Spy People

by Duncan James

  “For a start,” said Nick, “she says she’s not British, but doesn’t say what she is, so that takes us no further forward. She also refers to her mother in quotes, which means they were not related.”

  “Sleepers, as we suspected,” said Clive.

  “It sounds as if they were withdrawn as much because she wanted to protect you, Nick, as for her own future safety. She seems very bothered that she had already put you at risk.”

  “That’s of little comfort, if I may say so,” said Nick.

  “As we also suspected some time ago, this seems to confirm that she told Makienko you were going to Switzerland, but that neither she nor he passed that information on to Moscow or anyone else.”

  “Which is why they still have no idea what happened to the man.”

  “And Barbara won’t know what happened to him, either, since she had long gone before the action in the Alps, so she won’t be able to throw any light on his disappearance if and when she gets to Moscow.”

  “Except that she knows Lloyd is in Geneva, so they could put two-and-two together.”

  “As Makienko did at the crematorium. He assumed that Lloyd was Barclay, and took it from there.”

  “He may not have assumed anything, of course. Barbara may have told him. But again, it seems not to have been passed on up the chain.”

  “If it had, Lloyd would still be in danger, but I think we can assume that they believe him to be dead.”

  “And cremated.”

  “Anything else worth noting from the letter to Nick?” asked Bill.

  “She’s obviously worried about the boy”, said Nick.

  “So she should be. He’s already proved himself a nuisance, trying to ring Nick from Blackbushe,” Clive reminded them.

  “He’s going to stick out like a sore thumb in Moscow, or wherever they fetch up,” said Peter. “He was kicking up before he left this country, and when he gets abroad, shall we say, in a strange country, probably not speaking the language, away from his friends and his school, he’s going to take some handling. When I get through to Moscow, I’ll get them to keep a special look out for a stroppy little six-year old English boy.”

  “What strikes me as odd,” said Nick, “is that she is not sure of her own future. I would have thought that, after all this time over here, she would get a heroin’s welcome back home.”

  “She may believe she’s blown her own future because of her relationship with you, Nick,” said Bill. “You’re not just any old clerk somewhere in the depths of Whitehall. It’s possible they may believe that you have somehow managed to turn her, and that she’s now a double. The girl could be in for a rough time when she gets back.”

  “I almost hope so,” said Nick. “She would certainly have been in for a rough time here is she had been unmasked as a spy, and that could have been a further reason for her running off. And as for saying that we will never meet again, I wouldn’t bet on that either. I’ve a mind to hunt her down, if only for Donald’s sake.”

  “From what little I know of the boy and your relationship with him, Nick, I would guess that he would prefer to be here with you, rather than there with Barbara, not least since he obviously no longer has a grandmother either.”

  “You could be right, Peter,” said Nick. “Perhaps I’ll hunt him down as well, and bring him back here where he belongs.”

  ***

  There was a phone call for Nick. It was the Hampshire Police Superintendent at Blackbushe airport.

  “I have information for you,” he said. “Whether it’s of any use, I don’t know, but we’ve checked with the duty security chaps who were here on the night in question.”

  This sounded to Nick very ‘police’ talk.

  “So what did they say?”

  “Well, the western end of the airfield is now used by British Car Auctions – they have a big Sunday Market there, too. On Sundays. But the Security Company covers the whole area, and at the time in question” – Police talk again – “they were at the other end of the airfield, where all the cars are parked.”

  “So did they see anything,” asked Nick, “at the time in question?”

  He couldn’t resist it.

  “Yes, they did. On the evening in question, they observed a light aircraft approach the airfield from a westerly direction. It made a quick landing, downwind as it happens, turned round, and immediately took off again. They thought the time was about 2230 hours, but can’t be sure.”

  The Superintendent sounded quite pleased with his report so far, and Nick could almost see him thumbing over the pages of his note book.

  “Anything else?”

