by Robert Daws
Often working late into the night, she knew her presence in the empty building was never considered suspicious in any way. The guards who stood sentry at the main doors were used to the young Englishwoman leaving her workplace late in the evening. Tonight would be no exception. At 22.45, she had left her office on the second floor, taking care to keep her desk lamp on, and made her way to the roof. Supposedly out of bounds to all personnel, she had gained possession of the key. Climbing the narrow stairs to the top of the building, she had unlocked the small, metal-reinforced door that led out onto the large expanse of flat roof. Moving swiftly to the airfield side of the building, she was relieved to see that her view of the entire runway was practically unimpaired.
The airfield was full of operational planes of all shapes and sizes. Fighters, bombers and supply aircraft stood almost wing tip to wing tip along the length of the runway on both sides. All awaited refuelling, maintenance or orders for new missions. As the sole Allied airbase on the Continent, its position and security were of unimaginable importance in the fight against Hitler and the Axis powers.
Pulling the collar of her blouse up around her neck and readjusting a wisp of her honey-coloured shoulder-length hair, the woman scanned the airfield for one particular aircraft. The B24 Liberator came immediately into view, pulling away from the side of the runway and moving to the end of it in preparation for take-off. The woman’s heartbeat increased alarmingly. Her part in what was about to happen had been pivotal. Blackmail, torture and murder had been her methods. Although still only twenty-three, she was experienced in the dark arts of espionage and took great pride in her abilities and achievements. If all went to plan in the next few minutes, she would be rewarded handsomely, although the thrill of anticipation she felt was almost reward enough.
Minutes later, the Liberator thrust forward, down the terrifyingly short runway and started its ascent into the skies to the east of Gibraltar. The woman looked on as the plane climbed normally, before dipping its nose to gather speed. At this moment, she knew that the Liberator’s pilot would be struggling to control the aircraft’s elevator controls, all unaccountably and irreversibly jammed. He alone among those on board would know the seriousness of the malfunction at such a vital point in the flight.
Moments later, unable to respond to the pilot’s demands, the plane lost speed, shook violently and nose-dived. Within seconds it had crashed into the dark and unforgiving waters of the Mediterranean. From take-off to fatal submergence had taken sixteen-and-a-half seconds. It would take the best part of a minute for the alarm bell to ring out across the airfield and for an emergency truck to move urgently towards the eastern end of the runway. From her secret vantage point, the woman looked on with growing excitement, guessing correctly that all rescue efforts would be in vain. The next day the world would wake to the news that General Władysław Sikorski, his daughter and his entire staff were dead.
The woman let out a deep sigh of satisfaction, smiled and walked purposefully back towards the rooftop door. Operation complete.
Present day
Shapley adjusted her collar. The room was hot, the air conditioning seemingly ineffectual. She continued to brief the detectives.
‘Logically, we now know that Philby must have turned Ruiz into a triple-agent working for the Soviets. Her job and connections on the Rock would have proved immensely useful in enabling the sabotage of Sikorski’s doomed aircraft. Philby gave her the operation to test her loyalty to both himself and the Soviet NKVD intelligence service. Once she’d passed that test, he made much of her to MI6 as his new double-cross spy on the Rock. British intelligence bought it hook, line and sinker. Stalin must have been delighted.’
‘Bully for him,’ Broderick murmured under his breath.
Ignoring him, Shapley continued: ‘When Diana Candoza finally left Gibraltar for South Africa, we believe she left spying behind – although it’s thought she most probably had a hand in her husband’s murder. On leaving South Africa for Kenya, she was reactivated as an agent by a Soviet consulate official in Nairobi. She subsequently moved to Gibraltar to recommence her spying career. You might say the Russians hid her in plain sight.’
Shapley now reached for the glass of water that the commissioner had offered previously. As she drank thirstily, Sullivan asked the question that was on everyone’s mind. ‘So if you knew she was a Russian spy in 1962, why didn’t you arrest her?’
