The sterling affair, p.43
The Sterling Affair, page 43
The ash, hanging impossibly from the unsmoked cigarette, finally gave up, dropping in an untidy grey and white heap on Mariella Novotny’s polished mahogany desk.
Ellen was right: her get-out-of-jail-free card was not as valuable as she had believed. The time had come to leave. Leave the party. Leave the organisation. Leave the country.
Nikita Sokolov stepped out from the small terraced house onto the dark deserted street. He inched the front door shut, painfully slowly. He winced when the door closed with a metallic crack. He walked a few feet along the pavement to where the car was waiting for him. Except, it wasn’t there. He glanced up and down the road, wondering where it had gone. His instruction to the driver couldn’t have been simpler: ‘wait here until I return.’
‘Looking for something?’ a voice said from behind, startling him. He whipped around to see a woman gazing at him. ‘Nikita Sokolov,’ the woman added, stepping from the shadows. She was in her early sixties, with tightly curled white hair and wearing a pair of round dark-rimmed glasses. He had no idea at all of her identity.
‘Who are you?’ Nikita demanded.
‘I’m here to give you a choice, Mr Sokolov,’ she said. ‘My friends waiting in those vans just behind us can take you off to spend whatever little amount of life your emphysema permits you at Her Majesty’s pleasure, or you can continue living freely as you have been, but with a new paymaster.’
Nikita made a scoffing noise. ‘You want me to defect? Ha! And what is it you think I shall be going to prison for?’
‘Mr Sokolov, we’ve followed you from the Embankment and waited while you carried Ellen Emmett inside. I’m in little doubt that, were we to open that front door, we would find Mrs Emmett deceased at your hands.’
Nikita glowered at the woman, then smirked. ‘I understand, now. You had chance to save her, but instead you saw chance to bring me in. You let her die, Mrs…?’
‘Mrs Strickland,’ she answered.
At that moment, a group of seven or eight men in dark coats and trilby hats began to walk towards him.
‘You leave no decision, Mrs Strickland,’ he said.
Mrs Strickland smiled. ‘Sensible choice,’ she said, leading him towards the group of men along the street.
The following night, Flora Sterling parked a rental car in the short-term quayside car park at Southampton Docks and walked up the gangplank of the 3,000-ton pleasure ship, Falaise. She had deliberately chosen demure and sober clothing so as not to draw the attention of her fellow passengers, not that most of them were in any position to judge or to go rushing off to the authorities: this night-time excursion was popular with wealthy adulterers wishing to whisk their mistresses off on a cross-channel trip to France. She should know, she had accompanied Harold Austin on one such trip not long into their relationship. There were no passport checks or questions asked of the passengers because the three-hour docking in France was an unofficial one.
Flora headed directly to the first-class cabin, which she had booked under a false name. She planned on not leaving the room until the ship docked at St Malo at 11.15 tomorrow morning. Then, she would leave the ship alongside the other passengers for a spot of sightseeing and shopping but, unlike the other passengers, she would not be returning to the ship. Her onward journey from there was completely and wonderfully unplanned.
Perhaps a spell in Paris and then on to Switzerland: she’d always wanted to see the Alps.
Flora looked out of her cabin window at the inky water swelling and swaying around the ship, then up to the star-speckled sky. A warm, contented feeling spread through her at the prospect of the new adventure ahead of her.
Chapter Thirty-One
Morton sipped his latte, watching Christopher Emmett as he processed the news. He was staring through the window of the Ardingly Café, clearly dumbfounded. Morton had just told him that he was due a half-share of an eighty-nine-thousand-pounds legacy which someone—he had yet to reveal who, exactly—had claimed, following the death of his biological father.
Christopher ran his fingers through his grey hair and blew air from his flushed cheeks. ‘So, this person is prepared to give me half of what I’m entitled to…on the proviso that I don’t go to the police?’ he asked incredulously. ‘If I went to the police, then I’d get the whole bloody lot!’
