Dismissed Dead E-Book

Rod Brammer

• Herausgeber: Elliott & Thompson
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2009

Seitenzahl: 339

Beschreibung

We want you, Finlay, to go into the Zone, via Berlin, and bring something out. That is the nub of it and looks simple enough to me.'Keith Finlay is caught up in the world of espionage in Rod Brammer's explosive novel. His mission is clear: he must meet a German Professor who will help him smuggle a secret bullet prototype out of Berlin in return for his freedom.Finlay assumes it will be a simple mission until he is captured and taken to Russia for a brutal interrogation. At the mercy of his interrogators and presumed dead by those at home, Finlay must face his toughest challenge yet...Thrilling and suspenseful throughout, Dismissed Dead will appeal to lovers of the work of John Le Carré, Len Deighton and those intrigued by the mysterious world of Cold War espionage. "Creates a convincingly claustrophobic atmosphere." The Deighton Dossier

Leseprobe

Dismissed Dead

ROD BRAMMER

Whoever lives true life, will love true love. ‘I learnt to love that England.’

ELIZABETH B. BROWNING

Contents

Title PageEpigraphOneTwoThreeFourFiveSixSevenEightNineTenElevenTwelveThirteenFourteenFifteenSixteenSeventeenEighteenNineteenTwentyTwenty-OneTwenty-TwoTwenty-ThreeTwenty-FourTwenty-FiveTwenty-SixTwenty-SevenCopyright

One

WHEN A SON is born into a middle-class family, the father, replete with pride and the desire to do the right thing, will straightaway get the boy’s name down for Eton, Winchester or Harrow, in the hope his son will be grateful for this farsighted indulgence. Happier though, is the son whose background is in land and sport, and has been for countless generations, and whose father leaves immediately for the gunshop to buy a ‘best’ gun for the squalling, wrinkled creature just issued from his mother’s womb. His next duty would be to put his son’s name on the waiting list for a chance to be selected, in the distant future of course, to have a rod on the River Test.

Keith Finlay was from such a family and on this particular day was fishing at Testwood. It was February and the wind was blowing from the east, bringing with it scuddy sleet showers and frozen rain. Finlay knew the chances of catching a salmon were remote, but not impossible and anyway, it was his last day of leave and he wanted to fish. The river now had stopped running at the top of the tide and the pool beneath his feet was about eight feet deep, clear enough for him to see the lure coming around in a gentle arc, deep and slow as conditions dictated. He flicked the lure out again, hoping for that momentary flash of a moving fish before it chased and grabbed the lure, but nothing happened. He stopped fishing and sought through his pockets to find his cigarettes, lit one with wet, frozen hands and, feeling the smoke coursing through his lungs, leant against the bridge. He was content.

There was a brief glimpse of a pallid sun, enough to marginally change the light. He dropped his cigarette and cast the lure again, knowing that the slightest change in light might make a fish take, but it wasn’t to be. The light closed and he lit another cigarette. His hands were white and wrinkled with the cold, and he felt the first drop of frozen water dribble down between his thermal vest and the skin of his back. He was very cold, but he had been colder, and resolved to go on for just a few more casts. He heard the sound of an approaching Land Rover, which splashed on to the bridge and came to rest next to him.

‘Anything there, nipper?’ the driver asked, already knowing the answer.

‘Hello, Uncle Jack. Nothing. I fished all the way down twice … Didn’t see a movement,’ Finlay answered.

‘Some Admiral chap telephoned for you just now, wants you to ring him back at once – that was about twenty minutes ago. Do you want me to take you to the house?’ Jack asked.

‘No … if you go back, tell him you couldn’t find me. I’ll wander back when I’ve had a few more casts,’ Finlay said.

‘He did say it was urgent,’ Jack added. ‘Anyway, you must be frozen … you’d perhaps better come.’

‘No, bugger him. I’ll come when I’m ready, Uncle Jack. He pretends everything is urgent just to see people jump about when he starts up. He probably wants nothing more than my expenses claim form.’ Finlay smiled.

Uncle Jack laughed as he started the engine. ‘OK, on your head be it. I thought Admirals were important.’

‘Only in their own minds, Uncle Jack, only in their own minds,’ Finlay said, and flicked the lure across the river, bringing it around slowly, watching the flashing brass deep in the water. He fished on for another half an hour, moved nothing and was about to call it a day when the family Armstrong splashed on to the bridge, driven by Auntie Niney.

