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TO MY FIRST GRANDDAUGHTER
My many thanks to the following people for their invaluable advice and research:
Simon Bainbridge, Sir Win Bischoff, Sir Victor Blank,
Dr. Harry Brunjes, Professor Susan Collins,
Eileen Cooper RA, the Rt. Hon. The Lord Fowler PC,
The Reverend Canon Michael Hampel, Professor Roger Kirby,
Alison Prince, Catherine Richards, Mari Roberts,
Susan Watt, Peter Watts, and David Weeden
PROLOGUE
1978
EMMA ALWAYS TOOK a second look at any vessel that flew the Canadian flag from its stern. She would then check the name on the hull before her heartbeat would return to normal.
When she looked this time, her heartbeat almost doubled and her legs nearly buckled under her. She double-checked; not a name she was ever likely to forget. She stood and watched the two little tugs steaming up the estuary, black smoke billowing from their funnels as they piloted the rusting old cargo ship toward its final destination.
She changed direction, but as she made her way to the breaker’s yard, she couldn’t help wondering about the possible consequences of trying to find out the truth after all these years. Surely it would be more sensible just to go back to her office rather than rake over the past … the distant past.
But she didn’t turn back, and when she reached the yard Emma headed straight for the chief ganger’s office, as if she were simply carrying out her usual morning rounds. She stepped into the railway carriage and was relieved to find that Frank wasn’t there, just a secretary typing away. She stood the moment she saw the chairman.
“I’m afraid Mr. Gibson isn’t here, Mrs. Clifton. Shall I go and look for him?”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” said Emma. She glanced at the large booking chart on the wall, only to have her worst fears confirmed. The SS Maple Leaf had been scheduled for breaking up and work was to begin on Tuesday week. At least that gave her a little time to decide whether to alert Harry or, like Nelson, turn a blind eye. But if Harry found out the Maple Leaf had returned to its graveyard and asked her if she’d known about it, she wouldn’t be able to lie to him.
“I’m sure Mr. Gibson will be back in a few minutes, Mrs. Clifton.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not important. But would you ask him to drop in and see me when he’s next passing my office?”
“Can I tell him what it’s about?”
“He’ll know.”
* * *
Karin looked out of the window at the countryside rushing by as the train continued on its journey to Truro. But her thoughts were elsewhere as she tried to come to terms with the baroness’s death.
She hadn’t been in touch with Cynthia Forbes-Watson for several months, and MI6 had made no attempt to replace her as Karin’s handler. Had they lost interest in her? Cynthia had given her nothing of any significance to pass on to Pengelly for some time, and their tearoom meetings had become less and less frequent.
Pengelly had hinted that it wouldn’t be long before he expected to return to Moscow. It couldn’t be soon enough for her. She was sick of deceiving Giles, the only man she’d ever loved, and was tired of traveling down to Cornwall on the pretense of visiting her father. Pengelly wasn’t her father but her stepfather. She loathed him. She’d prayed her mother wouldn’t marry him. But once her mother became Mrs. Pengelly, Karin quickly realized she could use the petty party official to escape a regime she despised even more than she despised him, if that was possible. And then she’d met Giles Barrington, who’d made it all possible by falling in love with her.
Karin hated not being able to tell Giles the real reason she had tea at the House of Lords with the baroness so often. Now that Cynthia was dead, she would no longer have to live a lie. But when Giles discovered the truth, would he believe she’d escaped the tyranny of East Berlin only because she wanted to be with him? Had she lied once too often?
As the train pulled into Truro, she prayed it was for the last time.
* * *
“How many years have you worked for the company, Frank?” asked Emma, looking up from her desk.
“Nigh on forty, ma’am. Served your father, and your grandfather before him.”
“So you’ll have heard the story of the Maple Leaf?”
“Before my time, ma’am, but everyone in the yard is familiar with the tale, though few ever speak of it.”
“I have a favor to ask, Frank. Could you put together a small gang of men who can be trusted?”
“I’ve two brothers and a cousin who’ve never worked for anyone else but Barrington’s.”
“They’ll need to come in on a Sunday, when the yard is closed. I’ll pay them double time, in cash, and there will be an incentive bonus of the same amount in twelve months’ time, but only if I’ve heard nothing of the work they carried out that day.”
“Very generous, ma’am,” said Frank, touching the peak of his cap.
“When will they be able to start?”
“Next Sunday morning. The yard’ll be closed until Tuesday, Monday being a bank holiday.”
“You do realize you haven’t asked me what it is I want you to do?”
“No need to, ma’am. And if we find what you’re lookin’ for in the double bottom, what then?”
“I ask no more than that the remains of Arthur Clifton should be given a Christian burial.”
“And if we find nothing?”
“Then it will be a secret the five of us take to our graves.”
* * *
Karin’s stepfather opened the front door of the cottage and welcomed her with an unusually warm smile.
“I have some good news to share with you,” he said as she stepped into the house, “but it will have to wait until later.”
