by David Holman
Mander took hold of his half-filled glass of Watneys Red ale as he read the afternoon edition of the Evening Standard. Suddenly, he heard what he thought was a familiar voice.
‘Can I fill you up on that glass, Peter?’
Mander turned his head to find an equally familiar face smiling at him. ‘Alex, what a surprise. How the devil are you?’ Mander shook Swan’s hand.
‘Not too bad, thank you, Peter. I thought I might find you in here at this time of the day.’
‘Prints have finished for the day Alex, all ready for tomorrow now.’
Swan nodded. ‘So, how are things with you then Peter?’
‘Quite hot at the moment, especially with all the damn cuts and cancellations that our beloved new government are making. Anyway, what brings you to come and seek me out? The last time was the Bloomberg affair, so I know that you have something else for me to get my itchy mitts on my typewriter keys for.’
Swan glanced around, taking in the pub’s clientele. ‘Let me get you a drink, and we’ll find a nice quiet table to talk,’ suggested Swan.
Mander bellowed out a short laugh. ‘Ha, fat chance of that in here Alex. As soon as my competition sees us together, they’ll smell a meaty story brewing. We’ll have more ears around us than an office full of young, mini-skirted telephone operators.’
Swan ordered two pints of ale, paid the bartender and carried them back over to Mander.
He clinked glasses with the journalist.
‘There you go, cheers Peter.’
‘Cheers. So Alex, out with it man. What’s this all about?’
‘Well Peter, I do have something, but if I give it to you, I want your word that you will not run it, unless you do not hear from me in the next two days.’
Mander raised his left eyebrow. ‘Oh, this sounds a bit final, I must say Alex.’
Swan placed his face closer to Mander’s right ear and lowered his voice. ‘Put it this way Peter, if you do have to run it, then the same edition will most likely feature my obituary.’
Mander’s eyes widened and not to attract attention, he muffled a gasp. He whispered to the SID man. ‘My god Alex. What the blazes have you got yourself into now?’
Swan reached into his inside jacket pocket and retrieved an envelope, placing it on the table in front of the journalist.
‘All you need to know is in this envelope. I want you to tell no one of this, and put it somewhere safe for a couple of days.’
Mander looked down and quickly grabbed it, placing it in his jacket pocket. ‘Christ almighty, Alex. You’re really bloody serious about this, aren’t you?’
Swan stared the newshound directly in the eyes. ‘I am afraid so, but what I have is so hot, and it could upset transatlantic relations so severely, that we could be left out on our own in this Cold War, leaving us vulnerable to the Soviets.’
Mander gave a smile. ‘Yanks, eh? Well, trust them to be up to something dirty.’
Swan nodded. ‘Quite, but that’s all I can tell you for now, Peter, for your sake as well as mine. Keep it safe and thanks for everything.’
Mander shook Swan’s hand. ‘Anytime, Alex.’
Swan nodded. ‘Let’s hope so, Peter. Let’s hope so.’
Mander watched Swan walk through the pub and exit the stained glass doors. He picked up his glass, finished his drink and then reached into his pocket. He pulled out the envelope. Holding it in his nicotine stained fingers, he stared at it for a few moments then placed it back. He picked up his newspaper, got up from the table and walked towards the exit, acknowledging the familiar journalistic faces on the way out. Outside, Swan had caught another cab and was now heading for Curzon Street.
The short drive to the headquarters of MI5 was uneventful, the late afternoon traffic remarkably calm for this particular evening.
Swan emerged from the taxi and walked up the staircase at the front of the building, swung back the large oak door and walked up to the reception. A middle aged female receptionist with a telephone microphone around her head greeted him with a smile.
‘Good evening, Mr Swan, how are you sir?’
Swan smiled at Janet Ross. ‘I’m fine Janet, you’re looking well. Not your usual job here, is it?’
‘I’m just filling in for a receptionist on holiday. I’m still with R Section. So, what can I do for you, sir?’
