by Jaye Rothman
“Did you get the registration number, CJ?”
“Yeah. Did you see that the windows were tinted?”
“I saw. It was one of 6’s cars, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but only Section Heads are supposed to use them. When I get to Pagham, I’ll phone the Motor Pool and find out who booked it out.”
We drove on in silence. Who had been following us? This was Top Secret and a strictly need-to-know mission, so only twelve people knew – and that included two ministers.
“Shall we stop for a bite?” I shouted above the whine of the engine.
“That sounds good. Where?”
She placed a hand on my upper thigh and squeezed it. Immediately I was aroused, and the powerful image of CJ lying between my legs last night flashed through my mind.
“We’ll make a detour to Goodwood House, and then it should only be an hour’s run to Church Norton. I’ll drop you off at Pagham, then I’ll go on.”
“There’s the turn-off, honey.” CJ lifted her hand from my leg and pointed past me.
I indicated right.
After lunch I dropped CJ at Pagham Harbour. She was booked in at a small bed and breakfast called The Snug that overlooked the sea. Its name was apt, as it stood nestled in between two larger grander Edwardian houses. CJ had requested a room with a sea view for surveillance purposes. The harbour was a large area consisting of a salt marsh, mudflats, copses, lagoons, reed beds and beaches. The area was a magnet for birdwatchers from all over Europe, so her cover of being a keen ornithologist likely wouldn’t arouse any suspicions. Nobody would look twice if she was wearing binoculars, or walking around carrying the paraphernalia associated with her hobby. She was hoping to spot a rare Philomachus pugnax (a sandpiper to you and me), which had recently been sighted.
Manning had reluctantly agreed that CJ should accompany me, although he was worried about her lack of experience in the field. He had initially suggested that Jack Butler, my nemesis since Israel, should pose as my husband enjoying a relaxing birdwatching break, so that no suspicion would fall on me if I visited Pagham frequently, but after spending two months sleeping with Cavendish I put my foot down. I insisted that CJ back me up as I felt deserved a break from dealing with inflated male egos and sharing beds with men. Of course, only CJ could provide me with the special kind of rest and relaxation I needed.
Lonnie was already undercover at the facility, as a maintenance man, so he could move around freely without attracting suspicion. Nobody took any notice of a middle-aged man in overalls with a bag of tools.
After dropping CJ off, I circled round and picked up the B2145 to Selsey, which was located on the coast. Selsey was a seaside town, mainly known for the vast number of caravan sites that stretched for miles over the Sussex countryside. Norton on the Marsh was down a small lane a few miles to the north of the hamlet of Church Norton.
I drove at a snail’s pace down the lane, looking for the signpost to Norton on the Marsh. It was leaning heavily to one side, and I inadvertently drove past it. Realising a few hundred yards on that I’d missed the entrance to the lane, I shifted the gear stick into reverse and backed up. Ah, there it was. The sign pointed northwards, towards an overgrown track whose entrance was partially obscured by large nettles, cow parsley and hawthorn bushes.
Driving carefully past them, I could see that the hedgerows were overgrown and nearly met in the middle of the road. I couldn’t see how a car or a truck could pass this way without leaving some evidence of tyre tracks and flattened vegetation behind. I let the clutch out and drove slowly on. The brambles were tugging and scratching the paintwork of the car. I would have some explaining to do to the motor pool officer.
Braithwaite had warned me that the entrance to the facility was somewhat unorthodox, and told me that I should wait in the lane until I was granted clearance. I put the car in neutral, removed my Beretta from my shoulder holster, loaded it and put it on the floor. I couldn’t hear anything but bird song – no sounds of twigs snapping or bushes being disturbed. On the right-hand side of the track was a typical English wood, with large birches, copper beeches, horse chestnuts and majestic oaks. The sunlight filtered through onto a melange of greens and foxgloves, bluebells and anemones carpeting the woodland floor. It should have been an idyllic place, but there was something about it that made me feel cold. It was too perfect, as if nature wasn’t proficient enough: man had been there and made his mark.