‘Darling, do come in out of the weather,’ Niney said, winding down the window. ‘You’ll catch your death. I’ve a flask of coffee here. Come and at least have a warm in the car, there’s a dear.’ Finlay could only see her head; the rest of her was muffled in a large cashmere shawl.

He made his way to the car and clipped his rod to the roof carrier and sat beside his aunt.

‘Here you are. Have this. There’s some brandy in it. You must be absolutely shrammed,’ she said, feeling his face for any warmth.

‘That’s better!’ Finlay said, handing her back the empty cup.

‘Another?’ Niney asked, filling the cup before he could answer. She took a long swallow herself before handing him the cup again. ‘Your Admiral rang again, getting in a state about something, silly old sod. What does he think, you sit indoors all day waiting for him to telephone?’

‘Better go and find out what he wants. Probably not important. War hasn’t been declared or anything boring like that?’ Finlay smiled.

‘Not that I know of. Anyway that young Gordon-Smith girl is waiting on your return, so I suppose we’d better get back,’ she said, starting the car.

‘How long has she been waiting? I didn’t ask her to come, Auntie … I do wish she wouldn’t.’ Finlay sighed.

‘She’s a nice girl, Kee, very suitable, I’d have thought,’ Niney observed. She reversed the car off the bridge and headed back towards the house.

‘Please, Auntie, don’t keep fixing me up. I’m not ready for suitable girls and I don’t really fancy her,’ Finlay said, trying to be patient. ‘Anyway, I like Janet. We’re sort of comfortable together.’

Janet Ward was Finlay’s long-term girlfriend; they had known each other for a dozen years or more. She was an extremely pretty, vivacious girl, with a mass of copper curls, green eyes and freckles, who rented the family’s stable block, filling it with horses and her tinkling laughter. Finlay adored her.

‘You are comfortable together, Kee, because Janet is always game for a quickie in the hay with you! Darling, I do wish you would try a little harder. Jenny was a long time ago. You must get over her and start behaving like a normal young chap,’ Niney persisted.

‘It isn’t Jenny, Auntie, I promise. I don’t have much free time from my job and what I do have I want to spend at home with you, fishing.’ Finlay knew what he had just said was not wholly truthful. Jenny was somebody who still held him fast, even though she had been gone eight years or more.

They went indoors to a beautifully warm kitchen. The Aga, turned up full, kept the kitchen and the passageway to the hall very warm. The fireplaces at each end of the hall were a blaze of logs and filled the air with the gentle smell of wood smoke.

‘Felicity, why didn’t you say you were coming? I didn’t know you were here,’ Finlay said to the pretty girl sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea.

‘I was just passing. I thought perhaps to drop in on the off chance,’ Felicity said quietly.

To Finlay, Felicity Gordon-Smith seemed like a Barbie doll. She had what other women must have thought a perfect figure, on which she draped the most perfect clothes. She had been to an exclusive finishing school, spoke English in a tone of perfect modulation, and she was, Finlay supposed, eminently ‘suitable’ in the eyes of any mother or aunt. Though Finlay also suspected that were he to put his hand into her pretty Barbie doll knickers, he would find a perfectly shaped piece of plastic.

She came from the north of the county, and had met Finlay at a riparian owners’ meeting. Her family owned quite a long stretch of the Test above Stockbridge and farmed monoculture barley on the downs. She had somehow attached herself to Finlay ever since and, much to Janet’s annoyance, seemed now to be always underfoot, in a perfectly bland way.

‘I’m sorry but I have to make a call,’ Finlay said to everyone and no one. He dialled the number and waited.

‘Admiral Winter, please,’ Finlay said. ‘It’s Finlay here.’

‘Putting you through, sir,’ the voice on the other end said very coolly.

‘Finlay! Where the bloody hell have you been? I’ve been trying to get you for nearly two bloody hours,’ Winter roared.

‘I was fishing, Sir,’ Finlay answered equably.

‘You spend too much time fishing! I want you up here!’ Winter shouted.

‘Immediately, Sir?’ Finlay asked.

‘In the morning, you bloody fool, of course. Eight o’clock sharp. Two days planning then you’ll be away… so be here!’

‘Yes, Sir,’ Finlay said. He put the phone down.

To Niney and Felicity the one-sided conversation had sounded as Finlay had wanted it to. ‘I’m sorry, Felicity, I have to go immediately. See you next time I’m home perhaps.’