‘I was wondering if Mr Stratton is in his office.’
‘I will just check for you, sir.’
Janet Ross checked the registration book. ‘I’m afraid Mr Stratton signed out of the building about an hour ago, sir’
Swan gave Janet a reassuring smile. ‘Not to worry, he will have gone to the Brigand Club. I’ll catch up with him there. Nice to see you again, Janet. We must catch up sometime. Good evening.’
‘Good evening to you too, Alex.’
Their eyes met for a few seconds, then Swan turned to leave. Ross watched Swan with more than just admiration for the former Head of A Section, and as he left the building, he suddenly thought more about her as well.
Swan emerged from Leconfield House and felt the cool London City breeze touch his face. He then noticed a man across the street with his head in a newspaper. As Swan walked down the steps, he carried out a quick character assessment of him, making out the man to be in his late twenties, six foot tall and rather relaxed. Too relaxed. The man shuffled his paper.
As Swan headed left down the street, he walked slowly, listening for any following footsteps as he crossed Piccadilly.
He then stopped to light a cigarette, and at the entrance to Green Park, covertly eyed his pursuer, who was just coming down the steps a few yards behind him. The man stopped and took out a map of London. Swan smiled to himself, instantly recognising a typical surveillance technique. He had acquired a tail, but how long had he had it? Was it since leaving the office? He would have been followed to The Old Bell, and seen handing the envelope to Mander.
He continued walking along The Mall, and a few hundred yards later, at the traffic lights in Trafalgar Square, crossed over and walked down Northumberland Avenue. A few paces more, and he had arrived at the steps of a building with opened gloss black doors. As he walked up the steps, he noticed the figure turn slowly into view, twenty yards to the right of him. Swan pretended to ignore him and walked through the doors into the Brigand Club.
Chapter 17
Inside the Brigand Club, John Stratton sat in a big green leather armchair with one hand nursing a cut crystal tumbler half full of malt Scotch. In his lap was a copy of The Sporting Life, opened at the results page.
Swan entered the large drawing room and spotted Stratton seated on the far side. Casually, he walked over and stood before him. ‘Any winners for you, John?’
Stratton lowered his newspaper, staring at his A Section predecessor. ‘You know me by now Alex, and how I like to study some form, before having a flutter on the gee-gees.’
Stratton studied Swan carefully. ‘It’s been a long time, Alex.’
Swan sat down in a chair opposite him. ‘Yes, it has John. How’s Barbara and the girls?’
‘Oh, they’re well. Victoria is doing her first year at Cambridge reading Japanese History, and Emily is in her last year at Millfield.’ Stratton placed his newspaper on the table. ‘So, what about you Alex? Have you settled down yet, or are you still playing the field with the ladies?’
‘I still have a few lady friends that I see from time to time. To be honest John, I’m quite busy with work at the moment.’
They were interrupted by a waiter who, in his immaculate uniform of white tunic and black trousers, addressed Swan.
‘May I get you something, sir?’
‘Yes, I’ll have a single malt Scotch please.’
‘Very good, sir.’ The waiter turned on his heel and walked out of the room. Stratton took a sip of his whisky.
‘So how are things at SID these days?’ Stratton asked in an almost sarcastic manner.
‘Things are good, John. I take it things at
A Section are in similar shape?’
The waiter returned, carrying a silver tray and presented the glass of Scotch to Swan.
Stratton waited for the waiter to move away from earshot, then picked up his glass. ‘A Section is also good, Alex. In fact, we have just had a breakthrough in a case we are working on.’
‘That’s good to hear, John. So that’ll be another feather in your cap. So, what is this then? Another Soviet infiltrator wheedled out from our society?’
Stratton looked in Swan’s eyes with a quizzical stare. ‘I see that you still have your contacts, Alex.’
‘Well, you know how it is John, you never quite leave the service do you? This actually brings me to the point I wish to discuss with you. I refer to the Polish aircraft mechanic Kostowyz. I take it he’s down The Well?’
