by Winona Kent
“Not at all. A little over a week, in fact.”
The Deputy DG of X Branch was disinclined to believe him.
“Oh, it’s easily done, Victor, when you know the right people. I’ve seen the most elaborate sets put up by a team of practised experts in eight minutes flat—and struck again in half that time. It took a bit longer to accomplish this particular scenario—false walls, floors and ceilings, hoses drawing water from the mains upstairs. Rather a lot of imported sand and gravel. And some very intricate wiring, I’m given to understand. The floor’s mounted on rollers and hydraulic jacks. We borrowed a couple of concert speakers for the sound. It’s all smoke and mirrors, Victor. Underneath all of this, Romilly Square’s quite intact.”
Victor shook his head. “Where did you get that diary?”
“It was hidden away in an old drop site—the drop Mark Braden and I used when he was posted aboard the Cilla Rose. He was going to direct me there the night Simon Darrow intercepted his message. The slip of paper wouldn’t have meant much to you—it was probably only a coded set of directions. I’m sure the code was broken—but the directions were also codes in themselves—A Big Tree in Wood Green—that was one of them. They wouldn’t have meant anything to anyone except me. Mark had taken the precaution of marking the description of our drop in the guide book with a signal, but I was too preoccupied to look for it. Trevor Jackson passed his diary to Mark shortly before he died. Rather than risk taking it out to the ship, Mark left it in the drop. He couldn’t immediately reach me because I was out of London, filming. I went out to the Cilla Rose as soon as I could. Your lot must have assumed the worst and decided to scuttle her rather than risk your little spy network being exposed.”
Victor slumped against the wall. “I suppose all of that sound cannon business is your doing as well.”
“I wouldn’t say it was all my idea, Victor. Such a weapon was under development at one time in Nazi Germany, and Jurgen Wimmer did engage in some experimental research on a similar device in the mid-1960’s. But beyond that…” He smiled. “We needed something to keep you occupied while we went about concocting our master plan, Victor. And you must admit, the threat of an imminent underground catastrophe did lend an intriguing note of high drama to the proceedings. Much of it was my oldest son’s idea, culled from his childhood experiences in Southern California. The Fitzroy Theatre power outage and burst water pipe had nothing to do with us, by the way. The pipe was in need of repair and it gave way all on its own; the blackout was a happy coincidence. We merely manipulated the facts to suit our purposes.”
“How very clever of you,” Victor muttered, ungraciously.
“And then we had a nugget of pure gold land in our laps when Kevin Darrow stowed Robin away down here. All those boxes filled with guns. What a lovely incentive for Nora to talk. She didn’t, of course. We made that up as well. She was telling you the truth: we haven’t spoken in days.”
“Her son waylaid me this afternoon,” Victor said. “Told me she desperately wanted a meeting. I was a fool to have listened.”
“Ah,” said Evan. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Darrow—if he’s quite finished removing his makeup.”
He stepped aside, and from the glare of the spotlights emerged a pleasant-looking man in his late twenties, wearing studded leather and torn denim. In one hand he held a wild-haired wig. With a smile and a flourish, Anthony Harris bowed deeply, then backed away again, disappearing into the shadows.
Unbelieving, Victor shook his head.
“Naturally, we arranged for a similar message to be delivered to Nora—thus guaranteeing a full house for this evening’s performance.”
A team of detectives from Scotland Yard’s Special Branch had entered the tunnel, and were making their way, carefully, through the mud and fallen debris.
“It was that young man, in fact, who came up with the brilliant suggestion that you might have been using Young and Dailey Travel to your financial advantage. We did a spot of investigating, Victor, and made a rather interesting discovery: your name appears on a secret list of shareholders attached to Gallimore Tours, which regularly handles group departures for Young and Dailey—the only trouble being, nobody ever seems to go anywhere. In spite of the large sums of money exchanging hands.”
Victor’s placid bewilderment was suddenly replaced by anger. “You still have nothing,” he said. “That doesn’t prove a thing.”
