CHAPTER FIFTEEN
NEW FRIENDS, OLD ENEMIES
Retired Air Commodore Mark Perkins was a frequent visitor to Buscot Park now that he had been given the responsibility for overseeing the transformation of Professor Jack Barclay into Dr. Roger Lloyd. The skin graft over Barclay’s scar was healing quickly after his surgery in Harley Street, and it seemed almost certain that the scar would be invisible to all but the closest scrutiny in the future.
Dr. Roger Lloyd, as he was now known, was making good progress in other aspects of his makeover, too. He certainly seemed happy with the way things were going, and had thrown himself into the task with great enthusiasm, not least because he was still alive, and wanted to stay that way. He was also quite enjoying the break from the recent pressures he had been suffering, and certainly regarded his stay at Buscot as something of a holiday. He had comfortable accommodation, good food, and excellent tutors, all in a delightful rural setting.
Apart from Doc Perkins, he had several other visitors as well, and was always particularly pleased to see Clayton, who he regarded as something of a saviour. He had immediately got on well with Miller, too, and on their first meeting they quickly struck up a firm friendship. Lloyd had been surprised when he learned that Miller had been to Buscot himself, since it had never occurred to him to wonder what else went on at the discreet, if not secret, government establishment. He had been intrigued to learn of the vastly different experience that Miller had undergone at Buscot, in another part of that rural ‘safe house’, and they frequently went on long walks together in the extensive grounds of the house.
Miller himself found it therapeutic to discuss his stay there and the rigours of the course he had attended, while Lloyd needed the exercise, to practice walking in his built up shoes, and to get used to his walking stick. One shoe was slightly more built up than the other, and although neither of them added much to his height, they were enough to make a difference to his appearance and to give him a slight limp. At first, the shoes gave him cramp, but he had got over that now. Although he was getting used to his slightly ungainly gait, he secretly wondered if he would ever be brave enough to run for a bus. But he had quite quickly got used to the shoes, and a cobbler, who seemed to have appeared from nowhere, was now busy making him several pairs in different styles. He had even turned up one day with a pair of special Wellington boots, and some carpet slippers. He didn’t think he would ever wear the trainers, but you never know.
Lloyd was now starting to grow a decent set of whiskers, which was quickly beginning to look rather better than just a bit of stubble. There was already enough for the hairdresser to start grooming it into something quite smart, including a goatee beard. Roger Lloyd quite liked his new look. His hair had been tidied up a bit too, and the parting shifted to the other side. It was a nice grey, and he was having it shorter than before. In truth, he hadn’t often had time to get it cut on a regular basis at all recently, but the barber who came in to see Lloyd from time to time was taking infinite care to ensure that he no longer looked like the old Professor Barclay. It had been decided that there was probably no need to flare his nostrils or build up his cheek bones after all. His spectacles were sufficient to give his nose a new look, and the beard took care of the rest.
Buscot Park was owned and run by the National Trust, and although still the home of Lord Faringdon and his family, the grounds and parts of the house were occasionally opened to the public. Dr. Lloyd was therefore getting used to meeting people, none of whom ever gave him a second glance except to wish him ‘good-day’ as they passed. After a while, he went out of his way to get into conversation with visitors, rather than avoid them as he had in his early days there. This was doing his confidence a power of good, although he had to admit that on his first real outing, to Burford, he felt as if he was in a goldfish bowl, with everyone looking at him. Not that anybody was, of course. But he felt very self-conscious, nevertheless. It was quite a nerve-wracking experience, going into a shop for the first time with his stick and glasses. But he easily bought a bottle of sherry from the off-licence to have in his room at Buscot, and, a bit further down the main street, a packet of nuts and some crisps from the small supermarket to go with his evening aperitif. His confidence was growing all the time.
It was immediately after this outing that the police found his brother, Roger Barclay, in the Battersea flat where he had lain for over three weeks.
Clayton and Miller both went immediately to Buscot, by helicopter, to break the news to Lloyd.
“We now come to a crucial part of this whole exercise,” said Clayton. “It will mean a difficult few days for you, Roger, but we have to announce your death later today.”
