by Nick Elliott
‘Never.’
‘Well then, the battery’s flat. And doesn’t she have a landline?’
‘You don’t understand. She is very organised. Would not let it go flat. She doesn’t know where I am. She will be worried about me. And no, she does not have landline yet. She has applied for one. It takes time.’
‘Let’s wait until we get to our destination shall we?’ suggested the Admiral. ‘I can assure you, our people in Vienna will have been in touch with her and she’ll be fine.’
He had told him this once already and Valdis, having slept, seemed to accept it – for now at least.
‘Why all this way by boat?’ I asked. ‘Road would have been quicker.’
‘And riskier. We’re pretty inconspicuous on the water. And we don’t have to change transport. We’ll do that from Ruhnu.’
‘Where is Ruhnu? Is there an airfield there?’
‘Yes. It’s an Estonian island out in the Gulf. I wanted to get us out of Latvia. Ruhnu’s a safe place to make the transfer. From there it’ll be a long flight back.’
‘Where are we heading?’
‘Scotland, old boy. Where else?’
We reached the island shortly after nine in the morning. The coxswain tied the boat up to a pontoon just beyond the ferry berth and we stepped ashore to be met by a large, bearded individual who introduced himself as Sven. ‘I’m your pilot,’ he announced. ‘I’m from Sweden.’
Sven had thoughtfully brought along a cooler box containing sandwiches stuffed with cheese, ham, caviar, tomatoes, cucumber and accompanied by a spread he called messmör.
‘It’s Norwegian,’ he said, ‘but don’t let that put you off.’
It didn’t. It was the best food I’d tasted since leaving the Electra M. We’d landed on the southern tip of the island and Sven had parked his plane nearby at that end of the airstrip. So it was only a fifteen minute walk from the pontoon where we’d landed. We were in Estonia and I was relieved to be out of Latvian jurisdiction. I allowed myself to relax a bit. Now I could smell the pine resin. Was this the beginning of the end of the ordeal? Would the Admiral shield us from further risks? I looked at Valdis. He was visibly calmer. That fifteen minutes was the furthest either of us had walked since our incarceration.
Sven took the little plane up steeply over the heavily wooded island before making a left turn west and out into the Baltic. Surely now we’d left the dead hand of the GRU behind us. As if reading my thoughts I heard Valdis saying to the Admiral: ‘Thank you, my friend. Now we are safe.’
The Pilatus Porter’s range was more than enough to reach the Scottish coast and as I looked out of the window at the choppy waters below I thought of my last visit there many years before. I’d lived with my uncle and aunt in Leith from the age of eight after my parents and sister had been killed in a landslide in Hong Kong, where my father was a marine police officer. Scotland had been my home for ten years or so before I’d gone to sea. My uncle and aunt were both dead now, so I’d had little reason to go back.
‘Why Scotland?’ I asked the Admiral, who was sitting next to me.
He looked forward to the cockpit but Sven was preoccupied with flying the plane and couldn’t hear us anyway above the noise of the engine.
‘It’s the nearest point in the UK to where we’re coming from. So I’ve arranged a meeting there to take stock – discuss the way forward.’
At a cruising speed of just 230 knots, the flight seemed to go on for ever. The seats were uncomfortable too, though that didn’t stop us sleeping.
But I woke suddenly, my heart thumping as my mind tried to make sense of what was happening. The plane was both rolling and diving at once. I could see lights flashing and hear alarms buzzing in the cockpit. Sven was shouting and from outside came the clearly audible scream of a jet engine. I stared out of the window to see a plane above us, red star markings clear on its wings and tail.
‘Fockin’ MiGs! Foxhounds!’ yelled Sven. ‘They’re buzzing us. We’re getting wake vortex off them! Check seatbelts and hold on!’
The plane continued to dive, levelling out just above the waves. From the window I could see oil rigs off to my left.
‘How many MiGs?’ the Admiral called.
‘Two.’
‘Are they attacking?’
‘You could say that!’ yelled Sven.
‘I mean are they trying to bring us down?’
‘Dunno, but they’ll have a job now. No way can they fly this low.’
