D-Notice

by Bill Walker

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Sir Robert Sandon’s blood pressure rose when he caught sight of the knot of official vehicles clogging the dock area immediately surrounding the Ostend-Dover Ferry, their flashing lights making for a colorful mélange. The media were out in force, as well, their reporters and cameras all agog at the spectacle before them.

  A flock of ambulances stood by and the attendants were already busy bearing stretchers off the boat, their cargoes covered with white sheets. Sir Robert counted six in all. On the last one, however, he caught sight of the girl, Mueller’s daughter, Erika, her face deathly white from blood loss. But she was still alive.

  Pity.

  At least her father was out of the way. At least that was what the report said.

  “Shall we move in, Sir Robert?” the young MI6 agent standing at his side asked, his voice taut with eagerness.

  They stood far back from the action, partially hidden by their vehicles. Sir Robert shook his head.

  “Not until young Thorley appears. If the bloody vampires from the BBC insist on a show, we’ll give them one. I want the whole of Britain to see him hauled away in handcuffs. Is that clear?”

  The young agent nodded. The five others with him wore the same grave expression. There was a sudden rise in the level of sound as the reporters reacted. More lights snapped on and were trained on the ferry’s gangway. Thorley and his mother appeared, hesitating in the glare of the spotlights.

  Sir Robert turned to his retinue of agents. “Right, let’s move!”

  As one, the seven men charged across the docks, the agents forming a protective cordon around their boss. They shoved through the phalanx of reporters and camera crew and met Michael and his mother when they reached the bottom of the gangway.

  Sir Robert grabbed Michael by the arm, his voice rising to be heard above the crowd. “Michael Thorley? I hereby arrest you in the name of the Queen. You will—”

  And then it all went wrong.

  The reporters closed in en masse, their microphones thrust into his face. One of them, an over-made-up harpy with bleached hair and blood-red mouth, shouted a question: “Sir Robert? We’ve just been told of a letter sent by Stalin ordering the massacre of a British regiment during the last war, and that our government has known and condoned it all along. Do you have any comment?”

  Ignoring the bitch, he stared at young Thorley and saw the smug smile on his face, the look of triumph—and contempt. He also saw the letter clutched in his right hand.

  So bloody close. He’d come so close to keeping the affair quiet, as it was meant to be. Now, it was all going to the devil.

  Sir Robert turned to the female reporter, who looked at him with her own expression of smug assurance.

  “I have nothing to say,” he said.

  He turned and pushed his way through his own agents and stalked off toward his waiting Rolls. He reached the car, and climbed inside, blinking back tears of rage. “Bloody hell.”

  A moment later the Rolls’ headlights snapped on and the stately car moved off, leaving the media circus far behind.

  THE SON: 1989

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  He was out of whiskey again. He’d looked through every room in the house, all thirty of them, and there was nothing. Not a blasted drop. He’d gone through a whole case of the single malt given him four years ago, when he’d still enjoyed the favors and influences of his post. Now, all that was left was some bloody cooking sherry in the pantry, and some dusty memories to go along with the dusty house.

  Blast.

  The sherry would have to do.

  Easing himself off the bed, he ignored the overflowing ashtray, dirty dishes, tangled bedclothes and stumbled out of the room and down the hall to the main staircase.

  Reaching the ground floor, Sir Robert Sandon cursed when his bare foot slipped on the polished parquet flooring. Had to fire the bloody housekeeper again. None of these people knew how to wax a floor anymore. Like to break his goddamn neck.

  Passing through the foyer, he made his way into the kitchen, noting the previous night’s bottle—the last of that heavenly Scotch—still stood on the draining board—dry as an Arabian desert.

  Inside the pantry, his nose was assaulted by the various smells: onions, garlic cloves, and a dizzying array of spices. He found the single bottle of sherry on the third shelf nearly hidden by a sack of rotting potatoes and covered by a thin layer of dust. It would be just enough to last him until the off-license store opened. That is, if they would still take his bloody checks.

  He left the pantry with the bottle cradled in his arms and headed for the library. Bright afternoon light streamed through the tall leaded-glass window and, growling with anger, Sir Robert snapped the shutters closed, plunging the room into a pleasant gloom. That was better, he thought. He’d send that housekeeper packing as soon as she came in on Monday, that is if she hadn’t quit. The ungrateful wench!

  He grabbed the letter opener and used it to peel back the black foil around the cap, then twisted it off and poured the pale brown liquid into a dusty glass that sat on the stained blotter atop his desk. Nearly filling it, he picked it up in his trembling hand and took a long gulp, grimacing as the full flavor of the cheap wine muscled its way down his ravaged throat, leaving a burning trail behind. Coughing, he refilled it and drank again, finally feeling his nerves steady and his vision clear.

