by Winona Kent
“No,” Nora replied, coldly, “I did not. And as this appears to be a gross error on your part, I would appreciate your re-instating my reservation immediately.”
“I’d like to be able to help you, Mrs. Bolton, but, unfortunately, today’s flight is already overbooked by 32 passengers. We’re completely full in all classes.”
“Then you’ll have to remove someone from your computer. It’s imperative I board that plane.”
“Unfortunately, Mrs. Bolton, I’m not able to do that. I can offer to put you on a priority waitlist, if you’d care to travel on a stand-by basis—”
“That is not possible,” Nora snapped. “I’m certain you’re not the only airline flying to Antigua. Perhaps your competition will be more responsive to my needs—”
“British Airways does have a flight at approximately the same time as ours,” the agent replied, helpfully, checking the schedule on the CRT. “However I am showing seats full in all classes.”
An impatient queue had formed behind Nora. On either side of her, bemused passengers were practising minding their own business, all the while silently congratulating themselves that it wasn’t them facing the same sort of predicament.
Nora looked at her watch. Behind her, a man cleared his throat. The agent waited, his fingers resting on the keyboard.
Suddenly, she saw them: two men, stepping quickly out of the queue, and, to her left, another man with red hair, his arm in a sling.
Harris.
Evan Harris.
And the conspiracy became abruptly clear to her. The travel agency…the cancelled reservations…
Abandoning her luggage, Nora ran, surprising the two detectives, catching Harris off-guard, giving all three of them the slip as she disappeared into the crush of passengers crowding the Departures concourse.
“Watch her! Watch her!” Evan shouted into the small radio that was clipped to the collar of his jacket.
There was a crackling silence in his ear, and then:
“She’s outside.”
It was Ian, running. Evan could hear his son’s breath, hard and fast. Something unintelligible blasted through his earjack.
“She’s in a taxi!”
“Stay with her, old son.”
“Follow that cab.” Ian jumped into a taxi that had just discharged its fare.
“You what?”
“Go! Go!” Ian shouted, hurling a £10 incentive into the front seat.
As the taxi lurched forward, Ian peered through the windscreen at the disappearing rear of Nora’s taxi. A flurry of conversations flooded his earjack as half a dozen of Scotland Yard’s finest joined in the chase.
“Northeast on whatever road this is,” he said, into the microphone. “Crossing Chipstead Road…roundabout ahead—”
“Have you got a registration number, old son?”
“No chance. South past the Staff Car Park…uhh…north again—”
“She’s on the main road out,” his father said.
“Uhhh…no—we just rounded the petrol station. Missed the turnoff for London. Looks like we’re touring Heathrow. Stand by.”
“Stop,” Nora commanded.
“What, here?”
“Here.”
She kicked the door open, and before the taxi had come to a complete halt, and the driver could protest about his unpaid fare, was gone.
“Uhh…Terminal One,” Ian said, briefly, into his radio. “Arrivals.”
“She can’t be serious,” said one of the Special Branch men.
Ian was already out of the taxi. “She’s serious,” he confirmed. “Where the hell are you guys?”
“Right behind you, old son.”
“She’s into the terminal…I’m losing her…” He was running. “OK—spotted her—Baggage Claim—Skyshop—”
There was a sudden burst of static.
“Say again?”
There was no reply.
The driver of Evan’s car screeched to a stop in front of Terminal 1 and Evan leaped out and flew into the building. The concourse was packed with arriving passengers. He looked for his son, unsuccessfully. He was trailed into the terminal by his assembled contingency of plain-clothed police officers.
“Ian…?” he tried, again, but, again, there was no answer.
He searched the Domestic Baggage Reclaim area.
“Ten to one they’ve gone down into the tube station,” said Detective Inspector Crowther, who was monitoring the conversation, and who’d been in the queue behind Nora at Terminal 3. “This way.”
Ian stopped running. He was attracting undue attention to himself. He slowed to a brisk walk, maintaining a close distance behind his target, using the cover of other travellers to keep himself concealed. He wasn’t sure if she knew he was behind her. She probably thought she’d outwitted her pursuers at Terminal 3, relying on the element of surprise, the advantage of unpredictability. Her adrenalin was surging—he could tell by the way she was walking—buoying her confidence, carrying her down to the platform in the central Underground station that served Terminals 1, 2 and 3.
If she got aboard a train, he would have to follow her. If he turned around and surfaced and tried to rendezvous with his father, he’d lose her. She’d disappear at Hatton Cross or Hounslow West or at any of the other stations in the labyrinth of lines.
“Anybody there?” he checked, quietly, into his microphone, but he knew: if he wasn’t getting any chatter in his ear, they weren’t very likely to pick up anything emanating from his end.
He could try and detain her on the platform, but then what? He was without the power to arrest—not even his cohorts at MI5 could boast that. They relied on the officers from Scotland Yard’s Special Branch to execute the legalities, just as the RCMP served the Canadian intelligence community.
Nora mingled with the passengers waiting on the platform. Ian glanced swiftly at the indicator: there was a train due from Terminal 4 in less than two minutes. He stood just to her right, the receiver in his right ear, concealed from her, wishing he had something to alter his appearance with. He hadn’t even brought dark glasses: they were still in his car, hooked over the sun visor.
