by Jaye Rothman
Jenkins and Brown rose and shook my hand. Braithwaite remained seated and gave me a cursory, unhappy nod.
“Coffee, Sinclair?” The DG pushed a Royal Crown Derby cup and saucer in my direction, and I poured hot coffee from the silver Georgian coffeepot in the centre of the table. I briefly wondered if the Ministers found this ostentatious display of wealth as distasteful as I did: the lavish silver pot was a not-too-subtle reminder of the authority that the DG wielded. The Prime Minister, in contrast, was well known for the “common touch” and ordered sandwiches and beer when he met with the Cabinet or the unions. This would never happen at Broadway. The DG was far too powerful and well connected. His wife was the daughter of one of the wealthiest Dukes in the land. He had been educated at the right school and university, and he had friends in the most influential board and drawing rooms in Great Britain.
I was quite sure that he was privy to a number of secrets that could shake the government to its foundations if he whispered in the right ears. In a word, he was untouchable. He knew it, and so did the Ministers.
“Pleased to meet you, Sinclair,” said Jenkins. His accent was from the Welsh valleys and, in keeping with his working-class roots, he wore an off-the-peg suit and black suede shoes.
Harry Brown was a large bear of a man, with longish red hair that probably could have done with a trim. He spoke with a Geordie accent.
“What we are about to divulge is, of course, top secret, and cannot be repeated outside of this room.”
“Yes of course, Sir,” I affirmed.
The DG nodded to Braithwaite. “You’d better brief Sinclair, and don’t leave out any details.”
Braithwaite glared at him. Unsurprisingly, the DG and Braithwaite didn’t have a close working relationship. Braithwaite, like Jenkins, was working class and proud of it. He had been a conscript in the army but senior officers had seen the potential in him and had sent him to Sandhurst for officer training. A career in the police followed, where he had distinguished himself, and shortly after the Labour Party came to power, he had been appointed as Head of MI5.
I know this had not pleased the DG, as he believed that only a university education could equip someone for higher office. But then, what about the Cambridge Three – Burgess, Maclean and Philby – who had been recruited by the Soviets and, for years, passed secrets to the KGB? There was a rumour of a fourth man, but as yet, that hadn’t been confirmed. The DG had known them at university, and it was rumoured that he had nearly missed out on the Director General’s job because of his association with them. However, the old boys’ network had rallied round to help him secure the position.
“As you are probably aware,” said Braithwaite, “two men were murdered within two weeks of each other in Oxford Street. The public and media are under the impression that these were random murders. But they’re not. It’s only a matter of time before the press will find out that the killings are connected. Both men were scientists specialising in chemical and biological weapons, or, in other words, nerve toxins. They had both defected from Eastern Europe and were employed at the same top secret facility in Sussex.”
Braithwaite took a gulp of water; he was beginning to look a little pale. “Both men had reported being stabbed in the shin when alighting from public transport. Their assailant was a man carrying a large black umbrella. Members of the public witnessed the assaults, but unfortunately no one was able to provide an accurate description of the assassin.
“The first victim was Laszlo Mester, who died two weeks ago.” Braithwaite glanced down at his notes. “He was a Hungarian, who came to England after the ‘56 revolution. From all accounts, he had settled well here and had married an English woman. He had three children, and they attended a local private school.”
The DG nodded in agreement. “It appears from our investigations that he lived an exemplary life.”
Braithwaite continued. “Two weeks ago he left the facility and took the train from Chichester to London, which he did most Friday evenings. However, on this occasion he took the bus to Oxford Circus to buy an anniversary gift for his wife. As he got off the bus in Oxford Street, he felt a sharp pain in his shin. By the evening, Mester had started to feel very unwell. He contacted the facility, which is standard procedure, by the way. He was then admitted to Chase Farm Hospital in North London, where his condition continued to deteriorate. When MI5 questioned him, he was able to recall that a man in his thirties had alighted at the same bus stop and, as he was getting off, the man caught his leg with the tip of his umbrella. Mester died two days later.”
