Spy People

by Duncan James

  “He wants visitors, he told Nick, and wants to get back in touch, so you go whenever you think you can, but not tomorrow.”

  ***

  As Bill returned to the Ops Room, Gladys came in.

  “My family history man has been on the phone. Very interesting, although I don’t understand what he means.”

  “What did he say, then.”

  “It seems their name isn’t Wilkinson at all.”

  “What!? How does he work that out?”

  “He says they’ve used somebody else’s name.”

  “Explain, please Gladys.”

  “Well,” she looked at her notes, “according to him, there were two people called Wilkinson who came from near York, a mother and a baby girl, who were killed in a car accident about 30 years ago. As I understand it, the Wilkinsons who we know have used their identity to get documents like birth certificates and so on.”

  “So who the hell are the Wilkinsons, then? What’s their real name?”

  “The man says there’s no way of telling or finding out.”

  Peter sat back, dismayed.

  “Now what?” he asked himself.

  “According to Nick, Barbara claims to be 34, so the dates would more or less fit,” suggested Gladys.

  “Fit what?”

  “If Barbara and her mother are someone else, if you see what I mean, and are pretending to be the Wilkinsons from York, then they could have been doing it for about 30 years. That’s what fits.”

  Peter sat, deep in thought.

  ‘They’re sleepers,’ he pondered.

  Surely not. After all this time. 30 years, sitting there, while Barbara works her way to the top of the civil service. Not mother and daughter after all? A couple paired during training? Living abroad under cover for all these years? No wonder no-one discovered them.

  “Are you all right?” asked Gladys, after a time.

  “Yes. Thanks. But what you have just said is absolutely shattering, if I am right in how I interpret it.”

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t be. You’ve probably just solved one of the great mysteries of this case for us.”

  “Oh, good!” She looked pleased.

  “Ask your family history man if he can possibly provide us with any paper work, will you – copies of death certificates, birth certificates and that sort of thing, and then pay him off. I don’t think we shall need him anymore. And see if you can get hold of Frank Browne – I’d like to see him if he can spare a minute.”

  He told Frank what Gladys had reported about the Wilkinsons.

  “I heard about sleeper cells during my recent training,” said Peter, “but I didn’t think I’d come across one this quickly. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re right. They could well be what we call ‘dead doubles’. They’ve adopted a false identity, and have been living under aliases, probably, as you guessed, for up to 30 years. They’ve used the identities of real people to get all the documents they would ever need. Anybody checking on them, say for security clearance, would look for birth certificates, which they would find. They would never think of looking for death certificates as well, because they wouldn’t need to. They would be checking on live people, not dead ones.”

  “No wonder they weren’t spotted.”

  “Sleepers are usually paired up during training, but this is an odd couple in my experience, I have to admit. Normally, they are discovered as man and wife, and frequently have children to add to their cover.”

  “Barbara did, but with the previous Head of Section 11.”

  “That gave her a terrific power base, and unprecedented access to classified information.”

  “It also explains why they never paid rent for their Battersea house. The Russians provided it through the Zenit agency.”

  “The Russians actually owned the property, and let it through Zenit.”

  “Of course.”

  As if prompted, Richard Evans came of the phone.

  “He was checking out the Zenit angle for me,” explained Peter to Frank. “We can tell him, now.”

  Peter did so.

  “There’s now no doubt that the Wilkinsons were both working for the Russians; indeed they sent them over in the first place some years ago. What we now need to discover is who was controlling them, which means that the so-called ‘spy-hunt’ is not over yet.”

  “I agree,” said Richard from MI6. “I would also like to know, from colleagues in MI5, how the hell they were allowed to operate undetected for so long. If and when they find who was controlling the Wilkinsons, perhaps they might stumble across that fact as well.”

  “Being, as I am, an ex-MI5 man now working for ‘S’, I hate to say that my people don’t seem to have been very efficient, on recent evidence. I feel quite relieved that I haven’t been working for them for very long.”

  “It’s not really that easy, especially these days. There is no longer any need for direct contact between agents and their controllers. The Wilkinsons’ handler could well have been based in Russia, rather than down the road here somewhere. With modern equipment and satellite communications, they can use wireless technology to pass information and encrypted messages to, say, a laptop computer, which is entirely portable and difficult to track down.”

  “I thought GCHQ was supposed to do that sort of thing.”

  “So they are, but they need to know first that they have something to look for. In this case, and after 30 years, they obviously had no idea. But now it’s their job to find out who has been controlling the Wilkinsons, and why they have had free reign for 30 years or so.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” said Northcot. “On recent experience, that task could well be passed to us.”

  ***

  Stuart Carrington, the man from GCHQ, knocked on Peter’s office door.

  “Come in!”

  He did, hotly pursued by Gladys.

  “People are supposed to tell me if they want either Peter or Nick,” she protested. “How am I supposed to keep things under control if people just wander in and out without a by-your-leave? Tea or coffee?”

  “Coffee – no question.”

  Peter grinned.

  “What have you got for me?”

  “GCHQ have had another go at the phone call – not a Russian speaker, but a real Russian listened to it, and he’s sure that’s the language used by one of the people in the background; a woman’s voice. He eventually managed to interpret a couple of words after several attempts.”

