by Jaye Rothman
“Refresh my memory, Bryant. What was in the missing file?”
“The formula to a toxin that Doctor Maksimov had discarded as unstable. It’s standard procedure for all the scientists to hand over all their files to me at the end of a working day. The files are then recorded in a ledger, with the scientist’s name and the time each was returned. It’s my job to lock them in the safe each night. In the morning I distribute the files back to the scientists.”
I was shocked at the basic lack of security. There were so many flaws in this system. The scientists could easily make copies of their formulas and smuggle them out of the labs.
“Does the safe have a combination, and is it changed often?”
“Only the Professor and I know the combination. I think we changed it about six months ago.”
This was a Top Secret facility, and the usual fundamental security checks weren’t in place. “Tell me, are the scientists and other staff searched when they leave the Manor House?”
Bryant looked astounded. “Look here, Faber. This is England, not the bloody Soviet Union. The scientists are working here because they want to, not because they’ve been ordered to. As for other staff, there is strictly a No Admittance policy to the labs for them.”
“So, when employees go on leave out of the facility, are they searched?”
“Their luggage is routinely searched.”
That didn’t answer the question. It would be incredibly easy to smuggle formulas and toxins out of Norton on the Marsh. I changed tack.
“What happened to Maksimov’s file?”
Bryant’s cheeks reddened. “Well, surprisingly, it never turned up. I instigated an enquiry but no joy, unfortunately.”
I continued to question the incompetent Bryant. “Was Maksimov’s formula checked by any other scientists?”
“Of course it was, Faber. It’s standard procedure.”
I had rattled him. “Did Laszlo Mester check it?”
Bryant nodded and swallowed hard. “Yes, he did.”
He looked stricken, as if he knew the ramifications of his actions would probably end his career. If I had anything to do with it, they would. Not reporting a theft was a serious breach of protocol.
“Do the scientists often work late in the evenings?”
“Yes, of course they do. They are academics, and there are no rigid rules of what time they have to finish.” He looked at me patronisingly, as if I had a low IQ.
“What time do you leave the Manor House?”
Bryant glared at me. “Usually at six p.m., but as Head of Security I’m on call twenty-four/seven.”
I changed the subject. “Where’s my accommodation?”
“In the village. I’ve billeted you in Squirrel Cottage, next to Eva Horaknova’s, so you can keep a beady eye on her. She’s in Larch Cottage.”
“Thanks. Do you have the key?”
“Nikki, as we’ll be working closely together ...” A wolfish grin appeared on his face. “… I thought we could become better acquainted over a bottle of very decent Burgundy.” He placed a damp hand on the small of my back. I froze and fought to curb my reaction, which was to jab him in the throat. Instead, I returned the wolfish smile.
“Not now, Bryant, not ever. Give me the key.” His hand dropped from my back.
“There’s no need to be so unpleasant. I’m just trying to be friendly,” he muttered.
As Bryant passed the key to me, I observed that his hand, like his voice, was shaking.
I turned the key in the lock at Squirrel Cottage, and the door opened on to a small hallway. It was colder inside than outside, and I didn’t relish spending time here. Then I heard a noise that seemed to be coming from the back of the cottage. For the second time that day I drew my Beretta, loading it as I walked softly down the hallway. I heard a rustle of paper and a scraping of a chair. Pushing open the door that led to the kitchen, I saw a familiar figure hunched over the table thumbing through a newspaper, back turned to me.
“Hello, Nikki. You’ve taken your time.” It was Lonnie. I unloaded my Beretta and put it on the table.
“Yeah, I had the pleasure of meeting Bryant. What an inept man. I can’t believe he’s in charge of the place. Is the place clean?”
He nodded.
“There’s virtually no security,” I said. “I’m sure the toxin and formula are back in Moscow by now. Have you discovered anything yet?”
Lonnie shook his head. “Not yet. I’m hoping to find out more tonight. I’ve been invited to the darts night at the pub.”
“Really? Can you play?”
