‘Perhaps he's better out of it,’ commented Patric drily.
‘Maybe so. Maybe so. But I've got two kids and a wife to think about now. I've also heard that they are offering re-location packages. Almost anywhere in the world for the million or so people remaining in Europe. They're saying that Blighty is finished for years to come. It's a rum do, Patric!’
Patric was intrigued.
‘Relocation. What do you mean? Surely they need Brits in Europe, helping with rebuilding our society.’
‘What society, Patric. It's gone. What the snow hasn’t destroyed, the flood will wash away. It's carnage. And they are saying that over fifty million have died. Fifty million – my God! It's unthinkable.’
Patric briefly thought about his own extended family, but rapidly tried to put it out of his mind. He had other, newer, priorities in the short term – and frankly, their prospects didn’t seem that good.
The old friends chatted for another hour before parting and retiring for the night. John had one more round to complete and promised that he would look in on Joanie. If her condition worsened, he promised to alert Patric immediately. Meanwhile, Patric returned to the small cabin on the converted cruise ship for a well-earned rest. Pinned to his door was a note.
It made interesting reading.
‘Dear Superintendent Silver, please report to Colonel Montague, on Deck 11, room 1165 at 0900 tomorrow. Regards, A Smith, receptionist.’
‘Strange,’ thought Patric, but then remembered the questionnaire he'd completed. Perhaps his chance had come.
***
By 08:59am on Friday the tenth of January, Patric had showered, dressed, breakfasted, visited Joanie and made his way up to Deck 11. He knocked sharply on the door to room 1165, and was greeted with a brisk ‘Enter’.
Colonel Montague was a sixty-something, grey-haired gentleman of the old school. Smartly dressed in a blazer with a Lord’s Taverners tie and brilliantly polished brown shoes. He stood to welcome Patric and shook his hand firmly.
‘Good morning Superintendent – or may I call you Patric. I'm Charles. There's little need for formality. Please take seat.’
‘Of course, Charles, thank you,’ replied Patric cordially.
Patric sat in one of the two functional cabin armchairs and Charles Montague took the other.
‘Well, Patric, I won't beat about the bush. I've seen the account of your survival – and quite truthfully it makes incredible reading. You are to be congratulated - if only half of it is true!’
Patric was irritated and snapped back.
‘I can assure you, Colonel, I am not in the habit of falsifying statements or over egging the pudding. Every word is accurate.’
‘Of course, of course. I do not doubt your word – I was just testing your reaction. I'm satisfied that your account is genuine and in due course, there will be a ‘piper to be paid’ by some of the characters you describe.’
‘That, Charles, is one of my short-term aims, I can assure you!’
Colonel Montague was less enthusiastic.
‘That may have to wait longer than you think. There are other priorities that outweigh revenge and retribution. Yes, these renegades will pay – but in due course.’
At that juncture, there was rap on the door and tea was brought in. After the Colonel had been ‘mother’ and poured the refreshment, the pair continued their conversation.
‘Patric, the UKRA has been set up to manage the recovery process, and we need experienced and determined leaders of men to help steer the ship. You are one of those leaders. I'm inviting you to travel to Brussels and join the team with immediate effect. I know that you are fatigued, but so are we all. Your wife will be cared for and as soon as she can be moved, will join you in the city. An apartment has been prepared and a double jump in rank to Commander has been approved. If you agree, you leave at noon today. There isn’t a minute to waste.’
It was the break that Patric had been yearning for.
‘And if I don’t agree?’
‘You bloody well go anyway!’ replied the Colonel, noting the irony in Patric’s tone.
‘You will be attached to the Prime Minister’s office – Sir Robert Williams recommends you highly – and you will work closely with Dame Ann Fletcher, the deputy PM. She’s a terror, but needs protection. You have expertise in this area, and have recently proved beyond doubt that you are a man of resolve and resource. You will have the rest of the morning to spend with your wife, who I'm told is now awake and breathing more easily as the antibiotics kick in. A helicopter will transfer you to your new accommodation in Brussels, and you have the remainder of the day to orientate and prepare yourself for the fray. Frankly, I have no more to say. If there are no questions of import, I’ll bid you good morning and good luck. You’ll need it with Dame Ann – keep your own counsel and don’t drop your guard. She's a powerful and ruthless woman. You’ve probably worked out who I serve – so heed my advice, Commander.’
