Motorbike Men

by Duncan James

  Barclay was not only elated, but drained to the point of near exhaustion. He knew that what they had achieved would need to be repeated, again and again, before it could be regarded as genuine progress. He began to wonder if he had the stamina to see this through to its conclusion, but there was no option other than to proceed. His Director had been hugely supportive, but at the same time was being very cautious.

  “Whatever you do, Jack,” he had said, “make sure word of this does not get out. We need to be quite certain that this is the breakthrough we believe it to be before anyone outside this establishment learns of it. You have probably put this country at the very forefront of experimental and practical work in this field, and we must be sure we stay there.”

  As his team prepared to run the trials again, and again and again, Professor Jack Barclay had time to reflect on his own position. Subject to further trials and tests producing the same results, he had actually achieved all that he had set out to do all those years ago. But somehow, instead of feeling elated, he felt almost depressed.

  He began to wonder what there was to do next. Perhaps he should turn his hand to some new area of research in the field of particle physics, and quit this project while he was ahead. He had been thinking about it for some time, actually, especially when things had started to get on top of him. In fact, he thought he knew where he would like to go, if ever it could be arranged. It was overseas, too.

  ***

  ‘Dusty’ Miller was knackered, as well. No doubt about it. He was quite used to facing the extremes of fatigue and tiredness, and had been trained to withstand the physical and mental pressures which sleep deprivation under difficult conditions could bring. He was, he admitted, surprised at his present state. He had somehow never expected to experience it in London, of all places. The jungles of Indonesia or the deserts of Iraq – perhaps. But the back streets of West London – never.

  Yet, there it was. He was knackered, and not finished yet, either. It was his job to wait for Jarvis to leave his home, and to follow him as he headed westward towards Oxford. Somewhere en route, Miller would meet up with colleagues who would then continue shadowing Jarvis until he finally arrived at the place from where he hoped to have a clear shot at Professor Barclay.

  Jarvis finally left his house just before 2.0pm, complete with the briefcase. He looked, and felt, distinctly ill. He did not seem to be in any great hurry as he started his car, and headed off up the road.

  Miller reported that Jarvis was ‘on the move’. He pulled out of the side turning, and followed at a discrete distance on his motorbike. It was not long, however, before ‘Dusty’ Miller became concerned and confused. Jarvis was not going the way they had thought.

  Like others in Section 11 who used the pool of bikes, Miller had a ‘hard hat’ with a built-in mobile phone. He activated it using the hidden keypad on the bike’s fuel tank, and called the Ops. Room.

  “Jarvis is not, repeat ‘not’ heading west,” he told them. “He started off going east and has now turned south, heading for central London.”

  Clayton and Marsden were immediately alerted.

  “Where the hell can he be going?”

  Miller was instructed to discretely keep on his tail at all costs, and to keep the line open.

  “Tell Gladys to look out for a summons for the congestion charge,” he replied. “It looks as if I’ll be going straight through the middle, and I don’t propose to stop at a newsagents to buy a ticket.”

  “Traffic’s getting very heavy,” reported Miller a bit later. “Are you monitoring the tracking device I fitted?”

  They were.

  “Driving down Kilburn High Road,” reported Miller. “Still heading south.”

  “Edgware Road, heading for Marble Arch.”

  “This traffic’s awful,” complained Miller. “He’s got ahead of me at traffic lights – jumped the red.”

  Clayton and Marsden were totally confused, and quite unable to work out where Jarvis might be going. They had large scale maps of London spread out all over the Ops Room, and it began to look increasingly as if Barclay was not Jarvis’s target after all.

  “I’ve lost him!” shouted Miller. “I think he went for Park Lane, still going south, but I can’t be sure. He’s twice nipped across red lights, but I dare not give chase – too risky and I’d be spotted. I’ll do my best to catch up with him. I’ll wind this thing up down Park Lane, and hope for the best.”

  There was a long silence from the man on the motorbike.

