Sean had set up plans with One-Eyed Damon to have Barrington incarcerated in a small grain bin on a dilapidated farm in the countryside south of London. One-Eyed Damon had begun his interrogations and Barrington had been threatened that, if he didn’t comply with the questions and provide the names of witnesses and perpetrators, he would quite simply be killed. Killed in the slowest, most brutal way. Sean had asked One-Eyed Damon to provide a grain auger with a conveyor belt that would slowly fill the nine-foot-high bin with corn. Barrington was strapped to a chair directly below a hole in the roof. The corn would fall on his body and slowly consume him. Drowning in corn would be a suitably slow death Sean had surmised.
One-Eyed Damon had demonstrated how it all worked to Barrington and took pleasure in watching his face as the corn entered the grain bin and began to settle firmly around his stomach and torso. Once trapped in the corn, the kernels locked Barrington in like hardened cement. One-Eyed Damon continued to interrogate him from outside the bin, peering in through a hole above head height. He explained to Barrington how his body would react once he was encased in corn, as the kernels kept falling.
‘In water you drown by inhaling water which floods the lungs and replaces air. In a corn drowning, the pressure of those kernels on your rib muscles and diaphragm will become so intense that you won’t be able to breathe at all. You don’t want that now, do you?’
One-Eyed Damon had explained to Barrington the deadliest part of a corn drowning: suffocation by kernels blocking the nose and mouth. He would feel an overpowering urge and desperation to inhale, but it would be impossible. A terror-filled one to two minutes would follow.
Barrington squealed, and never stopped talking. Fear permeated every part of his body and he talked for over forty-five minutes. He provided names, places and the grizzly details of his sex-gang activities in multiple cities across the world. Enough for investigators to probe and verify.
Sean felt a tap on his shoulder from Petra. She pointed into the far distance across the grass towards the central bandstand. Out of the trees walked an elderly lady with a small boy, who was carrying a football.
Couples lay on the grass in front of Sean enjoying the summer’s day. One man popped a bottle of Prosecco and a group of small children were playing with their dolls as a small cairn terrier ran around them chasing a tennis ball.
Petra placed her hand on Sean’s forearm. ‘You won’t be able to see Nadège again, but I’ll make sure you have plenty of access to your son. That’s Maxim there. Walking across the grass.’
Sean felt cold shivers run down his spine and goosebumps on his neck, the result of the adrenalin that was now flooding his circulation. His hands started to feel clammy. He stood, hoping that Petra had not heard him gasp. He looked at Petra, impressed by how skilfully she had managed Nadège and how she had now helped him find a way forward. He turned, not knowing what to do next.
‘I think thirty minutes will be a good start Sean. He knows he is meeting his father today. Play a little.’
Sean caught Maxim’s eye as he approached, both of them showing nervousness at the prospect of such an awkward but humble first meeting. Sean stepped forward to shake Maxim’s hand, knelt and asked him if he liked football.
Minutes later, five passes of the ball had been made and a bond had slowly begun to form. Sean wiped a tear from his eye and they both laughed as he chased the ball that had zipped through his legs. A nutmeg by his son. The first of many, he hoped. He was immersed in the calm joy of having fun in the park with his son.
Epilogue
Helmstedt, Old Inner East German Border
Four men. Two dogs. One vehicle. All moving across Germany with a range of search equipment on-board and a secret legacy that would bring some closure to the world of pain that Sean had endured over the last couple of months.
Sean sat next to Jugsy in the rear of the vehicle while Billy Phish sucked on his unlit pipe as he drove the specially adapted Toyota Hilux with a large rear cabin where two cocker spaniels sat sleeping their way through the journey. Billy Phish’s human-remains dogs were the forensic specialists who would help Sean locate his mother’s final resting place. Sean peered out of the window at the German countryside, happy to have his friends accompany him on this final pilgrimage to pay homage to his mother and hopefully recover whatever remains were left of her.
Swartz sat in the passenger seat, navigating the multitude of small roads between Helmstedt and Bartenslebener Forest. Each man remained quiet as they approached their final destination. Time had passed, but Sean finally felt able to take his team to search for the body of his mother, which had lain close to the old inner East German border for over thirty-two years. He glanced at the map that Zatopek had handed him. He knew that the decomposition of her remains would mean there would be very little left except for her skeleton. He’d wondered about how to organise her funeral, how to tell his father and who to invite. He was determined to make sure he crafted a suitable obituary that was worthy of a national hero from the cold war, and he hoped to hang a picture of her in the Special Forces Club in Knightsbridge, alongside those of many other female heroines from the Second World War and after. Maybe one day he’d even write her memoir. He wasn’t sure.
He had two special items in his small canvas shoulder bag: his mother’s antique snuffbox and a cutting from the Washington Post. He’d pass the cutting to each of the men before they commenced their search in the woods. He passed it to Jugsy first.
It read:
Fletcher Barrington, a former Central Intelligence Agency station chief, has been indicted by a federal grand jury in Washington with one count of murder committed in Berlin in 1986 and four charges of rape and imprisonment of girls in Bosnia-Herzegovina in 1995. He was further charged with the attempted murder of two witnesses and with conspiracy relating to the Bosnia cases.