  “It so happens,” continued the policeman, “that part of the airfield is floodlit at night when it’s closed. The apron,” he added, displaying his new-found knowledge. “That’s where the aircraft are parked. Not the whole of the airfield, but just the apron.”

  “So they saw everything that happened, then, did they?” said Nick hopefully.

  “No, they didn’t see anything, apart from the aircraft coming and going again. As I’ve said, they were at the other end of the airfield at the time.”

  “Did they take a note of the time?”

  “No,” said the policemen. “They didn’t actually need to, since the apron, where the aircraft are parked, is covered by closed circuit television.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me about the CCTV coverage when I was down there?”

  “It hadn’t occurred to me, to be honest,” admitted the policeman. “But I have now looked at it in the control tower, and it clearly shows an aircraft arriving, taxiing in, four people boarding, and taxiing out again for take-off, in to wind this time. The whole thing took less than two minutes.”

  “Can the aircraft be identified?” demanded Marsden.

  “Probably, but I don’t know about aircraft.”

  “Then I need to talk to someone who does,” demanded Nick again. “Can you put me through to the control tower?”

  “I’m in the control tower. Hang on.”

  The duty air traffic controller came on.

  “Have you seen this bit of CCTV footage?” asked Nick.

  “Just. Until Mr Plod here asked, I had no idea that there had been an unauthorised air traffic movement that night,” said the ATC man.

  “So what does it show?” asked Marsden.

  “Quite clearly a carefully planned and well executed operation,” replied the man. “I’m ex-RAF myself, but haven’t come across anything quite like this before.”

  “Give me the detail,” said Nick.

  “The aircraft is a PA-34 Piper Seneca, registered in France. You can see the registration number quite clearly for a time. It lands downwind from the West, turns on to the apron and four people clamber on board. Looks like two women, a man and a child, with minimum luggage. Almost before the door is closed, it taxies out to the end of the runway, and takes off again, into wind, heading west. The whole thing took less than three minutes. CCTV shows the time at 22.10 hours.”

  “Tell me about the aircraft.”

  “It’s an American twin engine light aircraft; plenty of them about round the world. Top speed about 200 knots, range about 800 nautical miles, depending on fuel, payload, altitude and all that. Probably only one crew member, a pilot, and takes a maximum of five passengers.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I’ve checked the radar logs, thinking you’d ask,” said the controller. “No trace.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means the pilot flew at very low level, under the radar. Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs will shit themselves when they see this. Could have been drugs or anything, but it looks like people smuggling of some sort to me. No packages changed hands so far as I can tell.”

  “Brilliant work,” said Marsden. “I urgently need to get my hands on that CCTV footage, if you can arrange that. Is there any way of finding the destination of the aircraft?”

  “Difficult without a radar tra
ce. Probably one of the French or Belgian airfields just across the channel. At low level, his range would be much reduced, and he didn’t stop for fuel. We were shut anyway! So he was going for maximum speed at low level, which means minimum range.”

  “We’re already checking cross-channel airfields, as it happens,” said Nick. “It helps having the registration number.”

  “I’ll do some checking of my own with my opposite numbers in France. I’ll let you know if I find anything useful.”

  An hour later, he had.

  Peter Northcot took the call.

  “Blackbushe has been on the phone for you,” he told Nick eventually. “The get-away aircraft took off from and returned to Calais/Dunkerque airport at Marek, Pas-de-Calais, about 4 miles NE of Calais itself. They’re an hour ahead of us, but they close at seven o’clock local. They have the aircraft on CCTV as well, but had no idea where it went from there when it left.”

  “Do they know who owns the aircraft?”

  “They do, but it was apparently chartered the previous day.”

  “That proves the Wilkinsons’ departure was well planned, at least.”

  “Yeah!” said Peter, “but just listen to this! It was chartered by some Russian organisation they’d never heard of, who paid cash over the odds for the pilot to make an unauthorised flight, and there was a second crew member on board – listen! – from the Russian consulate!”

