by David Holman
‘Aye, it did, and, when production was at his highest, you would have one or maybe two a day passing through, usually on Sunday mornings to avoid traffic, but this one was transported on a Tuesday.’
Swan scanned his surroundings. Ahead was a crossroads with two of the exits, narrow streets. No wide loads could have passed through them, he decided. This left the way they had come and the turning to the right. ‘What time did our plane come through here?’
‘I have it that it would’ve come through here at about seven-thirty in the morning. I have a few witnesses on record that have also confirmed this.’
Jackson went on to explain that being a Tuesday, it was therefore market day and described how the cattle would be brought through the village on their way to the market to be sold. ‘One of those witnesses is one of the local farmers, and he’d said that he had seen the transport go through here roundabout that time. Another witness is a local lass who works at the chemist over there. She was in early for a delivery, when the traffic was stopped by one of the outriders to allow the aircraft through.’
Swan was now convinced the aircraft had not disappeared from its route at this point. ‘So, where do we go from here?’
Jackson started the car again and turned right at the crossroads. They were now back in the countryside. Swan looked out his side window observing little lanes that led down to farms. Some of the farms had large barns - big enough to take an aircraft and its tow truck, he thought. He decided these lanes could not be discounted, as it could have easily been possible the vehicle and its load could have been diverted off to one of these barns.
Jackson then arrived at another village. This was smaller than the last one they had driven through and was a straight road lined with houses, a church and a small shop.
Swan surveyed the area. ‘Any witnesses here?’
Jackson pulled into the side of the road opposite the church. ‘None, Alex. No-one saw a bloody thing. No sounds of heavy vehicles, no motorbikes - nothing whatsoever.’
Swan looked down at the map and traced his finger along the road between the two villages. On route, he had noted several areas where the vehicles could have gone but seeing how sleepy this village looked and counting the number of houses, there was still a possibility it could have passed through without anybody realising. ‘How far is it to the airfield from here?’
‘Just about another ten minutes after going through Market Weighton. And I can assure you, it didn’t go through there either.’
Jackson had been right. Market Weighton was the largest of the villages they had passed through. There were also plenty of amenities, enough to have people about at that time of the morning. If Jackson had not been able to find any witnesses, there was only one conclusion, the Buccaneer had not made it this far.
Swan gestured Jackson to continue. When they arrived at the main gate to the airfield, Swan saw the security guard watching them suspiciously from his cabin. ‘You better drive on,’ he suggested.
They drove into the village and Jackson suggested they stop for some refreshment at a public house called the Ye Old Red Lion.
Swan had taken the map with him and had laid it down as Jackson carried the drinks to their table.
He saw that Swan was scrutinising it. ‘Any theories on our mysterious disappearing plane then, Alex?’
Swan looked up from the map. ‘If you are right about there being no sign of it ever going through Sancton that morning, then it disappeared somewhere along the road after going through South Clave.’
‘Into one of the farms, perhaps?’
Swan nodded. ‘Precisely. As we head back to the city, I’m wondering if you wouldn’t mind if we stop off at a few of those farms that we saw.’
On the way back they had just passed through Sancton, when a few miles along the road, Swan had spotted another crossroads. One of the lanes led to the entrance to a big farm where as well as the large farmhouse, there were two open-ended wood barns and a large metallic out-building. He asked Jackson to pull into the lane so that he could have a closer look.
Swan got out of the car and walked up to the gated entrance. He viewed the courtyard where two red tractors were parked inside one of the open barns. The other barn was stacked with hessian sacks. Further along, the metallic structure was locked, a chain and big padlock securing it. Outside in a small shelter was a set of folded dust sheets on a palette. At the bottom of the pile were some other sheeting, an oily buff-coloured material that seemed to resemble a thin skin. He decided it was waterproof covering, most probably used for the hessian sacks to protect them from the rain. He then glanced over at the farmhouse unable to see any forms of life, although there was a Series 2 Landrover parked next to the house. This was a vehicle Swan was more than familiar with, having driven in one through areas of Cyprus in the summer of 1974.
