He'd been in the job for just twenty-four hours, so was still feeling his way around, and one of his first priorities was to trace his family in the North West of England. He knew in his heart that they were all probably dead, but he'd survived, so why shouldn’t they? In his spare time – and there should be some – he'd log onto the computers in the UKRA building and generally sniff around.
As it happened, Dame Ann was to be away on business from Wednesday to Friday, and had summoned him to her office late on Tuesday.
‘Commander, I am to be away from my office for three days commencing Wednesday and will need you to do some driving. My business is top priority and there is a need to be discrete. Do I make myself clear?’
‘As always, ma’am,’ replied Patric with no emotion.
Ann Fletcher looked up sharply, but seeing no expression of insolence, continued.
‘You are to pick me up from the apartment at 4am on Wednesday morning and we will be driving to a Dutch Air Force Base for a brief meeting. From there to an airport. I have an 11:25 am flight.’
She didn’t see the need to reveal her destination.
Patric was more cautious when replying this time.
‘Of course, ma’am. My car or yours?’
‘Yours, I think. Mine is conspicuous. If there are no other questions, I’ll expect you in the morning. Good evening, Commander.’
Patric exited the office and returned immediately to his flat, filling up with fuel en-route. He ensured that the car was spick and span and retired to bed by 10pm.
His wristwatch alarm went off at 3am. He showered, shaved and grabbed a croissant, before driving to the apartment block in which Dame Ann spent her private hours. He rang the security bell and one of his colleagues on the night shift answered the gate.
‘Good morning, sir. Dame Ann, I presume?’ he queried.
‘You presume correctly, sergeant. May I go up?’
‘Of course, sir. Follow me and I’ll open the door.’
Patric walked behind the guard and entered the building after he typed in the security code and opened the inner door. Patric took the lift to Dame Anne’s floor, and it was just 3:59am when he rang her bell.
She answered almost immediately, greeted Patric with a cursory glance and pointed to a Gucci walk-on bag lying just inside the door.
‘Bring that down, will you Commander. I'm ready, let's go.’
Dame Ann pulled the door shut behind her and they took the lift to the ground floor, where the security guard was waiting. He opened the outer door, and after a swift glance up and down the road, Patric escorted his charge to the car.
She sat in the back and settled down for the journey to Volkel and her meeting with Ross Bryant. After about ten minutes of silence and once they had reached the E19 motorway, Ann struck up a conversation with Patric. She was interested in his escape from the snow
‘You and your wife, Janie, had quite an adventure! Tell me about it.’
Patric ignored the clearly deliberate mispronunciation of Joanie’s name and replied non-committally.
‘Not a lot to tell ma’am.’
‘Now don’t be shy, Patric, I know for a fact that you had a couple of really close shaves. Come on, now, spill the beans.’
Patric realised that he had little choice. She had probably read his file and knew exactly what had happened, so he conceded gracefully, and spent the next hour reciting the tale of escape and eventual rescue.
Ann sat in rapt silence, taking in every word, and Patric saw her eyes widen when he described the possible killing of the two intruders at the Brighton campsite. She was clearly excited by the description and Patric wasn’t sure whether it was a sexually driven high or not – although she shifted momentarily in her seat as he recounted the nitty-gritty.
‘You must have been terrified in the supermarket! What must those people have been thinking?’
‘Really, ma’am, I was too exhausted to take it all in. It was all over in a flash anyway. However, the moral of the tale for UKRA and yourself in particular, is that this type of behaviour will have been commonplace, and you will have to make some difficult decisions concerning criminal intent when some of these people are eventually apprehended. Some folk will be demanding retribution, ma’am.’
Dame Ann was reflective.
‘It's a good point Commander, and well taken. We already have a team working on this very issue and several suspects are in custody. However, they will all have very good, coherent and well-argued reasons for their actions and they may be extremely difficult to successfully prosecute. It's a legal minefield – and what's more, do we really need to foster an atmosphere of revenge and reprisal. I'm tempted to let it all go.’