I checked my watch. Four minutes had elapsed since I had driven up the track. I was a sitting target out here: a well-placed sniper in the woods could easily take me out. As if on cue, a man dressed entirely in green materialised out of the trees. On closer inspection he appeared to be dressed in gamekeeper garb. How long had he been watching me? Had he seen me checking my gun? A rifle hung loosely from the crook in his elbow as he made his way towards me.
He continued to walk in my direction, finally coming to a halt about three yards from me. He was at least 6’ 6” tall, so he couldn’t be MI5, as they recruited very few people over average height. He pushed his deerstalker hat farther back on his head and continued to appraise me. I glanced at his hands, which were white; there were no scars or calluses on them. So he wasn’t a professional gamekeeper; perhaps he was a security guard from one of the elite companies that specialised in high-end protection. I eyed at his rifle. This wasn’t a gun to shoot rabbits: it was an AR15, a semi-automatic rifle used in the military, which could do me some serious damage if he shot at me.
“Afternoon. You’re on private property, so back up.”
He had an East End accent, so my suspicions were correct. He definitely was not a local gamekeeper.
I replied with a smile. “I’m Nikki Faber from the Ministry, undertaking a time and motion study. Bryant is expecting me.”
“Do you have papers, Miss Faber?”
I searched in my handbag for them and handed them to him with my left hand. While he was perusing them, my right hand reached for my gun. Suddenly I was aware of movement behind me. I slid my eyes to my wing mirror. Another gamekeeper had crept up behind while the first one had engaged me. He had the same small-calibre, high-velocity rifle, but this one was pointing directly at my head. I froze as I heard the unmistakable sound of the magazine being loaded.
“Drop your gun out of the car, and get out slowly. Now!” the voice behind commanded.
I had no choice but to comply. They had been watching me so they knew I was carrying. I did as I was instructed, and slowly dropped my Beretta a foot from where I would be standing. Would I be able to distract them and reach it? I had to play for time. My heart was racing: the odds in my favour had dramatically declined.
“As you can see, the Home Secretary has signed my credentials,” I said calmly.
Who were these men? Why hadn’t they lowered their weapons when I’d told them who I was? I opened the car door and calculated the distance to the first gamekeeper … still too far … as he stepped back and aimed his rifle at my heart. I had been expecting soldiers in uniform, not gamekeepers. Were these two part of the security detail of the facility? Did they know my real identity?
Suddenly a walkie-talkie spluttered to life. The first gamekeeper lowered his rifle and answered it. A disembodied voice spoke, but the words were distorted.
“Roger that,” he said into the device. Then to me, “I’m sorry about the reception committee, Miss, but we can’t be too careful here.”
I took a deep breath to steady myself. My heart was returning to a normal rhythm.
“Price, put it down. She’s been cleared by Bryant,” the taller gamekeeper called out to his partner, who still had his rifle aimed at my head.
Price took his finger off the trigger, disarmed his rifle and slung it over his shoulder. “I’m sorry we gave you a fright, Miss, but our orders are clear. No one can enter the facility without permission from Bryant.”
“I appreciate your caution, but how did you know I was carrying?” I asked.
“Bryant in
formed us.”
Already my cover was blown. This did not bode well.
“You’re from 6?” Price asked.
I didn’t respond to his question. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention that I had a gun.”
“You didn’t have a gun.” Price confirmed.
“You are?” I asked the other one.
“I’m Corporal Johnson, and this is Private Price.”
“Ok, I’m going to bend down and pick up my gun.” I slowly crouched and reached for the reassuring handle of my Beretta. They weren’t as highly trained as I had thought, and probably had become complacent guarding a facility where very little happened. I would never have permitted a potential target to pick up a weapon. I could have killed them both in less than ten seconds.
“Is this the only way into Norton on the Marsh?”
