by Jaye Rothman
I got to my feet and gathered my things. As I made my way through the waiting room, I smiled and nodded to Dr Buchanan’s receptionist, an attractive brunette who looked to be in her early 30s.
“Miss Faber,” she called out as I was putting on my raincoat.
“Yes? Can I help you?” Smiling, I walked back over to her desk.
She looked apprehensive and ill at ease. Although there was no one in the office, she looked round as if to reassure herself we were alone.
“You’re not MI5, are you, Miss Faber?”
I had a sense she had something important to tell me. My drink would have to wait.
“No. And please call me Nikki.” I decided to tell her the truth. “I’ve been brought in from MI6 to try and find out what’s been going on here. What’s your name?”
I reached for a chair from the waiting area and placed it next to her desk.
“Pat Varley. I’ve been here for two years. I’m ex-military. I used to be a Corporal in the Red Caps.” A Red Cap was Army military police.
“That’s good news for me. Have you seen or heard anything that concerned you in the last two weeks?”
“I’ve been worried about what’s been happening here for much longer than that.”
“Really? Can you tell me?”
Suddenly she burst out crying. I handed her a tissue from the box on her desk.
“I’m sorry.” She made an effort to compose herself. “It’s about Laz.”
“Laz? Laszlo Mester?”
She nodded. “It’s horrible what people are saying about him in the village. He would never, ever work for the Russians by choice. He loathed them. He was so proud to have a British passport and live in a free country.” Pat wiped her eyes.
I asked gently, “Were you having an affair with him?”
She nodded. “Yes. For about eight months. When he first arrived, I’d see him around the village but that was it. Then one afternoon I was walking past his cottage and complimented him on his garden, and he invited me in for a drink. Then we became more than friends. Of course, I knew he was married, but he and his wife didn’t get on. Our plan was to marry after he was divorced. We were very discreet. Well, I thought we were.” She blew her nose. “Clearly we weren’t.”
Pat took a deep breath. “That pig Polakoff found out. He was a bully to poor Laz. It was he and Yerzov who encouraged Professor Watkins in that idiotic idea to use Russian as the first language in the lab. Laz was outraged. He hated the Soviets because of what happened in Hungary. He had to leave because he fought actively against the Soviet occupation. But for this to happen in England, when the toxins are supposed to be a weapon for our country… Laz was distraught.”
I offered her a cigarette and she took one gratefully. As she exhaled, she continued. “Six months ago Maksimov told Laz that he thought he’d made a breakthrough with this new formula he had discovered. He needed Laz’s help, so he asked him to assist him, but he was adamant that it should be kept on the QT.”
Pat tapped the ash onto a brown envelope. “When Laz asked him why, Maksimov said it would be their tickets out of here. The idea was that both of them would claim credit for the formula, and the British Government would be falling over with gratitude and let Maksimov emigrate to Israel. Then Laz would run the facility here or be given a prestigious academic post. I told him it was extremely risky, but once Laz had an idea in his head…” She trailed off, grinding out her cigarette on the edge of the metal rubbish bin.
“I don’t know how Polakoff found out what they were doing, but he did. Spied on them, I expect. He threatened to go to the Professor and denounce them as traitors if they didn’t share their findings with him. Laz was so upset. I’d never see him so… Anyway, I still have contacts in the military police, and I contacted my old commanding officer, Captain Danby. I asked if Laz could meet with him, so that’s why he went up to London that day. He wasn’t going to buy his wife an anniversary gift – that was complete rubbish. The weekend before, Laz had told her he wanted a divorce. She was more than agreeable; Laz had thought for a long time that she was having an affair with their next door neighbour. Anyway, poor Laz was murdered before he could warn anyone.”
Pat took another cigarette and lit it. “I’m frightened. I know Polakoff’s disappeared, but Laz thought…”
“What did Laz think, Pat?” I prodded.
Pat took a deep breath. “He suspected that others here were working for the KGB.”
