2 January (Just!) Roots to Branches
I hope this thing uploads correctly before the bell *g*. Fic, about 9,000 words.
Friday
“Telephone call for you, Mister Cowley.”
"Thank you," he said, taking the receiver from the steward. "Cowley."
"Good morning, sir, 6.2." Sally's normally crisp tones were blurred by a fizzing and crackling down the line. "We have a problem. I had hoped you were on your way home."
Cowley frowned, looking out of the airport lounge windows to the tarmac where the nearest passenger jet was a shadowy hulk looming out of an otherwise impenetrable grey wall of mist.
"Unfortunately, no. In fact I may be some time. You'd best tell me what's going on."
"There was a bank robbery in Guildford this morning. The robbers were armed - they shot two people and got away with approximately one hundred thousand pounds in used notes. They also took two customers hostage. One of them has since been identified as Gregory Walsh, previously known as Grigori Vyshinsky.”
“Vyshinsky! He was supposed to have round-the-clock protection! Someone fouled up. How did it happen?”
“His minders got careless. Vyshinsky likes a bet, and he’d developed the habit of going to the bank on a Friday morning to cash a cheque for the weekend. Every Friday morning. The robbers shot the man who was shepherding him as well as the bank manager.”
“Tch! Any clues as to their identity?"
"Only that one of them shouted a political slogan as they left. It matched with several used by a radical anarchist group MI5 has been watching, the Red Alliance. But they've no history of violence and as far as MI5 are concerned, it's a ruse. MI6 are extremely concerned about Vyshinsky though. This case is within our remit sir, but if we are going to act… "
"…We'd best act quickly. Yes, I agree. Send Bodie and Doyle to Guilford, with back-up."
"They're already on their way, sir. The Surrey Chief Constable is cooperating and we may be in luck. The bank was testing some new security equipment. We may have film of the robbers."
"Thank you, 6.2. Keep on it and keep me informed. I’ll try to keep the heavy brigade off your back." He hung up, and gazed out of the window again, willing the heavy fog blanketing Fornebu Airport to dissipate. Stubbornly, it clung on.
*****
"When did Cowley die and leave her in charge?"
Doyle chuckled. "Cowley's not dead, mate, he's in Norway."
"Same thing, this time of year. They’ll have to dig him out in spring."
"Nah. He’ll blast the runway clear. Anyway, you like Sally."
"Yeah, I do," Bodie grumbled. "It's just when she gets a taste of authority, you know. Becomes Warrant Officer Baker all over again. Besides, I had plans for tonight.”
Doyle eyed his partner questioningly. “Anyone I know?” There could be a dozen reasons why Bodie had failed to mention an upcoming date, most of them perfectly innocuous; but, as Doyle had discovered, Bodie had hidden interests.
“No. Just plans - private ones.”
“Mmm.” Earlier attempts to draw Bodie out on his occasional secret outings having failed, Doyle adopted an expression of casual indifference. Bodie breached that facade at once.
“I can hear the cogs turning, Doyle. Don’t sweat it. It doesn’t concern you.”
Oh, but it did concern him. He’d known that for a very long time. Rather than admit to something that could have been real but was most likely simply a dangerous curiosity that would get them both into deep trouble, he’d avoided the hints, the veiled propositioning.
After all, it wasn’t as though he could just blurt out ‘you know, I might be interested - only I’m not really sure - and would you mind being party to an experiment, just to see if it’s true’. Eventually Bodie had stopped trying, at least in any serious way. Now it was no more than a joke between them, nothing more than a sign of their close working relationship and friendship.
So he did what he usually did under similar circumstances: he changed the subject.
“What do we know about this lot? The ‘Red Alliance of Workers and Students’ or whatever they’re called.”
“Young radicals, some students, unemployed, a few old-timers with nice, thick MI5 files that say very little. Long boring meetings, the odd demo, linking arms across factory gates, that sort of thing. Nothing major.”
Doyle shrugged. “Nothing in the book says a political group can’t change its colours. All it needs is a new leader, a purge or three and it becomes a new animal.”
“And we’re the hunters.”
On cue, the car radio started its familiar cry for attention. Doyle picked up the receiver.
“4.5.”
Sally responded. “Base to 4.5. How far are you from Guildford?”
Doyle glanced out the window. “About fifteen minutes. We’re just passing Ripley.”
“Mr Cowley confirms that this is now a CI5 operation. One of the hostages is a Soviet double-agent who defected twelve months ago. He’s been living at an MI6 safe house since then. We suspect his previous employers found out where he was and they want him back.” She quickly gave details and directions. “The getaway van was spotted entering an old factory. The business recently relocated so there’s no-one on site, although the police have located the previous plant manager. They’re also set up roadblocks in the area. Meet Inspector Kelsey from Surrey HQ and your back-up at the rendezvous point.”
“Who’s our back-up?” Bodie wanted to know.
"Williams, Jenkins and Pennington. They’re about ten minutes behind you.”
“Thanks, Sal,” Doyle replied. “Any more background on the Red Alliance?’
“Not a single clue. If that’s who they are, their inner cadre isn’t talking about it. Could be a splinter group.”
“Or a rival one. Or a few of the outer members finding themselves short on cash at Christmas.” Bodie, commenting from the driver’s seat. Doyle elbowed him in the ribs.
“Don’t pay any attention to the cynic,” he said. “We’ll find out soon enough, anyhow. 4.5 out.”
He replaced the receiver. The adrenaline was already starting to pump. He grinned at Bodie. “Let’s go!”
*****
Bodie struggled to contain his own elation. They had a job to do. With a little luck - the sky was mostly clear, but there was a worrying dark greyness far to the west - they’d have this wrapped up by tonight. Don’t count your chickens, came into his head for just a moment, but he bypassed the thought as easily as he overtook the Mini in front of him, cutting back in front in time to take the A3100 off-ramp, shaving years off the other driver’s life in the process.
*****
After signing off the call to Doyle and Bodie, Sally went over to a section of wall in the control room that held a large scale map of England, and another of Metropolitan London. This was “her” area of the control room if it was anyone’s. It was her personal contribution to the business of keeping track of who was doing what, where.
Now, she pulled free the pin holding the overlapping numbers of 4.5 and 3.7 and moved it to just outside Guildford. No room on the map for string now. She moved the pin for the back-up car likewise. Then she checked the other pins. All up to date. She left the map but, as often happened, she remembered why the board had seemed like a good idea in the first place.
”Oh, you’ve forgotten to put a parachute under the blue plane.”
“Sorry, mummy. Will he be all right?”
“Yes. All your pilots will be fine. You’ve just left some stale information on the board, that’s all. He’ll come home at the end of the game. Now, it’s your turn to check the signals.”
So she’d roll the dice and pick a card, in the game her WAAF mother invented to explain what did you do in the war, mummy, in which no-one died and everyone came home at the end. At some point she’d realised that not all her mother’s pilots had come home, so she stopped playing and started learning instead.
She’d joined the WRAC to keep her feet on the ground, found herself attached to the Signals Corps, learned to shoot, played at judo, and at the age of twenty-seven found herself one of Cowley’s mob.
After the first few months, other headquarters staff joined in the routine, pinning the small discs with active field agents’ numbers written on them to their locations on the map, with coloured threads to mark destinations if they were on the move.
At the end of her first year, New Year’s Eve 1979, she placed a pin with the picture of a champagne glass under it on her then flat in Highbury, with a pinwheel of red threads converging on it. It ended up being one hell of a party.
As she returned to the present, she noticed Anson had entered the control room. She glanced at the clock - almost twelve. Anson wasn’t due on until two.
“Thought you might need some back-up,” he said.
Give the man a cigar. On second thoughts, maybe not. It was rumoured that Anson was trying to give up the habit. In any case the control room had finally been declared a no smoking zone, for which she was profoundly grateful.
“Thanks. I’m waiting for news. Surrey police are still interviewing witnesses.”
Anson made no comment. He went over to the tea urn and poured himself a cup. Guts of iron, she supposed. She liked Anson; he knew the value of back-up and he had an excellent tactical ability. More importantly, he didn't assume superiority, either because she was a woman, or because of his pre-CI5 ranking of captain.
Sandra called out from her post at the communications desk. "Mr Cowley's gone back to his hotel. He gave his direct number and wants you to call him there. And I've got Detective Sergeant Charles from Surrey Police on line two."
She picked up the nearest phone and thumbed the button for line two, "Sergeant, Sally Baker here. What have you got for us?"
"Hello, Miss Baker." A slightly diffident tone, suggesting the speaker had expected to connect with "someone in authority" at CI5, not a woman.
"Mr Cowley is in Norway. I'm Alpha One for the moment." Best to set him straight without delay. "What do you have for us?" she repeated.
"We have the tapes from the robbery. We've also finished interviewing all the witnesses and we're reasonably certain one of the gang was foreign, Russian possibly. ”
Sally tapped the desk with a forefinger as she considered. “Can you get projection photos from the tapes?” she asked. We’ll need an idea of what they look like if our agents don’t track them down in Guildford.”
“I’ll have them developed as soon as possible. Hope there’s enough footage. The recording didn’t start until the teller triggered the alarm.”
“Do it. I’ll send someone to pick them up.” She hung up, wondered whether to call Bodie and Doyle with the information, then decided the police would take care of it. Sandra got her a line to the Hotel Bristol in Oslo. An impatient-sounding Cowley answered.
“Cowley.”
“6.2, sir.” She gave her report.
“A Russian? Have you checked the list of persons of interest? New arrivals.”
“Not yet, sir.” Damn. She should have thought about that.
“Get onto it.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
“Oh, and 6.2?”
“Sir?”
“Good work so far. It looks like the fog will lift by tomorrow. If it doesn’t I’ll take a ferry. In any case I should be back by tomorrow night.”
“That’s good news. Thank you, sir.”
Cowley hung up. Sally breathed a sigh of relief, then turned to Anson, who was watching her closely while doing his best to chew the end off a plastic biro.
“Immigration. Check for everyone who’s arrived from the Soviet Bloc in the past month.”
“It’ll be a long list.” Anson commented, but he was already reaching for a phone.
“Keep us occupied while we wait for news, then,” she replied, smiling, amused by Anson’s long-suffering expression.
*****
They were all squeezed together in the van, five CI5 agents, a civilian and a police Detective Sergeant, all hovering over a sketch map of the site. They were watching the tall, red brick and corrugated iron roofed building which had once housed a bicycle manufacturing firm while the civilian - Joe Pelham, site supervisor for the past twenty years - described the layout.
“There’s a low dock at this end for deliveries. The first section’s where we made the frames. It’s empty now, all the machines went to Slyfield. Painting room through that partition - separated anything flammable from the brazing. Then assembly. There’s still a big oak bench in that part. It was too heavy to move and it won’t fit the layout in the new place. Pity. Anyway, there’s those two rooms off to the side there, that one immediately opposite, another dock for loading and that’s it.”
Their unmarked police van was parked off road at a small garage, within view but not on the same road as the factory.
“Other buildings?” Doyle asked.
“Just that shed by the entrance. We weren’t big enough to have a gatehouse. Used to store the rubbish bins there.”
Doyle examined the sketch, then turned to Jenkins, who was watching the factory through binoculars.
“Any movement?”
“I can see the tail of the getaway van, that’s it. Not a birdy.”
Bodie took the binoculars from Jenkins and looked out for a minute. Then he put them down, and turned to the sketch with the air of someone who had decided something.