Barrington, 67, will appear in the Federal District Court in Washington and could face up to 30 years in prison for murder and additional time for the other charges. Further charges are expected to follow from Justice Department investigations relating to his service in Algeria and Oman.
The prosecution's summary that had been prepared for the trial had been written a week before the charge, and had stated that there was overwhelming evidence that Barrington had been involved in sex trafficking, imprisonment and the rape of women and girls whom he had bought and owned as chattels in numerous cities across the globe.
Washington and New York were awash with rumours of dozens of sealed indictments that related to Barrington being the leader of sex rings in Berlin during the ‘80s, when a number of diplomats, military officers and intelligence personnel had been part of a secretive gang that had bought and abused young girls. Sean had been assured by Laura that these sealed indictments would lead to multiple convictions as a result of the secret investigation that his mother had carried out during her time in Berlin as part of the BRIXMIS team and as an officer of MI6.
Back in London, Jack was wondering whether to continue with his application for the role of Director General of the security service as Sir Justin had suggested. He still wasn’t sure it was him. He heard the wisdom of the former Director General singing out loud in his mind as he fiddled with his tie whilst pacing round his office. His coach and mentor had driven the words into him whenever a situation was nebulous. ‘There is no time for ease and comfort. There is a time to dare and a time to endure.’
Jack sent Sean a quick text.
‘Best of luck with the search. Your mother watches over you, proud of your achievements.’
Sean replied.
‘Just reading the Washington Post. Who was it who collated the evidence for Barrington’s murder charge in Berlin?’
Seconds later, Sean’s screen showed that Jack was typing a response. A lengthy reply finally came through.
‘It was a woman called Pearly. She was your mum’s best friend and worked on her disguises in Berlin. When she retired she spent every working day tracing Barrington’s accompli
ces down. She interviewed them all. Did her own casework. Over 15 years of investigations which, by a stroke of luck, only came to D’s attention when he had dinner one night with her in London. It was a casual conversation that revealed that her best friend had been your mother. D didn’t know that. He took up the case when Zatopek finally recovered and tasked a team to break into the lawyer’s office to retrieve your mother’s investigative files. Between Pearly, D and your mother’s encrypted note in the snuffbox they amassed the evidence that will see Barrington convicted of your mother’s murder. Your mother’s note has incriminated many more diplomats and military officers. I think Pearly may have taught you the art of disguise once, not that she knew you were Marcella’s son at the time. She’s sorry she had to cancel our meeting with her, but she was ill that day.’
Sean took a moment to process this astonishing information. It was a tale worth telling in his mum’s memoir. He decided he would write it, hopefully with the help of her best friend. He made a mental note to go and visit Pearly soon.
Within the hour, the canines had detected the scent of a body in a shallow grave amongst the bracken and between an expanse of spruce and larch trees.
Sean knelt down with a trowel in his hand and broke down as a torrent of emotions flooded his mind and soul.
There was a quiet moment before three hands were placed on his shoulders. The comfort began.
***
Acknowledgements
It’s been a wonderful experience writing this novel, which has been a mixture of real fun, serious challenge at times, and long periods of thought creating the story arc and plots. I hope you enjoyed the story and were able to immerse yourself in the world of these curious characters who have given me so much pleasure to develop. It’s been fabulous to take them a stage further from my first novel, The Failsafe Query.
I’m indebted to a number of good friends and family for encouraging me to write this second spy thriller, and top of the list is my wife, Rebecca, for her selfless support and enduring inspiration. She has been an amazing stalwart of my work, a critical friend and enthusing guide. A big thanks too, to my mother, sisters, and my wonderful children, who have all played a major role in encouraging my new journey and adventure as an author.
Thank you once again to my editor, Derek Collett, who provided superb advice throughout, and to some amazing friends who helped in many aspects of finalising the story: Mary Liddell, Michaelyn Yare, Bryan Miller, Nick Milne, Liane Hard, Neil Lancaster, Jessica Belmont and Trevor Foster. You have all been wonderful. Thank you so much. Also, a huge thank you to Alan Gordon, my former Army commander for providing some amazing insights during my research elements of the book. A special thank you to my great friend and mentor, Brigadier John Almonds, for his wise words and mentorship of my life and careers, and his unswerving support in all I do. I only wish my late father had met you John.
Finally, to you all. My wonderful supporters and readers who continue to inspire me with the wonderful feedback I have received, the letters, and the encouragement. The third novel is now well and truly underway because of you all. Thank you for your generosity and support.
Michael Jenkins MBE
London
June 2019
Did you enjoy this book? If so, I’d be delighted if you would take the time to submit a review on Amazon and Goodreads, which really helps make a difference to authors. Honest reviews are our lifeblood and are so helpful for readers and authors alike. I’m very grateful to every one one of my readers and supporters, who inspire me to write more.
Other novels by Michael Jenkins:
The Failsafe Query
You can follow me or join my readers club at:
www.michaeljenkins.org
Featured author on www.londoncrime.co.uk
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