  By now, Bill had joined them.

  “More proof, if we ever needed it,” he said. “But I wonder why they only went as far as Calais?”

  “There were no other aircraft movements that night, so they say.”

  “But a twin jet could have taken them directly to Moscow – something like a Lear Jet would have had the range and the speed, even at low level.”

  “Perhaps they decided to rest overnight. There are plenty of hotels around Calais, from expensive to cheap B&B. I’ll get the consulate to check them out.”

  “But then where, that’s the question. Did they go on by road, or rail, or air, and where to?”

  “It seems to me that the more questions we answer, the more there are to answer,” opined Nick.

  “Louis Blériot never had these problems,” said Peter.

  “What’s he got to do with it?”

  “It’s where he landed. Calias/Dunkerque is named after him. ‘Aerogare Louis Blériot’.

  Not many of the Section 11 people in Clerkenwell wanted to know that.

  ***

  Annie rang Dusty Miller quite late the next day, after her training exercise.

  “I really can’t get down to see you today,” she said. “I need some rest, especially as I’m on the C17 flight to Camp Bastion tomorrow, and it’s an early take-off.”

  “That’s disappointing,” admitted Miller, “but their need is greater than mine. I must say the guys out of Afghanistan who are here have been an inspiration to me.”

  “They’re amazing, aren’t they?”

  “They have made me realise how lucky I am, really. At least I haven’t lost any limbs, and I really am working my arse off to get fit again. My target is to get well enough to take you out somewhere nice, but it won’t be in sunny Birmingham.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because they’re sending me down to Headley Court in two days, that’s why. They say my efforts will get better results there, with the hydro-therapy pool and everything.”

  “That really is great news, Dusty. You’ll make even faster progress there.”

  “And you will come and see me? You said you would.”

  “I promise. I’ve been there before, and there’s quite a good pub not far away. Good curries, but you’ve got to get your innards sorted before that!”

  “Beer and bacon sandwiches first, but after that, it’s a date!”

  ***

  11 - БАРБАРА - THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

  By the time they got to Calais, Barbara was at the end of her tether. It had been bad enough being told to get out of the UK at such short notice, and being made to believe it was her fault, but the journey itself had been a nightmare.

  She had been made to rush to a small airfield in Hampshire with a hysterical ‘mother’ and a demented Donald who was proving more difficult that she would ever have imagined possible. The Russian official who went with them to Blackbushe had been helpful enough, although he seemed to be in a bit of a panic himself, and obviously didn’t want any trouble either from her or from any UK ‘authorities’.

  Donald plainly did not want to go, wherever they were going, and was doing his best to make sure that he didn’t, and that everyone who cared to listen knew about it. For a start, he had run off when they got to Blackbushe. Then he had grabbed a phone and tried to get through to Nick. He wanted to be with Nick. He did not want to go away, and that was that. Explaining that they were going to Moscow only made things worse.

  “I don’t like Moscow,” he had shouted, “and I’m not going.”

  Her ‘mother’ was no help, either. She believed that it was entirely Barbara’s fault that they were being recalled at such short notice, and was in a thoroughly bad mood. She even hit Donald to try to keep him quiet. He yelled even louder.

  Eventually they managed to scramble aboard the aircraft which had landed in the dark, and which immediately turned to take off again.

  NOTE: БАРБАРА - Russian, from the ancient Greek μπαρμπαρα, meaning Barbara, as in Barbarian; the foreigner; stranger; traveller from a foreign land.

  Once they were airborne, there was no going back, not even for Donald, who kicked and screamed as they tried to do up his seat belt.

  The flight had been terrible. At low level across the English Channel in pitched darkness was no joke, although it had to be said that the pilot, who had shut himself securely into the cockpit to avoid Donald, was excellent and knew what he was doing and how to do it. But it was a very rough flight, and her ‘mother’ had been very sick. Even Donald said he felt ill and was reasonably quiet for a short time.