Finlay left the room and went upstairs to his bedroom and lay down, his hands behind his head, waiting to hear Felicity’s car leaving, which it did within ten minutes with much revving and wheelspin. He heard Niney’s footsteps coming up the stairs.

‘Do you want something to eat, Kee, before you go?’ she called, before arriving in his bedroom.

‘I’m not going tonight, Auntie. I have to go off early in the morning.’ He smiled, not moving from his position on the bed.

She came and sat beside him. ‘That was naughty, Kee. You just wanted rid of Felicity! She does so dote on you.’

‘Well, I wish she wouldn’t! She’s a pleasant enough sort, but please, Auntie, don’t keep importing her. I’m not the least bit interested!’ Finlay said with some emphasis.

‘Darling, I do wish you would make an effort to start thinking about settling down with a suitable young lady,’ Niney sighed. ‘Jenny is not coming back …’

‘It’s not about Jenny, Auntie. I’ve no intention of “settling down” as you call it, not for a good while yet. I like my job. It really makes a difference. What could be more important than looking after England’s interests? I feel privileged doing what I do … One day someone will come along that I will love as much as Jenny. Auntie, can you not see? Nelson put England before everything and that’s what I feel I should do.’

‘And he died for it!’ Niney said, getting up and going to the window. She looked out at the gathering gloom outside.

‘He knew he had done his duty… and I must surely do mine, Auntie. Please try to see that,’ Finlay said.

‘Well, hurry up and get it done, for goodness’ sake. Else you’ll finish up on the shelf a crabby old bachelor,’ Niney said, leaving the room.

Two

NEXT MORNING THE drive to London seemed interminable. It was still insidiously cold, with the same sleety showers Finlay had fished in the day before. There wasn’t much traffic when he left at 5.15, mainly lorries throwing up half-frozen spray, covering his windscreen with oily dirt which the wipers and washers could hardly shift.

At 7.30 he parked on Horse Guards and went into the offices. He showed his identity to the MOD policeman on duty, who, this morning, made a great show of searching him very thoroughly. The policeman knew Finlay well. ‘Sorry about this, sir, but we’ve got some bigwigs arriving for a meeting at eight.’

Since moving into the building four years ago, when the Recce Group was first formed, things had improved somewhat. The place was clean, for a start, and most important of all was a new canteen, which was where Finlay now headed.

‘Bacon and eggs please, Brenda, a large pot of tea and some bread and butter,’ Finlay said to the girl behind the spotless serving area. She flashed him a smile.

‘Got up late?’ she asked. ‘No time for breakfast?’ She always flirted openly with Finlay, who paid her lavish compliments about her cooking skills, which ensured that she always tried to please him, and in summer she always found some reason to bend over him, showing him her more than ample bust. He sat eating quietly, looking at a copy of the previous day’s Sunday Telegraph, and rather forgot about the time. It was just past eight when he tapped on Admiral Winter’s door, before walking straight in.

Winter sat at the head of the planning table. ‘You’re late, Finlay!’

‘Yes, Sir,’ Finlay said, glancing at his watch. ‘Ninety-two seconds, Sir. It won’t happen again, Sir.’

‘Sit down there and I’ll make some introductions … This gentleman is Lieutenant Finlay, the one chosen to effect what we have decided. And Finlay, on my left is General Brook, then we have Colonel Tomkins, you know Captain James, and the gentleman next to you is Mr Smith.’

Finlay smiled at the man. ‘Are you of the Smiths from Dorset, Mr Smith, or those from Northampton?’

Smith tried hard but failed to stop himself laughing.

‘Enough of that, Finlay!’ the Admiral barked. ‘We’ve no time for your bloody nonsense!’

General Brook looked unamused, Tomkins found something very interesting in the paperwork in front of him and Captain James smiled until quelled with a glance from Winter.

‘What we are here to discuss this morning is Operation Kingstone,’ the Admiral began. ‘To begin with –’

‘Excuse me, Sir,’ Finlay interrupted, ‘is that Kingston down the road or the one in Jamaica?’ Finlay sounded bright and sharp. Captain James rose quickly and turned from the table, covering his laughter by making a big show of blowing his nose. General Brook threw his pen on the pad in front of himself and made impatient snorting noises. Winter stared hard at Finlay over his glasses, his blue eyes glittering dangerously.

‘To begin with,’ Winter went on, ‘unless we pull this off, the whole of our tank squadrons are going to be very vulnerable. We want you, Finlay, to go into the Zone, via Berlin, and bring something out. That is the nub of it and it looks simple enough to me.’

