by Andrew Tudor
“Richard, I need you to pull out of there immediately and travel to Berwick to intercept Alison MacGregor before she crosses into Scotland. She’ll be on the Edinburgh train arriving there mid afternoon.”
“Berwick!” Richard’s astonishment was clear. “Why? And how the hell do I get there by that time? And…”
“I’ll send you all details electronically,” Hart interrupted. “There’s a car on its way to collect you now and you’ll be flown to Otterburn where a couple of MI5 people will drive you to Berwick. The UK border guards at the station will be expecting you.”
“Why send me? It’ll undermine all the work we’ve put into establishing my cover.”
“We’re not going to need that any longer and you’re much better positioned to identify her if she’s not where we expect her to be on the train. Besides, before we interrogate her I want her to be as disoriented as possible by the whole experience. I want her to believe that we already know everything there is to know about her.”
He did not add that he also wanted to give Ali a chance to create a public commotion, and that Richard’s involvement should give her plenty of cause to do so. The more witnesses, the better.
“Is that clear, Richard? The car will be along to pick you up shortly and you’ll have all necessary information and authorisations before you reach Northumberland. I’ll see you when you get back. Any problems, get in touch. I’ll be available throughout the operation.”
“I guess so.” Richard did not sound enthusiastic. “I’ll sign myself out and wait for them downstairs.”
“It’s important, Richard. I can’t stress how important. You’ll be fully briefed in due course but at the moment I can’t tell you any more. Good luck.”
Hart broke the contact and sat back in his chair. The hounds were running. Now it only remained to see how the hare would react.
The last thing that Ali had said to Sarah before she set off for the station had been to encourage her friend to return to Scotland. Hugh, Sarah’s partner, was a Scot, and both of them had expertise that would be more than welcome in his country.
“We need you, Sarah. I need you,” she pleaded. “At least consider it. I’m certain there will be research posts for both of you and the way things are going I’m not at all sure that England is a good place to be.”
Sarah had nodded, although Ali was not sure whether this was in agreement with the description of England or in response to the demand to consider moving. Both, she hoped, as she sat waiting for the train to depart and trying to put the experiences of the past days into some sort of order. At least she would be safe at home tonight and able to pass on the information about Zeno to the people who needed to know. She was tired, and not only because she, Hugh and Sarah had sat up late talking and drinking. The shock of the Zeno news had taken its toll, as had her flat being searched and her suspicions about Richard. But at last, lulled by the rhythmic passage of the seemingly endless green fields beyond the window, she dozed off.
She awoke to the hollow sound of their crossing the King Edward VII Bridge as they approached Newcastle station where a handful of passengers left the train while an even smaller handful joined it. Travel has become so delimited in England, Ali grumbled to herself, with only the favoured and the very affluent able to go other than where the designated shuttles would carry you. These limits were always laid at the door of environmental and energy considerations, but Scotland managed to allow much wider independent travel and still stay within its carbon targets. The truth was that restrictions in England had become part of the apparatus of repression, an environmentally legitimised method of maximising control over the population and ensuring that those in power could sustain their comfortable and mobile way of life.
This line of thought revived her previous day’s anger at Richard’s apparent duplicity. Of course, she couldn’t be absolutely certain. It might all be coincidence. Perhaps she had mentioned to him that she was about to return to Scotland? Maybe she had been unduly affected by Irene’s paranoia? But looking back over the history of their relationship didn’t give her any confidence, particularly now that she recognised how very little she knew about Richard’s background. She had met none of his friends and didn’t even know in which Whitehall building he worked, let alone what he actually did. So troubled was she by these gloomy reflections that even looking out at the spectacular Northumberland coastline failed to give her spirits their customary boost, and as they passed the familiar landmark of Lindisfarne Castle she promised herself that if he had misled her so comprehensively she would make him regret it.
By the time they were approaching Berwick station Ali’s anger was not just directed towards Richard but at the whole culture of secrecy and control that pervaded English life. Crossing high above the River Tweed came as a welcome relief, a reminder that her own country, just beyond the river, was for all its faults a much more open society. As the train slowed to a halt she leaned her head against the window and looked up the platform into Scotland. Although strictly speaking the river itself was now the border, for practical purposes the two governments had agreed to treat Berwick station as a kind of no-man’s-land, a transition point policed by border guards from both sides. So looking from her vantage point in the last carriage Ali was hardly surprised to see a group of both Scottish and English border guards assembled on the platform at the head of the train. After some discussion and considerable waving of arms, they began to walk along the platform in her direction. Only then did Ali realise that behind the uniforms were three men in civilian suits and that – she turned away and looked again to convince herself – one of them was Richard Osborne.
Her mind raced through various possibilities and, given the events that she had been going over for most of the journey, she rapidly concluded that they were looking for her. They would surely know from the booking system which carriage and seat she was in and that was why they were coming down the platform rather than inside the train. So, if she was quick enough she could go the other way from carriage to carriage and hope to give them the slip. She grabbed her backpack and began to reach for her suitcase but then decided it would be better to leave it behind. It might buy her some time if they thought it implied that she would be returning to her seat.
