After a further rant about Bob neglecting the bridge school, Leslie said finally, ‘I suppose you’d better come. When will you get here?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I’ll call you back as soon as I know.’
I had just finished the call when Kate’s mobile buzzed. Without being reminded, she noted the incoming number then called it back on the safe cell I had given her.
The call was short and Kate appeared worried.
‘The cops have been to see the owner of the Audi. They know we’re using it.’
‘Have they arrested him?’
‘No. He told them it was stolen. They don’t believe it but they haven’t taken him in. How did they find out so soon?’
‘CCTV probably, but they must be pulling out all the stops. I know how these things work and it shouldn’t happen this fast. If they’re watching this closely, we’re in real trouble. We’re a long way from Norfolk.’
‘Could we fly down in that toy of yours?’ Kate said.
‘You know about that?’
Kate laughed. ‘Everyone in the newsroom knows! How many assistant editors do you know who fly their own planes?’
‘Trouble is MI6 knows too,’ I said, ‘flying down was my first thought but I don’t see how I can get hold of the plane. The police were at the airfield this morning and they’re bound to be still watching.’
‘Can someone get it out for you?’
‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘Clive, the co-owner would do it but I have to make sure it doesn’t land him in the shit as well.’
I called Clive and found I didn’t need to explain the problem.
‘I thought you’d call,’ he said, ‘the police are still here and there is helicopter parked on the edge of the field without permission. They’ve really got the members’ backs up, especially after the way they turned the club upside down. But don’t worry. I’ve talked to a few of the chaps and I think we can help. Can you get to Westlands Farm?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘they know what car I’m driving but its only twenty miles from where we are now. We should be OK.’
‘Can I dial your number?’
‘Yes.’
‘It doesn’t show on my phone list?’
‘No. When you call this number, it logs it randomly as a call to one of the numbers you call regularly. They don’t know whether you’re talking to your bank or your wife.’
Clive laughed. ‘Devilish cunning you intelligence chaps. Get to the farm as fast as you can then look up!’
Three quarters of an hour later I was sitting beside Kate, our backs against an oak tree, looking out over Wescombe Ridge. Johnny Marriot, the owner of Westfield Farm was a founder member of the Tiger Club. He maintained his own grass airstrip on the edge of the farm and had converted his biggest barn into a hangar. He was not at the farm when we arrived and his wife said, with a slightly sarcastic edge, that she thought he was probably flying, ‘as usual.’ We said we would wait, if that was OK, and Mrs Marriot conceded with the resigned look of a ‘flying widow’.
It was another bakingly hot afternoon but the oak’s thick canopy provided deep and relaxing shade. It was perfect summer flying weather and I was surprised to find there was not a single aircraft in the air. Headcorn field was less than six miles away on the other side of the ridge and I would have expected to see at least a couple of planes from the club. This was an ideal area for aerobatics, well away from built-up areas, and with plenty of open fields suitable for emergency landings. I had practised here often, developing the skills I’d first acquired as a boy of fifteen. I’d been taught by the Sheikh who had become my substitute father. He had imported a Tiger Moth into his desert domain and was powerful enough not to have to worry about age restrictions and pilot’s licences.
I had flown many faster, more modern aircraft since and acquired all the necessary qualifications but I had always retained my affection for the old bi-planes. During the darker periods since the Rome debacle, it was flying at the Tiger Club that had kept me sane. There had been weekend flips to France to see Marie-Helene, barely legal low flights over Hastings Beach to bikini watch and the glorious sessions of aerobatics which were life-giving when the measured calm of the World Service newsroom felt too constraining.
We waited for over half an hour and I was beginning to think the police or the security service had grounded all the planes at the club, when suddenly, not one, but eight Tiger Moths flew over the ridge in loose formation.
Below them, a small helicopter was flying just above tree top level, circling slowly and obviously watching the aircraft above them.