‘Everything looks simple from Horse Guards,’ Finlay mumbled.

‘What did you say, Finlay?’ snapped Winter.

‘I said, Sir, that there’s a lot of border guards,’ Finlay answered.

General Brook leant over and whispered something to Admiral Winter. Winter seemed dismissive of what he was saying.

‘How many times have you crossed into the Zone, Finlay?’ Winter asked.

‘Seven or eight times, Sir. Doesn’t get any easier though. It’s getting out that always seems to pose the problems. Especially, of course, if they know we are there. What am I to bring out?’ Finlay asked.

‘In the folder in front of you, Finlay, are the details of the man you have to meet: an East German scientist who has invented a bullet, a bullet which carries its own propellant. More to the point, this bullet – in effect a tiny rocket – will, it seems, penetrate our latest tank armour with ease. It can be fired from the shoulder, from another tank or even from aircraft. It’s so damn good we’ve been told that we have to have one, to see how to counter it. Professor Brennan will hand us one over in exchange for freedom in the West.’

‘Sir,’ Finlay began. General Brook sighed and again threw his pen down angrily. Finlay ignored his stuffy petulance. ‘Professor generally means not a young man, also somebody not generally used to being terribly fit. It’s difficult enough for somebody like myself. How do I get a middle-aged man out of the Zone?’

Admiral Winter shuffled his paperwork about and drew heavily on his pipe. ‘It’s just the bullet we want out, Finlay,’ he said.

No one around the table would meet his eye except Mr Smith, who looked Finlay squarely in the face. Without turning away from Smith, Finlay said, ‘You want me to kill Professor Brennan, Sir?’

Winter looked uncomfortable. Even in his job overt treachery was difficult for him, and to ask someone to enact his treachery was harder still. ‘Yes, that’s it,’ he said simply.

‘Will you have a problem with that?’ Smith asked, still staring at Finlay.

‘Yes … I think I probably shall,’ Finlay answered easily.

‘But you will, won’t you… I mean, kill him?’ Smith asked.

‘If that’s what my Admiral requires of me,’ Finlay said, again easily, but with an edge of diffidence.

‘Just get the bullet back here, Finlay!’ Winter ordered. ‘You know what has to be done, so don’t start getting some sort of conscience about it … or are you losing your nerve?’

‘I know what has to be done, Sir. Am I going in alone?’ Finlay asked.

‘No, not this time. Canavan will be your back-up. His job will be to protect you. Under any circumstances we must have this bullet. I cannot emphasise that enough,’ Winter said crossly.

‘Then I’ll get it,’ Finlay said, standing up. ‘If everything I need to know is in here,’ he said, picking up the folder, ‘I shall go and get on with it. Thank you, gentlemen, and good morning.’

Finlay made his way downstairs to the Wardroom and rang the steward’s bell to order some tea. He lounged back in one of the old leather chairs and began to read and start his own briefing. The folder contained, among other things, a large photograph of Professor Brennan. He studied it closely, trying to see what kind of a man he was. He was not young, and Finlay judged him to be around sixty when the photograph was taken. ‘And God knows when that was,’ he thought. ‘And there you are, all keyed up to spend your last years in the decadent West … you poor old bastard.’

Smith had appeared beside him, unannounced. ‘Will you kill him?’ he asked quietly.

Finlay looked up at him. ‘Would you like some tea, Smith?’ Again, the disdain was pronounced with the name.

Smith pretended not to notice. ‘Yes, I would like some tea, but I’d also like you to answer my question.’ He made it sound like an order.

‘Well now, Mr Smith, that poses me with a problem. I don’t have to answer your questions, you not being a member of the armed forces,’ Finlay said, his voice almost saccharine.

‘But I am from the Foreign Office, Finlay …’ Smith began.

‘Wasn’t that the place where Burgess and Maclean came from? The Foreign Office is where most of our international problems spring from, because it’s staffed by the spineless dregs of minor public schools… hardly a recommendation.’ Finlay smiled at him.

Smith smiled back. ‘Your self-confidence borders on the arrogant, Finlay. You know who I am, don’t you? And at what level I work?’

Finlay walked over to the bell that summoned the steward. ‘Ah, steward, could you get Spencer please. There’s a chap here who doesn’t seem to know who he is. I don’t imagine him to be dangerously doolally, but he came into the Wardroom without permission.’

The steward looked a little awkward but said, ‘Yes, sir.’

A moment later, Spencer, head of security, appeared. ‘Sir?’ he enquired of Finlay.

