by James Blatch
“Today,” he confirmed.
He watched as she turned this news over in her mind.
“What time are we expecting this guest?”
“This very afternoon, would you believe?”
“Shall I fetch some tea from Danbury’s?”
“I think a selection of cakes from Danbury’s would be most excellent.” He thought for a moment. “I think it best not to mention this visit to anyone.”
“Anyone?”
“No-one, perhaps I should say.”
“I would never—”
“Mrs Lazenby, I know you would not. I’m just being cautious.”
She nodded to the man whose house she had kept for thirty-seven years. “Of course, Professor.”
As she left the room, Belkin picked up his pen to continue with the crossword.
He read the clue—An amble in Provence (4)—and entered the letters r-o-v-e into the empty boxes.
Too easy. He tapped his ballpoint pen on the newspaper.
An RAF officer requiring statistical enquiries in absolute secrecy. A little more tricky.
As he passed the turn to Abingdon, Millie spotted a lay-by ahead and pulled the car over.
He took out the instructions again and checked the AA road map.
He pulled away again, having memorised the route.
Twenty-five minutes later, he drove along Oxford High Street, slowing for distracted shoppers as they stepped into the road. He thought of Georgina, Mary and Rob, doing the same in Salisbury, although he had no doubt that they had probably found themselves in The Haunch of Venison for a little pick-me-up and a sandwich by now.
He turned into King Edward Street and drove to the end before turning onto a narrow, cobbled lane, passing an ancient sign announcing Merton Street.
Small cottages hugged either side of the road as he slowed to a crawl and read the names. He stopped the car outside a set of closed wooden double gates marked RHODES COTTAGE.
He was suddenly aware that Charlie’s college rooms were nearby. Hopefully, his son had found his way into a pub for lunch.
He got out and approached the faded green front door. There was no immediate response to his knock, but eventually, the door opened, and an elderly woman stood in the shadows.
“Do come in, Mr Milford. I’m Mrs Lazenby.”
Millie glanced at his car. He imagined Charlie cycling past and stopping in surprise at the sight of his father’s distinctive red Rover.
“Do you think it would be possible to open the gates such that I might park there?”
Mrs Lazenby slowly closed the front door. Millie stepped back and looked up at the low building. It was a sweet little place, but on closer inspection, the window frames were rotting and the paint was peeling from the door.
He heard a noise to his left and saw the brown gates opening inwards.
Moving them back was a short man, with wisps of grey hair, baggy beige trousers, a white shirt and, despite the heat, a cardigan and tie.
“It’s best to reverse in and drive forwards out,” said the professor. “You are statistically less likely to kill a student on a bike that way, although I have never run the actual numbers on that.”
Millie got back into the Rover and pulled forward before loudly crunching the gears in search of reverse. As he backed in, he was glad to see the professor close the gates in front of him.
He picked up one of the reels of tape and secreted the remaining five under the passenger seat.
As he climbed out of the car, the professor beckoned him toward a side entrance. Although only five feet ten, he had to lower his head to pass under a wonky beam with more peeling paint.
The cottage was cool. The ancient wattle and daub walls were crumbling, and it smelled of damp. A grandmother clock ticked in the hallway.
He squinted at a souvenir plate on the wall. His Majesty’s Silver Jubilee 1910 – 1935.
The place was a time capsule; a world away from the bustling, modern environment of TFU.
Mrs Lazenby, complete with flowery pinny, showed Millie into the kitchen where he and Belkin sat opposite each other around a small square table.
She poured the tea with great care.
The professor regarded him. “How was the drive, Mr Milford?”
“Fine. I got a little lost at Abingdon, but soon found my way back.”
Millie’s hand shook as he raised the teacup to his mouth.
Mrs Lazenby left the room and closed the door behind her.
“So, Mr Milford, what branch of the Royal Air Force benefits from your service?”
“I’m an engineer by trade. I used to keep various fighters and bombers in the air, but about ten years ago I found myself working on the electrical and now electronic side of things.”
“Interesting. Do you work with innovations like Autoland?”
“I’m impressed you know the proper name. In fact I did some work for the Blind Landing Experimental Unit just after the war and then worked with Philips to develop autopilot technology. Quite satisfying to see it in civil airliners today.”
“I’m sure it is. I see where young Milford gets his prowess from.”
Millie laughed. “I’m no match for Charlie when it comes to maths, I’m afraid. I’m much more of a practical type.”
The professor smiled. “And that is why you need some help with the numbers from us?”
“I’m not sure even Charlie could decipher these figures. It’s the sheer volume of sums needed. I think only a large computer will do.”
“Well, that’s what they’re best for. It’s frightening, actually, how quickly they can rattle through calculations. They can perform in an hour what a human would take many weeks to complete. Maybe months, actually.” Belkin clasped his hands together on the table. “So, Mr Milford. Exactly how can we help you?”