Patric grunted a tacit agreement and sped on up the motorway, far exceeding the speed limit in his very smart new Mercedes.
They continued in silence and arrived at RNAF Volkel at 5:35am. Security let them through with no problem and Ann directed Patric to the Station HQ.
‘Park in the Station Commander’s slot and wait for me. I should be out by six-thirty.’
Dame Ann stepped out of the car and hurried into SHQ. Patric reversed into the Dutch CO’s parking bay and hoped that he didn’t start work too early that morning. He tuned in the radio and listened to the newly instigated UKRA Radio, which broadcast information for UK citizens twenty-four hours per day. It was another of Ann Fletcher’s innovations.
At around 5:55am another chauffeur driven car pulled up and a young Lieutenant jumped out, wearing the shoulder flashes of the Parachute Regiment.
‘This must be Dame Ann’s top level appointment,’ he mused.
The car waited, engine off, and less than fifteen minutes later, the officer returned carrying a large envelope, climbed back into the car and it sped off.
At 6:33am, Dame Ann exited the building and Patric rapidly started the Merc’s engine, drove to the main entrance, sprang out, and opened the rear door.
‘Thank you, Commander, Amsterdam Schiphol.’
Patric murmured assent, climbed aboard, programmed the Sat Nav, and set off to the airport. He joined the E25 and within ninety minutes of silent travel, arrived at the main departures building.
Just before he dropped Ann Fletcher, she gave him his instructions for pick-up.
‘Friday, arrivals, 10:35pm. Do not, I repeat, do not meet me in the arrivals hall. I will meet you outside by the taxi rank. Use your ID to persuade the local jobsworths that you can park where you like.’
Patric acknowledged understanding, retrieved her Gucci luggage, handed it over, and watched his new boss stroll into the departures hall. She believed that Patric drove straight back to Brussels.
One of the parking jobsworths was already approaching, so Patric made his getaway.
Suddenly he had a thought. Something wasn’t right. Why couldn’t he meet her at the arrivals gate? She was definitely up to something. So, he decided to play a ‘copper’s hunch’ and pulled over into a parking bay, clearly delineated for VVIP’s with strong diagonal yellow lines and bold notices discouraging parking under threat of severe penalty.
Patric climbed out and was almost instantly besieged by a parking attendant and a local airport police officer – hand on holster.
Patric flashed his UKRA and police IDs which after close scrutiny had the desired effect. The police officer saluted smartly as Patric explained that he was escorting a VVIP and would be thirty minutes. Could he please watch the car?
‘Of course, Mijnheer,’ answered the police officer and saluted smartly once again.
Patric walked away quickly, in an attempt to find Dame Ann before she disappeared into the melee of early morning passengers. He had no idea which flight she was taking and was rapidly scanning the list of departures, when suddenly and a mite fortunately, he spotted her. She was ducking into a ladies’ cloakroom, so Patric stationed himself outside, so that he could observe the entrance without being seen by Ann when she came out again.
He almost missed her
.
If it hadn’t been for the noticeable Gucci bag she was pulling, he would never have recognised her at first glance.
What was she playing at?
She had changed clothes, donned a dark wig, and looked plain and drab wearing no make-up. Only the Gucci bag gave her away.
Patric followed at a discrete distance and watched her check-in at the KLM First Class desk. Her details were quickly processed and she passed through customs and security control, where Patric lost her.
However, he knew where she was going.
Above the check-in desk was the flight number and destination.
Cape Town.
South Africa.
Patric was intrigued and now realised why she didn’t want him to meet her at arrivals. He would see her disguise.
He decided to keep this information to himself for the time being, and so returned to his car, took another salute from the servile police officer and drove back to Brussels.
A good days work, he thought. And now he had until Friday evening to spend on private matters. There was no other call on his time, so he planned to make good use of this short period of freedom.
