CHAPTER SEVEN
THE RUSSIAN INTERVENTION
It seemed to Professor Jack Barclay that ‘good days’ were almost a thing of the past, the way work was going at the moment. In fact, he couldn’t remember when he had last had a good day, by any definition. He and his small team suddenly appeared to be getting nowhere, and they had concluded that they really needed to go back over some of their earlier work in an effort to find out where they were going wrong. They had decided to have a brain storming session.
It had started at eight o’clock that morning, and they had really made very little progress by the time Barclay’s undergraduate assistant had appeared with sandwiches and hot coffee for lunch. Except that it wasn’t lunch. It was getting on for dinner time, but they hadn’t noticed. In spite of the time, they decided to work on for a bit longer in an effort to complete their revision in a single working day.
It probably wasn’t the sandwiches, and they couldn’t agree whether or not it was the coffee, although that was the more likely, but quite suddenly afterwards, a piece of inspired mathematics by Barclay suggested that they may, after all, be on the verge of their first step forward for some time. And the more they looked at it, the more they studied it, the more they refined it, the more excited they became that this could be the solution they had all been looking for. There was much more to be done, not just to test the theory again and again to ensure that there were no flaws in it, but then to transfer it into the possibly more difficult practical world of the laboratory.
They were all nearing exhaustion as they parted that night, none more so than Barclay, but he did actually feel that perhaps today hadn’t been such a bad day after all. Not a good day, but, if they really had made some progress, perhaps not as bad as most had been recently. Leading his team through this morass of theoretical quantum mechanics for a glimpse of the future was stressful enough, but he had the added pressure being put upon him by those trying to persuade him to work for them instead of Britain’s Atomic Energy Authority. Last week, it had been the vastly rich Gulf States, at last officially offering him undreamed of resources to continue his work in an organisation of his own, which they would help him to establish and finance with seemingly unlimited funds. And there was no denying the fact that he could make quicker progress with greater financial backing, even in the UK if only the Government would allocate more money for research projects like his. He knew that his was not the only work to suffer because of public expenditure constraints, but that did not make it any easier to resist the temptation of moving to the Middle East with its untold riches.
And then, only yesterday, he had received yet another call from his friend and close associate at the Lawrence Livermore University in California, pleading again for him to work jointly with them in the interests of progressing more speedily for their mutual benefit. He knew it would make sense to do so, and certainly he would find California more congenial than the Arab world. We were, after all, allies who enjoyed a special relationship, so what would be the harm? And yet, he felt it would not be the right thing to do. But he could well do without these additional pressures, especially now. He was so busy, indeed, that he had been almost curt to his long-time friend in America. He would simply have to find time to ring him back. Not tonight though. He was far too tired, and yet at the same time eager to press on after the apparent turning point he and his team had possibly reached today. He was still mulling over in his mind today’s events as he left the laboratory, and he was sure he would never sleep tonight.
Certainly, he never noticed the two men in an old VW Beetle who followed him as he left the car park and began his short drive home.
Jack Barclay was right about not sleeping, and in the end he gave up trying. He convinced himself that the rest would be enough to refresh him for tomorrow’s work. He tried hard, as he lay in the dark, to order the various pressures he was facing, and to prioritise what he should do. He and his team of fellow nuclear physicists were working towards achieving the apparently impossible goal of destroying matter to create energy. It was Einstein who first postulated the theory, with his famous E=MC2 equation. If only it was as simple to achieve as that theory suggested. And yet, it had been done. Not just in his own laboratory at Culham, but in France and America. The great problem was to develop a system that could control and sustain the fusion process so as to offer a new source of usable energy. Short bursts of nuclear fusion were regularly being achieved, but were not enough. Success by him and his team would put Britain firmly at the forefront of the research designed to re-create the power of the sun and the stars, using the same processes. In the sun, it is gravity that fuses hydrogen atoms together to generate helium, and produce pure energy. In his laboratory, Barclay used the power of magnetism to control the hydrogen plasma, while his new venture at the Rutherford laboratory would use the power of laser beams to focus energy onto the hydrogen fuel. And this was where he had been struggling in recent weeks.