The Tigers circled slowly for several minutes, then began to spread out. Once there was more airspace between them, they began a complicated series of manoeuvres to switch positions within the formation. I had spotted my own aircraft but I quickly lost track as the planes wheeled and turned in what quickly became an aerial version of Find the Lady.
‘Looks like your whole club has turned out to help,’ Kate said, ‘let’s hope the guys in the chopper aren’t too smart.’
Suddenly the Tigers broke formation. The tiny yellow aircraft looked like a swarm of giant butterflies as they soared off and began a series of graceful loops and turns. I had by then completely lost track of my own plane then suddenly, one Tiger climbed higher than the rest, reached about 3000 feet, closed off the throttle and began to spin.
For an experienced pilot the manoeuvre was perfectly safe. Every pilot had to learn to spin recovery, but as the Tiger plunged towards the earth it was impossible not to watch. You knew it wasn’t going to crash but it always looked as though it just might. I watched and quickly identified my own plane and I was sure the attention of the helicopter crew would be drawn too. The spin was the cue for the other Tigers to break formation and head off in different directions. Clive let our plane spin three times then applied full opposite rudder, pulled the stick fully back and headed towards our farm strip once the recovery was complete. I saw straightaway that the spin had been a mistake. The helicopter wasn’t fooled either and it headed straight in our direction. Clive saw it and veered away, climbed again and headed off southwards, the helicopter in pursuit.
‘I guess we need a plan B,’ Kate said quietly.
We turned back to the car, when suddenly, over the brow of the hill behind us, another Tiger Moth, flying almost at tree top level, came wheeling in and made a graceful landing on the strip beside us.
Johnny Marriot got out and gave us a big grin.
‘I thought that went rather well,’ he said cheerfully, ‘those idiots in the helicopter took the bait nicely. Keep my kite as long as you need it. I’ll use yours. And by the way, don’t think this comes cheap. It’s going to cost you a very fancy club dinner at the Stag and Hare when this is all over.’
Chapter 10
We were airborne within five minutes. Marriot settled Kate into the front cockpit, helped her adjust her harness, and plugged her helmet lead into the intercom system. I noticed that she seemed to have slipped into a totally different professional mode, presumably her seafaring one. She showed none of her usual knockabout carelessness. She became agile and totally focused. Her movements were deft and quick and although the Tiger’s cockpit should have been cramped for her, she fitted herself in with no apparent awkwardness. I made a quick call to Norfolk and managed to make the landing arrangements with a bad-tempered Leslie.
Johnny swung the propeller and I taxied the Tiger Moth back to the end of the short slope of the farm strip.
‘Are you OK,’ I asked as we climbed to fifteen hundred feet and headed out over the Kentish countryside.
‘It’s fantastic,’ she said. ‘I’d no idea what a difference being in the open makes.’
‘It’s like driving a sports car through the clouds,’ I said. ‘Your head for heights OK?’
‘No problem,’ Kate said happily. ‘Compared to being at the top of a schooner’s rigging in a force seven, this is really quite cosy.’
There
was no sign of Clive or the helicopter, and only two of the other Tigers were still visible, apparently making their way back to the Club field.
‘You have a lot of good friends down there,’ Kate said. ‘They obviously trust you.’
‘Clive probably gave them a pep talk, and dinner at the Stag and Hare is a good treat,’ I said.
To change the subject, I asked her if she would like to fly for a while.
‘You bet.’
‘OK, we’ll start straight in. Lesson One. Flying straight and level.’
The control column of the Tiger Moth is a single bar of metal rising from the floor of the cockpit. Like everything else about the aircraft, it is simple. Push it forward and the nose dips, pull it back and the nose rises. Move left and aircraft moves to the left; right and it moves right. Kate caught on immediately. The day was clear, there was no problem finding the horizon and she adapted instantly to the responsiveness of the Tiger with a naturalness I’d come to expect.
