Motorbike Men

by Duncan James

  “How do you know all this?” demanded Algar.

  “One of my chaps was there and witnessed the whole thing. Nothing he could do – it was all too quick, and he didn’t actually see the substance being put into Jarvis’s coffee. But he’s got photographs.”

  “Has he, by God!”

  “I’ve emailed them to you just this minute. Have a look, and get your technical chaps to enhance a couple if you can. They were taken from outside the coffee bar, so they’re not that brilliant.”

  “Can we recognise the Russian?”

  “Almost a portrait of the man.”

  “In that case, I might suggest the Foreign Secretary has the Ambassador in for a word.”

  “Don’t let’s start expelling diplomats, for heaven’s sake, or my cover will be blown,” pleaded ‘S’.

  “Don’t worry – we’ll handle it with care. But we can’t have Foreign nationals murdering our people in our own back yard, and then expect to get away with it. I suppose the police are on the case now, are they.”

  “They should be. My man rang 999 as soon as he knew Jarvis was dead. He also had the presence of mind to secure the coffee cup, so the Met’s forensic lab in Lambeth should be able to identify what was used.”

  “Sounds as if your chap was on the ball,” commented Algar. “I’ll check with the Yard, to see how they’re getting on. It might be helpful if we let the press know that one of our top “spies” has been murdered, and let them work out who did it.”

  “Give me a couple of hours first, will you Robin. I’ve one or two loose ends to tie up here still, if you don’t mind. Incidentally, while you’re on to the media, you might let them know too that one of our top scientists has disappeared – nervous breakdown suspected because of over-work or something like that. We want the Russians to think that Jarvis has got the right man.”

  “Good idea, that,” replied Algar. “By the way, I should have asked, but is Jarvis’s boy OK – I forget his name?”

  “Donald. And he’s OK. We got to him first.”

  “Jarvis didn’t know that?”

  “No. We let him think the Russians had taken the boy, otherwise the whole operation would have been abandoned. We needed Jarvis in the loop, to confirm who their target really was.”

  “The Russians must have wondered what the hell was going on, knowing they hadn’t taken him, but Jarvis continuing to react in spite of that, as if they had.”

  “They must have guessed, but didn’t care so long as Jarvis was still prepared to do their dirty work for them.”

  “Interesting! I’ve pulled up your photographs on my email now, by the way. Good, aren’t they? I’ll get my chaps working on them, and then I think I’ll get Wilfred Forsyth to pull in the Ambassador Yuri Nevsky, to see what he has to say for himself. Tomorrow give you enough time for your ‘loose ends’?”

  “Plenty, thanks, but make sure the Foreign Office demands the return of the briefcase and its contents. They’re not supposed to know that we discovered it was theirs in the first place and that it contained a Kalashnikov. We need to let them think that we believe it belonged to Jarvis, and that it contained documents stolen by him at their request.”

  “Good point, Bill. Anything else I should brief the F.O. about?”

  “Not so long as they remember that officially we don’t know that Jarvis killed Barclay, or that he’s even dead. Even though he isn’t, if you see what I mean. Let me know what happens.”

  ***

  “Any idea where Nick is?” Bill Clayton asked Barbara.

  “Not really,” she replied. “Said he was going out on a case, but would be back later this afternoon.”

  “Let me know when he’s back. I need to see him for a chat, but don’t bother getting him specially. It will keep for an hour or so.”

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  “Please. And see if you can get Doc. Perkins on the phone. He’s at Buscot Park with Professor Barclay. I’d like to know how that’s going.”

  Head of ‘S’ spent the rest of the afternoon catching up on things like that, tying up loose ends, clearing paper work, and so on, but all the time he was conscious of a tricky personnel issue he had to deal with later. But he needed to talk to Nick about it first. Nick eventually got back to HQ just after five, and went straight in to see Clayton.

  “The little lady next door said you wanted a word,” he said cheerily.

  “Close the door, Nick.”

  “Sounds serious,” said Nick.

