“Yes Christophe, they are my daughters.” He held up the photograph for both men to see, “And they are stood in front of the old Gasthaus in Fischausen.”
Fischausen, soon to be renamed Primorsk, had been virtually destroyed in the April fighting, the few surviving inhabitants moved on elsewhere.
The location provided the NKVD with the perfect hiding place, away from day to day public scrutiny.
The old guest house, away from the main area of fighting, had escaped damage, and was used to house the three ‘prisoners’, as well as the personal security detail.
The large building nearby provided warm and dry quarters for the thirty man NKVD guard force, charged with keeping the nosey at distance and ‘disappearing’ those who got too close.
Across the road from the Gasthaus, the relatively undamaged doctor’s residence and surgery proved suitable accommodation for the two NKVD officers.
Other more distant eyes soon turned towards Fischausen, appreciating that its strength was also a weakness.
The thick curtains were drawn, and only a single table lamp salvaged the Victorian room from darkness.
The single occupant, relaxing with a modest single malt, had long ago switched off the radio, tiring of the new BBC Light programme, returning to the desk to finish the last of his work before heading to his London home.
At least that was the plan, which did not survive the urgent telephone call he received.
Placing his pen carefully in the holder, he lifted the receiver.
“Petrie.”
Had another person been in the room they would have witnessed a metamorphosis, Petrie’s gaze becoming hardened, his free hand stroking his moustache into place.
“Bring it up immediately, Jones.”
He gently replaced the receiver and waited, estimating the time it would take the duty officer to make it from the decoding room to his office.
It was a game he played, interpreting the speed of arrival as a marker of their import.
The knock on the door came an unprecedented fifteen seconds in advance of schedule.
The duty officer entered and stood breathlessly before the desk of MI5’s Director-General.
“Sir, this message was logged in at 2031 hrs and marked ‘eyes only DG’.”
That in itself was not unusual.
“It is also in Omega Code, Sir.”
That was extremely unusual and the reason that Jones had taken the steps two at a time from basement to fourth floor.
Omega messages started in the code of the day and the message had been worked on by one of the duty communications team. However, the decoder soon found the ‘Ω9Ω’ mark that betrayed its extreme importance and specific recipient.
“Thank you, Jones. You may go.”
Standing smartly, Petrie strode to his wall safe and extracted the necessary tools to unlock ‘Omega’, understanding that ‘Ω9Ω’ indicated Fenton, HM’s agent in the sleepy hollow that was the Court of Bernadotte, in the presence of Gustaf V, King of Sweden.
Once the ‘Omega’ was decoded, the process of a full hour, Petrie realised that the message had transformed from the indecipherable to solid dynamite with the capacity to destroy much of what had been saved in the war years.
The receiver virtually leapt from its cradle.
The voice at the other end seemed half-asleep, it being a Sunday evening and nothing of note happening.
“Comms room, Charlton.”
“Petrie here. Access to duty officer’s cabinet. Authorisation code Picton. Acknowledge.”
Charlton was suddenly very much awake, although not a little annoyed that a drill should be run at this time on a Sunday.
“Acknowledge receipt of authorisation code Picton. State your requirements, sir.”
Jones looked up from his novel, the words attracting his attention.
“Access secure storage. My code 1830. Acknowledge.”
Next to Charlton’s position was a heavy metal cabinet, its eight-digit numeric combination lock built into the side. His free hand moved the dials, inputting first his, then the DG’s numbers.
“1830, acknowledge.”
The heavy lock clicked open and he tested the sliding door.
“I have access, Sir. File access name please.”
‘Still going, are we? Stupid time for a drill, old chap.’
“File access ‘Hastings’. Contact both named members immediately. Message is ‘Effingham’. They are to be in my office yesterday. Acknowledge.”
Charlton was totally focussed in a micro-second, as ‘Hastings’ was just a rumour, spoken of in hushed whispers over drinks in the nearby pub.
“Access ‘Hastings’, both members to be contacted and given the message ‘Effingham’. To attend your office immediately. Yes, Sir.”
His ‘Yes Sir’ was spoken to a dead connection, Petrie having cut the line before dialling an outside number.
The phone rang unanswered.
‘Damn, of course. Should have realised.’
He dialled another number, the one he should have dialled first, given the time of day.
This time it was answered immediately.
“The Guards Club, Good evening. How may I be of assistance?”
“Ah Squires, just the fellow.”
“Sir David, how may I be of assistance?”
“Squires, is Sir Fabian there this evening?”
“He most definitely is, Sir. Presently engaging the younger members with his memories of Mons.”
“This is most urgent, Squires. Please bring him to the phone.”
“Sir.”
The phone was placed carefully down, and Petrie could almost hear the man limp away as fast as his shortened left peg could carry him.
A disturbance in his ear quickly told him that his man had arrived.
“Callard-Smith.”
“Jack, it’s David. No time to explain right now. Just need to know you will be in town all week.”
“Ah David! My dear fellow. I’m here until Thursday, and then I’m off to Roger’s estate for some weekend shooting.”
“Good. I may have need of you, so please don’t disappear, Jack.”
“I do hate mysteries, old chap. What’s it about?”
“Cannot say right now, but I think it is as big as it comes, and I will need you.”
“Righty ho David, mum’s the word then. Got to go now, it’s Percy’s round.”
Two men replaced their phones.
One, Sir David Petrie, started to work on a plan to sort out the abominable mess that had just landed in his lap.
The other, Colonel Sir Fabian John Callard-Smith MP VC, wondered what had got his dear friend in such an agitated state, and what part he was to play in the grand design.
Stirred by the faint cries of derision as Percy Hollander chalked drinks to his personal account, he stepped away from his thoughts and moved quickly to add to Percy’s tally.
Petrie finished his scotch, enjoying the silence his radical suggestion had brought about.
The other two members of ‘Hastings’, having been summoned according to set procedure, had dropped everything to deal with what was obviously a matter of the utmost importance.
The report had not been copied; Omegas never were. It would not survive the end of the meeting, the cold fireplace to be lightly warmed as it was destroyed within the sight of all the Hastings Group.
But for now, the other two reflected upon Petrie’s drastic suggestion.
The first reaction had been shock, followed quickly by anger.
After proper consideration, doubts had arisen.
“If we act against this, are we committing treason? Becoming traitors in our turn?”
Lord Southam posed the questions to the head of MI5, the confusion evident in a man of sound thinking.