He knew that similar work was taking place in America, where his fellow scientists at the National Ignition Facility were confident of achieving a limited form of controllable nuclear fusion using the same laser technology. But his work was ahead of theirs. Nevertheless, it made their pleas for him to join them very tempting, not least because they enjoyed more generous research funding. Perhaps he should visit the facility again soon, to see how they were progressing, and to swap notes. On the other hand, scientists in France were developing and constructing a new fusion project using magnetic fields, as they were used at Culham, to create the conditions for fusion. Barclay, however, was convinced that future progress rested with the use of ever more powerful lasers. He was leading the development of those powerful energy pulses, and working to determine how many laser arrays would be required to generate sufficient energy within the fusion chamber. He knew that in America, they had estimated that 192 would be sufficient, but Barclay believed that, with a modified fusion chamber design, the same effect could be achieved with fewer lasers. Today his team had, for the first time in weeks, made real progress in solving that particular problem.
Jack Barclay really could do without the added pressure coming from the Arab states to help them develop this alternative energy source. He had known for some time that he was likely to be approached, but the formal offer had put things on to a rather different footing. He would certainly need to inform his Director, and although he had no real interest in accepting the offer, he knew that outright and immediate rejection might not be the best thing to do from a diplomatic point of view. With any luck, he would be able to shuffle off responsibility for turning down the proposal onto the politicians for them to handle. He would brief his Director tomorrow, if he could find the time.
Time, though, was in short supply. Apart from the pressures of his own research, both at Culham and now at Harwell, he wanted to visit colleagues at the National Ignition Facility in California again soon, and the Director of the International Thermonuclear Experimental Reactor at Cadarache, in France had invited him to pay yet another visit. He could hardly refuse, since their work on electro-magnetic plasma containment was similar to that being undertaken in his own laboratory at Culham. He also had a long-standing invitation to visit the CERN Large Hadron Collider facility in Switzerland, which was also being used to destroy particles at enormous temperatures and pressures, although not to create fusion but rather to discover the conditions which existed immediately after the big bang. Barclay had been there before, more than once, and very much wanted to accept this invitation, although he was not so sure he wanted to present yet another paper about his work at the same time. He would say ‘no’ to that, not least because he was already behind in preparing his paper for the Royal Society. But the work at CERN fascinated him, and he often wondered if there could be some direct correlation between his work and that being done in Switzerland.
He also needed to clear his London flat, having decided he could no longer justify hanging on to it – he simply never had the time these days to get there for even a short break. He was glad he had offered it to his brother, but he, of course, was something else to worry about.
Dawn was breaking when Barclay finally gave up any thoughts of a decent sleep, and decided instead to make himself a good breakfast. He was hungry as well as tired. He immediately realised that it was some days since he had done any shopping. There was no breakfast. Instead, he went to the laboratory early, knowing that the canteen would be open before too long.
Breakfast was also on the mind of Op. Fusion Team ‘Foxtrot’ - the two men on a motorbike who followed him at a discrete distance.
***
From his desk in the Cabinet Office, Sir Robin Algar got hold of ‘S’ on the red phone to ask about the Barclay operation.
“How are things going?” he asked.
“No problems,” came the reply. “Except that the man works extraordinary hours, and my chaps are finding it very tiring keeping tabs on him. But we seem to be the only people taking an interest at the moment.”
“That could be about to change, which is why I’m ringing. Barclay has made something of a breakthrough in recent days, and has also had a formal bid from the United Arab Emirates in Abu Dhabi, which plenty of people now know about. We are dealing with their request on a diplomatic level, although we haven’t yet quite decided how to handle it. But we’ll probably get him to pay a visit soon to discuss it, just to play for time. The other thing is that he’s going to the States next week, to see the people out there who want him to work for them.”
“Lawrence Livermore University, is that?”
“Correct.”
“I think I’ll pre-position a couple of teams out there, so that we’re ahead of the man. Let me know about Abu Dhabi, and I’ll do the same if there’s time.”
