Maralinga (10 page)

‘One might well ask what possible advantage MI6 has to offer in the light of Sir William's impeccable leadership over the years,' he said with a smile, which, if intended to be self-deprecating, didn't work, but then he didn't really intend it to. ‘And the answer is very little, because very little is necessary. Our presence at Maralinga will simply be an added precaution, given the precarious and uncertain times in which we live.'

He beckoned to his assisting officer, and Ned, a burly, pleasant-looking man in his early thirties, joined him.

‘I'd like to introduce Ned Hanson of MI6's Defence Signals Branch who will be permanently stationed at Maralinga.' Dropping the charm, Harold got down briskly to the business of the day. ‘I'd be most grateful if you'd extend Ned every courtesy and assist him with any enquiries he may have on my behalf. Your help will be of inestimable value, and most appreciated, believe me. I shall, of course, be down there myself from time to time, but for the most part,' he clapped Ned heartily on the shoulder, ‘Ned's your man.'

Business over, the charm once again emerged. ‘Our presence will be very low key,' he said, ‘more secretarial than anything really. None of that cloak-and-dagger stuff, I can assure you – in fact you'll hardly notice we're there.' He gave a personable grin and gazed around the room, establishing eye contact with as many as he could. ‘I look forward to working with you all very much, and I thank you for your attention.'

Harold was pleased. The tone of his address had impressed the men, he could tell – as well it should. The situation had called for diplomacy, and his
balance between the authoritative and the informal had been perfect.

‘Thank you, Sir William,' he said, relinquishing the floor with gracious aplomb. ‘I appreciate this opportunity to chat to the team.' He returned to his seat, the implication being
you may carry on.

As Sir William Penney rose to conclude the briefing, he thought how very little Harold Dartleigh had changed. The man was as arrogant, detestable and self-opinionated as he had been at Cambridge. They didn't need him at Maralinga. The whole team had been working like a well-oiled machine for years – on every level, including that of security. And now, when all their hard work had paid off and they were to be awarded the supreme opportunity of a permanent nuclear testing site, MI6 was stepping in. They didn't need MI6, he thought. And certainly not in the form of Harold Dartleigh.

 

The King's Rooms, in the heart of London, not far from Soho Square, was a highly exclusive gentlemen's club. Rumoured to have been one of King George IV's favourite haunts, with bawdy bars and backrooms and accommodation upstairs for whatever resulted from the evening's activities, its architecture and its history were colourful. The former tavern had been converted to a club for gentlemen in the early Edwardian era, when adventurous entrepreneurs had simultaneously acquired the adjoining property and linked the two to create an opulent health spa, complete with black and white marble-tiled steam rooms and mineral baths. Now, nearly fifty years on, the King's Rooms, with its historic bathhouse, plush lounges, fine dining
and service par excellence, was a renowned oasis for gentlemen of the upper classes. Here the idle rich and the elite of the professional world could mingle freely, unbothered by the common herd.

For Harold Dartleigh, the King's Rooms was a home away from home.

‘I shall be staying at the club tonight,' he said to his wife as he prepared to leave for London.

‘Very well, dear. You haven't forgotten that Catherine's arriving tomorrow, have you?'

‘Of course not.' He had. ‘I shall be home in time for dinner, I promise.'

He picked up his briefcase, and his wife followed him into the main hall where Wilson, the butler, was waiting beside the front doors.

‘Excellent.' Lavinia's smile was just a little forced. He'd forgotten all about his daughter's arrival, she thought. He wouldn't have forgotten if it had been Nigel. ‘She's so looking forward to seeing you.'

Lavinia very much doubted whether Catherine was looking forward to seeing her father at all – the friction between them was not one-sided – but she considered it her duty to offer the pretence of their daughter's affection.

Harold donned the hat and scarf Wilson offered, but not the overcoat, choosing to carry it instead – it would be warm in the car.

The butler swung open the doors, and Harold and Lavinia, arms linked about each other's waists like young lovers, walked outside into the main courtyard and the crisp cold of the morning.

