by Craig Thomas
"You really believe all that?" she said at last. Her composure, her closed-minded prejudices, had reasserted themselves. "Christ, the perfect functionary!"
"My God, but you're stupid —"
Tricia's been frightened out of her mind — don't you realise that?" the girl shouted at him. "Before her father disappeared, she was depressed, moody, frightened. Then she left — just like that. She hadn't slept a wink the night before. Doesn't that make any impression on you?"
"Was she frightened when you saw her two days ago?"
"Fuck off, clever sod."
Both of them were breathing hard. Only the wind, moaning more loudly round the building, offered a larger perspective than the cramped hothouse of the small room. The girl's face was implacable.
Hyde stood up, then crossed swiftly to her, clamping his hand over her mouth, holding her wrists in his other hand. He pushed her flat on the bed, kneeling beside her.
"You know what's coming now, darling. You" ve imagined it, talked about it, often enough. You're Blair Peach, love — you're a Black in Detroit, you're Steve Biko. I'm untouchable, darling. It'll be an accident." He could feel spittle on his palm, and sweat, and her eyes were wide with terror. "Everything you" ve ever thought about the pigs is true. Now you're going to find out."
Then he released her, moved away, sat down. The girl wiped at her mouth, rubbed her wrists. When she found her voice, she coughed out his eternal damnation.
"Sorry," he said. "You would have told me. Your eyes were already regretting your earlier bravado." His voice was calm, casual, unemotional. "We both know that. Tricia would tell them even quicker, even though it was her father."
"For God's sake — " the girl began, but there seemed nothing she could add.
"Yes. You're right again. She came here, didn't she?"
"She bloody didn't!" He knew, with an empty feeling, that it was true. The girl appeared hurt and useless. She'd have helped — lied, hidden Tricia, given her money, taken on the pigs, anything. But Tricia Quin hadn't even asked. Hyde felt sorry. Useless energy and emotion slopped around in Sara Morrison, mere ballast for a pointless journey.
"I'm sorry about that. Tell me where she might be, then?" On an impulse, he added: "Her mother mentioned she hung out with a rock band a couple of summers ago — pot, groupie-ing, the whole naughty bag. Any news on that?"
"Those dinosaurs," the girl remarked, glancing up at the Two-Tone group posturing down at her.
"Them?" he asked, looking up. The girl laughed.
"You remember a band called Heat of the Day?"
"Yes. I liked them."
"You're old enough." The girl had slipped into another skin, represented by half of the posters on the wall, and by the cassette tapes on one of the shelves, next to a huge radio with twin speakers. Something an astronaut might have used to contact the earth from deep space. The girl was now a pop music aficionado, and he someone with parental tastes. Hyde had wondered which way the retreat into shock would take her. It looked more promising than other possible routes, but it would not last long. Eventually, she would be unable to disguise from herself the threat he represented.
"I thought they disbanded."
"They did. You don't read Melody Maker any more, obviously."
"Nor Rolling Stone. My age." He invited her to smile, but she did not respond. She did not look at him now, merely at her hands in her lap. She might have been drugged, or meditating.
"They're back together — on tour. I remember Tricia was interested."
"How did she get in with them, originally?"
"The lead singer, Jon Alletson, was in school with her brother — the one who emigrated to Canada."
"Would she have gone to them by any chance, would she still be in touch with them?"
Sara's face closed into a shrunken, cunning mask. "I wouldn't know," she said, and Hyde knew the conversation was at an end. In another minute, it would be police brutality, threats of legal action. He stood up. The girl flinched.
Thanks," he said. Take care."
He closed the door quietly behind him, hunger nibbling at his stomach, a vague excitement sharp in his chest. Rock supergroup? Friend of her brother? Perhaps the girl knew she was being chased round and round the garden, and had gone to earth where she would be welcomed and wouldn't be looked for, amid the electronic keyboards and yelling guitars and pounding drums, the hysteria and the noise and the cannabis and the young. In that thicket, she would recognise her enemies, from either side, with ease.
