Motorbike Men

by Duncan James

  Marsden thought for a moment.

  “That would alert her to the fact that we suspect she could be a spy of some sort,” said Marsden. “God forbid that she is, but let’s not put her on notice and on her guard, just in case.”

  “Off you go then,” said Clayton with a grin. “And thanks for your loyalty, Nick.”

  Marsden was back in under an hour.

  “It seems that in the case of an illegitimate child,” he reported, “the child can take either the mother’s or father’s surname. Donald was christened using Barbara’s maiden name, so it is not necessary to include the father’s name on a birth certificate. Either the mother’s or the father’s will do, but it doesn’t have to show both.”

  “Bugger!” said Clayton.

  “Furthermore,” continued Marsden, almost too cheerfully, “it takes up to five days to get a certified copy of a birth certificate, even by the urgent route, which also costs a fortune.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” exclaimed an exasperated Clayton.

  “Gladys would be proud of them,” said Marsden with a broad grin. “However, I was able to show them all the ID cards and warrant cards in the world, and successfully demanded to see the chap in charge. Under threat of an immediate phone call to the Cabinet Secretary who, as head of the Civil Service is also his boss, the man was kind enough, under the additional threat of spending the rest of his life in the Tower of London, to make a few quick phone calls to somewhere in Liverpool where all the originals are kept.”

  “And?”

  “And Alan Jarvis is named as the father,” announced Marsden triumphantly. “Not only that, but a copy of Donald’s birth certificate was ordered – and paid for- some four weeks ago, and sent to an address in Highgate.”

  “The Russian Consulate, I bet,” said Clayton. “Well done Nick.”

  “Don’t let’s forget that there’s still a mole about somewhere.”

  “Could be anywhere – Cabinet Office, Foreign Office, even the laboratories at Harwell and Culham. Let’s hope MI5 track him down before too much more damage is done.”

  “At least Barbara seems to be off the hook,” said Nick. “I think I’ll take the lady out to dinner somewhere special tonight.”

  ***

  Nobody saw the Russian, Dmitry Makienko, at the coroners court, although that didn’t mean he wasn’t there. He could have been anywhere, even across the road in the White Horse and Bower, watching who came and went from inside the pub. According to their informant, he certainly wasn’t at the Trade Mission that afternoon, but he would not have spotted Roger Lloyd even if he had been there. Lloyd wasn’t required to attend the court, as it happened.

  Not many people attended the service in the Chapel of Rest at the Crematorium, either, although there were several people in the Garden of Remembrance. From the photographs they had been given, one or two of them thought that they might have seen Makienko, but weren’t sure.

  Dusty Miller recognised him there, though. No doubt about it.

  ***

  Detective Chief Inspector Harry Flower wasn’t often summoned to the office of Deputy Assistant Commissioner Ian Jenkins. For that matter, Head of Special Branch wasn’t often summoned to the office of the Director General of M15, either. But he had been, and now had a rather difficult message to pass on to DCI Flower.

  “Come in Harry – grab a seat,” Jenkins welcomed Flower cheerily.

  “Thanks. How can I help?”

  “I might actually be able to help you, as it happens,” replied Jenkins.

  “That’ll be nice,” said Flower, suspiciously.

  “Tell me,” enquired the DAC. “How are you getting on with the Barclay case? The murder in Battersea.”

  “It’s a bit slow, as it happens. Taking its time. We know who it is and what he does – did – for a living. We know how he was killed and roughly when, and there’s been an inquest and a cremation. But we’ve no real idea about the weapon used, although we think it was foreign. And even less of an idea about a motive or who did it. What’s your interest?”

  “I don’t have one directly,” came the reply. “But I was summoned to Lambeth this morning for a personal meeting with ‘M’. We’re under orders to back off.”

  “Back off? You mean drop the case?”

  “That’s the message,” replied the special branch chief.

  “But you can’t just drop a murder enquiry,” protested Flower, “even if there has been an inquest. And that was a funny business, too, since you mention it.”

