The Lucy Ghosts

by Eddy Shah

  The briefing in London had been short. He wondered how much his people really knew, or whether the Americans had simply passed on as little information as they needed to.

  'The Yanks believe Mr. Trimmler is in danger, that an attempt may be made on his life. They've asked for our help because they want to keep it out of their own sphere. Apparently there is some concern that security is not as tight as it should be...,' the briefing officer, Captain Coy by name but not by nature, allowed himself the hint of a smirk, '...and that the danger to this scientist chap could come from inside their own organisation. That's why we're involved.'

  'So I'm the bodyguard.'

  'I wouldn't class it as that. You're to protect where necessary, but your first responsibility will be to help find if there is a plot against Trimmler.'

  'Wouldn't a policeman be better?'

  'They asked for someone with field experience. Someone who could look after himself if things took a nasty turn.'

  'Will I be armed?'

  'Yes. Nothing too extravagant, mind you. We don't want you getting off the plane with a sub machine gun and grenades strapped to you, do we? This isn't Ulster we're talking about.'

  'Have you ever been to Ulster?'

  'Hardly the point, is it?' answered Coy tetchily. Adam knew he'd scored a point, could tell the man had never visited the province. Bloody desk soldiers. 'You can pick up a firearm in America. No need to get caught going through airport security and blowing the job before you've even arrived. You'll be dealing with two Americans. Both are, I believe, from the CIA. A Mr Phil Tucker and a Billie Wood. As this is an American operation, you will be directly responsible to them. Should something arise which causes you concern, then contact the British Embassy Military Attache and ask him to contact us here.'

  'That's it?'

  'That's all I was told.' Coy pushed a small folder across the desk. 'There's a small bio of Mr. Trimmler in that, including a picture, your voucher for a travel warrant to San Diego and another voucher for any petty cash you might need. The Americans have some credit cards in your name which you can pick up in San Diego. That'll be for additional and necessary... ' he emphasised the word 'necessary', '..expenditure. Hire cars, things like that if you need them. That's all.'

  Adam took the folder and put it on his lap. He would check it later. 'Who chose me?' he asked.

  'No idea. You were available and, as far as I can tell, still causing everyone here a headache.'

  'So cure the headache. Cut off the head.'

  'You have rather an inflated view of yourself, don't you think?'

  Adam laughed and stood up.

  'Remember, even if this isn't under our direct control, that you are a member of the Armed Forces and still a representative of Her Majesty's Government,' warned the briefing officer. 'But you are on your own. Use your initiative as you see fit. That doesn't mean that we will support all your actions. Understood?'

  Adam understood. He shook his head, refused to salute the senior officer and left the office. He was looking forward to the exercise. He enjoyed America and sensed the whiff of oncoming danger. It was good to be back at work, even if he didn't know why he was going and what was expected of him.

  The file on Trimmler wasn't very expansive. He’d worked on V1 and V2 rockets and was now one of the most senior scientists in America, one of the world's greatest authorities on guidance systems and electronic navigational hardware. He was a valuable asset to the Americans.

  There were also some notes on Trimmler's family and highlighted the fact that he was a wealthy man who lived in La Jolla, an exclusive and wealthy town on the outskirts of San Diego. Of his German past there was little, except to say that he had not been a member of the Nazi party and was born in Leipzig. He was first and foremost a scientist. Adam wondered why someone would want to kill him.

  He had returned home to Lily's last meal before leaving for America. He rang her from the car phone in the Gullwing and the meal was ready for him by the time he let himself into the flat. It was steak and kidney pudding, cooked as only she knew how, and she fussed round him as he ate.

  'I'm off to America tomorrow,' he said.

  'Will you have time for breakfast?' she asked. He sensed the disappointment in her voice, recalled that she led as lonely an existence as he did.

  'No. I'll get it on the plane.'

  'I'll get your pudding,' she said, scurrying off to the kitchen. Damn, he could've handled it differently. Then he remembered the Christmas present he had given her. A Sony CD Walkman with her favourite collection of fifties songs. She'd had it strapped to her head ever since. It was an oddball sight, the old white haired lady cleaning and cooking while she bopped her head to Max Bygraves and Bing Crosby. He smiled and knew she would be alright. He would be back soon.

  When he had finished and she had put the dishes in the dishwasher, he had escorted her downstairs to wait for the taxi. He kissed her on the cheek and she was pleased. For all their closeness and dependability on each other there was little show of emotion between them.

  He had driven to Woking, out into the Surrey countryside. He drove automatically, his mind locked into the past and the memories of where he was going. It took nearly an hour to reach the cemetery from the centre of London. The gates were locked, as he knew they would be, so he parked some distance from the cemetery and walked to the twisted and open railing he had discovered many years ago. He slipped through the opening and made his way towards the gravestones on the west hill.

  He sensed others around him, didn't need to see them to know they were there. Mostly kids, experimenting with drugs and sex, or tramps destroyed by experimenting with them. They were all harmless, but he hadn't once thought so, when he had first come here all those years ago. The hidden voices and movements had frightened him, filled the twelve year old boy with fear and visions of ghosts and ghouls and bodysnatchers. He laughed to himself as he remembered chasing a ghoul through the undergrowth to find a naked boy running away, as frightened as he was. A girl was shrieking somewhere behind, interrupted in the act of losing her virginity.

