by Duncan James
“Of course I remember her. A brave and tough kid, she was. Does she work here, too?”
“No. She’s was my Chief Clerk once.”
“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Miller. “Small world, innit!”
“Very. She’s left the Army now, and we’re married.”
“Well I’m damned! You certainly picked a good ‘un there, Colonel, if I may say so.”
“She remembers you, Miller.” He picked up Miller’s staff file. “This only tells half of it,” he said, waving it towards the man.
Unusually, Miller was lost for words. He certainly had not been expecting this, and was hurriedly trying to remember what else Catherine Wilson, as was, could have said about him.
Clayton grinned at the man, and sat down behind his desk. “Welcome aboard,” he said. “The Cat is looking forward to meeting you again.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” replied Miller, much relieved.
“I gather that you led the party that went out into the desert looking for her.”
“That’s right, Colonel. We got word that she had escaped, and knew she would try to make her way back to base. Frankly, we had given up hope of ever finding her or ever seeing her again, but eventually she got home first, before we found her. I never cease to be amazed how she survived, after what they’d done to her, let alone make her way back. As I said, brave and tough.”
Clayton nodded. “I’m a lucky man.”
“You weren’t out there too, were you Colonel?”
“No. We met afterwards, in Northern Ireland.”
“I know about what you did out there,” said Miller. “Rule 1 – ‘always find out what you’re getting into before you get into it’. I looked you up before I left the office.”
“Did you now? Well, now we know a bit about one another, let’s get down to the business of the day. If I assess that you’re the sort of chap I’m looking for, you’ll be out in the field again, if you can call London that, and won’t see much of the inside of this place at all.”
“That’s good,” replied Miller. “I was getting bored in MOD.”
“You won’t get bored on this job, if it develops the way I think it will. And it could be quite dangerous.”
“Even better.”
“You’ll be operating on your own, and the hours will be long and sometimes tedious. You’ll be on the tail of a man who works pretty normal office hours, but you’ll be on him out of hours as well. All hours, in fact. I want to know what he does, where he goes and especially who he meets. There are phone taps and all the rest of it in place, but you will be the guy on the ground.”
“Why me, Colonel?”
“Because he doesn’t know you, that’s why. And please don’t call me ‘Colonel’. There’s no need in this organisation”
“Who are we talking about then?”
“The chap who used to sit here. The chap who, until I took over, was Head of Section 11. He was effectively sacked, and has a chip on his shoulder and a grudge against us.”
“So what?”
“So the Russians have been in touch with him, that’s what. We think they want to use him to do a job for them, which will also let him get his own back at the same time.”
“What sort of thing.”
“We’re only guessing at the moment, but we can’t afford to be proved right when it’s too late.” Clayton briefed Miller about the Barclay case, Op Fusion, and Alan Jarvis. “Your job will be to stick to Jarvis like glue, report everything he does, and watch everyone he meets.”
“Sounds right up my street, Colonel.”
“Good. Your briefing will take a day or so, depending on how bright you are, and you’ll be kitted out with all the latest communications gear there is. Your mobile phone, for example, will be linked to a secure satellite and fitted out with a high resolution camera – something like ten mega pixels, I think – with a side view finder so that you can talk on the phone quite normally and still take pictures of things ahead of you. You’ll have a Browning side arm for personal protection, but you can use it at will against any threat if you have to.”
“I’d prefer a Smith and Wesson,” he said.
“Browning. Standard issue.”
“Very good, Colonel. But I’m better with a Smith and Wesson.”
“Browning, and only then if I’m told you’re good enough to be trusted with one.”
“I’m good enough.”
“We’ll soon see,” replied Clayton. “Let me introduce you to Commander Marsden, who’s in charge of operations, and my Deputy. He’s ex-Special Boat Service, so you will have something in common.”
Nick had been leaning for sometime against the door he had quietly opened.
“He will show you around, get you kitted out and put you through your paces. You’ll also be given a very detailed briefing. When the Commander thinks you’re ready, we’ll meet again and you’ll either be sent out on the road on your own, or back to General Pearson-Jones’s outfit.”
“I’ll be staying with you,” said Miller, finishing off his now-cold coffee. “Tell your Barbara she makes good coffee, and tell Gladys I’m not signing any of her forms until I know I’m staying, and tell your Petty Officer in the armoury – ‘Bottom’ I think you call him, - that a tenner says I’m a better shot than he is. Even with a Browning.”
“How do you know about these people?” asked Nick.
Miller grinned.
“Let’s just call it research,” he replied, “before I left MOD. Rule 2 – ‘find out who you’ll be working with.’
As he left with Marsden, Miller turned and said, “If I can’t have a Smith and Wesson, can I use one of your BMW bikes? I rather fancy one of those.”
“No” said Clayton. “You’ll get a bus pass from Gladys if you’re lucky. And only then if you sign one of her forms.”
“Thank you, Colonel.”
“Stop calling me that.”
***
Departmental heads met in ‘S’s office late the next day.
“Where’s Miller now?” asked ‘S’.
“Next door, drinking coffee with Barbara.”
“How’s he got on, then,” asked Clayton.