‘Throw this chap out please, Spencer. He’s here without permission and seems lost,’ Finlay said, pouring himself some tea.

‘Can’t really do that, sir, he’s the boss of MI6,’ Spencer said blandly.

‘All the more reason to throw him out, I’d have thought. This is a Wardroom, not a tea room for pencil-pushing pansies. Get him out!’ Finlay ordered shortly.

‘You’ll have to go, sir,’ Spencer said to Smith, taking his arm and guiding him to the door.

Smith halted his progress by the door. He seemed almost amused. ‘I shall not forget this day, Finlay!’

‘Probably not, Mr Smith. Humiliation does rather hang in the mind,’ Finlay replied easily.

FINLAY CARRIED ON with his planning, studying the best way in and out of East Germany, without making any notes. It was towards midday when the steward came to inform him that Admiral Winter had requested that they have lunch together. Finlay packed up the papers he was so deeply engrossed in, took them back to his own office and put them under lock and key. Winter inviting him to lunch would normally mean a pleasant interlude in the day, chatting about the things that mattered most to them – field sports – but he thought perhaps he was going to be hauled over the coals because of the way he had dealt with Smith.

Winter’s chauffeur dropped them at White’s.

‘In a way, Finlay,’ the Admiral said as they walked in together, ‘I’m doing you an honour. Later in life you’ll always be able to say, “I’ve had lunch at Whites.”’

‘Yes, Sir, many times now. My grandfather’s been a member here for years. The food isn’t as good as Boodles though, don’t you know,’ Finlay said quietly.

The Admiral grunted, ‘I didn’t know that.’

They sat and Winter ordered himself a single malt and Finlay a gin and water.

‘Why do you always find it necessary to put people’s backs up?’ Winter asked in a resigned way. ‘You know Rupert Smith is the head of MI6, and an important part of our organisation. He’s well in advance of your station. If he asks you something, please comply.’

‘Ask is one thing, Sir – order, quite another. Before I had him ejected from the Wardroom, I did check that he was a civilian and as such he has no right whatever to order me to do anything. Moreover, and I’m sorry to have to say this, Sir, even if you ordered me to take his orders, I still would not. That would be a slippery slope for me,’ Finlay said.

‘Tell me why, Finlay,’ Winter said.

‘Because you and I are commissioned officers, Sir, and under Queen’s Regs we do not have to obey orders from civilians no matter who they are. The precedent was set in 1785 by Lord Nelson himself, when he would not take orders from Captain John Moutray. His alleged captaincy was not by commission, he was a civilian. The Admiralty upheld what Nelson had said and done… I think the incident happened in the Leeward Islands,’ Finlay said, very sure of his ground. ‘If I take orders from Mr Smith, I may be putting my position as a naval officer in jeopardy.’

‘Oh nonsense, Finlay,’ Winter said easily.

‘The other thing, Sir, is that when we started out this was the Navy. Now we have a general and the FO involved and I, for one, do not like it because the FO is leaky, and Army people have the wrong mindset for what we do.’

‘You really believe that, Finlay?’ Winter asked.

‘I do, Sir,’ Finlay answered.

‘Would you consider helping to select the applicants, Finlay? We have put forty-five through the training now and I have to agree that the Army and RAF applicants are somehow different. Hard to put your finger on though,’ Winter said.

‘You picked the first fourteen, Sir. Our group is successful. Go back to the criteria you were looking for then,’ Finlay suggested, flattered by the store the Admiral set by him. ‘I’d be interested to know the reason why the applicants wanted to join. It seems to me some of the new recruits are glory hunters. If that psychiatrist Doctor Williams has any function at all, surely he should be able to weed them out.’

‘You’re right,’ said Winter, nodding thoughtfully. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, Sir. I think we should get copies of each cadet application to Dartmouth and start the selection from there. Have someone there who knows what we want and get termly reports on the cadets,’ Finlay said.

‘And Sandhurst?’ Winter asked, his eyes smiling.

‘Yes, of course, Sir, else we might be cutting ourselves off from good blokes, but we grab the Army people before they get too brainwashed. Get them before they go to their regiments.’

‘How many?’ Winter asked.

‘No more than sixty on the books, then it doesn’t get unwieldy. A group that size needs no more than four senior officers to manage … and those senior officers are Navy or Royals,’ Finlay said. ‘If we get too big, then we become just another part of the armed forces. There will, of course, be quite a bit of natural wastage – blokes wanting to get married, injuries, deaths and mental breakdowns, but if we just take the absolute cream and keep our eyes on those who all but made the grade, we can keep numbers up that way. Continual training on new technology and fitness must be made room for, so regular trips to “The Farm” for everyone … even the senior officers.’