“What will you say?”
“Something to the effect that a world-famous nuclear physicist has been found murdered in his London flat. They may have noticed that your lecture to the Royal Society was cancelled, but we have to make quite sure that the Russians know that their mission was a success, so as to ensure your future safety. Once that’s been established, you will be free to start your new life.”
“And when shall I read my own obituary?” Lloyd almost joked.
“We shall have to make the announcement tonight – or rather, the police will, in time for the late news bulletins and tomorrow’s papers.” replied Clayton. “In a day or so, we shall have to persuade the Police to call off their investigation, since we know who did it. It will then be necessary for you to come forward as Professor Jack Barclay’s cousin – we’ll tell you when, if we may – for formal identification. If there is any family likeness in spite of your ‘new look’, it won’t matter as you are supposed to be related. After that, we shall arrange a coroner’s inquest. That will probably be held at the Westminster Coroner’s Court in Horseferry Road, at the top end of Marsham Street, near Victoria. You may need to attend, but hopefully not. We shall be able to brief the coroner privately before the hearing, so I would expect him to bring in a verdict of unlawful killing by a person or persons unknown. With any luck, he may also agree to hold the inquest ‘in camera’. Once those formalities have been completed, the body can be released to you and there can be an immediate funeral, which again we can help you to arrange if you wish.”
“I hope it all turns out as easy as you make it sound,” said Roger Lloyd.
“It will be easy,” said Clayton, reassuringly, “except that you have to remember that you will be identifying yourself, attending your own inquest if you do need to go, and then going to your own funeral. You must, by then, have completely taken on the identity of Dr. Roger Lloyd.”
“I honestly think I have, already. I feel quite happy with my new ‘self’ now.”
“There is one other thing we need to do before we formally announce your death, and that is to tell a chosen few that you are, in fact, alive and well. We have been through your list and agree to everyone on it except your friend at the Lawrence Livermore University in California. I’m afraid he must not be told, otherwise your cover could well be blown.”
“Why?”
“Let me just remind you that the last time you were at the University, you had two KGB agents for company. I’m not saying your friend was responsible, but somebody there told them, and we have been unable to positively establish his trustworthiness with any absolute degree of certainty. The Americans have helped, but there remains an element of doubt, so we must err on the side of caution. It’s in your own interest that we do so, of course.”
“So be it then.”
“We are arranging for all the others to be briefed personally later this afternoon.”
“What about the two colleagues who I hope to be working with overseas?”
“They will be told later today as well. One of our team has been specially briefed, and is even now flying out to meet them.”
***
It had taken some days for the news of Dmitry Makienko’s return to filter through the system to the Cabinet Office, and then Bill Clayton.
Sir Robin Algar rang Clayton to tell him.
“What the hell’s he doing back here?” said Clayton. “He’s only been away a week or two!”
“Odd, isn’t it,” replied Algar. “Even odder, is the fact that he’s gone to the Trade Delegation offices at the Consulate in Highgate, and not to the Embassy in Kensington.”
“How do you explain that?”
“I can’t. My only conclusion is that he might think he will be less conspicuous there than in the Embassy, but don’t ask me why he needs to be. The fact is that he was not expelled by the UK Government, or designated a prohibited immigrant, so there was no way of preventing him from returning. And they haven’t claimed diplomatic status for him again, either, probably because they know it would have been refused.”
“But he’s one of their top FSB men. They don’t usually hide them away.”
“True, but there are others in Highgate. It’s a good front for them, especially if they are involved in industrial espionage.”
“That’s not his trade,” said Clayton.
“I understand from MI5’s Moscow station that he was given a bit of a bollocking when he got back, and sent for some pretty intensive re-training, probably more as a punishment than as a necessity.”
“But that doesn’t explain why he was sent back here so quickly. Why here, and not some other place?”
“They’re trying to check, and our man here also has his ear to the ground for us. I’ve asked Wilfred Forsyth to have a word with the Ambassador, to express our displeasure. I doubt whether we shall learn anything, though.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“How’s this for a theory, then,” said ‘S’. “If you ask me, Makienko’s back here because either he or his people in Moscow don’t believe Barclay is dead. He’s been sent back to check, and if he finds that the Professor is still alive and well, to finish the job he started.”
