The pressure was growing on Sir Ian, and Ann wondered whether he also needed a break from the fray. She considered whether to send Mary Maltbey to monitor his performance in New York and beyond. If he was going to crack under the strain, then she needed to know ASAP!’
‘Ian, are you alright?’ Ann queried gently.
‘Oh yes, Ann, I'm fine. Just tired and it concerns me somewhat as to the final fate of my dear wife. Listening to these reports is disheartening. I find it unbearable to imagine my Vera swilling about in some maelstrom until she tips into the sea. However, I’ll come to terms with it eventually. I suppose I’ll have to – as we all will!’
Ann was silent. She decided to lie. She did it easily.
‘Ian, I didn’t say anything before, but we searched your house in Stevenage five day ago – before the rain started. She wasn’t there. Basically, what I'm saying is that she could still be alive. She may have fallen in with one of these supermarket communes. Many did. She may still resurface.’
The change in Sir Ian’s demeanour was electric. His eyes brightened, he sat up from the slumped posture and almost laughed with relief.
‘Ann, why didn’t you tell me, for God’s sake?’
‘I didn’t want to build up your hopes or distract your attention. I was hoping that she turned up on a rescue chopper at some stage. But seeing you so disconsolate has forced my hand. I hope you don’t mind?’
‘No, of course not Ann. I understand completely. It's wonderful news. Thank you very much. Excellent! Now, let's get on – I’ll continue in the chair from here. I feel like a new man. Thank you, thank you!’
Ann wasn’t sure she’d done the right thing – but the deed was done and there was nothing else to do. At least she could keep Mary Maltbey close at hand for any dirty little jobs that might need doing. Sir Ian called on Roland Harrison once the Cabinet was re-seated.
‘Prime Minister, Dame Ann,’ came the usual greeting, ‘the rescue operation continues apace, although the low-pressure system and the accompanying rain has caused difficulties. We’ve heard about the flooding and the low cloud, and unreliable surfaces have made helicopter ops very tricky indeed. To date we’ve picked up and processed twenty-eight thousand, six hundred and forty two survivors. We've observed at least one hundred times that number of dead bodies – but have recovered none. There is no point and we don’t have the capacity anyway. Three thousand and thirteen of the rescuees have subsequently died – mainly as a result of their experiences or other terminal illnesses. The remainder are all now relocated in the German camps and some have been integrated into the administration. We have published all the names of survivors in the GB News, and many have been reunited with their friends or families – which is the one bright note in my report.
The weather is due to break on Wednesday – the fifteenth – and we should be able to get a better perspective on future ops when we can actually see the landscape. It is most likely that rescue operations will be scaled down as survivors reduce in number. In any case, crews are suffering from chronic fatigue. We have lost thirty-two aircraft in the search – eight to mechanical failure, two to pilot error, twenty-one to attacks from survivors, and one mystery. A small two man Scout was found with the crew butchered in their seats. Cause unknown.
Therefore, a scaling down in the search will be welcomed. Aircraft can return to dry land for servicing, and crews can take some well-earned R & R. Shipping can sail into port and their crews can be rested. These people are generally civilians and will have to be included in your resettlement lottery, Mary.
Much of the shipping and helicopters have been loaned by other nations and it may be time to begin the process of returning them. Our own Armed Forces may well have their hands exceedingly full in the future.
When the cloud moves on, we’ll conduct comprehensive reconnaissance sorties covering the entire UK and Eire. Satellite imagery will also assist in clear skies. We will then have a better idea of how to proceed.
However, I have to say, with the floods rising as they are, if a citizen hasn’t got him or herself to higher and more secure ground by now – then the prospects for a successful pick up are negligible.
We may have seen our last survivor!’
***
Sir Ian looked grim, remembering his wife.
‘Well, let's hope not, Roland!’
The Rescue brief was the penultimate report of the evening, so the PM addressed an important issue before closing the meeting.
