This Was A Man (2 page)

Karin’s stepfather opened the front door of the cottage and welcomed her with an unusually warm smile.

‘I have some good news to share with you,’ he said as she stepped into the house, ‘but it will have to wait until later.’

Could it just be possible, thought Karin, that this nightmare was finally coming to an end? Then she saw a copy of
The Times
lying on the kitchen table, open at the obituaries page. She
stared at the familiar photograph of Baroness Forbes-Watson and wondered if it was just a coincidence, or if he had left it open simply to provoke her.

Over coffee, they talked of nothing consequential, but Karin could hardly miss the three suitcases standing by the door, which appeared to herald imminent departure. Even so, she became more
anxious by the minute, as Pengelly remained far too relaxed and friendly for her liking. What was the old army expression, ‘demob happy’?

‘Time for us to talk about more serious matters,’ he said, placing a finger to his lips. He went out to the hallway and removed his heavy overcoat from a peg by the door. Karin
thought about making a run for it, but if she did, and all he was going to tell her was that he was returning to Moscow, her cover would be blown. He helped her on with her coat and accompanied her
outside.

Karin was taken by surprise when he gripped her arm firmly and almost marched her down the deserted street. Usually she linked her arm in his so that any passing stranger would assume they were
father and daughter out for a walk, but not today. She decided that if they came across anyone, even the old colonel, she would stop and talk to him, because she knew Pengelly wouldn’t dare
take a risk if there was a witness present. Like all spies, he assumed everyone else was a spy.

Pengelly continued his jovial banter. This was so out of character Karin became even more apprehensive, her eyes darting warily in every direction, but no one appeared to be taking a
constitutional on that bleak, grey day.

Once they reached the edge of the woods, Pengelly looked back, as he always did, to see if anyone was following them. If there was, they would retrace their steps and head back to the cottage.
But not this afternoon.

Although it was barely four o’clock, the light was already beginning to fade and it was becoming darker by the minute. He gripped her elbow more firmly as they stepped off the road and on
to a path that led into the woods. His voice changed to match the cold night air.

‘I know you’ll be pleased to hear, Karin’ – he never called her Karin – ‘that I’ve been promoted and will soon be returning to Moscow.’

‘Congratulations, comrade. Well deserved.’

He didn’t loosen his grip. ‘So this will be our last meeting,’ he continued. Could she possibly hope that . . . ‘But Marshal Koshevoi has entrusted me with one final
assignment.’ Pengelly didn’t elaborate, almost as if he wanted her to take her time thinking about it. As they walked deeper into the woods, it was becoming so dark that Karin could
hardly see a yard in front of her. Pengelly, however, seemed to know exactly where he was going, as if every pace had been rehearsed.

‘The head of counter-surveillance,’ he said calmly, ‘has finally uncovered the traitor in our ranks, the person who has for years been betraying the motherland. I have been
chosen to carry out the appropriate retribution.’

His firm grip finally relaxed and he released her. Her first instinct was to run, but he had chosen the spot well. A clump of trees behind her, to her right the disused tin mine, to her left a
narrow path she could barely make out in the darkness, and towering above her, Pengelly, who couldn’t have looked calmer or more alert.

He slowly removed a pistol from the pocket of his overcoat, and held it menacingly by his side. Was he hoping she would make a run for it, so it would take more than a single bullet to kill her?
But she remained rooted to the spot.

‘You’re a traitor,’ said Pengelly, ‘who has done more damage to our cause than any agent in the past. So you must die a traitor’s death.’ He glanced in the
direction of the mine shaft. ‘I’ll be back in Moscow long before they discover your body, if they ever do.’

He raised the gun slowly until it was level with Karin’s eyes. Her last thought before he pulled the trigger was of Giles.

The sound of a single shot echoed through the woods, and a flock of starlings flew high into the air as her body slumped to the ground.

1978–1979

N
UMBER
S
IX
squeezed the trigger. The bullet left the rifle at 212 miles per hour, hitting its target a couple of inches below
the left collarbone, killing him instantly.

The second bullet embedded itself in a tree, yards from where both bodies had fallen. Moments later five SAS paratroopers stormed through the undergrowth past the disused tin mine and surrounded
both bodies. Like highly trained mechanics at a Formula One pit stop, each of them carried out his duties without discussion or question.

Number One, a lieutenant in charge of the unit, picked up Pengelly’s gun and placed it in a plastic bag, while Number Five, a doctor, knelt by the woman’s side and felt for a pulse:
weak, but still alive. She must have fainted on hearing the sound of the first shot, which is why men facing a firing squad are often strapped to a post.