‘Where are we?’
‘Hundred and fifty miles west of the Danish coast.’
‘We need to contact RAF Lossiemouth,’ called the Admiral. ‘Get some Tornadoes out here.’
I struggled forward to speak with Sven myself. ‘RAF Lossiemouth? Can we contact them?’
He had steadied the aircraft but the MiGs were still visible above us. I could see one of the pilots clearly. He wasn’t giving us a friendly wave either.
‘Already on their way. Look.’ He pointed to a screen. ‘This is data relayed from ground radar. It’s coming from Lossiemouth. Shows four aircraft approaching. Fast!’
I crouched behind him, staring at the screen as the aircraft moved closer. Then I looked up as the MiG on our starboard side suddenly banked and veered off and away. From where we were, it was all over in less than a minute, as if it had never happened.
Sven was sweating. ‘Jesus! I’ve heard of Quick Reaction Alert but that was something.’
‘Did you see the RAF planes?’
‘They’re still with us, Tornados. Four of them, above and either side. Look.’
Kneeling and craning my neck, I peered up out of the cockpit windscreen. Valdis and the Admiral had no such view from their seats, obstructed by the high wing of the Porter, but from here I could see the sky above us and two of the Tornados. Sven was busy talking to them over the radio. When he stopped I tapped his shoulder.
‘And the MiGs?’
‘Gone. Both of them. And we’ll never know whether they were trying to bring us down, turn us back or just scare the shit out of us.’
I moved back to update Valdis and the Admiral.
‘Our GRU friends,’ said the Admiral, ‘rogue or otherwise, would seem to have some clout even up here.’
‘Bastards!’ said Valdis with feeling.
Chapter 17
North Berwick, Scotland
8-9 June 1999
We landed at East Fortune, once home to a First and then a Second World War airfield that had since been transformed into a flight museum. Neither of us had passports, and having gone through a perfunctory customs and immigration check in an old and damp concrete hut some way off the runway, we walked out past a decommissioned delta wing RAF bomber parked on the apron outside a hangar. It reminded me of the giant manta rays we used to see breaching off the Mexican coast.
‘One of two surviving Vulcans to have engaged the enemy in those hair-raising Black Buck missions,’ the Admiral announced. ‘They flew them down to Ascension, then on to the Falklands with in-air refuelling along the way. Bombed Port Stanley airfield, but to be honest those raids weren’t terribly effective. And this particular old bird caused an international incident when it had to divert to Brazil. You can see both mission markings and a Brazilian flag painted on the nose.’
‘Why weren’t they effective?’ I asked.
‘Because they weren’t intended for that kind of work. They were part of the V-force, the backbone of our airborne nuclear deterrent during the Cold War. And for the most part they were armed with nuclear weapons. Theirs was more of a high-altitude strategic role to patrol over Europe. Bet you didn’t know that, did you, Valdis.’
‘Of course I knew,’ he said winking at me. ‘It was our job to know everything you were doing.’
‘Humbug!’ the Admiral grunted. ‘I bet you didn’t know that you could roll those beasts either.’
‘Impossible!’
‘No. One was famously rolled back in 1955 by Avro’s chief test pilot. His n
ame was “Rolly” Falk. He received a sound bollocking of course from the Avro directors but they were secretly delighted.’ We all laughed. Anything unrelated to the events we’d just left behind brought on a sense of elation.
From the airfield we were taken in a black unmarked Ford eastwards along the backroads of East Lothian until we reached the coast.
‘Welcome to Gin Head,’ declared the Admiral with satisfaction and a note of relief at having finally brought us to our destination in one piece. ‘You’ve never heard of this place and you’d be well advised to forget you were ever here. It was used as an early warning station to alert the RAF to incoming enemy aircraft. Not any more though.’
On the face of it, it was just a long-abandoned collection of grey, nondescript concrete huts, albeit on a spectacular clifftop site overlooking the North Sea. But I didn’t want to spoil things for the Admiral, whose guided tour would have been a credit to any estate agent.
