by Duncan James
He was about to show it again.
“Gladys,” he said, “nobody else needs to know about this, but I want you to find a chap I used to know when I was in Northern Ireland. In a roundabout way, he worked for me, and was a wizard at getting round banking security systems. I need him to do that again. He runs his own computer company, or did, at least. Name of Jonathan Hood, known as Robin for obvious reasons. Partner called Marian. Ex-Oxford. Brilliant mathematician.”
“Not the sort of circles I usually move in,” observed Gladys, “but I’ll find him. Urgent?”
“Yes. Drop everything else, if you can.”
“And when I find him?”
“I need to meet him, but not here. And don’t tell Peter or Nick – or anyone.”
“I was wondering what to do tomorrow,” she said.
***
Sasha Makienko was also worried about tomorrow.
Would she have the guts to wander into that vast science place at CERN, and ask to see Professor Lloyd?
Yes, she would, she decided. Forget whether Dmitri had tried to kill him. She needed his help now to try to find Dmitri himself, the failed assassin who had disappeared.
So she caught the number 18 tram again, and when it eventually arrived, walked up the steps with the other tourists into the reception area.
She wasn’t quite sure what she had expected to find behind the glass doors of building 33. It was full of photographs and diagrams and video clips and displays of all sorts, as well as people. There were plenty of officials about, offering help and tours and leaflets and so on, but there was also a reception desk with smiling girls waiting to be of further help. Sasha headed for that, and hoped her French was up to the challenge ahead.
“I would like to meet a Professor Lloyd please, if he works here,” she told the girl.
“Do you know where he works?”
“Here, at CERN.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“No.”
“But this is a huge establishment,” the girl protested. “Do you know what area he works in, or what he does in particular?”
“I’m afraid not. He hasn’t been here very long.”
“Well,” said the girl, “I’ll try to find him, but we have over 3,000 scientists working here from 38 different countries.”
“I know he is English, and a nuclear scientist, if that helps.”
“Why don’t you take a seat over there while I try our personnel people to see if they can trace him. Please make yourself at home, look round the exhibition, and help yourself to tea or coffee from the machine.”
After what seemed like ages, and two mugs of coffee later, the girl come over to her.
“I think I may have found the man you are looking for,” she announced. “We have a Doctor, not Professor, Roger Lloyd working here, who has recently joined us from England.”
“That sounds like him.”
“Who shall I say wants to meet him?”
“Sasha Makienko. From Russia. We have not met before, but I believe he will know of my husband.”
“I will try to get hold of him, and see if he is free to meet you. Come with me to the desk, in case he wishes to speak to you.”
Sasha was now getting even more nervous. Whatever would she say to the man?
Eventually, the girl handed her the phone.
“He will talk to you,” she said, “but is a bit busy at the moment so cannot immediately get over here from his laboratory.”
Sasha took the phone, her hand shaking.
“Hello,” she said. “Is that Professor Lloyd?”
“Doctor Lloyd,” he corrected her. “And you are Sasha Makienko, I believe.”
“I am.”
“I have been expecting to hear from you,” said the softly spoken man.
Sasha was disbelieving.
“How could you possibly be expecting to hear from me?” she asked.
“Just let’s say that I was told to expect you,” he replied mysteriously.
“I need to talk to you,” she said bravely.
“Of course you do,” he replied. “You have come all this way specially. But I am a bit tied up at the moment, so I cannot get over to the reception area to meet you right now. So perhaps later?”
“That would be kind. Shall I wait here?”
“No need for that,” he said. “Tell me where you are staying.”
She told him.
“I know it. Why don’t I buy you dinner there later this evening? Shall we say at seven o’clock?”
“That would be kind,” she said again. “How shall I know you?”
“Book a table in your name, and they will take me to you when I arrive. I shall catch the tram.”
“So shall I,” replied Sasha, totally confused. “And thank you.”
Now she’d done it. There was no going back now.
She looked at her watch. Three hours.
Time to kill.
***
Roger Lloyd wasn’t at all what she had been expecting. For a nuclear scientist, she guessed he was smartly dressed, in a scruffy sort of way. What was left of his hair, though, was carefully combed - you couldn’t call it ‘groomed’- and his beard was neatly cut, although not as trim perhaps as it should have been. He was of medium height and build, but walked with a slight stoop. His face was pale, and his sunken eyes had dark rings beneath them.
She concluded, all in a few seconds as he approached her table, that he had seen better days, and that he looked ill.
He extended his hand as he arrived, and kissed hers in greeting.
“Sasha! I do hope I have not kept you waiting.”
“Not at all. I was here early, to make sure you found me as arranged.”
“Shall we order first and talk later?”
He handed her a menu.
“If you’ve eaten here before, you may know what’s good and what isn’t, so you can recommend something perhaps.”
Eventually, they chose their meal and a modest bottle of wine, which they both enjoyed.
Sasha was finding this difficult to cope with. They had been behaving towards one another like old friends, rather than new enemies, and he was proving to be quite charming. In spite of everything, he was really quite good looking as well.
“For a Russian,” he said, “your French is surprisingly good, thank heaven. At least we can chat!”