The professor spoke with a soft Scottish burr, possibly Edinburgh. Much clearer in person than on the telephone. He looked kindly and had a gentle manner.
Millie replaced the teacup on its saucer, knowing he was about to gamble with his own freedom and possibly much more.
“I need to be very careful about what I tell you. Do you think it is possible for you to treat this as an academic exercise, unrelated to anything physical, as such?”
“I see. I think so. Academic exercises are what we do best at Oxford.”
Millie delved into his sports jacket pocket and retrieved the tape. He placed it on the table between them.
“On this tape are numbers. The numbers represent distance, in feet, I think. I’d like to know if you can read it, and whether your computer could look through the readings and spot any imperfections.”
“Imperfections?”
“What I mean is, anything that makes little sense. A sudden jump in the numbers that seems implausible.”
The professor appeared to think about this and finally removed his half-moon glasses, waving them in his hand as he spoke. “You’re talking about variance, I think. A mathematical term for deviation from a datum. With the right parameters, then yes, as long as we can extract the data, we can create a routine to trawl through and highlight any sets of data that deviate outside of parameters we set. Something like a percentile scale. Do you see?”
“I think so. Basically, what I’m looking for is a pattern unlikely to exist in reality. So, for instance, you might get ten minutes of height readings in a range of say three hundred to four hundred, followed by a second or so of height readings that show one thousand two hundred, then it goes back to the original range. Do you think that’s possible?”
“I think so, yes. How many height readings are we talking about?”
Millie thought for a moment. “The tape records twenty-seven every second, and each tape runs for fifteen to twenty minutes.”
“Twenty-five thousand numbers on the tape,” said the professor. “It sounds like a lot to you and me, but to the machine, it’s just a few hours of whirring.”
“If you can read this tape, I am hoping to deliver
one hundred more.”
The professor put down his tea and clasped his hands together on the table.
“Mr Milford, may I ask whether this is an official visit from an RAF officer? Or are you doing some freelance work?”
Millie looked around at the kitchen. Faded cupboards and yellowed ceiling. One door to a lower hung off its solo hinge.
“It’s not official,” he said, watching Belkin, “but it is Royal Air Force business.”
“I see. And yet I don’t. Which, I suspect, is your intention?”
“Professor Belkin, I do very much appreciate the delicate position I am placing you in. I think I can only appeal to your good nature to help an RAF engineer who needs a dose of modernity in, shall I say, a neutral environment.”
The professor seemed to consider this before giving a brief nod. “Very well. I do not operate the computer myself, I’m sure you appreciate that, but I do set the tasks for the boys in white coats and I believe I can enlist some help from the team.”
Millie exhaled.
“Wonderful.”
“Our first task is to read the tape. And I make no promises about the success of this. Lord knows if this tape will even align with our computer, but there’s only one way to find out. ”
A clock in the hall struck midday.
“If I can get you some more tapes in, say, ten days’ time, would you be able to read them before the end of term?”
“It depends on how long the processing takes, but in principle, yes.”
“When will you be able to let me know if you can read this tape?”
“I’m not sure. They are a keen lot, your son’s cohort, and the department is open on a Saturday. I may wander over later today and try my luck. But it might have to wait until Monday. Would you like me to call you at your work?”
“No,” Millie snapped back, more harshly than he intended.
The professor laughed. “Silly me, of course not. We are to move in the shadows, are we not? Perhaps you would leave a suitable contact?” He finished his tea as Millie wrote his home telephone number.
“You’re nervous,” Belkin said as he took the note.
There was a quiet tap at the kitchen door.
“I am. This is rather out of the ordinary for me and not without risk. But needs must, I’m afraid.”
Belkin studied him for a moment before calling to Mrs Lazenby.
“Do come in.”
The old woman appeared with two brown paper bags. She fussed about with plates on the kitchen top before placing a generous pile of cakes and sweets between Belkin and Millie.
“The chocolate eclairs from Danbury’s are nothing short of sensational.” Belkin pushed a plate toward Millie.
Mrs Lazenby left the room and closed the door.
The professor gave Millie a wink. “I suspect clandestine operations will take it out of both of us. Best to stock up on energy, Mr Milford.” He pushed a long eclair into his mouth.
Early afternoon had become siesta time at the peace camp.
Susie rather liked it.
But something stirred her from her sleep.
The earth trembled. She raised her head to see her fellow campers walking toward the airfield fence. The sound grew louder.
They were used to the noise of aircraft, both propeller and jet engines, but this was different. A more familiar, prosaic sound.
Lorries.
She stood up.
In a cloud of dust on the southern taxiway, a stream of large, double-axle vehicles trundled toward them. Tarpaulin covered their loads.
“This can’t be good,” she said to herself.
She joined the others as they stood in a row up against the wire fence that separated them from the military world beyond.
The first lorries came to a stop, a few yards in front of them.
She counted at least twenty vehicles, with more coming.
Teams of camouflage-clad soldiers emerged and got busy pulling the covers back, revealing stacks of metal posts, and large rolls of what looked like knotted silver wire.
