Shadow Hunter (27 page)

He spun the combination lock on the small wall-safe beneath his desk and took out a notebook. He looked through the list of things that had concerned him about Commander Hitchens on that patrol.

Each incident of jumpiness, aggression or secretiveness looked small and insignificant on its own, but a picture was beginning to emerge. But a picture of what?

Evidence of mental instability? Or just the tension of working under highly secret, highly sensitive orders?

But Hitchens had been on the point of strangling Cordell in the control room earlier; Pike had seen it with his own eyes. He'd lost his self-control, and that was dangerous. If he did it again when they were in contact with the Soviets he could put all their lives at risk.

The curtain across the doorway was brushed aside and Paul Spriggs came in. He spotted the notebook.

‘Something new happened?'

‘Could be.'

They'd each been making notes on Hitchens since the previous morning, keeping their writings separate. That way, if it came to anything, each man's evidence would have some claim to validity.

Suddenly the tannoy crackled.

‘Do you hear there! Captain speaking.'

Both men looked at one another in surprise. Pike was expecting to make ‘the pipe' himself in a few minutes' time.

‘Thought you'd like an update on our situation. We've just altered course to the east. Should be abeam North Cape sometime later tonight. We're heading on into the Barents Sea. Things are pretty tense up on the surface, so we'll all need to be very much on our toes from now on'
.

‘Things are pretty tense down here too, old chap,' Pike muttered.

‘
According to the World Service News summary
,' Hitchens' voice continued,
‘there was a little confrontation yesterday between one of the American flat-tops and a Soviet Bear bomber that got too close. The Yanks came within an inch of shooting it out of the sky.'

‘Fucking Americans! Always overreact,' snarled Spriggs.

‘The Soviet Northern Fleet has mustered a pretty strong ASW barrier to protect their bastions. We've got to get through it tomorrow, undetected, and close with the Kola Inlet before all their SSNs get loose. Can't say any more than that at the moment.

‘Ahead of us we can expect up to two Victor Ills and two Sierras, according to the intelligence report. With a bit of luck three of those will be well to the north of us, but we're sticking close to the coast – we have to because we're in a hurry – so there'll be a few SSKs around and a lot of aircraft.

‘I'm sorry we didn't manage to take in any family-grams this morning. We had to put the mast down before we'd received them – for operational reasons.'

‘Huh,' Pike mocked. ‘In case our own side finds out what we're up to.'

‘Do you mean that?'

‘Shh!'

‘In conclusion
. . .'

Hitchens' voice sounded unsteady, almost emotional.

‘I just want to say how terribly important this mission is. There's a lot depending on it, believe me. That is all.'

‘So bloody important, he won't even tell me what it is!'

Pike pushed back his chair and stood up, bristling with anger.

‘I've had enough! I'm going to have it out with him!'

Spriggs pushed Pike back down into his seat.

‘Cool it Tim! If you go blazing in like that, you'll be up on a charge!'

‘Fuck him! The bastard's got right up my nose!'

‘Okay. But talk sense for a minute. That crash-dive this morning, to get away from one of our own planes? You think we're not
meant
to be here? The plane was looking for us, is that what you're saying?'

‘Yes. That
is
what I'm saying, but I've no way of proving it.'

Spriggs was aghast.

‘But why? Hitchens is a rule-book man. He'd never chance his arm . . .'

‘Sure? Do you know what's going on in his mind? I don't. The man's a closed book to me.'

Paul thought of the explosive power stacked in the bow compartment of the submarine. Harpoon missiles that could devastate surface ships over fifty miles away; Tigerfish torpedoes that could rip through the double-hulls of Soviet submarines; and Moray mines that could lie dormant in the depths before darting from the dark to cripple the unsuspecting. He shivered.

‘If you really believe he's acting against orders, Tim, then we've got to do something about it. And fast!'

‘We need proof, Paul. And how the hell do we get it?'

TWO SECURITY MEN
sat next to each other on a commuter flight to Plymouth. They spoke little.

