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  “Not least because we don’t have the slightest idea why they have moved away, or whether it was at the instigation of my PA or her mother. Furthermore, that investigation is already underway, and is being led by Special Branch. Of course, if any of you want to join in the house search, which is presently the main activity, I see no reason why not,” replied Clayton.

  “But she removed the hard disk from her computer here and at home. Why would she have done that do you suppose.”

  “No idea, at the moment,” said Clayton, “and neither do we know for sure yet that she was responsible. My own view would be that she was, but the reason is by far from clear. If it was her, then there was obviously information on both machines that she wanted to keep from us, but that could have been anything, including a clandestine affair.”

  “There’s no evidence of that,” said Marsden defensively.

  “But she had an affair before, with Jarvis, so we have just been told.”

  Stuart Carrington, from GCHQ chipped in. “It’s imperative that we get hold of both those machines as soon as possible,” he said. “My people in Cheltenham may well be able to uncover information on what’s left of them. It’s amazing how much is hidden away if you know where to look.”

  “The computer here is secure,” Clayton assured him.

  “Then let’s get over to the house to rescue that one. I’ll take one of your IT chaps with me, but please make sure the machine here is not touched until I get back. One further thing, though. Let’s not forget that this may not be human intelligence gathering at all. I’m sure you’ve all heard of cyber warfare, and I shall want to go through all your communications and data storage facilities here as a matter of urgency to check its security, including mobile phones. I shall be sending for re-enforcements.”

  “It looks to me,” said Marsden, “as if you have already decided to link the search for our PA with the hunt for a foreign agent.”

  “Much of this investigation,” said Frank Browne from MI6, “will be a process of elimination. We in the Secret Intelligence Service have much experience of this sort of thing – too much, really – so my colleague from GCHQ is absolutely right to see what, if anything, can be learnt from the girl’s computers.”

  “I agree,” said Poulson from MI5. “And since my department is supposed to be responsible for catching spies, I wouldn’t mind coming with you, Stuart, to the Wilkinson’s house, if only to make my name with the Special Branch chaps. I shall need some help too. One thing I will get my people to do is double check the security clearances of all the people on your lists. Could I possibly borrow the files of those who work here?” he asked Clayton. “It will be easier and quicker to get that done at HQ rather than here.”

  The briefing meeting broke up, and members went their different ways.

  “They don’t waste much time, do they,” commented Nick.

  “There may not be much time to waste, if they are to stop more secrets from leaking. I think I should wiz round our section heads here to tell them what’s going on and to get them to stand by to help in any way they can.”

  “Of course,” said Nick, “there’s one bloke they will want to talk to who they won’t be able to.”

  “Who?”

  “Dusty Miller. If you don’t mind, I’ll give the hospital a ring and see how he’s getting on.”

  “Yes, we must keep in touch. They may also want to talk to Lloyd, of course, in case he’s been chattering to people. But let me know what they say about Dusty, and then nip off for some rest.”

  A bit later, Nick went into the Ops Room, with his coat on. This time, he really was going home.

  “They say Dusty is as well as can be expected,” he told Bill Clayton. “And we all know what that means. He’s still in intensive care and on the VSI list, but just about able to breath for himself again, so they’ve taken him off the ventilator for the time being, but watching him carefully. He’s had a couple of scans, and apparently there’s a lot to do to his plumbing to sort out his internal injuries, as well as mending his left leg and right arm, not to mention his rib cage. So he’ll be there for some time. They can’t rush things while he’s so ill, but they are confident he’ll pull through it all.”

  “We must try to ring them again, perhaps on a daily basis if we can. We could put a sit-rep on the notice board; several people here have been asking about him.”

  “Roger Lloyd had also been on the phone asking, so they said, and the medic member of my team, Annie Mackie. They’re keeping details like that in a diary for him – a sort of log book, with all his treatment and everything in it as well, so that he can catch up when he’s fit enough.”

  “That sounds a good idea. Now you push off and have a good rest. If you feel like it, come in tomorrow.”

