by David Holman
Baker’s eyes lit up. ‘Of course, I do, Mr Gable. Reason being, it was strange to have this ship, which usually carries old cars, to suddenly have what has been a one-off consignment of farming machinery. But, that’s not the really unusual part.’
Gable was suddenly interested to hear what Baker had to say. ‘Please go on.’
‘Yes, Mr Gable. What was most unusual, is that we were told the ship would be using their own crew members to see the cargo on board, which of course was completely against union regulations. There was a big stink about this I can tell you with our workers, and eventually, under the strict supervision of the crew, my men were allowed to proceed.’
Gable scribbled down some notes. ‘That’s interesting, was there anything else you can remember about this particular ship?’
Baker thought for a moment. ‘Only that we were asked if we could not assist in the last thing to be loaded, which was a big crane wrapped up in a large tarpaulin. A Coles Hydra Husky, as much as I recall.’
Gable nodded in recognition to what he had discovered earlier as Baker continued. ‘Anyway, they kept close to it and wouldn’t let any of my guys near the trailer it was perched on. I had enough by then with arguing with these guys, who were mostly South Africans by their accents. And, I’ll tell you something else for free, Mr Gable. These blokes were as much seamen as my lot are ballet dancers!’
Gable grinned ‘What makes you say that?’ ‘Because they were a rough looking bunch- more like soldiers than sailors.’
Gable acknowledged Baker’s interesting comment.
‘Anyway, we just left my deputy Supervisor behind while we knocked off early.’
Gable wrote some more notes. ‘And when did this ship leave?’
‘It left early on the tide the next morning, Mr Gable,’ Baker replied.
Gable checked his notes and thanked the supervisor for his time.
Later, while on the train back to Kings Cross, he looked through them again, taking in the statistical information about the crane and realised from the account from Brian Baker, there was something not quite right about it all. He would let Swan know about it in the morning.
Returning to the station, he boarded the train and relaxed in his seat. He pawed his raincoat pulling out the paperback edition of Frederick Forsyth’s The Devil’s Alternative. The novel was gripping enough for him to hold his attention for the three hour trip back to London.
12
At Thames House, Alan Carter entered Stratton’s office with a grave look on his face. ‘Sir, we may have a problem with our Libyan friend.’
Stratton looked up from a document he was reading. ‘What is it, Alan?’
‘Seems he never boarded his plane. He was booked on an 11:30 flight to Charles De Gaulle, but didn’t show for it.’
Stratton gave him a puzzled look. ‘So, where is he?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine, sir,’ Carter shrugged. ‘I contacted The Savoy, and they said he checked out exactly around the time he was seen by Harry and Tom getting into the taxi. There was something else though.’
Stratton showed his impatience. ‘Well? Let’s have it man.’
Carter gave a fearful gulp. ‘The receptionist said just before he was due to leave, a man with an American accent asked her if he had checked out yet. She also remembers seeing him talking to two other men then came back to hang around near her desk. And then of course, we have Tom’s report of the three of them bundling into the taxi after Ramir had got in.’
‘Tom got the licence plate, didn’t he?’
Carter nodded. ‘Yes sir, but we’ve tried to trace it with the cab company, the number is not one that is in current operation.’
Stratton’s jaw dropped. ‘What the hell is going on?’ He sat thinking for a few moments about what could have happened. It was beginning to sound like a classic snatch. They had done it before with a Czech defector who had come to Britain with a list of suspected agents. The CIA had taken him at Heathrow, posing as his ride to the safe house in New Cross. If this was another snatch, what did the Yanks want with the Libyan?
Stratton rose from the desk and grabbed his coat. ‘I’m just popping out for a while, Alan. See if you can get any more information so that we can look into this when I get back.’
Carter watched as his Head of Section walked passed him and marched out of the room.
A short while later, following a short taxi ride, Stratton was ascending the steps to the SID office and knocking on the door, entered to a greeting from Janet.
Janet smiled. ‘John! This is a pleasant surprise.’