“I have your admission that you held regular meetings with a known Soviet Intelligence agent. And you acknowledge filling Oleg Kasparov’s dead letter drops at Box Hill with rolls of film. We have your confession on videotape, shot from three different angles. Isn’t that enough?”
“I’ll say I was coerced. I’ll claim physical and emotional trauma. Your bizarre theatrics belong on television, Harris. They haven’t got a chance in court.”
One of the detectives had taken him by the arm. “You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, Mr. Barnfather, but I must warn you that what you say may be put into writing and given in evidence.”
“Get off,” Victor answered, irritably, shaking the detective away.
“No chance in court?” Evan mused, as Victor was led out of the tunnel. “We’ll see.”
On the surface, Ian was making harried telephone calls. “Scotland Yard’s sending people to Epsom, Wimpole Mews and South Croydon,” he said, as his father emerged from below.
“I doubt we’ll find her, old son.” He paused as the unmarked police car containing Victor Barnfather sped away from the travel agency. “A woman like Nora comes prepared for all eventualities.”
“She mentioned something about leaving the country. Until it all blows over—that’s what she said. Moscow.”
“Not Moscow. She said that out of desperation. I agree with Victor—I can’t imagine Nora waging a daily battle with the crumbling Soviet economy. But I do believe she’ll try and do a bunk.”
They walked through the covered passage to the back of the building, where a profusion of hoses and thick electrical cables snaked over the cobblestones and into the agency by way of a recently unbricked rear window. A powerful pump was drawing waste water from the lower lift landing of Romilly Square and spewing it into a nearby drain.
“Not that the standard port and airline alerts will do much good.” Ian dialled the number of the night duty officer at Macdonald House on his mobile phone. “She’ll have at least one false passport to fall back on—and a disguise to match. Where do we begin looking?”
His father had an idea. He pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and peered, unsuccessfully and at arm’s length, at the hastily scribbled hotel name and telephone number.
“I can’t read this without my glasses,” he complained, passing the paper across to Ian. “What’s it say?”
It was nearly ten o’clock. “Come on, you,” Sara said, switching on the office lights. She pulled an extra chair out from behind Maureen’s desk. “So much for our fabulously romantic weekend in London. Sit down.”
Obediently, Robin sat, and Sara signed into the computer.
“How are you going to find Nora Darrow’s plane reservations?” he asked, giving a few of the keys a tentative tap.
“Well, I can’t, actually,” Sara said. “It’s not possible to simply type in a name and ask the system to search for anything that matches. I have to provide it with clues—a travel date, an airline, an origin and a destination. It’s not a terribly bright little computer, really.”
She reached for a small rotary index that was stored on the table beside the monitor.
“However,” she said, flipping through the cards, “we do have an alternative course of action. Here we are.”
“What’s that?”
“Nora’s frequent flier numbers. She’s got bonus plans for every airline in the universe. Addresses in three dozen countries. I gave up querying the legality of it ages ago. I mean, God forbid she should miss out on a free jaunt to Paris for not having her points added to h
er ticket.”
She entered the first of the numbers, and the system responded with a computerized profile.
[[ N1DARROW/N MRS
[[ C1 LON C/O HARRY YOUNG AND DAILEY ROMILLY SQUARE
[[ C2 555-1912 OFFICE
[[ A1 2025 FAIRCLOUGH ST. TORONTO, ONTARIO
[[ SSR FQTV AC
[[ SSR AC RQ NONSMOKING WINDOW
“It’s only an empty shell,” Sara said. “Passenger name, telephone, address, special preferences. Saves you having to put it in manually after you’ve booked the flights. You add your sign and a ticketing deadline—the computer gives you a locator number—and you’re away.”
Robin studied the screen.
“This particular one’s for Air Canada. There’s another one here—” She sent the Air Canada shell away, and keyed in another number. “American Airlines—with a convenient address in Chicago to which the appropriate awards can be sent. I’ll give them all a go—if she is collecting her points, one of them should pop up with her flight details.”