‘This place allowed the RAF to scramble fighters to the exact areas under attack; that’s why the RAF always appeared to be in the right place at the right time. The Luftwaffe never recognised its importance. And the “Window” technique was developed here too: dropping bundles of aluminium from an aircraft which would deflect enemy radar signals and jam their stations. Owned by BAE nowadays but we still have our own safe house here.’
‘So it was used in the Cold War?’ Valdis asked.
‘Ah, well. That’s “need to know”, old chap. But put it this way, you’re not the first guest from the Eastern Bloc to pass through these doors.’
By this point he’d taken us down steps into what looked like an underground bunker but once inside, turned out to be a modern, well-furnished apartment with a lounge, dining room, kitchen and three ensuite bedrooms, all of which faced east onto the North Sea. Items of neatly folded clothing were laid out in two of the bedrooms, their labels still attached and a pair of scissors provided to remove them.
An attractive, petite blonde in her early thirties stepped into the room. She was wearing a white lab coat, unbuttoned the way doctors do when wanting to appear professional and busy, but casual at the same time.
‘Ah, Doctor, come and meet our guests,’ effused the Admiral. ‘Gentlemen, this is Dr Kirstin Mackenzie. And she wants to give you each a thorough examination. Also, she’s very kindly been shopping for you.’
‘I hope the clothes fit,’ she said. ‘I was up in Edinburgh for ages yesterday. Not used to buying for men, and the Admiral was very approximate in his description of you both. I’d like to have a look at Mr Ozols first if I may – now. You look as if you’ll live,’ she added, addressing me.
We left Valdis in her care and went back into the living area.
‘Valdis and I need to have a hush-hush session tomorrow, Angus. You should take yourself off somewhere. It’s a beautiful coast and you’ve got North Berwick just down the road.’
‘I could do with a break. I don’t like being cooped up.’
‘I can understand that.’
It was another hour before Valdis and the doctor emerged from the bedroom.
‘Your turn,’ she said in a brusque tone of voice.
When we were in the bedroom I asked her how Valdis was. ‘Considering his age and what he’s been through, pretty good. He’s got a strong heart and he’s not overweight, which helps enormously. Now, take your clothes off.’
‘If you like.’
‘Don’t get cheeky. Just down to your underwear.’
After she’d finished she asked, ‘How are you feeling – mentally I mean, in yourself?’ I realised now why she’d taken so long with Valdis. She was as interested in how our minds had fared as much as our bodies.
‘Fine. But I need to get out of here for a bit, breathe the air of freedom. Valdis has a private session with the Admiral tomorrow so I’ll take myself off somewhere. I don’t feel like I’m quite back to real life yet.’
‘I see. Well, maybe I can arrange something.’
‘I’d appreciate that.’
‘How about I pick you up at ten tomorrow morning?’
That evening the Admiral insisted on updating us with what had been going on in the world while we’d been incarcerated: in particular, developments in the Balkans, where Serbia was now at war with Kosovo, and Yeltsin’s firing of his prime minister, Yevgeny Primakov, in the latest convulsion of his presidency. Within minutes Valdis was slumped in his wing chair, snoring loudly.
Having slept like the dead myself, I awoke to the sound of gulls screeching outside my bedroom window as they performed their aerial acrobatics against a clear pink and blue sky. It was a beautiful late spring morning and the sun, as it rose over the sea, streamed into the room. To my right was Tantallon Castle, the often besieged and now ruined fourteenth-century fortress of the earls of Angus. To my left was the Bass Rock, the gannets already swarming over the vertical cliff faces of the volcanic rock, up north from their overwintering in Africa.
I was free, and it felt good. And I could look forward to a day out with a beautiful woman. She picked me up in a little sports car and, with the hood down, we drove into North Berwick. I looked across at her as she drove, her hair blown wildly by the wind. She was smiling, aware of my attention.
She parked next to the Lodge, a meadow-like park sloping down to the town and the seafront. We ate fish and chips and walked along the beach, talking and laughing.
‘My parents keep a house here. We’d always come down for our summer holidays. Now I get to use it if I’m working at Gin Head.’