Swan was seated at his desk. ‘Sorry for this sudden house-call, Alex. It seems the Libyan arms dealer I told you about, may have fallen into the hands of the CIA.’
Swan gave a surprised look at Gable who had just immerged from the kitchen with a tray of hot drinks. He offered to get something for their unexpected visitor, but Stratton declined.
Swan shook his head. ‘Damn. That’s not good. How the hell did this happen?’
Stratton explained what he had heard from deputy. ‘Alan Carter’s looking into it right now. We had surveillance on him at the Savoy, but his taxi was lost in traffic. It was supposed to be going to Heathrow. We had nothing on him apart from the photographs of the meeting, and what one of our officers saw on a document regarding the consignment, so were prepared to let him get his flight. Hugo Davies instructed me to hand the details of the rendezvous over to Six to deal with.’
Swan felt it was not the best time to add what Gable had discovered at the docks, seeing how troubled he looked, the last thing he needed right now was to mention Operation Butterfly. He suddenly had an idea how he could possibly help Stratton out. ‘Leave it with me, John. I’ll make some enquiries and get back to you.’ Swan then handed him a piece of paper. ‘You also might want to put this person under surveillance for a while, tap his phone, that sort of thing.’
Stratton held it up and read the name. ‘Is this concerning Butterfly, Alex?’
Swan relented. ‘It’s something Andrew discovered at Hull Docks. But there’s also this.’ Swan reached across the desk and picked up Baines’s copy of Shogun. ‘I thought Horace Baines was just being methodical in recording translations to help him follow the complicated text, but take a look at the Japanese words he’s written down and tell me if you can see anything.’
Stratton took the book, and in less than three seconds, he saw what Swan was referring to. ‘My god. When you read down each of the first letters, they spell, M A L L I N S O N!’
Swan nodded. ‘You know what this could mean, don’t you, John?’
Stratton stared in disbelief. ‘I most certainly do, Alex. I’ll get on to him right away.’ He shook hands with both men, gave Janet a peck on the cheek and left the office.
As his descending footsteps could be heard outside the door, Swan decided he’d contact an old friend. Clinton Sanger was now in charge of archives at Grosvenor House, but prior to this was in the CIA. He had helped him on several occasions, including the first case for SID, regarding the attempted sabotage of Thor IRBMs deployed at some British bases. Sanger still had a network of contacts. If anyone could find out what had happened to the Libyan, Swan thought, Sanger could.
In the archive office of the US Embassy, Grosvenor Square, Clinton Sanger picked up the ringing telephone on his desk to be informed Swan was on the line wanting to know if he was free for lunch. ‘Of course, Alex, how about The Berkeley, in an hour?’
He listened as Swan told him about the Libyan arms-dealer and what had happened.
‘I’ll look into it and let you know what I find.’ He glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘See you at one thirty, Alex.’
*
The restaurant at The Berkeley Hotel was busy with immaculately turned-out waitresses flying between tables, taking orders and serving lunches. Alex Swan found his old American friend sitting at one of the tables, perusing over the menu.
It was Friday, and he knew having
now lived in this country for nearly twenty years, the British had fish on Fridays. He rose as Swan approached him and shook hands. ‘Alex, good to see ya.’
The maître de hotel suddenly appeared from nowhere to take Swan’s grey herringbone overcoat to hang on the stand. He then returned to their table. ‘Good afternoon gentlemen, welcome to the Berkeley. Jenny will be your waitress this lunchtime. May I recommend the grilled Sea Bass with sauté potatoes and green beans, and to accompany this fine platter, a chilled bottle of white 1972 Soave?’
Both men agreed this would be an excellent choice and the man raised his hand to a girl who had just finished serving on another table.
After ordering their meals, they watched her glide on her heels towards the kitchen. The two men knew each other well, so after quick pleasantries regarding their wives and their jobs, they soon got down to business.