“Only one gateway, open…fence goes right around the rest. We could put Pennington in there, covering in case they try to break out. Doyle and I’ll take the first dock, you two circle round to the far end. Sound reasonable?”
“Those windows facing us - could anyone be looking out?” Williams asked. They were small openings, high on the wall and boarded up.
“Not without a lot of effort.” Pelham answered. “There was a mezzanine floor above the workshop, but we cannibalised it for shelving in the new place. You could climb the girders, I suppose, if you were mad enough. There’s ground floor windows on the north side and skylights.”
“Fair enough,” Williams muttered. He subsided into silence again and made no attempt to move.
The feeling in the cramped van was tense, uneasy. Doyle looked from one man to the next. Williams was mulish, frowning, Jenkins looking at him with a puzzled expression.
“I don’t like it. Van in plain view and a lousy building for a stand-off.” Doyle voiced his own objection. “If they were plannin’ on using the hostages for their escape you’d think we’d have heard by now.”
“Perhaps they’ve gone home for dinner. In which case they won’t mind if we take a look, will they?” Bodie was raring to go, impatience disguised as irony.
“Nutter.” Doyle groused, but there was no point in delaying things. “Alright. It’s visiting hours. Just keep your eyes open, especially the ones in the back of your skull.”
“That’s what you’re here for, innit?”
Pelham handed over a set of keys, and the DS drove the van around the corner, stopping a little way past the entrance at a point where the gatehouse blocked a view of the street from the factory. They got out and the van moved off. They left Pennington and his sniper rifle to cover the driveway, moved swiftly to the nearest corner of the building. Here they paused briefly to listen, but there were no sounds from inside, only traffic noises outside.
Bodie and Doyle stayed put while Williams and Jenkins scurried to the far end of the long brick wall. Then Jenkins raised a hand, thumbs up. Doyle turned towards the dock, drawing his .357, sensing rather than seeing that Bodie was doing the same. About to signal that he was going to cross into open space, he felt Bodie’s hand on his shoulder and in the corner of his eye saw him gesture - to the part of the dock nearest to Doyle and to the shallow ramp on the far side. Before Doyle could react, Bodie was off, running swiftly.
Drawn along, willy-nilly, Doyle did his assigned part. He bounded lithely onto the low concrete platform, checked the prefab storeroom to the side, then joined Bodie at the entrance to the main building.
Access to the main building was closed off a handful of yards from the dock edge by a large door, fortunately one with a wire mesh gate to one side. Doyle used the keys, thankful to find that the lock was still in a relatively well-preserved condition. It opened almost silently. The gate hinges weren’t silent though, and he winced at the sharp, metallic squeal, waiting seconds for a reaction that didn’t come, before grasping the metal frame, lifting it slightly as he eased it open. They slipped through.
Inside the building was cold and gloomy. They were in the machine shop, where Pelham had said the frames were built. It smelt of grease and dust, rubber and iron. Light filtered in through filthy skylights and cracks in the window boards. They skirted the room; Doyle to the left, Bodie to the right, keeping clear of the patches in the middle where machinery had once been embedded, and the left-over nails and bent hooks on the walls. Everything useful appeared to have been removed, including light fittings and switch covers. Bare leads dangled. Doyle, wondering if the power had been switched off, avoided them.
The area was empty, as was the next, a smaller space, wider than it was long. There was a doorway in the centre. They went through, moving in tandem, snapping around at a sound that turned out to be Williams and Jenkins emerging from one of the side rooms. Jenkins shook his head, indicated that they were going to check out the next, a short distance away. He pointed at a third, last, door across the room, behind the solid bulk of the assembly bench Pelham had mentioned. They moved in that direction, Doyle facing the door, Bodie at his side, covering the other two agents.
The next thing Doyle knew was Bodie grabbing hold of him, pulling him down to the floor, as an explosion shook the room. The blast was followed by the sound of shrapnel hitting the walls and screams from somewhere close, then more blasts, a cacophony of them, a crashing and screeching all around as the building shook and fell down on top of them.
Then silence.
*****
As Anson had come in early and was fully prepared to take over the shift, Sally had decided to go to Guildford herself. The call came when she was just past Wandsworth. She pulled over, disoriented by shock and grief and a sudden uncertainty about what to do next.
“Somebody… I should go out there. Don’t you think?” Sorry for speaking almost as soon as she’d opened her mouth. Even to her own ears she sounded weak.
“I know what you mean. But you’ll be better off if you keep going,” Anson counselled. “So far they’ve called out fire, police, ambulance, a couple of ammunition technicians from Blackdown and some Guards from Pirbright. As long as they don’t start fighting over who gets to do what, anyone left alive won’t be out of there any sooner for your help. We need those photographs.”
“You’re right. Thanks. OK, expect me to arrive at Guildford Police Station in about half an hour. 6.2 out” Steeling herself, she edged her car out into the traffic again. A truck driver blared his horn at her. Mentally giving him the finger, she concentrated on moving into the overtaking lane. The sooner she reached her destination the better.
*****
The sounds of the explosions were still dinning in his ears, echoed in a cacophony of crashing and creaking that was all around him. The air was full of dust - there was a heavy weight on his chest and he found it hard to breathe. A trickle of particles, plaster and brick, he guessed rained down on his face. He screwed his eyes shut and felt the panic build until it shouted from him.
"Bodie, are you there? Are you alive… Bodie?"
The weight pressing down on him shifted a little. "Guess I must be," it mumbled. "M'ears are ringing."
Doyle laughed a little with relief, regretting it immediately as the dust got to him, sending him into a racking fit of coughing that got worse with every breath. Bodie wriggled around, reaching into his pocket. He pressed a cloth - a handkerchief, Doyle guessed - against Doyle’s cheek.
“Here. Stop the dust getting in.”
Doyle took the handkerchief, unfolded it as best he could and covered his mouth. It helped. Soon, he felt able to speak again.
“What about you?”
“I’m breathing through your jumper,” Bodie mumbled back. Doyle realised that Bodie’s face was, in fact, pressed tight against his chest. It felt good, warm breath of life through the fabric, on his skin. He still didn’t dare open his eyes.
“Jenkins, Williams… they tripped a booby trap.”
“Yeah. Must’ve been a nail bomb. Tremblers set off the rest. Fuckers.” Bodie sounded disgusted.
“They’re dead, aren’t they.”
“It’s likely.”
“Bastards.”
“Yeah.”
They lay there, quietly, for several minutes as the dust settled and the air cleared. Then Bodie shifted again, lifted himself off Doyle’s chest.
“Alright, let’s see where we are.” Then he chuckled. “Look at you. You’re a mess. No, don’t do that,” as Doyle attempted to rub his eyes. “Let me.”
He took the handkerchief from Doyle’s hand and carefully wiped his eyes.
“There.”
“Ta.” Doyle opened his eyes. Everything was blurry. He felt tears well - must have got some dust in there anyway - and then his focus returned. It was gloomy, but enough light seeped in that he could see their surroundings.
They were in a confined space under the solid oak bench. On both sides they were trapped by mounds of brick rubble, wood and corrugated iron. There was just enough room to sit up and turn around. He did so, looking for gaps, points of weakness. There didn’t seem to be any. He shoved experimentally at a ceiling beam, which didn’t budge. Beside him, Bodie tried to push a chunk of brickwork aside to create a larger opening, equally fruitlessly.
Then he heard a voice calling. It was muffled, distant, but it was familiar. Pennington. They yelled back. Soon Doyle heard a scrambling, and Pennington called again, this time from much nearer.
“I must be just about on top of you. Can you tell?”
“Getting warmer, mate.” Bodie called. “Any chance of shifting this pile off us?”
“Not really. There’s too much big stuff. We’ve radioed for help. Who’s down there anyway? Are you alright?”
They both answered ‘yes’, and with the explaining about what had happened and about Jenkins and Williams the bleakness came over them again and they fell quiet.
“One of the bombs must’ve been in that van.” Pennington said at last. “It went up like a box of fireworks.”
“Yeah, well you watch yourself. Could still be some unexploded booby traps around.” Doyle said.
“Thanks.” Pennington said darkly. “’Ello, fire brigade’s arrived. I’d better talk to them. See you both soon.”
“We hope,” Doyle muttered. He felt weary. He leaned back against Bodie, who didn’t object, just squirmed around a little so they were back to back, supporting each other.
“Guess your plan for tonight’s a wash-out,” he said. Strangely, that gave him a great deal of satisfaction.
He felt Bodie shrug. “It doesn’t matter. There’ll be… other times. At least we’re both alive.”
There was something in that, just a whisper as he spoke, that caught Doyle’s attention.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean ‘what do you mean’?” Bodie said irritably.
“Like you weren’t looking forward to it that much anyway.”
“You don’t think I’d prefer sit here in the dusty dark with you?”
“Better than sitting here on your own, isn’t it?”
Bodie didn’t answer immediately and when he did, his voice cracked a little. “Better than the alternative.”
Fuck. “Yeah. Sorry”
Bodie didn’t answer. Instead, he reached back and tapped Doyle lightly on the thigh with the side of his fist. Just a little bounce off the muscle. It made Doyle feel better.
The little light they had was starting to fade. What time was it anyway? He checked his watch (displacement activity he told himself). Three o’clock. Another hour or so and it’d be dark.
It was getting cold. He could hear the wind starting to blow, outside, heralding the snow. There were voices, and a crash of masonry, a crunching of feet on brick. He wrapped his arms around himself and waited.
*****
It took the ATO’s some time to check the wreckage of the van and building for explosives. Doyle felt stiff and his back began to ache. When he complained about it, Bodie shuffled around, rearranged himself in a corner of their shared space so Doyle could turn and stretch his legs out, under the tunnel formed by Bodie’s knees.
They stayed silent until Pennington returned, having taken it on himself to provide a running commentary on the rescuers’ lack of progress. After several minutes of this, Bodie told him, in no uncertain terms, to piss off and not come back until he had some actual news to tell. Doyle added his own pithy thoughts: and the simple act of saying something got him talking again.
“Think about it, Bodie. Whoever did this knew what to do with explosives. They used just the right amount, in the right places, to bring the building down. Who would go to the trouble of doing that?”
“Not your average anarchist on the street. Professional. Must have been.”
“Means they were after Walsh, or whatever his name was. Vyshinsky. Used the bomb as a distraction. Ties up resources even if it doesn’t kill.” Piece by piece, things were making more sense now.
“So where did they go?” Bodie wondered.
“Out of the country, probably.”
“How would they do it? The area’s sealed off; a mouse couldn’t get out without an ID check.”
“Yeah. Same for any unusual air traffic.” Doyle considered. “It’d take time to prime the explosives. Even if they did most of it before the robbery, they had to set up the van afterwards.”
“Four bandits. Five including the driver. Two hostages.”
“They might have split up. What would you do?”
“Get rid of everything except the essentials. Go to ground somewhere until the heat died down.”
Yeah, that’s what Bodie would do. Except that Bodie wouldn’t saddle himself with a hostage, at least not voluntarily. He could survive in the open for weeks; they both could, only Bodie was better at it. They should do that sometime. Not the whole survival bit, but they could take a tent, do some fishing, drive into the village for supplies and beer at the pub. Nice.
Realising he’d been woolgathering, he groaned in disgust.
“What’s up?” Bodie enquired.