Stratton moved uncomfortably in his high backed chair. ‘Your information source is priceless, Alex. Yes, we have him. No confession as yet, but he will hang for the murder of James McGregor, who obviously rumbled him, and was silenced before he could raise the alarm.’
‘Is that so?’ Swan mocked his surprise as Stratton felt triumphant in front of him, displaying a gleeful smile.
Then Swan chose his moment. ‘I’m afraid you have the wrong man, John.’
Stratton almost choked in the middle of taking another sip of Scotch. ‘How say that Alex?’ Stratton enquired.
‘Let’s just say that I am well informed of this.’
‘I suppose that this has something to do with the little trip up north that you took with Arthur last week.’
‘Trip, John?’ Swan replied, pretending to look puzzled.
Stratton grinned, shuffling in his chair. ‘Put it this way then, most ironic how your signatures appeared in the visitor book of Brinton Aviation.’
Swan returned the smile. ‘Most ironic, indeed.’
Stratton leant forward and whispered angrily. ‘Don’t give me that, Alex! You and Arthur carried out a little undercover job didn’t you?’
‘I’m afraid our trip was all legit John. We were invited by a friend of mine.’
Stratton sank back in his chair again and took another sip of Scotch. ‘And who might this friend be then Alex?’
‘Howard Barnett, Brinton’s Chief Designer.’
Stratton looked disappointed. ‘I see. So, nothing to do with Air Commodore Sir Alistair Higgins, then? Thought that he may have returned that favour for you catching Miss Anya Katrishka with the overseas squadron deployment documents stuffed down her knickers.’
‘No, Sir Alistair has no part in this,’ lied Swan.
Stratton put his hands together. ‘Where exactly are you going with this Brinton fiasco Alex?’
Swan picked up his glass and took a sip. ‘Sorry John, I can’t tell you at the moment. I’m working privately on this on behalf of a client. This of course makes it all legally confidential. Even from the Security Services.’
Stratton suddenly became agitated and leaned forward, staring Swan in the eye. ‘I could go to the Director General with this you know, especially when someone is trying to sabotage the BR-101 project.’
Swan smiled teasingly. ‘Then I’m sure that Sir Donald would be most pleased to see you, John. In fact, you can also let him know about the ghost agents that you have managed to run under his nose for the last ten years, claiming their salaries and expenses.’
Stratton stood up abruptly and looking down at the SID man, whispered harshly. ‘How the blazes could you know that!’ Stratton sank back down into his chair to be sure that none of the other club members sitting in their chairs nearby noticed his sudden outburst.
‘Like I said John, the service never really left me.’
Stratton finished the rest of his Scotch, then slammed down the glass on the polished mahogany side table, staring venomously at Swan. ‘I guess this is what they call in chess, a King on King situation here.’
Swan smiled. ‘Seems so John, but do yourself a favour and release the Pole. He’s innocent, a pawn in the much bigger game so to speak.’
‘And what might this bigger game be then, Alex?’
‘I will bring you in on it, John. You have my word, but not just yet. I’m off up to Brinton’s after this meeting. I have my final cards and I now have to show my hand to my opponent.’
Stratton resigned himself. ‘Okay Alex, have it your way. But as soon as you’re ready, give me a call.’
Swan nodded. ‘I will John, I promise.’
Swan finished his Scotch and stood up. ‘I should have this wrapped up by tomorrow.’ He shook the hand of his A Section successor, then walked out the door of the drawing room and into the foyer. He saw the waiter walking in the opposite direction. ‘Put the Scotch on my tab will you, Lawrence.’
‘Of course, Mr Swan.’
Swan then walked out of the Brigand Club and into the early evening sunshine and waited on the pavement to hail a taxi. As he stood there, he noticed the same man waiting at the bus stop on the other side of the road, smoking a cigarette. Swan smiled to himself as he turned right thinking that it was time to have a little fun with his shadow. ‘Okay whoever you are, let’s see just how good you can be.’