“I only did French at school,” she admitted. “We have never been stationed there.”
“But you were in London.” A statement, rather than a question. “So let’s now talk about why you are here, and why I am with you, while we wait for our coffee.”
“Very well,” replied Sasha. “First of all, though, I am mystified how you seemed to be expecting me when I spoke to you on the phone this afternoon. Nobody outside Moscow knew of my plans.”
“You are plainly too nice a lady to be involved in the dark arts of espionage,” replied Lloyd, “but I know your husband is. To be honest, I am not directly involved either, although it has been my misfortune to become involved, on the fringes, shall we say, in recent months. But it is a world with which I am not familiar as your husband is. For all that, I was told that you were coming to Geneva to search me out. Don’t ask me who told me or how they knew, but obviously they were right.”
Sasha shook her head in disbelief. A pretty head, Lloyd noted. Nice hair, a pert nose and an attractive smile when she allowed herself to smile.
“I also know,” continued Lloyd, “that you are here to kill me because your husband failed to do so.”
Sasha was plainly shocked by this rather flippant statement.
“How can you possibly believe that, and then calmly buy me dinner?”
“The last supper, perhaps.”
Coffee arrived, and Sasha looked glum faced as she stirred her cup.
“This is as good a time as any, if you have poison,” said Lloyd.
“For God’s sake don’t,” she almost shouted.
; “So tell me why you are really here, then.”
She looked at him with tears in her eyes.
“Such an idea may have crossed my mind at one time,” she admitted, “but even if I hated you, I do not have the courage to do such a thing. And I do not hate you. Neither did my husband, I dare say. He attempted to kill you because he was under orders to do so.”
“He arranged for my twin brother to die instead.”
“I know.”
She looked across at him. “There is no point in saying ‘sorry’ on his behalf. It’s all too late for that.”
Lloyd nodded, sadly.
“But I am really here in case you can help me find my husband. He has disappeared. Nobody knows what has happened to him, and I need to know. I need either to find him, or to grieve for him.”
“How do you think I can help you in your search, even if I felt inclined to do so?”
“I am told he followed you here. I am told you are not Dr. Roger Lloyd, but that your real name is Professor Jack Barclay. I am told he made one final attempt to kill you, in the Alps. He has not been seen or heard of since.”
Lloyd looked at her closely.
“I can understand your sadness at having lost your husband. I have lost my twin brother, my only relative. I now have no-one, like you. But I think you may have been misinformed about recent events. I cannot tell you whether your husband followed me here or not. I was certainly shot and injured while skiing cross-country in the mountains, but the authorities believe it to have been a stray bullet from a hunting party. It has happened before I am told. Plenty of hunters go after the wild boar in the mountains, so they say.”
“So you cannot tell me what has happened to Dmitri?”
“Sadly, I am unable to help you in your search. I have no idea where he might be.”
The pretty young Russian looked crestfallen.
“As to the second part of your mission, I shall not be too sorry if you go ahead as you had planned. I had hoped to return to England in a few weeks, to visit a few old friends and colleagues, but I have made no positive plans as yet.”
He sighed.
“Your husband killed my only living relative, my twin brother, and your Government hounded me out of my own country, to live in exile here, doing work I do not really want to do. So I have little to lose if you go ahead. Indeed, I would have much to gain. You see, dear Sasha, I have terminal cancer, and only a few weeks left to live. It would be a happy release from the pain if you were to proceed as you had planned.”
She leant across the table and grasped his hand, her eyes full of tears.
“You poor man. You poor, poor man. What have we done to you?”
They sat in silence for a few moments.
The waiter poured more coffee.
“I should go,” said Lloyd. “I am sorry about your husband. All I can tell you is that I am told that he is dead. I know no more.”
Sasha stirred her coffee.
She drank slowly as she watched Lloyd leave the hotel.
It was the poison her husband had used to kill Jarvis.
***
13 - SIR ROBIN ALGAR – THE FINAL BRIEFING.
When Dusty Miller arrived at Headley Court, he immediately felt at home. It used to be an RAF Rehabilitation Centre, but now it was Joint Service, officially the Defence Medical Rehabilitation Centre. It didn’t matter. It felt like being back in the Army from the moment he arrived. Like the first day back at the office.
There was a military atmosphere about the place, and it was run on strict military lines. Discipline mattered, since it was assumed that, once you got there, you were fit for duty of some sort. All the staff had to do was to work with you to achieve your maximum physical fitness as quickly as they reasonably could. Fit enough to get back on active service, if that was going to be possible, or to be re-trained for something else.
Dusty knew that his days in the Special Air Service were over, and that he would no longer be able to take part in undercover operations as he had done in Iraq and elsewhere. So he would need to be trained for some other role in the Army. On his first day, they talked to him about that, helping him to decide what he would do when he was fit enough, so they could train him properly to do it.
He knew what he wanted. Back to Section 11, if they’d have him.
It was immediately obvious to Dusty that he would be expected to stick to the Army code of conduct, adhere to its disciplinary rules, and generally toe the line. Selly Oak had been good, but not this strict. Everyone at Headley Court, whatever their disabilities, had to wash, shave and dress as best they could before breakfast.
