“They can’t ignore us now,” said the Brigadier.
“No sir, but have we stuck a stick into a hornets’ nest?” asked Amber.
“Maybe, but think how dull life was before.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
David Robbins entered the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square feeling weary after a long flight. The Pan-Am Boeing 707 had landed at Heathrow about an hour and a half earlier, and he had caught a cab to the Embassy. As he ascended the steps at the front, he glanced round the tranquil London square. He recalled seeing the news reports of the riots of the anti-war demonstrators just a few years previously. Of their presence there was no sign, save one uniformed British Bobby with his distinctive helmet sanding just outside the Embassy.
He paused at the top of the steps, glancing around quickly, as he felt he was being observed. He could see no one specifically interested in him so, shrugging, he turned and continued. Not that far away, Amber was suddenly very alert, for she had suddenly sensed a mind with a latent power that meant she might no longer be alone.
On entering the building, David reported to the military attaché, as instructed, to find a state of mild confusion. Several men, presumably CIA agents, were huddled in a corner in heated discussion, while another was speaking on a telephone.
“What’s up?” he asked the harassed looking attaché, Ken Jenner.
“There’s been an incident involving a suspected Soviet spy and the British.”
David smiled, as the British intelligence were considered a joke by the American Intelligence services, as most of their number were suspected to be left wing sympathisers or homosexuals, or both, so thereby open to blackmail by soviet spies.
“So, what happened?”
“Two of our guys were going to take out a Soviet agent, but then the Brits stepped in and snatched him in front of us. Then MI5 turned up and denied it was them.”
David frowned. “So who were they?”
“We’re not sure, the MI5 liaison officer we normally deal with initially denied it was any of their people, but then, just an hour ago, he admitted it might have been a specialist department and then clammed up.”
“What department?” David asked, wondering if his quest was going to be easier than he thought.
“He wouldn’t say, but I guess it was as much of a surprise to him as it was to us.”
“How come?”
“Well, I’ve been dealing with this guy for a year and he’s normally very helpful. This time he seemed angry, as if someone somewhere wasn’t telling him everything. He simply said, ‘It seems it was our team, God knows who, but I’m told that it was another special ops job. Can’t say any more, as I don’t bloody know any more!’ I got the impression his department wasn’t responsible and had no knowledge of the operation until after it had happened.”
David was confused.
“I thought MI5 undertook all counter-intelligence operations inside the UK, just like the FBI back home?”
“They do. The only other department that could have been involved is Special Branch.”
“They’re cops, right?”
“Sure, based at Scotland Yard. They’re involved investigating all proactive subversive groups that could threaten the state.”
“Like the soviets?”
“Not usually, they leave the spy stuff to the Intelligence guys, as they’re more involved with the Irish paramilitaries or the anti-war and communist subversives.”
David was getting frustrated. “So, was it Special Branch?”
“No, I thought I told you that. I called a detective Sergeant I play squash with. He told me he didn’t know what I was talking about.”
“So, who the hell was it?”
“That’s the problem, I don’t know.”
“Okay, what do we know?” David asked.
“The Russian is a guy called Leonid Dvorkov. He’s a known KGB agent, who holds the rank of Captain. He’s been here for a few years and usually targets low-level clerks inside various Ministry departments and manages to blackmail or persuade them to give him low-level secrets. He’d been working on a clerk in the British Defence Ministry for a while. He’d managed to convince the man he was CIA and received some low-level stuff. We’d been watching the clerk, a guy called Mark Reynolds, and planned to make a move on Leonid when we saw him pick up a drop. Just as we were going to make the move, a girl passed him and made him turn round and move away from where we were waiting. She spoke to him in Russian, and then he just walked off with her, apparently in a daze.”
“Who was the girl?”
“We don’t know. We got a photo of her, but she’s not known by any of our people in London. I risked showing the picture to an MI5 guy. He claims he hasn’t seen her before.”
“Go on. What happened then?”
Ken looked embarrassed. “I don’t know. The next thing I knew, both the girl and Leonid had vanished.”
“Vanished?”
“Okay, I think they got into a black cab, but it was driving off before I could move. It was weird, I was kind of frozen to the spot.”
David felt a prickle of anticipation.
“The girl, tell me about the girl.”
“What can I tell you? She was blonde, tall and a looker; that’s all I remember.” He rummaged in the desk and came up with a grainy black and white photograph. It was fuzzy and out of focus. David looked at it. Ken wasn’t wrong, even with the poor quality, she was a very attractive girl.
“I only got a glance at her. Oh, her eyes!”
“Her eyes?”
“Yeah, she had golden eyes.”
David left the embassy an hour later, but not much wiser. He caught a cab across town to book into a small Hotel in Knightsbridge called the Homelea House Hotel. He’d found this hotel six years ago, whilst third visit to London. It was quiet and comfortable, run by a couple, the Chandlers, who managed to create a family feel to the place. He much preferred it to any of the large but impersonal luxury hotels he could have chosen.
“Welcome back Mr Marsh,” said Mrs Chandler, as he checked in under his usual assumed name.
“Thanks Mrs Chandler. It’s nice to be back.”
“How long are you with us, this time?”
“I’m not sure; we’ll just have to see.”
“That’s nice. Oh, your lady friend is waiting for you in the reading room.”
David stopped writing in the book.
“My what?”
“The young lady you arranged to meet, she’s been here about ten minutes. She’s waiting in the reading room.”
“The reading room?” he repeated, feeling foolish.
“Yes, dear, you remember where it is?”
“I do, thanks,” he said.
Leaving his bag at reception, knowing they'd take it up to his room, David made his way through the hotel to a sunny room overlooking the small garden to the rear. Laid out on a highly polished table were the daily papers, and the room contained six comfortable armchairs with two matching sofas in which the residents could sit and relax. There was a large writing desk and chair in the bay window. A fireplace stood at one end of the room, which, as it was July, was unlit. Seated in one of the chairs, with her long and lovely legs crossed was a young woman, hiding the rest of her body behind the Daily Telegraph.
"Good morning, Major, good flight?" she asked, without lowering her paper. Her accent was educated English.
David was immediately defensive, as no one outside the embassy knew his real identity and, as his promotion had yet to be formally announced, his consternation was growing by the second.
Putting on a brave face, he smiled, as he always felt slightly unsettled by these cool and very confident young women. Still, he smiled, despite the fact the girl had yet to lower the newspaper.