by Tom West
Sergei nodded. ‘I did, yes . . . purely for personal reasons. That’s why I didn’t just give you the coordinates. Dimitri Grenyov was my great uncle on my mother’s side. My father, Igor, was fascinated by the whole affair and spent years researching what had happened to his wife’s uncle. It was he who unearthed the Caithness document, made a copy and filed it in the government archives. If you succeed in rescuing the Kessler Document I would like the whole story told. I wish to see my great uncle’s honour reinstated and his genius recognized.’
‘And you learned we were after the document, how?’
‘I’ve already told you, Adam. My intelligence is one of the best. You and your superiors might be surprised by our abilities.’
‘So, what is your price?’
‘I’m not a greedy man.’ Sergei held Fleming’s eyes then glanced at Lou and Kate. ‘And I imagine you have been authorized to bid to a certain very definite limit. If thirty-five million dollars is within your range that is what I would like.’
Fleming said nothing for a moment, looked down at his fingers intertwined in his lap and then back up at their host. ‘A high price for a set of coordinates.’
‘No ordinary coordinates.’
Fleming nodded. ‘And what is to stop us simply returning to the surface or sending an email with the information?’
‘Oh, about five hundred armed men,’ Sergei replied. ‘Now, I would like half the money upfront, the second payment when the wreck of Phoenix is located.’ He withdrew a mobile phone from the top pocket of his jacket. Rising from his chair, he walked over and handed it to Fleming. ‘It’s hooked into our Wi-Fi and it’s secure. You arrange the first payment to be made while you are on the phone. If you give them even one digit of the coordinates for Phoenix . . .’
Fleming punched in a number. ‘Access code beta, nine, seven . . . This is Winter Fox. Who am I through to? Thank you,’ he said. ‘Reference four, one w, f . . . Yes, I am. We have an agreement . . . thirty-five million dollars . . . No, that will not be possible. Yes, OK. Good. Half paid now to . . .’ Fleming looked up as Lou passed him a sliver of paper from Sergei.
The MI6 agent read out a series of numbers. ‘Swiss account. Yes, we can hold . . . OK . . .’ Fleming handed the phone to the Russian.
‘Seventeen point five million dollars deposited into account number . . . Da, da, da . . . Good,’ Sergei said. Clinking shut the phone, he got up. ‘It’s a deal. So, now we should cele—’
The room resonated with a devastatingly loud whine, a siren ascending, then descending the scale.
‘What is that?’ Kate shouted.
Sergei sprung to his feet. ‘Border breach.’
‘What?’ Lou snapped.
‘The authorities. It is one of the negatives we have to live with.’
Three armed men rushed into the room and fanned out close to the exit. The door opened again and Max appeared along with another armed man in paramilitary uniform.
‘Report,’ Sergei said.
‘Serious, sir,’ Max replied. ‘Two separate entry points, D12 and N11. A large force at each. We have them on camera. Two of our men made visual contact at N11. They weren’t spotted and are back now.’
‘I want to see the men right away,’ Sergei said. He turned to one of the soldiers near the door. ‘Mobilize Defence Force to D12 and N11. Implement Shutdown Code Alpha Three.’ The soldier clicked his heels and ran through the doorway.
‘You three have to leave . . . now,’ Sergei said, spinning round to his guests. ‘Max, will you . . .?’
Max nodded and turned to Fleming. ‘We’ll stop by your rooms for twenty seconds, then we have to go. Understood?’
‘What’s the rush?’
‘We cannot guarantee your safety, Adam. These intrusions are dealt with, but we live precariously. We can never know—’
‘Let’s just go,’ Kate cut in.
Sergei waved to them, turned and walked to a rear exit with two of his men.
Max took them out into the wide corridor. A soldier brandishing a Kalashnikov fell in behind them. They saw people moving around in an orderly fashion. There was no panic. Everyone – men, women and children – each seemed to have a precise role to play and knew exactly what was required of them.
Kate and Lou followed Max as he darted silently along the corridor, and they were soon in the quarters they had stayed in the night before. It took almost no time to gather up their things and then they were hurried along a succession of winding passageways.