“Did you go to Bryant?”
“No, no we didn’t trust him. He was far too friendly with the Professor and I wondered at times whose side he was really on.” She looked quizzically at me.
“Did Polakoff blackmail you, Pat?”
Her eyes filled with tears again. “Yes. About seven weeks ago I came to work and there was an envelope sitting on my desk. I opened it and there were a number of photos of Laz and me in, shall we say, ‘compromising positions.’ If this had become public knowledge, we would both have lost our jobs, as employees are forbidden to form liaisons in the facility. It’s one of the Professor’s stupid rules. I wonder what he would do if he found out that Bryant is having a ‘liaison’ with Eva Hornorkova. Although this place…” – she indicated the village with a wave of her hand – “has its downside, it’s quite a nice place to live. There are no expenses here. Everything including the rent is free, plus the salary is good for, to be honest, not doing much.”
“Are you sure about Bryant?”
“Yes. He’s been seen leaving her cottage in the early hours. He didn’t waste much time – he was sleeping with her within a month of her arrival.” My heart sank. I couldn’t forget how Eva had burnt me with her stare, and I had secretly hoped that she shared my predilections. But clearly not.
Pat paused and lit another cigarette. “That same afternoon, Polakoff phoned me here. He didn’t give his name, but I knew it was him. He threatened to send copies of the photos to the Professor. When I asked what he wanted, he said, ‘Tell Mester to do what I tell him.’” She blew smoke to one side.
“Did you tell Laz about the photos?”
“Yes. Initially he was furious, but then he seemed resigned. Three weeks ago, however, he became more and more anxious. He was having trouble sleeping and eating. He was a bag of nerves. That’s when I contacted Captain Danby.”
“Thanks for helping me, Pat. I think it might be a good idea for you to be somewhere safe, away from the facility until this mess is sorted out. OK?”
“Yes,” she said shakily.
I asked if I could use her phone and then called Manning. He agreed to dispatch two Special Branch officers immediately to escort Pat to a secure location.
“Don’t worry,” I said to her. “I’ll stay with you.”
She flashed me a grateful smile. I made us each a cup of tea and together we waited for Special Branch.
Ten minutes later… That was when I heard it. “Putt, putt, putt, putt”. The distinctive sound of a BMW motorbike – and it was coming closer. When did Special Branch start riding German motorbikes? It would take SB about twenty minutes to make the trip here – and why would they be riding motorbikes at all when they had a “package” to escort?
“Pat,” I said, getting to my feet, “is there a safe place you can hide in?”
Her eyes went wide with fear. “Yes, there’s the stationery cupboard.” She pointed at a discreet brown door in the corner of the room.
“OK. Get in there, get down on the floor and don’t come out until you hear me give you the all-clear.” I knew her military training would kick in and she would obey.
“OK,” she said. She turned and opened the door, slipped in and pulled it quietly closed behind her.
Meanwhile, I ran to lock and bolt the main office door, hoping to buy myself a few moments of precious time. I figured our assailants would probably kick or shoot at the door, so I positioned myself behind Pat’s desk, giving myself an unbroken line of fire. I took my Beretta out of my shoulder holster, l
oaded it and flicked the safety catch off. Crouching, I grasped my weapon with both hands, my mind racing. How had these men managed to get through the entrance to the woods without being challenged?
A chill swept through me. Perhaps they had been here all the time.
Now I could hear gravel crunching as the bike skidded to a stop. There was silence as the engine was cut and then the metallic “chunk” of the kickstand engaging. I heard footsteps on gravel. My heart sank: there were two distinctive sets. A moment later, the door handle rattled. I heard two voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying. A bead of sweat trickled down my forehead. Impatiently, I wiped it away and concentrated on my breathing: deep and regular. If my aim weren’t fast and accurate, then Pat and I would die in a hail of bullets.