  “I’d better be here to help brief Peter Northcot. But I’ll be OK after a good meal and a night’s rest. I’ll go down to my flat in Portsmouth, I think, to really get away from things.”

  “Drive carefully then.”

  As Marsden left, Clayton’s phone rang. Gladys answered it.

  “This is Catherine, Bill Clayton’s wife,” she announced.

  “Hello, Mrs Clayton. I’m Gladys.”

  “We’ve never met, but I know you stand in for Barbara when she’s away.”

  “Barbara’s away,” said Gladys.

  “And what about my husband. Is he there?”

  “Hang on; I’ll find him for you. There’s a bit of chaos going on here today.”

  Eventually, Bill got to the phone.

  “Hello, my darling. How are things?”

  “Well, things are all right here, but I wondered about you. I gather from Gladys that there’s what she calls “a bit of a chaos going on”!”

  “Just a bit frantic, actually. The place is full of people checking on things.”

  “I wondered if there was any chance of you coming home,” said Catherine.

  “Any special reason?” asked Bill.

  “Only that it’s been over two days since you did, and I haven’t heard from you, that’s all!”

  There was a pause. Bill looked at his watch.

  “Have I really been here two days, and not been in touch?”

  “It’s not the first time in our life,” said Catherine, “and knowing your job, it probably won’t be the last! But I did just want to make sure you were all right.”

  “I’m fine, really. I just hadn’t realised how time had gone. I’m so sorry.”

  “Just as long as you’re OK. I hadn’t realised that Barbara was going to be away.”

  “Nobody did. She seems to have disappeared, complete with her mother and Donald. That’s part of Gladys’s ‘chaos’.”

  “That’s odd. I wonder what can have happened.”

  “One of the things we’re trying to find out. Her house is crawling with people, like this office. I’ll tell you all about it when I get there.”

  “When will you be home, then, do you think?”

  “Nick has just left. He hasn’t been home since he was parachuted into Switzerland.”

  “Neither have you,” Catherine reminded him.

  “I’ll do my best to get back within an hour. If not, I’ll ring you, and I’ll tell Gladys to ring you if I don’t for some reason. But I should be able to leave things for a bit. There are enough people here to run a war!”

  “I’ll get a meal on then.”

  ***

  Peter Northcot arrived early, the next morning. He had a flat in town which he used during the week. Nothing special, but it did. In Brixton. On the Underground and not many riots lately, so it did. When he wasn’t there, he was down in Hampshire, which is where he much preferred to be. He had moved in to a cottage in the country, with his father. It was his father’s cottage, really, but he shared it with Peter and Peter’s Chinese partner, Suzy, who looked after both of them. Looked after them very well, in fact. But she wasn’t too keen on fishing for wild trout in the nearby stream, like Peter and his father.
That’s really why they had got hold of the cottage. Peace and quiet and fishing. And Suzy.

  Suzy had been Peter’s contact at the Embassy in Hong Kong. They had always got on well, although for obvious reason, they rarely met. She was a skilled operator, too. She had managed to organise his father’s escape to UK, when he had fetched up in Hong Kong after a particularly hazardous operation in North Korea. Known as Dr. Penny, he had gone there to collect information from fellow agents about their nuclear programme, but for some reason his escape route collapsed, and he was left to make his own way home. He got to Hong Kong, and Peter and Suzy arranged for his secret return to London from there, but almost immediately, Peter also had to get out in a hurry. Suzy fixed that, too.

  He had left the Army – a Defence cut, he called himself – and taken on a similar role in MI5 to his father’s before he had retired from MI6. Section 11 was to be his first real posting, although he had told them he would have preferred to be abroad again in MI6. Perhaps he would end up ‘travelling’, like his father had. Until then, helping the Deputy Head of Section 11 looked a good number, and he knew there was also a bit of a flap on. Frank Browne had told him so before he had been sent in to help sort things.

  So, here he was, early.

  It looked as if lots of other people were early, too. Obviously not a nine to five operation, this one. Gladys met him as he got through the last of the security checks.

