Shadow Hunter

by Geoffrey Archer

  ‘In conclusion. . .’

  Hitchens’ voice sounded unsteady, almost emotional.

  ‘I just want to say how terribly important this mission is. There’s a lot depending on it, believe me. That is all.’

  ‘So bloody important, he won’t even tell me what it is!’

  Pike pushed back his chair and stood up, bristling with anger.

  ‘I’ve had enough! I’m going to have it out with him!’

  Spriggs pushed Pike back down into his seat.

  ‘Cool it Tim! If you go blazing in like that, you’ll be up on a charge!’

  ‘Fuck him! The bastard’s got right up my nose!’

  ‘Okay. But talk sense for a minute. That crash-dive this morning, to get away from one of our own planes? You think we’re not meant to be here? The plane was looking for us, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes. That is what I’m saying, but I’ve no way of proving it.’

  Spriggs was aghast.

  ‘But why? Hitchens is a rule-book man. He’d never chance his arm . . .’

  ‘Sure? Do you know what’s going on in his mind? I don’t. The man’s a closed book to me.’

  Paul thought of the explosive power stacked in the bow compartment of the submarine. Harpoon missiles that could devastate surface ships over fifty miles away; Tigerfish torpedoes that could rip through the double-hulls of Soviet submarines; and Moray mines that could lie dormant in the depths before darting from the dark to cripple the unsuspecting. He shivered.

  ‘If you really believe he’s acting against orders, Tim, then we’ve got to do something about it. And fast!’

  ‘We need proof, Paul. And how the hell do we get it?’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Plymouth, England.

  Tuesday 22nd October. A.M.

  TWO SECURITY MEN sat next to each other on a commuter flight to Plymouth. They spoke little.

  Hillier was SIS, the Secret Intelligence Service or MI6, controlled by the Foreign Office. Black was MI5, a Home Office man. Hillier was tall and gaunt with a fine-boned nose, Black stocky with a tendency to sweat. The former styled himself a diplomat, the latter a policeman.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Hillier declared in a voice edged with boredom, glancing at his gold wrist-watch.

  John Black pulled back his sleeve to reveal his own timepiece, digital and stainless-steel. It was a quarter-to-nine. They’d been served breakfast on the flight.

  ‘The watchers’ll have just changed shift,’ Black mumbled. ‘Boring bloody job, that is.’

  ‘Did well yesterday, your man.’ Hillier’s voice was patronizing. ‘Spotting Gunnar like that. Very timely.’

  ‘Except that Gunnar spotted him at the same time. He’ll get a reprimand.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard. He’s probably given us an extra twenty-four hours. We needed that.’

  The previous evening, Hillier had been halfway out of his office in the Soviet Department at Century House, when he’d received the summons to the Director’s office. The instructions he’d been given were highly irregular. He didn’t know where the orders came from, but it had to be the Foreign Secretary himself. And that meant the PM. He couldn’t believe Sir Nigel would take a flyer on a thing like this.

  The Director had been uneasy about the whole business. Doubted the wisdom of it. He refused to use their Moscow agents to plant the information about HMS Truculent. The call from MI5 to say the Russian had been seen again, sniffing near Sara Hitchens’ home, had been timely. Very timely.

  Normally, feeding information to the Russians was an MI6 job, but handling Soviet spies on British soil was MI5. Hence the two of them were on the breakfast flight to the West Country. Their meeting with Mrs Hitchens was fixed for nine o’clock.

  ‘Remind me what you’ve got on Gunnar,’ Hillier asked wearily as they turned from the airport road onto the Plymouth by-pass. Black was driving the hired car.

  ‘Not a lot,’ Black grunted, braking sharply as a motorcyclist weaved in front of them. ‘Knew nothing about him until all this blew up. Found out where he lived by accident. Sharp-eyed neighbour saw the man and his missus moving their stuff out of the house in the middle of the night. Called the police the next day.