It might just be —
* * *
Tedium, anger, even anxiety, were all now conspiring to overpower caution. Aubrey felt within himself a surprising violence of reaction to his hour-long tour of the "Chessboard Counter" room and operation. The broaching of Proteus's diversion to the Tanafjord proved the sticking point, broke the camel's back of his discretion. Perhaps, he reasoned with himself, it was the blasé, confident, aloof manner in which the monitoring action on the stricken Russian submarine was explained that so infuriated him. But images of Quin, with their attendant fears, and the pervasive odour of a possible trap, conspired to assist the wearing of his patience. Clark, too, seemed to be waiting for his cue; expecting Aubrey to make some decisive move, influence events.
And the smoothly running, almost mechanical individuals in the room; the obtrusive freemasonry of serving officers. The sterile hangar of the room; his own sense of himself regarded, at best, as the man from the Pru. He could no longer keep silence, or content himself with brief, accommodating smiles and innocuous questions. The excuse that he merely sought enlightenment regarding Quin's project became transparent in its flimsiness; insupportable. Even so, the vehemence evident to himself, and to Pyott and the others, in his voice when his temper finally broke through, surprised him.
"Giles, what do you hope to gain from this monitoring action?" he snapped. He waved his hand dismissively at the huge map-board.
"Our northern security is in question here, Kenneth," Pyott replied in surprise, his nostrils narrowed to slits, the tip of his nose whitened with supressed anger at Aubrey's tone. "Surely you can see that?"
"It is a point of view."
"Kenneth, you are not an expert —"
"No, this distress call, now. You don't suspect its genuineness?"
"Good Lord, no."
"What about you, Captain Clark?"
"Not really. I just don't think the matter's important enough to risk “Leopard”." He looked up at the cluster of lights on the board. They seemed to have one centre, where the wavering arrow of the light indicator being operated by Pyott demonstrated Proteus's position.
"Ah. Now, my immediate reaction, employing my own peculiar expertise, would be to suspect the distress call. I would need proof that it was genuine."
"We" ve identified the submarine concerned," the commodore explained brusquely. "We have triple checked. I don't think the matter is in doubt." He looked to Pyott for support, and received it in an emphatic shake of the head.
Aubrey was intensely aware of the opposition of the two officers. They represented an opposite pole of interests. Also, they were in some way legitimised by their uniforms. Third Murderer again, he observed to himself.
"I see. It would still be my starting point."
"What would be the object of an elaborate deception, in this case?" Pyott drawled.
"“Leopard.”"
"Good Lord, you're surely not serious —?"
"How would you react to the recall of Proteus until this chap Quin is found?"
"Utter nonsense!"
"The two matters haven't the slightest connection with one another Kenneth."
"Great idea."
"Ah. You would support such a move, Captain Clark?"
"I would." Pyott looked pained by a spasm of indigestion, the commodore appeared betrayed.
"I do really think it's dangerous, risking “Leopard” in this way without having Quin safe and sound."
"You made that point weeks
ago, Kenneth. Try another record."
"Giles, the KGB have started killing, such is their interest in Quin. Am I to rate his importance any lower — or that of his project?" Aubrey pointed up at the map, then indicated the rest of the room and its occupants. "Who else is looking into this distress call?"
"It's our show."
"Your work here is important, even if I consider it precipitate. But this present adventure — Giles, what can you possibly gain?"
Aubrey saw the answer in Pyott's eyes before the man spoke.
"Kenneth, I am at liberty to inform you — you, too, Clark — that this present adventure, as you term it, has a highest category security tag on it."
"For a distress call?"
"For Proteus's mission," Pyott explained quietly and fiercely. Aubrey guessed at the nature of the mission, and was appalled. It was what he had suspected he might hear, if he needled Pyott sufficiently, and what he had wished devoutly not to hear. "The mission has been code-named —"
"You mean it's another, and extreme, sea trial for the “Leopard” system, Giles?"
"Why, yes," Pyott admitted, somewhat deflated.
"What in hell —?"