  “In a way it is, in that it affects Barbara, but I wanted to talk to you about it before I spoke to her.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Alan Jarvis is dead. Murdered by the Russians.”

  “Holy smoke!”

  “Quite!”

  Clayton showed Marsden the photos, and told him what had happened earlier.

  “Miller can’t be blamed for Jarvis’s death in any way. He’s done remarkably well, really,” said Marsden.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Clayton. “The point is though, that apart from the diplomatic hoo-hah, which is not for us to sort out, it means that Barbara’s young son Donald no longer has a father. She needs to be told.”

  “Quite,” said Marsden. “Of course she does.”

  He paused for thought.

  “Tricky one, this.”

  “Quite,” agreed Clayton. “Shall I tell her, or will you, or shall we have her in and tell her together.”

  “Together might be best,” suggested Marsden.

  “Why?”

  “Well, we both know that Jarvis is Donald’s father.”

  “Was.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Was Donald’s father. He’s dead now.”

  “Quite.”

  “I don’t much fancy telling her on my own, to be honest,” said Clayton.

  “Quite. Neither do I, to be honest,” agreed Marsden.

  “Together, then.”

  The two men sat looking at one another.

  “How do you think she’ll react, then?” asked Clayton. “You probably know her better than I do, what with having been here longer, and going out with her now and then.”

  “Well,” began Marsden. “Well. She may not be too upset, since she didn’t really like the man, after the way he’s treated her recently. On the other hand, she may feel upset that Donald no longer has a father. Not that Donald liked him much either,” he added.

  “Never quite understood who he was, as I understand it,” said Bill Clayton.

  “Quite. He never seemed very happy in the man’s company, somehow.”

  There was another pause.

  “Well. Let’s get this over then.”

  “Should we have a bottle of wine open or something?” asked Nick Marsden.

  “She might not feel like celebrating,” Bill reminded him. “But I think there’s one in the fridge if necessary.”

  “I’ll ask her to come in, then,” said Nick.

  Nick fetched her from the office next door.

  “Come in Barbara, and take a seat,” invited Bill. “We have something to tell you.”

  “I’m not getting the sack, am I?” She looked worried.

  “No, no. nothing like that at all.”

  “That’s a relief, I must say. It’s getting more and more expensive looking after Donald these days, as he grows older.”

  “How is the boy, by the way,” asked Bill.

  “Pleased to be home again and back in his old routine, but he really did enjoy his few days with you and Catherine, Bill. I can’t thank you enough for that.”

  “No problem at all,” replied Bill.

  “In fact, he rang only a short time ago, wanting to come in to show you both his latest drawing, which apparently got first prize at school today. Very proud of it, he is, and very disappointed I wouldn’t let him bring it round.”

  “I could drop by later to see it, if that would help,” suggested Nick.

  “I’d like that, too,” said
Barbara. “But what did you want to see me about?”

  “Well, I won’t beat about the bush, Barbara, but we thought you should know straight away. It’s about Alan Jarvis. I’m afraid he died earlier today.”

  “Oh dear,” said Barbara. “An accident or something.”

  “Not quite. He was murdered. Poisoned. By the Russians we think.”

  The girl looked shocked.

  “Why would they do a thing like that?”

  “They had blackmailed him into doing some work for them, and then wanted him out of the way.”

  “Oh dear,” she said again.

  “I hope you’re not too upset,” said Nick, even though she didn’t seem to be in the least.

  “I suppose I should be,” she replied, “but I’m afraid I’m not. I never really cared for the man. In fact, if I’m honest, I hated him lately.”

  “Would you like a glass of wine?” asked Bill clumsily, feeling rather as though he could do with a glass himself. “To settle the nerves.”

  “There’s a bottle in the fridge – I’ll get it.”

  When she had poured them each a glass she said, “You know, I really feel more sorry for Donald than anyone at the moment.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Bill.

  “Well, he’s never really had a father, and now he never will. And he’s getting to the age when he could really do with one.”

  “Well,” said Nick. “Perhaps I could help a bit there. From time to time.”

