Skydancer (27 page)

‘And that is why they moved you into military work, my friend?'

‘Exactly,' Kvitzinsky whispered in reply. ‘They believe that I . . . and my computers can achieve the ultimate for them. To build a shield which will be directed electronically and automatically to fend off every type of attack. It was an honour to be given this duty. I was deeply flattered. And a challenge – there is none greater. But . . .'

‘But anything so perfect – it is of course impossible!' The priest completed his sentence for him.

‘The funds are unlimited . . . everything can be sacrificed for this aim, it seems to me. The arthritis of Katrina's mother can go untreated . . . Katrina herself can remain childless – but nothing must hinder my work, so they say.'

The priest shivered. The window was not firmly latched, and he stood up to attend to it.

‘You talked of morality. You know, of course,' he explained as he readjusted the curtains, ‘that when it comes to morality, your masters and mine are in conflict. In my house, right and wrong are decided by a higher order than the Party. And it is for each and every man to decide for himself in whose house he is going to live. There is no other way, my friend.'

‘Yes,' Oleg answered unhappily. ‘I know. Sometimes, though, the circumstances make it too difficult to take a decision like that, don't they?'

For some time the priest let his hand rest on Oleg's shoulder. Then slowly he moved away and lowered himself back into the chair by the stove.

‘I don't know,' he answered kindly. ‘That's a question you will have to put to yourself.'

John Black lived alone in a three-roomed South London flat, surrounded by the few possessions he had
accrued during his life. He had been married once, a long time ago, but it had been an unsatisfactory experience and he never talked about it.

He had felt certain that his Sunday at home would be disturbed before long. Indeed, he would have been worried if it had not. The plan to supply false versions of the Skydancer documents to the Russians was fraught with dangers, and he had ordered a tightening of the surveillance on all those involved.

After lunching on a frozen chicken pie hurriedly cooked in his microwave oven, he had settled down to watch an old Bette Davis film on television.

The interruption to his viewing came from a source he had not anticipated. Indeed he had not realised until then that the FBI worked on Sundays. The message from the signals analysis office in Miami had him kicking off his carpet-slippers and pulling on his thick-soled shoes within seconds.

His own office had rapidly found an address for the telephone number the Americans had supplied. It was the Berkshire area again. With a quick phone-call to Reading police station, so that they could alert his friend in the Special Branch that he was on his way, he slipped behind the wheel of his car and headed for the motorway.

On the passenger seat next to him he had placed a facsimile printer, and plugged it into a socket on the dashboard. Then he picked up the handset of his car-phone and dialled a number which would connect the printer directly with his office. While he sped on his way to Reading, the entire text of the intercepted telephone conversation between an unknown Englishman in Florida and a Miss Susan Parkinson in a Berkshire town would be transcribed for him to study.

It took him three-quarters of an hour to reach the
police station. Tom McQuade was waiting for him, still wearing the mud-caked shoes in which he had been doing his weekend gardening.

‘Taking your disguise a bit seriously today, aren't you?' Black mocked, looking down at them.

The policeman scraped his shoes against the front wheel of the MI5 man's car. ‘We know Susan Parkinson,' he announced as he slid on to the passenger seat from which he had removed the facsimile printer.

‘She's in that same mob as the wife of the Aldermaston man; you know, Action to Stop Annihilation; the organisation our WPC got inside. Interestingly enough, our Jenny was at one of their committee meetings on Friday night. None of them seemed to know why the Venner woman had done a bunk. There was a lot of talk about it. Big mystery apparently.'

John Black handed him the facsimile sheet and lit up a cigarette. The policeman wound down the window to let the smoke out, and began to read the page.

‘Who is he?' he asked when he had finished.

‘We don't know, but he's obviously one of the officers on board HMS
Retribution
, and he shouldn't have been talking like that to
anyone
!'

‘Too bloody right!' McQuade replied.

The address they had been given was in a street of small semi-detached houses on the outskirts of Newbury. The policeman had discovered that the woman was a schoolteacher.