Morton shook his head. ‘This person will hand over every penny of your father’s estate.’
‘But…why am I to only get half, then?’ Christopher stammered.
Morton set his latte down on the table and opened up one of the two reports in front of him, which he had prepared, entitled THE DUGGAN CASE. He flicked through a few pages, then turned the report around to face Christopher. ‘Your closest DNA matches.’
Christopher squinted at the paper, unblinking. ‘Fayez Alexander Ibrahim.’ He looked at Morton. ‘Close family?’
‘He’s your half-brother,’ Morton revealed.
‘What?’ Christopher spluttered. ‘Half-brother? Ibrahim? But he sounds foreign!’
Morton was glad that, at this moment, except for one woman sitting alone beside the window, the café was empty. ‘Your father had some kind of a relationship with his mother, Nadia, in Egypt in 1956.’
“Some kind of a relationship,” Christopher echoed. ‘I’ll say. A half-brother… Wow.’
‘He’s very keen to make contact,’ Morton said, ‘if you’re willing.’
Christopher took a long breath in through his nose and then nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so. Does he know about my father’s exploits? Our father’s exploits?’
‘No, I’ve not told him anything,’ Morton replied. ‘I thought I would leave that up to you.’
Christopher raised his eyebrows. ‘Thanks.’
‘So, are you willing to accept the inheritance money?’
‘Yes,’ Christopher answered. ‘I won’t be trotting off to the police… In fact, this person has done me a favour, haven’t they? I mean, I knew nothing whatsoever about my father but I’m assuming by the thickness of this file, here, that you’ve uncovered quite a bit about him.’
‘And about your mother,’ Morton added.
‘Oh, golly,’ Christopher said. ‘Well, are you going to tell this person to get in touch?’
Morton nodded and then turned to the woman sitting alone beside the window. ‘Clarissa, come and meet Christopher.’
Clarissa stood up with a nervous smile and carried her cup of tea over to their table.
Christopher stood and offered her his hand. ‘Golly, that was quick,’ he quipped.
Clarissa tried to speak but was choked up with emotion.
‘Take a seat,’ Morton said to her.
Clarissa sat down beside Christopher, having listened to their conversation to this point.
Morton placed his hands on the two thick files in front of him. ‘These are my reports,’ he began. ‘I’ll leave you two to digest them in your own time but, knowing how baffled you probably both are, I’ll give you the highlights now. Okay?’
‘Yes,’ they said in unison.
‘So, Christopher…’ Morton started. ‘When I met you in St Pancras station, I believed that your father was named Alexander Emmett.’
Christopher frowned, braced for something that was about to contradict that fact. ‘Yes…’ he said, drawing out the word.
‘I’ve subsequently found that Alexander Emmett was not, in fact, your father’s birth name.’
Christopher slumped in his chair. ‘Well, what was it, then?’
‘Hubert John Spencer.’
‘But why on earth did he need to change his name?’ Christopher asked. ‘Hang on a minute... Twice!’
‘I’ll come to that in a moment. So, your brother,’ Morton said with a gesture to Clarissa, ‘and your father’—a nod back to Christopher—‘grew up in this very village together and, along with another lad, William Gilmour, were best of friends. They were all members of the Radio Society of Great Britain and were avid amateur radio operators, which meant that, in the Second World War, they were recruited by MI8 as Voluntary Interceptors, listening in to German secret service broadcasts. The three of the boys also had a shared interest in communism—’
‘You’re joking?’ Christopher interjected.
‘No,’ Morton answered. ‘In fact, they were very committed to the cause of communism and, at some point in early 1944, the three boys were recruited by a Soviet agent, named Flora Sterling, probably as more of an investment in the future than for the intelligence which they would have been able to provide at that time.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Christopher blustered. ‘A commy!’
‘Then,’ Morton continued, ‘A V1 doodlebug rocket fell on Hubert Spencer’s house, killing his parents: your grandparents, Christopher.’ Morton paused, aware of the chain of tragedy which he was unravelling in Christopher’s family tree.