"Excuse me, Captain Clark. Giles, you mean that approval has been given to sail Proteus almost into Soviet home waters, merely to prove the efficacy of the anti-sonar system?"
"That's it precisely."
"My God, Giles, it's lunacy. Playing games. You have put the system, the submarine, her crew, at risk, just to score extra marks in the examination. It is nonsense, and furthermore, dangerous nonsense!" He studied Pyott's face, which was colouring with anger, and then the commodore. An identical, undented confidence.
"What is Proteus's ETA in the Tanafjord?"
Pyott smiled thinly. "I see no harm in telling you, Kenneth. Disregarding changes of course and speed, we estimate sixteen to eighteen hours. Some time early tomorrow morning, GMT."
"Giles, what intelligence do you have from the Norwegians?"
"They" ve backed off, fortunately."
"Aerial surveillance?"
"We have some confirmation — infra-red, naturally. We" ve more or less pinpointed the Russian boat."
"It is just an excuse, isn't it, Giles?"
Pyott shrugged, expansively; self-deprecation and dismissal featured jointly in the gesture of his shoulders and hands.
"It is an important — crucial — NATO exercise. A sea trial, as I explained. It cannot be described as an excuse."
Aubrey paused for a moment, then he said quietly and distinctly: "Giles — Giles, I am deeply sorry about this, but I must act." His throat seemed tight, and he coughed to clear it before adding, "Everything I have seen today, every instinct in my body, tells me to act." In his turn, he shrugged; a smaller, more apologetic movement. There is no justifiable reason for this mission which outweighs its inherent risks to men, boat, or security. I have no other choice."
"You'll never obtain authority to override StratAn, MoD and NATO."
"I do not need to. This intelligence mission is on the point of going critical. I shall, therefore, invoke an ETNA order. I shall apply to the foreign secretary to make Proteus's mission an SIS operation, and then I shall cancel it and recall the submarine."
Pyott was almost visibly shaking with fury. When Aubrey finished speaking, the silence of the huge room pressed in upon the tight group beneath the map; silence lapping against them like waves.
"Be damned to you, Aubrey," Pyott said at last. "I'll oppose you every inch of the way."
Aubrey regarded him for a moment. There was nothing conciliatory he could say, no palliative he even wished to offer. He said, "It should not take long. I expect to return later this afternoon with the appropriate authority — authority to stop this foolish school prefects" prank!"
Chapter Four: CLOSING
"Kenneth — I'm with the minister now."
"Yes, Richard." Cunningham had called him on a scrambled line direct from the Foreign Office.
"Your request for special status — the ETNA order —"
Aubrey grasped at Cunningham's hesitation. "C" would have talked to one of the ministers of state, and undoubtedly to the Foreign Secretary directly after lunch. As a Permanent Under-Secretary, the director of the intelligence service could command such immediate access, as might Aubrey himself, whose civil service rank was Deputy Under-Secretary. However, Cunningham had chosen to represent Aubrey's case himself, and alone. It appeared he had failed to convince the politicans.
"Yes, Richard?" Aubrey repeated, prompting his superior.
The Secretary of State has agreed to your request. The Admiralty has been informed of the decision. “Chessboard Counter” is, as of three-fifteen this afternoon, an SIS intelligence operation."
Aubrey's sigh of relief must have been audible to Cunningham. "Thank you, Richard," he said. He wanted to know more, disliked having been kept waiting upon events. "I'm sure you were most persuasive."
"I think we might say that the moment was opportune," Cunningham drawled. Aubrey understood. The Secretary of State, for his own reasons, had perceived and employed a means of impressing his authority upon another ministry. "Your authorisation will be waiting for you here. I suggest you come over right away."
* * *
They knew, and they resented him. Each and every one of the "Chessboard Counter" team, with the exception of Ethan Clark, met his entry to the underground room with silence and a carved hostility of expression. One tight group stood beneath the map-board, Pyott and the commodore were at the latter's desk, standing as if posed for some official portrait which recaptured the aloofness and distance of ancestral oils; the communications and computer operators had their backs to him not so much in gainful employment, more in some communal snub.
