Contents
About the Author
Also by Geoffrey Archer
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Copyright
About the Author
Geoffrey Archer is the former Defence and Diplomatic Correspondent for ITN’s News at Ten. His work as a frontline broadcaster has provided him with the deep background for his thrillers – the bestselling Skydancer, Shadow Hunter, Eagle Trap, Scorpion Trail, Java Spider, Fire Hawk, The Lucifer Network and The Burma Legacy. A keen traveller, he now writes full time and lives with his wife and family in Surrey.
Also by Geoffrey Archer
Skydancer
Eagle Trap
Scorpion Trail
Java Spider
Fire Hawk
The Lucifer Network
The Burma Legacy
Dark Angel
Shadow Hunter
Geoffrey Archer
To Eva, Alison and James,
for their encouragement
CHAPTER ONE
Wednesday 16th October.
THE RESTAURANT WAS Greek. Kebabs and non-stick rice, washed down with retsina. Plymouth had a dozen like it; the evening trade was good in a navy town.
The watchers sat outside in a car, wishing they were inside so they could catch something of what the man and woman said to each other, but there’d been no spare table.
For a week, the two men from Special Branch had been shadowing the big blond man who claimed to be Swedish. The man had chatted up a young submariner in a pub, asking questions about nuclear propulsion that were too intelligent to be casual.
Up to now there’d been nothing; a dreary circuit of bars and dockside dives. Sometimes the man had drunk alone, just looking at faces. Sometimes he’d feigned drunkenness and joined in the raucous banter of the sailors, but there’d been nothing they could call a contact.
Clearly the man was searching. But for what? Information? Secrets? Or just companionship?
For most of the week the Swede had stayed in cheap lodgings. Then, that morning, he’d gone up-market – checked into the Holiday Inn. The receptionist had welcomed him as a regular client.
Now he’d met a women, a classy one at that, judging by the way she dressed. Someone else’s wife, they’d guessed. She’d come separately to the restaurant, kissing him as she sat down. They’d been given a table by the window, easily visible from the watchers’ car.
‘If this job had been important, they’d have given us the gear and we could hear what Blondie’s saying,’ one of the watchers grumbled.
‘Don’t need to hear it,’ the other replied. ‘He’s talking dirty. That’s what the hotel room’s for.’
Nearly ninety minutes passed. Concentration was flagging.
‘Hey, look!’ one of the policemen snapped. The woman was agitated. She was clutching her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking.
‘She’s blubbing.’
They saw the Swede grab her hand but she pulled it away.
‘Talking too dirty, you reckon?’
‘Hang on! She’s moving.’
The woman stood up, then scrabbled on the floor for her bag. The man reached out, trying to pull her back. He glanced round, embarrassed.
The door opened and the woman ran into the street. Disoriented at first, she pulled a handkerchief from her bag and dabbed at her eyes. Then, darting a look over her shoulder, she turned right and ran down the street.
The Swede stayed inside and called hurriedly for the bill.
‘She’s got a car, look. A Golf. You follow her – I’ll take Blondie.’
The watcher closed the passenger door and slipped into the darkened entrance of a newsagent’s shop. His companion started the engine and moved off in pursuit of the woman.
Three minutes passed before the tall foreigner emerged into the street. He looked around briefly, pulled a cigarette from a pack, and lit it. For a split second his gaze rested on the doorway opposite. Hand and cigarette hovered for a moment.
Casually he turned and walked up the road, passing one pub, but pausing uncertainly outside another. The watcher was in the open now. He kept moving, knowing he’d been seen, but perhaps not yet recognized for what he was.
The Swede pushed open the door to the lounge bar. The watcher gave him a few seconds’ start then crossed the road and followed him in.
The lounge was packed. No sign of him. The policeman eased through the crush to the bar, looking all around He reached the counter and his eyes met the Swede’s, inches away, grey-blue and hard as nails.
‘Can you watch this for me? I must take a leak.’
The blond pointed to his pint of lager.
‘Sure,’ replied the watcher, unprepared.
The Swede elbowed his way to the gents’.
Did he know? Was his cover blown? The policeman dithered for just a moment too long.
He shoved through the crowd, drawing complaints and threats. Inside the toilet a cold wind blew through the wide-open window. Outside he heard a motorbike roar away.
‘Sod it!’ Blondie had been a professional after all, and he’d lost him.
* * *
Thursday 17th October.
It was weeks since Commander Andrew Tinker had worn a cap and the soft leather band felt like the steel hoop of a barrel. At sea submariners ignored naval formality, but heading back into harbour after six weeks on patrol, uniforms were brushed and smoothed, ready for the world of normal people.
‘Funny smell.’ Tinker sniffed, stepping clear of the hatch and stretching. He leaned his elbows on the edge of the tall, slim fin. The joke was an old one.
‘It’s called fresh air, sir . . . ,’ the watch officer fed the expected line.
The early morning sky was grizzled, but there was no rain. Andrew gulped at the offshore breeze, rejoicing in its scent after weeks of confinement in conditioned air. As they rounded Penlee Point into Plymouth Sound, he could taste its sweetness; his senses peeled away the layers of smell – woodsmoke, wet grass, sea-weed.
