‘Where?’
‘To help us find him, of course. Do you know where he might get help?’
Jones shook his head.
‘Not now that Stakan is blown.’
He thought quickly and then described to Razina the exact location of a derelict farmhouse, north of Moscow.
‘There’s a cavity inside the chimney. If you put your hand up, you’ll feel the opening on the left. There are some packages in there containing clothes, emergency food, a first-aid kit and a gun. All British agents sent to the Moscow area are told about it, just in case of trouble. Dingle might make for there. That’s the only place I can think of.’
Razina rushed to the nearest ’phone to relay this information. If Dingle hadn’t already been there, the place must be surrounded and watched, he ordered. Jones made a mental note to tell the Director to cross the farmhouse off the list of emergency bunk-holes.
The KGB colonel slammed the ’phone down.
‘We’ll get straight back to Headquarters now,’ he said ‘But my plane …’
‘You can’t go back to London now.’
Jones stood his ground.
‘But Dingle might get through. If he gets to London before I do, then I’ll never be able to go back.’
Razina looked interested.
‘And if you get there first?’
‘Then I’ll stop him reaching the Director.’
‘You would be willing to kill him?’
‘Why not. He was more than willing to kill me. In fact he believes he has killed me. You didn’t tell him I was still alive, did you?’
Razina shook his head.
‘No … er … if you went back to SS(O)S headquarters, would you necessarily be told what progress Dingle was making in his escape?’
‘I’d almost certainly be put in charge of the operation to get him out of Russia,’ replied the Welshman confidently. ‘I’ve always worked with him, and I’m supposed to be a close personal friend.’
Razina was thoughtful, undecided. He broke the silence.
‘All right. Catch the plane. Find out all you can about Dingle’s movements, and pass them on to our Embassy. Hurry! The plane’s nearly due to take off.’
With Razina at his side, Jones was charmed through Customs and emigration, and two minutes later he boarded the airliner. The door closed behind him, the steps were pulled away, and the plane began to taxi.
Jones sat down and fastened his seat belt. Relief and reaction flooded through him. The angle of the cabin altered, and he felt the pressure of the seat in his back as the powerful jets thrust the Ilyushin into the air. He leaned forward and used the paper bag in front of him. It was not air sickness.
*
‘… I can tell you, boyo, when I saw Razina at the airport, I damned nearly died of fright. If I hadn’t been half paralysed, I think I’d have turned and run for it.’
Dingle smiled, tiredly. ‘I can imagine,’ he said smothering a yawn. ‘Will it be all right if I go home now, sir?’ he asked the Director. ‘I’ll come in tomorrow and write a full report of my side of the operation.’
‘All right,’ his chief agreed. He picked up a message form. ‘But before you go, did you get mixed up with a chap called William Willey in Moscow?’
Dingle looked surprised.
‘Yes, sir.’ He told all he knew about Wily Willie.
The Director sighed.
‘Oh dear. I’ve had MI6 on to me, hopping mad. Willey was one of their men. It seems they’ve got a contact in the Russian Embassy who told them that an SS(O)S agent had been in touch with the Russians. But they didn’t know who it was.
‘MI6 started inquiries — I think we must have a few enemies in the F.O. — and the net result was that when you boarded the plane for Russia, Willey was there, too, to keep an eye on you.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Dingle exploded angrily. ‘Don’t tell me they thought I was a traitor.’
The Director shrugged.
‘You know them. They’ll do anything to earn a pat on the back, especially if they can discredit SS(O)S at the same time. They’re jealous of our success.
‘Anyway, it seems that Herzen became suspicious of Willey when he saw him with you, and he arranged to have him picked up.’
Dingle looked puzzled.
‘But the bloody idiot was loaded with propaganda pamphlets when they nabbed him. He tried to pass them on to me.’
‘Yes …’ The Director smiled. ‘MI6 think that was a clever idea. They reckoned that if he was caught with subversive literature supplied by some crank amateur organisation, the Russians would hardly expect him to be a fully-fledged MI6 agent. They’re quite pleased actually because their man now stands to get only five years instead of life.’
‘Or death,’ said Dingle.
‘It’s like I said, boyo,’ Jones broke in, exaggerating his Welsh accent, ‘it’s very devious they are, these spies.’
The Director glared at him, and then continued:
‘It’s all very well for you two. I’m the one who has to sit here and bear the brunt of it and clear up the mess. MI6 are blaming us now for the loss of one of their agents.’
Dingle yawned.
‘Well, sir, they should keep their bloody noses out of our business, shouldn’t they?’
‘That’s what I say,’ Jones chipped in again. ‘We did very well out of this mission. So we can surely let the Russians have a little MI6 chap as a consolation prize.’
‘This is no joking matter!’ roared the Director. ‘We’ll probably have to help to get him out. And there’s another thing …’
‘Can it wait until tomorrow, sir? I really am tired,’ said Dingle.
‘All right,’ the Director grumbled. ‘But be back in here tomorrow afternoon at two sharp.’
Jones jumped to his feet.
‘I’ll run you home in my car, Jim,’ he offered.
Jones plucked the parking ticket from the windscreen.
‘It costs me a bloody fortune to come to the office,’ he complained.
Dingle eased his weary body into the passenger seat.
‘That reminds me,’ he said. ‘You owe me …’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Jones hastily. ‘I’ll pay you later.’