  The three graves, side by side in their loneliness, were well kept as usual. He leant over his mother's and touched the flowers. They were fresh, as he always insisted. He stood between the two headstones and touched them both, his two hands joining them again. It was a ritual he always attended to.

  Then he went to the grave on the other side of his mother's.

  'Marcus James Nicholson. Aged Nine. Beloved son of Henry and Margaret and beloved brother of Adam.' Underneath, much smaller in its print was the inscription 'The Gods Love Those Who Die Young'

  He knelt beside the grave, reached forward and touched the earth.

  'Hi. I'm going away again, Marcus. To America. California. You'd have liked California. Crazy people who've inherited the earth...I think I upset Lily earlier on. I was thoughtless. I forget she's old and she needs me around. When you're that age, moments count, time runs out, eh? I raced at Donington yesterday. Had a great ride, the best time I ever recorded. I don't know why they're sending me to America. The whole thing smells. I mean, I can understand Ireland and living rough, taking on an enemy you know is there. But this California thing, it's not something I'm trained to do. I still can't work out why they're sending me there. Still, it's action.....Gives me something to do, eh?.....I'm lonely, Marcus. Can't stop this feeling that I'm not all there, that so much is still with you, with mum and dad...I sometimes wonder if I get into danger just so someone'll put a gun to my head and take me out. I don't belong here, Marcus. I'm so fucking lonely. So fucking alone.'

  Adam had left the cemetery five minutes later, driven the Gullwing back to London, went to Tramps and picked up the first attractive girl he fancied, took her back to the flat and fucked her in his loneliness until morning broke and it was time to leave for Gatwick and southern California.

  The flight had been uneventful, apart from the interlude of the young beautiful Englishwoman flying to meet her husband
in Los Angeles. She had her two children with her, the youngest a toddler who was full of beans. A Californian yuppie had sat next to her and turned his bronzed charms on her. Adam heard the immortal line 'I just love children' as he moved in on his prey. An hour later into the flight he didn't love them quite as much. The toddler had crawled over him, first crumpling then wetting his new Italian suit. The second child, no more than four had then knocked her mother's gin and tonic over the man, who frantically looked round for another seat. But all the first class berths were taken. He suffered silently until the children finally went to sleep. With twenty minutes to run into Los Angeles, he had shifted to go to the toilet. The toddler, now fast asleep against his arm, had been in the way and the mother reached over to move the child. 'No!' snapped the young man nervously. 'No. I'm all right. Don't wake him.' He finished the journey with his legs crossed. He was first off the plane, rudely pushing his way past the other passengers.

  Adam helped the mother lift her hand luggage down from the overhead lockers.

  'When I get married,' he remarked, 'I shall make sure my wife travels everywhere fully armed with at least two young children.'

  'Works every time,' she said and they both laughed. Then she went off to meet her husband, out there waiting for her in the crowd. He settled back in his deep British Airways seat for the rest of the journey, only fifteen minutes down the coast.

  The jumbo slurped its wheels onto the tarmac and rolled to a stop seven thousand feet down the runway, where it rumbled to the right and taxied to the terminal.

  She hadn't expected him to be quite so short. She knew he was a field officer in the SAS and had expected the usual Californian tall, broad shouldered illusion of a fighting man. His hair was too long at the back, too gelled and too crimped. Maybe she'd expected too much, after all these years waiting to become a real CIA operative.

  'Hi,' she greeted him as he stood waiting, a cigarette in his hand, the only passenger left, for his contact in the small terminal arrival hall. 'Are you Adam Nicholson?'

  'Yes,' Adam answered cautiously.

  'I'm Billie Wood. Welcome to San Diego. This is a No Smoking area.'

  'I didn't expect a woman.'

  His brusqueness shocked her.

  'Well, that's what I am,' she replied defensively.

  'Billie's a man's name.'

  'Never heard of Billie Holliday?'

  He shook his head. 'Only Billy Graham. But he was a fella. Nobody said I'd be working with a woman.'

  'What's the difference?'

  'There isn't one. As long as you're good at your job.'

  'My car's outside,' she answered, furious with his whole macho approach. Bloody English. They thought they still owned the world. She turned and walked out into the car park. He followed at a short distance behind, the cigarette now dangling from his lips.

  The car, Billie's brightly coloured Renegade, was parked by the pay booths.

  'Could you...?' she indicated the cigarette.

  'Are we meant to be undercover on this thing?' Adam asked, tossing the cigarette onto the pavement and stepping on it.

  'Yeah. Why?'

  'I wouldn't exactly call this jam jar low profile.'

  'Jam jar?'

  'Car.'

  'Then we'll change it. Okay?' She turned and unlocked the car. He was getting worse, this was not at all what she had expected.

  He walked round to the passenger side and put his Louis Vitton suit carrier on the back seat. He climbed in the front and waited for her to start the engine.

  'Where am I staying?' he asked.

  'With me. It's okay. My fella thinks you're over here on a business visit from our British associate company. Anything else?'

