On the passenger seat next to him he had placed a facsimile printer, and plugged it into a socket on the dashboard. Then he picked up the handset of his car-phone and dialled a number which would connect the printer directly with his office. While he sped on his way to Reading, the entire text of the intercepted telephone conversation between an unknown Englishman in Florida and a Miss Susan Parkinson in a Berkshire town would be transcribed for him to study.
It took him three-quarters of an hour to reach the police station. Tom McQuade was waiting for him, still wearing the mud-caked shoes in which he had been doing his weekend gardening.
‘Taking your disguise a bit seriously today, aren’t you?’ Black mocked, looking down at them.
The policeman scraped his shoes against the front wheel of the MI5 man’s car. ‘We know Susan Parkinson,’ he announced as he slid on to the passenger seat from which he had removed the facsimile printer.
‘She’s in that same mob as the wife of the Aldermaston man; you know, Action to Stop Annihilation; the organisation our WPC got inside. Interestingly enough, our Jenny was at one of their committee meetings on Friday night. None of them seemed to know why the Venner woman had done a bunk. There was a lot of talk about it. Big mystery apparently.’
John Black handed him the facsimile sheet and lit up a cigarette. The policeman wound down the window to let the smoke out, and began to read the page.
‘Who is he?’ he asked when he had finished.
‘We don’t know, but he’s obviously one of the officers on board HMS Retribution, and he shouldn’t have been talking like that to anyone!’
‘Too bloody right!’ McQuade replied.
The address they had been given was in a street of small semi-detached houses on the outskirts of Newbury. The policeman had discovered that the woman was a schoolteacher.
Black stopped the car just short of the house so that they would not be seen too readily from the windows.
‘There’s a passageway at the side,’ he murmured, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘You pop round to the back while I do the front door, just in case any little bunny rabbits come running out of the stubble!’
The two men hoped they would be mistaken for Jehovah’s Witnesses if anyone saw them approaching the house. John Black waited until McQuade had slipped round the side, before pressing the doorbell. There was the faint sound of music from inside, which he recognised as Tchaikovsky, but it stopped abruptly.
After a minute with no response, he pressed the button again and held it pressed. He could hear the bell shrilling at the back of the house. Suddenly he saw through the patterned-glass door panel that someone was coming.
‘What the hell are you doing with that doorbell?’ a woman shouted at him as she wrenched open the door.
She was quite attractive, he thought to himself. Better than most of her type. The look in her eyes, though, reminded him suddenly of the woman to whom he had once been married, many years before. It set his teeth on edge.
‘Ms Parkinson?’ he enquired softly.
‘Yes?’ she answered nervously. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m from the Ministry of Defence. I’m afraid I have some bad news about your boyfriend. May I . . . may I come in for a moment?’
For a split second her eyes registered shock, but she quickly hid it. Black put one foot on the sill. She pushed the door towards him to block his path. Suddenly Black saw a shadow move behind her at the far end of the hallway.
‘I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ she shouted. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’
‘It’s a security matter, Ms Parkinson. You’d be well advised to invite me in.’
He pushed hard on the door and she stumbled backwards. Then she began to scream. He hated this type; they were the worst, the screamers. His wife had screamed at him when she did not get her way. With these ‘peace women’, though, he knew it was a tactic to provoke arresting officers to resort to physical violence, which could then be held against them in court. In his case it often came close to succeeding.
Suddenly the screaming stopped. She had heard a noise behind her and turned to see Tom McQuade emerging from her kitchen with his large hands firmly clamped round the arms of another woman.
‘Got someone here I think you’d like to meet, John,’ he announced with a wry smile. ‘This lady is Helene Venner!’
Chapter Seven
SHORTLY BEFORE MIDDAY on Monday an audio tape of the intercepted phone-call arrived in London. The flight from Miami had been delayed by a technical fault, and at Heathrow airport a police squad-car was waiting to rush the cassette to the Royal Naval headquarters at Northwood. There, a lieutenant-commander formerly with HMS Retribution had been briefed to listen to it carefully in an effort to identify the speaker. Ms Susan Parkinson had remained stubbornly silent about the name of her caller. Meanwhile preparations at the Ministry of Defence had been almost finalised.