Someone was banging on the office door. Robin got up to let Ian in.
“Any luck?”
“Not yet.”
Robin sat down again; impatiently, Ian drummed his fingers on top of the CRT.
“That’s it, I’m afraid. Thirteen bonus plans, thirteen empty shells. She’s not travelling under Nora Darrow.”
“Have you ever booked flights for her using any other names?” Ian asked.
Sara thought. “I haven’t,” she said, “but Flash Harry, now—that’s another matter entirely. Stay there.”
She flew up the stairs and was back again in less than a minute.
“Here we go. Flash Harry’s personal client card index. Arnold…Bacon…Bolton. Mrs. Jacqueline Bolton. She’s been abroad three times using that name.”
“How do you know it’s Nora?” Robin said.
“It’s Nora,” Sara replied, confidently, keying in the plan number for Air Canada. “There. Look. The same contact address in Toronto. And if I pull up American there’ll be an address in Chicago. It’s Nora.”
She entered the frequent flier numbers, one after the other, until there was just a single card left, propped up against the keyboard.
“Fingers crossed,” she said.
The computer took a moment to respond to her request. And then, a single line of data appeared:
RQ134A6
“What’s that?” Ian said.
“That,” Sara replied triumphantly, “is a Record Locator.”
“Meaning?”
“She’s booked. That’s her file number.”
“Woodford,” Robin said, kissing her, “you’re brilliant. Isn’t she brilliant?”
“Absolutely,” Ian agreed.
“Come on, then—pull up the details.”
“Ah,” said Sara, “well. There’s a slight snag there, you see. I can’t.”
“I’ve never encountered such an intellectually challenged computer in my life,” Robin said. “Why not?”
“Because the reservation’s been booked directly with the airline. If we’d done the booking, the file would have come up on the screen. But since she’s rung up the carrier to make the arrangements, all we’ve got is notification that something under that name does indeed exist. We’re not allowed anything else. We can’t automatically access airline bookings, and we can’t look at files from other agencies.”
“We’ve got the airline, the name and a locator number,” Ian said. “I can probably convince them to let me have a look at the file, but it means going through official channels and that could take all night.” He looked at Sara. “And there’s absolutely no way you can access this reservation.”
Sara thought for a moment.
“Hang on,” she said.
She leafed through Harry’s telephone index for the airline’s 24-hour information number, then picked up the receiver, and dialled.
“Hello, Martin,” she said. “It’s Sara from Young and Dailey, Romilly Square. How are you tonight?”
She listened patiently while the agent told her about his cold, and then remarked about the lateness of the hour.
“I know,” she said. “Isn’t it awful? I’m in here slogging my brains out trying to put my last minute files in order before I jet off to Rome tomorrow morning—” She made a face at Robin. “Can you just have a quick look at a booking for me, Martin?”
She gave him the locator number.
“That’s it…party of one. Bolton.”
She gave Ian a thumbs-up.
“Has she been ticketed yet, by any chance…?”
With a broad smile, she shook her head as the agent replied in the negative.
“Could you possibly pass it over to me, then, Martin? It’s actually my flatmate’s mother, and she’s just rung me to see if I can save her the bother of queuing up at the airport ticket counter tomorrow morning. Yes, great.”
She waited, still beaming, then gave him Young and Dailey’s IATA and telephone numbers, and repeated her name for the record.
“Thanks awfully—you’re a true life saver. Look after that sore throat, won’t you? Bye-bye.”
She hung up.
“You’re a hell of a good liar,” Ian remarked. “What did you do?”
“I’ve taken over the booking,” Sara replied, very pleased with herself. “It’s quite legit—happens all the time. Passengers make reservations directly with an airline and ask an agency to do the ticketing. Martin’s released the file back to me.”
She keyed RQ134A6 into the computer, and waited.
“There you are.”
