Find My Brother

by David Chilcott

  Chapter Twelve

  Morton was writing a report, head bent over the keyboard, totally absorbed in the task. He was suddenly aware of a shadow and looked up, squinting sideways into the sun from the window.

  “Oh, it’s you, Len. Good morning,” said Morton, greeting his boss Baxter. It was Morton’s second week at head office after returning from his Manchester posting. There was another chair in the cubicle, in case he had a visitor, like now. There were five other cubicles similar to his own in the office.

  “Sit down, sit down,” he said and waved toward his visitor chair. Baxter sat and lounged back. In one hand he held a grey cardboard file, so slim it could be empty.

  “How are you settling in?” asked Baxter, obviously not very interested in the answer.

  “Okay,” said Morton. “Have you brought me something?”

  “This decoded email came in to six on the Russian desk only this morning. They want some information from us. I thought you might be interested, because it’s about your old shipmate.”

  “Have I got a shipmate?” Morton had lost the thread. Where had someone said shipmate recently? McBride of course. “Oh, McBride.”

  “Yes, John McBride. The bloke who was on that cruise ship, what was it called – The Helena? At least six think that’s who he is. Thought you might confirm it.” He dropped the file on the desk. “Have a look at it, and come past my office when you have.” And Baxter rose from the chair and slouched off.

  Morton picked up the file and dropped it on his own side of the desk. He opened it. Two sheets of paper, the thinnest file he had ever seen in MI5. The first sheet was the message, as decoded.

  Decoded email from St Petersburg office. Received 0731 2nd October 2015

  Reference 06-11-53489100

  Subject escaped English prisoners. West Russian sector St Petersburg/Anchorage

  We have reports that two English prisoners escaped from a prison camp in this sector. We have not identified the camp position, but it is rumoured to contain approx. one hundred English or UK citizens.

  The men have been free for approx.. 48 hours, and are being sought by SVR who have tightened security in the area. There has also been some military activity on a small scale.

  It is thought the fugitives are making for the border near St Petersburg. We intend to keep a watching brief and give clandestine help if needed.

  Attached is a copy of a wanted notice, which was photographed at a local railway station. Identification not known.

  Head of St Petersburg Station.

  Morton flicked over the page. A photograph showed a ‘wanted poster’ not very well photographed. There was large Cyrillic script, and two photographs, both of men looking serious. One of the men was certainly McBride. Didn’t McBride say he was looking for some guy? The other picture was of a young man, maybe not even thirty, a bit gaunt-looking. Which he would be if he’d spent some time in a prison camp. McBride had worked fast if he’d got to Russia, and on his way out, according to the email. He had only seen McBride about a month ago, maybe less.

  He really was a genuine guy, and still defying the odds. He would get himself killed the way he acted. He put the papers back in the file, got up and made his way into the corridor. Baxter occupied the smallest office Morton had ever seen with only room for a small desk, two chairs, and a single narrow filing cabinet.

  Morton knocked and walked in without waiting. He caught Baxter standing looking out of the window and scratching his arse. Baxter swung round, and relaxed when he saw who he was. Morton put the file on the desk.

  “You are right. It is McBride. The young bloke, he must be the man that he rescued. He told me about it when he came to see me in Manchester. A freelance investigative reporter. His sister reported his absence to the police. Up in Yorkshire somewhere. You could get his name from -- hang on, why do you want his, or even both names? What good does that do?”

  “Six wants the names for their files.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, keeps the records straight. They might be just making the stories up otherwise. Somebody has to check.”

  “What a load of bollocks. Six, and, I suppose Five, might as well not exist.”

  Baxter looked grave.

  “The files have to be complete. “

  “I’ve half a mind to resign on the spot. This is like playing at cowboys and indians.”

  “Go away and think about it Michael. Don’t be too hasty. Think of the salary, and the mega pension at the end of it.”

  Morton went back to his cubicle, switched off his computer, locked his desk, and walked out of the building.

  He looked at his watch as he walked down the stairs. Midday. He may as well get lunch. He knew he would return to his desk, and carry on working for Five. He hated himself for not having the guts to get out.