Peter Joyce had spent his Sunday in the chief draughtsman’s office at Aldermaston, doctoring the drawings and descriptions on the Skydancer blueprints so that a new version could be prepared to meet the criteria set by the security chiefs. At the front of his mind hung his mental picture of ‘the Russian’, to guide his thoughts.
At eight o’clock on Monday morning the documents were being pored over in Field-Marshal Buxton’s office by intelligence experts and scientists. They had to be convincing without jeopardising national security.
Now that it seemed certain Karl Metzger had learned about the changes to the Skydancer warheads from a source on board the submarine, Peter’s suspicions about the reliability of MI5 had diminished. He was not entirely satisfied however, still wanting to know why John Black had lied about the photograph in Mary’s flat.
When the blueprints were finally approved, Peter was left on his own with the field-marshal and Sir Marcus Beckett.
‘Is Anderson happy about what he’s got to do?’ Buxton inquired.
‘Happy isn’t the word for it,’ Peter replied. ‘But he realises he has no choice.’
‘Shall we get him in, then?’ Sir Marcus suggested, eager to start things moving.
Buxton pressed a key on the intercom.
‘I wish to God I could be sure we’re doing the right thing,’ Sir Marcus mused uncomfortably. ‘The Soviets have put a hell of an effort into getting hold of the Skydancer secrets. We may have found out about the East German and the spy on the boat . . . but I’m bloody sure they’ve got more tricks up their sleeves.’
‘A spy on board one of our Polaris submarines!’ Buxton exploded. ‘How did the Navy let that happen?’ What on earth are they doing with their vetting procedures? I can tell you there are going to be some damned hard questions asked when we find out who the man is.’
There was a tap at the door, and Anderson came in.
‘Good morning, Anderson. Sit down.’
Sir Marcus had taken charge. Anderson was a civil servant, answerable to him rather than the Chief of the Defence Staff.
‘I think I should make it clear, Anderson,’ Beckett began, ‘that this is being seen as a salvage operation rather than an opportunity any of us would have sought. It would have been much better for the Skydancer project to remain under wraps instead of gaining such public exposure, and indeed the politicians look upon your activities with the deepest concern. Only by doing what you are about to do, will you earn any chance of favourable treatment. I’m not authorised to make promises about the likelihood or not of any prosecution against you. No decisions have been taken yet. Suffice to say, if what you are about to do proves successful, it can only count in your favour. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly, Sir Marcus,’ Anderson answered nervously.
‘Now, what are your orders from the other side?’
Anderson cleared his throat.
‘They haven’t told me much yet. I . . . I have to be in a certain telephone-box at exactly twelve noon. Someone will ring me there and give me further instructions.�
��
‘You will be under surveillance . . .’
‘No!’ Anderson almost shouted.
‘For your own protection as much as anything else.’
‘I don’t want it! If they get the slightest inkling that this is a put-up job, I’m finished,’ Anderson pleaded. ‘Don’t you see? It could ruin everything. Karl is already highly suspicious. He said he wouldn’t hesitate. First sign of any trickery and he’s going to send off those photographs.’ Anderson coloured at this.
Buxton looked contemptuous and patted the envelope which contained the blueprints.
‘No! I won’t do it if you’re going to have people tailing me!’ Anderson insisted.
‘Won’t do it? I’m ordering you to!’ Sir Marcus cut in.
‘Perhaps . . .’ Buxton intervened, ‘perhaps the answer would be for you to discuss that little detail with John Black, since it’s his department.’
Anderson cast a glance of alarm at Peter.
‘It’s all right,’ Joyce nodded. ‘They’ve found out who leaked the information about my visit to Florida – and it wasn’t Black.’
