‘You must think I’ve gone mad.’
‘I’d be the same, I assure you.’
Sara reached out and held one of the apples, giving it a tiny twist so that it parted from the branch. Perfectly ripe. She held it out for Patsy.
Patsy took a bite. ‘Gorgeous.’ Sticking her hands determinedly into her trouser pockets, Sara turned to face Patsy squarely.
‘Do you know about Philip’s father?’
‘No. Should I?’
‘Philip hero-worshipped him, but he died when Philip was just fourteen. HMS Tenby? Does that ring a bell?’
‘Vaguely. One of the SSNs is called Tenby.’
‘This was an earlier one. An old diesel sub. Disappeared on patrol in the Barents Sea in 1962. All a big mystery. Philip’s dad was her first lieutenant.’
‘Oh, yes. I remember something. An accidental explosion, was it?’
‘Not according to Philip. He’s convinced the Russians sank her.’
‘What? I’ve never heard that said before!’
‘It was an open verdict at the official inquiry. No wreckage was ever found. No survivors. Just theories. The one they settled for was that there’d been a fire on board and the torpedoes had gone up. They even made changes to the way the things were stored on board after that.’
‘But Philip didn’t buy that idea?’
‘I suppose he may have done at the beginning; he was only a boy. But he overheard someone talking to his mother about it, a few years later, saying the Tenby had been in the Barents to keep an eye on Russian torpedo trials. Nuclear torpedoes.’
‘Crikey! And was it true?’
‘I don’t know. But Philip thinks so. He became convinced the Russians tested a nuclear torpedo on the Tenby and vapourized his father along with the rest of the crew.’
‘But that’s madness! The Russians would never have done that. They’d have risked starting a nuclear war, wouldn’t they?’
Sara shrugged. She’d never given much heed to Philip’s theories before now.
‘It was November 1962, the Cuban missile crisis, remember? All very jumpy. The Americans and Russians on the brink of war – Philip reckoned the White House put pressure on Britain not to make an issue of the Tenby.’
‘Oh.’
Patsy racked her brains to remember what that crisis had been about.
‘What is it you’re saying? That this revenge Philip’s planning is to do with his father’s death?’
‘I don’t know exactly. But I’m sure it’s involved.’
‘Why are you so sure?’
Sara hesitated over how much to say.
‘This summer we went on holiday to Guernsey, all three of us. It was Philip’s idea. He used to go there as a boy, but hadn’t been back since. I didn’t know before, but it was in Guernsey that he’d last seen his father. Straight after that holiday in 1962, the Tenby sailed north and never returned.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Something happened this summer, to Philip. We’d been there a few days, staying in an absolute dump of a hotel. He’d been a bit moody – memories and all that – then one afternoon he came back after a walk on his own, looking as if he’d seen a ghost. Simon and I were by the pool; I expected him to join us, and when he didn’t I went up to our room to look for him. Well . . .’
She frowned.
‘Go on . . .’
‘He was – I didn’t go into the room, because he seemed to be . . . crying. I could hear, through the door. I . . . I didn’t know what to think. Philip’s so – undemonstrative. So, I just stood there, listening to this awful croaking noise, sort of frozen. And then he said something, in a strangled voice. Out loud. He said “Dad, Dad, what have they done to you?”’
‘Good Lord! But you still didn’t go in?’
‘I thought he’d be upset – embarrassed that I’d heard him. So I went down again and waited for him. He didn’t appear for hours. Claimed he’d fallen asleep. I asked if anything was wrong, but he said no. So I just put it down to his being back in the place where he’d last seen his father. Something deeply buried coming to the surface.’
‘And that was that?’
‘Well, no. He didn’t sleep at night, tossing and turning; always desperately short-tempered and wanting to be on his own. Then a couple of days later, some other mother I got talking to at the hotel was telling me about a beautiful walk she’d just been on, lonely clifftops and all that, when she mentioned having seen Philip up there, sitting on a bench – with a woman.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘I thought the obvious at first. That evening I asked him about it. It shook him that he’d been spotted, but he dismissed it; said the woman had just been another walker who’d stopped for a rest. He was lying; I can always tell – he does it very badly.’