  “As of yesterday,” she explained, a bit out of breath, “I’m your PA. The girl who should be doing it has disappeared, which is part of the panic.”

  “What’s the other part?” asked Peter.

  “Some sort of spy hunt, so far as I can gather. Secret information leaked about one of our recent operations, which is why the place is crawling with people looking for clues.”

  “I know a couple of the people.”

  “That’s a good start. The real ‘S’ is Bill Clayton, but he’s heading the hunt, so the new Head of Section is the old Deputy, Commander Nick Marsden, again as of yesterday, but he’s not in yet. He was parachuted in to Switzerland on Saturday, and only got home for some rest last night after spending all day yesterday in here. But he’ll be here in a minute, I shouldn’t wonder. He’ll give you a proper briefing.”

  “Yours wasn’t bad, Gladys,” he said, thinking that this might not be a bad posting after all.

  “This is your office, and mine’s next door. Couldn’t get in to either of them yesterday, but they seem to have finished. The computers are new. Someone nicked a vital part of one of them. Pity they didn’t nick the coffee machine as well. How do you like it?”

  “Black, please.”

  “Coming up.”

  Peter thought this gloomy place may not be so gloomy after all, although he was used to a better view than the back-streets of Clerkenwell. Not much beat the back-streets of Kowloon, or the water meadows of the Test valley. Good cover though, and pretty tough security to get in, through a newsagents and the barbers shop at the back. You’d never guess it. But someone had, if the computer theft was not an inside job. The missing PA, no doubt. He was looking forward to a briefing. He needed two really. One about the day-to-day operation of Section 11, which was really his business, and the other about what Gladys had called ‘some sort of spy hunt’, which had aroused his curiosity. No doubt Frank Browne would fill him in when they met.

  Gladys appeared.

  “Coffee,” she announced. “I hope a mug’s OK. We keep the cups and saucers for posh visitors.”

  “You get more in a mug,” said Peter.

  “Mr Clayton’s in, but has gone straight to the Ops Room to see what’s happened overnight. Mr Marsden is on his way. Half and hour, he reckons, but knowing the way he drives that BMW bike, I’d put a fiver on 15 minutes. They both know you’re here, and have both promised you full briefings. Bill Clayton told me to give you this, out of the safe. It’s the written brief they gave him when he took over.”

  He had only just opened the envelope when Frank Browne appeared. They shook hands.

  “Nice to see you again, but I didn’t expect our paths to cross quite so soon,” said Frank.

  “Good to see you, too. I gather this is something of a mad-house at the moment, and not normally like this.”

  “For your sake, I hope you’re right. But we’ve certainly got a major problem on our hands. Bill said he will fill you in personally about the background to it before we have our morning meeting to up-date ourselves. You and Nick should both be there. This panic is a stand-alone issue at the moment, so the briefing about the role of Section 11 can wait. Nick Marsden will do that later, so Bill said.”

  “I’ve got an old written brief here, but haven’t started to read it yet.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then, and get back to work. There has been an interesting and perhaps significant discovery overnight.”

  Peter Northcot took the paper briefing back to Gladys.

  “I don’t think I shall need this after all. And I’m glad your coffee machine wasn’t nicked – it was a good brew.”

  “I haven’t killed anyone yet. By the way, you own me a fiver.”

  “That’s expensive coffee!”

  “Not for the coffee. Nick Marsden has arrived, and is in the garage booking in the BMW motorbike. Fifteen minutes, like I said.”

  ***

  7 - DONALD WILKINSON – THE PHONE CALL

  Peter Northcot already knew something about the role of Section 11, and how it fitted in to the rest of the work carried out by the Government’s intelligence community, but knew nothing about the present crisis, apart from what Gladys had told him. ‘Some sort of spy hunt,’ she had said, plus the fact that the girl who should have been there instead of Gladys had gone missing. Same thing, he wondered? It seemed they were dealing with the two issues separately for the time being, but perhaps he’d learn more when he had a proper briefing.

  Two briefings, apparently; one on his role in the organisation he had just joined, and another about the present crisis.