  She looked at him quizzically.

  “What I mean is,” Nick blundered on, “we do seem to get on quite well together, and I’m quite good at train sets and that sort of thing. I can punt a rugby ball about and we could play cricket if he likes.” Nick was getting ever more enthusiastic. “And I’ve got a small boat at my place near Portsmouth – I could teach him to sail, and even go fishing off the beach, and catch crabs in the rock pools, and …”

  “Hang on, Nick!” said Barbara. “Don’t get too carried away! But if that’s the craziest proposal of marriage I’m ever likely to get, then I accept, on Donald’s behalf of course.”

  “Good grief, Barbara. Really?” Nick looked stunned. “If only I’d known, I’d have asked long ago.”

  Bill Clayton saw his chance, and took it.

  “Look here, you two. Finish off that bottle of wine, but I must get home if you’ll excuse me.”

  He made for the door and left.

  Nick took Barbara’s arm. “Come on, old thing,” he said. “Let’s get a bottle of bubbly on the way back to your place, and have a look at Donald’s drawing.”

  ***

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN - DIPLOMATIC MOVES

  His Excellency, Yuri Nevsky, Ambassador to the Court of St. James’s of the Russian Federation, wasn’t best pleased to be summoned to the Foreign Office. He had only presented his credentials to Her Majesty in June. A quaint little ceremony, full of pomp and tradition, the sort of event which could only be staged in London. But he and his wife had enjoyed it nevertheless, and had felt quite grand, even honoured, to be presented to Her Majesty.

  This was going to be rather different, however. He had hoped never to be ‘summoned’ during his tenure of office, and certainly not quite so soon. Although he had met the Foreign Secretary, his meeting this time would be with some underling-or-other, probably the Permanent Secretary, Sir Wilfred Forsyth – a nice enough chap, although rather fierce when he wanted to be. As a general rule, Ambassadors were dealt with by civil servants, on a day-to-day basis. Government Ministers were dealt with by Government Ministers.

  Nevsky knew what it was all about. The UK had lost one of its top spies, a man from MI5 called Jarvis, who had died in mysterious circumstances in a Piccadilly coffee shop. The newspapers were running the story, and speculating that the man had been murdered by a Russian KGB agent. Of course, there was not a shred of evidence to support this outrageous suggestion, but nevertheless Her Majesty’s Government, through the Foreign Office, had to be seen to be ‘doing’ something. Nevsky understood that. Nevsky had also been fully briefed. He knew the background, and knew the facts. He also knew that, even if the UK Government believed it could prove Russian involvement in the man’s death, they would take no action whatsoever, because if they did, one of their own Top Secret organisations would be blown wide open.

  There were, however, a few worrying issues surrounding this case which did not entirely put the Ambassador at his ease as he drove to Whitehall.

  He knew that the dead spy had been blackmailed into carrying out an assassination for them, which the man had done in spite of the fact that the blackmail weapon had not, in the end, existed as the Russians had hoped and planned. The man had been told that his son was to be abducted by Russian agents, which had certainly been the intention, but when it came to it, they had not been able to carry out their plan. At the time they had intended to take the boy from his school, he had already disappeared. Indeed, he did not turn up to school that morning at all.

  So the kidnap could not take place.

  Nevertheless, Jarvis had carried out their mission for them, obviously believing that his son was being held by the Russians, as threatened. To this day, the Ambassador and his staff had not been able to explain where the boy had been instead of being at school, or why he had disappeared. There had been no apparent trace of him at home, either, so perhaps he was ill. If he was ill, the British agent seemed to be unaware of the fact, and had assumed that his son had been kidnapped, as he had been told. That in itself was extremely odd, to say the least.

  And another thing. The man whom Jarvis had so neatly assassinated for them, Professor Jack Barclay, had still not been confirmed as being dead. He had been reported missing, certainly, in a low-key sort of way, and the theory was that the Professor, having suffered a nervous breakdown of some sort due to pressure of work, had simply disappeared for a few days. Rubbish! He was dead! At least, their best information was that he was dead, but the Ambassador had a funny feeling that he may not be. For some reason yet to be explained, the British authorities had not yet found his body, or, if they had, were keeping the fact quiet.

