Monday 29 May 2017

13. Dmitri's Drinks Party by Clair Wright




 “It says here, ‘finish it’.” That is all.  So that is what I propose to do, ladies and gentlemen.” Dmitri beams, and tucks the telegram back into his pocket.


The temperature seems to have risen by twenty degrees in the cabin, and it’s not only due to the afternoon sun piercing through the porthole windows.  The air is rapidly becoming fetid; sweat and fear overpowering the aroma of cigarette smoke.


At Dmitri’s signal, Johnson sits, perched on the edge of his seat as if ready to bolt. I wonder where he thinks he’s going to run to.  We are like rats in a trap in here. 


The curtain at the front of the cabin is pulled back and it takes me a moment to recognise Charlie Markman, cool in a crisp white pilot’s shirt, complete with epaulettes and braid. I stifle a smirk; this plane is an absolute crate.  Charlie nods at the Creightons and I see James bristle, his fingers gripping the arms of his seat.  Charlie sees it too and grins, before settling himself into the seat beside Johnson. He looks like he is enjoying himself. Johnson does not. That twitch is back.


Megan Creighton glances across to Vanderbilt, looking for what? Reassurance? A cue? His face is impassive, he looks resolutely forward.  She shifts in her seat, fiddles with the strap of her clutch bag. 


I can sense JJ behind me. I wish he was in my eye-line.  But he always seemed to know what I was thinking; it’s been a while but I’m counting on that.


Behind us I can hear a murmur of disquiet from the remaining passengers not party to this little stand-off. I wonder what they are thinking.


“Drinks, I think!” announces Dmitri, gesturing expansively as if he is a host at a cocktail party.  Valerie hands me a gin and tonic, with ice. Not a flicker of recognition.  


Megan downs her champagne in one and raises her glass for a refill. Dmitri laughs.  “Absolutely, Mrs Creighton!  Why not?” 


Johnson shakes his head as Valerie reaches his seat. He looks green.


“Are you not joining us, Mr Johnson? Do you insult me?” 


Johnson shakes his head, muttering, but Dmitri laughs again. 


Dmitri is enjoying this a little too much.  He was always something of a ham at Cambridge, hanging around with the Footlights crowd.  Perhaps our unexpected reunion has triggered some nostalgic longing. His little performance in my hotel room, whether for the benefit of Valerie or his charming side-kick, showed me he hasn’t lost any of his taste for a scene.  


I hope I can trust him. It was a gamble to contact him after our first encounter, but I needed to know where Valerie was and I guessed he could tell me.  He had recognised me too, but as I remarked on the phone, it didn’t stop him roughing me up. “The role required it,” was all he said by way of explanation. 


So far Dmitri has been as good as his word; Valerie is safe, and he got the visa for me. In return I hinted to him that the plans may not be all they seem. I’m not sure he believed me .How far can we stretch old loyalties?  He’s right of course, we all have our roles to play.  


Either way, I wish he would get to the point. The heat really is unbearable. 


The Creightons are up to something.  Megan has rested her head on James shoulder, as if for comfort. From my vantage point I can see her muttering out of the side of her mouth, James is inclining his head slightly to hear her. I glance towards Dmitri to see if he has noticed, but he is goading Johnson into drinking vodka with him.  


“Nobody move!” Megan shrieks; she’s up on her feet and waving a pistol wildly. She shuffles down the aisle, James behind her, and grabs Charlie Markman’s arm. She pushes the pistol into his temple. 


“Up!” She yanks him to his feet, and starts to pull him towards the front of the plane.  James pushes him from the rear, flicking nervous glances over the rest of us.  Charlie’s eyes are wide with a mix of shock and disbelief, he gives a weak laugh of embarrassment.  In the stifling silence I hear Dmitri put down his glass. 


“My dear Mrs Creighton, Mr Creighton, please sit down.” His tone is calm, reassuring even, but the Makarov pointing at the back of James’ head somewhat counters the effect.  “Don’t tell me, you are planning to make Mr Markman here fly us all to South Africa?  Surely you have understood by now that the game is over for you, and for your Uncle George there. You are really only here to make up the numbers. Now sit down!” He gestures with his gun and the Creightons slink back into their seats, Megan sobbing softly. Charlie straightens his shirt and returns to his seat. He gulps the remainder of Johnson’s vodka. 