  Bill Clayton – ‘S’ – arrived, and introduced himself.

  “Sorry not to have been here to welcome you,” he said.

  “Not a problem”, replied Northcot. “I was early anyway, and I gather there’s a flap on.”

  “Just a bit,” said Clayton. “I’ll tell you all about it before we go down to the Ops Room for an up-date briefing to catch up on what’s been happening overnight.”

  “I was told that I’m to be part of the enquiry you’re heading, as well as helping you out running the section when you need me to.”

  “That’s right; I hope you don’t mind wearing two hats for the time being. The first briefing we shall be going to is about the enquiry, and then either I or my Deputy, Commander Nick Marsden, will brief you about the general role of Section 11. He should be here soon, and will come with us to the briefing downstairs.”

  “He’s in the garage,” said Peter knowledgeably, “wherever that is. And we’ve met a few times already.”

  “Good. Let’s get started, then.”

  Clayton quickly and precisely went over the events leading to the discovery that Barbara Wilkinson had disappeared, together with her mother and young son, Donald. He sketched in the background to the Barclay affair, and the attempts made on his life by the Russians.

  It was at this point that Marsden arrived. He and Northcot greeted one another warmly.

  “Long time, no see,” said Northcot. “I gather you’re just back from a skiing holiday in Switzerland!”

  “Some holiday! But I’m glad to have you alongside while I’m helping to run this show on a day-to-day basis. Bill has been detached to get on with our spy hunt.”

  “Not the sort of thing we usually get involved in,” said Bill, “but the Joint Intelligence Committee decided I should co-ordinate the enquiry as we have been so heavily involved. It was our most recent operation that led to the discovery that there was an agent somewhere close at hand. Working for the Russians,
it seems. It’s really MI5 who are the spy catchers, as you know, and not part of this Section’s normal role at all.”

  He turned to Nick.

  “I’ll just finish telling Peter about the background to this affair, and then we must get down to the morning briefing.”

  “I gather there’s been an interesting development overnight,” said Nick Marsden.

  “So I hear, but I’ve not been told what it is, except that it could be significant. No doubt we shall find out soon enough.”

  They did.

  The leader of each element of the enquiry outlined in turn what he and his support team had done since the investigation had been launched. Much of it was simply an update on the progress that had been made in getting things and people in place as had been agreed earlier, and there was nothing much of any significance to report until it came to Clive Newell.

  “As you know, Special Branch and a team of experts in various fields have been going through the Battersea home of the Wilkinson family. Now, I know we agreed that their disappearance and the probability of there being a Soviet agent in our midst were to be treated as two separate issues, but I thought I should just mention that there is something very odd about the Wilkinson case.”

  “Enough to make you think the two issues may in some way be linked?” asked Clayton.

  “It has always seemed to me, if I may say so, that they are obviously linked anyway,” replied Newell, “not least because of the fact that Barbara worked here and would have known everything that was going on in relation to the Barclay/Lloyd affair. And I’m not convinced, either, that their disappearance was entirely coincidental or unconnected.

  “However,” he continued, “what we have found in the house is beginning to look decidedly odd. Actually, I mean what we haven’t found. For a start, there are no passports or driving licences, and no bank cards or money in the place, but one might expect those to be missing if the family was, for instance, going abroad on holiday. What is odd, however, is that there are absolutely no documents either that could be used in any way to identify any of them; no school reports for the boy Donald, no library cards, no birth certificates, no bank statements, and so on. One would hardly want to take any of these away on holiday. Not only that, but there are no papers relating to the property. Nothing to show whether it was owned or rented, nor any utility bills, phone bills, Council tax bills, no TV licence, no mortgage papers; absolutely nothing at all. So at the moment, not only do we not know why they left or where they went, but we have discovered nothing about their home or the background to the family themselves. There aren’t even any old Christmas cards at the back of the desk, or Birthday cards in Donald’s room, or even an address book, so apart from talking to the neighbours to see if they know anything that might be helpful, there is nobody – repeat nobody, to ask about them.