by Jaye Rothman
I had become careless, as I should have noticed that I was being followed. Someone had been lying in wait for me.
I couldn’t help but analyse the irony of the syringe attack. I was certain that it has been filled with toxin, probably the same type that had killed Mester and Maksimov. It seemed that it was remarkably easy to get hold of and a clear message would have been sent to MI6 from the KGB: We have your toxin. If I hadn’t thwarted my assailant, I would probably be lying dead in the morgue from toxin poisoning, likely a variation of the toxin that I had killed Amisi with. Krav Maga had saved my life yet again, I thought grimly. It was a close combat form of fighting that had been developed by the Israelis. I had trained with the Mossad and become fairly proficient in it. The instructors were tough and uncompromising and had ignored the fact that Dvora and I were women. They had pushed us to the limit of our endurance, but we had survived and I, for one, had been grateful for their tough stance.
Dvora Bar Zahavi was a Mossad agent, and my ex-lover. I wondered for the millionth time where she was. Was she happy? Did she have a girlfriend? I had been so in love with her I would have gone into battle for her, loved her until the end of time, but she had chosen to reject me, and that had been the hardest, cruellest blow of my life. Five long years had passed since I’d seen, touched or made love to her.
Human beings cannot exist without water. Yet, I had made my own desert, because I had deprived my soul of the love and affection that I desperately needed and longed for. How could I go on like this? I deserved to meet a woman who would love me unreservedly and unconditionally. But to do this I first needed to banish the ghost of Dvora.
I had lived the last five years in limbo, waiting for someone who didn’t want me. I hadn’t seriously dated, and it wasn’t for lack of opportunities or offers. But I was beginning to realise that my humanity, the goodness I had in me, my tenderness and compassion and my morality, would be completely eradicated if I continued to live without love. Despair, self-loathing, death and darkness had been my companions before CJ had brought me back into the light. I must have the courage to face the future and not brood about the past. I vowed there and then that I would not think of Dvora again.
“Earth to Sinclair? Anyone there?” Lonnie enquired. “You’ve been lost in your own thoughts for ages. Care to share them?”
“Sorry, I was thinking,” I said, mentally giving my head a shake. “Some questions have been puzzling me for the last few weeks. For instance, why couldn’t I return to England after Cairo? Because Manning told me that someone had tipped off the Egyptian authorities. And who knew about the mission at 6? Only a handful of people – the DG, Manning, Fraser, you and me.”
“You’ve forgotten Cavendish. He could have tipped off the authorities. Look at his behaviour when he was drinking. Or pillow talk? It wouldn’t be difficult to honey-trap him. He wasn’t getting any from you.” Lonnie paused. “Was he?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course he wasn’t. Yeah, I guess it was possible he had confided to someone else, though; women found him very attractive.” I thought back to the last evening of Cavendish’s life: he had made a phone call shortly before we had gone out to dinner. “But what about the Humber that followed us down here, and the attack on me? Cavendish’s out of the equation, so it must be someone else. I believe there’s a KGB mole deeply embedded in MI6. Let’s keep this between us, though, OK, Lonnie?”
He stared at me for a moment. “If what you think is true, this makes our position here very precarious and extremely dangerous. We’ll need to be very careful.”
“I agree,” I said, still deep in thought. I knew I was missing a vital piece of the jigsaw puzzle. After a long pause, I said, “Lonnie, can you phone Manning and ask him to run a deep and thorough check on Professor Watkins? And be sure to let him know that Russian is spoken in the labs instead of English. He’ll be furious, but I think this is important.”
“OK,” said Lonnie, getting to his feet. “I’ll see you later. Oh, by the way, Dr Buchanan, our facility doctor, wants you to drop by his surgery later for a check-up.” He made his way down the hall. I heard the back door shut and silence pervaded the cottage once more.
The torrential rain of last night had given way to a steady and persistent drizzle. I shivered. These old cottages were draughty and cold. There was only a spluttering gas fire in the sitting room and no heating in the bedrooms. I couldn’t wait to head back to London, to my warm, centrally heated apartment.