“So ladies and gentlemen,” says Dmitri, toying with the Makarov. “Let us get down to business at last.”  He pauses, and surveys his audience.  “Let us be direct with one another, One, or maybe more than one of you, has the plans for the successful Comet 4 test flights. It would seem that all of us want them, but sadly that cannot be.” He shakes his head, looking mournfully at Johnson, who is sweating profusely.  


“So,” he continues, strolling up and down the aisle as he speaks, “now we have all had time to contemplate our situation, perhaps we can get to the bottom of this tricky case.  And to focus our minds, I propose this: one of you will die, every hour, until the plans - the complete plans - are handed to me.  Do you understand?”


He stops, by my seat. I look up at him, as he presses the muzzle of the gun into my chest.  “We have been here about an hour, already, wouldn’t you say, Alan?”


Behind me, I can hear JJ is holding his breath. Over Dmitri’s shoulder, Valerie is reaching into her jacket. Is this part of Dmitri’s game too?


Just then the door at the front of the plane swings open.

Monday 22 May 2017

12. Flight by Dave Rigby

Only a thin linen shirt – and it’s still unbearably hot and sticky.

‘R’ is one of those career spooks who insists on having his cake and eating it. He’s as Machiavellian as hell and you’re just supposed to roll with it. Well I’ve had enough. Yes I’ve said it before, countless times, but now I mean it.
Dmitri assured me that the visa would be no problem. Normally getting into the Soviet Union at such short notice would be out of the question.
Gazing out towards the Nile, I don’t want to move an inch – except to retrieve my Martini glass. Valerie – can’t get her out of my mind. Who is she? How is it that I can forgive her for the way she’s treated me? Where is she now?
It’s far too hot to smoke I tell myself, lighting up yet again, absent-mindedly turning the cigarette case over and over on the table-top. This place has changed so much since I was last here. Well, after the debacle of ‘56, that was inevitable.
When the man sits down on the seat at the other side of the table, I think I’m hallucinating. He’s in the full glare of the burning sun, but doesn’t seem to mind a bit. He never did.
    “Jean Jacques! It’s so good to see that you’re back from the dead.” He smiles, just like that first time, in the foothills of Mt Toubkal, mounted on a camel, me below him in a ramshackle jeep, my first dealings with the Legion. What a fool’s errand that turned out to be. But meeting JJ was the real payback.
    “It was the usual thing with the Yank,” he tells me. “They never finish a job properly.” He drains my glass, I give a slight indication to the waiter and within a minute there are two full replacements in front of us. After some hesitation, I tell him about Dmitri. I know I’ll need JJ’s help. He’s watching an approaching motor cycle intently. His hand moves towards the pocket of his jacket but then, suddenly, he relaxes. The rider comes to a halt and removes his sunglasses.
    “Mr Alan. A present from your Moscow friend.” The small package drops from his gloved hand onto the table. He revs the engine and shoots off into the afternoon traffic.
    “Care to join me on the flight?” I ask JJ. He says he can think of nothing better, that the paperwork will not be a problem.
+ + +
It’s like the United Nations here. We’re in first class – although of course they don’t call it that. JJ’s in the seat immediately behind me – literally protecting my back. Vanderbilt is two rows ahead, to my right, already on his second glass of Georgian champagne and my erstwhile clients, the delightful Creightons, are talking animatedly to his left.
After JJ’s totally unexpected re-appearance, I’m not prepared for what happens next. But there’s no doubt about it. Although she looks very different, I can tell immediately by the way she moves, that the hostess freshening my G and T is the same woman who removed the contents of my shoe heel. There is not the slightest acknowledgement from either of us. My Russian is rusty but I can tell from the way she addresses other passengers that she is more than fluent.
Strangely there is no sign of Dmitri. I can’t work out what his plan is, but he has a reputation for always being several steps ahead. And the Yank? I suddenly remember Johnson. Has he not been invited?
We hit turbulence. It doesn’t seem to be severe but after maybe fifteen minutes the Captain’s voice comes over a crackling speaker informing us of an unscheduled stop in Istanbul.
Seat belts are unfastened, but we’re not allowed off the plane. The two men seem to appear from nowhere. I should have expected Dmitri to make such an entrance but what on earth is Johnson doing by his side. Has the cold war suddenly gone cordial?
A divider is pulled across the cabin, sealing us off from the rear section of the plane.
    “Welcome everyone. I hope you are not too uncomfortable,” Dmitri says in his almost flawless English. “Can we now consider what the great English detective Mr Holmes might have called ‘The Case of the Incomplete Plans’?”
He pulls a small piece of paper from his trouser pocket and slowly unfolds it.

