Hidden In Plain Sight.
Chapter One.
Wednesday, September 9th, 1992. 6.30 am.
Miss Alexandra Dempsey was excited.
It was to be her first day at school today and she had been looking forward to it. Now, she had been up and about in her bedroom for half an hour or so, busily dressing herself in her new uniform.
In their bedroom along the corridor, her parents were still asleep, although her father James was beginning to stir and, lying on his left side, opened one eye, a smile forming on his lips as he looked at the beautiful sleeping face of his wife, Lady Harriet, affectionately known to most as Harry. Sliding his hand gently up her body, he cupped her left breast and began caressing it, Harry automatically nestling her body close to his and starting to softly moan in pleasure.
As her electrifyingly blue eyes opened and studied the handsome face of the husband she loved so deeply, she reached around his waist and, caressing his lips with hers, pulled the centre of their bodies together, his arousal prominent and his desire for her impossible to ignore.
She rolled seductively onto her back, waiting breathlessly for him to follow when a knock on the door stopped them abruptly, both quickly breaking away from each other and peering at the door as it opened almost immediately.
Standing in it's entrance was Alexandra, known to her family and friends as Alex, but still called Scrumpy by her parents, a nickname they had given her when first learning Harry was pregnant.
"Oh James, just look at her." she marvelled, as her stunning raven haired daughter lingered in the doorway, her violet blue eyes staring at them out of a exquisitely beautiful face, with its heart shaped lips and naturally tanned skin, the latter mirroring her fathers part Italian heritage.
Alex was motionless in her white shirt, dark blue skirt, sunflower yellow jacket, white patterned knee length socks and dark blue bucket hat with its pale blue hat band. In her hand, however, were a pair of black patent leather shoes and, hanging loosely around her neck, her blue and white striped school tie.
"Mummy, can you do my tie and buckle my shoes please?" she asked.
"Oh Scrumpy darling, it's very early to be dressed." replied Harry. "Have you washed your face and brushed your teeth?"
"No." she answered, then in a whisper. "And I need to poo."
Dempsey stifled a chuckle, Harry digging his ribs before slipping out of bed.
"Come on, little Miss Independent." she said, smiling and taking Alex's hand. "I think we need to start again, don't you?"
Alex would be four years old in two months time but she'd already shown herself to be ahead of her years, her various assessments indicating that she was already matching her five year old peers in intelligence.
Her soon to be headmistress had been somewhat reluctant at first to enrol a new pupil still aged three, but after reading a report from her deputy, who'd gently interviewed Alex and been mightily impressed by a maturity that belied her age, the head mistress was subsequently happy to confirm to Harry and Dempsey that she would be joining those children who would be turning five soon into the school year.
"I'm in no doubt she'll hold her own amongst those a year or so older than herself." said Mrs Agatha Hargreaves-Wilson, a rather austere widow of fifty-five. "And we'll keep a close eye on her to make sure she doesn't struggle with our basic curriculum."
So now the big day had arrived and Harry, having undressed her, had then watched as she washed her face and hands, before helping her brush her teeth and complete her toilet. Having assisted in dressing her again, they wandered through to the kitchen, where Dempsey was sitting at the breakfast bar drinking a cup of steaming black coffee, freshly brewing on its hotplate.
"Well now little princess." he beamed, as she walked in. "Don' you look all grown up. Come over here, let me look atcha."
Alex, with her satchel strap proudly draped around her neck, across the chest and attached to the school bag at her hip, strolled confidently over to her father and put her arms around his neck, so he could lift her up and kiss her.
"What would you like for breakfast, little lady?" he asked, as he then gently lowered her back to the floor, before relieving her of the school bag and hanging it over the back of a kitchen chair. "Frosties? Sugar Puffs? Porridge?"
"Urgh! I don't want porridge Daddy, thank you very much." replied Alex, her face all screwed up at the thought of it. "Um, Sugar Puffs please."
"You got it honey." said Dempsey, as he reached for the box of sugar coated wheat. "Go sit at the table an' I'll bring it over."