‘One other issue has been troubling me for some days. In the midst of all the human misery and relentless destruction of our homeland, perhaps we’ve forgotten something important.’
His audience were mystified – every base had been covered – and a minister allocated to deal with it. What else could there possibly be?
‘Perhaps there is something of our country that we should try to save. Something more valuable than gold or industry or perhaps even life itself. What about our National Heritage – our art, our literature, our museums full of history, our famous old houses and palaces crammed with the story of our proud nation? Surely we should make some attempt to recover these artefacts – the proof of our existence - before the water washes it all away forever?’
Cabinet was stunned by the Prime Minister’s comments. Not one of them – barring Dame Ann – had considered this aspect of the disaster. Almost as one they expressed their agreement.
‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I’d hoped you would be in full agreement. Before I travel to New York I will endorse a plan put forward by the Curator of the Tate National, who was in Switzerland when the snow began, and he will liaise with the armed forces to recover as much of our National Heritage as is possible before it is destroyed forever.’
The discussions for the day were now complete.
‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, I think we've reached a bridgehead – almost a point of no return. I believe that we all recognise that it is impossible to consider the UK as a viable habitat for some years to come. The major priority now is to relocate our refugees in Europe, and assist those British passport holders elsewhere as best we can.
We have a timetable.
Let us do what we can to meet it.’
Day 30
Monday 13th January - 2100
Royal Netherlands Air Force Base Volkel
Ross Bryant sat in the anteroom of the Dutch officers’ mess. He had enjoyed an excellent evening meal of fillet steak and sauté potatoes, accompanied by several glasses of German Riesling. He was replete, but was feeling mildly uncomfortable despite his state of alcohol-induced euphoria.
He had chatted easily with the Dutch Air Force officers at his table, who were unsurprised to be hosting a British serviceman. Nevertheless, his new status was unfamiliar and he was uneasy to say the least.
Ann Fletcher had been generous in her praise for Bryant’s successful exfiltration of her daughter Chloe from the ‘Townsend Tomb’ in Walthamstow. Ross had maintained his cool, and had supervised the entire mission competently and professionally, reporting to Dame Ann every step of the way. He had always been Fletcher’s man – having been planted at Volkel in order to team up with the hapless Andrew Brady. Her words – not Bryant’s.
Yes, Brady had needed some close supervision and was unreliable under pressure – but to be entirely fair – he was only an RAF Officer with no combat experience. It was always Bryant’s job to keep him out of trouble and, more importantly, keep Chloe out of harm’s way. The orders had been clear – the only priority was to extract Chloe. If any of the Townsends or Brady got in the way – they were expendable. As it worked out, they all returned safely to Brussels and Ann Fletcher was supremely pleased. He hadn’t seen Brady since the airport and had spent the past couple of days reunited with his wife, who had been fixed up with a very smart Dutch officer’s married quarter near Volkel. She had also been found a job as a hairdresser – her previous occupation in Britain – and appeared to be quite satisfied with her lot. Ross re
turning from his mission so quickly was a bonus.
Ann Fletcher was, if nothing else, loyal to the people who served her well. Ross Bryant fell into this bracket and as a result sat in the officers’ mess and not with the sergeants. The deputy PM had used her powers to sanction a field promotion to First Lieutenant for Bryant and he had also been awarded the DSO for his outstanding performance in the field. If the Queen ever held an investiture in the future – Ross would be at the head of the presentation line.
As matters stood, he was enjoying his first opportunity to indulge his new rank at RNAF Volkel. He had briefly considered turning down the commission, but decided that in this ‘brave new world’ a leg up the greasy pole may well help his prospects for ultimate survival. He had been kitted out in Maastricht earlier in the day from stocks of army uniforms gathered from bases all over Germany. Ross had been in the Paras before secondment to the SAS, so he sported that uniform, giving no indication of his true allegiance. He had made brief contact with other ‘Regiment’ colleagues, submitted a full debrief, and had been asked to report back to Ann Fletcher the following morning at 0600 hours at the Station HQ here at Volkel.