‘Where are you taking us?’ Fleming asked, eyeing the armed guard.
‘A way back to the surface that will take us as far as possible in the opposite direction to the breeches at D12 and N11.’
They slipped into a narrow tunnel. The only light came from the main path they had just left. Ten paces in, they reached a steel door. Max fished out a key and nudged the door outwards. It creaked on its hinges.
Directly in front of them a spiral staircase ascended. Max led the way and they followed in single file, Lou, Kate, Adam and the guard. Taking a dozen turns, they began to tire, but they each noticed the air growing fresher and cooler.
Reaching a metal platform, they followed Max into a large square space. A pair of closed doors stood in the centre of the far wall.
‘We’re almost there,’ the Russian said. ‘These doors lead onto a passage that connects to a disused water conduit. Follow that until you reach the outside. It opens onto a patch of waste ground not far from Michurinskiy Prospekt, the stretch of highway close to the university building where we met.’
‘OK,’ Fleming said and glanced back to where they had emerged from the staircase. ‘How bad is it?’ He flicked a glance downwards.
‘It is a regular occurrence, but . . . this seems to be a particularly serious one.’
‘You seem pretty philosophical about it,’ Lou said.
Max shrugged. ‘It is a fact of life. Although . . .’ He paused and looked away. ‘. . . the attacks are growing more frequent.’
‘And if they get through sometime?’ Kate asked.
Max looked her directly in the eye. ‘I think you know the answer to that . . . but we won’t go down without a fight.’
38
Approaching Darwin, Australia. 27 June 1937.
‘Darwin Control. We are at . . . one thousand three hundred feet, approaching from the north-north-west,’ Amelia Earhart had spoken wearily into the radio microphone of her plane.
‘Copy that, NR 10620.’
‘Coming in for final approach.’
Beneath them Amelia and her navigator Fred Noonan had seen the tin roofs of the small town of Darwin, Australia, population 1,500. From the air, they could see all of it at once, perhaps five hundred or so buildings, a main street, a few smaller unmade roads, and beyond the town’s edge, tracks stretching out across the bush. In the early morning light the white sand of the shore led to the dense green vegetation, and beyond that, the red soil and the distant orange horizon.
That had been ten days ago, and now here they were in the Kookaburra, the dusty ramshackle pub in which they had waited, hemmed in by a tropical storm. They had used the time for much-needed repairs to the Electra – new tyres, rear plating and tailplane. And as they approached the final legs of the journey, the incident in Senegal seemed like a lifetime ago. Only three weeks had passed since that strange night, but so much had happened it was pushed back into fading memory.
Things had not been the same since Dakar. She had promised to tell Fred what was going on and she had stuck to her word, but she could only relay as much as she knew. She showed him the cylinder in its box, but she had been economical – no, frugal – with the truth, and she sensed that Fred had known that. She had been given the box by a stranger, she had told him, a man from British Intelligence. She had no idea of its contents, nor its purpose. All she knew was that it was of enormous importance to America and that she must guard it with her life. As a consequence, she had taken it with her everywhere she went. It lay at her f
eet in the cockpit of the plane and under her pillow each night. And, give Fred his due, he had accepted her story. He was clearly not thrilled, but he respected her and that was enough for him to stay schtum.
Amelia looked around the bar. They had got to know a few locals a little, but they were reserved and distant men, content to contemplate their beer and talk sheep, mangoes and crocs with their mates. She was about to take a pull on her drink when she smiled.
‘What’s funny?’ asked Fred.
‘Oh,’ she produced a small laugh. ‘I was just thinking how different this is to the Imperial in Dakar.’
‘Not to mention the Raffles,’ Fred replied. ‘Best sleep I ever had in my life in Singapore.’
‘Well, I’m sure glad I won’t have to put up with another night in that lumpy thing upstairs they call a bed. I just saw Clem Newton from the workshop on the field. They’ve got the old girl fuelled, triple-checked and ready to soar. Oh, and the boys here have taken the luggage.’ She glanced in her shoulder bag, a nervous habit since Senegal. The slim box was there, nestled in the bottom.
