The Shadow State *11 May - Ch5 added
Posted: 2012-04-04 02:47am
This is a very early draft of an introduction to a piece I recently got inspired to try. Those of you who I have bounced ideas off, no spoilers please.
Update 19/4/2012 - Chapter 4 posted. This is a bit messy as I wanted to get to some future events. That's the problem with a multiple year narrative.
***FIC COMMENCE = 1***
Chapter 1
28 August 1976 0720GMT
Kingston upon Thames, London Metropolitan Area, United Kingdom
On a quiet street not far from Ham Common a family exits their conjoined brick home, the man sporting the attire of a city worker - conservative suit, briefcase and umbrella, the wife that of a shop lady and a young daughter in a school uniform. As a group they walk briskly down the street towards the nearby schools and station. Halfway down the street two men sit in a plumber's van eating their breakfast.
"Let me see that family file again." The man in the driver's seat demands. The folder is passed over, open to the right page. "Two daughters it says here. Twelve and Eight. I see an eight year old, no twelve year old. Second day in a row. Where're the logs from the overnight crew?"
"Got 'em here." The passenger scans the report, "No mention of her coming home. No bedroom light. This isn't going to be a quick one, is it Sir?"
---
28 August 1976 1745GMT
Century House, London
The wood panelling of the room and it's large, thick table and leather backed chairs gives it a clubby, collegial feel. There are five men seated around the table, all tailored suits and high quality tobacco. What conversation that they share is trivial, distractions from their evident anxiety. A sixth man enters, short and stooped somewhat by age with a lean build and a face, slowly sagging as time passes and closes the door behind him. In the corridor outside a light above the door illuminates. "Apologies for the delay everyone, please take one of these folders and sign and countersign the relevant registry information. Gregory, you're representing Five here, get us started." A fifty-ish man leans forward and begins to speak.
"Our subject is James Vernon Watkins, thirty six, married, two children. Lives in Kingston upon Thames. SIS officer, recruited upon graduation from Imperial College London with a Bachelors in Economics by Ogilvy Perham. No overseas duty on file, lots of analysis roles and a few task forces - most recently of the South East European section focusing on the Czech weapons exportation industry." Gregory turns to his notes for a moment and draws on his cigarette, "Randomly selected for vetting review on July 16th of this year. Surveillance period commenced this week and the absence of his twelve year old daughter, Elisabeth, was noted this morning as no one has sighted her for the duration of the surveillance. The school she is recorded as attending in his file states that her enrolment was cancelled and she never attended." A rumbling quickly speeds around the table.
"So where the hell is his daughter? Has he just failed to update his security file?"
"An approach by a colleague today resulted in him stating that Elisabeth is attending that listed school, Tiffin's Girls." The grumbling stops. Silence remains. "If she is at school, we have no idea where, nor do we have a motivation for him lying. Neighbours and friends report that they saw her during Christmas and also the recent school holidays."
"What is our theory at this point? Obviously he's compromised at some level, whether this is a kidnapping and extortion or if he's committed a crime and is trying to cover it up or being blackmailed-"
"That is why we're here. I want to increase surveillance on the home and work routines and try to get what information we can."
"Gregory, I don't think anyone here will object to that. Obviously that's not all if you felt the need to convene all of us."
"We need to operate under the worst case scenario assumption, that he has been turned and recruited. We need to vet every file he's ever pulled from registry and expand the vetting to include work colleagues and friends." A portly man kicks his chair back as he stands up and shouts.
"JESUS! Just what we need, another bloody Five witch-hunt!" The man's cigarette is violently stubbed out as an exclamation point on his statement. "Are we really going ahead with this Peter?"
The old man who had started the meeting stands up, "Yes Warwick, we will be going ahead with this. C has made it exceptionally clear that he wants a clean house and so we best work damn hard on getting him one."
---
15 September 1976 2115GMT
Kingston upon Thames, London Metropolitan Area, United Kingdom
They'd given up on a van or other external surveillance early on, now there were multiple crews of Security Service "Watchers" on duty at all times, covering the house from both front and rear as well as shadowing all members of the family. Ensconced in homes or in civic buildings with lines of sight, the listening and command posts all watched and waited.
The inter-service meetings had been excruciating - as each contact, however random, was vetted in turn the investigation meandered slowly, occasionally hitting a dead end and slowly re-directing itself as new pathways were exposed by the mounting pressure. When James' wife had served a Bulgarian embassy official's wife at the boutique in which she worked the case had exploded into a frenzy. Every drop of intelligence ever gleaned from Bulgaria or any of their diplomatic outposts was re-examined. But that lead dried up, as all the others had, and the Watchers continued their surveillance.
"Cor, look at that!" Exclaims a young member of the team.