     “Let me tell you what is written here in this telegram.”

Monday 15 May 2017

11. A Change of Heart? by Virginia Hainsworth


Alan stretched out his hand in greeting.

‘Good morning, Bernard.  Great to see you after all this time.  How’s R? Is he still hopping mad?’

‘Good to see you, too.  Yes, he is, unfortunately.  He’s waiting for you.  Go straight in.’

Alan pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into a plain but expensively furnished office.  Its occupant moved swiftly from behind the desk.  He took Alan’s hand in both of his and shook it firmly and repeatedly.

‘Alan.  Good of you to come.  Let’s cut to the chase.  We can exchange pleasantries later.  Perhaps over a beer.’

‘Bernard said you were angry.  I was intrigued.’

‘Yes.  That’s what I led him to believe.  Actually, I’m delighted.’

Alan raised an eyebrow.

‘Sit down my old friend.  I think I need to explain something to you.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘We have, of course, been following your every move. Using a number of our best agents. You led them a merry dance.  But they’re good.  Nearly as good as you used to be.’

Alan reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a slim, gold cigarette case.  He flipped it open and leaned forward to offer one of its contents to R.  R shook his head.

‘Balkan Sobranie.  Your favourite.’

‘Bless you for remembering, Alan, but I’m trying to give them up.’

Alan snapped the case shut and returned it to his inside pocket.

‘You do know that the Russians have got the microfiche? I can’t understand why that would delight you.’

R leaned back in his chair and placed both hands over his ample stomach. He looked thoughtful.  After a long silence, he said, ‘It delights me because that’s precisely what we had wanted to happen.  We had them ‘anonymously’ tipped off about your precious cargo and your whereabouts.  How else would they have known?  So, rest assured you are not losing your touch as much as you feared.’

R  paused as Bernard came through the door with a tray of coffee.  He restarted after Bernard had left.
In fact, you seem to have retained many of the, erm, skills of our trade, shall we say.  I am more than a little impressed.  Do you know, I think I might just have one of those Sobranies.’

Alan’s face was impassive.  He remained perfectly still.

‘I see.  So, you have been using me.’

‘Sorry. We thought it best not to burden you with the truth.’  R’s voice held not a tinge of regret.

‘And there I was, feeling ashamed for telling the Russians where the microfiche was in order to save a vulnerable woman.   I think I had better leave now.  And you can buy your own  bloody Sobranies.’

Alan stood up and walked towards the door. Just before opening it, he turned towards R.

‘Never, ever underestimate me.’

He marched out past an astonished looking Bernard.

Fifteen minutes later, he walked into the lobby of a nearby hotel and sat in a huge, plush armchair in the far corner.  After ordering a cognac, he pulled the cigarette case out of his pocket and turned it over and over in his hand.  A marvellous piece of engineering, he mused, opening it.  Making sure that he was not being observed, he pulled out the brushed gold interior to reveal a tiny hidden compartment.  The micro fiches only just fit inside them. He smiled and closed the case firmly shut.
He downed his cognac in one go and stood up.

Less than a minute later, he was in the phone booth.

‘Dmitri.  We need to talk.’









Monday 8 May 2017

10. Owning the skies by Emma Harding

I come to slowly. There’s a ringing in my ears and my head’s pounding. I open my eyes cautiously. Light floods in, blinding me for a moment. Eyesight adjusts as I take in my surroundings. I’m in my hotel room, but the place has been thoroughly turned over. The mattress has been stripped of its cover and pulled half off the bed, the dresser drawers are upturned on the floor. The chair next to me is lying on its side. I am sitting on its pair, my arms hanging by my sides, feeling heavy as hell. 

What time is it? What day is it? I shake my head, trying to dislodge the ringing noise but it only seems to get louder. I stare at the prone chair beside me and then I remember. Where is Valerie?


I’d been out early, getting provisions. On my way back, I’d spotted her. She was walking arm-in-arm with a man, heavy-set, dark suit. I sped up after them - there were a few choice things I had to say to her. 