‘And the weather has cleared nicely,’ Fred observed.
They did not notice the new arrival until he reached the bar and ordered a beer. He was a tall, well-built man in khaki shorts, heavy work boots, plaid shirt and worn leather hat. He looked over and caught Amelia’s eye. Picking up his drink, he walked along the bar, placed a small piece of paper at her elbow and strode on to take a seat in an alcove at the back of the bar. Amelia opened the paper and read it quietly: May I speak with you?
They dropped into the alcove opposite the man. Amelia held tight to her bag while Fred scrutinized the fellow and said: ‘How may we help you?’
He glanced around, removing his hat and placing it on the table between them. The nearest drinkers were well out of earshot, but still he leaned forward. ‘My name is Eric Matheson.’ He had a British accent, the first they had heard since leaving Singapore. Looking directly into Amelia’s eyes, he said: ‘I would like you to come with me. I have something important to pass on.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Fred began.
Amelia touched his arm and his protests withered away. ‘I don’t usually go off with strange men,’ she said.
Matheson nodded. ‘Naturally. He withdrew a small leather wallet, opened it out and gave them just enough time to see his British Army ID.
Fred shrugged. ‘So?’
‘Miss Earhart? I wonder if I may have a word with you, alone? It’s connected with Senegal.’
Fred Noonan went to speak, but Amelia shifted in her seat. ‘Fred? Could we . . .?’
He sighed and walked back to the bar.
‘What is this all about?’ Amelia demanded.
‘Unfinished business.’
She closed her eyes for a second and then said: ‘More cryptic messages?’
‘I’m sorry. I’ll try to be clear. What you were given by my colleague in Senegal is only a part of the consignment. I need to take you to the other part and then you must leave Darwin immediately.’
‘Wait. I’m a bit lost here.’
‘It was deemed too dangerous for you to be given the entire delivery in one go, in Senegal. There was a serious danger you could be intercepted by the enemy between here and there. Indeed, you still have some way to go, but we felt here would be the best point for you to collect . . .’
‘The other part of the “consignment”.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I see. And where is it?’
‘That’s why you need to come with me.’
‘How do I know I can trust you?’ Amelia said. ‘How do I know you are working for us?’
‘Ah,’ Matheson said and for the first time he changed expression and almost produced a smile. ‘I would have been worried if you had not asked. There aren’t many you may trust. I know there are spies here, but although I have a few suspicions, no one has played their hand . . . yet. In Senegal, you met an Englishman. He did not give you his name. He passed on a package with which he had been entrusted. It came from the MOD in London. You were asked to volunteer for this mission by your personal friend FDR himself.’
‘That much would not be that difficult to find out. It’s information any number of spies could possess, is it not, Mr Matheson?’
‘They could, but how many of them would appreciate you so much as to refer to you as a . . . pioneer?’
She held Matheson with a steady gaze. He had used the agreed code word. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘My car is outside. We need to take a drive out of town, maybe ten miles south. There’s a clearing in the bush where Mr Noonan can land the plane. He should meet us there.’
‘OK.’
They walked over to where Fred was halfway through a fresh beer. He downed it and they left. Outside on the street, Amelia explained the plan to Fred and Matheson quietly handed him a folded map. ‘Don’t open it now, Mr Noonan,’ he said. ‘Head straight for the airstrip. I understand the plane is ready and waiting. The clearing is marked on here.’ He tapped the map. ‘It will take us perhaps twenty minutes to reach by car. We have some things to do, but if you head off immediately. That would be . . .’
Fred looked to Earhart. ‘You sure about this, Amelia?’ She simply nodded, turned and followed the Englishman to his old wagon parked across the street.
The road was tarmac only up to the last building on the street; from there it was nothing but baked red soil and gravel. The flat-bed truck bounced and jolted over the pits and potholes, the thick bush was cut back only a yard or two either side of the road.
Amelia felt wary and uncomfortable. Part of her wished she had passed her bag containing the box on to Fred, another, stronger part was confident that she could take care of herself if this Matheson character turned out to be rogue.