  There was a people-mover sort of car waiting for them at the darkened airfield in France. They were hustled aboard, with their bags, but not before Donald had managed to grab the pilot and demand to be taken home. When the pilot refused, he was quite savagely kicked, until Barbara dragged the boy away.

  There are hundreds of Hotels in Calais, large and small, expensive and cheap. Barbara didn’t notice, or even care, what sort they had been booked into. She was just glad to get there. She and Donald shared a room. Her ‘mother’ had one to herself.

  By now, Donald was not just bad tempered, but tired and hungry.

  “I’m not staying here. I want to go home. I want to see Uncle Nick. He will look after me. I want a hamburger,” he shouted, almost in one breath.

  Barbara tried to get him into bed.

  “I’m not sleeping here. I want my bed at home. Why can’t we go home now?”

  He was making so much noise that the occupants of the next room banged on the wall, and shouted back.

  Eventually, Barbara managed to get a burger and a coke delivered, and Donald settled down exhausted to a spell of fitful sleep. He woke at about three in the morning, and made for the door. He was halfway down the corridor when Barbara caught up with him, and managed to drag him back to their room, fighting and shouting. A couple of other residents looked out to see what was going on. If they had spoken English, they would have been left in no doubt that Donald wanted to go home.

  ***

  By the time they reached Moscow, Donald wasn’t the only one who wished they were still at home in London.

  Forget the journey!

  Even when they travelled at civilised times on proper scheduled transport, it was still appalling, thanks to the boy. It should have been easy enough. A train from Frethun, just outside Calais to Paris changing at Lille, then a 4 hour flight to Domodedovo. Plenty to interest a six year old, one would have thought. But not Donald.

  Everything was going the
wrong way, for a start. He had decided he didn’t like Paris, and certainly hated Moscow, and wasn’t going to either of them and that was that. He wanted to go home, and home was not via Paris or Moscow. Where was Uncle Nick? Why hadn’t he come to take him home? He had left a message on the phone, after all.

  Donald had managed to lock himself in to the lavatory on the train to Paris, and had run away from the departure lounge after they had been through Customs at Paris Charles de Gaulle airport. That caused a terrible fuss, getting him back again, since he didn’t have a ticket or a boarding card and didn’t speak French. He was quite adamant, as well, that he didn’t want to go back. He wanted to go home, and this was not the way to get there. No-one had heard of Uncle Nick, either, so nobody was any help at all.

  By now, Barbara’s ‘mother’ had had enough, and made her own way to the aircraft. She made sure her seat was well away from the other two, as well. If she was honest, Barbara had also endured enough. She would never have believed that Donald could behave so badly, but had a decent sized bite on her forearm and several bruises to her shins to prove that her son was, after all, strong willed and determined. Somehow, she survived the rest of the journey and the constant embarrassment she suffered because of his rowdy behaviour. She dared not think what it would be like in Moscow.

  It was already going through her mind that she would somehow have to get the boy back to England, and his beloved Uncle Nick.

  They were met by officials of some sort on arrival at Domodedovo, and her ‘mother’ was whisked off in a separate car.

  They never met again.

  She and Donald were bundled in to another waiting vehicle and headed north to the centre of Moscow, where they were taken to an apartment in a new-ish block of flats.

  By now, she was speaking her native Russian, so Donald had even less of an idea what was going on. The official, apparently from the FSB Headquarters at the Lubyanka Building, explained to Barbara that she would be kept under virtual house arrest until they had examined in detail the reasons for her sudden return, and established to their own satisfaction that she hadn’t been sent to Moscow by the British authorities as a double agent. That could all take some time.

  This was the last straw for Barbara, who dissolved into tears. Even this brought forth no sympathy from son Donald.

  “If we had stayed at home, then you wouldn’t be crying. Uncle Nick would have made sure you were all right. Let’s go home now.”