Patric stood up, in mild shock, but immensely buoyed by the interview. He would hate leaving Joanie, but she was in good hands.
***
Later that morning, after spending an hour with Joanie, chatting to John Stubbins, who confirmed her improvement, Patric walked up to the heli-deck and caught the midday flight to Brussels. He was met on arrival by a police sergeant in ‘mufti’, and driven without delay to his new accommodation. His new assistant, Sergeant Colin Blake, was efficiency personified. They travelled to a local supermarket, where Patric purchased all of the toiletries and underwear he required. Then on to a moderate men’s outfitters where he was fitted for four new suits, two pairs of slacks, two blazers, a dozen shirts and ties, shoes and a raincoat. Casual clothes could come in his own time – if he ever had any. He was escorted to a hairdresser and his dishevelled locks were tidied to senior police officer standard. The final stop was to a military armoury, where he was presented with a Walther PPK pistol, Carswell silencer and fifty rounds. A chest holster was provided, and he was instructed to wear it at all times.
The final task completed by the good sergeant was to provide ID. A new passport, police warrant card and UKRA ID card, plus five hundred Euros and a Credit Suisse Visa credit card were passed over. When Sergeant Blake was satisfied that everything on his checklist was complete, he informed Patric that he was to report for duty at 0700 the next morning. He had an interview with the senior police officer in Brussels, an ex-Chief Constable of the Thames Valley Force, at 0900. Following that, Dame Ann Fletcher could spare him five minutes at 10:15 – that gives you about fifteen hours to acclimatise and prepare yourself. ‘Don’t be late!’ the sergeant warned.
The final piece of information bestowed was the address of an excellent fish restaurant not five minutes’ walk away.
As Sergeant Blake departed, Patric thanked him profusely.
‘I’ll pick you up at 6:30am, sir. Just for tomorrow, and then you are on your own. You can pick up your duty vehicle tomorrow as well. Well, goodnight Commander.’
Patric slumped into his sofa, exhausted but exhilarated. He couldn’t believe the speed of events. Three weeks ago he was languishing on a campsite in Brighton and now he was a Commander in the new British administration – protecting the deputy PM to boot. If he could manage to transfer Joanie to a Brussels hospital, then life would be perfect. He also contemplated that he might well get access to records of survivors, and try to trace his family.
He showered, changed into some of his new gear, and strolled round to the ‘Petite Moule’ just around the corner and stuffed his face with the speciality – Moules Mariniere and frites. Superb!
Patric slept very well after a couple of glasses of Belgian beer with his mussels, and was ready and waiting when Sgt Blake knocked on his door at 6:25am.
‘It's only fifteen minutes to UKRA at this time of day, but it wouldn't do to be late on day one, would it sir?’
Patric nodded agreement and followed Blake down to the sharp, black Mercedes S-Type waiting outside.
‘I drew your car from the car pool sir. It’ll give you a chance to orientate yourself. Remember, they drive on the left here!’
Patric smiled and thanked the Sergeant, excitedly taking the wheel and swinging into the early morning traffic. The Sat Nav had already been programmed, so Patric followed it to the UKRA car park, where Sgt Blake handed him the magnetic access card and they passed effortlessly through security.
Five minutes later Sgt Blake led Patric into his new office on the ninth floor. It was small, but had all he needed and his name was already on the door. These people were nothing if not efficient. Blake disappeared, so Patric wandered round the corridor introducing himself and chatting. Most people were far too busy to ‘chew the fat’ so he returned to his office and logged on to his new computer and started a bit of reading.
The first file he accessed was a list of survivors. He found himself and Joanie – but no other Silvers that he knew. He was saddened, but realised that it was early days, and that they may well turn up in the weeks to come.