  “Got him again,” shouted Miller. “Going like a bat out of hell down Buckingham Palace Road, towards the Embankment. He’s a long way ahead of me though.”

  Moments later – “He’s gone again. Saw him turn right along the Embankment towards Battersea, but he’s out of view now.”

  “Battersea!” shouted Clayton. “Barclay’s got a flat in Battersea somewhere!”

  Clayton was desperately searching his computer for the address.

  “Here it is!”

  He got on the radio to Miller.

  “Barclay’s got a flat in Battersea – Albert Bridge Mansions. Get there!”

  “Yes Colonel!”

  Miller got there as fast as he could through the late afternoon traffic, but never saw Jarvis’s car again.

  “I don’t like this, Bill,” said Nick Marsden.

  “Neither do I.”

  “Why would Jarvis be going to Barclay’s flat in London, when we know he’s in Harwell.”

  “Perhaps the Russians don’t know that.”

  “We’re guessing again, Bill. I suppose Jarvis couldn’t be on his way to Dulwich, could he?”

  “Barbara’s place, d’you mean?”

  “He’s heading that way.”

  “But why, on earth?”

  “Can’t imagine. But I don’t like the smell of this.”

  “Let’s get someone down there, then, smartish.”

  “I’ll go,” said Marsden.

  “I’d rather you stayed here, Nick running the Ops. Room. Send someone else if you like, but you stay here.”

  “OK,” said Nick. “But let’s not tell Barbara.”

  “At least she’s here and Donald’s with Catherine.”

  “I’ll get it organised, just in case.”

  Miller found Albert Bridge Mansions all right, but there was no trace of Jarvis’s car in the car park. He walked round the side roads, but found nothing. Eventually, he went into the building, and up to Barclay’s flat. The door was firmly locked shut, and there was no sign of Jarvis, and not a sound coming from the flat.

  As he left the flats twenty minutes or so later, he saw Jarvis hurrying away from a neighbouring block, carrying the briefcase. Miller managed to get a couple of quick photos using his mobile phone, and called the Ops. Room as Jarvis set off in his car heading back down the Embankment.

  “Let Jarvis go,” said Clayton, “and see if you can find anything at Barclay’s flat.”

  Miller managed to pick the lock quite easily, and went inside quietly, closing the door behind him. He had taken the precaution of wearing latex gloves so as not to leave fingerprints. It was almost dark by now, but still light enough for Miller to see a prone figure sprawled on the kitchen floor, in an ever-increasing pool of blood. He took a couple of pictures, and left the way he had got in.

  “I’m afraid your Professor Barclay is dead,” he reported to Clayton.

  “Not possible!” exclaimed ‘S’.

  “I recognised the man,” retorted Miller. “I’ll email the pictures I took right away.”

  “Do that,” demanded Clayton, “and then get back here.”

  “Yes Colonel.”

  Nick downloaded the photos.

  “He’s right, damn it! No doubt about it, Bill. That’s Barclay all right. Take a look.”

  “How the devil could Barclay get away from Harwell without us seeing him?”

  “I’ll check with the team over there, and see what they have to say.”

 
; “I tell you what!” exclaimed Clayton. “I’ll bet Barclay is still at Harwell after all. The man in the Battersea flat is probably his twin brother.”

  “Dammit, I’d quite forgotten he had a twin!”

  “Identical, apparently. The Russians have cocked-up, big time!”

  After a couple of quick calls, Nick confirmed that Barclay was still at the laboratory, at a meeting with the Director.

  “Now let’s think this through,” said Clayton. “Unless we can convince the Russians that they’ve got their man, the Professor is still very much in danger. But if we let Jack Barclay carry on as usual, they will soon find out, and have another go at him.”

  “What are you suggesting?” asked Marsden.

  “I’m not quite sure myself, yet. But we need to talk to our Barclay, and quickly.”

  “And secretly.”

  “That means going to Harwell, in case he’s spotted leaving the place. Unless we get him brought here in a van, or something.”

  “Let’s do that.”