He laughed. “Yes, we used to play in the garage after school. Why? Can’t you?”
“No,” I said shortly. I didn’t like to be reminded that I hadn’t lived in England until I was 17 years old.
“Do me a favour, Lonnie. Can you get some heating going in this icebox? I’m heading off to meet CJ at the pub in Pagham.”
She was sitting at the back of the inn drinking a pint of the local ale and thumbing through a birdwatching magazine. She grinned when she saw me and, although I was going to impart bad news, I couldn’t help but smile back. CJ had that effect on me.
“Hi, hon. How are things?”
“Not great. That Bryant is a piece of work. He really thinks he’s irresistible to women. He’s already propositioned me.”
CJ raised her eyebrows. “Do you think he’s banging Horaknova? Maybe their love affair is over and he’s trying to shift the blame on to her. Brand her as a KGB spy, while he’s working for them ….”
“Yeah, it’s possible. Can you phone Manning and tell him, ‘the bird has flown’?”
“Holy cow! How far do you think?”
“Moscow.”
“So there’s no change of retrieving it?”
“None as far as I can ascertain.”
After taking my leave of CJ, I made my way back to Norton on the Marsh. Although I had brought a torch, I scarcely needed it, as there was sufficient light from the moon to see by. It took me twenty minutes before I neared the boundary of the village. No gamekeepers or security guards challenged me; this place was a security nightmare. Did Bryant think double agents slept all night?
It was only 9 p.m. when I reached the village. There were no sounds or lights coming from the pub. The darts match must have finished early. In fact, the whole place was eerily quiet. I couldn’t see any lights coming from cottage windows either. This was what I imagined England had been like in the blackout of World War Two. As I walked up the path to my cottage, I decided to take a detour and see if Eva Horaknova was at home.
She was. I stood in the shadows at the back of her cottage and watched her through the kitchen window. She sat at the table, which was illuminated by a small lamp, with her head in her hands, shoulder-length blonde hair spilling over her face. There were a number of sheets of paper, crunched into small balls, lying on the table. I could hear the sound of sobbing from where I was standing. Obviously she was deeply unhappy, but was she a spy? How likely would it be for a spy to be copying out formulas in full view of the window?
I heard the click of the front gate opening, and loud footsteps crunching on the gravel path. They were definitely a man’s. Then I heard a tapping on Eva’s front door, but she didn’t answer it. Perhaps this wasn’t a welcome visitor. The knocking grew more persistent. Whoever this was, he wasn’t going away.
“Eva, open the door. Come on, I know you’re in there. I just want to talk to you. Talk. That’s all, I promise.”
This was a voice I’d first heard a few hours ago. Bryant had been very keen to pile the suspicion on Eva and here he was knocking on her door. Why was he was visiting her at home? Was he a spurned lover? Or a blackmailer?
Eva got up from the table and I heard her unlocking the door. I couldn’t make out what she said, but in a moment she reappeared in the kitchen, followed by Bryant.
“Aren’t you going to offer me a drink Eva?” he said.
“Yes, of course. Would you li
ke a cup of tea?”
Bryant laughed at her – an unkind, bitter laugh. “Oh Eva, Eva. You’ve been watching too many propaganda films about the British. No, I want a real drink. You have vodka, don’t you? All you Commies love it.”
As I watched this drama unfold from my hiding place in her back garden, my breath began to catch in my chest. Eva was stunningly beautiful – she was blonde and blue-eyed, and she moved with the grace of a dancer. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from her:. She was exactly my type and I fervently hoped she was straight; otherwise, this could get complicated.
“Yes.” Eva reached up and opened a cupboard, taking down a bottle and two glasses.
Bryant took the bottle from her and poured two shots. His hand was shaking and he spilt some on the table. He downed his drink in one gulp, refilled his glass and gulped that down too. Eva left hers untouched.
“Are you too high-class to drink with me?” Bryant said coldly.
Eva looked puzzled. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”
He sneered. “You never understand anything, do you?”