  “I didn’t,” said Jenkins. “You did.”

  “Well, a right funny business that inquest was. If you ask me, the coroner had been fixed, and told what to do.”

  “You’re right. He had. And now we’re being told what to do.”

  Flower scratched his head.

  “This has been an odd case from the start, if you ask me. Any idea at all what’s going on?”

  “Political,” replied Jenkins. “Security services and all that.”

  “So what? Murder’s murder in this country, and needs to be got to the bottom of – if you see what I mean.”

  “They have got to the bottom of it,” replied Jenkins. “They know who did it, and why.”

  “Well, that’s something at least. Have they shared their little secret with you, by any chance?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  “Either they know who did it or they don’t. And if they have the evidence, then we can make an arrest and bring charges.”

  “It’s not that easy, Harry. The bloke who did it has also been murdered, so they say.”

  “And I suppose they know who did that?!”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Wonderful!”

  “Not really. It was a Russian spy, who’s been kicked out.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Hence the message to drop it.”

  DCI Flower sat back in disbelief.

  “Glass of scotch, Harry?”

  “I need something.”

  Jenkins got the bottle and two glasses out of the bottom drawer of his desk.

  “The other thing you’ll need is paperwork, so that you can close the case and put the file away. Tomorrow be all right?”

  “Cheers.”

  ***

  Dmitry Makienko had obviously returned to London at exactly the right time. He had been humiliated in Moscow by his Director at the Lubyanka Building, who had sent him for an intensive course of retraining. It was not that he needed retraining, of course. It was a punishment. A crude attempt to make him lose face among his peer group, all of whom still respected him in spite of everything. They agreed that it was the Director who was a fool, not he, Makienko. He had fought his way to the top of the KGB, now the FSB, and was not about to be pushed down by some idiot bureaucrat in the organisation who would probably not even know how to handle a gun, let alone kill a man at fifty metres. The Director had authority, certainly, but no skills whatsoever. Collecting secret information, surveillance, unarmed combat, shooting, blackmail, sabotage, skiing, jungle survival – bah! The man, for all his splendid pin-stripe suit, white shirt and silk tie, could do none of these things. So who was he to dare belittle Makienko? His scheme to eliminate the British scientist, Barclay, had been brilliantly conceived and executed. Not only had the scientist been murdered, but so too had one of Britain’s top agents who he, Dmitry Makienko, had so skilfully blackmailed into committing the murder and who had then himself been killed, personally by Makienko, with his own hands.

  The faked photographs of him adding the poison to Jarvis’s coffee had been unfortunate, not least because the idiot Ambassador and then the even more stupid Director at the Lubyanka Building had been fooled by them. Clever, but unfortunate. And if Barclay’s body had been discovered sooner by that incompetent police force they had in London, then none of this would have happened. As it was, the dimwits in the Kremlin had not believed that the man was actually dead, and had accepted the story that the professor had si
mply gone missing because he had suffered a nervous breakdown. If that’s what it was, then he was still alive, they had said, and so you, Comrade Makienko, have failed.

  “Failed?!” said Makienko to himself. “Makienko never fails.”

  He had, after all, just been to the man’s cremation, had he not? Not even the British could fake an event like that. He had looked carefully at all the people who had been there, and recognised no-one. There was a cousin, so they said. He certainly looked like a member of the family, but had a limp and a beard and glasses. Of course, that could all have been faked, like the photographs, but then who had they cremated?

  ‘No,’ decided Makienko. ‘Barclay was dead after all.’

  He was almost sure, anyway.

  But then, there was the question of the pocket from his overcoat. Who could possibly have taken that? And when? Perhaps the British were not all as stupid as he had thought. Perhaps they had somehow taken it. Perhaps it also contained evidence of his involvement in Jarvis’s murder. Perhaps he needed to be specially careful now he was back in London. Leaving London at such short notice had done his career no good, he admitted, but if, now he was back, he was to be expelled…. Makienko shuddered at the thought of what might happen.