While she was happily munching through her breakfast, with an ear close to the bowl listening for the familiar snap, crackle and pop that the cereal was famous for, Dempsey and Harry got ready for their day.
They had been working for SI-10, a secretive Government department straddling MI5 and MI6 for eight years and which employed an elite band of undercover detectives.
Lieutenant James Dempsey had originally been seconded to it from the NYPD following his discovery of high level corruption within and, with his life in imminent danger, had been sent to London for his safety, albeit against his personal wishes, since he wanted to stay and see the perpetrators brought to justice.
Once there he was paired with Sergeant Harriet Makepeace, who, in private, was Lady Harriet, her father, Lord Freddy Winfield, owner of Winfield Hall, a stately home in Buckinghamshire, along with a Belgravia mansion. Freddy knew all about clandestine operations having been a high ranking officer in British Intelligence.
When he was first introduced to Dempsey, he liked him immediately, recognising in him the many qualities that had singled out the most successful spies and undercover agents he'd controlled during his time with the SOE in World War Two and the British Secret Service since.
Noting the ice cold attitude his daughter had towards her typically brash, arrogant American SI-10 partner, borne in the aftermath of an inherent mistrust of men, following an humiliating and unhappy marriage that had all but destroyed her and her self confidence, he was highly instrumental in bringing to her attention Dempsey's many attributes.
This, coupled with them becoming the Departments most successful operating partnership, together with an unique telepathic connection which was often instrumental in saving each other's lives, had eventually, after three years together, blossomed into a deep devotion to, and a passionate love for one another.
Married in January 1988, in spectacular fashion on Necker Island, they were both surprised and delighted when, three months later, Harry announced she was pregnant, Alexandra Rose being born on November 12th.
Since then they had risen in the ranks, following a promotion for their irrascible boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Gordon Spikings. He had been made Commander and, although offered a new role, elected to remain as head of a team he admired and respected, yet controlled with an iron fist, though never afraid to wrap it in a glove when the necessity arose.
In 1990, Dempsey was enrolled permanently and given the rank of Detective Inspector, followed two years later by a further promotion to Detective Chief Inspector. Harry, having relinquished her position as Dempsey's partner while she went on maternity leave, had nevertheless remained with SI-10 as PA to Spikings, working part-time while Alex grew up.
She'd also been given the rank of Detective Inspector in recognition of her successful record, but, now she was a mother, remained on the sidelines, not wishing to expose herself anymore to the dangers she'd face if she'd stayed in active service.
So, at eight o'clock that September morning, Dempsey, Harry and Alex trooped out to the car, now a powerful Ford Sierra RS Cosworth saloon, finished in a deep metallic maroon.
Dempsey had originally rented a top of the range Mercedes SL sports car upon arriving in the UK in 1984, mainly as a middle finger salute to his erstwhile boss, O'Grady, in New York, for having forced him abroad and who would have to pick up the tab for the monthly hire costs. Nevertheless, the arrangement remained in place for another six years until O'Grady got wind that Dempsey was officially no longer with the NYPD.
The Cosworth was a perfect replacement. One of the fastest production saloon cars on the planet, it had been further tweaked by the SI-10 technicians and, with it's permanent four wheel drive system was also one of the most sure footed. As a family car it also fitted the bill, docile in traffic yet blindingly quick when 'given the beans' as Dempsey always delighted in saying and then demonstrating.
After Harry had ensured Alex was buckled into her child seat, they set off for her private school, Alex chattering ten to the dozen as to what she expected to be doing there.
Once Dempsey had pulled up outside the Richmond Collegiate Junior School, Alex alighted from the car, having waited patiently while Harry undid her straps, and eshewed her mother's hand, walking confidently and alone to the front entrance. There she stopped, turned and waved at her parents, before skipping through the open door and past an astonished teacher who was there primarily to greet and supervise her charges, but inevitably found herself having to comfort the many sobbing children leaving their parents for the first time.
Alex clearly wasn't one of them and her undaunted confidence had singled her out already.
Harry just stood there, tears filling her eyes as she watched her, Dempsey placing an arm around her waist and smiling proudly as his precious daughter disappeared into the building.