There was another pause.
“You could just be right, y’know.”
“I’ll have a bit of a brainstorming here, and put Dusty Miller back on to Dr. Roger Lloyd, I think. Just to be on the safe side.”
“That’s probably sensible.”
“Can you have a word with ‘M’, and get him to arrange for his people to keep an eye on Makienko for us?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll have people at the inquest tomorrow as well, just to see who turns up. And in force at the cremation on Thursday.”
“If Makienko is at either event, then at least we’ll know why he’s back.”
“Yes. But then what do we do? We can’t shield Lloyd for the rest of his life.”
“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, if we do,” said the Cabinet Secretary, ending the red phone conversation.
***
Forsyth rang the Russian Ambassador.
“I thought I would speak to you on the phone, Mr. Nevsky, rather than put you to the trouble of asking you call here again.”
“That is considerate of you, Sir William. How may I help this time?”
“We are most concerned, Mr. Ambassador, to discover that Dmitry Makienko has returned to this country.”
“Has he really?” asked Nevsky, feigning surprise. “You mean the man who used to be our second secretary in the commercial department? That Makienko?”
“The very same,” confirmed Forsyth.
“Are you quite sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well! You do surprise me. I have certainly not been told, and neither have I seen him about the Embassy. I shall have to make enquiries and get back to you.”
“You will not have seen him about the Embassy, Yuri, because he appears to be based at the Trade Delegation.”
“In Highgate? Really!”
“Let’s not play games, Ambassador. You will recall that Her Majesty’s Government only pulled back from expelling the man on the strength of your assurances that he would leave this country the day after our meeting.”
“Which he did.”
“Exactly. But we did not expect that your government would see fit to send him back here almost immediately.”
“I am not sure that my government has done so. As I said, I shall need to make enquires.”
“Please do so, then, with all speed. Let me remind you that, when we last spoke about this, I was able to show you evidence which linked him with the murder of one of our public servants.”
“Ah, yes. The faked photographs.”
“You know very well they were not fakes, Ambassador, and I can now tell you that we have direct and positive forensic evidence that Makienko did indeed carry out the crime.”
“And what might that be, can I ask?”
“You may ask, but I shall not tell you. That will be revealed in a court of law, probably at the Old Bailey, when your man is charged with murder.”
“Come, come, Sir Wilfred. Surely it will not come to that?”
“That depends on you, Mr. Nevsky. You said you needed to make enquiries because once again, it seems, your officials have been less than honest with you, and have failed to brief you. I must ask you formally to contact me within the hour with an explanation of this totally unacceptable behaviour on the part of your government. If you are unable to provide a satisfactory explanation for the man’s continuing presence in this country, then you will leave me with only two possible courses of action. One would be to demand his immediate expulsion, and the other to arrange his immediate arrest. I shall make sure that whichever I decide gets the maximum possible publicity, and that your own role in this unsavoury affair is left in no doubt.”
There was a moment’s silence from the Ambassador.
“I shall ring you within the hour,” said Nevsky quietly.
When he did so it was to explain that Makienko was in London in a private capacity, no doubt as a tourist, that he had travelled on his personal passport, that he had no diplomatic status whatsoever, and that he was not working at the Trade Delegation, but staying nearby with friends in Highgate.
“I have, however,” continued the Ambassador, “in the interests of furthering the good relations which currently exist between our two countries, issued instructions that Makienko is to be contacted immediately and instructed to leave the country forthwith. Again.”
“And not to return,” insisted Forsyth.
“And not to return,” confirmed Nevsky.
“We shall watch developments with interest, Mr. Ambassador, and I shall seek a further meeting with you in this office if there is any evidence that your instructions are not being carried out with all haste.”
“Thank you, Sir Wilfred. I understand perfectly.”
Once again, Yuri Nevsky had come off second best in a confrontation with the man from the Foreign Office.