  None of his advisors had been able to offer the Ambassador a satisfactory explanation for either of these two, rather odd, circumstances. The hope and expectation was that he, the Ambassador, would be able to discover more during the course of his interview at the Foreign Office.

  In the end, he didn’t.

  At the appointed hour, Yuri Nevsky, accompanied by his interpreter and a secretary, was escorted with due dignity into the office of Sir Wilfred Forsyth. Nevsky, of course, spoke perfect English, but the interpreter was there – well, shall we say, just in case, and to take notes and so on. Forsyth was similarly accompanied, it has to be said.

  Nevsky could not but admire Forsyth’s office. It was, to say the least, very grand, totally in keeping with the old Foreign Office building itself, with its high ceilings and sweeping, carpeted staircases, lined with magnificent portraits. Forsyth rose from behind a huge oak desk to greet Nevsky as he was ushered in to the office, formally but cordially. He motioned the Ambassador towards one of several leather armchairs around a circular Victorian inlaid coffee table, in front of an open fireplace, laid with coal and logs. Officials from both parties sat at the conference table on the other side of the room.

  The Ambassador looked around him.

  “I envy you your splendid office,” he said to Forsyth. “Compared with this, mine is humble accommodation, although by Russian standards, still rather grand. But this …” He waived his hand as he looked around him.

  “Thank you, Ambassador,” responded Forsyth. “As I am sure you will realise, this building and its interior is steeped in history. I am lucky to be able to benefit from that.”

  Nevsky was offered a sherry, in a crystal glass, poured from a finely cut crystal decanter. Or tea or coffee, if he preferred.

  He could well imagine Forsyth’s predecessors, sitting in this very chair, sipping sher
ry poured from the same decanter before an open fire, ruling a third of the world at the height of Britain’s empirical and colonial days.

  “You may know, Mr. Ambassador, why I have asked you here today,” began Forsyth when they had settled.

  “I was not so much asked,” Nevsky reminded Forsyth, “as summoned,”

  “Quite so,” replied Forsyth, “but that is the way of things in the diplomatic world, is it not? As I was saying, I am sure you will know that you have been summoned here today, if that is how you would prefer to put it, because of the distressing murder of one of our senior civil servants. I am equally sure you will have read reports in the newspapers alleging that, in some way or other, your own civil servants were responsible for the man’s death. I would be glad to hear what you have to say about these allegations.”

  “As you would expect, Sir Wilfred, I emphatically deny that we had any knowledge of, or involvement in this murder, if that’s what it was. However, since you raise the matter, which, as you suggest, I have seen reported in your rather hysterical media, the least I can do on behalf of the people of the Russian Federation, is to ask you to pass on our sympathy to the family of the man concerned.”

  “Thank you Ambassador. I shall be pleased to do so. But, I fear that, from what you say, you may not have been fully briefed about the facts surrounding this tragic incident.”

  “It should not surprise you, Sir Wilfred, when I tell you that I have received no briefing at all, since we know nothing about the case to which you refer, other than what we have read in your newspapers.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to say that it does surprise me to hear that. It is only fair that I tell you that your officials have let you down, Ambassador, by not keeping you fully informed, as I suspected earlier.”

  Forsyth refilled the ambassador’s glass from the decanter, and reached for an envelope on the coffee table. He removed a photograph from the envelope, and passed it to Ambassador Nevsky.

  “You will probably recognise this as Dmitry Makienko, second secretary in your commercial department. This photograph was taken yesterday, as you will see from the date and time at the foot of the print.”

  Nevsky removed his spectacles and polished them on a clean ‘kerchief from his top pocket.

  He replaced his glasses, and looked closely at the photograph.

  “The man looks vaguely familiar, I must admit, but I cannot claim to know every official in our large Embassy.”