A man with a clipboard climbed out of the lead vehicle. He counted the lorries as they arrived.
David and a woman called Megan arrived by her side.
“Here to evict us?” David said.
“They’re on the wrong side of the fence for that,” replied Susie.
She stared at the silver wire, wound like hay bales. Narrowing her eyes, she could just make out the jagged surface of the material.
“Razor wire.”
The first men marked out the ground a few yards inside the existing fence, and a team appeared with a pneumatic drill. They pushed a generator into place.
“If you want proof we’re in the right place, here it is,” said Megan. “This is all for us. They’re frightened.”
“Maybe we’ve missed our chance?” said David.
“No. We haven’t.” Megan wandered off.
Susie thought about the exchange for a moment.
“So, Megan’s in charge?” She looked at David.
He smiled. “Of course she is.”
The military men worked with military precision. The existing fence looked weedy and pathetic compared to the new menace.
Some protestors shouted at the men in uniform. They got no response, not even a glance.
“This is a well-planned operation,” said Susie.
“We’re organised as well. Don’t worry about that. It takes a lot to defeat Megan.”
A clanging rang out behind them and they turned to see Megan standing outside the wigwam banging a wooden spoon on a saucepan.
They joined the others converging on the central meeting tent.
As they assembled inside, Susie noted the hierarchical structure, with Megan and David at the front, preparing to address the throng. Someone she didn’t recognise stood near the entrance. Tall, with a full blond beard.
It was hot and people set about pulling up the tent sides to let some air in.
Megan began her address.
“Our information was right. There’s something secret at this base. Something nasty they are hiding from the world and they’re going to great lengths to keep it that way. It’s time for us to act.”
The group murmured its approval. Susie exchanged looks with those around her. Some looked scared, others eager.
She turned back to the front; the bearded man was gone.
David spoke up, looking at his notes. “For a while we thought that an old Maintenance Unit, number 207, was a cover for something else. But now we know that most of the aircraft we see belong to a different squadron. A squadron that has no name and does not officially exist. We may be the first people outside the RAF to notice it.”
“That will be our target,” Megan said. “You won’t all be involved. I will keep the details secret to protect the raiding group. But everyone can play their part. The preparation begins today.”
The watchers applauded, and some pushed out into the cooler air.
Susie loitered back in the tent, edging her way through to David and Megan.
“I want to volunteer,” she said as she got to the front.
“So does everyone,” David replied.
Megan looked across at her. “Who are you? I don’t know you.”
“This is Susie,” said David. “She’s alright.”
“I’m small. I can fit through small windows.”
Megan appraised her again and nodded before going back to the keen volunteers in front of her.
Susie put her hand on David’s arm. “This is the only reason I’m here. I think I’ve made that clear.”
“I know.”
Millie fumbled with the buttons on his suit shirt. He looked at himself in the mirror and practised holding in his stomach. It was the best way to avoid Georgina proposing a new fitness regime.
Georgina called from downstairs. “Come on!”
He was grateful it was a cocktail party, for which civilian suits were the dress order; it would
have taken him even longer to squeeze into his mess kit.
He brushed the shoulders of his jacket and paused in front of the mirror. Since leaving Oxford, he’d been asking himself if he was doing the right thing. Wondering if there was another way, an official way, that would circumvent Mark Kilton, ensure the safety of future aircrew and not land him in prison.
The reflection staring back at him had no answers.
“Millie!”
He headed downstairs.
Georgina stood in front of the door, car keys in hand.
“Well?” she said.
“Well, what?”
“Millie! My frock.”
He looked at her dress. It was black velvet with transparent sleeves. New. She must have bought it in Salisbury.
“It’s lovely, dear.”
At the Mays’, Millie got out so he could greet them properly. Mary emerged first; she looked beautiful in her red dress, but Millie thought better of mentioning it.
Mary galloped up and kissed Millie on the cheek, with Rob just behind her, grinning.
“Roberto! How was the shopping expedition?”
They shook hands.
“Delightful, naturally. You must let me know your secret for getting out of it.”
They climbed into the car. Millie glanced across at Rob in the passenger seat. “Sorry I wasn’t there to help you through what must have been a difficult afternoon.”
Rob laughed. “I won’t say you weren’t missed. Anyway, how is Charlie?”
“He’s very well, very well.”
He heaved the heavy vehicle around the final bend, onto the straight that ran up to the main gate, and immediately had to brake hard.
A line of stationary cars ran along the main road.
Millie craned his neck to try and get a better view of what was happening. A car door was open at the front of the line. Had there been an accident?
He spotted two uniformed security officers, one of them leaning into a vehicle. The driver—an RAF colleague in his suit—was out, standing on the grass next to the road.
The officers appeared to be searching his car.
The tapes were still under the passenger seat.
A prickly heat rose up Millie’s body and his hands tightened on the steering wheel.