Suddenly, Nora looked directly at him. Ian consciously avoided turning his head away—a certain clue to her that he was dodging eye contact. Casually, he let his gaze wander from one end of the platform to the other, ignoring her, knowing he’d been noticed, hoping the impression would not be long lasting, all the while racking his brain to try and recall whether she was going to be able to recognize him.
His red hair was a dead giveaway. She’d make the connection—she’d know he was his father’s son—
Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement—was she going to panic and run? The train was coming—he saw the headlights in the black depths of the tunnel. No, she was standing her ground.
The train arrived and she stepped aboard, Ian close behind her. There wasn’t time for her to jump off again: he was blocking her nearest exit, and a family of Germans with two suitcases apiece the next nearest exit, midway down the car.
As the doors rumbled shut Ian saw his father appear on the platform. There was too much electrical interference from the train for him to make audio contact. The miniature speaker crackled in his ear. In a split second, he had to make a decision. Stay concealed, or send a signal—and give himself away to Nora in the process.
He took the risk, and banged the window once with his hand, hard.
Nora’s head jerked up.
The train was beginning to move, picking up speed.
Nora’s eyes shifted to the platform. She caught Evan’s acknowledgement as he pointed in the direction of Hatton Cross.
Her eyes flew back to the interior of the carriage, and to Ian. Standing at the end of the car, her back to the connecting door, she remained motionless, betraying nothing of her thoughts.
She was plotting her escape. He knew it. And he also knew that she just might be able to pull it off. If the train got to Hatton Cross befor
e a force could be summoned to intercept her—she’d be off.
It was a mile and a quarter in tunnel. The train began to slow as it approached the station. Ian focused his attention on Nora; what was she going to do?
Hatton Cross.
The train stopped, and the doors opened. One person got off; nobody got on. Nora remained where she was. Ian counted off the seconds, watching the platform for the police. If he ran up the aisle and tried to grab her, she’d bolt.
Thirty seconds.
Too long. People were getting impatient, looking around, questioning the wait. Ian realized Operational Control must have delayed the train, holding it in the station until the authorities could get there.
Nora’s eyes wavered.
In that split second, Ian took another calculated risk, rushing past the Germans, leaping over suitcases and luggage wheels.
At the same moment, Nora darted out through the open doorway of the train.
Ian thought it was ironic. There was a large poster in a frame on the tiled wall, and the poster was of Simon Darrow, exhorting him to buy into a private health scheme. Nora streaked past the poster, heading for the stairs. Ian sprinted after her as she took the steps two at a time—then, abruptly, she turned, and, half-tumbling over the metal handrail that divided the stairway in two, scrambled down again.
At the top of the stairs Ian could see a pair of uniformed police officers. He vaulted over the railing and tore down the steps again, wondering where Nora thought she could possibly run to. The exits were manned, the train had been halted.
Nora stood on her own on the platform, aware of her pursuers advancing from above, aware of Ian, whom she was daring with her eyes to come and get her—challenging him with a multitude of defiance and fury.
He could hear voices behind him now—his father and the D.I.’s from Special Branch, following the uniformed P.C.’s down from the surface.
Abruptly, Nora spun around and walked across to the westbound platform. There was a train coming from Hounslow West: Ian could feel the rush of its wind, could see the indicator, flashing gold. He trailed Nora to the far end of the platform. What was she doing?
“Do you suppose I’ll jump onto the tracks?” she said, taunting him.
“You won’t,” he answered, confidently. He could see the lights of the train in the tunnel.
“What a fitting end. The same fate as my lately departed husband. And nobody left to betray poor Victor.”
“Victor’s already betrayed himself. We eavesdropped on your conversation at Romilly Square. It was us, in fact, who arranged the evening’s entertainment, entirely for your benefit.”
Nora didn’t look as if she was inclined to believe him. She was momentarily distracted by the sound of the train behind her, in the tunnel. Stepping forward, Ian grasped her by the wrist, turning his back to the tracks.
“Didn’t think you’d do it,” he said, under his breath.
Nora said nothing. She seemed to go limp. But as the front of the train roared towards the open mouth of the tunnel, she sprang to life again, twisting around, freeing herself. Shoving against Ian’s injured shoulder, she kicked his left leg out from under him, throwing him backwards.
He could feel himself falling. He could see the train, hear it, sense it, taste it. Wildly, he grabbed the empty air in front of him, knowing there was nothing, nothing—
And then he was hit. The blow surprised him, because it came not from his right, but his left, and it was a soft sort of thud, not hard and not metallic and train-like, and he was surprised even more because he landed on the platform quite intact and quite alive, even though there were carriages hurtling past the top of his head at a distance of no more than three or four inches.
He was surprised, too, because there was somebody on top of him which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be his father.
The train squealed to a stop and its doors opened and people got on and off. There seemed to be a certain amount of activity going on in the general vicinity of Ian’s feet, and the activity appeared to involve Nora Darrow and several PC’s, one of which was a woman.