Shapley smiled, pleased to have got her information across so well. ‘The oldest intelligence trick in the book – we let her carry on, but under extremely close observation. She had no idea she’d been outed and so continued to work for another twenty-seven years for what had by then become the KGB. Until the Berlin Wall came down, in fact. For most of that time, MI6 made sure she was fed clever misinformation. Enough useful bits and pieces to please her handlers, but also many other things that led to more revelations about KGB operations and operatives during the Cold War than we could ever have imagined possible. She became of less use to both us and the Russians over time. But even towards the end of her spying years, she was still unwittingly providing us with enough intelligence to keep us more than interested.’
‘So over a period of fifty years, Ruiz had been a spy for Franco’s Nationalists, the German Abwehr, British intelligence and the Soviet KGB?’ Massetti asked incredulously.
‘Yes, indeed. A truly extraordinary career,’ Shapley conceded.
‘And Sister Clara has no idea about her mother’s work with the KGB?’ Massetti continued.
‘None whatsoever.’
‘Sister Clara also has no idea that Diana Ruiz isn’t her real mother,’ Sullivan added pointedly. ‘She was born Rosia Martínez. In 1942, her real mother, Marisella, was brutally murdered by Ruiz – known then as Diana Candoza, or Diament – after the poor girl became caught up in an espionage plot to kill Eisenhower. Rosia Martínez – a.k.a. Sister Clara – is also unknowingly a cousin of Eduardo Martínez, who she poisoned and suffocated to death in San Roque earlier this week.’
‘I’d prefer not to be the one to tell her that,’ Broderick muttered.
‘None of you will have to,’ Shapley said, ‘for the very good reason that we have no intention of telling her.’
The silence that greeted Shapley’s remark was born out of genuine shock. Nobody wanted to ask a question lest they appeared foolish for missing the reasoning behind the MI6 officer’s announcement. Recognising this, Shapley came to their rescue.
‘MI6 and both the British and Gibraltar governments at the highest levels have decided that the truth about Diana Ruiz’s long career must remain secret. There are many things about her activities that are still far too sensitive for us to allow the full story to spill into the public domain. As well as any political considerations, our ongoing intelligence work and special relationships might be compromised. A restless and territorially ambitious Russia is changing the political climate. A new Cold War is becoming a daily reality. The events and revelations of your investigations over the last few days could cause great embarrassment and danger to both the UK and the British Overseas Territory of Gibraltar.’
‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ Sullivan spoke at last. ‘We’ve just arrested Sister Clara for three murders. The story will have to be told on those grounds alone.’
Barrillo gave Shapley a nervous look. He was not prepared to reply to Sullivan’s observation. Shapley had no such fears. ‘We have a plan. A plan that depends on your co-operation and loyal support.’
‘I have no idea where you’re going with this,’ Broderick replied. ‘But I have to say, I’m feeling pretty uncomfortable about things so far.’
Massetti, Sullivan and Calbot all nodded their agreement.
‘I understand your feelings, Chief Inspector,’ Shapley said. ‘They’re to be expected. All I’d ask is that you appreciate that some decisions of state, particularly those involving national security and diplomatic processes, have to be obeyed without explanation of their need or, perhaps, morality
. I’ve already probably explained too much.’
‘May I ask what this plan involves?’ Massetti asked.
For the first time since the meeting had begun, Shapley allowed herself a thin smile. ‘Of course. MI6 will take over the case in its entirety. The Maugham file will be returned to the UK and remain classified. As I pointed out, the officers in this room are the only people who were privy to Sister Clara’s confession and the information it contained. You’ll be bound as officers of the Crown to abide by the Official Secrets Act regarding that information. As for Sister Clara, no charges will be brought against her.’
‘But she bloody well killed three men, for God’s sake!’ Broderick exploded.
‘Chief Inspector Broderick, I insist that you listen courteously to what Ms Shapley has to say!’ Barrillo admonished the chief inspector, his face red with anger.
‘It’s not right! That’s all I’m saying.’