Almost running, she worked her way towards the front of the train, stopping at the blind spots just before each exit to check that it was safe to proceed past the open door. At about the halfway point, as she paused by a toilet entrance, she heard a voice from outside.
“It would be the fucking last carriage, wouldn’t it.”
If there was a reply she didn’t catch it as the guards continued out of earshot along the platform, but now, having had her suspicions confirmed, she hurried on in the knowledge that she no longer needed to stop between the carriages. When at last she reached the front of the train she risked a quick look back down the platform. It was clear. They must be inside looking for her. Directly opposite, across the platform, was a door bearing an old-fashioned decorative sign: ‘Ladies Rest Room’. Berwick Station liked to indulge its tourist visitors in a kitsch kind of nostalgia. She remembered remarking on its curiosity value when she had been here with her uncle a year or so earlier, and, along with that memory, came a mental picture of its interior and another door labelled ‘Staff Only’.
It was a chance. She crossed the platform at speed and threw herself through the entrance to the Rest Room. To her left were the toilet facilities, but straight ahead was the door that she had remembered. Please don’t be locked, she pleaded, grabbing the handle and pushing the door. It didn’t budge. Be calm, think, she told herself, and pressing the handle down as hard as she could and as far as it would go she leaned all her weight on the door. With a crack it came unstuck and she was through. Closing it behind her, she saw that it had a latch which she clicked into the locked position. That should delay them, she thought, and with any luck they won’t realise that I’v
e gone this way.
Turning round she was faced by a short corridor with rooms on either side. At the far end was an external door and she headed towards it, doing her best to look purposeful, as if she had every right to be there. No one came out of any of the rooms and Ali emerged into a fenced yard with a gate leading to the street. There was a small shelter by the gate, presumably for the use of a security guard, but it was unoccupied. Maybe he was otherwise engaged looking for her on the train. Or maybe they just didn’t bother to staff the gate. Either way, in a couple of seconds she was through and onto the street outside, heading towards the shuttle terminus in the town centre.
Ali had often visited the area and knew that there was always a Border Towns shuttle scheduled to leave Berwick a quarter of an hour after the train from England arrived. It zigzagged cross-country, serving a number of the region’s small towns – the likes of Duns, Coldstream, Kelso, Melrose, and Lauder, completing its roundabout journey in Edinburgh. It would be a great deal slower than the train, of course, but at least it would take her away from Berwick in directions unexpected by her pursuers and, ultimately, towards home. She boarded it with only minutes to spare, using her card to buy a ticket to Edinburgh and settling into a seat at the back as far from the windows as possible. She didn’t want to take a chance that they might already be looking for her outside the station.
To her relief the shuttle left on time with no sign of any untoward activity on the streets of Berwick. For the first time since spotting Richard with the border guards she had a moment to stop and think. Surely she was safe now? Yet the fact that both English and Scottish guards had been looking for her was worrying. At the very least it meant that there had been sufficient authorisation to ensure cross-border co-operation; would that mean she could be followed into her own country? Ali simply didn’t know the permissible extent of collaboration. She had done nothing wrong, so the UK authorities must have attributed some invented criminal offence to her in order to justify their actions. Even so, what would be sufficient at the border crossing itself would surely not justify actually breaching that border in pursuit of her. There were legal procedures to be followed and extradition applications to be made.
Nevertheless, Ali was uneasy. Although she knew very little about the technical details, she was aware that the English had sophisticated electronic techniques for tracking people. She had used her card to board the shuttle, information which she assumed was fed back to a central computing facility and which, therefore, could be hacked. And she was carrying a CommsTab which could always be used to trace her whereabouts, even, she recalled reading somewhere, when it was switched off. The small town of Duns came and went while she tried to think things through. She could risk a call to her office in Edinburgh, but even assuming that they took her seriously – which she doubted – there wasn’t much they could do if she really was being followed. Somehow she had to throw her pursuers off the scent, if indeed they were on it, and as the shuttle approached its next destination in Coldstream she realised what she had to do.
When the shuttle came to a stop in the High Street she slipped her CommsTab under her seat, took her backpack and headed for the exit. The shuttle supervisor looked at her in surprise.
“You paid through to Edinburgh, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Ali replied, looking as if she was exasperated at the inconvenience, “but I’ve had a message which means that I have to go back to England urgently and this is the nearest border crossing.”
“Och, what a nuisance. You could maybe apply for a refund from central office if you register your card here.”
Ali had no intention of digitally recording her departure from the shuttle. “It’s OK,” she said. “Not worth the trouble really, but thanks.”
She rewarded the supervisor with a smile, hopped off the bus, and walked back down the High Street towards the bridge that crossed the Tweed into England. As soon as she was out of sight, she turned off to the north, reaching the farmland at the edge of town in a matter of minutes. An isolated cottage stood in several acres of land in which chickens, ducks, sheep, and a number of pigs appeared to wander at will. Ali knocked at the door, heard sounds from within, and after some fiddling with locks, the door opened.