[[ VYX161 F 07SEP LHR1045 ANU1415 HK1
[[ VYX F ANULHR OPEN
[[ N1 BOLTON/J MRS
[[ C1 EPSOM 555-8210 H
[[ C2 AGENCY RQ TKTNG…MARTIN 06754/2225/06SEP
[[ C3 C/O SARA YOUNG AND DAILEY ROMILLY SQUARE LON
[[ SSR FQTV VYX 125636R BOLTON
[[ SSR VYX RQ NONSMOKING WINDOW
[[ SSR VYX KK1 VYX161
[[ T/1000 ARPT…CASH P/U
[[ RQ134A6
“OK, so where’s she going?” Ian asked, unable to make sense of the coded jumble of letters and numbers.
“Antigua. First class, open return.”
“Nice for some,” he said. “When?”
“Tomorrow morning. Quarter to eleven.”
Ian considered the computer screen. “It gives you an amazingly perverse sense of power, doesn’t it,” he mused, folding his arms. “All those times you turn up at the airport with your ticket in hand…and nobody seems to know who you are…”
Sara looked at the two brothers. “What,” she asked, suspiciously, “is it you’re suggesting I do?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Saturday, 07 September 1991
Mrs. Jacqueline Bolton had arrived. A quiet women, her taste in clothing and hairstyles purposely understated, she attracted little attention to herself as she paid the taxi driver and directed the porter to wheel her luggage through the Terminal Three entranceway, into the busy Departures concourse, and across to the Sales and Reservations counter of the airline.
“Hello,” she said, adjusting her spectacles—the right arm was pressing into her ear, and her ash blonde wig was an added irritant. “I believe you have a ticket waiting for me. Mrs. Bolton. Jackie Bolton. Today’s flight to Antigua.”
She placed her passport on top of the counter, open at the page which contained her false identity and picture.
“Yes, good morning, Mrs. Bolton.” The agent tapped her flight information into his computer, and waited for a response. “That’s odd.”
“I’m sorry I’m a bit late,” said the soft-spoken Mrs. Bolton. “Unavoidable delays along the M4.”
“When did you make this reservation, Mrs. Bolton?”
“The day before yesterday. Is anything the matter?”
The ticket agent was making a number of furtive entries.
“Is there something wrong?” Mrs. Bolton inquired ag
ain.
“I don’t seem to be able to locate your reservation, Mrs. Bolton. Are you quite certain you booked your flight through us?”
“Quite,” she replied, the pleasant veneer she had so carefully cultivated taking on a distinctly glacial tone.
“Well.” The agent was momentarily at a loss for words. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bolton, but we seem to have no record of your booking.”
“But that’s quite ridiculous. I reserved it myself, the day before yesterday, over the telephone. Kindly explain how it’s possible for one of your agents to confirm a flight number, a specific seat and a file locator on Thursday, while today, when I attempt to purchase the ticket, your computer claims never to have heard of me.”
The passenger agent brightened. “Have you got that locator number with you, Mrs. Bolton?”
With a distinctly annoyed sniff, Jacqueline Bolton searched her handbag for the hurried notes she had scribbled during her conversation in the call box.
“There you are,” she said, placing the slip of paper on the counter.
The agent keyed in the combination of letters and numbers, then paused.
“Well, Mrs. Bolton, it does indeed appear that a booking under your name did exist in our system at one point.” He had located the ghost of her file, and was busily calling up its history. “However…that reservation does appear to have been cancelled.”
“By whom?” Nora Darrow demanded, her outrage running rough-shod over any remnants of Jacqueline Bolton’s placid demeanour that had managed to survive intact.
“It…doesn’t say,” the agent replied, nonplussed. “I show a record of your original conversation with our reservation office on Thursday morning…” He continued to search the file’s past history. “Your original ticketing deadline…our agent Martin touching it last at 25 minutes past ten last night…”
He stopped.
“It looks as if the file was passed over to a travel agency.”
He brought up the chronicle of active and past Comment fields.
“And then, for some reason, all references to that transaction were purged from the file when the seat was cancelled. Did you not give an agency permission to take over the booking?”