Could it just be possible, thought Karin, that this nightmare was finally coming to an end? Then she saw a copy of The Times lying on the kitchen table, open at the obituaries page. She stared at the familiar photograph of Baroness Forbes-Watson and wondered if it was just a coincidence, or if he had left it open simply to provoke her.
Over coffee, they talked of nothing consequential, but Karin could hardly miss the three suitcases standing by the door, which appeared to herald imminent departure. Even so, she became more anxious by the minute, as Pengelly remained far too relaxed and friendly for her liking. What was the old army expression, “demob happy”?
“Time for us to talk about more serious matters,” he said, placing a finger to his lips. He went out to the hallway and removed his heavy overcoat from a peg by the door. Karin thought about making a run for it, but if she did, and all he was going to tell her was that he was returning to Moscow, her cover would be blown. He helped her on with her coat and accompanied her outside.
Karin was taken by surprise when he gripped her arm firmly and almost marched her down the deserted street. Usually she linked her arm in his so that any passing strange
r would assume they were father and daughter out for a walk, but not today. She decided that if they came across anyone, even the old colonel, she would stop and talk to him, because she knew Pengelly wouldn’t dare take a risk if there was a witness present. Like all spies, he assumed everyone else was a spy.
Pengelly continued his jovial banter. This was so out of character Karin became even more apprehensive, her eyes darting warily in every direction, but no one appeared to be taking a constitutional on that bleak, gray day.
Once they reached the edge of the woods, Pengelly looked back, as he always did, to see if anyone was following them. If there was, they would retrace their steps and head back to the cottage. But not this afternoon.
Although it was barely four o’clock, the light was already beginning to fade and it was becoming darker by the minute. He gripped her elbow more firmly as they stepped off the road and onto a path that led into the woods. His voice changed to match the cold night air.
“I know you’ll be pleased to hear, Karin”—he never called her Karin—“that I’ve been promoted and will soon be returning to Moscow.”
“Congratulations, comrade. Well deserved.”
He didn’t loosen his grip. “So this will be our last meeting,” he continued. Could she possibly hope that … “But Marshal Koshevoi has entrusted me with one final assignment.” Pengelly didn’t elaborate, almost as if he wanted her to take her time thinking about it. As they walked deeper into the woods, it was becoming so dark that Karin could hardly see a yard in front of her. Pengelly, however, seemed to know exactly where he was going, as if every pace had been rehearsed.
“The head of countersurveillance,” he said calmly, “has finally uncovered the traitor in our ranks, the person who has for years been betraying the motherland. I have been chosen to carry out the appropriate retribution.”
His firm grip finally relaxed and he released her. Her first instinct was to run, but he had chosen the spot well. A clump of trees behind her, to her right the disused tin mine, to her left a narrow path she could barely make out in the darkness, and towering above her, Pengelly, who couldn’t have looked calmer or more alert.
He slowly removed a pistol from the pocket of his overcoat, and held it menacingly by his side. Was he hoping she would make a run for it, so it would take more than a single bullet to kill her? But she remained rooted to the spot.
“You’re a traitor,” said Pengelly, “who has done more damage to our cause than any agent in the past. So you must die a traitor’s death.” He glanced in the direction of the mine shaft. “I’ll be back in Moscow long before they discover your body, if they ever do.”
He raised the gun slowly until it was level with Karin’s eyes. Her last thought before he pulled the trigger was of Giles.
The sound of a single shot echoed through the woods, and a flock of starlings flew high into the air as her body slumped to the ground.
HARRY AND EMMA CLIFTON
1978–1979
1
NUMBER SIX squeezed the trigger. The bullet left the rifle at 212 miles per hour, hitting its target a couple of inches below the left collarbone, killing him instantly.
The second bullet embedded itself in a tree, yards from where both bodies had fallen. Moments later five SAS paratroopers stormed through the undergrowth past the disused tin mine and surrounded both bodies. Like highly trained mechanics at a Formula One pit stop, each of them carried out his duties without discussion or question.
Number One, a lieutenant in charge of the unit, picked up Pengelly’s gun and placed it in a plastic bag, while Number Five, a doctor, knelt by the woman’s side and felt for a pulse: weak, but still alive. She must have fainted on hearing the sound of the first shot, which is why men facing a firing squad are often strapped to a post.
Numbers Two and Three, both corporals, lifted the unknown woman gently onto a stretcher and carried her toward a clearing in the woods some hundred yards away, where a helicopter with its blades already whirring awaited them. Once the stretcher was strapped inside, Number Five, the medic, climbed aboard to join his patient. The moment he’d clipped on his safety harness, the helicopter lifted off. He checked her pulse again; a little steadier.
On the ground, Number Four, a sergeant and the regiment’s heavyweight boxing champion, picked up the second body and threw it over his shoulder as if it were a sack of potatoes. The sergeant jogged off at his own pace, in the opposite direction to his colleagues. But then, he knew exactly where he was going.