“I’m going stir crazy. One minute I was wondering where those bastards might have hidden themselves, the next I was thinking about asking you to go on a camping trip with me.”
“It’s not a bad idea. Except I’d prefer a pub. Did my share of sleeping rough in the army. Come to think of it, I’m still doing it.”
Doyle could barely see Bodie’s face, the light had grown so dim. One side was hidden in darkness, the other faintly illuminated, emphasising pale skin, the plane of his cheek, now showing a slight shadow of stubble, and a single dark, slightly quirky eyebrow. He knew Bodie was an attractive man, but he’d never felt the impact of it as clearly before.
“Couple of nights wouldn’t hurt. We could have a campfire. Fry our catch.” And I’d watch your face like this in the firelight. Then I’d tell you that I was interested, and you wouldn’t turn away, would you? He felt confident, full now of the knowledge of his own feelings, sure in his interpretation of Bodie’s.
Bodie smiled warmly. He seemed about to speak, then they were interrupted by a voice from above.
“It’s Captain Forrester, Surrey Fire Brigade. Sorry to keep you lads waiting, but we’ve been sorting out what needs to be done to clear this pile. Shouldn’t take much longer but there’ll be a fair amount of banging and crashing. We have to pull down the remaining walls first for safety.”
“That’s quite alright, Captain. Don’t worry about us, we’re quite cosy here,” Bodie called back.
Doyle had to stifle a giggle as the captain walked away.
*****
A Sergeant Covey gave Sally the envelope containing the photos. She thanked him; barely civilly because she’d been kept waiting too long and the reports filtering through from the factory site were minimal. Bodie and Doyle were alive, she knew that. The Ordnance Corps had done its work, there were no undetected explosives and they expected that both agents would be rescued shortly.
Good, as far as it went. The loss of Williams and Jenkins was still a harsh blow. They don’t always make it home alive.
“I need to make a phone call to CI5.”
Covey pointed her to a telephone. She dialled the number. Someone put her through to Anson in the control room.
“6.2.”
“Sally.” Anson sounded excited. “I was just about to call you. We think we’ve found the link. A group of Russian women shooters entered just over two weeks ago, on an exhibition tour after the Berlin championships. They’ve been at Bisley Ranges for the past four days. What have you got?”
“Fuzzy photos.” Anson’s exuberance buoyed her spirits. She took the prints out of the envelope. “I’ve seen the tapes. I can check them again if I need to.”
“Good. There are six in the team, four shooters, a manager and a coach. Yelena Levchenkova and Tatiana Gubareva are factory workers, Olga Feklistova and Nina Konstantinova are from the military. Then there’s their coach, Gregori Gorbunov, and their manager, Svetlana Lobkovskaya. Got that?”
“Whoa! Let me get my pen.”
“Sorry, I was joking. I’ve sent 9.1 down with a copy of the file, she should be there soon. The group left Bisley a couple of hours ago, heading for Dover. Kent police will intercept.”
“That’s heartening.” She spread the photographs on the desk. “We didn’t get clear shots of all the robbers, but the one who apparently spoke Russian is fairly distinctive. He’s about six feet tall, solid build. The other three are around five foot eight, maybe nine, average build. No-one mentioned any of them were women. But no-one saw the driver, either.”
“The big guy could be Gorbunov. Feklistova’s the only one of the women who qualifies. She’s five foot eight, very slim figure. The others are shorter and, ah, curvier. We’ll need solid evidence to detain any of them. They’re all on official passports.”
“Diplomatic immunity?”
“That’s not confirmed, so we’re going ahead with the interception. We’ll talk to the Foreign Office if we need to.”
“Understood. I’ll get the police here to copy these photos for 9.1 - photostats won’t be clear enough. I’m going out to the factory now. Tell her to call me when she’s finished.”
“Will do. Get them to send a copy to Maidstone, doesn’t matter how blurry they are. Base over and out.”
Sally turned back to the desk sergeant, relayed her request for the documents, barely waiting for a response before she was out the door and heading for her car. It wasn’t until she was half-way down Epsom Road towards the factory that she realised Anson hadn’t once mentioned speaking to Cowley during their phone call.
It was just past sunset when she arrived at the factory site. Not that there was much sun to be seen; the dark clouds that had only been a vague threat earlier were piling up overhead, a great mass of them.
She had to park on the street because the factory forecourt was choked with emergency vehicles. Leaving the car she noticed that the temperature had dropped markedly and a gusty wind was blowing chill air through to her bones. As she approached, someone in one of the fire trucks turned on a spotlight and a bright light spilled out across the scene. Groups of rescue workers, some in army green, others in firemen’s overalls crawled over a section of rubble close by, while another team on the far side of the building worked to secure a section of roof to a towing lorry crane.
Pennington found her, guided her through the maze of people and vehicles to near the lorry where he introduced her to the fire chief, Captain Forrester, a man with ruddy red skin and a bristling moustache.
“Miss Baker. Won’t be long now. We’ve pulled down the remainder of this end and we’ve got crews working on both sides of the building. I’m afraid there’s been no sign of anyone alive apart from Bodie and Doyle.”
“Thank you, captain. I’m glad to see you’ve got assistance.”
“Yes, the Guards. Good lads.”
There was a shout from the group nearest the lorry. The men fell back, clear of the section they’d just been working on. The winch on the lorry started to wind, pulling the entire section of roofing away from the centre of the pile. At first it resisted the pull, then it began to slide. One of the workers shouted a warning and the lorry driver let the cable pay out a short distance. The roof section slid a little further then stopped. Immediately, the men clambered back onto the pile and began pulling at the brickwork underneath.
Following the captain but declining his help, she climbed onto the rubble, cursing as one of her court shoes caught between a couple of bricks and she felt the heel give way slightly. Damn Cowley and his idea of a proper dress code for female agents! It was fine to be permitted to wear jeans on stake-out or undercover, but on an unanticipated callout a skirt was a bloody nuisance.
She managed to ladder her stockings as well before she reached the group of men, who were working to widen a funnel-shaped opening in the pile. As she reached the lip, one of them, a tall Guardsman, lay down and stretched his arms into the hole.
“Cummon then,” he called. “Oop you get.”
Quickly thereafter, a dishevelled and decidedly dusty Doyle emerged and immediately turned about, reaching back into the opening to assist Bodie to clamber out. It was only when both agents were free that Doyle looked around and saw Sally.
“’Ello, Sal. I wouldn’t recommend this hotel, you know. Rooms are a bit on the small side.”
Bodie joined in. “Definitely a one star establishment, wouldn’t you say?”
“Half that. The mattress was lumpy.”
“Alright you two, we’ve got a job to do.” She grinned nonetheless and would probably have hugged them both if she hadn’t felt so very wobbly standing on the unstable surface. She started to make her way gingerly to solid ground but before she could get there she was picked up between the two of them and carried the rest of the way. They put her down, somewhat soiled by brick dust transferred from their clothes to hers, next to where Pennington stood.
“I can see a dry-cleaning bill in your futures,” she scolded. “Pennington, is there somewhere to get a cup of tea around here? I need to brief you all on what’s been happening.”
There was a tea wagon, so they went over and were each given mugs of hot, strong brew. Sally went through everything that had happened since she last spoke to them. As she did so, she noticed the first flakes of snow falling. They drifted down slowly, settling on shoulders or hair before melting, or disappearing into the steam rising from their mugs.
“We had a bit of time to think,” Bodie said wryly. “We think Vyshinsky might still be in the area. If he’s not in the luggage compartment of a bus and on his way to Dover, that is.”
“Lots of woods near the army bases around here,” added Doyle. “Although I’d bet on him sticking close to Bisley, since they were there for a few days. Plenty of time to suss out a hiding place.”
“Yes, but what help does he have? He could be hidden in a squat in East London by now, for all we know. And how are they going to get him out of the country?”
Sally’s musings were cut short by Captain Forrester, who had jogged over from the bomb site.
“We’ve uncovered the bodies of your agents,” he said. “And others as well.”
She tipped her tea on the ground, thrust the mug at the tea wagon attendant and joined the others in running towards the building. Here, the workers had managed to clear a large swathe in the rubble. She was able to walk unimpeded until she was close to the action. Two knots of rescue workers and police huddled together over several shapes lying on the ground. She started to move closer, but was stopped by a uniformed police constable.
“Sorry, ma’am. There’s nothing you can do for them. It’s a crime scene now. We’ve called CID and the forensic blokes.”
Sally was reaching into her jacket pocket for her ID when she felt Doyle’s hand on her arm.
“He’s right, you know,” he said. Then his voice hardened as he spoke to the policeman. “But we shall require a report. I’ll give you a number to call and you’d better bloody well use it the minute they’re finished here. And you’ll want someone to identify their bodies.”
“We’ll do it,” Bodie said, coming up to stand beside him. “We saw them last.”
The policeman nodded and drew out his notebook for Doyle to write down the CI5 number. Sally, feeling a little annoyed at being sidelined, asked a question.
“Is there anything at all you can tell us about the others?”
“Not much, ma’am. There are four of them, all white males, and they all have gunshot wounds to the head.”
“Do any of them look like the hostages taken in this morning’s robbery? Or the robbers?”
“I couldn’t say, ma’am.” The policeman looked uncomfortable. “It’s possible. You’ll have to talk to CID about that.”
Deciding she’d given the constable enough to worry about she walked away. The others followed.
“I’d better check in,” she decided. Returning to her car, which was now covered with a light dusting of snow, she called base.
Anson had very little to add to Sally’s report. He’d yet to hear from the men he’d sent to assist the Kent police, and he agreed with Sally when she suggested they stay in the area, in case the interception failed to reveal Vyshinsky’s whereabouts. He gave her the name of the commanding officer at Pirbright, the Guard depot, which was very close by Bisley Camp and said that he’d call the depot himself to make sure Sally and her team were provided for.
“Better ask them for some clean clothes,” she said, remembering the dust and dirt that had clung to Bodie and Doyle which was now beyond being brushed off, thanks to the snow. She must look a sight herself, she thought, ruefully, as she signed off.
Bodie, Doyle and Pennington looked at her expectantly as she returned. She gave them the news, and then turned to Pennington.
“You’d better stay here, keep an eye on things.” She nodded in the direction of the building. “Once they’re finished, get back to London with your report. Do you have a car?”
“Jenkins had the keys,” he said, soberly.
“See if you can get them back from CID. Or you could hotwire it, if you have to.”
Pennington agreed that yes, he could do just that.
“Liz should be finished at the stationhouse by now. I’ll pick her up and meet you at Pirbright.”
“Liz - you mean the new girl? 9.1?” Bodie perked up. “Long, golden locks, nice figure…”
Doyle elbowed him in the ribs. Sally saw him give Bodie a look, and wondered about it briefly.
“Yes, that Liz. Hands off, the pair of you.” She knew she sounded like a maiden aunt, but she was too tired to care. What do you expect? You’ve been on the job for twelve hoursshe thought to herself.
Before she left she found Captain Forrester and the lieutenant in charge of the Guards unit and thanked them for their help.
“Don’t worry,” the lieutenant said. “Anything turns up, I’ll make sure you’re informed.”
*****
Sally picked Liz up from Guildford and used the fifteen minutes on the road to Pirbright bringing her up to date. At the camp they were greeted with hot cups of tea and a meal, courtesy of the commanding officer, Colonel James. Afterwards, they called Anson.
