Wings of Death

by David Holman

  The next day Morrison was driven to London and in Curzon Street, entered through the large oak doors of Leconfield House.

  After a short induction period being instructed in the latest interrogation and counter-resistance techniques, he had been given his first assignment as an Enforcer. His methods had given him the nickname of Ammo and amongst the circles of the Security Service, this was how he was now addressed.

  *

  Morrison exited the bathroom and spoke to a man sitting at a desk outside another room. ‘He’s all yours now, Mr Martin. You should find him more co-operative.’

  Dennis Martin grinned. ‘Thank you, Ammo.’

  Morrison opened another door and went inside, filled the kettle and sat down at the table. He picked up the newspaper while waiting for the kettle to boil his water for his tea.

  Next door, ‘Ammo’s latest customer sat weeping in the solitary wooden chair in the middle of a dimly lit and damp room that had been purposely built with soundproof panels suppressing the sounds for its sole purpose. This was one of three rooms of the special interrogation centre, deep below the London streets, more commonly known as The Well. Leonev Kostowyz choked on some of his blood he had swallowed from the wound on his broken inner lip.

  Before the beatings he had been stripped of his Brinton Aviation overalls and shirt, and now sat tied to the chair, wearing only a blood soaked string vest, underpants and socks. The only light in the room was a desk lamp with a 100 watt bulb that blazed in his face each time he lifted his head up.

  He was confused and bewildered as to why he was here. The accusations regarding his father had upset him. He raised his head again as Dennis Martin entered the room. The interior was ideal for the purpose. The walls were plain white with a stone floor. On the hard floor’s surface, the faint blood stains of previous traitors could still be seen. There were no windows and only one entrance and exit.

  At short periods a rumble could be heard as an underground train passed by on the nearby District and Circle Line, as passengers obliviously went about their daily routine.

  Martin walked in front of his captive. ‘Good Morning, Mr Kostowyz. My name is Dennis, and I’m here to ask you some questions.’

  The Polish aircraft mechanic looked up at him. ‘Please,’ he said in his broken English accent. ‘I do not know what you are talking about. I am not a Russian spy, and my father was killed at Peenemunde during the war. I like England and working at Brinton.’

  Martin interrupted. ‘Yes, so you have already told my colleague, but we know that you Soviet infiltrators have been trained to act the innocent, haven’t you?’

  Kostowyz begged. ‘No, you do not understand. I don’t like the Soviets. I see myself as a British citizen now. You have to believe me, please.’

  Martin gave Kostowyz a sly smile. ‘Look, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I won’t bring Mr Morrison in here anymore.’ He leaned over the restrained man, speaking softly over his shoulder, and sneered menacingly. ‘Providing of course, you tell me who your contact is, and where I might find them.’

  Kostowyz dropped his head and stared at his bare knees. Psychologically, he felt defeated in his attempt to end this nightmare.

  Martin continued with his questions, ignoring the pleas from his captive. ‘Perhaps you can tell me why you sabotaged the BR-101 Rapier.’

  ‘Please, I work on the BR-101, I enjoy being part of it, why would I sabotage it?’

  Martin made a quick lunge at the Polish immigrant, but instead of grabbing him, took hold of the arms of the chair and stared him full in the face. ‘Because you are a Soviet spy and your superiors in Moscow want to see the programme cancelled! They don’t want our little bird flying under their radar and posting a stand-off nuclear missile through the door of the Kremlin!’

  Kostowyz pleaded again, looking Martin directly in the eyes. ‘Please, I am not a spy, you have to believe me.’

  Martin smiled. ‘Okay, you’re going to be a hard one to crack Mr Kostowyz, but you will crack, and then you’ll hang for murdering James McGregor.’

  Kostowyz shouted at Martin then started to cry. ‘I did not murder him, James was my friend!’

  ‘You lying murdering commie bastard! You tried to sabotage the aircraft and McGregor caught you, so you killed him didn’t you?’

  Kostowyz bowed his head sobbing. ‘No, I swear, I did not.’

  The MI5 man continued. ‘You’ll be taken to Wormwood Scrubs until it’s time for your drop. And they like to have traitors in there. Oh, yes. You’ll be right at home amongst all your communist colleagues that we’ve caught in the past. But do not think it is all nice and cozy there. Oh no, my friend, being here is a Sunday picnic in the park, compared to what you will face in your short stay in prison.’