It was like being released from sensory deprivation, every nerve newly sensitized. The gentle flapping of the bridge ensign was like a whip-crack to his ears, the light wind on his face seemed to tug like a gale.
He was pale; they all were after weeks without sunlight. However, a few brisk walks on the moors would soon bring the colour back.
The conning tower stood thirty feet above the casing. Dark green water washed like liquid glass over the fat, blunt nose of the submarine and away to the sides. There was no sound, no vibration from the powerplant deep below the surface. The black shape probed and the smooth sea yielded effortlessly to its penetration. Brutal. Phallic.
Eyes fixed on the parting of the waters, his thoughts turned to sex. They could afford to now that he was going ashore. He’d learned to suppress such feelings at sea. Within hours he’d be home; Patsy would be waiting for him.
‘About forty minutes ’til we’re alongside?’
‘That’s right, sir. First line ashore at 08.00 – that’s if Truculent’s cleared the berth in time. We should see her any minute.’
The lieutenant raised a heavy pair of binoculars and focused on the distant cranes of Devonport dockyard. The towering roof of the triple drydock dominated the view. At that range the black fin of their sister ship heading for sea would be difficult to spot against the vertical lines of the harbour side.
HMS Truculent was almost identical to T
inker’s own HMS Tribune; a few pieces of equipment on board differed. Despite his eagerness to be home he envied Truculent’s captain. Commander Philip Hitchens was heading for the north Atlantic for biennial NATO exercises. This autumn the manoeuvres were being held closer to Soviet waters than ever before. Tinker enjoyed war games – stalking the massive American aircraft carriers and ‘sinking’ them with salvos of simulated torpedoes and missiles. It was a shame the patrol schedules had favoured Hitchens rather than himself. Hitchens would never admit to enjoying something as serious as war, even when it was just a game.
‘Steer two-nine-zero. Revolutions for five knots!’ Andrew ordered into the bridge microphone. They were passing north of Drake’s Island, the Hoe to their right dominated by the disused lighthouse known as Smeaton’s Tower.
‘Got her, sir! She’s just coming through the narrows.’
Andrew raised his own binoculars and followed the line set by the lieutenant. It was the Truculent, all right; and there was Phil on the bridge. The set of his head was unmistakable.
‘Great sight,’ Andrew whispered as the Truculent picked up speed towards them, bow-wave foaming.
‘The best there is,’ the young lieutenant concurred. ‘A five-thousand-ton black mistress! That’s what my girlfriend calls this beast.’
‘Jealous, is she?’
‘Hmmm. But they like to be jealous, don’t they, women?’
Andrew didn’t reply at first. He was very young, the lieutenant.
‘Planning to tie the knot, are you?’
‘No, not me. Not ready yet, sir.’
Truculent was less than half-a-mile ahead, aiming to pass a hundred yards to port. Tinker raised the binoculars again; the finely-chiselled face of Philip Hitchens stared straight ahead from the conning tower, cap pulled firmly down against the wind.
‘Come on, Phil,’ he breathed. ‘Give us a wave. You’re not making a movie!’
The two commanders had shared a ‘cabin’ at Britannia College, Dartmouth, and their careers had progressed in an undeclared spirit of competition.
It surprised Tinker they’d remained such good friends. Hitchens was so straitlaced he was a curiosity. He had breeding and style, yet often seemed overwhelmed by the responsibility of his work. His handsome features should have made him a ‘ladies’ man’, yet Andrew had never known him make a pass at another woman, despite his own wife’s questionable fidelity. Tinker found the mismatch of appearance and character intriguing.
Andrew saluted as the two black hulls passed one another silently.
‘The bugger!’ Tinker growled. ‘He’s not even acknowledging! Come on, Phil! What’s the matter with you?’
To ignore the salute of a fellow warship was very bad form in navy protocol. Tinker sharpened the focus of his binoculars. His friend of twenty years was studiously ignoring him.
‘Something we said, sir?’ the lieutenant suggested blandly.
Within the hour they were alongside the jetty in Devonport submarine base, astern of the lustrous black hull of a sister boat just out of refit. Standing on the casing ready to welcome aboard the Captain of the Second Submarine Squadron, Tinker realized how tatty his own vessel had become. The black paint had lost its sheen and there were patches on the fin where sound-absorbent tiles had pulled away, the adhesive softened by weeks of immersion. Tribune would need a spell in the dockyard before her next patrol.
‘Good morning, sir.’ He saluted briefly.
‘Morning, Andrew. Welcome home!’
Captain Norman Craig had eight nuclear-powered submarines in his squadron. He was responsible for the well-being of the boats and their crews.
‘Lovely day. Let’s get below for a chat. Won’t keep you long.’
Tinker followed him down through the hatch and into the wardroom where the stewards were pouring coffee. De-briefing was routine at the end of a patrol. The weapons and mechanical engineers would hand over reports on defective equipment so the mechanics at the shore base, HMS Defiance, could put it right. Personnel problems would be raised, and gossip exchanged, but the session was always kept brief. The members of Tribune’s crew who were due to take shore leave would want to get home.