Nevsky had always been one of those who subscribed to the view that, in these days, Ambassadors were more social than crucial.
He was fast beginning to change his mind.
***
Clayton called together his top team, and asked Barbara to get Miller along as well.
“There’s an old friend of yours back in town, Miller,” said ‘S’
“Makienko?” he asked immediately.
“What made you think that?”
“Just a hunch, that’s all.”
“Well, I wish you’d shared it with us. He’s back at the Trade Delegation in Highgate. Arrived a few days ago, apparently, travelling as a tourist on his own passport, not as a diplomat.”
“It doesn’t really surprise me,” said Miller. “We were too quiet for too long about Barclay’s murder. They must have smelt a rat.”
“In all honesty, we couldn’t do anything else until the police found his body, and we needed all the time we could get as well to make sure Dr. Roger Lloyd was ready to face his public. Barclay’s nervous breakdown was the best we could do.”
“There shouldn’t be any doubt about his death now,” said Nick Marsden. “It’s a big story in all the papers, especially the tabloids, with photographs.”
“OK,” said Clayton. “Now let’s think about this. Makienko is back, for one reason or another, either officially or as a tourist, which is what he claims. Nobody will believe that, though. The fact is that Makienko must be back in London because he, or someone in Moscow, believes Professor Barclay is still alive. And I agree with you, Miller, that they would be quite justified in reaching that conclusion until now. So the question is, if Makienko is still after Barclay, or Lloyd as he now is, who should we keep an eye on? One, or the other, or both?”
“Makienko doesn’t know me, but I know him,” said Miller. “I also know Lloyd, so I could keep a close watch on him, and spot the Russian if he should show up.”
“If Makienko does think Lloyd is Barclay, he’s going to have another go at getting rid of him,” said Newell. “I can’t see him doing that at the coroner’s court, but I suppose the crematorium might present an opportunity.”
“The Russians will need to be sure Barclay is still alive before they risk doing anything,” said Doc Perkins. “Lloyd is not at all like Barclay now, and in any case we don’t think Makienko ever met the Professor anyway. He will have photos of Barclay of course, but they won’t be enough. So he will have to rely on inside information.”
“If you mean someone telling him, that will mean we have an informer in our camp,” said ‘S’. “And Jarvis is dead, so it can’t be him.”
“Someone told them Barclay was going to California,” Newell reminded the meeting, “otherwise there would not have been KGB men at the reception in the university,”
“I must say, I had always assumed an American source for that, and we’ve been careful to make sure they all believe Barclay has been killed,” said Clayton.
“If the Russians can turn Jarvis, though, they can turn anyone, even if Jarvis was blackmailed.” said Marsden. “I think we need to get MI5 to mount a ‘mole’ hunt, and pretty quickly. Meanwhile, we have to assume that the Russians know what’s going on, and that they know Lloyd is Barclay under another name. For us to do otherwise would be plain stupid.”
“I agree,” said Clayton. “The possibility of an informer in our midst has worried me for some time, I must be honest. Stay behind afterwards Nick, and we’ll talk about it.”
“As a matter of interest,” asked Miller, “what’s Lloyd going to do for a living when the dust settles?”
“He’s said he wants a change, and has asked to join the UK team at the CERN project in Switzerland. He knows of a couple of people there – fellow particle physicists – and Sir Robin Algar has arranged for him to go out there immediately after the cremation, which in turn will be immediately after the inquest. He obviously can’t go back to his old job in the nuclear fusion research field at Culham, although he can continue to help as a consultant while he’s abroad. A few people on his old project will know of his new ‘alias’, and know too that they can call on him from time to time if they must. Once the heat is off, there is no reason why Lloyd shouldn’t even visit Harwell now and then, if he needs to.”
“I’ll go with him to Switzerland,” said Miller, without being asked. “I shall also need to be in the coroner’s court and at the cremation, since I know what Dmitry Makienko looks like, and everyone else has only seen the photos I took of him. I’ll bet he turns up at one or the other.”