“First class, I’d say,” reported Marsden. “Your new Doc Perkins put him through his paces, mentally and physically, and says he’s still very fit – almost combat ready, in fact – and mentally very stable. He seems to have soaked up his briefing like blotting paper, too.
“Since he’ll be on his own, we gave him a rogues gallery test,” said Newell, “and he picked out Jarvis first time every time, blurred photos, in the dark, everything.”
“He slept on the premises last night,” said Marsden, “and we woke him several times for snap tests, and he was as sharp as a needle immediately. Doc Perkins supervised, and was very impressed.”
“How about your side?” Clayton asked the Petty Officer.
“No problems with weapons at all. Stripped everything down and got it back together in double quick time, even in the dark. He’s a good shot, too. Dead centre almost every time, even with moving targets. Nearly as good as me, in fact.”
“That’s exactly what he said about you, as a matter of interest!” said Newell.
“How about driving, Nick?”
“Good pursuit driver; skilled at evasion; seems to have an excellent sense of direction and spatial awareness, so navigation is OK, and he seems safe and confident with almost everything we’ve got.”
“How about personal skills?”
“Got on well with everybody, although he did tell Gladys she was breaking the law by smoking at work. She soon sorted that out, as always, and gave him an extra form to fill in – something about third party motor insurance. Now he’s next door chatting up Barbara.”
“Do we take him on then, bearing in mind this is a special mission we want him for?” asked Clayton.
They all nodded enthusiastically.
“I think we should try to keep him on afterwards, too,” said Marsden
.
“If he survives. OK, gentlemen, thank you for that. Send him in on your way out.”
Clayton stood as Miller arrived, and shook hands. “You’ve just got yourself a new job, Miller. Sit down while I give you a final briefing, then you can visit Gladys to sign for your kit, and hit the road.”
“I’m not sure about your Gladys, Colonel,” he said.
“She holds this organisation together,” responded Clayton.
“Mostly with bent paperclips and red tape, I should think.”
Clayton grinned.
“Don’t be cheeky, Miller. And stop calling me Colonel.”
***
CHAPTER EIGHT - A FUSION OF INTERESTS
Officials from the Department for International Development had held a series of meetings with the Foreign Office and the Department of Trade and Industry in an effort to decide how Professor Barclay should respond to the Arab States’ request for him to set up and run their nuclear fusion research programme for them. The Civil Servants were beginning to draw up plans for some form of technology transfer agreement, which would allow Barclay to be involved in the Gulf’s own development work, while keeping him firmly based in the UK. Barclay’s place was at Harwell.
They could see such a programme developing into the same sort of huge and very lucrative contract as the defence agreement with Saudi Arabia. They were suggesting that Barclay, with a couple of senior UK officials, should visit Abu Dhabi for initial talks with Emirate people, and this proposal was now before the Cabinet for formal approval. It had been established, unofficially, that such a scheme might find favour in the Middle East, provided only that Barclay himself was made available as part of the deal.
After much discussion, it had been decided after all to send a Ministerial team to Abu Dhabi, to meet Ministers and senior officials from throughout the United Arab Emirates as a first step. The Emirates were insisting that Professor Jack Barclay should be part of the UK delegation, as they were equally keen to include some of their top scientists at the plenary sessions. The UK held out, however, and insisted on preliminary technical meetings to draw up draft agreements before detailed negotiations took place.
Reluctant though he was to leave his research, Barclay eventually agreed, after a series of meetings in Whitehall, to attend meetings in the Gulf when the Government decided that the time was right.
Barclay did what was for him some rather unusual research, and ended up being pleasantly surprised to discover how much his fellow Gulf scientists knew about the work he had been undertaking, and about nuclear fusion in general. It soon became obvious that, with his help and with the vast financial resources available to them, they could quite easily and quickly develop similar facilities to his own, and eventually carry on the work largely un-aided. Barclay was relieved at this, since the last thing he wanted was to spend any undue amount of time in that hot, dusty place. It was the last thing the UK Government wanted, as well.
What with that and everything else that was going on, it had been a busy few weeks for Jack Barclay, and, as a result, for Section 11 as well. For a start, he was now making considerable and quite rapid progress in his research after the recent hiatus, and there was now no doubt the he and his team had repositioned the UK at the very forefront of the work being done internationally into the future development of nuclear fusion. The technical team attached to his project was now working furiously to translate his new theoretical hypothesises into the redesigned equipment needed, and to install it at the Harwell laboratory, in order to put his ideas into practice. Such was the progress they were making that they had already achieved a continuous ‘burn’ of several minutes, almost to the point where sufficient heat was generated in the process for the fusion to become self-sustaining.
He had somehow also found time to visit the French facility at Cadarache. Both there and at Culham, work was proceeding on the electro-magnetic containment of hydrogen plasma so there was much to discuss, not least because the proposed development of laser containment was so novel. Only Barclay realised that this was probably going to prove the best option for future development, but he wasn’t about to share his enthusiasm with the French. Nevertheless, they showed a keen interest, as one would expect.