Price shook his head. “No, there’s another route via Pagham Harbour. There’s a footpath through the woods. We couldn’t disable it; the locals would’ve become too suspicious. But we only seem to get walkers and birdwatchers coming to the village pub for a pint and a ploughman’s. There’s nothing else of interest in the village, so they go back the way they came.”
Johnson, the first gamekeeper, spoke. “All the employees use this road to enter and exit the facility.”
“So, apart from here and the footpath, there’s no other way in or out?” I needed to confirm that there were only two exits.
“Well, if the tide is high then I suppose it’s possible a small boat could moor by the jetty.”
“The jetty?”
“Yes, but it’s not been used for years. It’s in a bad state of disrepair. It’s at the back of the Manor House. The harbour’s full of reeds, so it would be difficult, but you might be able to row in if you were experienced enough.”
This conversation had been illuminating. In my private briefing with Manning and Braithwaite, the latter hadn’t mentioned anything about a way in by boat.
“How many gamekeepers are there?”
Price laughed and touched his nose. “Now that would be telling.”
I wouldn’t be getting any further information out of these two. “How do I get to the village? I can’t drive down any farther on this track.”
All that lay ahead was coot grass, weeds, a six-bar metal gate and, beyond that, brown fields that had been freshly tilled. There were no tyre tracks, so how could I proceed?
Johnson went to the passenger side of my car, parted the bushes and opened the lid of what looked like a small brown mailbox. Without closer inspection it would have been difficult to spot. He pushed a red button and I heard the soft hum of a motor. I quickly turned around and, to my amazement, the trees and the ground parted – Moses and the Red Sea sprang to mind – and slid back, revealing a concrete road big enough for a car or truck to drive down. It was like a scene from a James Bond movie, but this was Sussex and not some exotic island.
Price and Johnson laughed at my surprise.
“That got you, didn’t it?” Price joked. “Some of the trees are made of plastic or wood. Bit of a bugger, really, as we have to change them depending on the seasons,” he confided.
“It’s an idea from the Commies. One of the scientists working here is a defector from Poland, and he says the Eastern Bloc countries have them all over the place. You would never know the facility was here if you drove down the lane. Ingenious, yeah?”
Yes, it was, and neither Manning nor Braithwaite had seen fit to warn me of the reception committee … or maybe they didn’t know. I couldn’t help wondering what else the Home Secretary and the Ministry of Defence were kept in the dark about.
Price said, “After you go through the wood, keep going and you’ll see the village. Turn left by the duck pond. Carry on and you’ll see a large country house. That’s the facility.”
I thanked them both again, jumped into my car and drove through the fake wood. In front of me was a village that could have come straight out of an Agatha Christie novel. In fact, I could imagine Miss Marple living in one of the thatched cottages by the duck pond. It was like one of those picture postcard villages that was printed on millions of boxes of Milk Tray chocolates. It was idyllic and picturesque and, for many, would have epitomised the England of Blake’s poem “Jerusalem.”
Opposite the duck pond was a pub, red bricked with black beams. The sign swinging gently above the door announced that it was “The Spreading Oak.” It was probably named after the oak tree that shadowed half the pond. There was no sign of life, though. Since when did pubs close before 3 p.m.? Next to the pub was a corner shop, but the blind had been pulled down and a Closed sign hung in the window.
A shiver ran through me. What a creepy place! It was completely deserted and devoid of human life. Where were the people? Nobody was out walking, cycling, gardening or even passing the time of day. It was the strangest village I’d ever seen. I decided to drive on and find the Manor House.
I accelerated and drove up the drive, my tyres spitting gravel. As I steered around the slight bend, the Manor House loomed up before me. It was quite imposing, consisting of three floors and two large, incongruous modern wings that had been added on both sides – for the laboratories, I presumed. It had probably been built in the Victorian era, as the red bricks were the same as the ones on the inn. The front was clad with creeping ivy. There was a porch in the middle of the house and four windows on each floor, with their frames painted black. Suddenly I felt slightly nauseated, overcome with memories of my year of hell at Bolton College. I had hated school. My peers had discovered that I was a lesbian, and I had been “outed” in a cruel and degrading manner. For the remainder of the school year I had been sent to Coventry by my teachers and peers. The experience had changed me profoundly.