“Do that.”
“I suppose the Russians know about this?”
“Bound to by now.”
“I’ll alert my teams to be on the lookout for strangers. Do we know who’s running our newly turned double from the KGB – or FSB as it now is?”
“I’ll have a word, and see if we can pick anything up from that source.”
“That would be useful.”
Algar hung up.
Clayton buzzed Barbara, to get Newell and Marsden in for a chat as soon as possible.
“This is beginning to look interesting,” said Clayton after he had briefed them.
“We always thought it would,” replied Newell. “But I’ll need reinforcements if I’m to deploy teams to California and Abu Dhabi at the same time. I can’t afford to send everyone away from this side of things.”
“Agreed,” said ‘S’.
Barbara knocked on the door.
“Sir Robin on the red phone again,” she announced.
“Now what?” mumbled Clayton, as he took the call.
“I thought you should know immediately,” announced Algar, “that the Russians have been on to your predecessor, Alan Jarvis.”
“What the hell are they up to?” exclaimed Clayton.
“Intelligence from our double, that’s all, that one of their agents has made contact with him. No idea why, at this stage.”
“Perhaps they’re trying to get at us, through Jarvis.”
“Could be. We’re getting taps on his phones, email, and all that as soon as possible, so we may soon know more.”
“We need to keep a watch on the man,” said Clayton.
“Get someone there as quickly as possible,” demanded Algar.
“One small problem,” said ‘S’, “is that he knows all my people. He’s bound to spot anyone from here taking an interest.”
“Damn! That hadn’t occurred to me.”
“I’ll have to get someone new on the job, but that could take a bit of time. We’ll do what we can meanwhile, but we’ll have to be hellish careful. If he gets the slightest hint that we’re looking at him, anything could happen.”
“We could try someone from Special Branch, perhaps.”
“I’d rather keep this to myself if we can. But I’ll let you know if we can’t.”
“I must leave that to you,” said Algar. “But we do need to know what the Russians are up to as soon as possible.”
“You may hear first, once you’ve got the phone taps in place.”
“I’ll let you know.”
Clayton briefed the two men still in his office.
“That’s not good news,” said Newell.
“I never did trust that man Jarvis,” volunteered Marsden.
“Let’s try to think this through,” suggested Clayton. “The Russians obviously contacted Jarvis because he used to be here, rather than because of where he is now. He hasn’t been in his new job long enough to be of any use to them yet. They probably know he left under a cloud and has a chip on shoulder, so they may think they could use him to do something for them and get revenge on us at the same time. But what?”
“Maybe it’s one of our targets they’re after.”
“Barclay!” they all said at once.
“Of course – Barclay. They must know about the Abu Dhabi and American interest in the man.”
“And if they know he’s planning another trip to California, they may suspect that he’s going to work for them,” suggested Marsden.
“Whatever they suspect, they will want the man out of the way.”
“Using Jarvis? Surely not!” said Newell.
“We don’t actually know yet why they approached Jarvis. We’re only guessing that it has something to do with Barclay, and we certainly don’t know how Jarvis reacted,” Clayton reminded them. “But we can’t afford to ignore the possibility that it is related to our man, so we must plan accordingly.”
“We need to deploy someone to keep an eye on Jarvis immediately. Trouble is, he knows all our people, so we need someone new.”
“I’ll get a couple of reserves in for the time being,” suggested Marsden. “Aunty can get one of his make-up artist friends to work on them a bit – different hair colour, spectacles and so on, so they might stand a chance until we get someone he doesn’t know. They will know Jarvis, but he might not recognise them.”
“Give it a try,” said Clayton. “I’ll try to get a new man in quickly, but if I can’t, we may need to fall back on Special Branch for one of their top men. Give it some thought if you will, Clive, since that’s where you’re from.”
The meeting broke up, and Bill Clayton buzzed for Barbara.
“Something wrong?” she asked, seeing his worried expression.
“Could be very wrong. Your old boss Alan Jarvis has been contacted by a KGB man working over here.”
“Whatever for?”