So did his colleagues in California. Barclay had flown there direct from Paris, to save a double journey, a last minute change to his diary that caused no little trouble for Section 11. However, they somehow managed to keep up with the man, and had already positioned two of the Op. Fusion team at the University in advance of his arrival. Unlike in France, the American work that was being carried out at the National Ignition Facility within the Lawrence Livermore University was very similar to his own research into the use of lasers, being carried out at his new Rutherford laboratory at Harwell. Jack Barclay knew that he was well ahead of the Americans in his own work, especially after the efforts of the past few weeks, but was keen not to give too much away.
The Section 11 team, on arrival, had discovered that, although Barclay had declined to give a lecture, a major reception was to be held in his honour before he left after two days of discussion with his fellow American researchers. The Op. Fusion team had somehow managed to get themselves invited to it as part of the UK delegation. The object of this seemingly generous hospitality was simply to bring even more pressure on Barclay to join the Californian team. The US was obviously mounting a very serious attempt to achieve this. During the reception, a member of the Op. Fusion team recognised one of their opposite number, a member of the CIA, among the crowd of delegates, ‘keeping an eye a guy we hope will soon be working for us,’ the man had said. ‘And we’re keeping an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t!’ came the reply from Jo Killick. They each knew where the other was coming from – it was that sort of game – and helped themselves to another Jack Daniels as a girl with the drinks tray walked past.
Clerkenwell would have to be told about the CIA presence, decided Jo.
“I hear the Arabs are taking an interest in your Professor, too,” queried the CIA man.
“So I hear.”
“We wouldn’t want him going over to them, would we?”
“Or to you,” said Killick with a grin.
“Any time at all, the Russians will show up, I guess.”
“I think they already have,” replied the S.11 man, nodding towards the other side of the room. “Two of them, by the look of it.”
“Smart of you – I hadn’t spotted them. But one, I recognise. He works over here in the Embassy. How did you know?”
“I didn’t, but I do now. Why do all Russians look the same?”
That’s two things to tell HQ.
“Does the Prof know you’re looking after him?”
“Not yet, but it begins to look as if we’ll have to tell him soon.”
Barclay was in deep conversation with a couple of US scientists, who both suddenly clapped him on the shoulder, and, with broad grins, shook his hand. They were out of earshot, but Killick guessed that the Professor had let slip news of his recent major progress. If that was true, then he had just ensured that even greater pressure was put on him to join the Californian team.
Three things to tell ‘S’ about, now.
As the party broke up, there was quite an excited queue of scientists and other dignitaries wanting to shake Jack Barclay by the hand, many grinning broadly, others patting him on the back. News of Barclay’s work had spread fast among those present, and it looked almost as if the Professor had actually agreed to join the team at Livermore. Perhaps he had. Jo Killick looked across the room to the Russians. One was on his mobile phone, looking at what was going on. Killick thought that if their phones were anything like his, he could well be photographing the whole thing.
Four.
***
News of Barclay’s obviously successful visit to California was transmitted to Moscow almost immediately. It did not take them long to conclude that the Harwell team had achieved a major breakthrough, which had apparen
tly now been shared with the Americans. It was obvious to Moscow, however, that Barclay could not have passed on any great detail in the time he was there. Indeed, they also knew that his work was Top Secret, and that he would never have briefed his American fellow-scientists in any detail, especially not at what was, after all, a largely social event.
But it was nevertheless extremely worrying for the Russian authorities. They knew that the USA was keen to recruit Barclay, and that they had sufficient incentives to be able to achieve that aim, both in terms of research facilities at Lawrence Livermore and in terms of seemingly unlimited funding. It was bad enough that the UK appeared to be well ahead of everyone else in their attempt to harness nuclear fusion as an alternative to carbon fuels for energy generation, but the thought that their top man might now be prepared to share his secret development work with the Americans was perceived as a real threat by the Russians. Their own work in this field had not been pursued with any great sense of urgency, since they had vast untapped stocks of oil and gas – sufficient to last them well into the next century, and enough to export to give them a real economic weapon to be used when the political situation so demanded. Indeed, they had already used it in a small way from time to time, and very effective it had been as well.
But now it began to look as if that weapon was to be denied them. Perhaps not yet, but certainly in the next ten or twenty years. Maybe even sooner, if America and the UK pooled their resources. And all because of Professor Jack Barclay. The Kremlin decided that something had to be done.
News had also reached the Kremlin of the interest being shown in Barclay’s work by the Arab states. Like Russia, they had apparent endless resources of oil and gas, so their interest in the nuclear fusion process was perhaps less obvious. It was assumed that, like America, they simply wanted to get ahead of the game. Also like America, they were prepared to pour money into the research effort in an attempt to lure Professor Barclay into leading their work in this particular field. But the difference was that the UK Government were playing a slightly devious diplomatic game, and working to cash-in on the Middle Eastern interest by setting up a trade agreement in which Barclay would play a key role. If successful, Arab money would pour into the UK as well as Arab oil. Either way, Russian interests would suffer, whether Barclay went over to the Americans or whether he helped the wealthy Arab Emirates to join the race to develop commercially viable nuclear fusion. They would also suffer if Barclay did neither of those things, but remained where he was and kept the UK ahead of other countries.