‘I understand your concerns, Chief Inspector,’ Shapley said. ‘But as I’ve tried to explain, this is a highly sensitive case which demands extreme measures.’
Broderick bit his tongue.
‘I can only say that an arrangement will be made with Sister Clara,’ Shapley went on. ‘One that keeps both her and her adoptive mother’s story secret. Such action would also protect her foundation and its international aid projects. We all think that it’s important for their work to continue unaffected.’
‘And what about her victims?’ Sullivan asked. ‘They were murdered!’
‘I know,’ Shapley replied, attempting a look of compassion. ‘It’s a tragic but universal truth that sometimes the few must suffer for the sake of the many. I fear this is considered to be one of those occasions.’
‘And where’s the justice in all this?’ Massetti interrupted.
‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that,’ Shapley replied. ‘All of us see only part of the picture. It’s unfair and unjust to those murdered here this week. Of that, there’s no doubt. I’m truly sorry for them and for the difficulties you all have experienced during your investigations. But that doesn’t take away from the seriousness – and, indeed, the rightness – of the decisions being made above us. I have a duty to carry out those decisions, and so do all of you.’
Massetti now turned to Barrolli for support. ‘Where do you stand on this, sir?’ she asked.
Barrolli shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He had the look of a man who wished he was still several thousand miles away in New York.
‘I don’t like it any more than you, Massetti,’ he answered. ‘But in matters pertaining to intelligence and defence, we toe the line. During the last hour or so, Ms Shapley and I have been in communication with both of our governments at the highest levels and we’re bound by their decisions in this case. It’s our job now to facilitate them to our best abilities.’
‘Well, that’s crystal clear,’ Broderick commented. ‘So where does that leave our murder investigation?’
‘Outside of these walls, people believe our prime suspect is Jasinski,’ Barrolli answered. ‘Latest word from the hospital is that that unfortunate individual remains in a deep coma. His prognosis is bleak. There’s also concern about permanent brain damage should he awaken. All can see that we’re hampered in our investigations in that direction. The press believe Jasinski to be the most likely perpetrator of the crimes, as do our police colleagues across the border. It’s therefore our intention to keep the case open until such time as Jasinski recovers and can help us further.’
‘A scenario that may never happen,’ Sullivan observed.
‘So Jasinski’s the patsy,’ Broderick added. ‘Poor fucker.’
‘I think that will be all for tonight,’ Barrolli said sharply. ‘Ms Shapley and I are going to interview Sister Clara now. The outcome of that will be relayed to you as soon as possible. I think you all understand what’s needed from you. Once again, we greatly appreciate your work on this case and value your candour and future support for our work with Ms Shapley and MI6.’
With that, both Barrolli and Shapley left the room, leaving behind four stunned detectives. Massetti broke the silence first. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say to you.’
‘Just when you thought you’d seen it all …’ Broderick said.
‘If we don’t agree with it, maybe we should make a stand?’ Calbot added. ‘Say something?’
‘And be branded as whistle-blowers? We all know what happens to them,’ Massetti said. ‘Besides, what if they’re right? What if revealing the truth did lead to the damage they suggest?’
‘We’ll never bloody well know, ma’am. That’s the only truth they’ve left us with,’ Broderick replied, looking towards the silent Sullivan. ‘You’ve gone quiet, Sullivan. What are your thoughts?’
Sullivan took a deep breath as she tried to make sense of what had just taken place. ‘I just feel sorry. Sorry for Josh Cornwallis, Martínez and Maugham. I feel sorry for Jasinski. I feel sorry for Gabriel Isolde. I feel sorry for Marisella Martínez and all the other victims of that evil woman who died tonight. I even feel sorry for Sister Clara. She’s as much a victim in her own way as the others. But most of all, I just feel helpless.’
‘We all do, Sullivan,’ Massetti said softly.
‘There’s just one small consolation, I suppose,’ Broderick added after a moment. ‘The world may never find out about it, but the fact is we nailed the bitch. She died knowing she’d been found out. That she hadn’t got away with it after all. It’s what finally killed her.’