Anson told them that the bus had been stopped, and searched (over the strenuous objections of the party), without finding any trace of Vishinsky. They had, however, determined that the man travelling under Godunov’s passport looked only vaguely like the one who had entered the country under that name, a few short weeks ago.
“The Foreign Office is talking to the Soviet Embassy about the team’s status. If the embassy confirms that the documents are legitimate, we’ll have to let them all go. That’s the procedure. But it sounds like you’re right, and Godunov has Vyshinsky squirreled away somewhere near Bisley.”
“It’s a big area. We’re going to need a lot of manpower to search it. And are we sure that Godunov won’t harm Vyshinsky if we get too close?” Sally asked.
“It’s a risk,” Doyle said, looking at Bodie for confirmation. Bodie shook his head.
“If he thinks he still has an escape route, I think he’ll hold off unless he’s cornered. Vyshinsky’s too valuable to their intelligence services to be expendable.”
“Sounds feasible,” Anson said. “All right. I’ll issue a call-out, just to make it official. Is Colonel James with you?”
“Here,” said the colonel. “I can give you a full company of Guards, maybe more.”
“Thank you. We’ll have some Police as well and air force on stand-by. Sally, I’ll leave the local arrangements up to you.”
“I’d like to give the operational lead to Bodie on this one,” she said. “He’s got more experience in this area.”
“Confirmed. Keep me posted.”
Anson signed off and the agents, with Colonel James’ help, started to plan their next move. Due to the snow they decided to hold off the search for Godunov until the following morning. The colonel arranged for road patrols to be sent out overnight and a call to the Surrey police provided reinforcements.
“Right,” Bodie said, finally. “That just about does it. We’d better get some rest.”
“And a shower,” Doyle added.
They were shown to their temporary quarters. Bodie and Doyle shared one four-man room, Sally and Liz an adjoining one. The colonel rustled up some warm clothing from the stores, although when it came to Liz he looked a little doubtful.
“Don’t think we’ve got anything small enough to fit you.”
“It’s alright,” Liz said, blushing slightly. “I haven’t been scrambling about like the others. I’ll be fine.”
Liz was wearing a bright red woollen coat over a cream pullover and brown skirt. She had been very quiet during the discussions, and seemed overwhelmed by everything. Sally remembered her own early days in CI5 and felt some sympathy for the girl. “Try the boots anyway,” she suggested. “They’ll be better if we have to walk cross-country. And a different jacket.”
Liz looked doubtful, but she nodded.
After quick showers they set the alarm for six o’clock in the morning, and tried to get some sleep.
****
Saturday
They were up before dawn and headed out for Bisley camp. Bodie and Doyle were wearing an assortment of army gear, green pants, pullovers and camouflage jackets. Sally had managed to cinch the waist of her pants by cutting an extra notch in the belt, and she’d rolled up the legs a few inches and tucked them into her socks. Two pairs of socks - she’d needed them to pad out the boots. She felt bulky and distinctly unglamorous, but the gear was practical. She wore her own woollen jacket; the one she’d been offered was too large and would have got in the way of her drawing her gun.
None of the gear had fitted Liz. She’d ended up tossing the “sodding” boots in a corner and having a minor crisis of confidence which Sally had practically had to shake her out of. At least she seemed to have collected herself now.
Between them, Bodie and the colonel had organised the police and army forces into lines of ‘beaters’, who would move through the woods surrounding the shooting ranges with the aim of flushing Godunov out of his hiding place. Meanwhile the four agents headed to Bisley camp itself, to start a clubhouse by clubhouse search of the site. It was nerve-racking. There were dozens of buildings, some of them quite large, and a fair number of on-site caravans as well. Each one had to be thoroughly checked.
*****
Bodie kicked the door of the caravan open and ducked back, out of sight. There was no movement inside. Doyle went through the door first, gun at the ready. It was empty. They pulled the door closed and moved on to the next. Along the line of vans, he could see the girls doing the same.
For the most part they had keys to the clubhouses and vans, obtained from the caretaker, but there were a few buildings where they’d had to break in. He’d needed to smash a window to get into the stately London and Middlesex lodge, wincing as did so, imagining the fuss (and letters to Members) that would probably result.
Doyle was in fine form this morning, quick and alert as a whippet, snapping round at the slightest sound, curls bouncing around his face in the slight breeze. A good man, Doyle. Best he’d ever worked with. He’d once wished that the bonds of affection and comradeship they shared could turn into something more, but for now it was enough to be together, to guard Doyle’s life with his own. Although yesterday he’d wondered…
He was interrupted by a squawking from the army radio transmitter he was carrying. It was one of the platoon leaders from the search teams.
“Just seen someone moving through the trees,” the man said. “Heading for the camp exit. He’ll have to cross open ground to get there.”
“Keep tracking him,” Bodie ordered. “Don’t let him out of your sight. Moving to intercept.”
He whistled, and Sally and Liz came over.
“Godunov’s heading for the gates. If we head in a north-westerly direction we should get to him first. Try to keep out of sight. Liz, you’re a bit too conspicuous in that coat. Head for the main clubhouse and wait there.”
The pursuit was on.
*****
Gorbunov was three-quarters of the way to the front gate, carrying Vyshinsky over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. Vyshinsky’s arms and upper torso bounced heavily against Gorbunov’s back. There was simply no way to shoot the fleeing man without risking his prisoner’s life. Gorbunov had either given up trying to shoot his pursuers or he was out of ammunition; he simply ran, with surprising speed, towards the gate.
Sally found it hard to keep pace. Her oversized army boots caught on scattered branches hidden under drifts of snow. Neither Bodie nor Doyle seemed encumbered by the borrowed gear: they ran on, rapidly gaining on Gorbunov. It was Bodie who finally overtook him and brought him down with a solid punch to the side of the head. Gorbunov slumped to the ground, letting go of Vyshinsky, who fell, inert, to the ground beside him. As Sally caught up, Doyle moved to where Vyshinsky lay, leaving Bodie to attend to Gorbunov. Sally knelt down beside Doyle as he checked Vyshinsky’s pulse before raising his head, smiling.
“He’s alive. But we’d better get him indoors, he’s practically frozen.”
“I think not.” A woman’s voice, heavily accented, came from just to Sally’s left. Then a strong arm grasped her around the neck, and the cold metal of a handgun pressed against her temple. “Take them both to the gate. Move it! Or I’ll shoot this woman.”
She realised, in a moment of blinding clarity, that there must have been more than one substitution on the Russian team. The no-nonsense speech and the firm grip said she had to be military trained. There must have been a second replacement on the bus, a look-alike close enough in appearance to fool the agents who checked it out. Which one? The woman was tall, about as tall as Sally herself from the angle of the arm around her neck.
“Don’t be a fool, Olga.” She hazarded a guess, and felt the woman tense. “You won’t get out of Surrey, let alone the country.”
Even as she spoke she realised, with a sinking feeling of dread, what had happened and what would happen if Olga wasn’t stopped. She must have been waiting for Gorbunov by the gate, seen the pursuit and slipped into the trees by the roadside. Better to wait for an opportunity to reverse matters than to take a chance of taking down the three of them in the snow. Once the woman had forced them to take Gorbunov and Walsh to the car, they would be killed. Sally forced herself to relax, waiting for a chance. It came more quickly than she’d dared hope.
Bodie had risen into a half crouch, behind Gorbunov, one hand holding the man down, although he still appeared to be unconscious. Doyle was in front of Vyshinsky, his body acting as a shield. There was a moment of perfect stillness as they sized up their opponent. Then there was a cracking sound behind Sally, Olga shifted, ever so slightly, and Sally acted. She brought her foot down hard on her captor’s instep, ducked and turned in one fluid motion, and grasped Olga’s wrist, forcing her arm upwards. Olga was tough and struggled against her. Then Bodie, blessed Bodie, was by her side, quickly forcing the pistol from Olga’s hand. Sally almost cheered as Liz walked out of the treeline, coatless, gun in hand.
Bodie lifted Gorbunov in a fireman’s carry. Doyle cuffed Olga’s hands behind her back and pushed her forwards, while Sally and Liz helped a groggy Vyshinsky to his feet and helped him as he stumbled slowly towards the clubhouse.
*****
A couple of hours later, Sally and Liz were on their way back to Guildford Police Station to pick up Liz’s car. The radio beeped.
“6.2.”
“Anson. I gather the Old Man is pleased with you.”
“He seemed pretty happy, considering he didn’t have his finger in the pie the whole time.” Then she realised something. “What about you? You were in charge while we were running about the countryside.”
“Ah, well. I’m on suspension. It’s only due to Julie’s good graces that I can call you now.”
“What? Why would he do that?”
“I almost caused an international incident by detaining persons with diplomatic passports without Cowley’s knowledge,” Anson replied.
She almost choked. “He can’t mean it! How long before you’re allowed back?”
Anson sounded unruffled. “About as long as it takes the Foreign Office to smooth the Soviet feathers. Which won’t be long at all, considering the embassy recognised the passports of everyone we detained, including the false ones. That leaves Gorbunov and Feklistova out in the cold and in our hands. Game, set and match.”
“No wonder you sound happy. I’ll buy you a drink when you get your wings back.” You poor bastard, she thought, Cowley must have called an ‘Operation Susie’ as soon as he realised who the players were. No wonder you didn’t say anything.
“I thought I could buy you a drink tonight. Any chance of that?”
Sally glanced at Liz. “I planned on collapsing into a nice warm bath after Liz and I finish our reports. But since you’re unemployed for the moment, if you don’t mind doing some shopping I’ll cook dinner for the three of us. I’ll pay you for the food if you pay for the drinks. Deal?”
If Anson was at all disconcerted by this demotion to shopping assistant, he didn’t let on. She listed the ingredients for coq au vin (chicken, lots of red wine, mushrooms, bacon, onions and seasonings). Anson signed off, after promising that he’d arrive at four with the supplies.
“Thanks for the invitation. Are you sure I won’t be a third wheel?” Liz asked nervously.
“No, not at all. Anson’s too confident by half. They all are. Don’t let them steam-roller you, Liz. You did well: there’s no doubt that you belong on the A Squad.”
They were at the police station. Sally stopped the car to let Liz out. As she said her goodbyes, Sally left her with one final remark.
“Besides, one thing I’ve learnt in CI5 is that it’s important to keep your options open.”
*****
Epilogue: Sunday, a pine forest, mid-January
Pine cones crackled and popped in the campfire. The night was still. A solid cloud cover held the day’s meagre warmth close to the earth. There would be no frost tonight. They were in the lee of a hill, snug by a rocky overhang that gave protection from the elements. After a day spent rambling along wintry forest paths they’d decided to rest for a while before returning to the warmth of their pub.
Footsteps muffled by the carpet of pine needles he walked on, Bodie went towards the fire, carrying two cans of lager. Doyle took the offered one, set it on the ground behind him. He reached up, took Bodie by the hand and drew him down.
Bodie sat on the log beside him and Doyle wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Then Bodie bent his head down to Doyle’s chest and listened to the beating of his heart.
The End.
Title: Roots to Branches
Author: Kiwisue
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: After some more tweaking!
Author's Name for Archiving: KWS
Disclaimer: Not mine, I just take them out to play now and then.
Notes: Thanks to helenraven for a fab Britcheck and many helpful suggestions at the 11th hour. As I didn’t have time to implement them all, and I ended up writing another four hundred or so words that she hasn’t seen, please remember that any mistakes are mine alone. I’m pretty happy with it as it stands, but I’ll probably tweak some more before archiving.