“Please, Philip. I’ve tried to explain to you that my English is not good for social life.”
Bryant grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him. “Understand this, Eva. You’re here because I allow you to be. Now it’s payback time.”
He shoved his hand down the front of her blouse and there was a ripping sound as the fabric tore. Eva’s right hand had managed to find her vodka glass on the table and she threw the contents into Bryant’s face. He let out a yelp, but let go of her to rub his eyes. She had backed up against the sink and was shaking with fear.
“You bitch. I only wanted you to be nice to me, like you were before,” Bryant growled, wiping his face.
He took a step forward and I hoped that he would have the sense to leave because, from what I’d observed, Eva would go down fighting. Then I would have to intervene, which would mean jeopardising my cover. But I knew she would be no match for a bully and a misogynist like Bryant, who would be trained in how to do the maximum amount of damage without it showing.
There was a heavy silence and then the front door slammed.
I crept round to my lodgings. What was going on? Was Bryant setting up Eva as a KGB agent because she’d rejected him? I had a thousand questions in my head as I lay down and tried to sleep.
Eventually I drifted off, only to wake at 4 a.m. covered in a clammy sweat. This time I had no CJ to bring me back into the light.
CHAPTER 4
DAY TWO
I was late. I had finally fallen back to sleep at around 5.30 a.m., and had woken with a start at 8.30 a.m. Damn. I leapt out of bed, showered quickly and selected a sober black business suit. I scraped my hair into a ponytail and applied some lipstick and mascara; it would have to do. I searched the kitchen in vain for a toaster; breakfast for me would just be a cup of tea.
My appointment with Professor Watkins was scheduled for 9 a.m. I had five minutes to get there. I revved the car and it flew down the road. Strange – even at this hour of the morning, I saw no signs of life in the village.
Yesterday’s glorious day had been banished and a grey blustery one had taken its place, which wasn’t unusual for this time of year. Bryant’s P6 Rover was conspicuous by its absence. I would have thought that he would be here, attempting to rectify some of his appalling security issues. I hugged my raincoat around me against the squalls of wind as I hurried across the car park.
The heavy wooden door of the Manor House was open, revealing a beautiful parquet floor, unfortunately marred by leaves that were strewn about, blown in by the wind. The corridor was deserted, which was also strange: as this was the main Admin block, I would have expected some activity. Heavy brown doors lined both sides of the hallway; the name plaques were above eye level, and each occupant’s name was written in an elaborate script on faded parchment paper. I had to squint to read the labels. Finally, at the end of the corridor facing the toilets, I found the Professor’s office. I knocked tentatively and a woman dressed in brown from head to foot opened the door.
“Good morning,” I said. “I’ve an appointment with the Professor.”
“Yes dear, he’s expecting you. Do come in.” Her voice was slightly high-pitched. She peered at me through thick bifocals. It was difficult to estimate her age, as her hair was permed into an old-fashioned, unflattering style, but I guessed she was in her late forties.
“Thank you.”
“Take a seat.” She gestured to her right, and I sat down on an uncomfortable wooden chair and scanned the room, which had been decorated in various shades of an institutional brown. The paint had started to flake away from the corners of the walls and lay in small, untidy heaps on the stained brown carpet. The cleaner, if there was one, clearly couldn’t be bothered to vacuum them up. Some old cobwebs were stubbornly clinging to the tops of the curtains and there was a thin layer of dust on the metal filing cabinets. It was a dull, cheerless room, and I would have hated to spend my working day in such a depressing environment. The other occupant of the room addressed me again.
“Cup of tea, dear?”
I smiled. “Yes, please.” The Professor’s secretary, who had returned to her neatly organised desk, reached behind her chair and switched on a kettle that was situated on a small trolley behind her.
“Have you worked here long?” I asked her.
“Since the facility opened. Ten years, dear.”
I smiled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m Reynolds. Miss Martha Reynolds, dear. I’m the Prof’s secretary.”
“Do you mind if I smoke?” I said, reaching into my bag.