There were two thumps, loud and close together, and the splintering of wood. They had used silencers, and had only needed two shots. These were professional hit men. With a crash, they kicked the door in and I saw daylight. A small, black cylindrical object landed in the middle of the room. A grenade! I had, at best, seven seconds to move. I threw myself to the ground, used my elbows and knees to propel myself towards the doorway of the Doctor’s office. I covered my head with my arms, and didn’t look up. There was a deafening bang and then a blinding flash. A stun grenade! Why not an ordinary one? Because they wanted me alive. If they were the professionals I figured they were, they would come for me now, hoping I would be blind, deaf and disoriented.
I had to go on the defensive. I crawled over to the doorway, coughing in the dust cloud created by falling plaster. There was no sound from outside. Why weren’t they coming for me? The door was half open. I counted and waited, and then suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a green-sleeved arm emerge from around the doorframe. I took aim, fired and heard a scream and a tirade of profanities. Then behind me there was the tinkle of window glass and another grenade rolled onto the carpet. I covered my head with my jacket, flattened myself on the floor and closed my eyes. An explosion rocked the building.
My ears were ringing. It was as if all the church bells in the City of London were pealing simultaneously inside my head. I flexed my muscles; everything seemed to be in order. But would I be able to stand up? My balance would be affected. These men were counting on that. One of them was injured, so that would slow his reactions down, but where was he? And where was the other guy? Where was Lonnie? Why wasn’t he here? The whole village would have heard the blasts.
Getting carefully to my feet, I brushed plaster dust from my hair and face and retrieved my Beretta from under a heap of rubble. I edged over to the door frame and tried to steady my weapon with both hands. I was seeing double. I felt sick and my head spun dangerously. I couldn’t focus.
Suddenly I sniffed the air. Smoke. The stun grenade had started a fire. Flames were licking out from the jumbled heaps of magazines and paper.
It seemed that my assailants were deciding if they had time to wait it out, terminate the operation or come in after me. Time was ticking away – theirs and mine. One of us would have to move soon. Fire was a horrible way to die. Flames leaped up another pile of paper. It wouldn’t be long before the whole surgery was ablaze. I heard the sound of coughing from inside the stationery cupboard.
Through the surgery door, I saw the front door slowly open. A man dressed in green edged round the frame in gun stance, scanning the room. I squeezed the trigger twice rapidly and he staggered backwards as my first shot hit him in the shoulder. The second blew a hole in his chest. He was dead before he hit the ground. It was Corporal Price.
Where was Private Johnson? Had he aborted?
No such luck. His heavy boots crunched down on the glass and plaster as he strode into the room. A large purple and blue bruise covered half his face – my house key had inflicted some serious damage. Blood ran down his left arm, leaving a trail on the floor, but he was oblivious to it. He gave a cursory glance at his dead companion and then whirled in my direction – I must have moved. His finger pressed the trigger. I stepped to the right and his bullet embedded itself in the wall where I had been standing. I let off two rounds in quick succession. He made a gurgling sound, his hands frantically clawing at his chest. He fell to his knees and toppled on his side. His eyes were open, staring unseeingly at me. He was dead. I had beaten the odds. I was alive.
I could hear the crackle and spitting of paper as the flames took hold in earnest, shooting along the carpet. The opening of the door had fanned the fire, which had spread and was flickering around the legs of the desk. Dense black smoke was filling the room. In vain I looked round for a fire extinguisher but I couldn’t locate one. I had to get Pat out of the cupboard. I shouted, “Hang on, Pat. I’m going to get you out of here.” I ran to the door and pulled on it, but it didn’t move. Jammed. I grabbed the door handle with both hands and pulled. It didn’t budge. It was wedged tight. Pat banged on the door with both fists.
“Help me, please!”
“Pat, I’m going to find something to jemmy the door.”
I looked around frantically. There was nothing. I could hear the wailing of sirens. Would the fire brigade get here in time?