Friday
“Telephone call for you, Mister Cowley.”
"Thank you," he said, taking the receiver from the steward. "Cowley."
"Good morning, sir, 6.2." Sally's normally crisp tones were blurred by a fizzing and crackling down the line. "We have a problem. I had hoped you were on your way home."
Cowley frowned, looking out of the airport lounge windows to the tarmac where the nearest passenger jet was a shadowy hulk looming out of an otherwise impenetrable grey wall of mist.
"Unfortunately, no. In fact I may be some time. You'd best tell me what's going on."
"There was a bank robbery in Guildford this morning. The robbers were armed - they shot two people and got away with approximately one hundred thousand pounds in used notes. They also took two customers hostage. One of them has since been identified as Gregory Walsh, previously known as Grigori Vyshinsky.”
“Vyshinsky! He was supposed to have round-the-clock protection! Someone fouled up. How did it happen?”
“His minders got careless. Vyshinsky likes a bet, and he’d developed the habit of going to the bank on a Friday morning to cash a cheque for the weekend. Every Friday morning. The robbers shot the man who was shepherding him as well as the bank manager.”
“Tch! Any clues as to their identity?"
"Only that one of them shouted a political slogan as they left. It matched with several used by a radical anarchist group MI5 has been watching, the Red Alliance. But they've no history of violence and as far as MI5 are concerned, it's a ruse. MI6 are extremely concerned about Vyshinsky though. This case is within our remit sir, but if we are going to act… "
"…We'd best act quickly. Yes, I agree. Send Bodie and Doyle to Guilford, with back-up."
"They're already on their way, sir. The Surrey Chief Constable is cooperating and we may be in luck. The bank was testing some new security equipment. We may have film of the robbers."
"Thank you, 6.2. Keep on it and keep me informed. I’ll try to keep the heavy brigade off your back." He hung up, and gazed out of the window again, willing the heavy fog blanketing Fornebu Airport to dissipate. Stubbornly, it clung on.
*****
"When did Cowley die and leave her in charge?"
Doyle chuckled. "Cowley's not dead, mate, he's in Norway."
"Same thing, this time of year. They’ll have to dig him out in spring."
"Nah. He’ll blast the runway clear. Anyway, you like Sally."
"Yeah, I do," Bodie grumbled. "It's just when she gets a taste of authority, you know. Becomes Warrant Officer Baker all over again. Besides, I had plans for tonight.”
Doyle eyed his partner questioningly. “Anyone I know?” There could be a dozen reasons why Bodie had failed to mention an upcoming date, most of them perfectly innocuous; but, as Doyle had discovered, Bodie had hidden interests.
“No. Just plans - private ones.”
“Mmm.” Earlier attempts to draw Bodie out on his occasional secret outings having failed, Doyle adopted an expression of casual indifference. Bodie breached that facade at once.
“I can hear the cogs turning, Doyle. Don’t sweat it. It doesn’t concern you.”
Oh, but it did concern him. He’d known that for a very long time. Rather than admit to something that could have been real but was most likely simply a dangerous curiosity that would get them both into deep trouble, he’d avoided the hints, the veiled propositioning.
After all, it wasn’t as though he could just blurt out ‘you know, I might be interested - only I’m not really sure - and would you mind being party to an experiment, just to see if it’s true’. Eventually Bodie had stopped trying, at least in any serious way. Now it was no more than a joke between them, nothing more than a sign of their close working relationship and friendship.
So he did what he usually did under similar circumstances: he changed the subject.
“What do we know about this lot? The ‘Red Alliance of Workers and Students’ or whatever they’re called.”
“Young radicals, some students, unemployed, a few old-timers with nice, thick MI5 files that say very little. Long boring meetings, the odd demo, linking arms across factory gates, that sort of thing. Nothing major.”
Doyle shrugged. “Nothing in the book says a political group can’t change its colours. All it needs is a new leader, a purge or three and it becomes a new animal.”
“And we’re the hunters.”
On cue, the car radio started its familiar cry for attention. Doyle picked up the receiver.
“4.5.”
Sally responded. “Base to 4.5. How far are you from Guildford?”
Doyle glanced out the window. “About fifteen minutes. We’re just passing Ripley.”
“Mr Cowley confirms that this is now a CI5 operation. One of the hostages is a Soviet double-agent who defected twelve months ago. He’s been living at an MI6 safe house since then. We suspect his previous employers found out where he was and they want him back.” She quickly gave details and directions. “The getaway van was spotted entering an old factory. The business recently relocated so there’s no-one on site, although the police have located the previous plant manager. They’re also set up roadblocks in the area. Meet Inspector Kelsey from Surrey HQ and your back-up at the rendezvous point.”
“Who’s our back-up?” Bodie wanted to know.
"Williams, Jenkins and Pennington. They’re about ten minutes behind you.”
“Thanks, Sal,” Doyle replied. “Any more background on the Red Alliance?’
“Not a single clue. If that’s who they are, their inner cadre isn’t talking about it. Could be a splinter group.”
“Or a rival one. Or a few of the outer members finding themselves short on cash at Christmas.” Bodie, commenting from the driver’s seat. Doyle elbowed him in the ribs.
“Don’t pay any attention to the cynic,” he said. “We’ll find out soon enough, anyhow. 4.5 out.”
He replaced the receiver. The adrenaline was already starting to pump. He grinned at Bodie. “Let’s go!”
*****
Bodie struggled to contain his own elation. They had a job to do. With a little luck - the sky was mostly clear, but there was a worrying dark greyness far to the west - they’d have this wrapped up by tonight. Don’t count your chickens, came into his head for just a moment, but he bypassed the thought as easily as he overtook the Mini in front of him, cutting back in front in time to take the A3100 off-ramp, shaving years off the other driver’s life in the process.
*****
After signing off the call to Doyle and Bodie, Sally went over to a section of wall in the control room that held a large scale map of England, and another of Metropolitan London. This was “her” area of the control room if it was anyone’s. It was her personal contribution to the business of keeping track of who was doing what, where.
Now, she pulled free the pin holding the overlapping numbers of 4.5 and 3.7 and moved it to just outside Guildford. No room on the map for string now. She moved the pin for the back-up car likewise. Then she checked the other pins. All up to date. She left the map but, as often happened, she remembered why the board had seemed like a good idea in the first place.
”Oh, you’ve forgotten to put a parachute under the blue plane.”
“Sorry, mummy. Will he be all right?”
“Yes. All your pilots will be fine. You’ve just left some stale information on the board, that’s all. He’ll come home at the end of the game. Now, it’s your turn to check the signals.”
So she’d roll the dice and pick a card, in the game her WAAF mother invented to explain what did you do in the war, mummy, in which no-one died and everyone came home at the end. At some point she’d realised that not all her mother’s pilots had come home, so she stopped playing and started learning instead.
She’d joined the WRAC to keep her feet on the ground, found herself attached to the Signals Corps, learned to shoot, played at judo, and at the age of twenty-seven found herself one of Cowley’s mob.
After the first few months, other headquarters staff joined in the routine, pinning the small discs with active field agents’ numbers written on them to their locations on the map, with coloured threads to mark destinations if they were on the move.
At the end of her first year, New Year’s Eve 1979, she placed a pin with the picture of a champagne glass under it on her then flat in Highbury, with a pinwheel of red threads converging on it. It ended up being one hell of a party.
As she returned to the present, she noticed Anson had entered the control room. She glanced at the clock - almost twelve. Anson wasn’t due on until two.
“Thought you might need some back-up,” he said.
Give the man a cigar. On second thoughts, maybe not. It was rumoured that Anson was trying to give up the habit. In any case the control room had finally been declared a no smoking zone, for which she was profoundly grateful.
“Thanks. I’m waiting for news. Surrey police are still interviewing witnesses.”
Anson made no comment. He went over to the tea urn and poured himself a cup. Guts of iron, she supposed. She liked Anson; he knew the value of back-up and he had an excellent tactical ability. More importantly, he didn't assume superiority, either because she was a woman, or because of his pre-CI5 ranking of captain.
Sandra called out from her post at the communications desk. "Mr Cowley's gone back to his hotel. He gave his direct number and wants you to call him there. And I've got Detective Sergeant Charles from Surrey Police on line two."
She picked up the nearest phone and thumbed the button for line two, "Sergeant, Sally Baker here. What have you got for us?"
"Hello, Miss Baker." A slightly diffident tone, suggesting the speaker had expected to connect with "someone in authority" at CI5, not a woman.
"Mr Cowley is in Norway. I'm Alpha One for the moment." Best to set him straight without delay. "What do you have for us?" she repeated.
"We have the tapes from the robbery. We've also finished interviewing all the witnesses and we're reasonably certain one of the gang was foreign, Russian possibly. ”
Sally tapped the desk with a forefinger as she considered. “Can you get projection photos from the tapes?” she asked. We’ll need an idea of what they look like if our agents don’t track them down in Guildford.”
“I’ll have them developed as soon as possible. Hope there’s enough footage. The recording didn’t start until the teller triggered the alarm.”
“Do it. I’ll send someone to pick them up.” She hung up, wondered whether to call Bodie and Doyle with the information, then decided the police would take care of it. Sandra got her a line to the Hotel Bristol in Oslo. An impatient-sounding Cowley answered.
“Cowley.”
“6.2, sir.” She gave her report.
“A Russian? Have you checked the list of persons of interest? New arrivals.”
“Not yet, sir.” Damn. She should have thought about that.
“Get onto it.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
“Oh, and 6.2?”
“Sir?”
“Good work so far. It looks like the fog will lift by tomorrow. If it doesn’t I’ll take a ferry. In any case I should be back by tomorrow night.”
“That’s good news. Thank you, sir.”
Cowley hung up. Sally breathed a sigh of relief, then turned to Anson, who was watching her closely while doing his best to chew the end off a plastic biro.
“Immigration. Check for everyone who’s arrived from the Soviet Bloc in the past month.”
“It’ll be a long list.” Anson commented, but he was already reaching for a phone.
“Keep us occupied while we wait for news, then,” she replied, smiling, amused by Anson’s long-suffering expression.
*****
They were all squeezed together in the van, five CI5 agents, a civilian and a police Detective Sergeant, all hovering over a sketch map of the site. They were watching the tall, red brick and corrugated iron roofed building which had once housed a bicycle manufacturing firm while the civilian - Joe Pelham, site supervisor for the past twenty years - described the layout.
“There’s a low dock at this end for deliveries. The first section’s where we made the frames. It’s empty now, all the machines went to Slyfield. Painting room through that partition - separated anything flammable from the brazing. Then assembly. There’s still a big oak bench in that part. It was too heavy to move and it won’t fit the layout in the new place. Pity. Anyway, there’s those two rooms off to the side there, that one immediately opposite, another dock for loading and that’s it.”
Their unmarked police van was parked off road at a small garage, within view but not on the same road as the factory.
“Other buildings?” Doyle asked.
“Just that shed by the entrance. We weren’t big enough to have a gatehouse. Used to store the rubbish bins there.”
Doyle examined the sketch, then turned to Jenkins, who was watching the factory through binoculars.
“Any movement?”
“I can see the tail of the getaway van, that’s it. Not a birdy.”
Bodie took the binoculars from Jenkins and looked out for a minute. Then he put them down, and turned to the sketch with the air of someone who had decided something.