‘You think she had some connection with his father?’
‘I don’t know. We came home at the end of the holiday; life returned to normal, except that Philip had closed up. I couldn’t get through to him at all. He was like a man facing a crucial decision, unable to make up his mind.’
‘And he was still like that when . . .’
‘When he found out about Gunnar. Yes. But that’s just it. Afterwards – after all the screaming and recrimination – he was different. It was as if he had finally made up his mind, finally decided what to do about the problem that had dogged him since Guernsey.’
A blackbird began to sing shrilly from a heavily-laden pear tree further down the garden. They began to walk again, Sara bobbing down to pull a long tuft of rye-grass from a flower bed.
‘Have you told anyone about this? The authorities?’
‘Hardly! It’s just the imaginings of a silly woman, isn’t it?’ she snorted scornfully.
‘It could be rather more than that. I think you should tell someone.’
Suddenly Sara clutched at Patsy’s arm. The noise of a car at the front of the house had startled her.
‘Sounds like you’ve got another visitor. Shall I go and look for you?’
Sara shook her head.
‘We can go round the side.’
A trail of paving stones led to the front of the house. A small green van was parked in the drive. Its driver stood outside the front door cradling a bouquet of roses.
‘Ah,’ the youth turned. ‘One of you Mrs Hitchens?’
‘Yes, me.’ Sara advanced towards him.
‘Could you sign here, please?’
She did, and took the flowers from him. As the van reversed down the drive, she stood quite still staring at the blooms, as if they were poisoned.
‘Aren’t they beautiful? No one ever sends me flowers,’ Patsy complained.
Sara looked petrified, eyes fixed on the envelope pinned to the cellophane.
‘Do you know who they’re from?’
‘I think so,’ she answered in a whisper. ‘I must find a vase.’
The front door was latched, so they walked the path back to the kitchen, Patsy feeling awkward. Greetings from a new lover or an old one, she wondered?
Sara gingerly unpinned the envelope and pulled open the flap.
Patsy tried to see. The card was almost covered with writing; Sara’s hands trembled as she read it. The message continued on the back.
‘Nothing wrong, I hope.’
‘I’m sorry . . ,’ was all she could say. She looked at her watch. She was plainly very scared.
‘You want me to go?’
Sara nodded. Tears welled up again; she pulled a tissue from her sleeve and blew her nose.
‘All right. But look. Ring me whenever you feel like it. D’you promise?’
‘Yes, I will.’
Patsy clasped Sara by the shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. For the first time in her life she felt some kinship with her.
‘’Bye, now. I’ll drop in again soon.’
Sara forced a smile.
‘Thanks for coming. I mean that.’
Patsy turned her car into the road and headed
for Plymouth. What Sara had just told her was immensely important. It was what Andrew must have had in mind when he’d asked her to get talking with Sara.
She decided to ring Norman Craig from a phone box, and arrange to see him at the Naval Base.
At the front of the old rectory, overlooking the road, was a small bedroom used to store junk. Sara unlatched a small window at the top of the frame and pushed it open. This was the signal she’d been told to make when Gunnar made contact. The room smelled stale; it could do with ventilation anyway.
She prayed the watcher was watching.
She still clutched the florist’s card. The words, written in Gunnar’s foreign script, had terrified but excited her.
He’d deceived her, taken advantage of her loneliness. He was an enemy of her country, who’d used her cynically. Yet he’d loved her with a passion she’d never known before, a passion which surely no man could fake.
The words seemed to smoulder on the card.
My darling. I have to see you again. For me it is not over between us and can never be.
My heart is broke, and you must mend it.
Please!
Big news! I’m leaving my employer, and need your help to make friends with the people you know. I depend on you. Please don’t fail me!