“This is a no smoking zone, dear. The Prof and I hate cigarettes, but you can smoke outside, if you wish. Don’t put your cigarette out on the lawn. It’s the Professor’s pride and joy.”
Suitably chastened, I put my Rothmans back in my handbag. Leaning forward, I accepted the cup of tea that she passed me with a smile.
“Did you know Mester and Maksimov?” I asked her, blowing across the rim of my cup.
“Such a shame they’ve both passed on.” Miss Reynolds said, her smile cooling slightly.
“Yes, but did you know them?”
“Only in passing, when they popped in to see the Professor. He operates on an open door policy.” She changed the subject. “The Prof has been very coy about your arrival. Normally he updates me on all the new employees, but not this time. I understand you are staying in Squirrel Cottage, next to Doctor Horaknova.”
“Yes, that’s right. I’m here for two weeks. I’m doing a time and motion study for the Ministry.”
“How very interesting. Normally the Ministry contact me in the first instance when new staff are due to arrive, but this time I’ve had no notification. Paperwork. It’s the bane of my life. At any rate, I need to know your next-of-kin details, in case there’s an emergency.” She lifted her pen and looked at me expectantly.
I smiled again. “I don’t think that’s necessary, as I’m only here for a short time. However, I may ask my landlady to forward my post. What’s the postcode for my cottage?”
She gave a little shake of her head. “Oh no, dear. All the incoming and outgoing mail comes through me. We can’t be too careful.”
“Of course. Do other employees receive mail?”
“Some of them do – the ones who live here all the time. Poor Doctor Maksimov didn’t have a family, although he regularly received post. Most of it was scientific journals and the like. But the new arrival, Doctor Horaknova,” Miss Reynolds lowered her voice and leaned slightly towards me, “is a permanent resident. Poor thing, she doesn’t go anywhere, and doesn’t receive any post. She must be quite alone in the world.”
I remarked. “I suppose it can’t be easy settling into a new country.”
Miss Reynolds scowled. “But that’s the choice they make when they decide to defect, don’t you think, Miss Faber?”
The intercom buzzed. M
iss Reynolds lifted the receiver and listened briefly. “Certainly. I’ll send her in now.”
She turned back to me and attempted to smile, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. It was obvious I had annoyed her.
Professor Watkins was seated behind a huge mahogany desk, cluttered with papers, thick files and textbooks.
“Good morning, Miss Faber. The Ministry and Braithwaite have briefed me, so I’ll assist you all I can.”
He didn’t attempt to rise and greet me, which was unusual for a man of his generation. I estimated that he was probably in his mid- to late sixties. His hair was completely white with a matching beard. His cheeks were flushed a bright red and I wondered if he suffered from high blood pressure. He could have passed for a benevolent Santa Claus, except that his eyes were the colour of a cold sea. He wore an old tweed jacket that had seen better days, over a red plaid waistcoat, topped off with a large red and white spotted bow tie.
I quickly scanned the room. It was large and furnished with two old brown sofas and chunky armchairs circa 1950. Three walls were given over to bookshelves that were groaning under the weight of hundreds and hundreds of books. There was no room to sit, as books were stacked on every surface in the room, including the floor. I walked gingerly across to the chair he indicated with a wave of his hand; about twenty books sat on it. Behind it, dark curtains of an uncertain colour had been pulled back from a grimy window to showcase the billiard table–perfect lawn.
“Professor, would you mind moving the books, please?”
“I’m sorry. Let me put them somewhere else.”
He bustled round the corner of his desk and gathered the books into his arms, and then looked around helplessly. As there was no clear surface on which to deposit them, he placed them on his own seat. Then, realising that he now hadn’t anywhere to sit, he perched on the edge of his desk. I sat on the vacated chair and had to crane my neck upwards to see his face. As I pushed my chair back, there was a crash. Books that had been propped up against the chair legs had fallen to the floor.
“Oh dear, there’s no space in here,” said the Professor apologetically. “Don’t worry. I’ll sort them out later.”
