours to London for a job interview dressed as a beachcomber. Oh well, chalk it up to inexperience. He could relax and observe, which he liked to do anyway.

The intercom buzzed and the girl reported quietly that David Bennie had arrived. To his surprise he half-heard a male voice directing her to send him in. She stood and ushered him to the door on the right, opening it and announcing his name, David Bennie before returning to her tripartite responsibilities.

This room was a well-appointed office. Satiny ivory damask drapes just touched the lush, discreetly patterned carpet. Two large tan leather side chairs with a low glass-topped table between them flanked a heavy mahogany desk at which sat an overweight man, past his prime but obviously with the means to enjoy his stage of life. He wore a classy wool blazer with an Oxford emblem on the upper left pocket, a pale blue silk shirt—at least that’s what David guessed it was, never having been in the presence of silk shirts before—and pricey-looking leather shoes. The absence of a tie grabbed David’s attention. The man leaned across the desk, extending his right arm, a shiny Rolex slipping forward from his shirt sleeve. He must be left handed, David observed.

Sit down. I’m Christopher Bailey. Happy to meet you. You’re a Scot, right? Tell me what experience you have had operating large boats.

David sat across from Mr. Bailey, resting lightly on the chair, expecting this to be a brief and unproductive interview. Yes, I’m a Scot. I worked on a fishing boat several summers as a lad. I’ve completed my apprenticeship with British Steel in engineering, but I’ve not a lot of experience operating large boats. In fact, sir, none at all--yet.

Are you a drug user? Mr. Bailey was watching him closely.

Well, Mr. Bailey, I’ve used my share of marijuana and, like most of my generation, I’ve done a bit of cocaine now and then. David was certain that would be it. Clearly, he was not qualified for this position.

Can you be in Malta by tomorrow night? Any obligations that would keep you from an immediate start?

David was stunned. I can be there, though I’ll have to scare up the cash to pay for a ticket. No obligations to anyone, other than getting Dad’s car back to Aberdeen. What is it you be wanting me to do?

Christopher Bailey, a man obviously used to getting his way, waved off the question. "Okay, then. You’re hired. You’ll be working aboard the largest of my yachts, The Welsh Falcon, as watch captain. You’ll sometimes contribute your engineering know-how to help keep the engine fit and running well. It will bring good pay, more than you’ve expected, but your pay won’t come until you bring the boat back to London. Then you will receive a tidy lump sum. He continued, Oh, and did I mention that you will be responsible for playing the bagpipes? I’ll be joining you on board in several of your port stops, and I’d like to have a piper announce my arrival.

David thought Bailey was kidding, but in the interests of honesty he hastened to assure Mr. Bailey that he was not a piper. Bailey’s animated face fell from its cordial smile, and shadows showed up in the cracks and crannies of his face so you could tell he was nearly a pensioner. No matter, lad. I was just pulling your leg. Sound like a job you can handle?

Yes, Sir, but may I ask a question?

Mr. Bailey cast David a look that might have said he was reconsidering his offer. David kept going. Why are you hiring me, sir, since I have so little experience?

Mr. Bailey’s smile returned like the sun coming out. The man was quite remarkable, and his confidence and power attracted David.

Because you’re honest, the foundation for a good working relationship in my line of work. Also, because you’re a Scot. Do you speak Gaelic?

David, still mystified but intrigued, nodded.

"There’s something about a Gaelic speaker running The Welsh Falcon that feels right, don’t you think? Yes, this will be good! Then we will see you in Malta, David Bennie, tomorrow evening. Suzie will have an air ticket for you within the half hour." He walked David to the door, instructing Suzie to book a ticket for Mr. David Bennie. Then he turned to the young men in suits arranged around the waiting room—to a man they looked confused and uncomfortable—and told them they could leave. He’d filled the position they had applied for.

David waited for confirmation of his ticket--Aberdeen to Malta, one way--then made his way out of the hotel, grateful that Andrew the doorman was on break but ready, if need be, to attribute his broad grin to Granny’s nearly miraculous recovery. He edged Dad’s tired VW out of D-18 and let it roll down the ramp on fumes to save gas. Then he located the M25 beltway that encircled the city and exited onto the M1 heading north, leaving a trail of sooty exhaust behind him. He still had no money, but at least he had a job and a plane ticket to Malta. He could add another international location to his Been There list.

It was the start of his career at sea.

He’d never taken an international flight before. He shifted his weight from sandal to sandal as he waited to board with the eclectic collection of passengers. There were a few overdressed mature women wearing gaudy jewelry and too much makeup discreetly scanning the waiting room. He winked at one to check out his theory that their roaming eyes sought male attention. When she smiled at him too demurely for her age, he smiled back, his theory confirmed. Several Suits with slightly greying expensively cut hair, leather briefcases and roller bags bestowed brief, disdainful glances on the others in line, resting their eyes on each just long enough to communicate dismissal, as if to say: You have no value in the scheme of my world. The effect was much like Her Majesty’s slow-moving sideways tilt of her hand in the Royal wave. Several younger men, also Suits, talked animatedly about last night’s football match, slipping into the conversation where in the stadium they had seats thanks to their employers’ largesse. They probably thought they were veiling their competitiveness, but to David they were as obvious as three-day-old fish. He found them amusing. These were power people, easily identified by their mannerisms and speech patterns. If you didn’t recognize their importance, he was certain they would be happy to tell you. David stood out like a defiant third finger. He smiled, recognizing his own power to challenge theirs simply by being himself.