“That’s what we have to find out. But we need to keep a watch on the man now, and we need someone to do it who he doesn’t know. Try to get hold of General Pearson-Jones for me. He’s at the Ministry of Defence, so use the red phone. He may just know someone.”
He did, of course.
Head of Section 11 briefly explained his problem, and why he needed someone quickly who Jarvis didn’t know.
The General whistled quietly and was silent for a moment.
“You could be in deep shit old man, d’you know that?”
“I know. Any ideas where I might find a new recruit in double quick time?”
Silence again.
“Since it’s you, Bill, I’ll make a supreme sacrifice. You can have my best chap here. He’s due a move soon, but you can borrow him on secondment for as long as you need.”
“Tell me about him.”
“Special Services, Staff Sergeant, tough as old boots and more secure than the Bank of England’s vault. No family ties, happy to work all hours, and itching to get back into the field. I think he’s just the man you want.”
“Sounds excellent. When can I have him?”
“I’ll tell him about you straight away – he’s already aware of Section 11 – and he can be with you later this afternoon. I’ll send his personal record file over by messenger immediately, and send him over on the bus a bit later.”
“Why can’t he bring his Service record with him?”
“Because he’d read the bloody thing, that’s why! He’s like that.”
“What’s his name, by the way?”
“Miller. ‘Dusty’ Miller. Your good lady wife Catherine is bound to know him; they were in Iraq at about the same time.”
“Thanks, PJ.”
“Don’t mention it. And good luck – you’re probably going to need it.”
Clayton called in his P.A., Marsden and Newell.
“There’s going to be a new man in the Section,” he told them, “arriving later this afternoon. Staff Sergeant ‘Dusty’ Miller of the Int. Corps, currently serving in the Special Forces, on posting to MOD and coming over here on loan for as long as we need him. His job will be to keep an eye on Jarvis, if I decide he’s the right man for it. Make sure Mr. Lawrence and the others in building security are warned to expect him. He will have his military I.D. card with him, and he’s to be shown straight up here to my office. Warn the section heads that he will be around, and will need briefing as a matter of urgency. Tell Gladys, too. I expect she’ll find some forms for him to fill in! Barbara, I shall want to show him photos and videos of Jarvis, so see what you can find in a hurry. And I’d like to see Jarvis’s file again, while you’re about it. Miller’s Army Staff Record folder will be arriving by messenger – make sure I get it immediately. With any luck, we should be able to deploy him late tomorrow or the day after.”
“I’ve got two chaps on their way in who can cover the job until Miller’s up to speed,” said Marsden. “They’ll need photos of Jarvis, too,” he said, turning to Barbara.
“Be careful what vehicle we give them,” said Clayton. “Remember that Jarvis will be as familiar with our fleet as he is with our people.”
“I’ve already got two cars organised, which I’m borrowing from a second hand dealer I know. Nothing fast or very posh, but they will work.”
“Make sure the Tech Support chaps get communications kit organised for our new man, and find him a password and call-sign. Any problems let me know. There’s a lot to do, so get cracking.”
***
Miller’s file arrived less than an hour after Clayton had phoned the General. It made interesting reading, and the more he thumbed through it, the more ‘S’ became convinced that Miller was exactly what they were looking for. The only adverse comments were about his occasional tendency towards insubordination – one reporting officer had described him as ‘cheeky’. Clayton could handle that. It was almost certain, too, that Catherine would have come across him during their time with the SAS in Iraq. The dates were about the same. Clayton rang Catherine at home.
He showed Miller’s photograph on his file to Barbara.
“That’s the chap we are expecting,” he said. “Make sure you’re told when he enters the building, and show him straight in to my office. I’ll introduce him to everyone else after we’ve had a little chat.”
It was quite a bit later when Miller arrived. Barbara met him upstairs, and escorted him through the door into ‘Ajax Recruitment.’
“No vacancies, eh?” said Miller, seeing the notice pinned to the door. “What am I doing here then?”
“You’ll soon find out.” They got to the door marked ‘S’. “Go straight in,” she said.