“I think we should deploy quite a few people at the crematorium. I can’t imagine that Makienko will attend the service or anything that brazen, but he could well be in the grounds somewhere with a pair of field glasses, and we need to be able to spot him if he does turn up,” said Newell. “I’ll organise that if you like.”
Clayton nodded, and the meeting broke up. Commander Nick Marsden stayed behind.
“Close the door Nick, and grab a seat.”
There was an awkward silence for a moment,
“This is about Barbara, isn’t it.” It was a statement rather than a question from Marsden.
“It could be, Nick,” agreed Clayton. “Or it could be about you, or me or even Barbara’s mother.”
“I suppose so,” agreed Marsden. “It’s probably the same thing that’s worried the life out of me in the last few days that’s worrying you.”
“How did the Russians know that Jarvis was Donald’s father?”
“Exactly,” agreed Marsden. “How the hell did they know? Who can possibly have told them?”
“There aren’t that many possibilities, are there?” postured Clayton.
“Agreed,” said Marsden. “Barbara and Alan Jarvis obviously knew, but Jarvis was hardly likely to tell anyone, let alone the Russians, for exactly the reason that it would lay him open to blackmail, and put his career at risk.”
“And Barbara?” probed Clayton. “You are closer to her than anyone. What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think, to be honest, Bill. In spite of the fact that we are supposed to be getting married at some time, I have done my honest best to be objective about this, to put the job first and all that jazz, but I simply cannot see any motive on Barbara’s part. What would she possibly gain by telling the Russians something that nobody else knew about? Revenge on Jarvis? If she’d wanted that, she would have buggered his career sooner by telling me, or Sir Robin Algar or someone. Telling the Russians makes no sense to me. The fact is she told nobody until you stumbled across the possibility and forced her into admitting the fact.”
“So that puts me in the frame. I could have told the Russians,” said Clayton. “And so could you, and so, possibly, could her mother, if in fact she knew Jarvis was Donald’s father. Do you think she did?”
“I have no idea, Bill. I’m sure Barbara would tell us if we asked, but again we come back to the question of motive. Unless there’s a vital piece of information we’re missing, nobody on that list of five people seems to have the slightest motive for telling anyone, let alone the Russians.”
“I tend to agree,” said Clayton. “So how else could they have found out?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Marsden. “Just suppose – only suppose for a minute - that the Russians had been tailing Jarvis for some time. They would have seen him visit Barbara’s place and seen him with the boy.”
“So what?” queried Clayton.
“So if they were trying to get something on the man, perhaps with a view to blackmail, they would naturally have been suspicious, wouldn’t they?”
“Keep going.”
“So they would wonder, as you or I would wonder, why Jarvis had an interest in Donald. They would also know, or soon find out, that the identity of Donald’s father was not common knowledge – in fact a carefully guarded secret.”
“So?”
“So they might just put two and two together, and set about trying to find a connection.”
Clayton nodded thoughtfully. “If they suspected that Jarvis could have been Donald’s father, they would need to prove it one way or the other. That means they would either need someone to admit to the fact, or they would need documentary evidence.”
“Keep going.” It was Marsden who challenged Clayton this time.
“Documents,” said Clayton quietly. “What documents could there be, apart from a birth certificate, perhaps?”
“Bloody hell, Bill! That’s it! The boy’s birth certificate is almost bound to show the father’s name!”
“Tell you what, Nick. The Family Research Centre or something like that – the old Public Record Office, - is just round the corner from here. Why don’t you nip over and see what you can find.”
“I know the place! I’ve walked past it a hundred times. I’m off!”
“Wait!” commanded Clayton.
Nick Marsden sat down again.
“The other option is just to ask Barbara,” said Clayton simply. “Why don’t you do that instead?”
Marsden thought for a moment.
“That would alert her to the fact that we suspect she could be a spy of some sort,” said Marsden. “God forbid that she is, but let’s not put her on notice and on her guard, just in case.”
“Off you go then,” said Clayton with a grin. “And thanks for your loyalty, Nick.”
Marsden was back in under an hour.