‘Take care, my darling,' she said, kissing him tenderly on the lips as she always did.

‘I shall, my love.' He returned the kiss with equal tenderness, feeling the faintest sense of arousal as he recalled their lovemaking the previous night.

‘I'll miss you,' she whispered, and they exchanged a smile, both aware of what the other was thinking.

‘I'll miss you too.' He kissed her again before crossing the gravelled courtyard to where the Bentley was waiting, the chauffeur standing to attention beside the rear passenger door.

The engine turned over, Harold settled himself and, as the car slowly pulled away, gazed through the window at his wife. Captured in the clear frosty light, with the ivy-clad stone walls of the house a perfect background, she looked so beautifully English. Lavinia was still such an attractive woman, he thought. How very lucky he was.

Harold made love to his wife on a regular basis. With the exception of those times when he was called away from home, he made a point of having sexual intercourse once a week, sometimes twice if business did not necessitate his staying in the city for a night or so. He considered sex beneficial on all levels. Good sexual relations lent vitality to his marriage, ensured his wife's contentment, and enhanced their public image as a couple. Besides, he very much enjoyed it.

 

The steam baths and pools of the King's Rooms were deserted, as was customary in the mid-afternoon. But this was Friday. In an hour or so they would be crowded with prominent businessmen, barristers, politicians and the odd judge, all winding down after a long week's work, some buying time before
embarking upon a weekend of family duties they might have preferred to ignore.

Harold, towel around his waist, skin a glistening mix of sweat and water, sat alone on one of the marble benches in the main steam room, the mist all-enveloping and the silence absolute but for the steady drip-drip of condensation. The steam rooms of the Edwardian bathhouse had been beautifully preserved. A large arch led from the main room to several smaller rooms, all linked with arches, and the floors throughout were impressively tiled in black and white marble. The ceramic wall tiles also being black and white, the overall effect was surreal, a misty, maze-like, all-consuming chessboard.

Having checked out the steam rooms and finding them deserted, Harold now sat facing the main door, awaiting the arrival of his guest. He loved having the place to himself. He'd deliberately arrived a good twenty minutes early in the hope there'd be no-one here. He hoped no-one would arrive during his planned meeting too – he enjoyed talking business in the steam rooms. No matter though – if the place got crowded, they could easily adjourn to one of the private lounges.

To Harold, the King's Rooms was far more than a home away from home; it was a highly valued place of business where confidences could be exchanged free of potential eavesdroppers and gossipmongers. At the King's Rooms an English gentleman's privacy was respected, which, in Harold's line of business, was eminently desirable.

The door opened and a towel-clad figure stood silhouetted against the light. Even through the veil of
steam, Harold couldn't fail to recognise the body. Few were as finely honed as Gideon Melbray.

‘Hello, Gideon,' he said.

‘I take it that's you, Harold?' Gideon closed the door and made his way towards the voice.

‘Of course it is, man. Good to see you.'

Harold shook the younger man's hand, and Gideon sat, peering about, his eyes adjusting to the gloom.

‘Got the place to ourselves, have we?'

‘We have.'

‘That's lucky.'

‘Not really. The baths are generally deserted around this time of day.'

‘Ah.' Gideon nodded. ‘Right.' He wouldn't know himself – he wasn't a member of the King's Rooms, visiting the club only on the rare occasions Harold summoned him. Usually they met in one of the lounges.

‘I left word at the front door,' Harold said. ‘I presume you had no trouble getting in?'

‘Good God, no, far from it. Mention your name and it's
open sesame
around here. The head doorman treated me like I was royalty.'

‘Glad to hear it.' Harold smiled, pleased by the remark. But then he'd always found Gideon's admiration pleasing. Anyone would. It was flattering to be admired by an Adonis.

Gideon Melbray was indeed a handsome man. Gifted with a charm he knew how to use and with golden-haired looks that belied his thirty-five years, Gideon somehow managed to maintain the essence of youth. He and Harold had met at the British embassy in Washington just prior to the end of the war,
when Gideon, a newly-arrived attaché, had replaced Harold's previous assistant.