Dingle grunted sceptically.
‘I’ll believe it when I see it. Anyway, thanks for the lift; let’s get moving shall we?’
‘That’s all right,’ said Jones, shifting the car into gear. ‘I wanted to see you alone. I want to ask you a favour.’
‘O.K., I can guess,’ said Dingle. ‘Yes, I’ll do it. Now put your foot down and get me home to my bed.’
Jones looked puzzled.
‘You will?’ he asked. ‘But you don’t know what I was going to ask you.’
‘Oh yes I do. You were going to ask me if I would be best man at your wedding.’
‘No I wasn’t. I was going to ask you if I could stay at your flat with you for a few days; just until I find a place of my own.’
Dingle, who had been lounging back in the seat with his eyes closed, sat up abruptly.
‘But what about Gillian?’
Jones blushed.
‘Well you see, boyo. when I got back the other day, she’d got a new lodger there. She said she was fed up with me coming and going, never saying when or where. She said she wanted someone in the house every night; she didn’t feel safe by herself all the time. And I’ve been thinking. It wouldn’t be fair for me to marry anyone; not while I’m in this job.’
‘Oh,’ said Dingle. ‘I’m sorry. About you and Gillian, I mean.’
‘Don’t worry, boyo,’ answered Jones airily. ‘I’m all right. You see, there’s this girl I met last night …’
He swerved violently to avoid a cyclist.
Dingle leaned back and closed his eyes again.
‘Keep your mind on your driving,’ he murmured. ‘Glyn bach, you’re bloody incorrigible.’
�
�I wouldn’t know what that means,’ said Jones.
Dingle grinned.
‘O.K. you can stay at my place.’
‘Good. I’ve got my case in the boot.’
Dingle sat up again.
‘Glyn,’ he said accusingly. ‘Was this story about your being in love just a line to make me believe you had a motive to turn traitor.’
‘No, cross my heart. I was in love with Gillian,’ replied Jones. ‘You don’t think I’d invent a thing like that, do you?’
‘I’m not sure. It’s like the man said,’ Dingle mimicked Jones’s Welsh accent, ‘they’re bloody devious, these spies, boyo. You never know when they’re telling the truth.’
Chapter Eighteen
Ten days later, the Director leaned back in his chair and studied the report which had just come in from Washington, on a high-speed printer. Computers had encoded the report as it was fed into the teleprinter in Washington Other computers, in the SS(O)S control room had decoded it, instantly as it was received. It read:
TOP SECRET: EX-CIA (Liaison) TO SS(O)S
Ref: File SP7
Data supplied by you most helpful. File gave full details of Soviet development of Fractional Orbital Bombardment System (FOBS). Also revealed that Russia secretly testing new rocket stage that could send instrument packages to moon — or bombs down to earth. Rocket stage apparently tested in three recent satellite launchings, Cosmos 185, Cosmos 198 and Cosmos 209. All three circled earth, first in low orbits, then in near-circular orbits 500 miles above earth, passing over nearly every inhabited part of globe. Scientists here say this could be step upward from FOBS to MOBS (Multiple-Orbit Bombardment System). Such system could place warhead in orbit for many months, for psychological purposes or for use, and later recall it safely to earth if not used. However, information in file has enabled United States to go ahead with development of new anti-satellite weapon to counter both systems. New weapon, probably using Spartan missile, will be more accurate than present Thor anti-satellite battery on Johnson Island in Pacific. Present anti-satellite defense relies on nuclear warhead. New idea, based on information in file supplied by you, is to rely more on accuracy than a big bang. New weapon will have old-fashioned warhead, TNT, rather than small H-bomb, designed to explode very close to target. Air Force experimenting with devices which will home in on satellites, using heat-sensing techniques. Will keep you informed progress. Thanks your co-operation. Ends. Ex-CIA (Liaison) Color Red Priority.
The Director put the report on his desk, leaned forward and flicked a switch on the intercom.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I’m ready for you now, Miss Peach.’
His secretary came in, carrying her notebook.
‘Make a note for Personnel Section,’ said the big man. ‘Ready?’
Miss Peach nodded, and her chief began to dictate.
‘Classification Urgent: Take steps to ensure that Agent …’ he glanced at an open file on his desk … ‘183 in Moscow woken up. He’s been sleeping there for nearly eight years now; it’s time he earned his keep. Alert Sergov to make contact with him. Sergov can train him to take over. Make arrangements to recall Sergov and his wife within ten months from today.’
The Director looked up.
‘Got that?’
‘Yes. Anything else?’
‘Yes, there is. Did Mr Williams get back all right?’
‘He reported in last night,’ answered Miss Peach.
‘Good. Take another message. This is for Personnel, too.’
He paused, while Miss Peach flicked over a page in her book, and then continued:
‘Classification Immediate: Please arrange for Messrs. Dingle, Jones and Williams to be placed on H.Q. duty officers’ rota forthwith.’
Miss Peach looked up inquiringly.
‘That’s all,’ said the Director. ‘Get those two memos off straight away and,’ he picked up the report from Washington, ‘get a copy of this sent to the Minister, priority red. File our copy “Top Secret”.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll have these memos ready for signing in a few minutes.’
‘Good. When you bring them in you can fetch the night duty officer’s Intelligence digest.’
Miss Peach left the room. The routine, secret business of SS(O)S went on, smoothly, quietly.
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