Hillier was SIS, the Secret Intelligence Service or MI6, controlled by the Foreign Office. Black was MI5, a Home Office man. Hillier was tall and gaunt with a fine-boned nose, Black stocky with a tendency to sweat. The former styled himself a diplomat, the latter a policeman.

‘Nearly there,' Hillier declared in a voice edged with boredom, glancing at his gold wrist-watch.

John Black pulled back his sleeve to reveal his own timepiece, digital and stainless-steel. It was a quarter-to-nine. They'd been served breakfast on the flight.

‘The watchers'll have just changed shift,' Black mumbled. ‘Boring bloody job, that is.'

‘Did well yesterday, your man.' Hillier's voice was patronizing. ‘Spotting Gunnar like that. Very timely.'

‘Except that Gunnar spotted him at the same time. He'll get a reprimand.'

‘Don't be too hard. He's probably given us an extra twenty-four hours. We needed that.'

The previous evening, Hillier had been halfway out of his office in the Soviet Department at Century House, when he'd received the summons to the Director's office. The instructions he'd been given were highly irregular. He didn't know where the orders came from, but it had to be the Foreign Secretary himself. And that meant the PM. He couldn't believe Sir Nigel would take a flyer on a thing like this.

The Director had been uneasy about the whole business. Doubted the wisdom of it. He refused to use their
Moscow agents to plant the information about
HMS Truculent.
The call from MI5 to say the Russian had been seen again, sniffing near Sara Hitchens' home, had been timely. Very timely.

Normally, feeding information to the Russians was an MI6 job, but handling Soviet spies on British soil was MI5. Hence the two of them were on the breakfast flight to the West Country. Their meeting with Mrs Hitchens was fixed for nine o'clock.

‘Remind me what you've got on Gunnar,' Hillier asked wearily as they turned from the airport road onto the Plymouth by-pass. Black was driving the hired car.

‘Not a lot,' Black grunted, braking sharply as a motorcyclist weaved in front of them. ‘Knew nothing about him until all this blew up. Found out where he lived by accident. Sharp-eyed neighbour saw the man and his missus moving their stuff out of the house in the middle of the night. Called the police the next day.

‘In too much of a hurry – they were. Got careless. Left some coding pads. We assumed they'd have got out of the country, but we kept a watch on Mrs Hitchens just in case. Yesterday he suddenly turned up. Drove straight past her house. It was us he was looking for. Saw us the same moment we saw him. Off like a rocket. Our man put out a call to the local police, but Gunnar disappeared.'

‘Bit daring, isn't he, coming back to the house? She must've been giving him something special!' Hillier sneered.

‘Probably wants to shut 'er up. Thinks she's the only one who can identify him. Do her in and he could slip back into the undergrowth for a year or two, then emerge with a new cover.'

‘Well, she'll be safe enough with your brave boys parked at the end of her drive!'

Black felt the back of his neck prickle. Hillier was needling him because his watcher had failed to conceal himself properly.

‘Have you met her?' Hillier asked.

‘Mmm. Came down here when the case broke. Temperamental bitch.'

Hillier looked about him as they drove through the first of the grey stone villages to the southeast of the city. Some pretty properties here, he thought to himself.

‘Will she play, d'you think?'

Black thought for a moment. He took out a cigarette and lit it. Hillier pointedly wound down his window.

‘Tell her her old man's life could depend on it, and she might. Curious that; she says she still loves him despite all the stuff she got up to behind his back.'

‘Ah, women! Where
would
we be without them!'

Black cast him a sideways glance.

‘Some of us manage very well, thanks.'

Sara had been awake most of the night, worrying. The MI5 man had given no reason for needing to see her again. During the night she'd thought she could hear someone outside, prowling round the house.

She watched unseen from a window as the two men got out of their car, then waited for them to ring the bell before she let them in.

‘Hello, Mrs Hitchens.'

Black tried to sound jovial.

Sara nodded a greeting, eyeing Hillier with suspicion.