  Martin walked out of the room and shut the door. Kostowyz stopped crying and put his head up, instantly closing his eyes to avoid the glare of the lamp. He was desperate, but what could he do to convince these thugs that he had nothing to do with the sabotage? He felt exhausted and useless and decided that he just now wanted to be allowed to die.

  *

  A few hours later, the phone on Stratton’s desk rung twice before he answered it to discover his Number 2 on the other end of the line.

  ‘Sir, we have a confession from the bastard. He’s told us everything. Well, we sort have had to help him a bit with that, but in the end, he’s seen that he can’t hide anymore.’

  Stratton smiled. ‘I suppose we also have to thank Ammo for his assistance in this as well, don’t we?’

  Martin agreed.

  ‘Okay, Dennis. Let’s hold him for a while until I decide what to do with him next. He may know some other useful things, so we won’t hand him over to the Special Branch boys just yet.’

  *

  Gable walked into the office with two cups of tea in his hands. Swan sat, thinking, in his chair.

  ‘Still deep in thought I see, sir.’

  Swan smiled. ‘Sorry, Arthur. I was just thinking about that poor chap that Stratton has down The Well. I think I need to let him know that he has an innocent man, but not sure as to what I should say and not say to him about it.’

  Gable nodded in agreement. ‘You can’t really say anything about the Yanks at this time, as the only proof we have is HB’s incident. Which leaves us in a bit of a pickle. If we let the authorities confront Maitland, he will just deny all involvement and we’ll get absolutely nowhere.’

  Swan rose from the chair and looked at the blackboard. ‘Indeed, Arthur. What we need is something else, as we still don’t know the motives behind the sabotage. I still can’t believe the Yanks would play dirty, just so that we take their plane.’

  Gable turned his head and also looked at the board. ‘So where do we go from here then, sir?’

  Swan walked over to the board, picked up a piece of chalk and drew a circle around the words Maitland’s Ring.

  ‘I’m hoping that my meeting with my old CIA friend Clinton Sanger may throw some fresh light on all this.’

  Chapter 16

  Swan stepped out of the taxi into Grosvenor Square. Looking at the building in front of him, he gazed upwards to the large bronze eagle on the roof and for a few moments stood studying it, before walking up the small flight of steps and through the swing doors of the American Embassy.

  At the reception desk, he was greeted with a broad North American tone by an immaculately uniformed guard. ‘Good morning, sir. How can I help you today?’

  ‘I have an appointment with Mr Sanger.’

  The guard had recognised the name. ‘One moment, sir.’ He picked up the telephone receiver and spoke into it briefly, then replaced it. ‘Mr Sanger is on his way up now, sir.’

  Swan politely thanked him and waited a few moments, taking in the interior decoration of the reception lobby, then turned around when he suddenly heard his name.

  ‘Alex Swan!’ A small man with a thin moustache put out his hand and Swan took it, giving it a firm shake.

  ‘Clint
on. It was good of you to see me.’

  ‘Not a problem Alex. How’s your new job doing?’

  ‘Fine, thank you Clinton. And yours?’

  ‘Swell, just swell.’ Sanger looked at his watch. ‘Say, how are you fixed for lunch? I know an excellent little place around the block that does the most delicious hot salt beef sandwich, served by the cutest little waitress in London’s West End.’

  Swan smiled. ‘That sounds great, Clinton. Please lead the way.’

  The two men left the embassy and walked out of the square into Brook Street.

  I don’t know about you Alex, but I find it better to talk out of the office now, especially to ex-agents of the British MI5. So what’s on your mind, buddy?’

  Swan thought that he would begin at the beginning. ‘I was wondering if in your new capacity as head of the Archive Library, you would know of any patriotic symbols involving an eagle and a spear.’

  Suddenly, as if he had been struck by a baseball, Sanger stopped on the pavement and glanced at Swan. ‘How do you know of this symbol, Alex?’

  ‘I saw it on the ring of an American chap up at Brinton Aviation. He is heading up the Python Hawk project. I thought that his ring symbolized something, like the masonic rings worn by some businessman, or maybe some military connection.’