Black stopped the car just short of the house so that they would not be seen too readily from the windows.

‘There's a passageway at the side,' he murmured, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘You pop round to the back while I do the front door, just in case any little bunny rabbits come running out of the stubble!'

The two men hoped they would be mistaken for
Jehovah's Witnesses if anyone saw them approaching the house. John Black waited until McQuade had slipped round the side, before pressing the doorbell. There was the faint sound of music from inside, which he recognised as Tchaikovsky, but it stopped abruptly.

After a minute with no response, he pressed the button again and held it pressed. He could hear the bell shrilling at the back of the house. Suddenly he saw through the patterned-glass door panel that someone was coming.

‘What the hell are you doing with that doorbell?' a woman shouted at him as she wrenched open the door.

She was quite attractive, he thought to himself. Better than most of her type. The look in her eyes, though, reminded him suddenly of the woman to whom he had once been married, many years before. It set his teeth on edge.

‘Ms Parkinson?' he enquired softly.

‘Yes?' she answered nervously. ‘What do you want?'

‘I'm from the Ministry of Defence. I'm afraid I have some bad news about your boyfriend. May I . . . may I come in for a moment?'

For a split second her eyes registered shock, but she quickly hid it. Black put one foot on the sill. She pushed the door towards him to block his path. Suddenly Black saw a shadow move behind her at the far end of the hallway.

‘I . . . I don't know what you're talking about!' she shouted. ‘I don't have a boyfriend.'

‘It's a security matter, Ms Parkinson. You'd be well advised to invite me in.'

He pushed hard on the door and she stumbled backwards. Then she began to scream. He hated this type; they were the worst, the screamers. His wife had screamed at him when she did not get her way. With
these ‘peace women', though, he knew it was a tactic to provoke arresting officers to resort to physical violence, which could then be held against them in court. In his case it often came close to succeeding.

Suddenly the screaming stopped. She had heard a noise behind her and turned to see Tom McQuade emerging from her kitchen with his large hands firmly clamped round the arms of another woman.

‘Got someone here I think you'd like to meet, John,' he announced with a wry smile. ‘This lady is Helene Venner!'

SHORTLY BEFORE MIDDAY
on Monday an audio tape of the intercepted phone-call arrived in London. The flight from Miami had been delayed by a technical fault, and at Heathrow airport a police squad-car was waiting to rush the cassette to the Royal Naval headquarters at Northwood. There, a lieutenant-commander formerly with HMS
Retribution
had been briefed to listen to it carefully in an effort to identify the speaker. Ms Susan Parkinson had remained stubbornly silent about the name of her caller. Meanwhile preparations at the Ministry of Defence had been almost finalised.

Peter Joyce had spent his Sunday in the chief draughtsman's office at Aldermaston, doctoring the drawings and descriptions on the Skydancer blueprints so that a new version could be prepared to meet the criteria set by the security chiefs. At the front of his mind hung his mental picture of ‘the Russian', to guide his thoughts.

At eight o'clock on Monday morning the documents were being pored over in Field-Marshal Buxton's office by intelligence experts and scientists. They had to be convincing without jeopardising national security.

Now that it seemed certain Karl Metzger had learned about the changes to the Skydancer warheads from a source on board the submarine, Peter's suspicions about the reliability of MI5 had diminished. He was not entirely satisfied however, still wanting to know why John Black had lied about the photograph in Mary's flat.

When the blueprints were finally approved, Peter was left on his own with the field-marshal and Sir Marcus Beckett.

‘Is Anderson happy about what he's got to do?' Buxton inquired.

‘
Happy
isn't the word for it,' Peter replied. ‘But he realises he has no choice.'

‘Shall we get him in, then?' Sir Marcus suggested, eager to start things moving.

Buxton pressed a key on the intercom.