‘You'll have to make do with the kitchen, I'm afraid. That's where I live when I'm alone here,' she said, leading them in.

She switched on the kettle and pointed to the old pine table.

‘I'm not sure why . . .'

‘Let me introduce myself.' The SIS man extended his hand. ‘Hillier from the Foreign Office . . .'

‘I've already told Mr Black everything I can remember . . .'

‘So you want to know why we're here? Naturally.'

Hillier spoke to her as if she had a mental age of five.

‘Glad you've got the kettle on. I could do with a cuppa.'

Sara became increasingly nervous. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

‘Tea or coffee?'

‘Coffee, please.'

‘Tea, if you don't mind,' added Black.

Sara reached for a cupboard.

‘What a delightful kitchen.'

Hillier's comment annoyed her.

‘Isn't it just?' she answered abruptly. ‘But let's skip the polite conversation, shall we? Would you mind telling me what you want?'

Hillier's eyebrows arched upwards.

‘Very well . . .'

Tread carefully with this one, he told himself.

‘This man who called himself Gunnar . . ,' he paused. ‘We're anxious to know if he's contacted you again?'

‘Certainly not! He won't come back after what I said to him.'

She searched their faces for clues. Their blank expressions made her shiver.

‘You think he will?'

The footsteps round the house last night . . .

‘We think he might, yes.'

‘He'll be in Moscow by now, surely?'

‘We believe not, Mrs Hitchens,' Black chipped in. ‘A man fitting his description was seen near here yesterday.'

‘Oh . . .' Her voice caught in her throat.

‘The fact is, we're keen that he should contact you,' Hillier added.

‘Why?' she snapped defensively.

‘We want you to tell him something; give him a specific piece of information.'

‘What sort of information?'

‘We'll come to that in a minute. But do you agree to help us?'

Hillier's face was friendly, Black's hard. In the familiar warmth of her kitchen the two men seemed enormous, threatening.

‘I don't know. Why should I?'

Hillier folded his arms and sighed, like a schoolteacher whose patience was reaching its limits.

‘I'm told you're an intelligent woman, Mrs Hitchens. I
don't need to spell
everything
out, do I? Suffice it to say, your husband is approaching the coast of Russia with a boatload of sophisticated weaponry. He's not behaving normally. Thousands of lives may be in danger, his being one of them.'

‘Oh, God!'

Her worst fears were suddenly being confirmed.

‘But what can
I
do about it?'

‘Within forty-eight hours your husband may trigger off a spot of genocide. Now, of course all sorts of things are being done at official levels to ensure it doesn't happen. But it's just possible the Navy may not stop him in time. So, we – that's you and us – we're like an insurance policy. To give the Soviets an inkling that we've a problem we may not be able to handle. Have to do it indirectly, though. And that means you.'

Sara swallowed. Her heart was racing. Genocide? For God's sake!

‘But . . , how's that going to help, if the Russians know about the problem?' she demanded.

‘It means they'll keep well out of the way, if they've any sense,' Black answered briskly. ‘They don't want a war any more than we do.'

Sara felt sick. To think she'd started all this!

‘Now, there are things we need to know,' Black continued. ‘When you were seeing this man, how did you make contact?'

‘He would ring when he came to Plymouth. If I wanted to contact him, I'd leave a message at the Holiday Inn. Even when he wasn't in Plymouth, they'd take calls for him.'

‘I'll bet he's not using them any more,' Black growled. ‘We think he'll contact you soon. A phone-call or a message of some sort.'

‘But what does he want? I told him I'd never see him again.'

The two men shifted uncomfortably.

‘He's obviously very fond of you, Mrs Hitchens,' Hillier said in an oily tone.

‘There'll be no risk to you in all this,' Black explained. ‘You've got protection. Twenty-four hour cover.'

Sara looked startled.

‘Protection? From Gunnar?'

‘Just a precaution,' Hillier soothed. ‘One of John Black's men is keeping an eye on the house. You'll be quite safe.