  He had to be quite sure that Barclay was dead. No doubt about that. And he had to be able to convince his Director at the Lubyanka that Barclay was dead. He had already ordered a copy of the death certificate, but, like the photographs, that could be faked as well.

  But if Barclay was still alive, unlikely as that was since he, Dmitry Makienko had arranged his death, where was he? The Russian thought long and hard. Perhaps a better question was ‘Who was he?’ One of the world’s leading scientists, who had been posing such a threat to the future economy of the Russian Federation, was hardly likely to retire and take up chicken farming. He would still be working somewhere. Not at Culham or Harwell, he was sure. He had checked there, and all Barclay’s old colleagues were in deep shock and mourning. Not even the Brits could fake that.

  But what about the cousin, perhaps?

  There was a likeness. He had noticed it himself. The hair, the spectacles, the limp – they could all be faked. So who was the cousin? A few phone calls, and he knew it was Doctor Roger Lloyd.

  So?

  A ‘doctor’ of what? Particle physics, eh?! Not medicine or philosophy, but physics. The same as Barclay!

  It was a long shot, but if Barclay was still alive, then Dr. Roger Lloyd could well be the same man.

  He, too, would have to go. Just in case. Another death would perhaps convince his stupid Director that Makienko’s mission had after all been successfully completed, without this time any shadow of doubt. He had to cover all possibilities, all eventualities. There was no room for mistakes, for errors of omission. There was no doubt about it. Lloyd would have to go. Just to be sure.

  Having been clever enough to work all this out, he, Makienko, would see to the execution himself this time.

  It was not a pleasant surprise for Makienko to discover that Lloyd was due to take up a new post in Switzerland, almost immediately. Switzerland had funny rules about neutrality, and diplomatic immunity and that sort of thing. He would not feel safe there, but there was no time to act before Lloyd departed for Geneva. It was a city he had not visited before, and since he was travelling privately, he could expect little help from his Consulate, if any.

  So be it. He, Dmitry Makienko who never failed, would handle this on his own. He had been told once again to leave the country, so that’s what he would do. But to go directly to Geneva might be too obvious, in the unlikely event that the British authorities were keeping a check on him. So to be on the safe side, he flew to Zurich. He had planned then to get the train from there to Geneva, changing at Lausanne.

  At the last minute, though, he caught a different train from Lausanne, and went through to Montreux instead. According to his source, Lloyd had gone skiing for the weekend, with a friend.

  ***

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN - THE BEST MAN WINS

  For Lloyd, it had been a busy few days, and not a little stressful as well. He had not enjoyed the quiet ceremony at the crematorium. It was odd, and distressing, to see so many of his old colleagues in the congregation, paying him a respectful farewell.

  At least none of them had recognised him in his new guise. He did his best to ignore them, and to concentrate on his own need to say farewell to his estranged brother. It was too late to wish that they had been closer in life. That was all in the past now. It was embarrassing listening to his own eulogy. He wondered who had written it. But he had no time to dwell on it. Within hours, he was off to Heathrow.

  It had been decided not to tell Lloyd that Makienko had been at the crematorium, but Miller was now ever more alert and vigilant – just in case. If there had ever been any doubt in the Russian’s mind, then the funeral service should have been enough to convince him that Barclay was dead. But you could never tell. The man was a professional and, it seemed, a bit of a fanatic, looking after his future career. Another cock-up, and he wouldn’t have one.

  So far as they were aware, Makienko had gone back to the Trade Mission in Highgate, where the Security Service people were keeping an eye on him. Miller knew he would be told of the Russian’s movements, and that he had in any case been told to leave the country again, so he should soon be out of harms’ way once and for all. As soon as he was back in Moscow, this time for good it was hoped, the pressure would be off, and Lloyd could be left on his own to get on with his life.

  Miller and Lloyd flew out on the same aircraft. Dusty had managed to check the passenger manifest before they boarded their flight, and had taken the time to stroll up and down the aircraft while they were airborne, but so far as he could tell, the Russian FSB man was not on board.