“Only one gateway, open…fence goes right around the rest. We could put Pennington in there, covering in case they try to break out. Doyle and I’ll take the first dock, you two circle round to the far end. Sound reasonable?”
“Those windows facing us - could anyone be looking out?” Williams asked. They were small openings, high on the wall and boarded up.
“Not without a lot of effort.” Pelham answered. “There was a mezzanine floor above the workshop, but we cannibalised it for shelving in the new place. You could climb the girders, I suppose, if you were mad enough. There’s ground floor windows on the north side and skylights.”
“Fair enough,” Williams muttered. He subsided into silence again and made no attempt to move.
The feeling in the cramped van was tense, uneasy. Doyle looked from one man to the next. Williams was mulish, frowning, Jenkins looking at him with a puzzled expression.
“I don’t like it. Van in plain view and a lousy building for a stand-off.” Doyle voiced his own objection. “If they were plannin’ on using the hostages for their escape you’d think we’d have heard by now.”
“Perhaps they’ve gone home for dinner. In which case they won’t mind if we take a look, will they?” Bodie was raring to go, impatience disguised as irony.
“Nutter.” Doyle groused, but there was no point in delaying things. “Alright. It’s visiting hours. Just keep your eyes open, especially the ones in the back of your skull.”
“That’s what you’re here for, innit?”
Pelham handed over a set of keys, and the DS drove the van around the corner, stopping a little way past the entrance at a point where the gatehouse blocked a view of the street from the factory. They got out and the van moved off. They left Pennington and his sniper rifle to cover the driveway, moved swiftly to the nearest corner of the building. Here they paused briefly to listen, but there were no sounds from inside, only traffic noises outside.
Bodie and Doyle stayed put while Williams and Jenkins scurried to the far end of the long brick wall. Then Jenkins raised a hand, thumbs up. Doyle turned towards the dock, drawing his .357, sensing rather than seeing that Bodie was doing the same. About to signal that he was going to cross into open space, he felt Bodie’s hand on his shoulder and in the corner of his eye saw him gesture - to the part of the dock nearest to Doyle and to the shallow ramp on the far side. Before Doyle could react, Bodie was off, running swiftly.
Drawn along, willy-nilly, Doyle did his assigned part. He bounded lithely onto the low concrete platform, checked the prefab storeroom to the side, then joined Bodie at the entrance to the main building.
Access to the main building was closed off a handful of yards from the dock edge by a large door, fortunately one with a wire mesh gate to one side. Doyle used the keys, thankful to find that the lock was still in a relatively well-preserved condition. It opened almost silently. The gate hinges weren’t silent though, and he winced at the sharp, metallic squeal, waiting seconds for a reaction that didn’t come, before grasping the metal frame, lifting it slightly as he eased it open. They slipped through.
Inside the building was cold and gloomy. They were in the machine shop, where Pelham had said the frames were built. It smelt of grease and dust, rubber and iron. Light filtered in through filthy skylights and cracks in the window boards. They skirted the room; Doyle to the left, Bodie to the right, keeping clear of the patches in the middle where machinery had once been embedded, and the left-over nails and bent hooks on the walls. Everything useful appeared to have been removed, including light fittings and switch covers. Bare leads dangled. Doyle, wondering if the power had been switched off, avoided them.
The area was empty, as was the next, a smaller space, wider than it was long. There was a doorway in the centre. They went through, moving in tandem, snapping around at a sound that turned out to be Williams and Jenkins emerging from one of the side rooms. Jenkins shook his head, indicated that they were going to check out the next, a short distance away. He pointed at a third, last, door across the room, behind the solid bulk of the assembly bench Pelham had mentioned. They moved in that direction, Doyle facing the door, Bodie at his side, covering the other two agents.
The next thing Doyle knew was Bodie grabbing hold of him, pulling him down to the floor, as an explosion shook the room. The blast was followed by the sound of shrapnel hitting the walls and screams from somewhere close, then more blasts, a cacophony of them, a crashing and screeching all around as the building shook and fell down on top of them.
Then silence.
*****
As Anson had come in early and was fully prepared to take over the shift, Sally had decided to go to Guildford herself. The call came when she was just past Wandsworth. She pulled over, disoriented by shock and grief and a sudden uncertainty about what to do next.
“Somebody… I should go out there. Don’t you think?” Sorry for speaking almost as soon as she’d opened her mouth. Even to her own ears she sounded weak.
“I know what you mean. But you’ll be better off if you keep going,” Anson counselled. “So far they’ve called out fire, police, ambulance, a couple of ammunition technicians from Blackdown and some Guards from Pirbright. As long as they don’t start fighting over who gets to do what, anyone left alive won’t be out of there any sooner for your help. We need those photographs.”
“You’re right. Thanks. OK, expect me to arrive at Guildford Police Station in about half an hour. 6.2 out” Steeling herself, she edged her car out into the traffic again. A truck driver blared his horn at her. Mentally giving him the finger, she concentrated on moving into the overtaking lane. The sooner she reached her destination the better.
*****
The sounds of the explosions were still dinning in his ears, echoed in a cacophony of crashing and creaking that was all around him. The air was full of dust - there was a heavy weight on his chest and he found it hard to breathe. A trickle of particles, plaster and brick, he guessed rained down on his face. He screwed his eyes shut and felt the panic build until it shouted from him.
"Bodie, are you there? Are you alive… Bodie?"
The weight pressing down on him shifted a little. "Guess I must be," it mumbled. "M'ears are ringing."
Doyle laughed a little with relief, regretting it immediately as the dust got to him, sending him into a racking fit of coughing that got worse with every breath. Bodie wriggled around, reaching into his pocket. He pressed a cloth - a handkerchief, Doyle guessed - against Doyle’s cheek.
“Here. Stop the dust getting in.”
Doyle took the handkerchief, unfolded it as best he could and covered his mouth. It helped. Soon, he felt able to speak again.
“What about you?”
“I’m breathing through your jumper,” Bodie mumbled back. Doyle realised that Bodie’s face was, in fact, pressed tight against his chest. It felt good, warm breath of life through the fabric, on his skin. He still didn’t dare open his eyes.
“Jenkins, Williams… they tripped a booby trap.”
“Yeah. Must’ve been a nail bomb. Tremblers set off the rest. Fuckers.” Bodie sounded disgusted.
“They’re dead, aren’t they.”
“It’s likely.”
“Bastards.”
“Yeah.”
They lay there, quietly, for several minutes as the dust settled and the air cleared. Then Bodie shifted again, lifted himself off Doyle’s chest.
“Alright, let’s see where we are.” Then he chuckled. “Look at you. You’re a mess. No, don’t do that,” as Doyle attempted to rub his eyes. “Let me.”
He took the handkerchief from Doyle’s hand and carefully wiped his eyes.
“There.”
“Ta.” Doyle opened his eyes. Everything was blurry. He felt tears well - must have got some dust in there anyway - and then his focus returned. It was gloomy, but enough light seeped in that he could see their surroundings.
They were in a confined space under the solid oak bench. On both sides they were trapped by mounds of brick rubble, wood and corrugated iron. There was just enough room to sit up and turn around. He did so, looking for gaps, points of weakness. There didn’t seem to be any. He shoved experimentally at a ceiling beam, which didn’t budge. Beside him, Bodie tried to push a chunk of brickwork aside to create a larger opening, equally fruitlessly.
Then he heard a voice calling. It was muffled, distant, but it was familiar. Pennington. They yelled back. Soon Doyle heard a scrambling, and Pennington called again, this time from much nearer.
“I must be just about on top of you. Can you tell?”
“Getting warmer, mate.” Bodie called. “Any chance of shifting this pile off us?”
“Not really. There’s too much big stuff. We’ve radioed for help. Who’s down there anyway? Are you alright?”
They both answered ‘yes’, and with the explaining about what had happened and about Jenkins and Williams the bleakness came over them again and they fell quiet.
“One of the bombs must’ve been in that van.” Pennington said at last. “It went up like a box of fireworks.”
“Yeah, well you watch yourself. Could still be some unexploded booby traps around.” Doyle said.
“Thanks.” Pennington said darkly. “’Ello, fire brigade’s arrived. I’d better talk to them. See you both soon.”
“We hope,” Doyle muttered. He felt weary. He leaned back against Bodie, who didn’t object, just squirmed around a little so they were back to back, supporting each other.
“Guess your plan for tonight’s a wash-out,” he said. Strangely, that gave him a great deal of satisfaction.
He felt Bodie shrug. “It doesn’t matter. There’ll be… other times. At least we’re both alive.”
There was something in that, just a whisper as he spoke, that caught Doyle’s attention.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean ‘what do you mean’?” Bodie said irritably.
“Like you weren’t looking forward to it that much anyway.”
“You don’t think I’d prefer sit here in the dusty dark with you?”
“Better than sitting here on your own, isn’t it?”
Bodie didn’t answer immediately and when he did, his voice cracked a little. “Better than the alternative.”
Fuck. “Yeah. Sorry”
Bodie didn’t answer. Instead, he reached back and tapped Doyle lightly on the thigh with the side of his fist. Just a little bounce off the muscle. It made Doyle feel better.
The little light they had was starting to fade. What time was it anyway? He checked his watch (displacement activity he told himself). Three o’clock. Another hour or so and it’d be dark.
It was getting cold. He could hear the wind starting to blow, outside, heralding the snow. There were voices, and a crash of masonry, a crunching of feet on brick. He wrapped his arms around himself and waited.
*****
It took the ATO’s some time to check the wreckage of the van and building for explosives. Doyle felt stiff and his back began to ache. When he complained about it, Bodie shuffled around, rearranged himself in a corner of their shared space so Doyle could turn and stretch his legs out, under the tunnel formed by Bodie’s knees.
They stayed silent until Pennington returned, having taken it on himself to provide a running commentary on the rescuers’ lack of progress. After several minutes of this, Bodie told him, in no uncertain terms, to piss off and not come back until he had some actual news to tell. Doyle added his own pithy thoughts: and the simple act of saying something got him talking again.
“Think about it, Bodie. Whoever did this knew what to do with explosives. They used just the right amount, in the right places, to bring the building down. Who would go to the trouble of doing that?”
“Not your average anarchist on the street. Professional. Must have been.”
“Means they were after Walsh, or whatever his name was. Vyshinsky. Used the bomb as a distraction. Ties up resources even if it doesn’t kill.” Piece by piece, things were making more sense now.
“So where did they go?” Bodie wondered.
“Out of the country, probably.”
“How would they do it? The area’s sealed off; a mouse couldn’t get out without an ID check.”
“Yeah. Same for any unusual air traffic.” Doyle considered. “It’d take time to prime the explosives. Even if they did most of it before the robbery, they had to set up the van afterwards.”
“Four bandits. Five including the driver. Two hostages.”
“They might have split up. What would you do?”
“Get rid of everything except the essentials. Go to ground somewhere until the heat died down.”
Yeah, that’s what Bodie would do. Except that Bodie wouldn’t saddle himself with a hostage, at least not voluntarily. He could survive in the open for weeks; they both could, only Bodie was better at it. They should do that sometime. Not the whole survival bit, but they could take a tent, do some fishing, drive into the village for supplies and beer at the pub. Nice.
Realising he’d been woolgathering, he groaned in disgust.
“What’s up?” Bodie enquired.
“I’m going stir crazy. One minute I was wondering where those bastards might have hidden themselves, the next I was thinking about asking you to go on a camping trip with me.”