Braithwaite paused to take another sip of water. “Then a week ago, another senior scientist, Arkady Maksimov, was murdered. He had defected from the Soviet Union three years ago. He also went up to London by train, but he travelled by tube to Oxford Circus. He had an appointment with a cardiac specialist in Harley Street. As he was alighting, he was stabbed in the shin by the tip of an umbrella. He couldn’t describe his assailant in detail, but said that it was a man carrying a black umbrella.”
Braithwaite anxiously looked around the table at the impassive faces staring at him. He took a deep breath and continued. “Three days later he was dead. He had an appointment card on him for a Doctor Adam Levy at 122 Harley Street. When we checked, we discovered that no doctor of that name had a practice there, and Maksimov didn’t have an appointment with anyone at that address. No one from the building could ID him from a recent photo. So what was he doing there? Who was he meeting? We’ve drawn a blank.”
Braithwaite rubbed his thumb over a small shaving cut under his chin. “The autopsies of both men revealed that death was by nerve toxin, and the most worrying element of all is that it’s a brand new type of toxin.”
“So it’s not been registered and it’s completely unknown to us?” I enquired.
Braithwaite looked very uncomfortable. “Yes, that’s right. Our theory is that Mester and Maksimov secretly developed it, and had stored it somewhere in the facility. They could have found interested parties on the black market, and decided to sell the toxin instead of gifting it to Moscow. It’s possible their masters got wind of this and decided to dispense with them.”
“Is there any evidence?” I asked.
“No, none at all,” Braithwaite said miserably. He probably thought he would head MI5 until he retired; I thought this was looking unlikely.
“Somebody must know something.”
The DG interjected. “Exactly, Sinclair. Exactly.”
Braithwaite ignored the barb.
“What about women in their lives? I mean, was either one of them having an affair?’
The DG flushed, probably thinking of his own martial indiscretions. He had a long-suffering wife in the country but visited her only on occasional weekends. Braithwaite fiddled with his notes. Manning gazed resolutely ahead. There was a smothered chuckle from the Home Secretary.
The DG snapped. “Really, Sinclair, you’ve been told Mester was married.”
“Yes he was, wasn’t he?” I held the DG’s stare for a moment longer than necessary. I continued. “Perhaps they were being blackmailed?”
Braithwaite nodded. “Sinclair has a good point. We need to look more closely at their backgrounds.”
The DG said coldly, “That’s agreed, then.”
I thought it politic to change the subject. “Where’s the facility?” I enquired.
The Minister of Defence spoke. “It’s in a small village called Norton on the Marsh, near Selsey in Sussex. It’s an odd sort of place, so I’ve been told. I’ve never actually been there. The manor house is where the laboratories are housed. The scientists and all employees who work there must live in the village from Monday to Friday. There are no exemptions to this rule. Apparently it’s a quaint old English village. All its residents work for the Ministry, but no actual villagers, no members of the public, are permitted to reside there. The residents are housed in cottages in the village and stay for the week; many of them leave on Friday afternoon and go hom
e for the weekend. They return on Sunday evening or Monday, depending on their passes.”
I tried not to show my utter amazement. It was like a script from a movie or television. How could this be operating in a quiet English village, without the press hearing about it? Wouldn’t one of the ousted villagers from Norton on the Marsh have contacted the press in outrage?
“How many years has the facility been open?”
The Home Secretary spoke this time. “It’s been at Norton on the Marsh for the last ten years. As you know, after the Berlin Wall was built in 1961 the Soviets and the Eastern Bloc countries raised the stakes and increased their stockpiles of arms and nuclear weapons. The arms race was in full flight, and most of the missiles were aimed at Europe and the West. We knew that the Russians were developing nerve gas that could potentially wipe out London’s population with one vial. It was thought prudent, both by our allies and the government at the time, to develop a new type of nerve toxin ourselves as a counter-measure, one that wouldn’t have the devastating effects that the usual airborne toxins have. We wanted to be able to target a particular area, rather than a whole city, so that we would have more control of … ah … situations.”