Cannot meet at old rendezvous, but you go there now. Don’t delay. Tell no one. I’ll know if you do. The H.I. desk will have a message for ‘Mrs Mathews’. That will tell you where I am.
Please do it! I long to kiss you again.
G.
‘Leaving his employer’? He wanted to defect?
Or was it another deception? Perhaps she should contact Hillier first. If things were changing, would they still want her to tell Gunnar about Philip?
But she dared not delay. They’d told her to do nothing to make Gunnar suspicious. Was he bugging her phone? Would he be watching her from a distance as she drove into Plymouth to meet him? Possibly. She could take no risks.
She opened the wardrobe in her bedroom. She’d have to change. Couldn’t drive into Plymouth in an old pair of jeans.
She’d wear the plum-coloured skirt and blouse, with the black jacket.
She looked at her watch; eleven-thirty. The traffic wouldn’t be bad; she could be there by twelve. Her face was a mess. Anyone could tell she’d been crying. She splashed on some cold water, then applied some makeup.
Handbag, money, car keys, then she closed the front door and checked it was latched. She’d left the upstairs window open as instructed, but it made her uneasy. Burglaries were rife in the district.
A South West Electricity Board van was parked fifty yards from the Hitchens’ house. The engineer sitting behind the wheel was eating a sandwich and drinking coffee from a flask.
The silver Volkswagen drove past him at speed, heading for Plymouth. The watcher picked up a microphone to report that Mrs Hitchens was on her way.
He finished his coffee. There was no great hurry; another car would pick her up at the next crossroads. His instructions were to follow at a distance, and hold himself ready for new orders.
At the junction with the Plymouth road Sara noticed the car behind her. A red Escort. Was it following her?
She turned left and the Escort followed, but two minutes later it turned off to the right. Unknown to her, the trail had been taken up by the green Vauxhall in front.
At the outskirts of the city she slowed down. The car she was following pulled into a filling station. Her heart raced as she neared the rendezvous. Fear gripped her, fear and excitement.
Left into a side street, up to the Hoe. She didn’t notice the green Vauxhall following fifty yards behind. Left again into Citadel Road. She was in luck; a parking meter bay was just coming free.
The Vauxhall slid past her and disappeared. Sara locked her car and paused for a moment to compose herself. Her legs felt like jelly. Two deep breaths, then she started towards the Holiday Inn. She looked up to the sixth floor. It was where Gunnar had always stayed; a room with a view of the Hoe. Was he there now, watching her?
As she mounted the hotel steps, the red Escort drew up opposite. She was through the swing door and approaching the reception desk, when its driver began to cross the lawn to the hotel.
‘Do you have a message for Mrs Mathews?’ Sara asked the girl behind the desk, as calmly as she could.
‘Oh, hullo!’
The receptionist had recognized her. Sara smiled; she was sure the girl had never known her name.
‘Yes, here it is.’
‘Thank you.’
Sara took it and walked towards the bar and the lifts.
My darling! We must be very careful! You are being folowed.
Take the lift alone to the fifth floor. Make sure you are alone in the lift. On the fifth go strait to the fire stairs. Down to the basement – the garage. Be sure no one follows! In bay 16 is a Black VW. The door is open, the keys inside. KEEP THE WINDOWS SHUT.
Drive out on the Exeter road. After 3 miles take the left to Stumpton. On the edge of the village is the Red Crown pub. Stop in the car park and wait for me. If I’m not there after twenty minutes, go inside and ask for the phonebox. I’ll ring you there.
I love you, rember.
G.
There was something endearing about Gunnar’s spelling mistakes.
The lift came; the doors closed behind her. From the lobby, the man who had driven the red Ford Escort watched the lift indicator stop at number five.
They’d told him to protect her, but not to compromise her rendezvous with the target. Stupid bloody instructions! He couldn’t do both.
He hurried to the payphone at the other end of the lobby and punched in a number. It answered instantly; he spoke for no more than five seconds and replaced the receiver.