He found his day tightly organised. It started at 8.30 am and ended at 4.30 pm., with hardly time to draw breath in between. He had one-to-one therapy sessions, physiotherapy, exercise in one of the four fully equipped gyms, more exercise in the hydrotherapy pool, and what he called ‘proper’ swimming in the other pool.
He just hoped he would be allowed visitors. Some of the guys there had visitors, he already knew – one or two even dropped in by helicopter, landing on the lawns in the 85 acres of landscaped gardens.
He needed to talk to Bill Clayton or someone to make sure they would take him back, and he was desperately keen to see Annie again. She said she would visit him. Perhaps she would ring up first.
One of the occupational therapists had rung Bill Clayton.
“We need you or someone to come down here to talk to Mr Miller, and to us, about what he’s to do next, so that we can adapt his training.”
“Of course we want Miller back here as soon as he’s fit enough, if that’s what he wants,” replied Bill. “I’ll get my number two to come down. Commander Marsden was the chap who pulled Miller off the mountain and got him to Selly Oak. He’s just the chap to talk about his future training needs.”
Bill got Nick on the phone.
“Fancy a trip to darkest Surrey?” he asked.
“Funnily enough, I was going to ask if Peter and I could be spared for a day to visit Dusty.”
“Go, then. They want to talk to you about future training for him, if he decides he wants to come back here.”
“I’ll make sure that’s what he does decide!”
Nick arranged to meet the Headley Court staff after lunch the next day, so they would then have the rest of the afternoon with Dusty.
“You know, if Dusty is coming back, then one of the MI5 training courses wouldn’t be a bad idea. I’ve recently done a couple myself, as you know. Just right for Section 11. Something like training as an Intelligence Officer in a counter terrorism speciality, perhaps. The work is largely deskbound these days, checking and re-checking ‘facts’ and sifting information.”
“Sounds good. Could you fix that, if he decides that’s what he’d like to do?”
“I can certainly put him in touch with the right people. Someone there might decide he’d be better in a different field, but any training would be very useful to us, and he could always go into SIS later if he gets fed up with us.”
Dusty was delighted to see them both next afternoon. He hadn’t met Peter Northcot before, but they immediately got on well. They talked for ages with the staff, and later among themselves. Dusty was fired with a new enthusiasm to get back to Section 11, and to get some proper training for the job. He could also, Northcot told him, brush up his Arabic while he was training.
It was getting quite late when they decided that a visit to a pub might not be a bad idea.
The idea got even better when Annie turned up unexpectedly.
She knew just the place to go. The Volunteer, at Holmbury St. Mary. Good beer and good curry.
So that’s where they went.
***
Gladys was never quite sure how she had managed it, but somehow she traced Jonathon Hood. Still running his own computer business, he was, which he had based in Oxford as he was also a lecturer of some sort at one of the Colleges in the University. She had asked him if that meant he was a Professor o
r something, and he had said ‘sort of’ which really wasn’t much help at all.
Anyway, he remembered Bill Clayton, and Bill was very pleased to be back in touch.
She had arranged for them to meet for lunch at Simpson’s in the Strand. Very much a restaurant for business people, so she was told, with huge joints of meat carved at the table from a trolley and tables set in alcoves so that people could talk quietly and privately. She had booked one of those.
It was a perfect opportunity, as both Nick and Peter were away. The fewer who knew about this meeting, the better.
“Make sure you keep the receipt,” she had instructed. “It sounds expensive.”
“It is.”
And it was.
They enjoyed a good lunch and sat afterwards with a glass of port before Bill broached the object of their meeting.
“I have a special and very delicate job for you, if you think you can take it on. I remember all you did before to tap into people’s bank accounts and shift money around on behalf of the Government a year or so back.”
“Mostly in Africa and Northern Ireland,” Jonathon reminded him.
“Quite. This time it’s even closer to home, and no cash will need to be moved. It already has been, but I desperately need a discreet look at a bank account of one of our top civil servants to confirm my suspicions that he is up to no good.”
“Do you have the bank’s name and account number?”
“Nothing like that – only the man’s name.”
He briefly gave Jonathon the background to the request.
“The airfield security men concerned are still ‘helping the police with their enquiries’, and one of them has changed his tune slightly. Initially, he claimed that the cash they were paid came as a direct result of a request from the Prime Minister. The other man was equally convinced that the PM had never been mentioned, but just as sure the payment had been authorised by Downing Street. The first man now agrees – he had just assumed that Downing Street meant the Prime Minister. I believe that the payment was authorised by someone in Downing Street somewhere, and that the cash must have come from his personal account rather than a Government budget.”
“A man with that sort of job will probably have more than one account in more than one bank,” mused Jonathon.
“I know it won’t be easy, but can you possibly try to trace it for me? Actually, not for me personally, as I’m sure you understand. But we need to know who arranged for one of Russia’s top agents to get away in such a hurry, which they could only have done with help from the top. If the security patrol had not been silenced, they could never have got away.”