The first person I had to see today was the Professor. I didn’t believe for a moment that he had been completely honest with me, and it was safe to assume that he was concealing information that was pertinent to the investigation. This, combined with his interest in my knowledge of Russian and whether I had been to the East, fuelled my increasing unease. But was he working for Moscow?
I dressed quickly, grabbed a cup of tea and headed out. As I was unlocking my car, I glanced up. A shadowy figure was standing 200 yards away on the opposite side of the road, under the shelter of an oak tree. From this distance I couldn’t see if it was a man or a woman. How long had they been watching me? I unholstered my Beretta and walked briskly across the road. But as I approached the figure, it seemed to disappear into thin air. Puzzled, I looked up and down the road. Where was it? Could I have imagined it? Did I have a concussion that was affecting my sight? I walked back to my car and drove slowly to the Manor House. Bryant ran down the steps to greet me.
“Nikki, how are you?”
“Well, I’ve a large bump on my head, but otherwise I’m OK.”
The gravel crunched beneath my feet as I strode purposefully across the car park. Bryant had to run to catch up to me.
“It was fortuitous the new maintenance man found you.”
“Yes,” I said without elaborating. I didn’t have the patience to deal with small talk today. As we neared the door, however, I swung round and addressed him.
“Tell me, Bryant, why aren’t soldiers guarding the facility?”
“Because the Professor and I didn’t think it was necessary.” He was clearly annoyed. “Nothing has ever happened before, and the Ministry Of Defence were looking at cutting costs significantly. The Professor didn’t want to cut the research budgets, so we looked at other ways to cut the cloth, so to speak.”
“And this was approved by whom, exactly?”
Bryant could barely contain his outrage at my questioning. “The Minister of Defence, of course.”
“Harry Brown?’ I asked in surprise.
Bryant snapped. “No, Duncan Crane.”
This was very interesting. Three months ago Duncan Crane had been killed while on a skiing holiday in Switzerland. MI6 had been involved because he had died overseas, and there had been a suggestion of foul play, but nothing had ever been proved. He had been an expert skier and had decided to take an off-piste path down a mountain. The investigation concluded that he must have hit black ice that caused him to crash into a tree. His neck had been broken.
“You’ve employed a private contractor to guard the facility?”
“Yes. Obviously we couldn’t leave it completely unguarded.” He spoke to me as if I were a child. “We’ve four guards that work on a roster. Two are always on the main entrance, and of course there are days off, and leave.”
“Just so I’m completely clear, there are only two guards on duty at any one time?” I made an effort to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
Bryant stared back at me. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Does Braithwaite know?”
“I believe so.”
“Then please enlighten me as to why these ‘guards’ are posing as serving soldiers?”
Bryant gave me a look of contempt. “Because it gives the scientists a sense of security. There are no cutbacks on defence in the Eastern Bloc, and the scientists expect a certain level of protection.”
He changed the subject. “Braithwaite phoned me this morning and insisted that I put up some notices around the
facility. They state that there has been an outbreak of foot and mouth disease, and that admittance is prohibited. The footpath to Pagham Harbour has also been closed.”
“Excellent.”
He grabbed my sleeve. I glared at him and he dropped his hand. “Do you think there’s still a double agent here?”
“Time will tell, won’t it, Bryant?”
I didn’t bother knocking on Miss Reynolds’ door and instead walked straight into her office. She had her back to me, her head buried in a filing cabinet. When she turned round, her face paled, but she quickly recovered.
“How are you, Miss Faber?” she said pleasantly. “We were informed you had a nasty knock to your head. It’s not a good idea to go wandering in the woods after dark, is it?”
I chose not to reply. “Is the Professor in?”
“Just a minute. I’ll buzz him.”
I brushed past her and opened the door. The Professor was hunched over his desk and appeared to be making notes. He sat up with a start, spilling his tea onto his desk. “Yes, Miss Faber?” he said as he attempted to mop it up.