He indeed spent his liberty wisely and the next morning scoured all available records for a trace of his family. There was none thus far, and so he consoled himself that it was probably just a matter of time before something positive turned up.
He had time to chat to Joanie – twice a day – and Doctor John Stubbins kept him updated on her improving status.
‘She’s doing fine Patric. In fact, I think that she may be well enough to transfer to Brussels at the weekend. In fact, I'm going to escort her, since I'm needed for some surgical work on Monday and so I’ll get to see you.’
‘That's brilliant, John. Thank you so much. Just let me know of your arrival time and I’ll try to meet you. My boss is back on Saturday, but I may be able to slip away.’
‘No problem, I’ll be in touch,’ answered John.
***
John Stubbins walked in to Joanie’s ward to give her the good news and found her chatting merrily away to the occupant of the next bed.
‘I see you’ve met our Mr Wester, Joanie. He's got a tale to tell and no doubt has bored you rigid!’
Joanie disagreed.
‘Absolutely not. His story is far more exciting than ours – and he was stabbed!’
John frowned.
‘So I understand. How is the wound Bryan?’ he asked gruffly.
‘Much, much better, thanks. It wasn’t as bad as everyone thought. Apparently, I smashed my head on the concrete as I went down and they all thought I’d pegged it!’
‘Much like the chap they found lying next to you. He wasn’t so lucky, was he?’ remarked John, coldly.
‘It was me or him, Doc. What could I do?’
‘That's not for me to say Mr Wester, but no doubt someone will be asking questions in due course. However, my job is to get you fit enough to fly out of here, and I reckon we can take you off to Brussels on Saturday. How does that suit you?’
‘Excellent, Doc. Sooner the better as far as I'm concerned.’
Joanie complained loudly.
‘Hey, John, what about me? When do I get out of here. I want to see my husband.’
John Stubbins fought back a grin.
‘Now, now, settle down. Your time will come. In fact, I think there might be a slot on that Saturday flight, if you are a good girl.’
Joanie smiled broadly.
‘Brilliant, do you mean it?’
‘Of course. Patric has agreed to meet us off the chopper if he's free. You’ll be confined to a hospital for a week or so – like Mr Wester here, but at least Patric can visit as often as he likes.’
Both patients were delighted with the news.
John Stubbins was also pleased. He might get to see his wife, Eve and his children, for the first time in a while.
He definitely needed a break from the cloud of depression that this boat generated.
There had been seven more suicides in the past twenty-four hours.
Day 34
Friday 17th January
UKRA HQ – Brussels
Dame Ann Fletcher landed on schedule at Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport as Helga Carville and carefully scanned the arrivals hall for an over-inquisitive Commander Silver. When absolutely certain he wasn’t there – or lurking, as most policemen are want to do – she slipped into a ladies loo and transformed herself into the glamourous woman she really was. At 11:15 pm, she walked smoothly out of the arrivals hall towards the taxi rank and immediately spied Patric, standing nonchalantly – but fully alert – by his car. He spotted her instantly and approached to take her bag, scanning the area to be sure that nobody was following her.
It appeared to be all clear.
But it wasn’t.
At least two national security agencies had operatives watching for Ms Fletcher, and one had noticed her secretive activities – but only at the airport. Patric Silver saw no one.
The journey home was uneventful, and mostly silent. Patric knew better than to interrogate his new boss, or even engage in idle conversation. He always allowed her to dominate any dialogue between them. He had handed her an A4 envelope containing a brief update on events during her absence, and she studied this document for almost the entire trip back to UKRA HQ.
Patric arrive in Brussels at 12:45am and then escorted Ann to her office, where Eleanor was in attendance.
It was 4am before a sleepy Patric had dropped Dame Ann off at her apartment.
‘Pick me up at 7am, Commander. I've got a busy day ahead.’
