Davies raised an eyebrow. ‘Good Lord!’
‘Exactly! This message was broadcast last week. Now the thing is, apart from Arthur Gable, Janet and the Portuguese, only I knew that Swan was going to Lisbon. So how did Allenby get to know?’
Davies leaned back in his chair. ‘Any theories on that?’
‘Just one, and Swan also suspects it that Allenby is involved in something bigger and, whatever it is, obviously has a Cyprus connection. Swan thinks that putting the blame on EOKA B for what happened to Danvers, and now the discovery of this bogus document, is some sort of scheme to undermine the Greeks. Probably enough to annex them from the island, leaving us to form some sort of pact with the Turks.’
Davies nodded. ‘Yes, I’m starting to see this in a different light now. But questions on this theory, still remain. Who is Allenby in league with over this, and more to the point, what would be the advantage of us sharing the island with Turkey?’
Stratton stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘You don’t suppose the Soviets have anything to do with this, do you, Hugo?’
Davies smiled. ‘Why on earth would you suggest that, John? Are you now suspecting Christopher Allenby of being a Russian mole?’
Stratton suddenly felt stupid. ‘No, of course not. I was just thinking about their relationship with the Turks. Although a bit rocky at times, long term, this could be a chance for them to build a rapport. After all, the Americans have feared this for years. That’s why they placed their short-range nukes there, in ʼ59. Made the Turks feel important enough to keep the Russians from borrowing the key to NATO’s back door.’
Davies ruffled some papers in his hands with irritation. ‘Ah, but let us not forget John, that the Yanks then used the Turks’ Jupiter missiles as a bargaining chip over the Cuban crisis. They sold their eastern European allies right down the Bosporus, so to speak.’
Stratton sighed. ‘So, best thing we can do is wait for Allenby to wake up and hope this so-called Ankara agreement can be retrieved. You do know that, if it is already in Turkish hands, then the prime minister will have to answer to every country in NATO? We could even get expelled over it and, as for Cyprus, we will have to leave the SBAs and only God knows what could happen next over there.’
Davies nodded in agreement. ‘Seems our political future lies in Swan’ s hands right now, and the sooner he gets them on that bloody document, the happier we’ll all be.’
Stratton took a sip of coffee. ‘I’m with you on that entirely, Hugo.’
A little later, the assistant chief of MI5 left Thames House, walked down towards Lambeth Bridge and entered a phone box. Pretending to thumb through one of the directories, Davies dialled a memorized number and spoke a series of numbers to the person on the other end, then hung up.
He looked at his watch and on exiting the phone box, hailed a taxi for a short ride across the river to Battersea Park. At the end of the ride, he asked the driver to put him off at the Albert Bridge entrance.
Walking half-way along the promenade overlooking the Thames, he sat down on a bench and viewed the river. Ten minutes later an elderly gentleman, in a light-grey jacket and black slacks, sat down next to him.
Both men were in possession of the previous day’s Times newspaper and after both checking they were not under any surveillance, they began their conversation, all the while staring out at the water.
Davies spoke softly to his Soviet controller, Gregor Orlofsky. ‘Things are not good at the moment, Gregor, old chap. This Cyprus crisis seems to have taken a whole new turn.’
Orlofsky nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, it appears that Christopher Allenby, our Deputy Foreign Secretary, is behind the murder of the RAF officer. He hired an assassin known as the Praying Mantis to do the job. I was wondering if you are running him. Is Allenby one of ours?’
The Russian diplomat shifted on the bench. ‘If he was comrade, do you not think you would be informed of it?’
‘I suppose so,’ Davies replied. ‘So, if he isn’t working for the Politburo, then who the hell is running him?’
Orlofsky turned to him. ‘Perhaps it is the Americans?’
Davies guffawed. ‘Shouldn’t think so. What would they gain from operating someone like…?’ Davies suddenly had a thought. ‘Good grief! You don’t suspect this could all be some CIA plot, surely?’
Orlofsky smiled. ‘Who knows? But it would make sense. Anyway, enough of Cyprus. Can we talk more about the MRCA? The first test flight is scheduled in West Germany next week, and we can’t seem to get near it. We need plans, blueprints, and specification data of this aircraft. All we have is what your newspapers or the specialised press have published. Our Sukhoi bureau is developing something similar. We need to know how it differs from this new NATO super-jet. I was hoping, in your new position, perhaps you could help with this?’
Davies shrugged. The new Multi Role Combat Aircraft was a hot topic, promising the German Luftwaffe and Navy, the Italian Air Force as well as the RAF, supersonic strike capability for decades to come; not to mention the interest in this machine from Saudi Arabia.
‘I will see what I can do. I shouldn’t worry too much about it though. Mother Riley’s Cardboard Aircraft, is what it is being dubbed by the senior officers of the RAF. After the Rapier fiasco in the Mid-Sixties, I shouldn’t wonder that the whole project will just end up being another lame duck. That’s why we’re going in with the other two countries. None of us can afford to produce something like this on our own.’
Orlofsky patted Davies’ arm. ‘Just keep me informed of its progress, comrade. This is all I ask.’
Davies stood up to leave. He turned to the Russian. ‘I’ll see what I can do. If I do manage to get anything, I will use the normal drop. Good day, Gregor.’
Chapter 26
Reynolds stopped, suddenly. He thought he could hear the sound of a heavy petrol engine rapidly approaching. Grabbing Elma’s arm, he led her to a broken concrete wall and they listened carefully as the vehicle trundled towards them.
Earlier, they had already had to avoid a bus full of Turkish refugees, who under escort from the Greek army, were being guided towards the city.
A bitter taste had entered the mercenary’s mouth, when he saw the Greeks had painted a Turkish flag on the side of the vehicle. Perhaps they have painted one on the roof as well, Reynolds had thought, so that a Greek jet fighter pilot would be tempted to use it for target practice.
The slow-moving vehicle he had heard was now only feet away from their hiding place, and to his dismay, came to an abrupt halt, the big engine now purring on idle.
Reynolds tensed. He reached for his automatic as he heard the sound of a hatch opening, followed shortly afterwards by a familiar accent — that of a British squaddie.
‘Hurry up, Harry, we’ve got to get to Nicosia by two o’ clock; Burnside will have us cleaning out all the Saracens in the platoon if we’re late,’ said the soldier.
There was an instant reply from another. ‘I won’t be long, Joe. Shouldn’t have had that extra cuppa.’
Reynolds put away his gun and, slowly raising himself from the shield of the wall, viewed a sand-coloured Saracen armoured personnel carrier. Red Cross symbols were on the exterior.
The soldier who had climbed down to relieve himself stood frozen as Reynolds raised himself to full height. The soldier had no weapon in his hand and slowly put out his hands in a gesture of calm.
Seeing how the man in front of him was dressed, the embarrassed soldier smiled, speaking softly and slowly to him, as if he was another refugee.