‘What you’ve just said, Finlay, more or less mirrors what I have put in my last report to the CDS. It’s to that office that I find myself reporting now, which in truth I am very pleased about. The more we can keep the politicians out of it the better. I find myself wholly mistrustful of any Labour government. One can never really be sure whose side they are on,’ Winter said almost sadly.

‘Perhaps you shouldn’t be saying such things to me, Sir,’ Finlay said gently. ‘But I know exactly what you mean.’

‘Well, let’s get some lunch, young man. You have things to prepare when you get back. I’ll have you on the selection board. I like your ordered mind.’ Winter smiled.

FINLAY HAD LIVED long enough and travelled enough to know that every nation had a character of its own. To some of his contemporaries this was another of ‘Finlay’s generalisations’, but Finlay had never been infected with the liberal thinking of the middle class or ever suffered from self-doubt. In his own mind, he knew he was right, always.

He was studying the sewage system of Berlin, a city so recently and comprehensively destroyed and now rebuilt. He imagined some American general arriving in Berlin after its fall and saying, ‘OK, let’s rebuild it, from the sewers upwards. Get it done!’ They got things done.

Having buried thousands of its young men from Normandy to the Rhine and beyond, America gave succour to the crushed Germans in a spirit of altruism and stunning organisation. It was the American character as Finlay saw it.

Studying the layout and flows of a city’s sewerage system was hardly edifying, but he knew he had to understand it fully if he was going into the Russian sector. The main problem he knew straight away was rain. This would turn the normally slow-flowing underground streams into suddenly raging torrents of noisome effluvia, and he didn’t want to drown in watered-down German shit.

He looked closely at the wall the East Germans had installed at their border, with concrete pipes running through it. The file said they were a metre in diameter and on the day these particular photographs were taken the pipes were running at about halfway up their height. Festooned around them were stalactites of paper and excrement, and he suddenly wished he had not eaten quite such a large lunch. He knew that at best he was going to have to wade chest deep through the tunnels to get to the area of East Berlin he needed to be in. At worst he was going to have to swim. The thought appalled him.

Late in the afternoon a girl from the office brought him the forward weather forecast for Germany, and more importantly a signal from Canavan, already in West Berlin, stating that he’d had a quick look at the tunnel and provided there was no rain, they should get through into East Berlin. Finlay went back to the weather forecast, without much enthusiasm. It stated the wind would back around to the west. There would be light showers and an increase in temperature.

‘Shot in the dark,’ he thought. ‘Certainly wouldn’t put money on it. The meteorologists only ever get a fifty-percent accurate forecast for the next twenty-four hours. How they imagine they can predict the next month smacks of wishful thinking.’

Finlay worked on until the rush-hour traffic began to thin. He locked the papers away and wandered across the corridor to let Winter know he was going home.

‘I’ll be in fairly early in the morning, Sir,’ he said. ‘I’m up to speed on what has to happen and how, so I’ll go home and enjoy my aunt’s cooking.’

Winter made a noise in his throat and waved him away.

It was still blisteringly cold, but the sleet and rain had stopped. He drove slowly with the traffic, giving himself time to think about the forthcoming job. He hoped, for once, the weather forecast was right.

Two hours later he dropped down into Romsey and into thick fog. The town seemed deserted. The only human he saw was the fish and chip shop owner, reading a newspaper on the garishly lit counter, no doubt wondering about the wisdom of opening that particular evening. The car splashed its way along the top lane. The overhanging trees shone silver in the headlights, stark and mournful, waiting for the spring.

Finlay smiled to himself as he saw the yard lights flare on, knowing Niney had heard his car.

‘Hello, my love,’ she said, kissing him. ‘I thought the fog would make you late, but you’re right on time. Would you like a drink of anything?’

Finlay looked at his aunt. ‘How did you know I was coming home? I nearly didn’t because I have to go back in the morning and then drive down to Newbury. I’m off tomorrow, and leaving from Greenham Common.’

‘Isn’t that American now?’ Niney asked, putting a bowl of soup down in front of him. ‘Where are you off to?’

‘Berlin. Should only be gone a week or ten days this time. Terribly secret. I have to fly from military base to military base … Christ, this soup is good!’