  “What words?”

  Stuart looked at his notes.

  “One was ‘aeroplane’, or ‘aircraft’, and the other – he is almost sure – was ‘phone’, just before the boy shouted out. Everything else was too distorted, even played back ultra-slow.”

  “That’ll do; thanks. Very helpful.”

  “Sorry it took so long.”

  “Don’t mention it. Everything has taken too long so far, but suddenly, everything is coming together at once. All we need now is to find their bloody car.”

  ***

  10 - ANNIE MACKIE – THE VISIT

  It had so far been a long and, if he was honest, a rather depressing day for Dusty Miller.

  Medically, he was making good progress. Very good. Even he could tell. He was now able to bend his leg and no longer needed it supported horizontally. He had almost full movement in his foot, and he could again move the fingers of his broken arm. His internal wounds appeared to be healing quickly, as well. He was almost always now out of pain, and he no longer needed a near-constant supply of morphine. The occasional pain killer did the trick. He was eating better, too, and taking regular meals again. It helped that the food was good, but they still prepared a special diet for him; no beer and bacon sandwiches yet. Pretty rapid progress, the medics thought, but not quick enough for him. He was putting a lot of effort into it though, and it was paying dividends even if he found it very tiring.

  But he had rather been hoping, almost expec
ting, a phone call from Annie sometime during the morning, after she had been left a message by Nick. Just fancy her having gone to Switzerland with Nick, and on the aircraft that brought him home. He still couldn’t believe it, but he still very much wanted to talk to her again.

  The last time she rang to see how he was getting on, he wasn’t fit enough to even say ‘hello’ on the phone, but now he was fit enough for a chat. He knew it would make him tired, though. He still didn’t have a lot of energy, and got tired quite quickly. So he was a bit fed up that she hadn’t got in touch again.

  Instead, he had an early call from Bill Clayton to say that he and Catherine would not, after all, be able to visit him later today as planned. Things were hotting up in Clerkenwell, and he really ought not to leave the place at the moment, but they would do their best to get up to see him tomorrow. The new chap, Peter Northcot, was doing well and settling in fast, so Bill had said, and was also keen to pay Dusty a visit. Between them, he and Nick could look after the shop for a time, so tomorrow looked hopeful.

  Dusty didn’t have enough visitors, so he was disappointed that the boss couldn’t make it. But he understood the pressures he was under, and he was sure they would get up to see him whenever they could. The new bloke, too. That would be nice. The more the merrier.

  But he had a long morning in front of him, even without the planned visitors.

  After breakfast, they helped him in to his wheelchair, and shunted him off for yet more X-rays. He found it awkward trying to get about, since he could only use one stick. His broken arm – shattered, they had described it at first – was still not strong enough to allow him to use two. But he could get about a bit, difficult though it was. He found he could almost use a Zimmer more effectively. He could work that with one hand. And he was due some physiotherapy later this morning, which would help to build up the strength in legs and arms, as well as help his stomach muscles which they had fiddled about with to get at his internal injuries. They had said that if he kept up present progress, he could be moved to the Rehabilitation Centre at Headley Court in a few days for proper, full-time physio to really get him going again. The sooner the better, although they didn’t think he’d need to be there for long.

  But he was disappointed that Annie hadn’t rung up by now. Nick had said she had been on yet another visit to Camp Bastion to collect more casualties, so perhaps she was just recovering from that. It must be shattering, those long flights, and then having to work on the aircraft as well. A couple more guys had arrived from there early this morning, but he hadn’t had a chance to talk to them yet. They weren’t in a fit state anyway, but when they were, he was going to ask them if they had noticed Annie on the aircraft.

  Of course, it was always possible that she had a regular boyfriend, maybe even married with kids. That could explain it. But she had rung up to ask about him a couple of times after he first arrived. He had thought that was ‘personal’, shall we say, but perhaps it was just professional, medical interest. That could explain it as well.

  Perhaps he was hoping for too much. Although they had met, in a funny sort of way, they hadn’t actually spoken to one another yet. But he would just like to say ‘thank you’ for all she had done to help him, even if nothing else. They said she had kept him alive, more or less. It deserved a big thank you, and a bunch of flowers and some chocolates at least.

  Yes! That’s what he’d do. If she didn’t get in touch again, he would somehow organise some flowers and chocolates to be sent to her. Maybe even a bottle of fizz as well. His life was at least worth that. The SSAFA lady could organise that for him, he was sure. That’s what he’d do, if she didn’t get in touch for some reason. He felt better having decided what to do. He’d ask the SSAFA lady next time she came round.

  By the time he had worked all this out, they had done the X-rays. They seemed very pleased with the way things were going, which cheered him up a bit. He certainly felt better. Not quite his old self yet, but certainly better than he did.

  They were having some sort of conference about him, while he sat in his wheelchair outside X-ray. Eventually, the Squadron Leader chap came over – he could never remember the bloke’s name. Thank the lord for name tags. Drew Wilson, that was it.

  “Big day for you today, Miller,” he said.

  “Now what?” said Dusty.