  ‘In too much of a hurry – they were. Got careless. Left some coding pads. We assumed they’d have got out of the country, but we kept a watch on Mrs Hitchens just in case. Yesterday he suddenly turned up. Drove straight past her house. It was us he was looking for. Saw us the same moment we saw him. Off like a rocket. Our man put out a call to the local police, but Gunnar disappeared.’

  ‘Bit daring, isn’t he, coming back to the house? She must’ve been giving him something special!’ Hillier sneered.

  ‘Probably wants to shut ’er up. Thinks she’s the only one who can identify him. Do her in and he could slip back into the undergrowth for a year or two, then emerge with a new cover.’

  ‘Well, she’ll be safe enough with your brave boys parked at the end of her drive!’

  Black felt the back of his neck prickle. Hillier was needling him because his watcher had failed to conceal himself properly.

  ‘Have you met her?’ Hillier asked.

  ‘Mmm. Came down here when the case broke. Temperamental bitch.’

  Hillier looked about him as they drove through the first of the grey stone villages to the southeast of the city. Some pretty properties here, he thought to himself.

  ‘Will she play, d’you think?’

  Black thought for a moment. He took out a cigarette and lit it. Hillier pointedly wound down his window.

  ‘Tell her her old man’s life could depend on it, and she might. Curious that; she says she still loves him despite all the stuff she got up to behind his back.’

  ‘Ah, women! Where would we be without them!’

  Black cast him a sideways glance.

  ‘Some of us manage very well, thanks.’

  Sara had been awake most of the night, worrying. The MI5 man had given no reason for needing to see her again. During the night she’d thought she could hear someone outside, prowling round the house.

  She watched unseen from a window as the two men got out of their car, then waited for them to ring the bell before she let them in.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Hitchens.’

  Black tried to sound jovial.

  Sara nodded a greeting, eyeing Hillier with suspicion.

  ‘You’ll have to make do with the kitchen, I’m afraid. That’s where I live when I’m alone here,’ she said, leading them in.

  She switched on the kettle and pointed to the old pine table.

  ‘I’m not sure why . . .’

  ‘Let me introduce myself.’ The SIS man extended his hand. ‘Hillier from the Foreign Office . . .’

  ‘I’ve already told Mr Black everything I can remember . . .’

  ‘So you want to know why we’re here? Naturally.’

  Hillier spoke to her as if she had a mental age of five.

  ‘Glad you’ve got the kettle on. I could do with a cuppa.’

  Sara became increasingly nervous. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Coffee, please.’

  ‘Tea, if you don’t mind,’ added Black.

  Sara reached for a cupboard.

  ‘What a delightful kitchen.’

  Hillier’s comment annoyed her.

  ‘Isn’t it just?’ she answered abruptly. ‘But let’s skip the polite conversation, shall we? Would you mind telling me what you want?’

  Hillier’s eyebrows arched upwards.

  ‘Very well . . .’

  Tread carefully with this one, he told himself.

  ‘This man who called himself Gunnar . . ,’ he paused. ‘We’re anxious to know if he’s contacted you again?’

  ‘Certainly not! He won’t come back after what I said to him.’

  She searched their faces for clues. Their blank expressions made her shiver.

  ‘You think he will?’
/>   The footsteps round the house last night . . .

  ‘We think he might, yes.’

  ‘He’ll be in Moscow by now, surely?’

  ‘We believe not, Mrs Hitchens,’ Black chipped in. ‘A man fitting his description was seen near here yesterday.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Her voice caught in her throat.

  ‘The fact is, we’re keen that he should contact you,’ Hillier added.

  ‘Why?’ she snapped defensively.

  ‘We want you to tell him something; give him a specific piece of information.’

  ‘What sort of information?’

  ‘We’ll come to that in a minute. But do you agree to help us?’

  Hillier’s face was friendly, Black’s hard. In the familiar warmth of her kitchen the two men seemed enormous, threatening.

  ‘I don’t know. Why should I?’

  Hillier folded his arms and sighed, like a schoolteacher whose patience was reaching its limits.