Swan slowly walked up Northumberland Avenue, as if taking in the cool evening air, and his tail walked slowly fifty yards behind, on the other side of the road. When Swan arrived back in Trafalgar Square, he crossed the road, then continued straight, walking past St Martins-in the Field’s church. He then carried on along St Martin’s Lane. The pursuer followed at a pace behind. Swan then took a quick turn left into Cecil Court, a small passage that linked with Charing Cross Road, and stopped to browse at a shop window filled with a model railway layout. As he looked at the scaled representation of a typical English village complete with station and a spired church, his tail entered briskly into the passage.
Swan turned quickly and looked at him full in the face, as the figure stood on the spot, not expecting his mark to have stopped.
With an expression of shear embarrassment, the trench-coated gentleman abruptly turned and walked back out onto the main street.
Swan smiled and carried on to Charing Cross Road, walking in the direction of Cambridge Circus. He noticed that his tail was soon in pursuit again, walking several yards behind. Crossing the Circus, Swan then crossed over onto the other side of Charing Cross Road, opening one of the row of doors into the book emporium Foyles. He then made his way through the ground floor and stopped to view the store guide board at the foot of the staircase. He ascended the stairs to the next floor and sought out the World History section.
The tail climbed the stairs and was close behind. He kept Swan in his view, as he pretended to browse through some books that had been arranged on a table.
Swan continued through the section, walking up to a bookcase full of titles on American History, then stopped and scanned the titles. At the end of one row, he picked out a particular paperback book and flipped it over to read the back. Satisfied with his choice, he walked over to the counter and presented it to the cashier, made payment, and took the wrapped book. Half shielded by a bookcase, the tail stood and watched as Swan walked over and went back down the stairs. He waited a few moments and then followed. He got himself in view of the ground floor, and caught site of the ex-MI5 man exiting the store.
Back downstairs, he stood just inside watching as Swan stood outside the store looking up the road. Then he saw Swan raise the hand holding the book and a few seconds later, a taxi pulled over to him and stopped.
Swan peered into the driver. ‘Odd request, but I wish to go to Euston, via the Tower of London.’
The taxi driver looked at him as if he was a lost tourist. ‘Are you sure, guv?’
‘I’m sure, if that’s okay with you?’
The driver shook his head. ‘No problem, guv.’ The taxi moved off and as it did so, Swan’s shadow rushed out of Foyles and casually hailed another approaching black taxi. As one pulled in, he stepped inside and leant over to the glass partitio
n. ‘Follow that damn cab will ya,’ said Swan’s frustrated tail in a Californian twang.
Chapter 18
At the same time that Swan had entered the taxi in Charing Cross Road, Howard Barnett gathered his clothes from the small hospital bed cabinet with help from his wife.
He was now ready to go home, and to the annoyance of the hospital staff, had not waited for the doctor and withdrawn himself from their care.
Heidi looked at her watch and closed the small blue suitcase.
‘What time are you meeting with Mr Swan, Howard?’
‘He said he would catch the six o’clock train from London, and be in Carlisle for ten thirty.’
Heidi lifted the suitcase from the bed and gave it to Barnett’s uniformed driver. They all then left the room and made their way to the lift, where Dr Westerham approached them. ‘All set now are we, Mr Barnett? I heard that you discharged yourself, despite my advice.’
Barnett looked up at the flashing red numbers above the lift doors. ‘I can’t see much point staying here Doc, there’s a big flap on at the plant, and I need to be there.’
Westerham frowned. ‘That’s all very well, Mr Barnett, but I would have liked to have given you the once over before discharging you. I won’t argue, but, should you feel unwell, slightest headache, dizziness or feeling sick, I will need you back here immediately. Is that understood?’
Barnett smiled at him. ‘As clear as crystal, Doctor.’
*
In London, the black taxi containing Alex Swan, cruised past Temple Bar and entered Fleet Street. At Ludgate Circus, it turned left in the direction of St Paul’s Cathedral.