Patric voiced his assent and sighed inwardly. He was expecting Joanie and John to arrive at 3pm and he hoped that Dame Ann wouldn't be going home early, and inadvertently screw up his plans.
He needn’t have worried.
He delivered her to the office by 07:15am and her parting shot was that he was free to pick up his wife at 3pm. He shouldn’t have been surprised. This bloody woman knew everything and manipulated everybody.
Sir Ian was in New York by now and was probably fast asleep, gaining the strength required to hold out the giant begging bowls to the world leader’s assembled at the United Nations. She was happy to leave Sir Ian to deal with this business as it left her free to supervise more closely the Operation Auric progress.
The extraction of gold bars was still scheduled for a week hence – the twenty-fifth of January – and that should provide enough time for her co-conspirators to keep their somewhat ‘complex’ ends of the bargain.
Lieutenant Ross Bryant was managing the security aspects, closely monitored by Richard Castle.
Richard Castle. Mmmmm.
What to do about Richard Castle?
When he found out that he had been seriously double-crossed, he would bleat like the sacrificial lamb he was about to become.
Ann Fletcher was carefully re-considering the future of Richard Castle.
At this point it didn’t look very bright.
He was, in the final analysis, a loose end.
And loose ends had a nasty habit of jamming up the works.
She made a decision, and picked up the phone.
***
‘Commander, can you come and see me at 1pm. It won't take long and will not interfere with the arrival of your dear wife Jennie.’
Patric smiled to himself. The woman just grossly overdid it sometimes – but he would not take the bait.
‘Yes, ma’am. 1300.’
He arrived on time, impeccably attired as usual, and was asked to take a seat opposite his boss. ‘Something’s afoot,’ he guessed correctly.
‘Patric, I'm concerned about my security. As you know I'm acting PM in Sir Ian’s absence in the United States – and he could be gone for some time. If something should happen to me, the entire house of cards could well come tumbling down – and we wouldn't want that, now, would we?’
‘Modest cow,’ thought Patric.
‘No, Ma’am’,
he replied feigning abject horror at the thought.
‘Don’t overdo it Commander! Anyway, I need a doppelgänger. A double. A lookalike to cover for me on occasion, when I need to be somewhere important, but want people to think I'm somewhere else. Do you follow, Commander?’
Patric ‘followed’ all right and wondered again what she was up to.
‘How does this affect me, ma’am?’ asked Patric innocently, pretending he didn’t know what was coming next.
‘You, Commander, are to find me this doppelganger – and fast. Sweep the files of survivors, UKRA employees, transit refugees, everywhere…but find me a double. I want her in this office by next Friday at the latest. If she has to wear a wig and sunglasses to get the job done – then so be it. Just find her.’
Patric was staring silently at the space above Dame Ann’s head trying desperately to work out why she needed a double and with such urgency. At this stage, it was still a mystifying puzzle, so he acquiesced meekly.
‘Of course, ma’am. I’ll get straight onto it. I’ll find your ‘doppelganger.’’
‘Thank you Patric, I knew I could rely on your resourcefulness and determination. Right, you can set off for the hospital and visit with Jeanie. Good luck, Commander,’ she purred.
Patric left the office, his mind racing.
What the hell was this woman up to?
***
Patric had an hour or so before he needed to drive over to the main hospital in Brussels. An annexe had been allocated to UKRA, and mainly British medical staff were dealing with many of the urgent and life-threatening medical cases.
They co-operated and co-ordinated with their Belgian counterparts, and were managing to cope with the steady stream of survivors coming off the hospital ships. A great deal of sophisticated medical equipment and supplies had been donated and purchased exclusively for the British patients, so that Belgian nationals did not suffer as a result of shortages caused by the emergency.
As the crisis calmed, more and more British citizens were being farmed out across Europe for rest and recuperation. A disused sanatorium in southern Germany had been re-opened and restocked for the exclusive use of critically and terminally ill survivors and was almost full to overflowing.
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