He had a sneaking idea that she had another job for him, and he anticipated that her patronage may well propel him even more quickly up the career ladder. He would always need to perform perfectly and show absolute loyalty to the deputy PM, but he was fully aware of just how dangerous she could be if he failed her. Bryant was no fool and knew exactly which side his bread was buttered.
He poured himself another coffee and chatted idly with his fellow officers until they all eventually crept up to their rooms for the night. Ross had an early start, so refused the brandies offered by a steward. He walked the short distance back to his new married quarter, where he spent the night.
He must be on top of his game for the meeting with Dame Ann in the morning.
Day 31
Tuesday 14th January – 0600
RNAF Volkel - SHQ
Ann Fletcher had used her power and influence to maintain her office at Volkel. She had been at her desk since 5am and was ready and waiting for the newly promoted Ross Bryant when her PA showed him in.
Ross was smartly dressed in his new uniform and stood rigidly to attention, throwing up a crisp salute to his new found benefactor.
‘Good morning Lieutenant, I'm very pleased to see you looking so well. Congratulations on the DSO – extremely well deserved if I may say so.’
‘Thank you ma’am,’ replied Ross, ‘I trust your daughter is well?’
Ann hesitated, just a soupcon, but Ross noticed – with interest.
‘Oh, yes, she’s fine, settling into her new quarters.’
She changed the subject immediately to put Ross off the scent. Of course, he could know nothing of the trouble between Fletcher and Brady and the temporary disappearance of Chloe and Chris. He would never know if she had anything to do with it..
‘I’ve asked you here this morning to act as my agent in an extremely important operation which affects the very heart of the recovery effort. There is a plan in motion to make a significant contribution to the financial credibility of the new British State – or the UKRA if you like. I'm not going to disclose any details at this meeting, only to say that you are to be the eyes and ears of the Prime Minister’s office during the operation. It's one reason why I’ve had you promoted. You are to report directly to me.
Do you understand? To only me. Not to the Prime Minister, not to the minister I'm going to send you to for your briefing, not to the military, and certainly not to any bloody foreigners or the CIA and MI6.
Have I made myself clear, Bryant?’
‘As crystal, ma’am.’ Ross remained at attention in front of Dame Ann’s desk. She passed forward an envelope, which he left on the desk.
‘Within this is a letter – an order - giving you any level of authority you may need during the course of the operation. It is signed by the PM and myself. It is irrefutable, unquestionable and entirely unambiguous, and gives you a great deal of absolute power Ross. Don’t abuse it and don’t ever let me down. You are not my only agent in the field. Fuck with me and you’ll regret it – and so will your wife!
The project is vital to the future of the UK. It must not fail.
You will now proceed to Brussels and attend a meeting with Mr Richard Castle – also an ex-Army man I understand – so you should hit it off. He is a Cabinet Minister and my PA will furnish you with the exact contact details. Mr Castle will brief you on your duties and explain certain aspects of the operation. I’ll tell you this now – several of your ex-chums from the SAS are involved – so please try to be discrete. No fraternisation or drinking binges to mull over ‘old times.’ There is too much at stake. Now do you have any other questions?’
Ross didn’t see the point in remaining in the office any longer than necessary, so replied tersely.
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Right then, Bryant, I believe this interview is over. Good morning and good luck. And Lieutenant, you can drop that bloody awful Geordie accent – it doesn’t suit your new rank! ’
Ross smiled, saluted, picked up the envelope, about turned and marched briskly towards the office door. As he opened it, Dame Ann fired her parting shot. She realised that the carrot was always more powerful than the stick.
‘Always remember, Lieutenant, exactly where your loyalties lie. Do not be seduced by any mouth-watering third parties. Get this right and you will be set for life – and you’ll have me as a friend.’
Ross paused in the doorway, turned his head, nodded briefly at Dame Ann, and went on his way.
He knew precisely which side his bread was buttered!