“I’m sorry to barge in, Professor, but I need some more information.”
Red appeared to be the Professor’s favourite colour, as he was attired in a red pullover with a red tie. He was even wearing a pair of burgundy corduroy trousers.
“I was most concerned to hear that you were attacked in our little village. I understand you’ve an appointment with Dr Buchanan later?” he said.
Word certainly travelled fast in the facility. “Yes. After lunch.”
The Professor addressed the wall above my head. “Splendid. You can’t be too complacent with head injuries: they have a nasty habit of appearing more serious than they actually are at the time, but I’m sure you know that.” His eyes flickered over me. “ Now, how can I help you?”
“You told me that employees aren’t permitted to bring families into the facility.”
“Yes, that’s right. Security is paramount.”
“So just to clarify, no one here besides Miss Reynolds has a family member living at the village?”
“Yes, that’s correct.” The Professor paused. “Of course, Miss Reynolds’ mother is elderly and uses a wheelchair. She’s been here for, let me see, three years. Miss Reynolds managed to get special dispensation from the Ministry so that her mother could come and live with her. Mrs Reynolds doesn’t go out; she spends most of her day tucked up in bed. In the summer she sits in the garden. It’s magnificent, an absolute delight. Some of the planting and the colours…”
Damn. My theory had just been blown. I kept the disappointment out of my voice. “Thanks for your time, Professor.”
His cold blue eyes held mine for a moment too long.
“A pleasure, Miss Faber. Do be careful.”
I left his office and nodded at Miss Reynolds, who was sitting at her desk typing a letter.
“Miss Faber.” She called after me.
I stopped.
“Mother and I like to invite newcomers to the facility for lunch. Dear Mother doesn’t see many people, and so enjoys a chat. I was wondering, dear, if you would like to come to lunch the day after tomorrow. Perhaps one p.m., dear?”
I always took opportunities that presented themselves like this. Usually secretaries were a good source of gossip, and in her home environment the enigmatic Miss Reynolds might disclose further Intel on the Professor and Bryant.
“Thanks, Miss Reynolds. That would be nice.”
She beamed. “One p.m., Miss Faber. Don’t be late, dear.”
Over the lunch-hour, Lonnie and I spent a frustrating few hours going through hundreds of dusty employee files that didn’t appear to have been filed in any particular order. Unsurprisingly, according to the scant documentation we managed to find, all the scientists had exemplary records. There was nothing in Maksimov’s file regarding his views on his adopted country, which didn’t surprise me. I thought the Professor had seemed over-involved and naïve when discussing the scientists. He appeared to have forgotten that they were defectors from Eastern Europe and could be ‘encouraged’ to assist their native countries, particularly if their families were threatened or they were being blackmailed.
As for his conversing in Russian with them, I was astonished and appalled that this hadn’t been discovered before. What kind of message was this sending? I would strongly urge the DG that retirement should not be negotiable for the Professor.
We gave up searching through the records at 1 p.m. Lonnie headed out to meet his “new friends” Price and Johnson for a pie and a pint in the pub, and a few minutes later I left for Dr Buchanan’s surgery, which was opposite that.
The surgery featured a standard doctor’s waiting room: rows of chairs set out around the walls of the room, a pile of old and tired magazines on a table in the centre. I gave my name to the receptionist and took a seat.
I had to wait only five minutes before Dr Buchanan came out to greet me. He was a tall man, about six foot, with a head of thick black hair. He wore a lounge suit and his old military tie. Holding the door open graciously, he ushered me into his surgery, which resembled a room in a gentlemen’s club. The walls were hung with pictures of British military victories throughout the centuries, and in pride of place on the wall above his desk was a large reproduction of “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” by Thomas Jones Barker. I was quite sure this would be off-putting for patients of a squeamish disposition as there were soldiers with sabres drawn; animal lovers would likely be sickened by the graphic depiction of horses that had been felled.
A large brick fireplace filled the corner of the room, with a small coal fire burning in the grate, but it didn’t emit any warmth: the room was freezing.