I parked next to an expensive Rover in the car park in front of the building. A man ran down the steps and patted the bonnet of my MG approvingly, as if it was a beloved dog. This must be Bryant. He was slightly shorter than I am. His mousy hair was cut into a short back and sides, giving the impression that he was ex-army. I knew he wasn’t. He had failed the entrance tests to Sandhurst. The closest he had been to Army life was a spell in the cadet corps at Eton.
His pale blue eyes were set too close together for my liking and his lips were thick and full. He was wearing a bespoke pin-striped suit and, naturally, an old Etonian tie.
“Welcome to the Manor House, Miss Faber.”
I got out of the car and shook his hand, which was warm and clammy. I had to break his grip to withdraw my hand. I resisted the temptation not to wipe it on my jeans.
“Thanks, and you must be Bryant?”
“Indeed I am, and so very pleased to meet you.” Bryant dropped his voice, although there was no one near us. “I do hope you can help us with our little problem. You’ve come highly recommended by the Minister. Incidentally, which regiment did you serve in, Faber?”
Immediately my hackles rose. Why did men presume that because I worked for MI6 I was ex-military?
“I didn’t,” I responded curtly.
Momentarily he looked put out, but he recovered.
“Miss Faber, I think it’s best we speak out here. Walls have ears.” He tapped one of his to emphasise the point.
“That’s fine with me. What’s the current situation?”
“The scientists are nervous, and a few of them have requested transfers. It’s very unsettling and we need them to concentrate on their work.”
“I’m sure, but my priority is to find out who murdered Mester and Maksimov and if the toxin has fallen into enemy hands.”
“Do you think someone here is working for the KGB?”
“It’s possible,” I said.
He looked surprised.
“I understand from Braithwaite that you have concerns about the latest arrival.”
Bryant nodded vigorously. “Quite so. Eva Horaknova. There have been unexplained absences.”
It was my turn to look surprised. “Out of the facility?
I thought all staff were electronically tagged.”
“Quite right, Nikki. May I call you Nikki?” Bryant didn’t wait for my reply, as if knowing my answer would be negative. “When the scientists go on leave, the electronic tag is disabled. As soon as they return, the tag is reactivated. They can only leave the facility between Friday night and Monday morning. We can’t be too careful here.”
“Are the other residents tagged, or only the scientists?” I enquired.
“We don’t tag staff who don’t work in the laboratories,” Bryant said stiffly. “The Professor didn’t think it was necessary.”
“Really? Has Horaknova tried to leave when tagged?”
“Not exactly, but she’s been observed walking along the footpath to Pagham. She can’t walk to the harbour because it’s prohibited. Her general behaviour is odd, strange. She doesn’t socialise with her colleagues, and she’s very much a loner. I wouldn’t be surprised if she were to be your KGB agent. Everything was tickety-boo until she arrived.” Bryant put heavy emphasis on the word she.
Perhaps Eva Horaknova was already regretting her choice in defecting to the West – or was she counting the days until she was extracted?
“OK. Have there been any other breaches in security?”
Bryant moved closer to me; I resisted the temptation to step away.
“I expect Braithwaite told you about the missing file?”
This was the first time I had heard of it. Braithwaite had not shared this vital information with Manning and me. Perhaps he didn’t know?
I nodded. “Yes, but I’m not sure when exactly it went missing.”
Bryant’s eyes gleamed with vindictiveness. “Shortly after Horaknova arrived. All a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think, Nikki?”
I ignored the use of my first name again, although it annoyed me.
“So nothing was amiss before Eva Horaknova arrived?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Everything was normal. Completely normal.”