The briefing over, the two men crossed the quay towards HMS Defiance, the Captain hurrying to keep pace with Andrew’s longer stride.
‘Patsy picking you up?’ Craig asked. Andrew looked at his watch.
‘She’ll be teaching. Home for lunch, I expect.’
‘My car can take you back if you want.’
‘You sure, sir? That’d be great.’
‘The driver can’t spend all day polishing it! It’ll give her something to do. What time do you want to leave?’
‘In about an hour? That’ll give me time to complete my paperwork.’
The black Cavalier was driven by a WRNS, a plump girl with rosy cheeks and a warm Devon accent. As she swung the car expertly out of the suburbs of Plymouth and into the country lanes, they talked of the fortunes of Plymouth Argyll football club, of which both were fans. But the more she talked the slower she drove, which grated on his nerves, so he pulled a folder from his briefcase and pretended to read.
Coming home always made him anxious, gave him a fear that his domestic life might have changed radically while he’d been away.
The lanes grew narrower as they approached the village where he and Patsy had lived for the past four years. They’d had four different homes; appointments had moved him round the country, but they’d determined to settle in the West Country. Two limestone cottages knocked together had created a home large enough. The three children were away at boarding school; eight-year-old Anthony was just experiencing his first term of separation from his parents. School had started five weeks ago, so Patsy had handled the boy’s last-minute tears on her own.
The red Devon soil glowed in the midday autumn sun. The car turned into a narrow lane and dived between banks and hedges. Soon it wound its way into the village of Yealmsford.
The vicar stepped out of the tiny post office carrying a newspaper, looked at the naval registration of the car, peered to see who it was, then waved in recognition.
He’ll be getting me to read the lesson again before long, Andrew thought. The vicar said he had a voice that made the congregation sit up and listen.
The Tinkers were well known in the village and Andrew was a celebrity. To command something ‘nuclear’ carried kudos in this part of the world.
Patsy was out. It irked him she wasn’t there to greet him. She taught in the mornings at the village primary school, but should have been home by now. He carried his small grip into the house – a submariner takes few possessions to sea.
The emptiness of the cottage alarmed him. With all the children away at school now, there were no toys littering the hall. He put his bag down and called out. No answer. Where the hell was she?
Then he heard her car.
‘Oh, you’re back!’ Patsy looked startled, as she came through the doorway. ‘I wasn’t sure when you were coming. Have you been here long?’
She dropped her briefcase in the hall and hugged him. Her copper-coloured hair brushed his cheek; it smelled of shampoo and the cigarette smoke from the school office. He squeezed her and lifted her feet off the ground.
‘I missed you,’ she purred, the way she always did.
‘Missed you too!’
‘You didn’t! You had your boat to play with!’
‘Not as much fun as playing with you!’
She pushed him away with a forced smile. It was stupid, but she always felt shy when Andrew came home. To cope with his long absences she’d made herself unnaturally self-sufficient. His homecomings were like the arrival of a stranger.
‘Have you had lunch?’
‘No, and I’m starving.’
‘I’m not sure what there is. You can come shopping with me later!’
He followed her to the kitchen. He was used to this; whenever he returned from patrol, Patsy seemed to feel the need to ‘house-
train’ him again.
‘It’ll have to be a sandwich for now. With the children away, I haven’t been stocking up.’
‘I was worried something had happened. It’s so quiet in the house . . .’
‘I know . . .’
She looked pained. She would never tell him how lonely she felt at times.
‘How was Anthony when you took him to school?’
‘He howled all the way there, and I howled all the way back! But he’s fine now. I got a super letter from him this morning. We can have him home for a weekend soon. He’s dying to see you.’
Andrew watched her work. With Patsy having her own job, her own friends, and being life’s mainstay for their children, he sometimes felt himself an outsider.
‘I saw Sara this morning. She looked dreadful,’ Patsy said, slicing bread.
‘Hitchens?’
She nodded.
‘She’s having problems with Simon. He’s going to be thirteen soon and still hasn’t got used to boarding school. His headmaster’s accused him of vandalizing microscopes in the biology lab. Sara’s worried he’ll turn to arson next!’
‘That’s appalling! Philip sailed today. He ignored my salute! Not like him at all. Perhaps he was worrying about Simon. Last thing you need when you’re going to sea.’
‘Last thing a mother needs at any time,’ she stressed pointedly. ‘Particularly Sara. You know how unstable she is.’
‘Over-emotional, that’s all.’
‘You fancy Sara, that’s your trouble!’
‘I just feel sorry for her. She’s not so good at coping as you are. And I have to take an interest. Simon’s my godson.’
‘Ohh! Well remembered!’ Patsy mocked. ‘When did you last even see him? Last year? Year before?’
‘Oh, come on . . .’
‘Sorry. That wasn’t fair. Here’s your sandwich.’
She passed him a plate and they sat down at the kitchen table. ‘I’m afraid we’re out of beer.’
She smiled apologetically.
‘Welcome home!’
* * *
Shadow Hunter Page 1