  “You’re mending so well, we think you’d make even quicker progress if we put on lighter plaster. It would give you more room for movement, and help to get your muscles going again. You can already move your toes and fingers, so this will help get more movement and strength in your arm and leg.”

  “Less weight to carry around, too,” said Dusty.

  “Exactly,” said Wilson. “So we’ll shove you off to the fracture unit for the new dressings and plaster, and then give you a taste of physiotherapy. With any luck, you’ll be back on the ward in time for lunch and a kip afterwards. You’ll probably be glad of a snooze after all this. Your busiest day so far.”

  “Any chance of a beer with lunch, Sir? Purely medicinal, you understand – to help me sleep.”

  “Not yet,” grinned Wilson. “Your guts aren’t quite up to that at the moment, but not long now.”

  He had a good deal of pulling about after that, especially in the Physiotherapy department. They were as gentle as they needed to be, but he could feel they were much stronger than he was. Physical Training Instructors most of them were. They looked as if they did Judo or played Rugby for England in their spare time. After they had finished with him, he certainly felt muscles aching that he hadn’t felt for a long time, even though he had recently been skiing. But he felt it had done him good, and not just physically. It was mentally stimulating to know that he was rapidly getting better.

  Nevertheless, he didn’t feel like Zimmering back to his ward, so they pushed him.

  Lunch and a doze suddenly sounded like a good idea, even without a beer.

  There were no messages for him, though. He got into his bed-side chair after lunch, and started to read the paper. He dozed.

  He didn’t quite notice at first, when he eventually stirred, but there, perched on the end of his bed, in uniform, was Annie. Complete with lovely smile.

  “Am I dreaming?” he asked.

  “No. I’m really here!”

  She walked over, and kissed him gently on the forehead.

  “I was hoping you’d phone,” said Dusty. “I never dared hope you’d pay a visit.”

  “Well, I got the message from Commander Marsden, but I’ve been away on Ops again, and was really shattered when I got back late yesterday. So I decided I’d come and see how you were, instead of ringing.”

  “I can’t believe you’re actually here,” said Dusty. “And I was asleep when you arrived – hardly any kind of welcome.”

  “It’s just great to see you again. You’re looking so much better than when I first saw you. I simply wanted to see how you were getting on.”

  “I nearly didn’t make it, they say.”

  “You didn’t look as if you would, either.”

  “But I’m going to be OK, and I’ve have just had my first session of Physio, so I’m well on the way, and can actually get around a bit now, using this machine.” He kicked the Zimmer with his good foot.

  Annie switched on her smile.

  “I don’t remember much about you if I’m honest,” said Dusty, “but I’ll never forget your smile. Or the way you wiped blood from my mouth, and dealt with the pain. I can’t bear to think about the pain,” he grimaced.

  “You were in a bad way, no doubt,” she agreed.

  Colonel Mark Graham strode over. Annie stood to attention.

  “This is Annie,” said Dusty proudly. “I’ve been asking about her ever since I got here. You see, she does exist after all!”

  “At ease,” said the Colonel to Annie. “He’s made himself quite a nuisance, asking about you! But they told me you were here, and I wanted to meet you. We’ve spoken before, you know.”<
br />
  “Really?”

  “The RAF Hercules crew patched you through to me on the inter-com from the aircraft to talk about this chap while you were airborne. You were worried about how much more morphine he could take.”

  “It was you, was it? I was very glad of your advice, Sir, I must say,” replied Annie. “I wasn’t sure he could take any more.”

  “Well he did, and now look at him. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you brought him in, but my chaps were glad to have a hot de-briefing from you.”

  “You’re one up on me, Colonel,” said Miller. “You’ve spoken to Annie before, but this is the first time we’ve met properly, and I certainly haven’t been able to say ‘thank you’ until now, or anything else.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then. But you owe your life to this young Petty Officer in my view, so say ‘thank you’ nicely!”

  He turned on his heal, and left.

  “Help me get into this wheelchair, will you Annie, then you can sit here next to me. How long can you stay, by the way?”

  “As long as you like, really. I’m on call, but its six hours’ notice, so I can be back to Brize in that time.”

  “How did you get here then?”

  “I’ve got a Mini Cooper.”

  “Nice! But what about when they move me to Headley Court? Is that still within your range? If not, I shall refuse to go!”

  “I’ll come to see you there, or anywhere else,” she promised. “I can always take a day’s leave.”

  He reached out from his wheelchair, and took her hand.

  “It really is so good to see you, Annie. At one time, I began to think I’d been dreaming, and that you didn’t really exist. And then when you didn’t ring, I didn’t know what to think, or how to thank you for all you did for me. I was actually planning to send you a note with some flowers and chocolates and a bottle of Champagne.”

  “That’s the second time I’ve saved you an arm and a leg then!”

  They laughed together. Dusty hadn’t laughed for a long time.

  “But you’re not getting away with the Champers,” said Annie. “We’ll both share that one day.”

  ***

  Annie stayed a long time.

  She managed to persuade the kitchen to give her a meal with Dusty, who she could see was getting tired. She let him nod off in his wheelchair, and stayed until he woke.