“It’s not a bad idea. Except I’d prefer a pub. Did my share of sleeping rough in the army. Come to think of it, I’m still doing it.”
Doyle could barely see Bodie’s face, the light had grown so dim. One side was hidden in darkness, the other faintly illuminated, emphasising pale skin, the plane of his cheek, now showing a slight shadow of stubble, and a single dark, slightly quirky eyebrow. He knew Bodie was an attractive man, but he’d never felt the impact of it as clearly before.
“Couple of nights wouldn’t hurt. We could have a campfire. Fry our catch.” And I’d watch your face like this in the firelight. Then I’d tell you that I was interested, and you wouldn’t turn away, would you? He felt confident, full now of the knowledge of his own feelings, sure in his interpretation of Bodie’s.
Bodie smiled warmly. He seemed about to speak, then they were interrupted by a voice from above.
“It’s Captain Forrester, Surrey Fire Brigade. Sorry to keep you lads waiting, but we’ve been sorting out what needs to be done to clear this pile. Shouldn’t take much longer but there’ll be a fair amount of banging and crashing. We have to pull down the remaining walls first for safety.”
“That’s quite alright, Captain. Don’t worry about us, we’re quite cosy here,” Bodie called back.
Doyle had to stifle a giggle as the captain walked away.
*****
A Sergeant Covey gave Sally the envelope containing the photos. She thanked him; barely civilly because she’d been kept waiting too long and the reports filtering through from the factory site were minimal. Bodie and Doyle were alive, she knew that. The Ordnance Corps had done its work, there were no undetected explosives and they expected that both agents would be rescued shortly.
Good, as far as it went. The loss of Williams and Jenkins was still a harsh blow. They don’t always make it home alive.
“I need to make a phone call to CI5.”
Covey pointed her to a telephone. She dialled the number. Someone put her through to Anson in the control room.
“6.2.”
“Sally.” Anson sounded excited. “I was just about to call you. We think we’ve found the link. A group of Russian women shooters entered just over two weeks ago, on an exhibition tour after the Berlin championships. They’ve been at Bisley Ranges for the past four days. What have you got?”
“Fuzzy photos.” Anson’s exuberance buoyed her spirits. She took the prints out of the envelope. “I’ve seen the tapes. I can check them again if I need to.”
“Good. There are six in the team, four shooters, a manager and a coach. Yelena Levchenkova and Tatiana Gubareva are factory workers, Olga Feklistova and Nina Konstantinova are from the military. Then there’s their coach, Gregori Gorbunov, and their manager, Svetlana Lobkovskaya. Got that?”
“Whoa! Let me get my pen.”
“Sorry, I was joking. I’ve sent 9.1 down with a copy of the file, she should be there soon. The group left Bisley a couple of hours ago, heading for Dover. Kent police will intercept.”
“That’s heartening.” She spread the photographs on the desk. “We didn’t get clear shots of all the robbers, but the one who apparently spoke Russian is fairly distinctive. He’s about six feet tall, solid build. The other three are around five foot eight, maybe nine, average build. No-one mentioned any of them were women. But no-one saw the driver, either.”
“The big guy could be Gorbunov. Feklistova’s the only one of the women who qualifies. She’s five foot eight, very slim figure. The others are shorter and, ah, curvier. We’ll need solid evidence to detain any of them. They’re all on official passports.”
“Diplomatic immunity?”
“That’s not confirmed, so we’re going ahead with the interception. We’ll talk to the Foreign Office if we need to.”
“Understood. I’ll get the police here to copy these photos for 9.1 - photostats won’t be clear enough. I’m going out to the factory now. Tell her to call me when she’s finished.”
“Will do. Get them to send a copy to Maidstone, doesn’t matter how blurry they are. Base over and out.”
Sally turned back to the desk sergeant, relayed her request for the documents, barely waiting for a response before she was out the door and heading for her car. It wasn’t until she was half-way down Epsom Road towards the factory that she realised Anson hadn’t once mentioned speaking to Cowley during their phone call.
It was just past sunset when she arrived at the factory site. Not that there was much sun to be seen; the dark clouds that had only been a vague threat earlier were piling up overhead, a great mass of them.
She had to park on the street because the factory forecourt was choked with emergency vehicles. Leaving the car she noticed that the temperature had dropped markedly and a gusty wind was blowing chill air through to her bones. As she approached, someone in one of the fire trucks turned on a spotlight and a bright light spilled out across the scene. Groups of rescue workers, some in army green, others in firemen’s overalls crawled over a section of rubble close by, while another team on the far side of the building worked to secure a section of roof to a towing lorry crane.
Pennington found her, guided her through the maze of people and vehicles to near the lorry where he introduced her to the fire chief, Captain Forrester, a man with ruddy red skin and a bristling moustache.
“Miss Baker. Won’t be long now. We’ve pulled down the remainder of this end and we’ve got crews working on both sides of the building. I’m afraid there’s been no sign of anyone alive apart from Bodie and Doyle.”
“Thank you, captain. I’m glad to see you’ve got assistance.”
“Yes, the Guards. Good lads.”
There was a shout from the group nearest the lorry. The men fell back, clear of the section they’d just been working on. The winch on the lorry started to wind, pulling the entire section of roofing away from the centre of the pile. At first it resisted the pull, then it began to slide. One of the workers shouted a warning and the lorry driver let the cable pay out a short distance. The roof section slid a little further then stopped. Immediately, the men clambered back onto the pile and began pulling at the brickwork underneath.
Following the captain but declining his help, she climbed onto the rubble, cursing as one of her court shoes caught between a couple of bricks and she felt the heel give way slightly. Damn Cowley and his idea of a proper dress code for female agents! It was fine to be permitted to wear jeans on stake-out or undercover, but on an unanticipated callout a skirt was a bloody nuisance.
She managed to ladder her stockings as well before she reached the group of men, who were working to widen a funnel-shaped opening in the pile. As she reached the lip, one of them, a tall Guardsman, lay down and stretched his arms into the hole.
“Cummon then,” he called. “Oop you get.”
Quickly thereafter, a dishevelled and decidedly dusty Doyle emerged and immediately turned about, reaching back into the opening to assist Bodie to clamber out. It was only when both agents were free that Doyle looked around and saw Sally.
“’Ello, Sal. I wouldn’t recommend this hotel, you know. Rooms are a bit on the small side.”
Bodie joined in. “Definitely a one star establishment, wouldn’t you say?”
“Half that. The mattress was lumpy.”
“Alright you two, we’ve got a job to do.” She grinned nonetheless and would probably have hugged them both if she hadn’t felt so very wobbly standing on the unstable surface. She started to make her way gingerly to solid ground but before she could get there she was picked up between the two of them and carried the rest of the way. They put her down, somewhat soiled by brick dust transferred from their clothes to hers, next to where Pennington stood.
“I can see a dry-cleaning bill in your futures,” she scolded. “Pennington, is there somewhere to get a cup of tea around here? I need to brief you all on what’s been happening.”
There was a tea wagon, so they went over and were each given mugs of hot, strong brew. Sally went through everything that had happened since she last spoke to them. As she did so, she noticed the first flakes of snow falling. They drifted down slowly, settling on shoulders or hair before melting, or disappearing into the steam rising from their mugs.
“We had a bit of time to think,” Bodie said wryly. “We think Vyshinsky might still be in the area. If he’s not in the luggage compartment of a bus and on his way to Dover, that is.”
“Lots of woods near the army bases around here,” added Doyle. “Although I’d bet on him sticking close to Bisley, since they were there for a few days. Plenty of time to suss out a hiding place.”
“Yes, but what help does he have? He could be hidden in a squat in East London by now, for all we know. And how are they going to get him out of the country?”
Sally’s musings were cut short by Captain Forrester, who had jogged over from the bomb site.
“We’ve uncovered the bodies of your agents,” he said. “And others as well.”
She tipped her tea on the ground, thrust the mug at the tea wagon attendant and joined the others in running towards the building. Here, the workers had managed to clear a large swathe in the rubble. She was able to walk unimpeded until she was close to the action. Two knots of rescue workers and police huddled together over several shapes lying on the ground. She started to move closer, but was stopped by a uniformed police constable.
“Sorry, ma’am. There’s nothing you can do for them. It’s a crime scene now. We’ve called CID and the forensic blokes.”
Sally was reaching into her jacket pocket for her ID when she felt Doyle’s hand on her arm.
“He’s right, you know,” he said. Then his voice hardened as he spoke to the policeman. “But we shall require a report. I’ll give you a number to call and you’d better bloody well use it the minute they’re finished here. And you’ll want someone to identify their bodies.”
“We’ll do it,” Bodie said, coming up to stand beside him. “We saw them last.”
The policeman nodded and drew out his notebook for Doyle to write down the CI5 number. Sally, feeling a little annoyed at being sidelined, asked a question.
“Is there anything at all you can tell us about the others?”
“Not much, ma’am. There are four of them, all white males, and they all have gunshot wounds to the head.”
“Do any of them look like the hostages taken in this morning’s robbery? Or the robbers?”
“I couldn’t say, ma’am.” The policeman looked uncomfortable. “It’s possible. You’ll have to talk to CID about that.”
Deciding she’d given the constable enough to worry about she walked away. The others followed.
“I’d better check in,” she decided. Returning to her car, which was now covered with a light dusting of snow, she called base.
Anson had very little to add to Sally’s report. He’d yet to hear from the men he’d sent to assist the Kent police, and he agreed with Sally when she suggested they stay in the area, in case the interception failed to reveal Vyshinsky’s whereabouts. He gave her the name of the commanding officer at Pirbright, the Guard depot, which was very close by Bisley Camp and said that he’d call the depot himself to make sure Sally and her team were provided for.
“Better ask them for some clean clothes,” she said, remembering the dust and dirt that had clung to Bodie and Doyle which was now beyond being brushed off, thanks to the snow. She must look a sight herself, she thought, ruefully, as she signed off.
Bodie, Doyle and Pennington looked at her expectantly as she returned. She gave them the news, and then turned to Pennington.
“You’d better stay here, keep an eye on things.” She nodded in the direction of the building. “Once they’re finished, get back to London with your report. Do you have a car?”
“Jenkins had the keys,” he said, soberly.
“See if you can get them back from CID. Or you could hotwire it, if you have to.”
Pennington agreed that yes, he could do just that.
“Liz should be finished at the stationhouse by now. I’ll pick her up and meet you at Pirbright.”
“Liz - you mean the new girl? 9.1?” Bodie perked up. “Long, golden locks, nice figure…”
Doyle elbowed him in the ribs. Sally saw him give Bodie a look, and wondered about it briefly.
“Yes, that Liz. Hands off, the pair of you.” She knew she sounded like a maiden aunt, but she was too tired to care. What do you expect? You’ve been on the job for twelve hoursshe thought to herself.
Before she left she found Captain Forrester and the lieutenant in charge of the Guards unit and thanked them for their help.
“Don’t worry,” the lieutenant said. “Anything turns up, I’ll make sure you’re informed.”
*****
Sally picked Liz up from Guildford and used the fifteen minutes on the road to Pirbright bringing her up to date. At the camp they were greeted with hot cups of tea and a meal, courtesy of the commanding officer, Colonel James. Afterwards, they called Anson.
Anson told them that the bus had been stopped, and searched (over the strenuous objections of the party), without finding any trace of Vishinsky. They had, however, determined that the man travelling under Godunov’s passport looked only vaguely like the one who had entered the country under that name, a few short weeks ago.