She understood straight away that it took only the slightest touch to dive without intending too. Not spectacularly, but just enough to lose the precious alignment of horizon and wings. I did need to explain the aerodynamics but it wasn’t long before she felt able to tackle climbing and descending, using stick and throttle. The next stage wasn’t difficult either. Many tyro pilots find they are like novice cooks who can usually manage one dish but run into problems the first time they had to prepare the complete meal. With Kate, I had only to say, ‘OK, now try a steepish left-hand turn, bring yourself in line with the railway, level out at 1500 feet and keep an eye on that Cessna up ahead’ and she was there.
By the straightest route, the journey is less than 150 miles but I told Kate to follow the coast. We headed north across the Thames estuary, well clear of controlled airspace, then I had her take the Tiger down the legal minimum altitude of 500 feet. We beach-hopped over the seaside resorts of Southend and Clacton and turned inland only when we had crossed the ports of Yarmouth and Lowestoft. Apart from a few wobbles here and there, she maintained good control of the Tiger then as we began to fly over the lakes and waterways of the Norfolk Broads, I said over the intercom: ‘I’ll take control now. Time to get back to the real world.’
‘That was amazing,’ Kate said, ‘can I help with the navigation?’
‘Yes, please. We’re looking for Felton Broad. The hotel is on the southern tip. We’re landing at a farm on the north side.’
I gave her the map reference and flew in low over the broad. It was crowded with pleasure cruisers and sailing dinghies were criss-crossing between them. It was a sight to lift the spirits but from the moment we touched down, things started to go wrong.
The first problem was that Kate was recognised immediately. The farmer, Dan Timson, who was on the ground waiting, signalled to me not to cut the engine and guided the aircraft into a barn at the back of the farm. He gave me a friendly handshake, and eyed Kate appreciatively as he greeted her.
‘Leslie says you ain’t ‘ere officially,’ he said in a broad Norfolk accent. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t be talking down the pub tonight.’
I thanked him and we walked down to a small jetty. Timson pointed to a scruffy-looking motor-boat.
‘It ain’t got no sails I’m afraid,’ he said with a smile to Kate, indicating he knew who she was, ‘and she ain’t very roomy.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll manage,’ Kate said.
Timson laughed.
‘I’m very sure you will, Miss. If you can get across the Atlantic on your own, a trip on my little Dora Belle, won’t be a problem. Best you stay below, though. Someone else might just recognise you. No point in taking unnecessary risks.’
So much for the disguise, I thought. Here in sailing country our feeble efforts didn’t mean a thing. At least Timson had been briefed but it was not a good start. He manoeuvred the small boat expertly across the broad and drew up at nondescript jetty at the back of the hotel. Leslie was waiting for us in the kitchen and his welcome was predictably chilly. He was a tall, wiry man with iron-grey hair, his clothes selected carefully for a well-tailored effect. He shook hands with both of us and went straight into his usual catalogue of complaints before I could even begin to apologise for intruding. Finally, I found a point to interrupt and asked politely if Bob was around.
‘He’ll be with you shortly. He asked me to give you a message.’
Leslie grimaced slightly.
‘He said to say: ‘thank God you’ve come.’
That cheered me up enormously and the room also helped. I’d been afraid that Leslie would punish us with a pokey cubbyhole overlooking the car park. Instead, we were given what appeared to be a small private suite. It had a king-size double bed and a semicircular picture window with views onto every corner of Felton broad. We both looked at the bed but neither of us said anything. There was no couch and I looked destined for another night as an honorary woman. I wasn’t sure how that would work out but if Kate was bothered she showed no sign.
She spent barely a couple of minutes examining the room then looked wistfully at the crowded waterway.
‘Not safe for me to take you sailing I suppose.’
I shook my head. ‘Too many sailors about. Timson spotted you straight away.’