Sanger decided he would come straight out with the results of his enquiries. ‘I made some calls and found out where he is. You’re not going to believe it, but he was taken from the hotel, like you said on the phone, and it was in one of the company’s taxis they acquired to use for their more delicate operations.’
‘So where is he now?’
‘After picking him up at the hotel, he was taken up to Alconbury and flown in a Jetstar to a base in West Germany.’
Swan gave Sanger a wide-eyed glance. ‘Do you happen to know for what purpose?’
‘All I know, Alex, is Sahid Ramir is at our top-secret detention facility known as, Camp Echo.’
‘Camp Echo?’ repeated Swan.
Sanger moved his eyes around the room in reaction to Swan’s outburst. ‘That’s right, Alex,’ he said lowering his voice. ‘An old Company buddy, Ed Gannon, is chief out there.’
Swan sighed. He now felt this vital piece of the puzzle was suddenly out of reach. ‘I need to ask Ramir some questions. Is there any way I can get to see him?’
Sanger poured them some water from a carafe. ‘I’m sure I can get Ed to let you see him. I’ll make some calls and could have you on the earliest flight to Remheim in the morning, the only problem is, it could be a bumpy ride.’
Swan suddenly realised. ‘I can’t go tomorrow, but I could go on Monday.’
Sanger nodded. ‘I’ll arrange it all for Monday morning then, Alex.’
Their conversation about the Libyan had just finished in time as the waitress returned carrying a silver ice bucket containing the wine for their lunch.
13
The next day, in the Ye Olde White Harte pub on Silver Street, in Kingston-upon- Hull, Alex Swan sat opposite a large, rounded-man with a jovial looking face.
Ron Jackson had been a reporter for the Hull Daily Mail since starting as an apprentice runner just before the outbreak of the Second World War. Now in his early forties, he still loved his job immensely and was also considered to be the newspaper’s top ace.
As Swan supped his pint of Samuel Smith’s Best Bitter, he surveyed the room they were sitting in, admiring the polished oak beams and brick walls. His eyes were suddenly drawn to a skull inside a cabinet next to the bar.
Jackson noticed the curiosity on his face. ‘I see your admiring our skull, Mr Swan?’
Swan looked back at him. ‘Yes, not exactly the sort of thing you expect to see in an old English public house.’
Jackson leant back in his chair and explained the possibilities behind it. ‘There’s a few stories about who it can be. In fact, it is still quite a mystery. It could be the original owner of this pub, or a young lad who was beaten up by a drunk sailor and left under the stairs. It could have even been a poor serving girl, whose secret romance was put to a quick and gruesome end by a guilty landlord. Whatever the case, the skull adds an element of mystery to the pub’s already captivating story.’
Jackson then went on to explain about the room they were in. ‘It’s known as The Plotting Parlour, where it is believed to have played a key role in the start of the English Civil War. It was said to be, that in this room, the decision was taken in 1642, to refuse King Charles, The First, entry to the town, sparking the siege of Hull, the first major action of the English Civil War.’
Swan was impressed. He suddenly thought of how his old colleague, Arthur Gable would be interested to hear where he was sitting right now. He drank some of his beer and then decided he would divert from this history lesson to the matter he had travelled up to this area of England in the first place, and on asking Jackson about it, noticed the reporter had seem to have become silent.
Finally, he spoke. ‘Let’s finish our beers and I’ll take you for a drive.’
Swan accepted the proposal. After all, what they had to talk about, could easily mirror the conversation which had taken place on that fateful day back in the 17th Century. It would certainly have a similar air about it.
Half an hour later, Jackson escorted the SID officer to his parked blue 1976 Volkswagen Jetta. Swan climbed into the small car noticing how it was deceiving. There seemed to be a lot of room inside.
As Jackson clipped his seatbelt, he lit a cigarette and wound down the side window, then, starting the engine, shifted the car into gear and pulled away from the kerb.
Swan observed a map under the dashboard. He reached for it and opened it out. ‘So, where are we going?’
Jackson turned his head to him. ‘I think it best I tell you what I know, while driving the route of the incident.’