Miller knocked politely on the open door, and went straight in. Clayton had his back to the door, and was gazing out of the window.
“Come in, Miller.”
Miller hesitated. He was already in. “Thank you Colonel,” he said, and went up to the desk.
“Shut the door, Miller.”
The man retraced his steps, shut the door, went up to the desk again and sat down on the chair in front of it.
“Sit down, Miller,” said Clayton, still gazing out of the window.
Miller stood up, said ‘Thank you Colonel’ again, and sat down. This wasn’t going quite the way ‘Dusty’ Miller had hoped. He noticed his personal record file among the clutter of other papers on the desk in front of him, but it was closed. Not that he could read upside-down, anyway.
Barbara knocked and put her head round the door.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Yes please,” replied Clayton. “Sergeant Miller has his black with one sugar.”
“Does it say that on my staff file, Colonel?” asked Miller.
Clayton turned round to face the man who he had been watching in the reflection on the window.
“No it doesn’t, Miller. Sergeant Catherine Wilson told me. You probably remember her better as ‘The Cat’, from your days in Iraq.”
“Of course I remember her. A brave and tough kid, she was. Does she work here, too?”
“No. She’s was my Chief Clerk once.”
“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Miller. “Small world, innit!”
“Very. She’s left the Army now, and we’re married.”
“Well I’m damned! You certainly picked a good ‘un there, Colonel, if I may say so.”
“She remembers you, Miller.” He picked up Miller’s staff file. “This only tells half of it,” he said, waving it towards the man.
Unusually, Miller was lost for words. He certainly had not been expecting this, and was hurriedly trying to remember what else Catherine Wilson, as was, could have said about him.
Clayton grinned at the man, and sat down behind his desk. “Welcome aboard,” he said. “The Cat is looking forward to meeting you again.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” replied Miller, much relieved.
“I gather that you led the party that went out into the desert looking for her.”
“That’s right, Colonel. We got word that she had escaped, and knew she would try to make her way back to base. Frankly, we had given up hope of ever finding her or ever seeing her again, but eventually she got home first, before we found her. I never cease to be amazed how she survived, after what they’d done to her, let alone make her way back. As I said, brave and tough.”
Clayton nodded. “I’m a lucky man.”
“You weren’t out there too, were you Colonel?”
“No. We met afterwards, in Northern Ireland.”
“I know about what you did out there,” said Miller. “Rule 1 – ‘always find out what you’re getting into before you get into it’. I looked you up before I left the office.”
“Did you now? Well, now we know a bit about one another, let’s get down to the business of the day. If I assess that you’re the sort of chap I’m looking for, you’ll be out in the field again, if you can call London that, and won’t see much of the inside of this place at all.”
“That’s good,” replied Miller. “I was getting bored in MOD.”
“You won’t get bored on this job, if it develops the way I think it will. And it could be quite dangerous.”
“Even better.”
“You’ll be operating on your own, and the hours will be long and sometimes tedious. You’ll be on the tail of a man who works pretty normal office hours, but you’ll be on him out of hours as well. All hours, in fact. I want to know what he does, where he goes and especially who he meets. There are phone taps and all the rest of it in place, but you will be the guy on the ground.”
“Why me, Colonel?”
“Because he doesn’t know you, that’s why. And please don’t call me ‘Colonel’. There’s no need in this organisation”
“Who are we talking about then?”
“The chap who used to sit here. The chap who, until I took over, was Head of Section 11. He was effectively sacked, and has a chip on his shoulder and a grudge against us.”
“So what?”
“So the Russians have been in touch with him, that’s what. We think they want to use him to do a job for them, which will also let him get his own back at the same time.”
“What sort of thing.”
“We’re only guessing at the moment, but we can’t afford to be proved right when it’s too late.” Clayton briefed Miller about the Barclay case, Op Fusion, and Alan Jarvis. “Your job will be to stick to Jarvis like glue, report everything he does, and watch everyone he meets.”
“Sounds right up my street, Colonel.”