To me it sounded incredible, extremely dangerous and reckless.
The DG took charge of the conversation. “We need to know why Mester and Maksimov were murdered. We need evidence that they working for Moscow. The facility has been searched for the toxin and the formula, but neither has been found. We suspect it’s in the USSR by now. The security there appears to be non-existent. If there’s a Soviet mole or moles still embedded at the facility, we need to find them.”
Braithwaite’s eyes were fixed in a glassy stare. “MI5’s man, Bryant, is in charge of security of the facility and the village. He’s a good man, and is totally trustworthy.”
The DG stopped to light a cigar. “He’s totally incompetent, in my opinion. Two scientists dead, and a formula and toxin missing. It’s an unmitigated bloody shambles.”
The Home Secretary pursed his lips. “I agree with you, Francis.”
The DG winced visibly at the overly familiar use of his first name. I smiled inwardly at his discomfort.
The Home Secretary continued. “If our friends and cousins get to hear of this, it will be a diplomatic disaster. We won’t be trusted again. This time we won’t be forgiven and there will be no reprieve. Our standing at the top of the table will be seriously diminished, and our neighbours will be keen to take our place.”
Our neighbours were France and Germany, who for years had vied with the British to be the USA’s best friends in Europe. A long, ominous silence filled the room. Braithwaite shrank further down in his chair.
“This is an unprecedented investigation by 6,” said the DG. “I think that, apart from wartime, we have not been involved in internal security. Would that be correct, Minister?” The DG had stamped his authority firmly back onto the meeting. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was toying with Braithwaite, and took a cruel pleasure in exposing Braithwaite as incompetent.
The Home Secretary responded with a curt nod. “You’re correct. We need someone outside of MI5 to go in and accurately assess the situation. The media are getting close, and we don’t want them to get wind of the facility. The British public would, understandably, be very alarmed at the idea of secret villages making toxins. Heads could roll. This is strictly need-to-know, and it’s why I have asked for you, Sinclair, as you have a way of getting things done.”
I nodded.
Braithwaite was sweating visibly as he spoke. He could probably see his knighthood slowly slipping away. He would hate it that 6 were involved, as MI5 were very protective of their turf. But what choice did he have? “I’ve instructed Bryant to assist you unconditionally,” he said. “He will organise your accommodation in the village.”
My eyes met Manning’s. “Thank you,” I replied.
Braithwaite drained his glass of water and continued. “Three months ago a new scientist started working there. She’s defected from Czechoslovakia, and Bryant has his suspicions about her. Some unexplained absences have been observed, but nothing conclusive.”
I glanced at the DG. “Are all the scientists defectors from the Eastern Bloc?”
This strategy of employing defectors appeared to be highly risky: Braithwaite probably had little experience of running and dealing with double and triple agents. More to the point, how deeply had MI5 probed into their backgrounds?
The DG shrugged his shoulders in defeat at the incompetence of his opposite number.
The Minister of Defence spoke. “Professor Watkins is head of the facility. The brutal truth is that the Eastern Bloc countries have a head start on us when it comes to discovering nerve toxins. That’s why we tend to jump at the chance of recruiting defectors when they approach us.”
Manning turned and addressed me. “You’re going in as a time and motion expert. Professor Watkins and Bryant know your identity for obvious reasons. No one else does. Eva Horaknova appears to be the main suspect. Better start with her.”
The DG rose to indicate the end of the briefing. “Manning will go over a few more details with you, Sinclair, at five p.m., in his office.”
“Yes, sir.” I shook Braithwaite’s hand. It was clammy with sweat, which was hardly surprising. I felt a flash of sympathy for him: if this weren’t solved, he would be job hunting.