"She's gonna be jus' fine, honey." he said, glancing at Harry's watering eyes, then chuckling. "She'll have 'em all eatin' outta her hand before the day's out, you watch."
"I know." replied Harry, her voice ready to break at any moment with love and pride.
"Come on, tiger." he said. "We'll be back here in a few hours to pick her up an' I guess she'll be full of it."
Despite their promotions, both of them had retained their desks, which butted up to each other, mainly because it suited them, but also due to the somewhat cramped office space.
Charles 'Chas' Jarvis, now a Detective Inspector, having been promoted from Sergeant at the same time as Harry, greeted them as they arrived.
"Alex get off alright?" he asked, the whole team fond of the little girl, having met her when she'd occasionally accompanied Harry into the office.
"Yes thanks Chas." replied Harry, smiling. "Anyone would think she'd been going to school for months judging by the way she trotted into the place!"
"Anythin' goin' down pal?" asked Dempsey, as he walked to the vending machine to get coffee's for him and Harry.
"Chocolate for me Dempsey." called Harry. "Can't stand that muck they have the audacity to call coffee!"
"No, Dempsey." replied Chas. "Nothing's popped up at all."
"Hmmm, calm before the storm!" remarked Dempsey as he punched out the various codes for the drinks. "Somethin's comin' roun' the corner at us! I can feel it!"
"Me too." said Harry, glancing up at Dempsey and reaching for the steaming drink, cupping her hands around it and taking a sip. "Hmmm, that's quite nice."
"You reckon there's somethin' too huh, honey?" replied Dempsey to her earlier remark, as he sat down opposite her, then leaning back, his feet automatically finding the top of his desk as he took a drink of coffee.
"Mmm, yes." she replied. "It feels a bit like a kettle that's beginning to boil. Can't explain it really, but it's unsettling all the same."
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SOE HQ, Baker Street, London. Monday, September 13th, 1943. 6pm.
The Rt Hon Lieutenant-Colonel Alfred Harold Winfield, hereditary heir to Lord Charles Winfield and the vast Winfield fortune, levelled his startling blue eyes at the young, blonde haired man opposite him and smiled.
"Well Jonny." he said. "You've certainly come through your training with flying colours. Are you ready for your first assignment?"
"Yes sir, thank you sir, more than ready." replied the young man, eager to prove himself.
"Good. A car will pick you up tonight at midnight to take you to the airfield." said Colonel Winfield. "You will be dropped into France, five miles north of Paris. The Resistance will be waiting for you. Any questions?"
"No sir." replied the young operative, before reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, producing an envelope and handing it across the desk to his commanding officer. "Could you take care of this please sir, in case I...well, you know."
Lieutenant-Colonel Alfred 'Freddy' Winfield glanced at it and, nodding his understanding, took the envelope from him.
"Anything else?" he asked.
"No sir." came the reply.
"Fine. Good luck my boy." said Freddy, standing up and reaching across the desk to take the young man's hand.
"Thank you sir." he said, accepting the proferred hand and shaking it. "I'll do my level best."
"I'm sure of it. Goodbye."
"Goodbye sir."
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11, Rue de Saussaies in the 8th arrondissement, Paris. Gestapo Headquarters. Monday, September 13th 1943. 10.30pm.
Pierre Gaston could take no more. His eyes were blackened and almost closed from the swelling to the sockets, his nose bloody and broken, his lips split and the blood from them mixing with that of his mouth, itself bleeding from the two teeth having just been beaten out of him.
"Ha! I think a little levelling up of those teeth is in order!" said Oberst-Gruppenfuhrer-SS, Kurt Scheel, his French fluent and his eyes glinting as he took a pair of pliers from his pocket and approached Pierre, whose head was now in the vice-like grip of another inhuman brute standing behind him. "Open wide, there's a good boy."
"Alright! alright! I'll tell you all I know! Please! No more!" he screamed, spitting gore and fragments of teeth from his mouth, mucus dripping from his nose and mingling with the dried blood covering his upper lip.