  “I’ll get on to Robin Algar immediately,” said Clayton grabbing the red phone.

  Miller walked in.

  “Sorry about the Professor, Colonel,” he said. “All my fault, I’m afraid.”

  “Nothing’s your fault, Miller. We think the man you saw could be Barclay’s twin brother. It’s the Russians who have screwed things up, not you.”

  “Time you took a break,” said Marsden. “Before you disappear, get on to your chums and make sure we are told the minute Jarvis gets home. And I want to know if he’s still got the briefcase.”

  “Aye, aye, Commander.”

  “Don’t be cheeky, Miller.”

  Clayton called Nick into his office.

  “I’m going over to the Cabinet Office for a meeting with Sir Robin Algar. He agrees we should pull in Barclay quickly and quietly, and he’s arranging for the Yard to collect him. By the time he gets to Algar’s office, we shall have agreed a strategy, I hope. Do you mind staying here?”

  “Not at all. We’ve got bodies scattered all over the place, so I shall recall them.”

  “By the way, I think we need to keep an eye on Jarvis, still. At least until he gets rid of that gun.”

  “Agreed. I’ll get Miller out there again in the morning, but there are other chaps out there now, anyway.”

  Clayton decided to go by bus and underground to Westminster. It gave him time to think.

  “Barclay should be here within an hour,” announced the Cabinet Secretary as Clayton was shown into his office. “Scotland Yard have arranged to collect him in an unmarked car, so with any luck no-one will notice, even if he is being watched.”

  Clayton’s mobile phone rang. He listened for a moment, and then said, “I know about it.”

  He turned to Algar.

  “My people noticed,” he said, “and they are at this moment in hot pursuit of the police car!”

  “That’s a pretty smart outfit you run, Bill, and no mistake.”

  “There are some pretty smart people in it, that’s what counts.”

  Clayton rang Marsden at the office.

  “While you’re recalling our deployed troops,” he said, “there are a couple of our blokes somewhere between Didcot and London, chasing an un-marked police car. Call them off, if you would – the car’s bringing Barclay here, but they obviously think Barclay’s been taken by the opposition.”

  “I’ll do that, before there’s an accident!”

  “Any news from Miller?”

  “Yes; he’s just rung in to say that Jarvis has arrived home, complete with briefcase.”

  Head of Section 11 and the Cabinet Secretary at last got down to discussing what to do next.

  “My guess is,” said Clayton, “that Jarvis will be summoned to another meeting with our Russian friend, to get rid of the weapon. They’re not going to want him wandering around with that for long. Unless, of course, they discover that Jarvis has killed the wrong man, and task him to have another go.”

  “Somehow, we have to convince the Russians that their mission was a success,” said Algar. “Otherwise, Barclay will be in even greater mortal danger, especially if they discover that his research work is at last proving to be something of a scientific triumph.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “We could perhaps use our newly defected KGB man to spread the word.”

  “No. There’s only one way the threat to Barclay will be removed, and that is to convince the Russians that he really is dead. Then they’ll give up, but not unless or until.”

  Sir Robin Algar frowned.

  “What ever are you suggesting now.”

  Clayton outlined his audacious plan, to an increasingly incredulous Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee.

  “You know,” he said eventually, “that could just work.”

  “But only if we get the total agreement and co-operation of Barclay himself.”

  “We simply must. After all, it’s for his own good as well as being of immense long-term benefit to this country.”

  “You will have to use every diplomatic skill at your disposal, Sir Robin.”

  “We might just do it between us. After all, the man has very few options.”

  “Neither have we,” said Clayton. “There’s no plan ‘B’ that I can think of.”

  The red secure phone rang. Algar answered it, and passed it to Clayton. “It’s for you. I might have guessed!”

  Clayton listened for a moment. “Get Miller on to it. I want photos of the switch, and both men. Tell him to use the mobile phone camera, from outside. Let Jarvis go – we can pick him up when we want to.”