With some difficulty, Ian pushed himself up onto one elbow. His shoulder was blazing with pain. “Thanks,” he gasped.
“Don’t mention it, old son.”
His father accepted the offer of Detective Inspector Crowther’s hand to bring him back to his feet.
“I’m getting altogether too old for this sort of thing,” he complained, reaching down to help his son. “All right?”
“First Mobambo’s goon show, then Pinkerton’s firing squad, now this.” Ian grasped his father’s arm, pulling himself up. “Is there anything else I’m likely to be subjected to before we’re done, or is that about it?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Tuesday, 10 September 1991
Always a victim of long-standing neglect, the wartime emergency tunnel that connected the basement of Canada House to a passageway beneath Trafalgar Square had an uneven floor covered with a rubber mat that smelled of old galoshes, and yellow walls lined with pipes and conduits and hissing valves, and illumination provided by a series of 40 watt bulbs. Half a year earlier, that segment of the tunnel that burrowed beneath the eastern foundation wall of Canada House had succumbed to the ravages of time, and had collapsed, taking with it most of the fixtures of a woman’s lavatory directly above, and necessitating a security alert of the highest order.
Walking with Nicky Armstrong, Evan passed beneath the newly-patched portion of the passageway’s roof. It was particularly noisy at this point: two Underground lines ran nearby, four tunnels in all, burrowing beneath the traffic in the vicinity of Cockspur Street.
“I’m rather fond of this little footpath,” Nicholas mused. “It’s completely insecure—hasn’t been swept for years—but that’s the beauty of it. It’s so insignificant nobody remembers it’s here. Better than the best of our lead-walled security centres.” He patted his pockets, found his tube of sweets, and peeled the wrapping paper and foil away from the roll. Offering his fruit gums across the passageway, he paused to accommodate the thunderous pounding from a nearby tunnel. “Blasted trains,” he said. “If it’s not the Jubilee it’s the bloody Bakerloo. Electrical interference. Read errors jumping all over our computer screens during the morning and evening rush.”
Evan smiled.
“To be perfectly honest with you, I have mixed feelings about the outcome of this one. Victor was a colleague. It always comes as somewhat of a shock when the rumours one’s dealt with for decades turn out to be true.”
He paused.
“Has anybody spoken with the fledgling?”
“Rupert? Yes, Ian’s having a word with him.”
“Ah,” said Nicholas. “Good.”
Evan withdrew from his coat pocket a large brown envelope, which he passed across to his superior.
Nicholas unsealed the flap. Contained within it were a number of handwritten pages, the paper aged and appearing to have suffered considerably from having spent several decades in a damp, enclosed dead letter drop. The date at the top was April 3, 1966.
“Mark Braden’s final report,” he said, a touch of satisfaction in his voice.
“And Trevor Jackson’s diary,” Evan supplied, handing Nicholas the little book.
“Long overdue. Filed as received.” Nicholas slipped both back inside their envelope. “I’ll see MI5 gets these.”
The nondescript wooden door joining the tunnel to Charing Cross tube station, beneath Trafalgar Square, was in sight.
“I suppose you know this will go down in the books as one of our most expensive operations to date. I’m already getting bills from that special effects company you hired.”
Evan, wisely, remained silent.
“I was curious,” Nicholas said, after a moment, “about your King William Street stunt. How did you manage the illusion of a burst tunnel, Evan?”
“Illusion…?” his agent replied, as the old wooden door was unlocked. “Whoever s
aid anything about an illusion, Nicholas?”
Anthony plugged in U2 and hummed along, unabashedly, as he rode the escalator to the surface. I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For. It was almost his anthem.
Victoria in the early afternoon was relatively free of obstructions, the only impediments to Anthony’s successful appearance from the underground world below being visitors just off the Gatwick Express, laden with luggage and totally oblivious to the posted instructions advising them to Keep Left.
He cut through the station, enjoying the ambience, the urgency of the whirring indicator board, the race to the platform before the gate closed, the last minute leap onto the train, flinging the door shut seconds ahead of the guard’s whistle.
He’d spent hours here when he’d first got the part of CB, the red caboose, in Starlight Express. He’d spent hours at Waterloo, too, and on a third outing, half a day at King’s Cross—observing engines and rolling stock: diesel, electric, buffets, smoking cars.
He left the station through its northeast exit, skirting the newspaper sellers, crossing Wilton Road. The Apollo Victoria was listed, built in 1930 as a cinema, its auditorium originally decorated in blue and green to give patrons the impression they were entering an underwater fantasy world.
Much had gone on in the mounting of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s roller skating musical, notwithstanding the removal of a good number of seats, the erection of two bridges of tracking in and around the audience, and the banishment of the accompanying musicians to a claustrophobic little room somewhere underneath it all, where they kept tabs on the action above by way of strategically-placed cameras and video monitors.
Anthony entered the theatre and made his way down to the musicians’ warren. Here it was that nightly, twice on Tuesdays and Saturdays, and not at all on Sundays, elbows, hands and knees padded in self-defence, makeup applied and helmet on, for a period of six months a year earlier he had hurled himself around the stagetrack.