Sara’s heels clattered on the stone stairs. On every other flight she stopped to listen, but hers were the only feet she could hear.
The basement garage stank of petrol. It was dimly lit. At first she couldn’t see the bay numbers, but recognized the car, a VW like her own but black.
The engine fired at the first turn of the key. She slipped it into first and drove up the ramp into daylight, realizing then that the windows were of dark-tinted glass. The Electricity Board van was parked opposite.
The watcher wasn’t sure. It could’ve been her. Sod those blackened side windows! Better report it, just in case.
Sara found the pub with ease. It was lunchtime and the car park was already half-full. She swung the VW round to face the road. There was little traffic; just a green Vauxhall cruising past and up the hill to her left.
She re-read both his notes. She could almost hear him speaking the words in the fake Scandinavian accent he’d cultivated. She ought to hate him, yet she didn’t. Evil? Dangerous? But he wanted her help to defect . . .
Doubts set in. Sara closed her eyes and prayed it wasn’t a trick.
Behind the Red Crown a wooded hill rose steeply. From the car park a path led diagonally up it through beech and oak trees. A wooden railing lined the path.
Concealed amongst the beeches stood a man, himself built like a tree, training binoculars on the black VW below. This was Viktor Kovalenko, known to most of those he’d met in recent months as ‘Gunnar’.
Kovalenko stood over six feet tall, his frame broad with muscle. His hair had been almost blond, but today it was dyed a dark chestnut. As a ‘Swede’ he’d let it grow long, but now it was neatly trimmed.
He worked for the First Chief Directorate of the KGB. His role was to establish an identity in Britain, to build an information network, and to identify targets to be assassinated if the Soviet Union went to war with the West.
Until a few weeks ago his mission had gone according to plan. He had lived with his ‘wife’ Elena in a London suburb; they’d blended well into the background. Now their cover had been broken, and he was to blame.
Elena had been picked to work with him by the First Chief Directorate, without thought to their persona
l compatibility. They’d experimented with a physical relationship, but it had only heightened their dislike for one another. The problem was a serious one for Viktor Kovalenko, a man with an inexhaustible sexual appetite.
He searched the road below for signs of watchers, but saw none; he’d give it another ten minutes to be sure.
He brought the binoculars to bear on the VW and cursed the black glass which prevented him from seeing Sara, the woman whose welcoming body and child-like hunger to be loved had given such a pleasurable edge to his duties. He and Elena had been activated in the summer. A naval attaché at the Soviet Embassy in London had learned the name of the commander of the trials boat for the new Moray mines. KGB headquarters in Moscow had then made the stunning discovery that a man with the same surname was a prisoner in a labour camp on the Kola. Checks at Somerset House confirmed they were father and son.
Keeping watch on Sara Hitchens’ activities for a couple of weeks had been enough for Viktor to know she was a natural target. It had been easy.
At their second date, she’d talked of her unhappy marriage and, mentioned the plan for a family holiday in Guernsey.
It was Elena who’d targeted Philip on the Channel Island clifftops. She’d handled it well, Viktor had to admit.
He knew he’d been careless. He’d made the unforgiveable mistake of letting a woman mean more to him than easy sex. A week ago, when Sara had told him Philip knew about their affair, and that she’d guessed he was a spy, it had shaken him. Years of training and preparation thrown away for allowing personal involvement to cloud his brain!
He’d told Elena by phone they’d have to leave the house before dawn, and driven fast back to London that night.
They’d moved to Bristol, a contingency plan ready prepared. The London house had been raided – they knew that – but how much of their scheme had been uncovered? Were their identities known? Had he been photographed? And above all, did the security services know what Hitchens had agreed to do for the KGB?
That was why he was here today; he had to find out even if it meant risking his neck.
She’d been waiting fifteen minutes. Time to say hello.
Sara glanced at the dashboard clock every minute while she sat there. Alone in the car, she felt conspicuous and vulnerable.
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