‘Dangerous?’ she asked, with her back to Finlay.

‘No, not really. Just pop into East Berlin and bring something back out. Should be easy,’ Finlay said lightly.

‘You’re telling lies.’ His aunt sang the sentence to the tune of ‘Someone’s Rocking My Dreamboat’. She sat down opposite him. ‘Darling, I want you to give up this job and go back to sea. I know you think what you do is important, and I know it makes a difference… but will you promise me, when you come back from this trip you’ll transfer back to a ship?’ Niney studied him. ‘You’ve done your duty …’

‘I thought you liked me being at home a lot. If I go back to sea I could be away for ages,’ Finlay said. ‘If what I do worries you, Auntie, then I’ll chuck it. When I come back I’ll speak to the Admiral. In truth I’ve had enough anyway. I get fed up with going to London and when I’m away I get so homesick for here, for you and your cooking.’

‘And the bloody river. It’s the river that drags you back. I know you go to Saddlers Mill before you come back to me, you sod.’ She smiled. ‘Is that a promise then?’

‘Yes. I’ll make this the last trip, then come home. I’m sure I can think of a way to earn a crust. Where is everybody anyway?’ Finlay asked.

‘River meeting up at Stockbridge. Another piss-up!’ Niney said.

‘I’ll put my mind to how I can earn a living, Auntie. Who knows, I may even settle down and get wed,’ Finlay laughed.

‘Huh! Let’s start with small beginnings, shall we?’ Niney said, not wholly convinced.

They ate dinner and discussed the varieties of spring barley being sown that year and whether or not to try some of the new malting strains.

‘What time have you to go in the morning, darling?’ Niney asked.

‘About six, then I’ll miss most of the traffic. There’s no need for you to get up, Auntie… lay abed,’ Finlay said.

In the event, Niney was in the kitchen when he came down ready to leave the next morning. She busied herself getting him toast, dressed in a silky dressing gown, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders. At forty-two she was still the most beautiful woman Finlay had ever seen. He got up from the table and hugged her tightly. ‘I love you, beautiful Auntie,’ he said.

She seemed surprised by this sudden show of affection. Such interludes had been rare since Jenny’s leaving. She kissed the point of his nose, as a mother would. ‘You just come back to me in one piece, please,’ she whispered.

LATER, IN HIS office, Finlay went over the drawings of the sewerage system again. Satisfied, he repacked his briefing folder, which contained a passport and driving licence made out in the name of Gerald Shaw, an oil production engineer. There were two bundles of German money, one for the East and one for the West, and two thousand US dollars – the whole amount attached to a slip of paper awaiting his signature to confirm that he had actually received it. There was also the inevitable chitty for his side arm, stating: ‘.357 magnum Colt Python for issuing.’

‘Good God,’ thought Finlay. ‘I’m not taking a cannon with me. The Yanks will charge me excess baggage!’

The briefing details stated Brennan would arrive in East Berlin, ostensibly to visit his ailing brother, on 4 March. On the 5th, Finlay was to go to the brother’s place in Rudolfstrasse and collect the bullet, crossing back into West Berlin by any route chosen. Once in West Berlin, Finlay was to leave the bullet in one of the ‘safe houses’ and come home via Sweden. No civil airlines were to be used and no direct route home. ‘And when you pass “Go” you can collect two hundred pounds,’ mused Finlay.

There was also the chitty for the dentist to have the obligatory lethal pill fitted. All this, on paper, really was just as simple as the Admiral had said. After all, Finlay had been into the Zone before, and sometimes joked he’d had a season ticket for the tramcars in East Berlin.

Finlay destroyed the chitty and from his inside pocket drew out several blank ones he’d stolen some time previously from Supply’s Office. Then, in Commander Supply’s spidery hand, he wrote, ‘side arm of recipient’s choice’, and signed it with an excellent forgery of the Commander’s signature before returning it to the folder.

‘Oh well,’ thought Finlay. ‘There’s two or three weeks in Berlin to work out the details. Doubtless things will have to be changed considerably by then.’

Finlay’s time in the Service had taught him that plans were often changed before the commencement, usually on account of a change of heart by the politicians, whom Finlay despised above all others, whatever their leanings.

He sighed, cursed the still sleet-filled wind and decided to go over to Supply at Storey’s Gate. He left the building by the front entrance, handing his entrance pass to the security guard.

‘I’m off, Spence,’ he said. ‘See you soon, no doubt.’