  ‘I’m told you’re an intelligent woman, Mrs Hitchens. I don’t need to spell everything out, do I? Suffice it to say, your husband is approaching the coast of Russia with a boatload of sophisticated weaponry. He’s not behaving normally. Thousands of lives may be in danger, his being one of them.’

  ‘Oh, God!’

  Her worst fears were suddenly being confirmed.

  ‘But what can I do about it?’

  ‘Within forty-eight hours your husband may trigger off a spot of genocide. Now, of course all sorts of things are being done at official levels to ensure it doesn’t happen. But it’s just possible the Navy may not stop him in time. So, we – that’s you and us – we’re like an insurance policy. To give the Soviets an inkling that we’ve a problem we may not be able to handle. Have to do it indirectly, though. And that means you.’

  Sara swallowed. Her heart was racing. Genocide? For God’s sake!

  ‘But . . , how’s that going to help, if the Russians know about the problem?’ she demanded.

  ‘It means they’ll keep well out of the way, if they’ve any sense,’ Black answered briskly. ‘They don’t want a war any more than we do.’

  Sara felt sick. To think she’d started all this!

  ‘Now, there are things we need to know,’ Black continued. ‘When you were seeing this man, how did you make contact?’

  ‘He would ring when he came to Plymouth. If I wanted to contact him, I’d leave a message at the Holiday Inn. Even when he wasn’t in Plymouth, they’d take calls for him.’

  ‘I’ll bet he’s not using them any more,’ Black growled. ‘We think he’ll contact you soon. A phone-call or a message of some sort.’

  ‘But what does he want? I told him I’d never see him again.’

  The two men shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘He’s obviously very fond of you, Mrs Hitchens,’ Hillier said in an oily tone.

  ‘There’ll be no risk to you in all this,’ Black explained. ‘You’ve got protection. Twenty-four hour cover.’

  Sara looked startled.

  ‘Protection? From Gunnar?’

  ‘Just a precaution,’ Hillier soothed. ‘One of John Black’s men is keeping an eye on the house. You’ll be quite safe.

  ‘Now, this message you’re going to give him. You mustn’t say it’s from us, of course. Pretend it’s based on something your husband said to you, just before he sailed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That he intends to lay mines at the entrance to the main Soviet submarine base at Polyarny.’

  ‘Poly . . . what?’

  ‘Think of Polyanna. Tell him that, in fact. Mis-remembering the name will make it more convincing.’

  ‘Is this true? How do you know what Philip’s going to do?’

  ‘We don’t,’ admitted Black. ‘It’s a guess. But if the Russians send submarines to sea from Polyarny, and they’re blown up by your husband’s mines – that’ll be war, Mrs Hitchens.’

  ‘What we need is time,’ Hillier took over. ‘If the ‘Soviets keep their boats out of the way, it’ll give our Navy more time to find your husband and bring him back.’

  ‘But supposing Gunnar doesn’t make contact, or I don’t convince him?’

  ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’ answered John Black.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll do your very best. You must want to – after what’s happened,’ Hillier added pointedly.

  Eventually they left. They gave Sara a card with two telephone numbers on it. One was Hillier’s desk in London, the other a Plymouth number for the local watchers.

  The silence in the house terrified her. She wandered from room to room trying to peer from windows without being seen. Somewhere out there were two men. One to protect her, the other . . . ? What did he want? Why had Gunnar come back?

  It was unreal. Soon she would awake and the nightmare would fade.

  And there was a third man, Philip. What wild obsession had gripped him? It wasn’t just because of her – it couldn’t be! The security men were blaming her for everything, but that was unfair!

  There was much more behind it. If only she knew what.

  Outside in the garden, a pigeon took flight with a clatter of wings. Somewhere upstairs an unfastened window banged shut in a sudden breeze. She shivered.

  She was scared to be in the house alone, but they’d told her to wait.

  Waiting for Gunnar. A title for a melodrama.

  Suddenly there was the crunch of tyres on gravel. Her heart pounded. He wouldn’t just arrive, would he?

  She strained to see out.

  Patsy Tinker. What did she want? If Gunnar came and saw the car he’d be put off.