Gideon had been instantly in awe of the worldly Harold Dartleigh, heir to a peerage and the epitome of sophistication. Harold, in turn, had been flattered by the young man's unashamed admiration, and had happily become his mentor, inviting him into his home and therefore his life.

Lavinia, too, had taken Gideon under her wing. She'd introduced him to Washington's elite, who, impressed by his beauty, had welcomed him into their midst. Gideon's beauty, however, had not been his principal calling card. Any friend of the Dartleighs would have been acceptable. The acknowledged doyens of Washington society, along with the crustiest of old-money families, had embraced Harold and Lavinia from the outset. An English title always had been, and always would be, the perfect entrée to the capital city of the free world.

At the end of the war, when the Dartleighs had returned to England, they had relinquished all personal ties with Gideon, despite the fact that he too had returned to his mother country. Lavinia would have liked to have kept in touch, but Harold had deliberately allowed the relationship to peter out, deeming it wise for professional reasons, which he did not share with his wife.

In accepting his position with MI6, the first person Harold had recruited had been Gideon Melbray. Gideon, with his looks and charm, had a talent for insinuating himself into the lives of others, an asset Harold had recognised as invaluable in a covert operative. His judgement had proved correct and Gideon,
while ostensibly serving in the diplomatic corps, had become one of MI6's most valued undercover agents. It was no longer possible for the two of them to socialise openly as they had in Washington.

‘How's Lavinia?' Gideon sprawled indolently on the bench, his back against the wall, his legs spread wide, surrendering himself to the sensuality of the heat. ‘I haven't seen her since the French embassy ball, and that was months ago.'

Whenever he bumped into Lavinia, as he did on occasions – London could be a very small place for those who mingled in certain circles – Gideon took great care to observe the rules. He always had an excuse at the ready when an invitation was extended, but he regretted the necessity. He missed Lavinia. He'd been immensely fond of her during their Washington days.

‘I thought she was looking splendid,' he said. ‘Quite the most beautiful woman there in fact –'

‘Lavinia's very well, thank you,' Harold interrupted, brusquely dispensing with the niceties – they were not here to talk about his wife. ‘Let's get on with things, shall we,' and he proceeded to give a succinct account of Sir William Penney's briefing at Aldermaston the previous week.

Accustomed to Harold's manner and unfazed by his rudeness, Gideon raked the damp hair from his face, sat forward, elbows on his knees, and listened attentively.

‘The boffins will close ranks on us,' Harold said in conclusion. ‘Penney's highly protective, and his team works on a strictly need-to-know basis – they'll play safe and report only on their specific areas of
expertise. Not one of them will dare offer an inside observation or opinion, which means we'll be left well and truly in the dark.' Annoyance flashed in his steely eyes. ‘It's ludicrous allowing boffins to run the show, it's not their place. I intend to know everything and to be one step ahead the whole time, which is where you come in.'

‘What about your man from Defence Signals Branch, Ned what's-his-name?'

‘Hanson – he's a plodder. Non-assertive, strictly clerk material, which is why I chose him. He'll do his job, mind his own business, and everyone will feel safe with him.' Wiping the sweat from his face with a hand towel, Harold allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. ‘Ned will be our perfect frontman. He'll plod along unwittingly, the face of MI6, while you will gain people's trust and gather what you can.'

‘And my cover?'

‘You'll be working with the Department of Supply. I'll have you transferred for training in the next couple of months, and when you've served time there, you'll be seconded to Maralinga as senior requisitions officer. As SRO you'll have freedom of access to most areas, but if you run into any difficulties, you'll contact me and I'll arrange the necessary clearance.'

‘Sounds like the perfect set-up.'

‘Yes, it does rather, doesn't it?'

They shared a smile, and Harold stood. ‘Ready for a cold plunge?'

‘I'm game if you are.'

Outside, the modernised pools, shower bays and
benches, which retained the black and white tiled motif of the original steam baths, remained deserted, but business was clearly about to pick up. From the nearby change rooms came the sound of male voices and the slam of locker doors.