‘Is that often?’
No, maybe two or three times a year, but it can be for days or sometimes weeks at a stretch.’
‘MoD?’
‘Yes, and more than that I cannot say so don’t be so nosy. Come on, I’ll show you my wee place.’
It was an Edwardian terraced house right on the seafront. ‘These places fetch the earth now but it was nothing special when my parents bought it. They’ve done a lot to it over the years though.’
It was crammed with an eclectic mix of furnishings, ornaments and art, much of it from far-off places and all tastefully arranged. It seemed a lot more than just a holiday home.
‘How about a wee drink to celebrate your freedom?’
‘Great idea. What have you got there?’ She was pulling a bottle of champagne out of the fridge.
‘Taittinger do? I’ve been saving it for a special occasion but I never expected to be entertaining a bosun! Are you married to the sea? What’s your plan after you’ve done whatever it is you have to do?’
‘Here, give me that,’ I said, helpfully reaching for the bottle.
‘What! Do you think I can’t open a bottle of bubbly? God, you’ve been at sea a long time.’ She skilfully eased the cork out and poured.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, taking the glass from her. ‘No, I’m not married to the sea. In fact, I’m not planning to go back.’
‘So what are you planning?’
‘Not sure. Maybe set up a little claims business in Greece. I know some shipowners in Piraeus.’
‘Sounds boring.’
I laughed. I found I was laughing quite a lot in her company. ‘How about you?’
‘I didn’t fancy life as a GP so I did an ACCS acute care programme: intensive care, anaesthetics, trauma and paediatrics – that kind of thing. That took me into the military and from there into more sensitive stuff with the MOD, like what I’m doing now. Oh, and I’ve been doing quite a few EMRS jobs, mostly off North Sea oil rigs and some of the isles and remote rural places.’
‘What’s EMRS?’
‘Emergency Medical Retrieval Service - medevacs to you. That’s about it in a nutshell.’
‘I’m impressed. And you are the most beautiful doctor I’ve ever encountered.’
‘Is that because all the others have been men?’
She was laughing again. I finished the glass, put it on the table and moved closer to her.
‘You know, ever since I examined
you I could tell what was on your mind.’
‘Is that why you invited me here?’
‘Maybe,’ she said playfully. ‘Shall we finish this upstairs then?’
Slowly, standing at the foot of the bed, she began taking off her clothes. First she undid her tight shirt, button by button, taking her time. Underneath she had on a skimpy black bra.
‘Give me a hand,’ she said and pulled me towards her. We kissed as I undid her bra and she began pulling my shirt undone.
‘You know, I’ve never invited anyone back here. Never. And I’m not sure whether to feel guilty or just excited.’
We fell back onto the bed together.
Chapter 18
North Berwick – Leuchars RAF base, Scotland
10-11 June 1999
We stood at the lounge window looking out across the North Sea. Four large tankers were anchored a few miles offshore. ‘Waiting for orders,’ the Admiral stated. ‘They load North Sea crude at BP’s Hound Point terminal up by the bridges.’
‘Interesting,’ I said. He was a mine of information and enjoyed sharing it. ‘But I’d like to know what happens next. It’s hardly begun, has it?’
‘No, it hasn’t, but we have good news. We’ve made contact with Valdis’s daughter. They’ve spoken at some length. She’s in Vienna. And as we expected, she is well. She’ll be meeting us when we get there.’
‘That’s where we’re going, is it? Was there a problem?’ I wondered if this was more of a family reunion than an assignment.
‘She just didn’t know what had happened to him. How could she? We tracked her down via one of our embassy people, who visited her apartment. The old man was much relieved to hear from her. And there’s another reason, which we’ll get to when he joins us. But I need to put something to you first, Angus. You no doubt know far more than you should about our dealings with Valdis. And naturally, we shall be asking you to sign the Official Secrets Act at some point. However, you are under no obligation to continue your involvement in this matter. You are not a servant of the British government and we can release you from any commitments or responsibilities you may feel that you have. We can get you back to Greece or wherever it is you wish to go, and that will be that.’