It had not been easy, getting back to the city from the apartment where she’d left me, half-drugged and without transport. I’d walked, stumbled and eventually hitched a ride, dehydrated and dusty. Since then, I’d been lying low, just venturing out in the cool of the early morning. Trying to work out how to get the microfiche back.And now here she was, within accosting distance. 

As I drew closer to the couple I noticed the firm grip the man had on Valerie’s arm, how he was forcibly propelling her forward and at the same time holding her up. She leant into him, her legs not her own, as if drunk. I couldn’t help a feeling of schadenfreude but it was quickly replaced with concern. Something was very wrong. I slowed my pace but continued to follow the pair, keeping to the deep shade at the side of the narrow street.

A few yards ahead, the couple stopped. The man said something to Valerie who nodded her head at the building on their right. With shock, I realised that they were contemplating the very hotel where I was staying. I stepped out into the sunlight.

At that moment, Valerie looked back over the man’s shoulder and our eyes met. There was a blue-purple bruise on her cheek. But she looked clear-eyed. She held my gaze, trying to tell me something I couldn’t decipher. Then she slumped forward, forcing her companion to focus all his attention on her as he pulled her back to her feet.

Oh, she’s good, I thought, beginning to back away. Better that they discovered I wasn’t at home. But my retreat was halted by the sensation of something sharp, hard and metal digging into the small of my back. 

‘Mr MacRae,’ said a voice in my ear, breath hot against my neck. ‘How opportune to meet like this, when we were just coming to see you. Shall we go and join your lady friend?’


‘What is it you want?’ I asked. Valerie and I were each tied to the chairs we were sitting on, in my room, facing the older guy who was clearly in charge. The other man, Valerie’s erstwhile companion, was perched on the bed behind her, peeling an orange with a small knife. There had been no formal introductions, but I’d got a pretty good idea who I was dealing with.

‘I think you know exactly what it is I want. It was clever of you to split the package so that one half is useless without the other. But it’s time for the halves to be reunited.’ 

‘Yes, I had worked that out,’ I said. ‘But what will you do with it?’ 

‘We shall own the skies, Mr MacRae.’ The man’s eyes gleamed. ‘My comrades will build the finest, fastest, safest aircraft the world has ever seen.’

‘It’s a commercial arms race,’ Valerie muttered, the first thing she’d said since I had been driven towards her at the end of a gun.

‘Indeed it is, my dear. One we shall win. I would have thought it was something the pair of you would appreciate. After all, you both trade other people’s secrets for money, do you not? I must say, I am surprised at you, Mr MacRae.’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘The French,’ the Russian continued, wafting his hand dismissively in Valerie’s direction, ‘have always looked after their own interests, but the English? Are not the English more honourable? King and country and all that?’

Queen and country. And I’m Scottish, you idiot, I thought but did not say. Instead, I shrugged. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ I said. ‘But given my mercenary inclination, why don’t you stop all this nonsense - ’ I gestured, as best I could, at my bound hands and shot a glance at the man on the bed, ‘ - and just make me an offer. All it will take is the right price.’

‘As simple as that? Ok, here’s my price. Dimitri.’ His colleague rose, stood behind Valerie, pulled her head back by the hair, she gasping in shock, and placed his knife against her pale throat. 

‘I prefer cash,’ I said quickly. ‘She’s no concern of mine.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr MacRae, but I don’t buy that for a minute. A mercenary you may be, but you don’t want this woman’s death on your conscience.’ Dimitri pressed a little harder with his knife and Valerie winced, but said nothing. 

Unfortunately, that was true. Whatever Valerie had done to me, I was not going to see her hurt. Perhaps, despite my better judgement, I was more of a gentleman than I thought. Maybe we only get to see who we truly are when the chips are down. But I’m still ashamed of myself for telling the Russian where the papers were. When I did, Dimitri moved away from Valerie, she started swearing at me in French, then there was a loud crack, a scream and I remember nothing more.


The ringing in my ears has finally ceased. But now someone’s banging on the door, shouting my name. It’s the hotel manager, a small weaselly man with just a thin scrape of hair combed across his scalp. 

‘A telephone call for you, Monsieur,’ he say, his eyes agog at the state of the room. I head down the hall towards the phone booth. The receiver is resting on the top.

I take a deep breath. ‘MacRae.’

‘Alan, is that you? It’s Bernard. Where on earth have you been? Listen, R’s mad as hell, wants to see you pronto. Meet Cairo embassy, Monday.’