The DG and both Ministers wished me good luck, and I left the room with relief. I had no illusions that this mission would not be fraught with difficulties. An MI6 officer operating on home territory? It would make or break my career, I was certain of that. Braithwaite had proved to be a useful ally in the past, and he would make a formidable enemy in the future if I crossed him. This was one mission I wish I could have declined. Who would back me up? Lonnie, of course, and yes, CJ. I would keep her close. I smiled mirthlessly.
CHAPTER 3
DAY ONE
It was one of those perfect April days that only England can produce. It put me in mind of the Victorian poet Robert Browning, who lauded the wonderful, warm, spring days:
Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England – now!
I think he was living in northern Italy when he wrote it, homesick for his beloved England.
It made me briefly think of my father, as he used to reminisce about the country of his birth while he suffered in the heat of a Middle Eastern summer. It was he who had instilled a love for England in me.
I had borrowed from the motor pool a sleek red MGB convertible with black leather seats. I was thrilled that I’d managed to procure it, having persuaded the Motor Clerk in the car pool that I needed it for my cover. The engine was an impressive 1800cc, and the reviews in the motor magazines extolled the virtues of the speed and lightness of the car. I was looking forward to an uneventful but fast drive.
We had left London behind us an hour ago and, for once, there was no heavy traffic to impede our progress to our destination, the small hamlet of Norton on the Marsh.
I turned off the A3 onto the A287 Hindhead Road, which merges into the A286, also known as the Chichester Road. That was when I noticed it again. A large four-door black Humber was tucked in three cars behind me. I was sure it was following me, as I had seen a similar car when I had picked up the A3 at Tibbets Corner and merged into the fast lane of the dual carriageway. It had stayed with me when I had passed the Putney cemetery heading towards the Robin Hood roundabout and then it had suddenly swerved, without indicating, into the slow lane. This was too much of a coincidence.
I shouted to CJ above the roar of the wind, “We’re being followed. Let’s see if he stays with us.” I drove with one eye on my rear
view mirror. “I’m going to speed up.”
She nodded. I rammed my foot down hard, and in eleven seconds the MGB was doing over 100 mph – but so was the Humber. It had dangerously overtaken an old Austin Cambridge just before Fernhurst and was bearing down on us. I knew the road reasonably well, and before Henley Copse, there was an extremely sharp bend. The road was for single-lane traffic only and painted with double white lines. It would be madness to overtake here as it was the site of many fatal accidents.
“There’s a blind bend in the road coming up. I’m going to do a sharp left. Tighten your seat belt and hang on,” I shouted over the wind. She nodded and removed her sunglasses.
This was a highly dangerous manoeuvre and I hoped fervently that I would be able to pull it off because if I didn’t, we might end up hitting a tree or be involved in a head-on collision. I had learned this exercise in the defensive driving course I had been on before Egypt, but I’d never practised it on a public highway. I didn’t know if the MGB would hold the road, as I was now doing 120 mph. Here was the turning coming up. I started to brake hard while changing through the gears rapidly. The engine and tyres screamed and howled in protest. I’d probably burned a hole in the road. I waited a few seconds and then steered the car hard left on to a minor road. The wheels on my side nearly lifted from the tarmac but luckily for us, there was no oncoming traffic.
I accelerated and found a smaller track to my left. As spring was early this year, there was enough foliage to conceal the car from the main road. I was beginning to regret my choice of car, as it was so distinctive. Why hadn’t I picked a Morris Marina or an Austin Mini?
I killed the engine and we sat holding our breaths. In seconds there was the sound of a larger engine and tyres on gravel. CJ gripped my arm. The driver of the black Humber had deduced that this was the only route we could have taken, and the car roared past our hiding spot. I waited a moment, then turned the key in the ignition, put the car in gear and accelerated back down the road to rejoin the A286.
