‘I’m sorry we didn’t manage to take in any family-grams this morning. We had to put the mast down before we’d received them — for operational reasons.’
‘Huh,’ Pike mocked. ‘In case our own side finds out what we’re up to.’
‘Do you mean that?’
‘Shh!’
‘In conclusion…’
Hitchens’ voice sounded unsteady, almost emotional.
‘I just want to say how terribly important this mission is. There’s a lot depending on it, believe me. That is all.’
‘So bloody important, he won’t even tell me what it is!’
Pike pushed back his chair and stood up, bristling with anger.
‘I’ve had enough! I’m going to have it out with him!’
Spriggs pushed Pike back down into his seat.
‘Cool it Tim! If you go blazing in like that, you’ll be up on a charge!’
‘Fuck him! The bastard’s got right up my nose!’
‘Okay. But talk sense for a minute. That crash-dive this morning, to get away from one of our own planes? You think we’re not meant to be here? The plane was looking for us, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes. That is what I’m saying, but I’ve no way of proving it.’
Spriggs was aghast.
‘But why? Hitchens is a rule-book man. He’d never chance his arm…’
‘Sure? Do you know what’s going on in his mind? I don’t. The man’s a closed book to me.’
Paul thought of the explosive power stacked in the bow compartment of the submarine. Harpoon missiles that could devastate surface ships over fifty miles away; Tigerfish torpedoes that could rip through the double-hulls of Soviet submarines; and Moray mines that could lie dormant in the depths before darting from the dark to cripple the unsuspecting. He shivered.
‘If you really believe he’s acting against orders, Tim, then we’ve got to do something about it. And fast!’
‘We need proof, Paul. And how the hell do we get it?’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Two security men sat next to each other on a commuter flight to Plymouth. They spoke little.
Hillier was SIS, the Secret Intelligence Service or MI6, controlled by the Foreign Office. Black was MI5, a Home Office man. Hillier was tall and gaunt with a fine-boned nose, Black stocky with a tendency to sweat. The former styled himself a diplomat, the latter a policeman.
‘Nearly there,’ Hillier declared in a voice edged with boredom, glancing at his gold wrist-watch.
John Black pulled back his sleeve to reveal his own timepiece, digital and stainless-steel. It was a quarter-to-nine. They’d been served breakfast on the flight.
‘The watchers’ll have just changed shift,’ Black mumbled. ‘Boring bloody job, that is.’
‘Did well yesterday, your man.’ Hillier’s voice was patronizing. ‘Spotting Gunnar like that. Very timely.’
‘Except that Gunnar spotted him at the same time. He’ll get a reprimand.’
‘Don’t be too hard. He’s probably given us an extra twenty-four hours. We needed that.’
The previous evening, Hillier had been halfway out of his office in the Soviet Department at Century House, when he’d received the summons to the Director’s office. The instructions he’d been given were highly irregular. He didn’t know where the orders came from, but it had to be the Foreign Secretary himself. And that meant the PM. He couldn’t believe Sir Nigel would take a flyer on a thing like this.
The Director had been uneasy about the whole business. Doubted the wisdom of it. He refused to use their Moscow agents to plant the information about HMS Truculent. The call from MI5 to say the Russian had been seen again, sniffing near Sara Hitchens’ home, had been timely. Very timely.
Normally, feeding information to the Russians was an MI6 job, but handling Soviet spies on British soil was MI5. Hence the two of them were on the breakfast flight to the West Country. Their meeting with Mrs Hitchens was fixed for nine o’clock.
‘Remind me what you’ve got on Gunnar,’ Hillier asked wearily as they turned from the airport road onto the Plymouth by-pass. Black was driving the hired car.
‘Not a lot,’ Black grunted, braking sharply as a motorcyclist weaved in front of them. ‘Knew nothing about him until all this blew up. Found out where he lived by accident. Sharp-eyed neighbour saw the man and his missus moving their stuff out of the house in the middle of the night. Called the police the next day.
‘In too much of a hurry — they were. Got careless. Left some coding pads. We assumed they’d have got out of the country, but we kept a watch on Mrs Hitchens just in case. Yesterday he suddenly turned up. Drove straight past her house. It was us he was looking for. Saw us the same moment we saw him. Off like a rocket. Our man put out a call to the local police, but Gunnar disappeared.’
‘Bit daring, isn’t he, coming back to the house? She must’ve been giving him something special!’ Hillier sneered.
‘Probably wants to shut ’er up. Thinks she’s the only one who can identify him. Do her in and he could slip back into the undergrowth for a year or two, then emerge with a new cover.’
‘Well, she’ll be safe enough with your brave boys parked at the end of her drive!’
Black felt the back of his neck prickle. Hillier was needling him because his watcher had failed to conceal himself properly.
‘Have you met her?’ Hillier asked.
‘Mmm. Came down here when the case broke. Temperamental bitch.’
Hillier looked about him as they drove through the first of the grey stone villages to the southeast of the city. Some pretty properties here, he thought to himself.
‘Will she play, d’you think?’
Black thought for a moment. He took out a cigarette and lit it. Hillier pointedly wound down his window.
‘Tell her her old man’s life could depend on it, and she might. Curious that; she says she still loves him despite all the stuff she got up to behind his back.’
‘Ah, women! Where would we be without them!’
Black cast him a sideways glance.
‘Some of us manage very well, thanks.’
Sara had been awake most of the night, worrying. The MI5 man had given no reason for needing to see her again. During the night she’d thought she could hear someone outside, prowling round the house.
She watched unseen from a window as the two men got out of their car, then waited for them to ring the bell before she let them in.
‘Hello, Mrs Hitchens.’
Black tried to sound jovial.
Sara nodded a greeting, eyeing Hillier with suspicion.
‘You’ll have to make do with the kitchen, I’m afraid. That’s where I live when I’m alone here,’ she said, leading them in.
She switched on the kettle and pointed to the old pine table.
‘I’m not sure why…’
‘Let me introduce myself.’ The SIS man extended his hand. ‘Hillier from the Foreign Office…’
‘I’ve already told Mr Black everything I can remember…’
‘So you want to know why we’re here? Naturally.’
Hillier spoke to her as if she had a mental age of five.
‘Glad you’ve got the kettle on. I could do with a cuppa.’
Sara became increasingly nervous. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee, please.’
‘Tea, if you don’t mind,’ added Black.
Sara reached for a cupboard.
‘What a delightful kitchen.’
Hillier’s comment annoyed her.
‘Isn’t it just?’ she answered abruptly. ‘But let’s skip the polite conversation, shall we? Would you mind telling me what you want?’