‘I wish to God I could be sure we're doing the right thing,' Sir Marcus mused uncomfortably. ‘The Soviets have put a hell of an effort into getting hold of the Skydancer secrets. We may have found out about the East German and the spy on the boat . . . but I'm bloody sure they've got more tricks up their sleeves.'

‘A spy on board one of our Polaris submarines!' Buxton exploded. ‘How did the Navy let
that
happen?' What on earth are they doing with their vetting procedures? I can tell you there are going to be some damned hard questions asked when we find out who the man is.'

There was a tap at the door, and Anderson came in.

‘Good morning, Anderson. Sit down.'

Sir Marcus had taken charge. Anderson was a civil servant, answerable to him rather than the Chief of the Defence Staff.

‘I think I should make it clear, Anderson,' Beckett began, ‘that this is being seen as a salvage operation rather than an opportunity any of us would have sought. It would have been much better for the Skydancer project to remain under wraps instead of gaining such public exposure, and indeed the politicians look upon your activities with the deepest concern. Only by doing what you are about to do, will you earn
any
chance of favourable treatment. I'm not authorised
to make promises about the likelihood or not of any prosecution against you. No decisions have been taken yet. Suffice to say, if what you are about to do proves successful, it can only count in your favour. Do I make myself clear?'

‘Perfectly, Sir Marcus,' Anderson answered nervously.

‘Now, what are your orders from the other side?'

Anderson cleared his throat.

‘They haven't told me much yet. I . . . I have to be in a certain telephone-box at exactly twelve noon. Someone will ring me there and give me further instructions.'

‘You will be under surveillance . . .'

‘No!' Anderson almost shouted.

‘For your own protection as much as anything else.'

‘I don't want it! If they get the slightest inkling that this is a put-up job, I'm finished,' Anderson pleaded. ‘Don't you see? It could ruin everything. Karl is already highly suspicious. He said he wouldn't hesitate. First sign of any trickery and he's going to send off those photographs.' Anderson coloured at this.

Buxton looked contemptuous and patted the envelope which contained the blueprints.

‘No! I won't do it if you're going to have people tailing me!' Anderson insisted.

‘Won't do it? I'm
ordering
you to!' Sir Marcus cut in.

‘Perhaps . . .' Buxton intervened, ‘perhaps the answer would be for you to discuss that little detail with John Black, since it's his department.'

Anderson cast a glance of alarm at Peter.

‘It's all right,' Joyce nodded. ‘They've found out who leaked the information about my visit to Florida – and it wasn't Black.'

Anderson seemed far from reassured. Nevertheless he took the envelope from the table and stood up.

‘Then I'd better talk to him now. There's not much time.'

He looked at the carriage clock on Buxton's desk. He had just thirty minutes before his telephone rendezvous with the East German agent.

Peter decided to accompany Alec down to the security office where John Black had taken up residence for the day. Anderson led the way through the grid of corridors which Peter still found confusing, even after dozens of visits to the Ministry.

‘They're pretty good, those plans,' Peter reassured him, when there was no one close to them. ‘I don't think the comrades will guess.'

‘Don't be too sure,' Anderson grunted. ‘You're not dealing with children, you know.'

As they neared the security office, Peter took the other man by the arm.

‘I'll leave you to talk to Black on your own,' he said. ‘And . . . you'll ring us later? To tell us how things went with Metzger.'

Anderson's expression was blank.

‘Yes, I'll call you.'

He turned and pushed open the door in front of him.

‘Take a seat, Mr Anderson.' John Black was replacing the receiver of his telephone.

‘Is there something that worries you about our arrangements?'

‘Yes!' Alec almost shouted. ‘It's imperative you don't have anybody following me today!'

‘Could ruin things, you mean?'

‘It might even be fatal if they get wind of this being a counter-intelligence operation,' Anderson insisted.

‘Too much at stake, you think?'

‘There certainly is! And if you have somebody tailing me, I'm not going through with it!'

John Black smiled benignly, and inhaled deeply from his half-smoked cigarette.