Spencer took the pass, stamped it and filed it in the day-card index. ‘Anywhere nice, sir?’ he asked, without looking at Finlay.

‘Yes, Spence, I’m off to the sun and warm beaches for a couple of months. See you when I get back,’ Finlay lied easily, and thought of a wet, cold Berlin in February.

By the time he had walked round to supply, he was soaked. He entered the building’s foyer and handed the woman at reception his identity card to receive, in return, the inevitable time-stamped entrance pass.

‘Where you gotta go, luv?’ she asked through a mouthful of doughnut.

‘Supply first, then the dentist,’ replied Finlay. She glanced up at him. Everyone knew what ‘going to the dentist’ meant.

‘Bit young for this job, ain’t you, luv? I’m glad my boy’s got a nice steady job on the railway, that’s all I can say. Anyway, I’ll ring down and let them know you’re coming. OK, luv?’

Finlay’s first collection point was the clothes shop. His selection of clothing was already packed in a cheap foreign suitcase of indeterminate make. Every stitch of clothing had been pre-selected for him, all made of Japanese textiles, all labels removed. The shoes, made in Poland, fitted well, were sturdy and likely to stay the course. Finlay looked at them as he repacked them and grinned to himself. ‘Make a good shoemaker cry, they would,’ he thought.

The next stop was with Bert, the armourer, who looked at his chitty and laughed loudly. ‘You forge the Commander’s signature better every time you do it, Keith. Soon be able to sign yourself out enough to retire on! What do you want?’

‘The Hammerli P240 in .38 please, Bert, five mags and a box of the slowest soft nose you’ve got.’ Bert was a favourite of Finlay’s.

‘I’ve got some real stoppers I’ve been making up for a P240. I think you’ll love them!’ Bert the perfectionist had loaded a batch of bullets with a slow powder and what could only be termed the softest of heads.

Finlay studied them. ‘Beautiful, Bert, just beautiful. Nothing worse than having somebody charge down on you and your bullets going through him so fast he doesn’t believe he’s been shot.’

‘Shall we go to the range, sir? I’ve set up a Hammerli ready. Best I could do without you being here.’

Finlay laughed. ‘You knew I’d alter the chitty?’

They moved off to the range, and, on arrival, Bert passed the chosen side arm to Finlay. Finlay weighed it in his hand, admiring the balance as Bert ran out the targets.

‘There you are, Keith. I’ve shot about a hundred rounds through, tightened it up and added a bit of weight at the back. Load her up and see what you think.’

Finlay pushed in a magazine, aimed and fired five shots at the first target in rapid succession, then, moving across the range, fired slowly and deliberately at a second target, placing three shots within a one-inch group.

Bert ran the targets back and whistled softly. He handed them to Finlay. The first target was shredded left of the bull by half an inch; the second had its bull missing and two holes ran into each other beside it.

‘What do you think, Bert?’ asked Finlay, anxious for the armourer’s opinion.

‘I’ve seen you do better. Let me take some weight off the trigger,’ he said, rapidly pulling the pistol to pieces.

A few strokes with a file and the gun was reassembled.

‘Try her now, and aim slowly. None of the John Wayne crap. Shoot as though you mean it.’

This time Finlay shot at one target – eight shots, slowly and deliberately – when the target was run back in, there were just three holes in it, all over the bull.

Bert whistled again. ‘Anybody else, Keith, and I would have said they’d only hit the target three times. The gun suits you. How do you want to carry it?’

He sounded to Finlay like a bespoke tailor, which, in his own way, he was. He tailored the weapon to the user. ‘Round the back, please, Bert, in a plastic holder. Those leather ones stick sometimes.’

Finlay signed the book stating he had been issued with the gun. ‘Try and bring it back this trip, sir. The guvnor is fed up with you losing them all.’

Finlay laughed and shook hands with the armourer. ‘I’ll try, Bert, but you know how it is.’

And that was Supply over with and just the dentist to visit. This, Finlay did next, and he came away with a small lump under the left side of his tongue, made by the lethal pill stitched into his gum. Finlay wondered if he would ever have the courage to use it or, more to the point, if he would ever be in the kind of trouble that would require him to use it.

He left for Greenham in one of the pool cars. What might have seemed a snap decision by someone on high was generally the result of months, if not years, of painstaking work, to bring an operation to this stage.

At the end of it all came the pay-off; in this case, some sort of rocket-propelled, heavy-calibre bullet which could penetrate the Army’s new armour plating, which itself had taken some British professor an age to perfect.