  Sanger asked another question. ‘You say the eagle is carrying a spear in its talons?’

  ‘Yes, well that’s what it looked like anyway. Do you have an idea then?’

  Sanger looked down the street ahead of him. ‘As a matter of fact, I do. The spear is actually a lance. The symbol is that of The Eagle’s Lance. This was a secret society set up during the War of Independence. A breakaway outfit from Samuel Adams’ Sons of Liberty. There was a book written about them a few years ago called The Secret Path, I forget who wrote it. Anyway, this faction was led by a guy named Henry Sanderson. He made a deal with a Mohawk Indian chief by the name of Kee-Haw. The Mohawks would help Sanderson in terrorist activities against the British, and disrupt communications in exchange for being promised some land of their own, should the British grant independence to the United States.’

  Swan interrupted. ‘So this is what formed The Eagle’s Lance. An alliance between native Indians and Washington’s forces?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ corrected Sanger. ‘GW was totally against using any of the native tribes to fight in the war, and outlawed any such practices. Sanderson was a true patriot, and after the British were defeated, he murdered Kee-Haw, or got one of his men to do it. But, as he had managed to keep his organisation secret from Washington, he continued with it and used it so that at any future time when the United States was threatened in any way, The Eagle’s Lance would act to ensure that the country was protected. On Sanderson’s death, he passed on a legacy for it to continue. In the Civil War, The Eagle’s Lance were on the side of the Union, using terrorist tactics to plant bombs and give misinformation to Lee’s forces. During World War One, The Eagle’s Lance were said to have communicated with the German Navy, informing them that US passenger ships were being used to secretly transport ammunitions to England. The U.S wanted to be in this war, so The Eagle’s Lance made sure it happened by setting up those ships for torpedo attacks. There are even strong rumors that The Eagle’s Lance were behind the failed coup to assassinate Hitler at the Wolf’s Lair in Rastenburg, by granting the German traitors asylum in the United States, should they be successful. A secret meeting has said to have taken place with US commanders and high ranking German officers of the Wehrmacht to arrange it.’

  ‘This all sounds a bit like the Mohawk affair all over again,’ added Swan.

  ‘Exactly that, Alex. Since then, who knows what these guys have been doing to defend our country from any other threats?’

  Swan asked a question. ‘So this man with the ring? Frank Maitland his name is. If he is a member of The Eagle’s Lance would he be up at Brinton Aviation for a reason, let’s say to sabotage a British aircraft project in favour of an American one?’

  ‘I take it you mean threatening the BR-101, to ensure your government scrap it and take the FB-X instead? Yes, I would consider that a possibility, and in the true tradition of the way The Eagle’s Lance work, our government would have no clue as to what was going on.’

  Swan smirked at the prospect. He suddenly began to realise what he had been missing from his puzzle. ‘Clinton, you have been a true Godsend in this investigation. Thank God you gave up the CIA to manage your London embassy’s archives.’

  Sanger halted and gave his old friend a sincere and concerned stare. ‘Alex, when your president suddenly gets assassinated on your own soil, then you gotta ask yourself what else is your own nation capable of? No pal, I resigned from The Company because I had no idea who exactly to trust in it anymore.’

  Swan agreed and they walked on. ‘That is exactly why I met with you today,’ he remarked.

  Sanger stopped again, abruptly taking hold of Swan’s arm. ‘One thing, Alex. The motto of The Eagle’s Lance is: Allegiance to the End. Be careful buddy, these guys stop at nothing to fulfill their aims. And I mean nothing!’

  They eventually arrived at the café on Binney Street. In that short walk from the embassy, the SID man had acquired a wealth of new knowledge.

  *

  At Brinton, Jake Brannigan took another puff on his cigarette as he watched the busy scene fifty yards before him. Blue suited technicians were climbing on the first Rapier, preparing the machine for the flight down to RAF Pembridge. Various hoses and cables went into every available orifice of the aircraft as fuel, auxiliary power leads, and hydraulic fluid were injected into it.