Scheel whipped the back of his bunched fist across Pierre's face.
"Then sing, canary! Sing!"
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As the ground rushed up to meet him, Jonny Creighton prepared to fold his legs and roll as he hit it, quickly gathering the white, silk parachute together and dragging it to the cover of the trees in a wood just fifty yards away. The weather forecast had been accurate, plenty of cloud covering the moon but there was just enough light to know in which direction he had to go.
The adrenalin, pumping through his body, kept his fear at bay as he reached the trees and scrabbled at the ground to cover the parachute, soon joined by three Resistance fighters with spades, who had materialised silently from the darkness.
Acknowledgements quickly rendered, the four men completed their task and retreated into the wood, soon opening into a small clearing where a battered looking Citroen was waiting, its bootlid open and its engine ticking over, vapour from its exhaust hanging in the cold night air.
Throwing the spades into the boot then clambering in, the four were hardly aboard before the car was away, the doors slamming shut as the driver sped off into the night, the headlights covered, only small slits lighting the way ahead.
They had only been travelling for five minutes when, either side of them, the blinding white light of machine guns opened up, strafing the car, the driver and front seat passenger killed instantly and the car veering into the undergrowth before crunching to a halt on a tree stump.
Scrambling to get out, the two Frenchmen who had flanked Jonny in the back of the car, were hit, the bullets tearing into them without mercy. As Jonny lurched for cover a single shot caught him in the back of his right thigh and brought him down. Gritting his teeth he rose painfully to his feet and stood there, shifting his weight to his left leg, arms above his head and watched as several German soldiers advanced on him, their machine guns trained on various parts of his body.
From amongst them an officer in his black uniform appeared, clearly Gestapo, and strolled nonchalantly up to him.
"Ah. Sergeant Creighton. Ve haf been waiting for you." he said, smiling, then tut tutting. "Oh dear, you seem to be hurt. Ve vill haf to see to it, eh?"
Turning to two soldiers he commanded them, in German.
"Put him in the car!"
Half an hour later and in great pain, Jonny was strapped to a chair, naked except for his underpants, his wound unattended, his body shaking from the cold. The bare room reeked with the pain and fear of those who had gone before him and he closed his eyes, steeling himself as best he could for what he knew was to come.
It wasn't long before Oberst-Gruppenfuhrer-SS, Kurt Scheel walked, grinning, into the room.
Twenty-four hours of continuous, brutal interrogation later, Scheel had Jonny dragged out to a yard behind the building and, putting his Luger to the back of his head, pulled the trigger.
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Just minutes after Jonny had leapt from the plane, the pilot received an urgent message to abort the mission and turn for home immediately. When the reply came that it was too late, Lieutenant-Colonel Winfield went cold with dread.
He sat down and lit a cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs before slowly exhaling, but it gave him little comfort knowing he had, albeit unwittingly, just sent a young, brave man to his certain death.
Reports of Pierre Gastons arrest had just filtered through and since he knew all there was to know of Jonny's imminent arrival, although nothing about his actual mission, it was enough to suspect that, under intense interrogation, he'd break.
When confirmation of the ambush and Jonny's capture was received, Freddy prayed his death would follow swiftly, having to assume he would also break under torture and, with a heavy heart, began to re-arrange assignments that would have dove-tailed with Jonny's. He embarked on a re-think of the operation, of which he'd been part but, thankfully, been unaware of the specific details.
That operation was part of the preparation for the D Day landings planned for the following year.
When news of Jonny's death reached him, Freddy, personally, posted his letter and, in the quiet of his study, with tears in his eyes, toasted a brave young man with a glass of whisky. Freddy Winfield was a deeply compassionate man and always felt the loss of any of his operatives with a supreme sense of loss, despite knowing that they knew their lives were in constant danger and likely to be snuffed out in an instant.
It never dulled the pain, however.
Upon receipt of the letter, Jonny's mother and father were, naturally, bereft.
His little six year old sister was inconsolable. She had worshipped her big brother, he was her hero and she'd never forget him - or those who had sent him to his death.