Chapter 20

Jackson allowed himself a slight smile as the door swung closed behind Turnbull. It had been all too easy for the Psychiatrist; Turnbull, evidently overworked and stressed had been infuriated by Ford's apparently irrational behaviour. It had been easy to feed those suspicions and nurture the belief that Ford was, at the best deluded, at worst dangerously obsessed.

Yes, he thought, it would be interesting to see how this would play out

Deep in thought, Turnbull walked slowly back to the Underground Station. What the Doctor had told him seemed to make some kind of sense; Ford had been acting irrationally and yet that could be put down to individuality and that was what distinguished the good reporters from the really great ones. Perhaps the assignment in Turkey would bring in an award-winning report and Ford could, once more, take his place amongst the greats.

Freeman had dropped Straker at the West London Air Terminal, from where, after checking in, he would catch a courtesy bus to the Airport. He glanced at his watch; he had a few minutes. He headed for the row of public payphones.

Emcan was apologetic: "The telephone network is badly disrupted. You'd be better reporting in from our offices in Ankara. I've agreed with the Colonel that we can be flown out on the next supply flight"

"How long?"

"Two, perhaps three hours."

Mary Straker was preparing dinner when the phone rang. Pausing only to wipe pastry from her hands, she scooped up the receiver. There was a pause as the caller inserted the coins into the payphone

"021 8434…"

"Mary, it's me."

In the background, she could hear the sounds of a bustling airport.

"Oh, hullo Ed. I've just started to prepare dinner?"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I've got an urgent assignment for General Henderson. I'll be away for a few days"

"But Ed…"

Over the PA system, a voice announced the imminent departure of the bus.

"I'm sorry. I've got to go."

"Ed?…Ed!" There was a click and the earpiece purred quietly in her ear.

A single tear rolled down her cheek. Ed seemed to be spending less and less time at home. Anyone would think he was out defending the world or something.

There was a clatter from the front hall. The evening newspaper had dropped through the letterbox.

Sighing, she picked it up. Most of the coverage dealt with the international situation. Sighing, she opened the paper. The lead story, on page two, covered the boost to the British film industry that would be given by the opening of the new studio complex at Harlington East. The new studios were the envy of the world, boasting all the latest technology and would provide much-needed employment for up to four hundred people. It then conjectured who might be named as head of the Studios, with suggestions that it might be a relative unknown.

A hissing sound made her look up – a pot had boiled over. Sighing, she dropped the paper in the wastebasket and dashed to the kitchen.

Having dropped Straker off in west London, Freeman had headed back towards the centre of the city on an assignment of his own. Although less than five miles, the heavy traffic meant that the drive took nearly three quarters of an hour. With a sign of relief, he turned into the archway that led to the inner courtyard of the Foreign Office in Whitehall. A uniformed guard waved him down.

Freeman proffered his official identification card and the guard consulted his clipboard. Satisfied that Freeman was expected, the guard waved him through.

Straker gazed through the layers of Perspex at the rolling scenery outside. Night was falling.

His overnight bag had been stowed in the bin above his head but his attaché case, chained to his wrist, would remain on his lap throughout the flight. Having been booked at the last minute, Straker's seat was located at the rear of the aircraft, close to the engines which, even running at minimal power as the aircraft taxied out to the runway, shook the airframe.

With barely a pause, the aircraft turned onto the main runway and started to accelerate. The runway lights became a blur then seemed to fall away as the airliner soared into the darkening sky. Within minutes, it had reversed course to take it over the London suburbs before turning onto the air corridor towards the Arctic Circle from where it would descend into Soviet airspace, to land at Sheremetyevo Airport, just outside Moscow.

The seat at the rear might be noisy, the air polluted by the nearby smokers but it had one advantage; it was close to the galley so Straker was amongst the first to be given an evening meal. Pre-packed and reheated, it was a poor substitute for Mary's cooking but at least it was a meal. Straker ate.

Freeman had been shown up to an oak-panelled office. Seated behind a large desk, piled high with papers, was the British Foreign Secretary, Sir Alec Douglas-Home. He rose and offered his hand.

Having exchanged the usual pleasantries, the two men settled down to business.

After a brief introduction, Freeman made his request.

The Politician frowned. "You want the British Ambassador to meet your representative, who is currently flying to Moscow and take him to meet the Chairman of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, who will be expecting him. Is that right?"

"That's right." Replied Freeman.

Home was confused: "How can the International Astrophysical Commission help with a diplomatic crisis such as this?"

"I'm sorry, sir. Security."

"If you won't give me a straight answer, young man, I'm not sure that either I nor this department can help you"

Freeman had expected such a response.

"Do you remember the Cuban missile crisis, sir?" He asked.

"How could I forget?"

Less than a decade before, the two superpowers had come to the very brink of nuclear war over the siting of Soviet nuclear missiles less than five minutes' flying time from America's major cities.

"War was only averted because there was a discreet conduit between the Soviet leadership and the US Government." Explained Freeman. "With the current state of international tensions, we're offering you that conduit."