Then I remembered the fireplace in Dr Buchanan’s office. Was there a poker? The smoke was becoming denser by the second. Tears ran down my face. I wiped them away with the back of my hand. I could barely see through the smoke. I covered my face with my jacket and groped my way to the surgery.
Visibility was better in here, but wisps of grey smoke had started to infiltrate the room. Yes, I had been right. A black poker stood next to the fireplace. I took large gulps of air as I ran to pick it up. The smoke was getting thicker. Pat wouldn’t have long before she suffocated. I turned to run back to the office and as I did, my right foot hit something and I fell heavily over Price’s dead body. The poker flew out of my hand with a clang. I struggled to my knees and frantically patted around the now-smoking carpet, searching for it. At last my left hand found the heavy metal handle. I jumped to my feet and ran towards the cupboard, coughing and retching. Damn, it was getting hellishly difficult to breathe. Placing my left hand on the cupboard’s handle, I rammed the end of the poker into the lock and then used all my remaining strength to lever the lock. Suddenly there was a splintering of wood, and the door gave away.
I pulled Pat Varley to her feet. She was barely conscious. I pulled and dragged her towards the light.
Pat’s face was a deathly white, but she was breathing. I took my suit jacket off and laid it over her, and then knelt down and cradled her head in my hands. I looked up at the sky. A light rain had started to fall. Usually I complained about the rain, but today I didn’t.
Two black Marina cars with flashing lights were approaching, followed by a fire engine. Car doors started opening and slamming. With huge relief I saw four large men running towards us.
“Faber! Are you Faber?”
“Yes. Phone for an ambulance” – I indicated Pat. “She needs to go to hospital.”
“What about you?”
“No, I’m OK.”
I looked past him. Where was Lonnie? My heart missed a beat. He had never failed to back me up, unless he couldn’t.
“My partner,” I said. “He was with these men. I think….” I couldn’t continue as my eyes had filled with tears. I needed to think rationally.
“We need to check the pub,” I ordered. I reloaded my Beretta. Something had happened to Lonnie, I knew it had.
I shouted at the smallest of the Special Branch men. “Please, can you look after her?” I indicated Pat’s still form.
“Roger,” he said, and dashed over. He knelt quickly beside me to take my spot at Pat’s head. I jumped to my feet and ran to the pub with two of the Special Branch men hard on my heels. I pulled at the door handle but it didn’t move. Fighting my rising panic, I jangled it again. It was firmly locked.
The larger of the Special Branch men gently moved me aside and with one well-aimed kick at the lock, the wood around the door cracke
d and splintered.
“Get back,” he ordered. Both of them unholstered their weapons. “On my count of three.”
His partner opened the door and slid in. No shots rang out.
The first man spoke again. “Stay here,” he ordered me. “We’re going to search it.” I nodded dumbly. Lonnie must be in there.
Moments later, although it felt like an hour, the larger agent’s voice shouted out to me. “Faber! Get an ambulance!” Heart pounding, I sprinted back across the car park, where I found Joe Smart, an MI5 officer, in charge of the scene. Breathlessly, I relayed the request, adding, “Joe, it’s Lonnie.”
Smart got into his car and I saw with relief that it had been fitted with a phone. He picked it up and requested and ambulance, then turned to reassure me.
“Steady, love, it’s coming,” he said. “ETA is five minutes.”
I ran back to the pub and through the doors. “Lonnie, Lonnie where are you?” I was frantic with worry. It looked as if there had been a struggle in the public bar, as stools were upended and shards of glass littered the floor and bar top. Half-eaten plates of food lay on the top of the bar; split beer had made lakes and pools on the counter and was dripping down onto the bare floorboards.
“He’s over here.” I followed the voice, which came from the back of the pub. A half-glass pebbled door had “Lounge bar” written across it in red script. I pulled it open, and there was Lonnie lying prone on one of the red imitation leather seats that surrounded the room.
“Is he OK?’ I asked the agent, attempting to stem my rising panic.
“Yes, love. He’s been drugged. He’ll probably sleep until tomorrow.”