  He hung up. “Jarvis has been told to meet our Russian friend tomorrow morning to hand back the briefcase. St. James’ coffee bar in Piccadilly. With a few pictures, we’ll have all the evidence we need to get rid of Jarvis.”

  “He can rot in jail,” said Algar.

  “No he can’t,” said Clayton. “If we get the police on to him, he’ll blow Section 11 clear out of the water. He’ll have to be handled very carefully, I’m afraid.”

  The Cabinet Secretary’s intercom rang.

  “Professor Barclay is here to see you, Sir Robin.”

  “Good. Show him in. And bring the drinks tray.”

  ***

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - DYING TO LIVE

  Professor Jack Barclay looked very tired when he was shown in to the Cabinet Secretary’s office. He was a short man, not very smartly dressed, and with long, rather unkempt hair. He looked what he was – a scientist, who had better things to do than look after himself.

  As well as being tired, he was also very puzzled, and not a little worried. He could not work out why he had suddenly been whisked away from his laboratory in such secrecy, and brought to the very centre of Government at break-neck speed. He lost no time in saying so.

  Sir Robin Algar did his best to put the man at his ease, having introduced him to Colonel Bill Clayton, and offered him a drink.

  “I can quite understand how you must feel, Professor, and I can assure you that we would not have brought you here late in the evening after such a busy day if we hadn’t concluded that it was not only absolutely essential, but because it is also, we judge, to be in your own best interests.

  “First of all, though, I must congratulate you wholeheartedly on your recent successes. You will know that I am no scientist, but I am told that what you have achieved is of the utmost significance and importance to the future development of sustainable nuclear fusion as an energy source, and is therefore of inestimable value to this country.”

  “That’s kind of you,” replied Jack Barclay, taking a sip from his large tumbler of whisky. “I take it my Director must have told you, as very few people outside my immediate team know of - well, our triumph if I may be bold enough to say so. I must confess to being absolutely euphoric at what has been achieved, although I could never claim to have been solely responsible. I have an excellent team working with me. N
evertheless, it is personally very satisfying to have achieved something that I have been working towards all these years. I feel both extremely excited and extremely tired,” he added, “so this is most welcome, and really my first chance of anything like a celebratory drink.” He raised his glass. “I am quite sure, though, that you didn’t bring me all this way just to give me a glass of Scotch.”

  “I have arranged for some coffee and sandwiches a little later, but you are right, of course,” said Algar. “There is a far more serious subject we need to discuss with you, and I can assure you that if we could have done so over the phone, then we would not have troubled you with such a journey this evening.”

  “I have never travelled so fast in my life,” said Barclay with a grin. “The driver, I believe, was a policeman?”

  “Yes he was, but you are by no means under arrest! Let me ask Colonel Clayton to explain. But I must tell you first that he is in charge of one of this country’s most secret organisations, which you will not have heard of before.”

  “I am sorry to tell you, Professor,” said ‘S’, “that your work, and in particular your recent success, has placed you in grave personal danger. It may surprise you to know that my organisation has kept you under very close supervision and protection for several months now.”

  “Supervision?” said Barclay disbelievingly. He took another sip of his drink. “What exactly do you mean by supervision?”

  “I mean that one or more of my people has been with you every hour of the day and night, whether you have been at home, in the laboratory or abroad.”

  “I find that quite impossible to believe,” protested the Professor. “I have seen or noticed no-one unknown to me – not at all, anywhere. And protection from what, may I ask?”

  “From my point of view, it’s excellent news that you spotted nothing out of the ordinary. We are specially trained to be, if you like, invisible, by blending seamlessly into the background. Our task is to protect those UK citizens such as yourself who we know to be at risk in some way, but whose value to the nation is such that we wish them to continue their work unharmed. It is your success that has put you at such risk.”

  “Why on earth wasn’t I told?” demanded Barclay.

  “We judged,” replied Sir Robin, “that you were already under such stress with your demanding work and the problems you were seeking to overcome, not to mention the other demands being made on your time both at home and abroad, that to warn you of your imminent danger would have added an unbearable additional strain.”