We started our rudimentary unpacking when my emergency cell phone rang. The caller was my brother-in-law in Canada with the news I had feared most of all. Two men had been seen in the Northern Ontario village near his farm and had begun asking questions about my kids. At least the strangers had not taken into account the speed of the village jungle drums and my brother-in-law had moved the boys before anyone had come near the farm. The safety was only temporary and I knew that it was impossible to hide them for any length of time in such an isolated community. I told him I would call him back.
‘Canada?’ Kate said.
‘Yes.’
‘Bad news?’
‘The worst.’
‘I can help,’ Kate said firmly, ‘and don’t try to argue. It was obvious this was coming and I’ve been giving it some thought.’
‘You can’t ask your father again,’ I said.
‘This time there’s no need. I can get your boys to safety within six hours and it won’t cost you a cent. Can your brother-in-law keep them safe until then?’
‘Of course. But you’re offering some kind of miracle and I don’t believe in miracles.’
‘No miracles. Just a friend of the family, name of Jake Hudson. Flies his own seven-seater Gulfstream G150. Bought it last year – a steal at $15 million by his own account. I can call him and I’ll guarantee he’ll be up for the trip right now, today. I’ve checked the distances and I reckon less than two hours from Gloucester to North Bay. My brother can get them quietly onto any one of half a dozen boats.’
‘I can’t,’ I said, ‘I’d have to pay him back and I just don’t have that kind of money.’
‘Jake would think you crazy if you even offered money. He flies that far to take his buddies ice-fishing. He has the carbon footprint of a herd of yetis and anyway he needs the hours to keep up his licence. All you have to do is to give me permission to give Jake your brother-in-law’s number. And before you ask, he’ll take my word for it that it’s life or death and I promise you he won’t fuck around.’
I didn’t waste time debating the decision. I had known enough men like this Jake to know that such things were easily possible. I had never come close to possessing that kind of money but I had lived among those who did and knew that such a favour could easily be asked and granted.
‘What can I say except ‘thank you,’ I said simply, ‘I’m truly grateful.’
The phone calls took less than fifteen minutes. Kate called Jake direct, using my untraceable phone. It sounded as though they had been friends since childhood and a deal was struck with easy complicity and a lot of joking banter. I called my brother-in-law back and left him to make the arrangements with Jake. When it was over, I realised I had rarely felt such relief.
I turned to Kate to thank her again but she brushed it aside and said, ‘time to fire up the laptop. Let’s see what’s going on out there.’
The UpstairsBackstairs story hadn’t really moved on and the rate of posting was falling right back so we switched to the BBC website.
The BBC continuous news channel was doing a follow-up to the overnight arrests in the north of England. The reporter in Leeds was David Geddes, and we both knew him well. His voice was serious and, in the manner of continuous news, he was talking in a way that made it easy to pick up the story whenever you switched on.
‘The man who was arrested early this morning is believed to be British-born of Iranian descent,’ Geddes said. ‘He has not been named but police sources say he is in his early twenties and is wanted on suspicion of smuggling explosive devices into Iraq for use against British Forces there. Shortly after six this morning, armed police surrounded a house in a suburb of Leeds where the man’s family is believed to run a transport company. Officials say the arrest is part of the nationwide search for possible terrorist suspects which began yesterday.’
The visuals were the usual uninformative shots of Geddes standing in a street next to a police road block. The tree-lined road had been cordoned off right at the end, far away from a cluster of police vehicles; all the shot told you was that it was a prosperous area, with large detached houses which had high walls and security systems.
It was clear that Geddes didn’t know any more and he was forced to repeat the same information several times, varying the presentation as best he could and stalling any probing questions from the presenter in the studio.
‘That’s very odd,’ I said, ‘why the arrests now. British Forces aren’t in Iraq any more. There are still plenty of IEDs but it’s Iraqis who are getting killed.’
Kate nodded. ‘Just beating the drum against Iran, I guess.’
‘Sure, but it’s still a bit odd.’
I turned back to the TV. There was a knock on the door. It was Bob Cronin with Leslie Clemson a step behind him.
The Saxon Network Page 9