Anderson seemed far from reassured. Nevertheless he took the envelope from the table and stood up.
‘Then I’d better talk to him now. There’s not much time.’
He looked at the carriage clock on Buxton’s desk. He had just thirty minutes before his telephone rendezvous with the East German agent.
Peter decided to accompany Alec down to the security office where John Black had taken up residence for the day. Anderson led the way through the grid of corridors which Peter still found confusing, even after dozens of visits to the Ministry.
‘They’re pretty good, those plans,’ Peter reassured him, when there was no one close to them. ‘I don’t think the comrades will guess.’
‘Don’t be too sure,’ Anderson grunted. ‘You’re not dealing with children, you know.’
As they neared the security office, Peter took the other man by the arm.
‘I’ll leave you to talk to Black on your own,’ he said. ‘And . . . you’ll ring us later? To tell us how things went with Metzger.’
Anderson’s expression was blank.
‘Yes, I’ll call you.’
He turned and pushed open the door in front of him.
‘Take a seat, Mr Anderson.’ John Black was replacing the receiver of his telephone.
‘Is there something that worries you about our arrangements?’
‘Yes!’ Alec almost shouted. ‘It’s imperative you don’t have anybody following me today!’
‘Could ruin things, you mean?’
‘It might even be fatal if they get wind of this being a counter-intelligence operation,’ Anderson insisted.
‘Too much at stake, you think?’
‘There certainly is! And if you have somebody tailing me, I’m not going through with it!’
John Black smiled benignly, and inhaled deeply from his half-smoked cigarette.
‘I quite understand.’
Alec was startled by the other’s conciliatory tone.
‘You mean you agree?’
‘Utterly. Nothing must be allowed to compromise the success of this operation.’ Black oozed sincerity.
‘But upstairs they were insisting . . .’
‘Just a little misunderstanding. There’ll be no surveillance, I promise you.’
John Black stood up and extended his hand.
‘Good-bye Mr Anderson, and good luck!’
Reluctantly Alec shook the offered hand, but had no idea whether the security man had been telling the truth.
Black took a last lungful of smoke, crushed the cigarette on to the lid of his ashtray, and shredded the stub between his fingers.
Buxton and Beckett were waiting for Peter Joyce when he returned to the sixth floor. Both looked worried.
‘Did Black manage to sort that out?’ Sir Marcus asked.
‘I didn’t stay to see,’ Peter responded.
‘He’ll let us know if he’s got any problems, I’m sure,’ the field-marshal soothed.
‘Now, look here, Joyce,’ Sir Marcus said hurriedly. ‘I think we’d better clarify your position a bit. Officially, you’re still suspended on full pay pending a security enquiry, but that’s pretty impractical in the circumstances. You’re right in the middle of this business and . . . well, your uncovering of Anderson was pretty sharp, let’s face it.
‘So, the Defence Secretary has authorised me to lift your suspension as of this morning, and the fact that it occurred will be struck from the record. That’s not the end of the matter, however. There will still be an enquiry into your disregard of security procedures, and your reinstatement today will not prejudice the outcome of that. But you can forget about the suspension.’
‘Thank you,’ Peter answered non-committally.
‘Right. Well, I’ll leave you to it.’ Beckett rubbed his hands, and left the room.
Field-Marshal Buxton lowered himself into the large chair behind his desk.
‘Now, Peter. About the missile test. I’ve decided it’ll take place this afternoon,’ he announced, ‘if they can get their act together down in the Atlantic. But they’ve got a spy to deal with first.’
Carrying a brown leather briefcase marked with his monogram, Alec Anderson walked along the Embankment until he came to the pair of telephone boxes described to him by Karl Metzger. The briefcase had been a rather ostentatious present from Janet several Christmasses ago. He did not normally take it to work, preferring the more anonymous black variety supplied by the MOD; but he had chosen the brown bag today because it did not immediately identify him as a civil servant.