Just last night his sister had phoned from the States for her weekly check-in, and Mam had gone off about what was happening to working people as the rich got richer and more powerful across the world. Trisha told them of the latest craze in the states, a new TV series called Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous that was surging in popularity. It was the 1980s, Dad reminded them, and the power of elites was ascendant. You only had to look about to see the re-emergence of the fur coats that no one would wear in the socially concerned 1970s. Dad was on a tear. "The resurgence of unregulated capitalism and the conspicuous consumption raging across the Western world is worrying, of course. The rich are in for astounding good times, judging by the victories of conservative politicians like Mrs. Thatcher in 1979, American President Ronald Reagan in early 1981, and West German Chancellor Helmut Kohl in 1982. But a body’d be daft not to notice what’s happening in this country with all the slackers living off the dole and not lifting a finger to better their lives!" His face was ruddy with emotion. Of course, he made an exception for his son being on the dole.

Sometimes his parents’ knowledge of politics awed David. They were working people, supporters of the Tories, and they paid attention. He listened to them carrying on about the working class leaning on the government for assistance and then wasting the money they got from our pockets to purchase knock-offs of Armani suits and Louis Vuitton shoes that cost a thousand pounds, which they found outrageous!

David loved to watch them play off each other’s arguments, most recently when Mam’s brother Jamie called from Canada the night before David left and had the temerity to criticize Mrs. Thatcher. The pulse in Dad’s forehead was pounding like a drum.

Maggie Thatcher’s the best Prime Minister we’ve had in decades, she is. She’ll put the whole country to rights and make all these lazy slackers get off their duffs and get a job! Dad had said.

Not all of us working people behave like that, Mam had replied. Mam’s face was red and her eyes shot sparks. You’ve got an example in your own house of a right hardworking young man who’s not been able to locate work.

Uncle Jamie had reminded them that working folk like them couldn’t afford to go on like this on international phone calls or they’d have no money for porridge, never mind expensive shoes. They’d all laughed at that and said their quick goodbyes. It was one of the things he loved most about his family, their ability to laugh at themselves even when their political passions were noisily engaged. Ah, he did love them!

The stewardess called for general boarding now. He crammed his canvas duffel bag into the overhead bin before sliding into his window seat. His going off to work for Mr. Bailey, who was obviously a most prosperous man, had pleased his parents, who practiced a kind of deference toward the financially successful. He smiled at the disconnect between their respect for the moneyed class and disrespect for laboring people who weren’t laboring. Then, exhausted by two days driving to and from London, he crashed into sleep.

When he arrived in Malta, David went straight to the marina where hundreds of posh yachts were tied up and where his brother had told him he could always find cheap lodging.

There was The Welsh Falcon tied up at the pier. There were crewmen from all over the world, it seemed, and all the languages they were speaking reminded him of the Tower of Babel. He located the captain of The Welsh Falcon and presented him with his papers, including a note Charles Bailey had brought out to his secretary just before David left his office in London. Give this to the chief mate, he’d instructed, passing it to David. He’ll take care of you. David’s stomach was flip-flopping as he followed the captain onto the boat. He was entering a new world cut off from the family and locations that had nourished him. Too late to reconsider, he thought. He stepped onto the gangplank, the wind whipping his long hair across his face so that for a moment he couldn’t see where he was going. Little did he know that he was unwittingly entering the pages of history.

Chapter 2

January 15, 1984: Brian Baker let the hot shower pummel his tired body overlong. He had to think, and this was his most private place to do so. His skin turned red and redder and still he remained there, the fury of the scalding water pounding him into submission, forcing him to focus on serious problem solving.

Brian had rarely been forced to do anything. He was his mother’s youngest and only son and resembled her with his dark Greek good looks and charming smile. By contrast Brian’s very English father, a don at Cambridge in mathematics, was always serious, like so many in his generation. They had attended the best universities in the U.K., each boasting long lists chiseled into their hallowed walls of those who perished in The Great War and World War II. When you belonged to the generation that just missed being artillery fodder by accident of birth, taking life seriously was a default response.

Not so Brian’s generation, Love Children of the Sixties. Many of his classmates had abandoned all responsibility for leadership. They figured what with nuclear weapons, Cold War and genocides, there was little chance human beings would get it right. They might as well party on. If the likelihood of a better tomorrow had burned up in the Blitzkrieg, in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, or in the ovens of Auschwitz and Dachau, they might as well go up in smoke burning tobacco and weed.

Brian’s father drew the opposite lesson from the history that had played out across the world during his childhood. He dedicated himself to the Never Again philosophy and worked furiously and silently at it. His wife and children paid the tab for his over-commitment, and each of them resented it and him.

Brian turned the shower tap back to a gentle drizzle.