  They put their seats into the upright position and fastened their seatbelts as instructed, ready for landing.

  “Just look a those mountains,” exclaimed Miller. “I’ve not been to Switzerland before.”

  “There’s some good skiing to be had here, although there won’t be all that much snow around at this time of the year – it’s too early in the season.”

  “Do you ski?” asked Dusty.

  “Love it! I played rugby and everything else at school, but from the first time I took to the snow it has been my favourite sport. I will confess that part of the reason – and a big part if I’m honest – for electing to come here to work was the thought of unlimited skiing. What about you?”

  “Absolutely! I’ve even done some Arctic Warfare winter training with the Marines in Norway. Apart from you being a nice chap and all that, the thought that we might get a bit of time on the slopes did pass through my mind when I volunteered to come out here with you! Any chance while we’re here, do you think?”

  “I’m sure I could get a day or so off and find some decent snow somewhere near here. In fact, it might be a good idea to go soon, before I get too committed and settled. Perhaps even this weekend. Leave it to me.”

  “That would be great, not least because I hope I shan’t have to be here for too long.”

  The European Organisation for Nuclear Research, CERN, was not far from Geneva’s airport at Cointrin. The complex was centred around a huge 17-mile long circular tunnel buried 300 feet under the Swiss-French border. Miller and Lloyd planned to stay at a small Holiday Inn near the French village of St. Genis about a 20 minute walk away. Lloyd would stay there until he found something more permanent.

  They took a taxi from the airport.

  Lloyd had visited the establishment before, in his previous existence as he was beginning to regard it, and knew a couple of the hundred or so British scientists working on the project. To their surprise, delight and amazement, they had been told that Lloyd was Jack Barclay, and, having been sworn to secrecy, were looking forward to working with him as part of the team.

  “What actually goes on here?” Miller had asked.

  “You�
�ve probably heard of the Large Hadron Collider? It’s had a lot of publicity. Well, that’s here at CERN. When it’s working fully, we hope it will create the conditions that existed immediately after the big bang.”

  “Is that the thing that broke soon after it was switched on?”

  “That’s the thing,” agreed Lloyd.

  “I remember the publicity! Are you hoping to mend it, or something?”

  “As a matter of fact, it’s already being mended, as you put it, but I’m not actually going to work on that project, anyway.”

  “So what are we doing here?”

  “There are already plans being drawn up for a newer and better machine, and I’ll be helping with that development work as part of the UK contribution. One of the problems with the LHC is that it’s circular, and it’s very difficult to control the two streams of particles which are fired at one another at such enormous speed. So we’re planning a new collider which is straight, called the International Linear Collider.”

  “How is that better, then?” asked Miller, beginning to get lost.

  “You fire the two beams from each end and they smash together head-on in the middle.”

  “Ah,” said Miller. “No corners to go round.”

  “Well, not so many.”

  “I see,” said Miller, who didn’t at all.

  “It will be a much bigger machine – huge, in fact – with two accelerators each about 11 miles long, pointing at each other. In time, each accelerator might be extended to 15½ miles, making the whole thing over 30 miles long. That should result in us finding all sorts of exotic new particles which we are sure must be there, but which we have never seen and have never been able to prove exist. On top of that, it might also prove the existence of such things as dark matter and dark energy, and perhaps even extra dimensions. We’re calling it ‘Einstein’s telescope’, because it will look into the problems which his relativity theories raised and which have never been resolved.”

  Miller was totally lost, and said so.

  “Let’s just go skiing,” he said.

  Miller was waiting for breakfast at the Holiday Inn the next day when his mobile phone rang.

  Maybe he was going to be with Lloyd longer than he had hoped after all. Makienko had disappeared from the Trade Mission, and hadn’t been seen since yesterday morning. Although he had been told to leave the country, somehow the MI5 blokes had lost touch with him, and were desperately trying to find out what had happened to him and where he had gone. The only thing they were sure of was that he hadn’t been on any of the recent flights to Moscow, or to anywhere else in Russia for that matter