Concluding that no-one was home, he retreated to the car. By the time they had reached South Clave, they had stopped to survey four other farms. One of them had had Swan being confronted by two Alsatians, but after a false enquiry to their owner as to being interested in buying some farmland for grazing sheep, the farmer had relaxed and had spoken to him openly about the area. This had also been an ideal opportunity to enquire about the site with the metallic shed.
Swan had then been informed the owners having moved to Spain, had leased it out to other parties for the last ten years. Some of these had been long-term, where others had only been over a few weeks. When Swan asked the farmer if he had seen anything out of the ordinary, he recalled what the man said about an old crane covered over with a tarpaulin and being parked in the courtyard. ‘It had been there for a few days, until it was eventually taken away on an old transporter lorry, most probably for scrap.’
Jackson pulled into the car park in front of Kingston- Upon- Hull Station. It had been a most interesting afternoon. He turned to his passenger. ‘So how is it you are you raking all this up now, Alex?’
Swan checked his watch. ‘I am just following up an enquiry; something that happened to cross my desk. But don’t worry, Ron, this is just for me and I guarantee, there will be no further repercussions from our conversation. I can now go back to the office and close the matter.’ He looked out at the people walking into the station entrance. ‘I better catch my train back to Kings Cross.’
‘You been with your service long, Alex?’
‘As long as I can remember.’
Jackson smiled. He gestured down to Swan’s wedding ring. ‘I notice you’re married. So, what does your wife think of your work, or I suppose you can’t tell her.’
Swan smiled. ‘Oh, I think that she has an understanding to it.’ He then shook hands with the reporter. ‘It’s been nice chatting with you, Ron. You’ve been a great help. Thanks for the guided tour. And I trust that I can rely on your discretion over this?’
Jackson gave him a convincing grin. ‘Absolutely! I don’t fancy having anymore spooky tails, if you get my meaning?’
Swan took on a more serious tone. ‘No, of course you don’t. Cheerio.’ He turned towards the station, but then stopped and walked back to the car. ‘By the way, Ron, you wouldn’t happen to remember the name of that test pilot who went back to Rhodesia, by any chance?’
‘As a matter of fact, I do, Alex. His name was Toby Gifford.’
Swan saluted him. ‘Thanks for everything, Ron. You’ve been an immense help to me today.’
The reporter watched his passenger disintegrate into the crowd of people rushing inside the station entrance for the London train.
As he drove away, he had thought he had just met with a man that seemed a cross-between Sherlock Holmes and a middle-aged James Bond.
14
Henry Mallinson’s butler knocked on the room of the shipping magnate’s study informing him of a call from Rhodesia.
Mallinson prompted Jempson to send it through. The phone rang and he picked up the receiver. ‘Toby. How are things proceeding?’ He listened and then smiled. ‘Good. I have it co
nfirmed the missiles will be with you by tomorrow. They leave to cross the border at Beitbridge in the morning. I take it the Locust Rain is safe?’ Mallinson listened and was pleased to hear the temporary facilities were adequate to accommodate the biotoxin. ‘That’s splendid news. I haven’t had any more incidents regarding idle chatter from the men, so well done in giving them a talking to. I certainly did that with my man, Brigman at this end, I can assure you.’
Mallinson ended his call by asking to be called tomorrow once the missiles had been delivered. He put down the phone and stared out the window across the grounds of his big house. He rubbed his hands together; everything was going to plan. He hadn’t heard from Munroe, but had been informed of the incident at the Regents Canal, feeling now that the irritating South African would be occupied with trying to avoid Interpol, rather than continue to be the thorn in his side.
Reaching into his desk, he pulled out his passport. Jempson had prepared his things for the trip and he now looked forward to a relaxing flight to Africa.