“The Foreign Office is talking to the Soviet Embassy about the team’s status. If the embassy confirms that the documents are legitimate, we’ll have to let them all go. That’s the procedure. But it sounds like you’re right, and Godunov has Vyshinsky squirreled away somewhere near Bisley.”
“It’s a big area. We’re going to need a lot of manpower to search it. And are we sure that Godunov won’t harm Vyshinsky if we get too close?” Sally asked.
“It’s a risk,” Doyle said, looking at Bodie for confirmation. Bodie shook his head.
“If he thinks he still has an escape route, I think he’ll hold off unless he’s cornered. Vyshinsky’s too valuable to their intelligence services to be expendable.”
“Sounds feasible,” Anson said. “All right. I’ll issue a call-out, just to make it official. Is Colonel James with you?”
“Here,” said the colonel. “I can give you a full company of Guards, maybe more.”
“Thank you. We’ll have some Police as well and air force on stand-by. Sally, I’ll leave the local arrangements up to you.”
“I’d like to give the operational lead to Bodie on this one,” she said. “He’s got more experience in this area.”
“Confirmed. Keep me posted.”
Anson signed off and the agents, with Colonel James’ help, started to plan their next move. Due to the snow they decided to hold off the search for Godunov until the following morning. The colonel arranged for road patrols to be sent out overnight and a call to the Surrey police provided reinforcements.
“Right,” Bodie said, finally. “That just about does it. We’d better get some rest.”
“And a shower,” Doyle added.
They were shown to their temporary quarters. Bodie and Doyle shared one four-man room, Sally and Liz an adjoining one. The colonel rustled up some warm clothing from the stores, although when it came to Liz he looked a little doubtful.
“Don’t think we’ve got anything small enough to fit you.”
“It’s alright,” Liz said, blushing slightly. “I haven’t been scrambling about like the others. I’ll be fine.”
Liz was wearing a bright red woollen coat over a cream pullover and brown skirt. She had been very quiet during the discussions, and seemed overwhelmed by everything. Sally remembered her own early days in CI5 and felt some sympathy for the girl. “Try the boots anyway,” she suggested. “They’ll be better if we have to walk cross-country. And a different jacket.”
Liz looked doubtful, but she nodded.
After quick showers they set the alarm for six o’clock in the morning, and tried to get some sleep.
****
Saturday
They were up before dawn and headed out for Bisley camp. Bodie and Doyle were wearing an assortment of army gear, green pants, pullovers and camouflage jackets. Sally had managed to cinch the waist of her pants by cutting an extra notch in the belt, and she’d rolled up the legs a few inches and tucked them into her socks. Two pairs of socks - she’d needed them to pad out the boots. She felt bulky and distinctly unglamorous, but the gear was practical. She wore her own woollen jacket; the one she’d been offered was too large and would have got in the way of her drawing her gun.
None of the gear had fitted Liz. She’d ended up tossing the “sodding” boots in a corner and having a minor crisis of confidence which Sally had practically had to shake her out of. At least she seemed to have collected herself now.
Between them, Bodie and the colonel had organised the police and army forces into lines of ‘beaters’, who would move through the woods surrounding the shooting ranges with the aim of flushing Godunov out of his hiding place. Meanwhile the four agents headed to Bisley camp itself, to start a clubhouse by clubhouse search of the site. It was nerve-racking. There were dozens of buildings, some of them quite large, and a fair number of on-site caravans as well. Each one had to be thoroughly checked.
*****
Bodie kicked the door of the caravan open and ducked back, out of sight. There was no movement inside. Doyle went through the door first, gun at the ready. It was empty. They pulled the door closed and moved on to the next. Along the line of vans, he could see the girls doing the same.
For the most part they had keys to the clubhouses and vans, obtained from the caretaker, but there were a few buildings where they’d had to break in. He’d needed to smash a window to get into the stately London and Middlesex lodge, wincing as did so, imagining the fuss (and letters to Members) that would probably result.
Doyle was in fine form this morning, quick and alert as a whippet, snapping round at the slightest sound, curls bouncing around his face in the slight breeze. A good man, Doyle. Best he’d ever worked with. He’d once wished that the bonds of affection and comradeship they shared could turn into something more, but for now it was enough to be together, to guard Doyle’s life with his own. Although yesterday he’d wondered…
He was interrupted by a squawking from the army radio transmitter he was carrying. It was one of the platoon leaders from the search teams.
“Just seen someone moving through the trees,” the man said. “Heading for the camp exit. He’ll have to cross open ground to get there.”
“Keep tracking him,” Bodie ordered. “Don’t let him out of your sight. Moving to intercept.”
He whistled, and Sally and Liz came over.
“Godunov’s heading for the gates. If we head in a north-westerly direction we should get to him first. Try to keep out of sight. Liz, you’re a bit too conspicuous in that coat. Head for the main clubhouse and wait there.”
The pursuit was on.
*****
Gorbunov was three-quarters of the way to the front gate, carrying Vyshinsky over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. Vyshinsky’s arms and upper torso bounced heavily against Gorbunov’s back. There was simply no way to shoot the fleeing man without risking his prisoner’s life. Gorbunov had either given up trying to shoot his pursuers or he was out of ammunition; he simply ran, with surprising speed, towards the gate.
Sally found it hard to keep pace. Her oversized army boots caught on scattered branches hidden under drifts of snow. Neither Bodie nor Doyle seemed encumbered by the borrowed gear: they ran on, rapidly gaining on Gorbunov. It was Bodie who finally overtook him and brought him down with a solid punch to the side of the head. Gorbunov slumped to the ground, letting go of Vyshinsky, who fell, inert, to the ground beside him. As Sally caught up, Doyle moved to where Vyshinsky lay, leaving Bodie to attend to Gorbunov. Sally knelt down beside Doyle as he checked Vyshinsky’s pulse before raising his head, smiling.
“He’s alive. But we’d better get him indoors, he’s practically frozen.”
“I think not.” A woman’s voice, heavily accented, came from just to Sally’s left. Then a strong arm grasped her around the neck, and the cold metal of a handgun pressed against her temple. “Take them both to the gate. Move it! Or I’ll shoot this woman.”
She realised, in a moment of blinding clarity, that there must have been more than one substitution on the Russian team. The no-nonsense speech and the firm grip said she had to be military trained. There must have been a second replacement on the bus, a look-alike close enough in appearance to fool the agents who checked it out. Which one? The woman was tall, about as tall as Sally herself from the angle of the arm around her neck.
“Don’t be a fool, Olga.” She hazarded a guess, and felt the woman tense. “You won’t get out of Surrey, let alone the country.”
Even as she spoke she realised, with a sinking feeling of dread, what had happened and what would happen if Olga wasn’t stopped. She must have been waiting for Gorbunov by the gate, seen the pursuit and slipped into the trees by the roadside. Better to wait for an opportunity to reverse matters than to take a chance of taking down the three of them in the snow. Once the woman had forced them to take Gorbunov and Walsh to the car, they would be killed. Sally forced herself to relax, waiting for a chance. It came more quickly than she’d dared hope.
Bodie had risen into a half crouch, behind Gorbunov, one hand holding the man down, although he still appeared to be unconscious. Doyle was in front of Vyshinsky, his body acting as a shield. There was a moment of perfect stillness as they sized up their opponent. Then there was a cracking sound behind Sally, Olga shifted, ever so slightly, and Sally acted. She brought her foot down hard on her captor’s instep, ducked and turned in one fluid motion, and grasped Olga’s wrist, forcing her arm upwards. Olga was tough and struggled against her. Then Bodie, blessed Bodie, was by her side, quickly forcing the pistol from Olga’s hand. Sally almost cheered as Liz walked out of the treeline, coatless, gun in hand.
Bodie lifted Gorbunov in a fireman’s carry. Doyle cuffed Olga’s hands behind her back and pushed her forwards, while Sally and Liz helped a groggy Vyshinsky to his feet and helped him as he stumbled slowly towards the clubhouse.
*****
A couple of hours later, Sally and Liz were on their way back to Guildford Police Station to pick up Liz’s car. The radio beeped.
“6.2.”
“Anson. I gather the Old Man is pleased with you.”
“He seemed pretty happy, considering he didn’t have his finger in the pie the whole time.” Then she realised something. “What about you? You were in charge while we were running about the countryside.”
“Ah, well. I’m on suspension. It’s only due to Julie’s good graces that I can call you now.”
“What? Why would he do that?”
“I almost caused an international incident by detaining persons with diplomatic passports without Cowley’s knowledge,” Anson replied.
She almost choked. “He can’t mean it! How long before you’re allowed back?”
Anson sounded unruffled. “About as long as it takes the Foreign Office to smooth the Soviet feathers. Which won’t be long at all, considering the embassy recognised the passports of everyone we detained, including the false ones. That leaves Gorbunov and Feklistova out in the cold and in our hands. Game, set and match.”
“No wonder you sound happy. I’ll buy you a drink when you get your wings back.” You poor bastard, she thought, Cowley must have called an ‘Operation Susie’ as soon as he realised who the players were. No wonder you didn’t say anything.
“I thought I could buy you a drink tonight. Any chance of that?”
Sally glanced at Liz. “I planned on collapsing into a nice warm bath after Liz and I finish our reports. But since you’re unemployed for the moment, if you don’t mind doing some shopping I’ll cook dinner for the three of us. I’ll pay you for the food if you pay for the drinks. Deal?”
If Anson was at all disconcerted by this demotion to shopping assistant, he didn’t let on. She listed the ingredients for coq au vin (chicken, lots of red wine, mushrooms, bacon, onions and seasonings). Anson signed off, after promising that he’d arrive at four with the supplies.
“Thanks for the invitation. Are you sure I won’t be a third wheel?” Liz asked nervously.
“No, not at all. Anson’s too confident by half. They all are. Don’t let them steam-roller you, Liz. You did well: there’s no doubt that you belong on the A Squad.”
They were at the police station. Sally stopped the car to let Liz out. As she said her goodbyes, Sally left her with one final remark.
“Besides, one thing I’ve learnt in CI5 is that it’s important to keep your options open.”
*****
Epilogue: Sunday, a pine forest, mid-January
Pine cones crackled and popped in the campfire. The night was still. A solid cloud cover held the day’s meagre warmth close to the earth. There would be no frost tonight. They were in the lee of a hill, snug by a rocky overhang that gave protection from the elements. After a day spent rambling along wintry forest paths they’d decided to rest for a while before returning to the warmth of their pub.
Footsteps muffled by the carpet of pine needles he walked on, Bodie went towards the fire, carrying two cans of lager. Doyle took the offered one, set it on the ground behind him. He reached up, took Bodie by the hand and drew him down.
Bodie sat on the log beside him and Doyle wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Then Bodie bent his head down to Doyle’s chest and listened to the beating of his heart.
The End.
Title: Roots to Branches
Author: Kiwisue
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: After some more tweaking!
Author's Name for Archiving: KWS
Disclaimer: Not mine, I just take them out to play now and then.
Notes: Thanks to helenraven for a fab Britcheck and many helpful suggestions at the 11th hour. As I didn’t have time to implement them all, and I ended up writing another four hundred or so words that she hasn’t seen, please remember that any mistakes are mine alone. I’m pretty happy with it as it stands, but I’ll probably tweak some more before archiving.