“Do take a seat,” said Dr Buchanan, indicating a chair. “How are you feeling? Do you remember me examining you?”
“Still a bit groggy, if I’m honest. No, I don’t recall seeing you before.”
“Ah. It’s possible that you might have a slight concussion. If you don’t mind, I’d like to examine you.”
Dr Buchanan asked me to follow his finger, and then shone a torch into both my eyes, to see if my pupils were dilated I guessed. At last he concluded his examination, suggested I take it easy for the next three or four days and prescribed a stronger painkiller.
“I’m from MI6, Doctor.”
“Yes, I guessed as much,” he said, writing on his prescription pad. “I didn’t think you were from 5. Bryant is completely incompetent. I’m surprised he’s still here.” He grinned conspiratorially.
I didn’t share my own opinion of Bryant.
“You served with the Blues?” I asked.
Buchanan looked taken aback. “Yes, before they merged with The Royals.”
This was the DG’s old regiment, the second most senior in the British Army.
“You’re very observant,” he remarked. He had stopped smiling and now regarded me carefully.
I smiled. “The DG told me.”
“Really. I haven’t seen him for a while. We occasionally run into each other at the Club,” he said. This must be the Blues Club in Pall Mall. Dr Buchanan fiddled with his prescription pad. “Can I help you with anything else?”
“Yes, actually there is. I understand that Maksimov was unwell.”
Buchanan looked puzzled. “No, he was as fit as a fiddle.”
“So you didn’t know he visited a Harley Street specialist about his heart?”
“No. I was astounded when Bryant told me, because there was nothing wrong with it. He had excellent blood pressure, took regular exercise. He jogged around the village every day. He was a healthy specimen.”
“Yet he chose to see an expensive consultant.”
It didn’t make any sense. Why would Maksimov spend money on consulting a specialist when he wasn’t ill? Perhaps this had been a cover story. So who was he meeting? I changed tack. “Did you see Mester often?”
“Not until this year. I’ve seen him seven times since Janu
ary, all for the same complaints – gastric problems and nausea.”
Perhaps the anxiety and stress of leading a double life had started to affect his health. “What’s the standard procedure if a scientist becomes unwell when on leave?”
“After two hours, I have to be contacted. Usually it’s a simple cold, but there is a danger that the scientists have been exposed to a nerve toxin – as what happened, sadly, in the cases of Mester and Maksimov.”
“There are antidotes available?”
Doctor Buchanan shook his head. “No, not really. The focus here is entirely on discovering new nerve toxins that are stable and can be used effectively.”
“Do all the, ah, residents consult you?”
“No, not all. Some employees prefer to consult their own GP. I’m here if they want to see me, and of course for any emergencies that occur on site.”
“What about Eva Horaknova?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary springs to mind. She was thoroughly medically vetted when she first arrived, and the only time she’s consulted me was for period pains six weeks ago. I prescribed some medication. She’s not been back.”
I rose. “Thanks very much, Doctor.”
Now I needed to discover who Maksimov was seeing on his monthly visits to London.
“Doctor, do you have a secure phone?”
“Yes. Use this one. I haven’t any more patients today. I’m walking over to Pagham Harbour to do some birdwatching. Let my receptionist know when you leave, and she’ll lock up.”
I dialled Manning’s secure line and asked him to check if any offices at the Harley Street address had been vacated recently. He warned me to watch my back and I rang off. I sat back for a moment in Buchanan’s chair. I needed a drink, a large one, and time to figure out some of the inconsistencies that bothered me. The thought of a Johnnie Walker always filled me with a particular kind of pleasure. When I had a few drinks I could completely relax and escape the reality of my solitary existence. At times, the crushing loneliness I endured was overwhelming. I had no real friends to speak of, just a few acquaintances at Broadway. I was tired of solo visits to the movies and TV dinners for one. I longed to find a girlfriend to share my life. So far, I had been spectacularly unsuccessful and had had to content myself with one-night stands with women I picked up at the Gateways, a well-known lesbian club in London.