‘God,’ Christopher stammered. ‘This is a terribly depressing story, isn’t it?’
Morton felt sorry for the poor man but was compelled to continue: ‘Your father then went to live with William Gilmour, four doors down from the remnants of his parents’ bombed house, but, from what Clarissa here has told me, it appears that compromising material was discovered in the ruins and the boys were disallowed from continuing as VIs. Your father took most of the blame and was, therefore, unable to pursue the career path in radio and military intelligence, which he and his Soviet handlers had envisaged for him.’
‘Hence the name-change,’ Christopher chipped in to check that he was understanding correctly. ‘Hubert—my father—needing to change his name to continue with this career path, opted for this random name in Alexander Emmett?’
‘Yes,’ Morton confirmed. ‘Except that Alexander Emmett wasn’t a random name. Alexander was another ham radio enthusiast from Port Said in Egypt, whom your father had met over the airwaves. If you look here’—he opened one of the reports to a scanned page from the Radio Society of Great Britain Bulletin magazine—‘you can see how Hubert would likely have heard that Alexander had died and conceived of the idea.’
Christopher and Clarissa leant over the page. Christopher read the short article aloud: ‘Silent Keys. We regret to announce the death of Alexander Emmett SU6AD from Port Said, Egypt. Although just shy of his seventeenth birthday, he was an enthusiastic amateur and will be remembered by his many British and worldwide friends. Mr Emmett’s death was brought about by a motor car accident in his hometown. Our sympathies are extended to his family and friends.’
‘So, Alexander dies,’ Christopher began, ‘and my father thinks, I know! I’ll be him and take on his identity!’
‘Yes,’ Morton answered. ‘And, if you turn to the next page, you’ll see Hubert’s disembarkation record from the UK to Port Said.’
Christopher turned the page and duly read the record with a sullen nod.
‘If you look carefully at the name below his, you will see who accompanied him on that trip.’
‘Flora Sterling?’ Christopher read.
Morton nodded. ‘There’s a photo of her somewhere in here.’ He flicked through the file. ‘There. She’s quite a key player in all of this, as you’ll see.’
‘Wow, my goodness,’ Christopher gasped. ‘She was a stunner.’
‘So, then what happened?’ Clarissa asked.
‘Then, a few months later, having established a firm new back-story for Hubert, they return to the UK. Flora Sterling returns under her own name, but Hubert returns as his old ham radio friend, Alexander Emmett. He then gets a job as a journalist and, at some point, is picked up by MI6 to work for them, presumably because of his purported background in Egypt, which, at the height of the Suez Crisis, would have appeared invaluable to them. I think the spy parlance for such a person is a coat-trailer: that is to say, a spy who seeks to be recruited by the enemy in order to turn double-agent.’
‘Except his background in Egypt wasn’t real,’ Christopher remarked.
‘Quite,’ Morton agreed. ‘In those files, you will find evidence of his involvement in something called Operation Sawdust that was the British government’s attempt to overthrow or eliminate President Nasser of Egypt.’
‘What kind of involvement?’ Clarissa asked.
‘He was an active agent, working under the codename Jericho. What he did, precisely, I haven’t been able to find out. Most of the files are closed, heavily redacted or have mysteriously vanished. The prime minister of the time, Anthony Eden issued instructions that all relevant documents be destroyed. After his resignation, two officials from the Foreign Office gathered up all the sensitive papers on Egypt, including Operation Sawdust and put them in a file, marked SUEZ, which has disappeared.’
‘Typical,’ Christopher muttered.
‘It may be,’ Morton said, ‘that further documents are opened up to the public in the future, but, for now, the matter of one state leader trying to assassinate another in peacetime is still pretty contentious.’
‘Hmm,’ Clarissa agreed.
‘Right, so then he returns to the UK, meets and marries my mother,’ Christopher recapped. ‘I’m born, my mother commits suicide, my father runs away but comes back in 1974 under another name: Maurice Duggan. Right?’