At 0855 he went up a floor for his appointment with the ex-Chief Constable. It was a matter-of-fact interview; the senior policeman indicating that crime amongst Brits in the camps continued and that he had heard many tales like Patric’s from returning survivors. Patric would be interviewed at length about his experiences, and he noted with some distaste from the file that this particular survivor may well have killed or seriously injured two persons. That matter would be addressed. However, that would be left for another day, as it appeared that Dame Ann had sanctioned his appointment personally. He wasn’t envious of Patric and said as much.
The meeting concluded with Patric having said very little, and nothing had happened to change his views of very senior police officers – though, of course, he was now one himself!
He was careful to be early for his 10:15 meeting with the deputy PM and presented himself on the twenty-second floor at 10am. He waited in the outer office until 11:35, hiding his irritation, but imagining that Dame Ann was a very busy woman.
Finally, the PA’s intercom buzzed and Eleanor Fisher, now stationed in Brussels, nodded towards the inner office.
‘Please go in, Commander, Dame Ann will see you now.’
Patric stood up, straightened his tie, knocked on the door and walked straight in.
The deputy Prime Minister sat regally, perfectly groomed, behind a huge mahogany desk, making a note in a file. After a few seconds, she looked up, smiled, and acknowledged Patric’s presence. She looked him up and down, and liked what she saw.
‘Good morning Commander. I’ll keep this brief as I'm sure you are a busy man. We've got a job to do here in Brussels and, with all due humility, I am a lynch-pin in the organisation that could not be replaced easily. Your job is simple. Keep me alive and able to function. You are loyal to me – and me alone. Do you understand?’
‘Yes ma’am.’
‘Good, if that's clear, you may leave. My PA will keep you informed of my movements, and you will travel with me wherever I need to go. No exceptions – unless I say so! Good day, Commander.’
‘Good morning, ma’am,’ replied Patric impassively.
He turned and left the office.
Perhaps this wasn’t the ‘ideal’ assignment that he'd been anticipating.
Day 32
Wednesday 15th January
RAF Gutersloh - Germany
Ross Bryant, fresh from his ‘little chats’ with Ann Fletcher and Richard Castle had made arrangements for his first foray into ‘Operation Auric’.
He had checked the UKRA flight schedules and thumbed a lift in a Eurocopter Squirrel which was on its way to a transit camp near Hanover. He had to share the ride with a minor official, but took the time to bandy words with the pilot, who agreed to pick him up at 1300 hours and return him to Volkel.
Once at Gutersloh, he called in at the Officers Mess and took a quick breakfast. He made enquiries regarding a Captain Mackay and found him reading the GB News in the ante-room. He quickly introduced himself and stated his business. He didn’t know Mackay – or ‘Mac’ as he liked to be known – as he was a bit long in the tooth and clearly well before Bryant’s time in the SAS. Noting his surprise, Mac attempted to explain.
‘Look, let's walk over to my office and chat en-route. Too many ‘crabs’ with big ears in here.’ ‘Crabs’ was a term the army and the navy used to describe the RAF – due to their sideways flight into wind as they approached to land!
They departed the mess and Mac explained the position after clarifying Bryant’s authority. After checking his ID, Mac relaxed.
‘I had a message through from Brussels to expect a visit. It's all been a bit hectic since the snow stopped on the fifth. Our feet really haven’t touched the ground. The word went out to recruit shed loads of ex-SAS, SBS and security service operatives, and a whole load of us were swept up from the camps as a result. Most are ex-Regiment, like me – but some of the younger ones are still active. Anyway, we've got fourteen SAS and twelve SBS so far, with a sprinkling of secret squirrels – who are as much bloody use as a chocolate fireguard. Our training – apart from the usual physical fitness regime – primarily involves underwater procedures. We've been using the swimming pool here at Gutersloh and local freshwater lakes to hone up our skills. Of course, the ‘fish heads’ are like ducks in water. Once we got the diving right, they started us on lifting heavy weights from the bottom of the pool and lake and transferring them to the surface. Once we've loaded about half a ton in a neat pile on a pallet, a Chinook comes along, lifts it up and dumps it back into the lake, and we start all over again. It's been hard work, I can tell you. Some of the older guys are feeling the strain, but every day new blokes join us and the team is growing.’