Swan allowed the reporter to continue. It was only a short ride, then Jackson had stopped the car. Swan looked over him and at the main gate to the British Aerospace plant across the road. ‘This is BAe Brough, Mr Swan. This was where the Buccaneers were built, and it was through those main gates, they would be towed on their nosewheels to the test airfield at Holme on Spalding Moor.’
Swan looked through the windscreen. Alongside the road behind the perimeter fence to the factory complex, he could see at a strip of white lights. ‘But isn’t that a runway?’
Jackson nodded. ‘Aye, it is, but not long enough for the Buccaneer, I’m afraid.’ Jackson started the car again. ‘Right, Mr Swan. We’re now going to drive the route the tow truck would take to the airfield and I’ll explain what I know about that day. There were several chosen routes, mind, but after making some enquiries, I managed to find out which one was used that morning.’
As Jackson drove, Swan suggested that his driver relax and call him by his first name. Jackson was beginning to like this man from Whitehall, realising he felt he could tell him anything. He decided to reveal he had a source who had approached him, informing him of the aircraft leaving the plant, but not arriving at the airfield.
‘I was going to have my source go on the record, but when I went to see him for lunch the next day, he didn’t show up. One thing I do know, is that a few weeks later, some bigwigs at the factory were sacked. Looks like the government had some heads over this, and one of the test pilots resigned as well; something to do with his family being slaughtered on their farm in Rhodesia by ZANU terrorists.’
Swan wanted to probe further on where Jackson had got his information. ‘And who was this source?’
Jackson concentrated on the road. ‘Seeing who you are, Alex, I would like them to remain anonymous, if you get my meaning? I can tell you, on contacting him and asking him why he didn’t show, he said he couldn’t go on the record and everyone involved had been reminded they had all signed The Official Secrets Act. They were threatened with fifteen years imprisonment if they said anything about the incident, especially if they spoke to the Press.’
Swan nodded. He could now understand how sensitive this was at the time. ‘So, did anyone discover they had contacted you?’ He was intrigued to know if Jackson himself had been under any surveillance.
‘To be honest, I think I was being followed for a while and sure that my flat had been bugged and my phone tapped.’
Swan informed him that he would not be surprised by this. There had been many occasions when as Head of A Section at MI5, which m
ainly dealt with surveillance and counter-intelligence, it is what he would have done, given the circumstances. There had been numerous operations in sending a team to watch the actions of reporters, especially ones who worked for Left-Wing or communist newspapers.
Jackson then told him of something out of the ordinary which had happened at his workplace. ‘There was also suddenly a new face in the newsroom, a young lad, Martin, who had allegedly come from another paper in Kent. Funny thing was, he was assigned to assist me for a while. My editor, Tom Bligh, insisted on it. Martin went everywhere with me, including to my house a few times to help me with some stories, ‘til one day, he didn’t come into work anymore. I phoned the Kentish Independent, as he did talk about going back there, saying he missed home, but they said they had never even heard of him! I asked Tom if he knew anything of it and he said he would look into it. After a while, after asking him again, he said Oliver had lied about being with the Kent paper and needed to just say that to get the job with us.’
Swan paused to think about this. ‘Surely, your editor wouldn’t take on a reporter without some sort of reference?’
Jackson agreed. ‘Aye, he wouldn’t, so I wanted to go further with it, but he took me to one side and asked me to let it go as just a big mistake.’
Swan sat silently, thinking more about this. Could John Stratton have put Martin up there? ‘Did you ever hear anything else from your source?’
‘They did later say, off the record, that the MOD had not a clue to where the plane could have gone. My guess is it was crated up and shipped out somewhere, for what purpose is anybody’s guess. Can you imagine having a nuclear bomber available on the black market?’
Swan could suddenly see the seriousness of all this. Out there was an aircraft with the capability of delivering deadly weapons.
Jackson drove on until they reached a quiet village as Swan noticed a tractor passing them.
‘So, the aircraft came through here?’ ‘