‘Good gracious, this is complicated,’ Clarissa commented. ‘I’m not sure I’m keeping up…’
Morton smiled and continued regardless, as clearly as he could. ‘Shortly before the first name-change to Alexander, Maurice—Clarissa’s brother—had drowned whilst playing on the ice on Westwood Lake, not far from here. William and Hubert were his best friends and tried to save him but they just couldn’t.’
‘Oh that’s sad… I’m sorry about that, Clarissa. Maybe my dad took your brother’s name because he had something to do with my mum’s death?’ Christopher ventured, out of nowhere.
‘Well,’ Morton said, addressing Christopher’s suggestion, ‘you’ve missed out one or two key points.’
Christopher looked uncertainly at Clarissa, then back to Morton. ‘Go on.’
‘Whilst your father is busy out in Egypt, doing whatever he was doing as part of Operation Sawdust, William Gilmour was sending out state secrets to the Soviets, procured from the Foreign Secretary by his mistress, who was…’ Morton suspended the sentence in mid-air, waiting.
‘Flora Sterling?’ Christopher accurately guessed.
‘Correct. But,’ Morton said, ‘MI5 were on to them, employing their own agents to follow her every move. One of those agents was called Ellen Ingram.’
‘What?’ Christopher bellowed. ‘Bloody hell! My mother worked for MI5?’
‘Good grief,’ Clarissa said, although Morton was unsure whether that was in reaction to his revelation or to Christopher’s histrionic outburst.
‘Ironically, your mother helped to bring down William Gilmour and Flora Sterling.’
‘Then she topped herself…’ he muttered.
Morton thought for a moment, wanting to choose his words very carefully. ‘I think you need to view both of your parents’ deaths with a degree of suspicion, given the lives they led.’
As he expected, Christopher shot him a look of horror. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I’ve evidence for nothing more than that,’ Morton replied. ‘But, I’ve been through it all with my wife, who is a police officer, and she thinks that there could be something there, but that a better approach might be to get the case publicised first. I know a journalist you could try contacting.’
‘If it can reveal what really happened to my parents, then yes, of course,’ Christopher said. ‘One thing I still don’t understand, though, is why my father scarpered as soon as my mother died and why he left me as an orphan.’
‘This is why I think both of their deaths hold a degree of suspiciousness: if Ellen had killed herself, then why did he need to flee and why did he need to return under a false identity? One reason could be that she didn’t kill herself at all and that her death was a warning to him and a threat to you.’
‘And what about his suicide in April this year? He was supposed to have fallen from his balcony. Are you saying that his death is suspicious, too?’ Clarissa asked.
‘More subtle than Novichok, I suppose,’ Christopher murmured.
‘I think that he was in the process of trying to reveal what he knew…write his memoirs,’ Morton explained. ‘He had a well-used book on memoir-writing and, given all those ink ribbons that came from his flat, he’d certainly been very active on his typewriter. And, yet, there wasn’t a single typed sheet in his flat. Where did it all go? His neighbour in Priory Flats, Derek, said that he was always typing and another neighbour, Winnie swears she heard someone in the building just before he was supposed to have killed himself.’
‘Let’s hope this journalist friend of yours does a good job,’ Christopher said.
‘I don’t know if you want these,’ Morton said, bending down to remove the Live and Let Die book and the pair of glasses from his bag and placing them on the table. ‘They belonged to your father during his stint as Maurice Duggan.’
Christopher pulled the items towards himself and smiled. ‘My father the spy.’
‘I’ve put Winnie’s details in the file for you, Christopher,’ Morton said. ‘She’s happy for you to contact her, if you wanted to know about his latter years in the village.’
‘Thank you,’ Christopher said. ‘And thank you for all you’ve done. I look forward to digesting all of this in my own time but right now, I might take a walk through the village—see where he lived and visit the church. Do you fancy a walk, Clarissa?’
Clarissa smiled. ‘I’d like that very much.’