"May I say, this is most irregular…"

"These are 'Irregular' times, sir." Replied Freeman. "Sir John May can vouch for Colonel Straker"

"Hmm." Home picked up the telephone receiver.

Just as the Stewardesses were serving, but three hours later by local time, most of the offices in the British Embassy, Moscow, were in darkness. The exception was the communications room, where the Duty Officer enjoyed a quiet cigarette, mug of tea and a book. Suddenly, a teleprinter clattered into life. The Duty Officer looked up. Tossing the book to one side, he picked up the telephone, which connected him with the Ambassador.

Fortunately, the Ambassador, Sir Terence Garvey, was at home this evening, rather than at one of the seemingly-endless series of diplomatic dinner parties. Having had a busy day, attempting to act as a go-between between the Americans and his hosts, he'd decided to spend a quiet half hour in his study, before turning in for the night. His beloved Elgar played on the record player. Closing his eyes, he could imagine himself cycling the Malvern Hills, just as the great composer had done. He sipped at a glass of 50-year-old Islay malt, savouring the warmth as it slipped down his throat.

The gentle smile turned to a frown as the internal telephone buzzed.

Sighing, he put down the tumbler and picked up the receiver.

"Morgan here, sir. Sorry to interrupt but we've got flash traffic from London."

"You're the duty officer, Peter, " sighed Garvey, "You know the procedures"

"Yes sir. I do but it's marked 'Exclusive - Ambassador." Morgan explained.

"Very well, bring it up"

"Yes sir"

"Oh, Peter…?"

"Yes sir?

"Any news?"

"England: 132 for 5 sir"

"Thank you." He replaced the receiver and awaited the telegram. Of course, before he could actually read the thing, he'd have to decode it. Using the codebook, kept in his personal safe, he would laboriously convert the blocks of seemingly random letters into English – or rather a very terse telegraphese.

No doubt some idiot at the Foreign Office had had a bright idea that he would have to handle. That, or the Foreign Secretary wanted some more Stolichnaya, or even Embassy Vodka, the very best, sent home in the Diplomatic Bag.

It was nearly four hours before the helicopter touched down on the makeshift pad. The sky had darkened to an inky black. Myriad pinpoints of starlight punctuated the velvet darkness. The human chain moved in once more to unload supplies. On this occasion, there were no casualties to be evacuated, so Ford and Emcan climbed aboard.

With barely a pause, it lifted into the sable sky and headed northwards once more.

The airliner touched down with barely a jolt and taxied to the designated stand. Having been at the back of the aircraft, Straker was amongst the last to leave. Straker took a moment to take in his first view of the Soviet Union. The lowering clouds glowed orange with the reflected glare of the sodium lamps. A flurry of snow heralded the approaching winter.

Descending the stairs, Straker spotted a shiny black Rolls-Royce. A liveried chauffeur opened the rear door and the passenger climbed out.

"Colonel Straker? Terence Garvey, British Ambassador"

Straker paused to pull a photograph from his breast pocket. Henderson had given him the photograph during the earlier briefing to confirm that the man in front of him was who he claimed to be, Straker, shook the outstretched hand.

A momentary flash startled Straker.

"Don't worry, Colonel, it's only the local KGB." Garvey reassured him. "They photograph everyone entering the Soviet Union. It's all part of the 'Great Game'"

The chauffeur took Straker's overnight bag and stowed it in the boot of the limousine. Before opening the rear passenger door. The two men climbed into the car, the Chauffeur closed the door then took his place at the wheel.

As the car pulled away, Garvey advised Straker of his itinerary:" You'll spend the night at the Embassy. Then we take you to see your host tomorrow morning It was thought that your message would be more credible coming from the official representative of a UN-sanctioned body, rather than from the American Government.

"My Host?" Straker was confused. "I thought I was coming to see you"

"Oh, no," replied Garvey. "I'm just the messenger boy. Tomorrow, we pick up Academician Pavel Komarov of the Soviet Academy of Science before travelling out to Oreanda to your host's dacha.

"Oreanda?"

"A small town on Lake Azov, in the Ukraine. It's about 800 miles from here."

"So who is this host?"

"I'm sorry, old chap. didn't I tell you? You are going to meet the General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union: Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev."

Ford stepped down from the helicopter, yawning. He looked at his watch. It was well past midnight. He realised he was hungry.

Emcan evidently had the same thought; "We'll go back to my house. You can stay there until the morning." The two men walked to the car park where Emcan's car, a battered Fiat 500, was waiting. Ford's bag was tossed onto the boot and Ford climbed into the passenger seat, next to Emcan.

The engine spluttered into life and the tyres squealed as Emcan stamped on the accelerator and the car hurtled out of the car park. Ten minutes later, the car screeched to a halt and Ford cautiously opened his eyes. The car was parked in a narrow street in front of a small town house. Emcan led the way. After a quick snack, Ford soon found himself in the spare room. Like the house, the room was small but comfortable. Within minutes, Ford was fast asleep.