“Hello, Uncle Bill,” she said. “I really need your help.”
Just then, on a London to Hong Kong flight some 40,000 feet over Kazakhstan, a middle-aged Chinese man was apologising to the stranger seated next to him. “I’m sorry. I seem to have got an English cough. Must be their weather.” The stranger nodded politely, averting his head as the contrite Chinese was overtaken by yet another bout of coughing. Hours more trapped on a plane with this, the stranger thought. Just my luck.
5
Hart was becoming impatient. By now they should have picked up Ali MacGregor, he thought, as he absently drummed his fingers on the desk. But it was bad practice to interfere with an ongoing operation unless absolutely essential, so, irritating though it was, he had to wait until Richard Osborne reported in. At last the call came.
“We’ve….” Osborne paused uncertainly. “We seem to have lost her.”
“How?” Hart almost shouted. “How could you? You knew where she was sitting, and even if she got off the train it’s a closed station.”
“I don’t know. Her suitcase is there and the other passengers said that she got up and, they presumed, went to the toilet. But we’ve searched the entire train and the station – that’s why we’ve taken so long. She isn’t here. And the railway authorities are complaining bitterly about the delay.”
“OK,” Hart replied, rather more calmly. “Try to hold them a bit longer just in case you’ve missed her somewhere. I’ll check with the techies upstairs who have a trace on her cards and CommsTab. Be back to you shortly.”
Hart didn’t wait for the lift but set off up the stairs like a man whose life depended on it.
“Drop everything else and bring up what we have on Alison MacGregor’s current position,” he called, as he was barely through the entrance to the Comms room. Both technicians bent immediately to their consoles. The Director was not often given to visiting their floor, let alone shouting instructions across it.
“She’s used her card to buy a shuttle ticket from Berwick to Edinburgh, some time ago now. Just hold on and I’ll try to get a live feed of her CommsTab’s position.”
Hart watched over the technician’s shoulder as she rapidly typed in a series of codes. After what felt like an interminable wait, a map came up on the screen in the centre of which was a flashing arrow moving steadily along a road leading away from Coldstream.
Hart turned back to his CommsTab which was still connected to Osborne. “She’s on a shuttle to Edinburgh, just leaving Coldstream now.”
“Shit!” Osborne’s voice carried a heavy weight of desperation. “How the fuck did she do that?”
“We’ll worry about that later.” Hart turned to the technician. “Where does that shuttle go next?” he asked.
Once more she typed into her keyboard. “Kelso next, then on to Edinburgh via Melrose, Lauder, Pathhead, and Dalkeith.”
Hart was now back to his customary self. He had a decision to take and that always generated calmness in him, as if it switched on a circuit specifically designed for analytic thinking. What to do? He would still like to detain her if possible. She was important to the plan he had formulated that morning, and although it wouldn’t entirely undermine his strategy if she got away to Edinburgh, he would have more pieces better placed on the board if he could bring her back to London. But UK agents couldn’t simply chase off into the Scottish Borders without higher authorisation from Scotland, and they would have to be accompanied by the Scottish police if they were to stop and search a shuttle. He knew that the Scots were unlikely to give him that authority so it would have to somehow be contrived without their involvement. In this respect, the electronics were on his side. He had templa
tes for a range of Scottish legal documents. One which appeared to emanate from a sufficiently high authority should allow Osborne to convince the Scottish border police to co-operate. Most of their work was dull routine. They would love a chance to pursue a shuttle across the countryside.
“Richard. You’ll have to try to intercept her before Edinburgh. I’ll arrange authorisation documents which I’ll send to you shortly. You can use them to involve the Scottish border police. Probably best to aim to waylay the shuttle on the open road rather than in one of the towns. I’ll send the documents as soon as I can set them up.”
Cutting Richard off before he could complain, Hart returned to his office and to the task of high-level forgery. He settled on an authorisation form in the name of the Procurator Fiscal for Lothian and the Borders which required the pursuit and arrest of Alison MacGregor, as well as a memo from the same source naming Richard Osborne as the officer into whose custody she was to be given. It was some time before he was fully satisfied that the documents would pass scrutiny, then he sent them off to Richard and checked on Ali’s whereabouts. She was well on the way to Melrose now, but the shuttle’s route was sufficiently roundabout to still allow for an intervention with time to spare. Hart leaned back in his chair, if not with satisfaction then at least with the sense of having made a move which should partially rescue a difficult situation. All he could do now was wait and see.
Ali’s Uncle Bill, as patient and attentive to her as ever, listened to her story of surveillance and pursuit without interruption. Although she always called him ‘Uncle’, he wasn’t really a relative, but he was a lifelong close friend of her father’s and had known her since she was a small child. She had been accustomed to using the title back then, and the habit had persisted into adulthood even though he regularly suggested that she could now reasonably address him by his proper name.