He looked at his wristwatch again, even though he had already studied it just seconds ago. It was still only five to twelve.
The closest of the two kiosks was the one where he had been told to expect the midday call. He cursed silently: it was occupied. Of course, it would be! A large, fat black woman seemed in no hurry to finish her conversation.
Alec slackened his pace and tried to look relaxed. Pretending to have lost his way, he turned his head as if looking for street names. He was searching for faces, though, for any sign of anyone deliberately watching him. A shiver ran down his spine; he felt so exposed.
In the distance Big Ben began to chime the preamble to the hour. Still there was no sign of the black woman ending her chat. She saw him waiting and pointed to the other box.
‘Doesn’t work,’ Alec mouthed.
What would they do? What would happen if they could not get through to him at noon? A harsh wind off the Thames chilled the sweat gathering under his armpits.
‘Arl right now,’ the black woman smiled at him, exposing broad gaps in her teeth. ‘Sahry now to be so long.’ She squeezed her way out of the phone-box, pulled her coat tight, and bustled away towards an underground station.
Alec hurried into the kiosk, recoiling from the smell of potato chips. A greasy paper bag lay on the floor. Opening the door again with his shoulder, he kicked it into the street. Almost immediately a man in an anorak occupied the booth next to him; a woman with a small child waited outside. He lifted the receiver, trying to conceal the fact that his fingers were holding down the rest.
His heart pounded and the sound of his anxious breathing seemed amplified by the confines of the booth.
At the first hint of a ring, he lifted his finger, and recited the number of the telephone.
The voice that answered him was not one he recognised.
‘Is that the Stock Exchange?’ a man asked. He had the hint of an accent.
‘No. It’s the Maid’s Head public house and we’re closed,’ Alec answered, reciting the code that Metzger had instructed him to use.
‘Listen carefully,’ the voice continued. ‘Walk to Charing Cross Station. Go in from the Strand. Just inside on the left is a row of phone booths. Use the third from the right. I’ll call you there in ten minutes. Got that?’
‘Yes. I . . .’
&nb
sp; There was a click, then the dialling tone. Frantically Alec tried to remember exactly what he had been told.
He looked at his watch again. He had ten minutes.
It took less than five to walk to Charing Cross, but he stopped at several shop windows and looked round furtively to see if he was being followed.
He located the row of telephone boxes without difficulty. Third from the right – that was what the man had said. It was unoccupied. Lucky this time!
He quickly stepped into the booth and studied the directories while waiting for the call. At precisely twelve-fifteen the phone rang.
‘Stock Exchange?’ the voice asked again.
‘Still the Maid’s Head,’ Alec replied.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Anderson. What’s yours?’ he demanded with sudden boldness.
There was a snort of laughter at the other end.
‘In front of you there is a shelf,’ the voice continued. ‘Put your hand under it. Do you feel something?’
‘There’s something stuck here. Something metal.’
‘Correct. It’s the key to a left-luggage locker. Do you have it now?’
Anderson peeled the sellotape from under the shelf and held the key in his hand.
‘Yes. It’s here.’
‘Pick up a small suitcase from the locker. Take it to the gents’ toilet. Go into a cubicle and look inside the case. There will be instructions to tell you what to do next.’
‘But when do I . . .?’
The line went dead.
Anderson backed away from the phone. Sudden panic set his stomach churning. Perhaps the suitcase was a bomb? Were they trying to kill him?
Calm down, he told himself. Where were the left-luggage lockers anyway? Breathe slowly.
The station looked enormous. One or two people in the lunchtime crowd were staring at him – or was it his imagination? Suddenly he felt certain: someone was watching him.
The man on the phone, could he be here at the station? Was he being controlled by someone he could actually see?
Quiet, he told himself. Keep cool! Find that bloody luggage locker and get on to the next clue in this paper-chase!
It was twenty yards away, clearly marked with a sign. He started to walk, stifling an instinct to run.
Skydancer Page 21