Numbers Two and Three, both corporals, lifted the unknown woman gently on to a stretcher and carried her towards a clearing in the woods some hundred yards away, where a helicopter with its
blades already whirring awaited them. Once the stretcher was strapped inside, Number Five, the medic, climbed aboard to join his patient. The moment he’d clipped on his safety harness, the
helicopter lifted off. He checked her pulse again; a little steadier.

On the ground, Number Four, a sergeant and the regiment’s heavyweight boxing champion, picked up the second body and threw it over his shoulder as if it were a sack of potatoes. The
sergeant jogged off at his own pace, in the opposite direction to his colleagues. But then, he knew exactly where he was going.

A moment later a second helicopter appeared, and circled overhead, casting a wide beam of light on to the area of operation. Numbers Two and Three quickly returned from their stretcher-bearing
duties and joined Number Six, the marksman, who’d climbed down from a tree, his rifle slung over his shoulder, as they began searching for the two bullets.

The first bullet was embedded in the ground just yards from where Pengelly had fallen. Number Six, who had followed its trajectory, located it within moments. Although every member of the unit
was experienced in spotting ricochet marks or gunpowder residue, the second still took a little longer to discover. One of the corporals, on only his second mission, raised a hand the moment he
spotted it. He dug it out of the tree with his knife and handed it to Number One, who dropped it into another plastic bag; a souvenir that would be mounted in a Mess that never had a guest night.
Job done.

The four men ran back past the old tin mine towards the clearing and emerged just as the second helicopter was landing. The lieutenant waited until his men had clambered on board before he
joined the pilot in the front and fastened his seat belt. As the helicopter lifted off, he pressed a stopwatch.

‘Nine minutes, forty-three seconds. Just about acceptable,’ he shouted above the roar of the rotating blades – he’d assured his commanding officer that the exercise would
not only be successful, but would be completed in under ten minutes. He looked down on the terrain below and, other than a few footprints that would be washed away by the next rain shower, there
was no sign of what had just taken place. If any of the locals had spotted the two helicopters heading off in different directions, they would not have given it a second thought. After all, RAF
Bodmin was only twenty miles away, and daily ops were part of everyday life for the local residents.

One local, however, knew exactly what was going on. Colonel Henson MC (Rtd), had phoned RAF Bodmin within moments of seeing Pengelly leave the cottage firmly clutching his daughter’s arm.
He’d rung the number he’d been instructed to call if he thought she was in any danger. Although he had no idea who was on the other end of the line, he delivered the single word
‘Tumbleweed’ before the line went dead. Forty-eight seconds later, a brace of helicopters was in the air.

The commanding officer walked across to the window and watched as two Puma aircraft flew over his office and headed south. He paced around the room, checking his watch every few
seconds. A man of action, he wasn’t born to be a spectator, although he reluctantly accepted that at the age of thirty-nine, he was too old for covert operations.
They also serve who only
stand and wait.

When ten minutes had finally passed, he returned to the window, but it was another three minutes before he spotted a single helicopter descending through the clouds. He waited a few more seconds
before he felt it was safe to uncross his fingers, because if the second one was following in its wake, it would mean the operation had failed. His instructions from London could not have been
clearer. If the woman was dead, her body was to be flown to Truro and placed in a private hospital wing, where a third team already had their instructions. If she had survived she was to be flown
to London, where a fourth team would take over. The CO didn’t know what their orders were and had no idea who the woman was; that information was way above his pay grade.

When the helicopter landed, the CO still didn’t move. A door opened and the lieutenant jumped out, bending double as the blades were still rotating. He ran a few yards before he stood up
straight and, seeing the colonel standing at the window, gave him a thumbs up. The CO breathed a sigh of relief, returned to his desk and phoned the number on his notepad. It would be the second
and last time he spoke to the cabinet secretary.

‘Colonel Dawes, sir.’

‘Good evening, colonel,’ said Sir Alan.

‘Operation Tumbleweed completed and successful, sir. Puma One back at base. Puma Two on its way home.’

‘Thank you,’ said Sir Alan, and put the phone down. There wasn’t a moment to waste. His next appointment would be turning up at any minute. As if he was a
prophet, the door opened and his secretary announced, ‘Lord Barrington.’

‘Giles,’ Sir Alan said, getting up from behind his desk and shaking hands with his guest. ‘Can I offer you some tea or coffee?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Giles, who was only interested in one thing: finding out why the cabinet secretary had wanted to see him so urgently.

‘Sorry to drag you out of the chamber,’ said Sir Alan, ‘but I need to discuss a private matter with you, on Privy Council terms.’

Giles hadn’t heard those words since he’d been a cabinet minister, but he didn’t need reminding that whatever he and Sir Alan were about to talk about could never be repeated,
unless the other person present was also a privy councillor.

Giles nodded, and Sir Alan said, ‘Let me begin by saying your wife Karin is not Pengelly’s daughter.’