Before leaving, he would also make sure that Jempson keep hold of the key to this room. He couldn’t afford to have his estranged wife poking her nose around while staying in the house for this weekend following her time in the villa in Monaco. There was too much at stake in here which she could have a field-day incriminating, or possibly blackmailing him with. He knew she was familiar with his smuggling activities over the years. That’s how he was able to afford the house, the villa and her luxurious Chelsea Harbour apartment in the first place, but to find something like this, could put the entire Cascade operation in jeopardy, and how the bitch would enjoy that, he suddenly thought, seeing him arrested and carted off to jail and she ending up with everything.
Before leaving his study, he made sure the drawers to his desk and the bureau were locked. They were also keys he would not be leaving with his butler.
Downstairs, he finalised things with Jempson and followed Lance Brigman out to his car. As the 1971 blue Rolls Royce Silver Shadow exited the long drive, Brigman had to swing out to the middle of the road in order to not collide with a parked yellow Post Office Telecommunications Commer van.
The car disappeared over a hill, and as if waiting for this to happen, the driver of the van wearing a telephone engineer’s boiler suit, started it up and drove through the gates towards the house.
*
It was a cold Monday morning, when Swan drove up to the main gate of RAF Alconbury, where an American sentry exited his box, took hold of the pass and looked at it then waved him through. He had been expected and was asked to drive out to the hangars and park his car with others that were already in a regimented row. He was met by an airman in uniform.
‘Mr Swan? I’m Sergeant Denning. I’ve been asked to escort you to the helicopter.’
Swan shook hands and walked alongside towards the hangars. Looking out to the flight line, he stared out at the row of different coloured nimble F-5E Tiger II fighter aircraft. ‘Rather an assortment of colours,’ he commented to his escort, noticing they also featured Red Star markings.
‘They’re the aircraft of the 527 Aggressor Squadron, painted to look like Warsaw Pact fighters. They play the enemy in the NATO exercises. The F-5 was chosen as it looks similar to a Mig-21.’ Denning smiled. Believe it or not, the pilots are all vodka drinkers and even communicate to each other in Russian.’
Swan admired on how far they go to play their part, and as he watched a few of them being readied for flight, his ears were suddenly shattered by the appearance of two bigger aircraft which his host pointed out as being RF-4C Phantoms and were also resident at the American base. He stared at them as they screeched in low then turned for a landing.
Further along, he saw that a big folded helicopter had been towed out of a hangar. This was to be his ride to Remheim, a military base just south of Kaiserslautern in West Germany. For the next twenty minutes, the green-suited ground crew worked to bring the machine to flying condition.
Almost half an hour later since arriving at the Cambridgeshire-based airfield, Swan was strapped into his seat on the HH-53C Sea Stallion heavy lift helicopter of the 10th Tactical Rescue Squadron. Then, it’s seven thrashing rotor blades lifted the beast off the dispersal area and headed out for the Suffolk coastline. He sat up with the crew in what was dubbed the ‘hot seat’, a sideways positioned chair that faced a wall of instruments.
Conversation was light, with to the Englishman’s annoyance, lots of references to a Mr Bond. Wherever he went, this seemed to be one of his pet hates as people kept comparing him to Fleming’s literary super-spy, even though he was now approaching sixty.
Approaching Remheim Air Force Base, Swan took in what appeared to be a small town bordered with barbed wire. He watched out of the window as the large helicopter hovered over a line of twin piston-engine Bronco observation aircraft. The Sea Stallion was brought down by a baton-waving marshal wearing ear defenders and set down directly in front of him. The base itself seemed quiet and remote with a background of wooded forest where some of the trees deliberately shielded menacing-looking hardened aircraft shelters. Their vast sliding doors were sealed shut as if hiding something far more sinister inside.
Swan remembered the recent article in the Daily Telegraph, regarding the European deployment of the new A-10 Thunderbolt aircraft. Perhaps these housings contained these new tank-busters? To an unfamiliar observer, the scene would make a typical landscape you would find on the wall of an officers mess. The centrepiece was the green-painted control tower that stood sentry-like over the proceedings, while 100 feet below, a few maintenance vehicles slumbered around the dispersal areas and ground crew moved like ants among them, moving trolleys loaded with equipment into position to await their next task.