***
Dame Ann was more than satisfied with Ross Bryant. She’d read his file – ‘bright’ but not ‘clever’. A good soldier who obeyed orders and performed his duties efficiently and, if needed, ruthlessly. It was this element of his character which mildly concerned Ann, but as he'd rescued Chloe without too much trouble, she felt she must trust him. After all – there was no one else!
A car and driver was already waiting outside the office and Ann spent fifteen minutes giving final instructions to her PA, Eleanor Fisher. She would be back very late on Thursday, but saw no need to reveal her private R & R destination – even to the intensely loyal Eleanor.
The Mercedes CGI departed at 6:30am and sped through the darkness and rain to Frankfurt International Airport. There was little traffic and few hold-ups, and so the car drew up at the departure terminal shortly before 10am. Her new driver handed Ann a small carry-on bag from the trunk and departed, leaving her to check-in for the 11:25am KLM flight direct to Cape Town. She sat in the First Class lounge for only ten minutes – but more than enough time for a small glass of champagne.
Dame Ann was unrecognisable to anyone who might know her. Exiting the ladies’ washroom wearing an auburn wig, non-descript clothes, flat shoes, false eyeglasses and an alternative passport allowed her complete anonymity. Helga Carville, a Canadian national, took up her seat in First and accepted an additional glass of Krug before settling down to lunch and then a good, restful sleep, aided by a pill. The flight time was fourteen hours – plus one for time difference and she’d arrive at shortly after 2am on Wednesday morning. It was inconvenient but waiting for a night flight would waste too much precious time.
She had arranged for a car to pick her up from the airport, and correctly assumed that she would be checked in at the Five Star Kensington Place Hotel and sound asleep by 4am at the latest. Her luncheon appointment was at 1pm and she would have plenty of time to re-orientate herself – and chill out for a few hours.
After all, this was to be a welcome break from the extreme pressures she had endured over the past month.
Christ! Only a month had passed since it had started snowing. Only a month! It seemed like a fucking year!
She really needed this break – but there was also important work to be done, if her plans were to succe
ed. Nobody knew she was on this particular aircraft. Ann Fletcher had booked a flight to Dubai and she didn’t believe that anyone would bother that she became a no show. Certainly nobody at her office would check. As Helga Carville, she could enjoy a day or two of pampering and luxury.
She ordered an in-room masseuse for 10:30am and breakfasted just before. At 11:30 the hotel arranged for a girl to come and paint her nails and apply make-up, and at 12:30 she dressed in cool Armani, dispensed with her drab disguise and took a hotel car to the secretly arranged assignation at the Five Star La Colombe restaurant in Central Cape Town. Only the very best for Ann Fletcher!
She was shown to her table, which she had also reserved, and her guest for lunch was already seated, sipping yet more Krug champagne. He rose politely to greet her, and they embraced warmly, as old and intimate friends do.
Dirk Koopman was indeed a long-standing and very dear friend. Ann had served in the Diplomatic Service in Cape Town at the turn of the century, and Dirk had been a minor functionary in the Mandela administration. Ann saw the opportunity to make a solid ‘contact’ and one of her ‘not so brief’ sexual encounters followed. She completely beguiled Koopman who wanted marriage – but was inevitably disappointed. Nevertheless, they remained as friends and lovers until Ann moved on in 2002, and had kept in contact ever since – meeting twice in London.
Dirk had left politics in 2004 and had moved successfully into the shipping business, building up a huge multi-faceted empire moving various goods across the world. The tall, slim and athletic Boer was a popular figure in South African society, and it slightly concerned Ann that the pair were receiving so much attention from the staff at the restaurant. Of course, Ann hadn’t helped matters by turning up looking like a film star!
Dirk was still unmarried, but was perpetually chased by a bevy of ambitious international beauties who eyed the main prize – a good looking playboy who had real money!
They were both delighted to rekindle their friendship and Dirk fostered high hopes of revisiting Ann’s bedroom before she departed.
Snow! The Series [Books 1-4] Page 79