‘And the devil in hell can deal with the rest,’ Massetti added.
Broderick moved to the door of the office. ‘I need a drink. Anyone coming?’
‘But you never go for a drink, guv,’ Sullivan said with surprise.
‘Well, I am tonight,’ Broderick replied. ‘I suggest we raise a glass to honour those who have suffered. Not much of a gesture, but right now just about the best we can do. Or the best we’re allowed to do. After that, it’s my firm intention to drink you all under the bloody table.’
***
Over the following week, the world’s press continued to revel in the ‘Novacs incident’ (as they insisted on calling it). The official line - that Jasinski was the chief suspect in the investigation of the three murdered men – was accepted by virtually everyone and arrangements were now being made to move the coma patient back to his native Poland.
Gabriel Isolde recovered quickly and, in the face of bankruptcy and following threats from a major Russian investor, had discharged himself from hospital and flown to Thailand. The word was that he had gone to convalesce at a spiritual sanctuary. His actual whereabouts in Asia were, in fact, anybody’s guess.
An unexpected piece of information arrived from the Marbella police investigation into the murder of Krystle Changtai. Officers following the money that the solicitor had embezzled, had discovered something of interest. Changtai had taken over half a million pounds from one client in particular – Mikhail Volkov, a Russian steel magnate with connections to the Costa del Sol’s criminal underworld. Volkov had also invested in the film Queen of Diamonds. Inspector Juan Cordobas was now investigating a possible link between the Russian millionaire and the death of Changtai. Sullivan and Broderick thanked their Marbella colleagues for their contribution and filed it accordingly.
Cath Broderick had taken Sister Clara’s abrupt departure from the Rock, very badly. The story that her dear friend had decided to disappear indefinitely to England had shocked not only her, but everyone else at the Rock of Ages Foundation. When the charity’s directors called an emergency meeting to discuss the sudden departure of their president, it was quickly decided that Cath should continue to steer the charity, but now as managing director, and that a new honorary president be appointed as soon as possible. The name proposed for that role by several directors, including Cath, was one of the Rock of Ages’ most generous benefactors: Oskar Izzo.
At a Carmelite convent in rural Oxfordshire, just 24 hours
after her forced departure from the Rock Sister Clara began her new life of silent devotion.
Epilogue
Gibraltar’s North Front Cemetery, situated between the southeast side of the airport and the north face of the Rock, contains hundreds of war graves honouring the dead of two world wars. Surrounding the large military section of the cemetery are other areas that include burial sections for members of the Catholic, Presbyterian, Church of England and Jewish faiths. The sight of so many graves is often the first or last thing people see before take-off or on landing just a few metres away on the airport runway.
Entering by the main gate, Tamara Sullivan made her way to the Catholic section of the cemetery. It did not take her long to find what she was looking for. The small gravestone honouring the life of ‘albert john lorenz, 1897–1964’, seemed to stand out from the others. The burning midday sun made its mottled marble shine brighter than those surrounding it. Under Lorenz’s name was the carved epitaph: ‘an honourable and dedicated officer of the royal gibraltar police’.
Kneeling down beside the grave, Sullivan placed a single white rose at the foot of the gravestone. A tribute to a fellow police officer. It had come as no surprise to discover that Inspector Lorenz had visited England just a week before his death. His attempt to interview Sister Clara there had failed. The young nun had then informed her mother of the policeman’s visit and Diana Ruiz had dealt with the matter by poisoning Lorenz on his return – a death from arsenic which, in retrospect, mirrored that of her murdered husband, Max Ackerman. That was the theory and Sullivan believed it. Another death. Another victim.
Standing up now, Sullivan looked across to the main terminal of Gibraltar’s International airport. The gleaming glass-and-metal exterior of the impressively designed building was pleasing to her eye. It was also a reminder of how quickly her time on the Rock had passed, and how imminent her return to the UK was.