“It seems that in the case of an illegitimate child,” he reported, “the child can take either the mother’s or father’s surname. Donald was christened using Barbara’s maiden name, so it is not necessary to include the father’s name on a birth certificate. Either the mother’s or the father’s will do, but it doesn’t have to show both.”
“Bugger!” said Clayton.
“Furthermore,” continued Marsden, almost too cheerfully, “it takes up to five days to get a certified copy of a birth certificate, even by the urgent route, which also costs a fortune.”
“For heaven’s sake,” exclaimed an exasperated Clayton.
“Gladys would be proud of them,” said Marsden with a broad grin. “However, I was able to show them all the ID cards and warrant cards in the world, and successfully demanded to see the chap in charge. Under threat of an immediate phone call to the Cabinet Secretary who, as head of the Civil Service is also his boss, the man was kind enough, under the additional threat of spending the rest of his life in the Tower of London, to make a few quick phone calls to somewhere in Liverpool where all the originals are kept.”
“And?”
“And Alan Jarvis is named as the father,” announced Marsden triumphantly. “Not only that, but a copy of Donald’s birth certificate was ordered – and paid for- some four weeks ago, and sent to an address in Highgate.”
“The Russian Consulate, I bet,” said Clayton. “Well done Nick.”
“Don’t let’s forget that there’s still a mole about somewhere.”
“Could be anywhere – Cabinet Office, Foreign Office, even the laboratories at Harwell and Culham. Let’s hope MI5 track him down before too much more damage is done.”
“At least Barbara seems to be off the hook,” said Nick. “I think I’ll take the lady out to dinner somewhere special tonight.”
***
Nobody saw the Russian, Dmitry Makienko, at the coroners court, although that didn’t mean he wasn’t there. He could have been anywhere, even across the road in the White Horse and Bower, watching who came and went from inside the pub. According to their informant, he certainly wasn’t at the Trade Mission that afternoon, but he would not have spotted Roger Lloyd even if he had been there. Lloyd wasn’t required to attend the court, as it happened.
Not many people attended the service in the Chapel of Rest at the Crematorium, either, although there were several people in the Garden of Remembrance. From the photographs they had been given, one or two of them thought that they might have seen Makienko, but weren’t sure.
Dusty Miller recognised him there, though. No doubt about it.
***
Detective Chief Inspector Harry Flower wasn’t often summoned to the office of Deputy Assistant Commissioner Ian Jenkins. For that matter, Head of Special Branch wasn’t often summoned to the office of the Director General of M15, either. But he had been, and now had a rather difficult message to pass on to DCI Flower.
“Come in Harry – grab a seat,” Jenkins welcomed Flower cheerily.
“Thanks. How can I help?”
“I might actually be able to help you, as it happens,” replied Jenkins.
“That’ll be nice,” said Flower, suspiciously.
“Tell me,” enquired the DAC. “How are you getting on with the Barclay case? The murder in Battersea.”
“It’s a bit slow, as it happens. Taking its time. We know who it is and what he does – did – for a living. We know how he was killed and roughly when, and there’s been an inquest and a cremation. But we’ve no real idea about the weapon used, although we think it was foreign. And even less of an idea about a motive or who did it. What’s your interest?”
“I don’t have one directly,” came the reply. “But I was summoned to Lambeth this morning for a personal meeting with ‘M’. We’re under orders to back off.”
“Back off? You mean drop the case?”
“That’s the message,” replied the special branch chief.
“But you can’t just drop a murder enquiry,” protested Flower, “even if there has been an inquest. And that was a funny business, too, since you mention it.”
“I didn’t,” said Jenkins. “You did.”
“Well, a right funny business that inquest was. If you ask me, the coroner had been fixed, and told what to do.”
“You’re right. He had. And now we’re being told what to do.”
Flower scratched his head.
“This has been an odd case from the start, if you ask me. Any idea at all what’s going on?”
“Political,” replied Jenkins. “Security services and all that.”
“So what? Murder’s murder in this country, and needs to be got to the bottom of – if you see what I mean.”
“They have got to the bottom of it,” replied Jenkins. “They know who did it, and why.”
“Well, that’s something at least. Have they shared their little secret with you, by any chance?”