‘I could ask you how your flight has been,’ the man said, half turning from the road.
‘You could,’ Amelia replied. ‘But I get the feeling you’re not really one for small talk.’
Matheson exhaled through his nose – what may have passed as a laugh for him – and they stayed silent for a few minutes.
‘May I ask who else is interested in our “package”? Who are the spies you believe to be here in Darwin?’ Amelia asked.
‘Why, the Germans of course. Who else?’
‘I see. I was told nothing in Washington.’
‘I know little more than you do, Miss Earhart. But I was at least told whose hands we are to stop the package falling into.’
‘And you think there are actually German spies here?’
‘Why not? After all, they know your itinerary. I think those who pursued you in Africa and killed your contact were Nazis. Here though, they are either extremely good actors who have worked their way into this tiny community – which is possible, they would be government-trained pros after all – or the Germans have bought off some locals. I’m inclined towards the latter.’
‘We had no more trouble after Senegal.’
‘Which makes me extra concerned,’ Matheson responded.
They approached a sign and a track east. The sign said: Maninunup.
‘A small Abo community,’ Matheson said. ‘And a big ranch owned by a very wealthy Englishman called Timothy Langley. He migrated here two decades ago. He’s a real philanthropist, paid for half the construction in Darwin.’
Matheson drove carefully, the road narrowing and descending through a steep incline between dense undergrowth and impressively tall palm trees heavy with fruit. And then suddenly they were out in the open. A clearing about half a mile long and a few hundred yards wide had been cut into the bush and a clutch of buildings stood off to one side.
‘I’ve rented one of the huts over there,’ Matheson said. ‘I’ve buried the package behind the back wall. Follow me.’
He jumped from the wagon, slammed the door shut, then walked round the vehicle, retrieving a shovel from the open back. ‘This way,’ he said and strode off towards the hut a f
ew yards away.
‘There’s no one here right now,’ he explained. ‘It’s Sunday. Church . . . Langley insists upon it.’
‘What goes on here?’
‘It’s a small township. Or at least it will be,’ Matheson said. ‘Langley finances it, the natives are building it. Langley sees it as the best way to empower the Abos.’
‘You sound doubtful,’ Amelia said.
Matheson just shrugged.
They had reached the single-room hut. The window overlooking the strip of land was shuttered. Like every other building in Darwin, it had a tin roof.
They turned the corner. ‘Here we are.’ Matheson stopped behind the rear wall of the hut and pointed to a spot in the sand. Amelia leaned against the wall as he started to dig.
They both heard the plane at the same moment. Amelia stepped round to the front of the building, raised her hand to shield her eyes and saw her Electra approaching the field. It swayed slightly in the wind and followed a smooth arc, touching down close to the middle of the strip of land and slowing quickly. Fred then let the plane taxi towards the buildings, stopping about thirty yards from Amelia. She waved and walked back to Matheson.
He was lifting a padlocked metal box from a hole in the sand. Placing it on the ground, he rummaged around in his pocket for the key.
They saw the policeman before they heard him. He stepped out of the bush a few feet from where Amelia and Matheson stood, a chubby, ruddy-faced man holding a pistol. He pushed the last of the leaves away with his free hand and stomped onto the sand, his gun steady at waist height.
‘Ah! Of course! Sergeant Ampstle,’ Matheson said. ‘I should have guessed it would be you.’
The policeman was wreathed in sweat, lines of moisture running down each flabby cheek. ‘Open it,’ he said, nodding towards the metal box.
‘That’s just what I was about to do.’ The Englishman crouched down and slotted the key into the padlock. Lifting the lid, he reached in and pulled out a cloth bag.
‘Empty out the bag,’ Ampstle said, his voice trembling. With his left hand he wiped the sweat from his eyes.
‘I was about to do that too, sergeant.’ Matheson straightened. He looked remarkably relaxed as he pulled the fabric bag away and let it drop, empty to the ground. In his hand he was holding a metal tube a little under a foot long.