A moment later a second helicopter appeared, and circled overhead, casting a wide beam of light onto the area of operation. Numbers Two and Three quickly returned from their stretcher-bearing duties and joined Number Six, the marksman, who’d climbed down from a tree, his rifle slung over his shoulder, as they began searching for the two bullets.
The first bullet was embedded in the ground just yards from where Pengelly had fallen. Number Six, who had followed its trajectory, located it within moments. Although every member of the unit was experienced in spotting ricochet marks or gunpowder residue, the second still took a little longer to discover. One of the corporals, on only his second mission, raised a hand the moment he spotted it. He dug it out of the tree with his knife and handed it to Number One, who dropped it into another plastic bag; a souvenir that would be mounted in a Mess that never had a guest night. Job done.
The four men ran back past the old tin mine toward the clearing and emerged just as the second helicopter was landing. The lieutenant waited until his men had clambered on board before he joined the pilot in the front and fastened his seat belt. As the helicopter lifted off, he pressed a stopwatch.
“Nine minutes, forty-three seconds. Just about acceptable,” he shouted above the roar of the rotating blades—he’d assured his commanding officer that the exercise would not only be successful, but would be completed in under ten minutes. He looked down on the terrain below and, other than a few footprints that would be washed away by the next rain shower, there was no sign of what had just taken place. If any of the locals had spotted the two helicopters heading off in different directions, they would not have given it a second thought. After all, RAF Bodmin was only twenty miles away, and daily ops were part of everyday life for the local residents.
One local, however, knew exactly what was going on. Colonel Henson MC (Ret.), had phoned RAF Bodmin within moments of seeing Pengelly leave the cottage firmly clutching his daughter’s arm. He’d rung the number he’d been instructed to call if he thought she was in any danger. Although he had no idea who was on the other end of the line, he delivered the single word “Tumbleweed” before the line went dead. Forty-eight seconds later, a brace of helicopters was in the air.
* * *
The commanding officer walked across to the window and watched as two Puma aircraft flew over his office and headed south. He paced around the room, checking his watch every few seconds. A man of action, he wasn’t born to be a spectator, although he reluctantly accepted that at the age of thirty-nine, he was too old for covert operations. They also serve who only stand and wait.
When ten minutes had finally passed, he returned to the window, but it was another three minutes before he spotted a single helicopter descending through the clouds. He waited a few more seconds before he felt it was safe to uncross his fingers, because if the second one was following in its wake, it would mean the operation had failed. His instructions from London could not have been clearer. If the woman was dead, her body was to be flown to Truro and placed in a private hospital wing, where a third team already had their instructions. If she had survived she was to be flown to London, where a fourth team would take over. The CO didn’t know what their orders were and had no idea who the woman was; that information was way above his pay grade.
When the helicopter landed, the CO still didn’t move. A door opened and the lieutenant jumped out, bending double as the blades were still rotating. He ran a few yards before he stood up straight and, seeing the colonel
standing at the window, gave him a thumbs-up. The CO breathed a sigh of relief, returned to his desk, and phoned the number on his notepad. It would be the second and last time he spoke to the cabinet secretary.
“Colonel Dawes, sir.”
“Good evening, colonel,” said Sir Alan.
“Operation Tumbleweed completed and successful, sir. Puma One back at base. Puma Two on its way home.”
* * *
“Thank you,” said Sir Alan, and put the phone down. There wasn’t a moment to waste. His next appointment would be turning up at any minute. As if he was a prophet, the door opened and his secretary announced, “Lord Barrington.”
“Giles,” Sir Alan said, getting up from behind his desk and shaking hands with his guest. “Can I offer you some tea or coffee?”
“No, thank you,” said Giles, who was only interested in one thing: finding out why the cabinet secretary had wanted to see him so urgently.
“Sorry to drag you out of the chamber,” said Sir Alan, “but I need to discuss a private matter with you, on Privy Council terms.”
Giles hadn’t heard those words since he’d been a cabinet minister, but he didn’t need reminding that whatever he and Sir Alan were about to talk about could never be repeated, unless the other person present was also a privy councillor.
Giles nodded, and Sir Alan said, “Let me begin by saying your wife Karin is not Pengelly’s daughter.”
* * *
One broken window and a moment later the six of them were inside. They didn’t know exactly what they were looking for, but when they saw it, they wouldn’t be in any doubt. The major in charge of the second unit, known as the litter collectors, didn’t carry a stopwatch, because he wasn’t in a hurry. His men had been trained to take their time and make sure they didn’t miss anything. They were never given a second chance.
Unlike his colleagues in unit one, they were dressed in tracksuits and carried large black plastic bin liners. There was one exception, Number Four—but then he wasn’t a permanent member of their unit. The curtains were all drawn before the lights were turned on and the search could begin. The men meticulously dismantled each room, swiftly, methodically, leaving nothing to chance. Two hours later they had filled eight plastic bags. They ignored the body that Number Four had placed on the carpet in the front room, although one of them did search his pockets.
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