  The Texan dropped the finished butt of his cigarette and stepped on it, then stood studying the aircraft. His attention was drawn to the cockpit. A technician sat in the pilot’s ejector seat checking systems and then marking a form on his clipboard. Brannigan studied the movements of the technician who now moved towards a black box clipped to the side of the windshield.

  He held a few breaths as the technician looked around the box and pushed a few buttons on the front control panel. Then he relaxed with a silent sigh, as the technician climbed out of the cockpit onto the mobile service platform, and then climbed into the navigator’s cockpit to continue with the systems checks.

  Satisfied, Brannigan left the scene and walked back towards Hangar One, smiling to himself as he picked up the pace.

  Behind him, he failed to notice another technician leaning on the service platform, who leaned in and spoke up to his colleague in the cockpit. ‘Bloody Yanks. They think they own the place, don’t they Tommy?’

  Tommy gave his colleague the thumbs up sign in agreement.

  ‘Did you see the way that he stood staring at us while smoking his bloody Marlboro? He was probably worried that we might damage this bloody pod of theirs.’ The technician raised his leg and kicked the Python Hawk pod attached to the under fuselage pylon of the Rapier. Tommy looked over, suddenly surprised to hear a clanking sound, as if his colleague had just kicked a hollow shell. He shrugged then went on to complete his checks. ‘Well, everything checks out here. Time for some lunch, I reckon.’ Tommy clambered out of the cockpit and the two men gestured to their colleagues, working on other areas of the aircraft, of their intentions to go to the canteen. They all put down tools and clipboards and joined as a group to walk to the canteen building. Tommy decided to take a curious look back, and then again wondered why the Python Hawk pod had made that sound.

  *

  Inspector Lake sat at his desk, looking over the medical report on Brinton’s Chief Designer. He took a cigarette from the packet on his desk and lit it. ‘What are you hiding, Mr Barnett?’ he asked, to no-one in particular. He read through the contents and then suddenly stopped, got up from his desk and went over to a large brown filing cabinet and opened the top drawer. He searched through the files, then put his head up to look across at another plain clothes officer writing at his desk. ‘Excuse me, Charlie, I can’t seem to fin
d the James McGregor file anywhere. Any ideas?’ Charlie Rusby, a young Detective Sergeant, looked up at him. ‘That was commandeered by Scotland Yard a few days ago, Guv.’ Rusby opened a notebook on his desk. ‘There, it was signed out by a Mr Carter.’

  ‘Mister?’ Lake replied, inquisitively.

  ‘Apparently, he just spoke to the Super and was given the file.’

  Lake barked. ‘Just like that, no questions asked?’

  ‘No sir,’ replied Rusby sheepishly.

  Lake thought for a few moments then slammed the drawer to the filing cabinet shut. ‘Scotland Yard, my backside. This is Special Branch, or it could even be the bloody Secret Service. He returned to his desk and picked up the medical report again. Then shouted across the room. ‘What the bloody hell is going on up at Brinton’s?’

  *

  Swan put down the phone after a long talk with Barnett, and stared across his office to the blackboard. He felt jubilant.

  ‘Got you, you bastard!’ Now wearing a vicious grin on his face, he sat down at his desk and placed some paper into the top of his typewriter, then with his fingers stretched out, he hit the letter keys. Five minutes later, he put on his jacket and checked his watch. He then reached into a wood cabinet to retrieve a small camera, but also noticed something else in the cupboard, and reached in and grabbed his colleague’s Webley .38 caliber revolver, sitting in its holster. He placed both the holstered pistol and the camera in his inside jacket pocket then left the office, walked into Whitehall, and hailed a passing black cab.

  He spoke to the driver through the window. ‘Fleet Street, please driver.’

  The driver nodded politely, and Swan opened the door and climbed in.

  *

  The Old Bell was a pub frequented by the hacks of Fleet Street. Enjoying their infamous liquid lunchtime, the place was packed with the workers of the daily prints who had just completed their shifts. Peter Mander was no exception to this. As a freelance journalist, he was a regular in the establishment, being highly distinctive in his tired looking brown suit and scuffed brown brogues. As a chain smoker, Mander would always have a haze of cigarette smoke shrouding him. His reputation preceded him, as his stories would usually be the ones that caused a huge shock to the system. Some had been so controversial that they had led to the resignations of senior public figures.