  'How old are you?'

  The harsh directness of his question flummoxed her. The flush grew deeper in colour, her discomfort obvious. She stared at him in defensive silence, said nothing. Then she turned and slipped the car into Drive. She kept her chin up, with him for his youthful, male arrogance, even more furious with herself for keeping her chin up so as to hide the age wrinkles that formed round her neck. She silently cursed her own vanity.

  'Nothing personal,' he went on. 'I want to know if you can handle it.'

  'I can handle it.'

  'Look. I'm told this is a dangerous assignment. I don't know much more. I'm used to working on my own. If I'm part of a team, under someone else's orders, then I have to know my back's covered. So how old are you ?'

  'Forty one.' There was little point in her lying. She knew he would eventually look up a file on her.

  'Have you ever been in the field before?'

  'No.'

  'Shit.'

  'Can we go now?'

  'Why not? It can't get any worse, can it?'

  'What charm school did you go to?' she snapped, almost adding the expletive 'shithead' to the sentence. She released the brake and stamped on the accelerator. The Renegade squeeled and jerked out of the parking slot.

  They drove all the way to La Jolla, a forty minute drive along Route 5, in absolute and stony silence.

  Welcome to sunny California.

  Ch. 19

  KGB Headquarters

  Dzerzhinsky Square

  Moscow

  'The Americans are either lying or telling the truth. The trick is to determine which,' said the Director as he poured himself another cup of tea from the samovar.

  'We could always toss a coin,' suggested Rostov.

  'I accept your religion, but I didn't appreciate how deep down the road to capitalism you had gone. Gambling? What next?'

  The two men laughed, a joke shared at a time of crisis.

  'There were two other, quite small things. Quite unimportant on their own, but possibly worthwhile, especially when you consider we have very little to go on,' went on Rostov.

  'You're right. At this stage everything is important, however tenuous the link.'

  'I was going through the travel lists a few weeks ago.' Rostov referred to the weekly reports that were screened through the KGB as to which people of note and special interest were requesting visas for foreign trips. It was a legacy from the old days, but one which still was useful to the spymasters. 'I recalled that there was a group of scientists due to visit America. For a space convention. One dealing specifically with rockets. A very high powered convention. Our best people as well as theirs. It was the name Trimmler I remembered. He is leading the American delegation.'

  'The same one?'

  'The same.'

  'Interesting.'

  'That's all there was. Just a coincidence.'

  'But still a link.'

  'And the other ?'

  'Mitzer. The industrialist who was in Cannes. He's very big in electronics. Built a vast empire in West Germany. He worked with the rocket scientists at Peenumünde during the War.'

  'So why didn't he come here, or to the Americans ?

  'He was only an administrator. We only wanted scientists.'

  'And he used his knowledge to build his business?'

  'Yes.'

  'He would've needed money. To become that big.' Then he posed the question, 'The Lucy Ghosts?'.

  Rostov shrugged. 'I don't know.'.

  The two men sat in silence for a long moment.

  'We need the names of the other delegates, I wonder if any of the other people at the funeral are going to the convention. It was a good decision to put a full surveillance crew on the funeral.' said the Director.

  'It’s being prepared.'

  'Both sides.'

  'That's what I've asked for.'

  'Maybe we should tell the Americans. This is not a time to turn against each other.'

  'I disagree. Not until we know they're not up to their old tricks.'.

  'The Kremlin want us to open our files to the Yanks. To show them our list of sleepers in return for theirs.'

  'That would be very foolish at this stage.'

  'I agree. Let's keep this to ourselves for now.'

  'I'll bri
ng you the list as soon as I get it.'

  'Keep in touch with Dimitri Sorge. He is our only contact out there. He might just stumble on to something.'

  'I'll follow that up.' Rostov had already done that, but it wasn't his intention to appear more enterprising than the Director.

  The old man smiled. He knew Rostov had already contacted Sorge. He appreciated his tact and consideration.

  Russia needed people like him. He would get to the top, even if he was a Christian.

  Ch. 20

  La Jolla

  Southern California

  The Muscle gripped Adam's hand tight and squeezed it in a show of strength.

  Adam had known what was coming and winced accordingly; there was little to be gained by retaliating.

  'This is Gary,' said Billie, her mood still black.

  'Nice to meet you. I'm Adam,' he replied, the wince turning to a smile as the Muscle pumped his arm up and down.

  'Nice to meetch'ya, too,' Gary replied, a satisfied grin across his face. He relaxed his grip and let go. This weak little wimp was no threat to him. He grabbed Billie and gave her a big kiss, held her pinned with his mouth. When he'd finished claiming his property for Adam's benefit, he said, 'Hi babe. That guy Tucker's here.'

  Adam saw that the girl was slightly embarrassed by this obvious show of emotion. 'I'd like to go to my room and freshen up, please?' he asked.

  'This way.' She led him past the Muscle to a spare room. She opened the door and he slipped past her into the spare bedroom. 'I'd prefer it if you didn't smoke in the house.'

  'Certainly,' he said, but the door was already closing behind him. He shrugged and threw the case on the bed. He zipped it open and took out a brown suit and some shirts.