Aubrey went immediately to the desk, shedding his dark overcoat, taking off his hat. Man from the Pru, he reminded himself, and the image amused rather than belittled him.
"Gentlemen — I'm sorry."
"We're not simply going to lie down under this —" Pyott began, waving Aubrey's written authorisation, but Aubrey raised his hand. At the edge of his vision, Clark was moving towards them, triumphantly.
"I'm sorry gentlemen, the time for discussion is past. I regret having usurped your authority, but “Chessboard Counter” is now my responsibility. And I expect your co-operation." His voice was heavy with interrogation. The commodore appeared, strangely, more reluctant than Pyott. It was the soldier who finally spoke. Clark hovered a few yards away.
"Very well, Aubrey, you shall have our co-operation. The damage you have done today to NATO's security, and to the good relations between the various intelligence branches, is something that will only emerge with time." He paused, his lips smirking. "I shall make every effort to see that this matter is fully and properly investigated."
"I expect nothing less, Giles. When the time is right." Aubrey smiled; challenge and sadness in the expression. Then he turned to Clark. "Captain Clark, our first priority —" His voice invited the American into conference with himself and the two senior officers, "is to recall the Proteus."
"That, I'm afraid, is impossible," the commodore remarked bluntly. Aubrey realised he had been mistaken. The posed and still expressions had not expressed resentment, not in Pyott and the commodore. Rather, the closed, secret blankness of card players. They did not consider themselves beaten.
"Why, pray?" Aubrey asked frostily.
"Proteus is observing the strictest radio silence until the mission is completed and she has returned to a position off North Cape. Only then will she transmit, and be able to receive."
"Sorry, Kenneth," Pyott added. "I omitted to tell you before. It's quite true what the commodore says — no communications facility exists between ourselves and Proteus."
Inwardly, Aubrey was furious, but his face retained an icy control. "I see," he said. "Impossible?"
"Not quite," Clark remarked quietly at Aubrey's shoulder. The old man looked round and up into the Ameri
can's face. It was gleaming with satisfaction, with the sense of outwitting the two senior British officers. Clark was working out his private grudge.
"Go on," Aubrey prompted.
"Proteus has pre-determined listening out times. She could be reached then. With a hydrophonic buoy."
"Dropped from an aircraft, you mean?"
"Yes. One of your Nimrods. Highest priority code, continuous frequency-agile transmission. An unbroken, one-time code. Just tell Proteus to get the hell out."
The commodore appeared deflated. Pyott was merely angry, but he kept silent.
"I want to look at the state of play," Aubrey said with gusto, as if he had come into an inheritance and was about to be shown over the property. "Ethan, come along. Giles —?"
Pyott shrugged, and followed. The group of young officers beneath the huge map-board dispersed a little. They sensed that Aubrey had won. They had been betrayed by the American who had opened the judas-gate into the castle. The enemy was amongst them; they had been routed.
Aubrey looked up, then turned to Clark and Pyott: "Well? Where is she?"
"About here." Clark flashed on the light-indicator's arrow. A cluster of lights surrounded it, very bright like falling meteors.
Those lights are all Soviet vessels, I take it?" Aubrey asked in a quiet voice.
"Right."
"Explain them to me."
Now the arrow dabbed at each of the lights as Clark talked.
"These positions haven't been updated for three hours — we have another hour before the satellite comes over the horizon and we can pick up transmission of the current picture. This is the carrier Kiev, the pride of the fleet. She's changed course three times, the last one took her from here to here —" Southwards. "She was heading west. These two are “Kashin”-class destroyers, they left Pechenga yesterday. These three are ELINT vessels, probably spy-ships rigged as trawlers, but they're not with fishing fleets — they" ve change course, here to here — " Southwards and eastwards. "This, according to some very bad satellite photography yesterday is a rescue ship, the Karpaty. She left Murmansk a couple of days ago. Why she's in the area, I wouldn't know. It may not even be her, could be another ELINT vessel, but a big one. And there are the submarines — " The arrow dabbed now at spot after spot of light. "Hunter-killers, every one."