  She’d pretend not to be in.

  Too late. Patsy saw her and waved.

  ‘Thought I’d drop in,’ Patsy explained. ‘You seemed so down when we met on the Hoe yesterday . . .’

  ‘Oh, I’m okay. I’m expecting someone, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Patsy looked embarrassed. ‘Should I . . .?’

  ‘No, no. Come in. Have some coffee or something.’

  They moved to the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, you’ve had it done since I was last here,’ Patsy exclaimed admiringly. ‘New units. Very smart.’

  ‘That was last year. Shows how long it’s been.’

  Sara busied herself with the kettle and mugs.

  ‘That was pretty startling, what you told me yesterday,’ Patsy ventured. ‘All that security business. I’d be scared to death living out here on my own with all that going on.’

  ‘Well, with kind neighbours like you dropping in to get all the juicy details, I don’t have time to be scared, do I?’

  ‘Sara, that’s not why I came! I simply thought you might want someone to talk to. It’s bad for you, keeping it all bottled up. All those feelings locked up inside you. You’ll burst.’

  Sara was on the point of doing exactly that. She shook with anger at being lectured.

  ‘Look, sod off! I didn’t ask you here!’

  And she burst into tears. It was what Patsy had hoped would happen. The tension was broken.

  Patsy let her cry, saying nothing, until Sara’s shoulders had stopped shaking.

  The kettle began to whistle.

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Patsy said. Coffee and tea had been left out, and there were unwashed cups and saucers in the sink. So, there’d been other visitors that morning.

  Sara pulled a handkerchief from the handbag on the table.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she sniffed. ‘I know you mean to help. But really there’s nothing you can do.’

  Patsy placed a mug on the table next to Sara, and sat down.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Is Simon all right? Have you been able to keep it away from him, all the problems?’

  ‘Hardly,’ Sara laughed bitterly. ‘It was through Simon that Philip found out.

  ‘I’d been very silly. A little while back, there was a man I . . . used to see. He came round here quite often. I let Simon meet him. Then, ten days ago
, he and Philip bumped into the man in the city. Suddenly Philip had found the key to my little box of secrets.

  ‘Simon was back at school when it all came out, so he missed the awful rows. I think he sensed it was coming, though; that’s what’s been behind the trouble at school this term.’

  ‘Vandalizing microscopes?’

  ‘That’s it. I’m sure there’s worse to come. Perhaps I’ll bring him home for a while . . .’

  ‘Why don’t you? That could be good for both of you.’

  ‘I think I will.’

  They fell silent and sipped at their coffee. Patsy took a deep breath, and started the conversation again.

  ‘This man you were seeing . . . The one you said worked for a foreign government . . . the Russian . . . did you . . . tell him anything at all that you shouldn’t have?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but then I’m not sure what he wanted to know. Nothing really secret, that’s for sure. I don’t know anything secret. Do you? I mean, does Andrew talk about his work?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘It’s . . . , it’s not my fault, Patsy,’ Sara pleaded. ‘Whatever Philip’s doing – it’s unfair to blame me for it. It’s much more involved than people think.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘This “revenge” they think he’s planning – they imagine it’s just because of me and Gunnar, but it isn’t. It’s more than that. It has to be.’

  Wishful thinking, Patsy wondered?

  ‘They really think he’s going to attack the Russians?’

  ‘Yes. They told me this morning.’

  ‘What? Who did?’

  Sara scraped back her chair and stood up. She grabbed a transistor radio from the worktop next to the kettle, and turned it on at full volume.

  ‘We may be bugged,’ she explained in a whisper.

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘MI5. They were here this morning.’

  The pop music was deafening. Patsy found it unbearable.

  ‘Couldn’t we walk in the garden? It’s a nice morning,’ she suggested. Sara led the way to the back of the house.

  The garden was walled, sheltering it from the wind. Roses and honeysuckle clung to the old brickwork. The last of the season’s apples weighed heavily on the branches of young trees which Andrew had helped Philip plant the previous year.

  ‘We should be safe out here.’