A camouflaged station wagon was waiting to whisk Swan out to the perimeter of the complex, where perched on a small knoll, stood a long grey single-storey building surrounded by a 10ft high perimeter fence and curls of razor wire snaked around the top. The building itself had a raised middle section which housed its own generator.
As the vehicle moved closer, Swan noticed the sentry box and gates, where an armed guard stood watching them. The station wagon pulled up to the gate and was ushered inside and parked next to two other military vehicles. Next to these, was a civilian looking black saloon.
The driver climbed out, walked to the other side and opened Swan’s door then escorted him inside to a reception area, where another soldier sat at a high desk. He asked for Swan’s credentials and after scrutinising them, picked up a telephone receiver and informed of the Englishman’s arrival.
Swan was escorted through a set of double doors and introduced to a tall grey-haired man in a dark suit. He was seated with two other similarly-dressed men, only they were a lot younger at a simple wooden desk with a telephone and computer monitor on it.
On seeing them enter, the older man got to his feet. He introduced himself, shaking hands with the Englishman. ‘Alex. Ed Gannon. Welcome to Camp Echo. Clinton Sanger arranged you to see me. We worked together for many years in the firm, before he decided to join the team at Grosvenor Square.’
Swan nodded. ‘Nice to meet you, Ed. Yes, Clinton has already told me all about you.’ Gannon smiled. ‘Haven’t seen Clinton in a while. How’s he doing?’
Swan informed the CIA agent his old friend was in good health.
Gannon smiled. ‘So, you’ll be wanting to see our latest resident, I guess?’
Swan nodded. ‘That’s correct. I take it he’s here?’
Gannon gave him a wide grin. ‘You guess right, Alex. Would you like to have some coffee before we go and see him?’
Swan shook his head. ‘To be honest with you, Ed, I’m on a bit of a tight schedule, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to see him now as I have a few questions I need to ask him.’ Gannon nodded, knowing this was a man not to be reckoned with. ‘No problem, Alex. If you’d like to follow me.’
Swan walked a few paces behind the agent, taking in t
he long corridor they had just entered.
The American turned to him. ‘Clinton said that you guys worked on a case together back in the sixties?’
Swan explained the last time they had worked together, he was part of a joint services operation to recover stolen information regarding U-2 flight schedules across the Soviet Union and had assisted Sanger in tracking down the courier, culminating in a pursuit across Western Europe.
‘Yeah, I heard about that.’ Gannon added. ‘And I guess you two have been buddies, ever since?’
‘Indeed, we have,’ Swan confirmed.
‘So, you will be familiar with CIA intelligence procedures?’
‘Yes, I’m acquainted with them.’ Swan was familiar, but nevertheless didn’t approve of some of the more undignified methods of extracting information.
They stopped at a door at the end and Gannon entered a small room with a large window looking into another room which was poorly lit.
Sitting by the window, were two men with almost equal crew cuts and suits. They were both drinking coffee out of paper cups. ‘This is Agent Matthews and Agent Foster.’
Swan acknowledged both men with a cursory nod. Through the window was another room with two chairs positioned facing each other and against the far wall, Swan could just make out a figure hunched almost in a ball. The last time he had seen this man, it was in a photo on John Stratton’s desk, and he had been wearing an immaculate tailored suit, but now he was clad in a dirty one-piece white overall. Gannon walked over to a door and flicked a switch, that suddenly strongly illuminated the inner room.
The man moved his arm to his face as if to shield himself from the intense glare. Gannon then stepped aside to allow the other two men to enter. They walked over and hauling the man to his bare feet, placed him into one of the chairs.
With the light now revealing his face, Swan could clearly see that he had been beaten, his bruised eye and swollen lips easily giving this away. It had probably been done by these two thugs. Over in the other corner, he couldn’t fail to notice a metal trolley, the sort you would normally find in a hospital theatre which would hold all the necessary medical instruments. However, this one accommodated a bucket and towels, not needing much imagination as to what these would be used for,