They reached Mac’s office and took a seat. Ross had a few queries.
‘What shape are the weights and how long does it take to load up a half ton pallet?
‘They are rectangular lifting weights from the gym. They must have scoured the continent because we've got about five hundred to play with. As to loading times? We are speeding up. It was slow going at first, but now we pick up a weight, swim the fifty metres to the other end of the pool and hand it to an oppo in about two minutes. That's twenty an hour per man and we’re working twelve hour shifts – one hour in the water and one hour on the side and one hour resting. Three to four hundred weights in a day is about average. Of course the bloody fish heads are quicker, but they are better in water than us.’
Ross did some rapid mental calculations. It wasn’t quick enough. And the conditions in the Bank could be much murkier. The distances involved could be much further as well. They'd certainly need more men.
‘That's very informative Mac. Would you mind if I came and observed your training. It would help a great deal.’
‘No problem. Follow me and we’ll drive over to the pool to watch the SBS as it's our turn at the lake this morning, so we’ll drive out there later.’
Ross followed Mac out to his car and they drove to the Olympic sized swimming pool, where the days’ training was well under way. The monotonous task of transferring weights was progressing and after observing the SBS team for half an hour or so, he could see that they were becoming really quite efficient. He introduced himself to their CO, a Lt Lennon, who was intrigued and excited by the training regime.
‘I can't imagine what it's all about, but I'm sure it will all become clear in due course,’ he gushed.
Ross was non-committal, realising that the Lieutenant was fishing for clues.
They moved off to the lake and studied progress in the more difficult conditions. Nevertheless, the SAS guys were making a good fist of the training. It was markedly slower, but that was to be expected. After an hour, Ross was satisfied that the physical aspects of the job could be satisfied – but that they would need four teams at least – and that Richard Castle was correct to be searching for more experienced divers.
He asked Mac to drive him back to the me
ss, where he grabbed a quick lunch and was out at the pick-up spot by 1245pm. The Squirrel was waiting and they lifted off five minutes later, arriving in Volkel by 1400.
Ross wrote up his report and e-mailed it as a secure attachment, which only Castle could access.
His next job was to speak to the team who had recce’d the Bank of England site and discover what they had found.
***
The team leader, an Army engineer, or sapper, had an office in Brussels, so Ross made an appointment to meet with him the next morning. It was a two-hour drive, so Ross set off at 0600 the next morning to meet Lt-Colonel Richard Perry at 0830 in his office on the eighth floor of the UKRA building.
Perry was a dour fellow and insisted on viewing Bryant’s letter of authority before discussing anything to do with the matter.
‘I'm sorry Lieutenant, but it's been made very clear to me the consequences of a security breach. I had to check.’
‘No apology required, sir,’ responded Ross politely, ‘I've met Dame Ann as well.’
This brought the thinnest of smiles to Perry’s lips as he continued with the conversation.
‘Three of us flew out by helicopter on the sixth. Clearly, it had all been planned in advance by her ladyship! Our task was to assess the situation with regard to amounts of lying snow and possible access points to the Bank. We had surprisingly accurate mapping and GPS units, which allowed us to pinpoint two crucial points. Firstly, there is direct access to a window leading to a corridor - leading to a lift shaft - leading to the vault. Secondly, we located the helicopter landing pad – and guess what? It is within metres of the window, stationed only forty feet almost directly above. It's as if someone had premeditated this scenario!
The next task was to assess how to access the window buried in snow and how to clear the heli-pad of snow . We also had to imagine how much damage had been done to the building, and how much water had ingressed.
After some discussion, sappers were dispatched in heavy-lift helicopters to start the snow clearance – and as matters stand today, there is a serviceable helipad – which is being reinforced – and clear access to the relevant window. Indeed, there is a lot of water and structural damage inside the Bank, but we have located the vault.
Snow! The Series [Books 1-4] Page 82