“Good. Your briefing will take a day or so, depending on how bright you are, and you’ll be kitted out with all the latest communications gear there is. Your mobile phone, for example, will be linked to a secure satellite and fitted out with a high resolution camera – something like ten mega pixels, I think – with a side view finder so that you can talk on the phone quite normally and still take pictures of things ahead of you. You’ll have a Browning side arm for personal protection, but you can use it at will against any threat if you have to.”
“I’d prefer a Smith and Wesson,” he said.
“Browning. Standard issue.”
“Very good, Colonel. But I’m better with a Smith and Wesson.”
“Browning, and only then if I’m told you’re good enough to be trusted with one.”
“I’m good enough.”
“We’ll soon see,” replied Clayton. “Let me introduce you to Commander Marsden, who’s in charge of operations, and my Deputy. He’s ex-Special Boat Service, so you will have something in common.”
Nick had been leaning for sometime against the door he had quietly opened.
“He will show you around, get you kitted out and put you through your paces. You’ll also be given a very detailed briefing. When the Commander thinks you’re ready, we’ll meet again and you’ll either be sent out on the road on your own, or back to General Pearson-Jones’s outfit.”
“I’ll be staying with you,” said Miller, finishing off his now-cold coffee. “Tell your Barbara she makes good coffee, and tell Gladys I’m not signing any of her forms until I know I’m staying, and tell your Petty Officer in the armoury – ‘Bottom’ I think you call him, - that a tenner says I’m a better shot than he is. Even with a Browning.”
“How do you know about these people?” asked Nick.
Miller grinned.
“Let’s just call it research,” he replied, “before I left MOD. Rule 2 – ‘find out who you’ll be working with.’
As he left with Marsden, Miller turned and said, “If I can’t have a Smith and Wesson, can I use one of your BMW bikes? I rather fancy one of those.”
“No” said Clayton. “You’ll get a bus pass from Gladys if you’re lucky. And only then if you sign one of her forms.”
“Thank you, Colonel.”
“Stop calling me that.”
***
Departmental heads met in ‘S’s office late the next day.
“Where’s Miller now?” asked ‘S’.
“Next door, drinking coffee with Barbara.”
“How’s he got on, then,” asked Clayton.
“First class, I’d say,” reported Marsden. “Your new Doc Perkins put him through his paces, mentally and physically, and says he’s still very fit – almost combat ready, in fact – and mentally very stable. He seems to have soaked up his briefing like blotting paper, too.
“Since he’ll be on his own, we gave him a rogues gallery test,” said Newell, “and he picked out Jarvis first time every time, blurred photos, in the dark, everything.”
“He slept on the premises last night,” said Marsden, “and we woke him several times for snap tests, and he was as sharp as a needle immediately. Doc Perkins supervised, and was very impressed.”
“How about your side?” Clayton asked the Petty Officer.
“No problems with weapons at all. Stripped everything down and got it back together in double quick time, even in the dark. He’s a good shot, too. Dead centre almost every time, even with moving targets. Nearly as good as me, in fact.”
“That’s exactly what he said about you, as a matter of interest!” said Newell.
“How about driving, Nick?”
“Good pursuit driver; skilled at evasion; seems to have an excellent sense of direction and spatial awareness, so navigation is OK, and he seems safe and confident with almost everything we’ve got.”
“How about personal skills?”
“Got on well with everybody, although he did tell Gladys she was breaking the law by smoking at work. She soon sorted that out, as always, and gave him an extra form to fill in – something about third party motor insurance. Now he’s next door chatting up Barbara.”
“Do we take him on then, bearing in mind this is a special mission we want him for?” asked Clayton.
They all nodded enthusiastically.
“I think we should try to keep him on afterwards, too,” said Marsden.
“If he survives. OK, gentlemen, thank you for that. Send him in on your way out.”
Clayton stood as Miller arrived, and shook hands. “You’ve just got yourself a new job, Miller. Sit down while I give you a final briefing, then you can visit Gladys to sign for your kit, and hit the road.”
“I’m not sure about your Gladys, Colonel,” he said.
“She holds this organisation together,” responded Clayton.
“Mostly with bent paperclips and red tape, I should thin