  That was when he saw the man seated in the brocaded wingback chair staring at him from the shadows near the empty bookshelves. That was when his guts turned to jelly.

  It was him.

  He could tell by the Western boots, the cold eyes, and the cruel, arrogant smile.

  “Well, well, Sir Robert, me boyo, we meet again,” Corwin Brady said, the smile widening. “And it’s been far too long, I might add, far too long....”

  A fire blazed in the grate, keeping the temperature inside Woodhaven to a toasty seventy-eight degrees, enough to keep out the November chill in the air. Michael watched the flames dance and listened while Lillian puttered in the kitchen readying their supper. He checked his watch for the umpteenth time.

  What was keeping them?

  Restless, he picked up the telly’s remote and snapped it on, flipping the channels until he came to the BBC news. As always, Gordon Honeycombe was reading, his jowly face the epitome of trust and assurance. Chroma-keyed behind him played scenes of Germans celebrating wildly, their faces drunk with freedom and cheap liquor.

  “...In an ironic twist of fate, coinciding with the anniversaries of Adolf Hitler’s ‘Beer Hall Putsch,’ and the infamous ‘Night of Broken Glass,’ a hated symbol of Communist rule has finally met its demise.... The Berlin Wall has fallen...”

  The shot behind Honeycombe cut to a scene showing a large section of the wall tumbling to earth, both East and West Germans rejoicing, their ecstatic voices rising to a frenzied pitch.

  “...Crowds have been gathering for days in anticipation of this momentous event. And with typical Teutonic precision, the first monolithic slice of that reviled edifice came down at precisely noon Berlin time, heralding the long-awaited end of the Cold War.” Honeycombe paused, looking down at his script. “Now, with the Soviet Union itself looming ever closer to final collapse, and with its satellite nations clamoring ceaselessly for democratic reform, it is only fitting that the beleaguered peoples of the once mighty German Democratic Republic begin the long process of reunification with their brothers and sisters in the west, on what has—until now—been a dark date in German history....”

  Behind him, Michael heard the door open.

  “We’re home!” Erika cried, her arms laden with packages from the grocers. Michael felt a thrill go through him as it did every time he saw her. Her wound from the incident on the ferry five years before had healed with few ill effects, and though her father had perished, she seemed less and less affected by the tragedy.

  “Need any help?” Michael called.

  Erika smiled, catching sight of her husba
nd. “Just with your son,” she said.

  And then a tiny towheaded whirlwind burst into the room running straight for him. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

  Michael swept the little boy up into his arms and swung him around. Two-year-old Michael Thorley III laughed and screamed with delight.

  “What on earth is going on out here?” Lillian asked, bustling out of the kitchen, carrying a tray piled high with sliced beef. She spotted Michael and her grandson and shook her head in mock dismay. “Michael, you’re going to spoil that child.”

  “And I wouldn’t have it any other way, mother,” he said, lifting the giggling boy onto his shoulders.

  Lillian chuckled and carried the plate of meat over to the dining area. The table was festooned with a lace tablecloth and Lillian’s best china and silverware, along with half a dozen covered dishes.

  “Dinner’s on,” she said.

  Michael carried his son over to a highchair and belted the boy in, while Erika joined him at the table. She kissed him and looked toward the television. “It’s begun.”

  Michael nodded. “You’ll be able to visit your home again, soon.”

  “My home is here,” she said, a wistful look in her eyes.

  “Now, now, now! I’ll not be having any long faces,” Lillian said, pouring wine into their glasses. She handed one to Michael, then to Erika, and then raised her own. “To the future.”

  Michael raised his glass and felt Erika grasp his other hand. Yes, Michael thought, to the future. Now that he’d made peace with the past, the future was just fine with him....

  “...In other news, Sir Robert Sandon, former head of MI6 was found dead in his Surrey home, yesterday, an apparent suicide. Home Secretary Roger MacKinnon issued a statement that while he is saddened by the news, he feels that it has little relation to the infamous Stalin Order Scandal of 1984, as some are speculating...”

  The chroma-key behind Honeycombe changed to footage of Roger MacKinnon being hounded by reporters.

  “...When asked if the order has had any measurable effects on current world events, MacKinnon cut the interview short with a curt, ‘No comment...’”

  Honeycombe arched his eyebrows, while the Teleprompter caught up with him.

  “...In a moment, after a brief word, we shall return with the weather for the coming week and the garden report....”

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