"What are we seeing?" The duty supervisor rushes to the window of the darkened room with his binoculars, excitement in his voice after long days and nights of tense tedium.
"Owl, a bleedin' snow owl. Just landed on their bedroom's windowsill."
"You pulled me over here for an owl?" The bird sits patiently on the ledge, pecking away at it's reflection.
"Sorry Sir, always went birding with my dad, but - that owl, it's not from Britain, not even migratory."
"Where would you find it?"
"Arctic Sir. Or Tundra. Movement Sir." The bedroom curtains shuffle and the dim illumination of the bedside lamp lights up the owl. James' silhouetted form looks down at the owl as the window slowly opens.
---
16 September 1976 0911GMT
Century House, London
The tape player sat on the table in the middle of the room and was rewound and played again, "It's a letter from Elisabeth," comes the voice. Gregory stops the recording. "That was recorded last night, at the same time, the Watchers took the photos you can see in front of you. He let the owl in, then he and his wife both read the letter which you can see affixed to the owl. There was no substantive conversation after this point and we cannot infer much from the limited exchanges." The MI5 man halts his report, anticipating the questions.
"An owl?" The incredulous voice is accompanied by many raised eyebrows, "Why not a more traditional method of contact? Even a pigeon?"
"Not just any owl. Bubo Scandiacus, the Snowy Owl. Most definitely not endemic to Great Britain. However it is widely distributed throughout Scandinavia, Russia and North America."
"So this could be the Russians or the cousins using it?" The room devolves into a hubbub as neighbours share theories.
"There are some further observations to make here - Watkins states that it is a letter from his daughter," Gregory holds up his hand, halting the questions, "and more importantly there is no sign of emotional distress from either himself or his wife after the letter is received and read."
"So no duress? This isn't extortion or kidnapping?"
"I guess it probably rules out her being dead as well."
"As we speak," Gregory continues, "One of our teams is making entry to the home and will be attempting to secure this letter. Now that we know there is correspondence, we will be conducting a focused search for that too."
"What about the owl?"
"A team attempted to follow it, but lost it heading North over Ham Common." The room settles into it's burbling background noise for a few moments before the old, stooped man at the head of the table speaks.
"Grab Watkins today - Five will run the interview and Six will sit in. Five, let the Watchers know that we're breaking cover. Turn that house over and find what you can. Make sure that the wife and other daughter are picked up and taken to a safe house. Something about this stinks to high heaven and I'd rather blow the chance to double him than have this boy going rabbit on us and be forced to see him getting chummy with Brezhnev on the front page of Pravda."
---
16 September 1976 0952GMT
Century House, London
For James Watkins, it was a day like any other. He scoured the various compiled clippings from a hundred newspapers around the world for any reference to new military or arms deals and contracts. Other officers came to him for his expertise, wondering about shipment dates and quantities of arms being sent to various liege states and warlords. As he sipped at his freshly poured tea and considered another document, he noticed that the office around him had grown quiet. Seven unfamiliar men stood near his desk, his supervisor conferring with one of them. "Mr James Watkins?" The nearest man spoke. The voice had a hard tone, military or police - authoritative, but not overbearing. His suit was nice, but not expensive, his build lean and strong.
"Err, yes?"
"Please come with us Sir."
"But my work - I need to return files to the Registry before I can leave."
"That will not be of any concern. Please, stand up now and come with us." James looked around the office, from other desks his co-workers stared, but no one made a single motion or spoke. He stands and goes to pick up his case. "Leave everything Sir." James obeys, following the man and flanked by two more as the others begin to search and document his desk, overcoat and briefcase.
---
16 September 1976 1032GMT
Century House, London
James had never been into this part of the building before. It scared him on a primal level. He had known that places like this must have existed, but had never visualised it before, beyond the typical jokes of the Spanish Inquisition. But it was banal. That made it more terrifying. The linoleum obviously freshly laid, the glue smell still in the air. "Oh God", he thinks, "Why does this room need fresh linoleum?" The walls painted the same atonal beige as a hospital corridor. One wall has a simple steel door, it's peeling paint probably once labelled Evergreen or Pine. The chair and the desk in front of it are simple stainless steel constructions. He feels the cold steel of handcuffs around his wrists and ankles.
In another room nearby Gregory Smythe of MI5 and Warwick Cooper of MI6 sits amongst a small group of others, watching a CCTV feed of the room. "Is he ready yet Gregory?"
"Give him a few more minutes to simmer. Wait for him to decide to test his shackles. If we come in then, we'll have him on the back foot immediately."
James waits, there are no windows, no clock, no way to tell the passing of time. He begins to shuffle in the chair, slowly trying the limits of his bonds. The door soundlessly sweeps open.
"So, Mr Watkins, Mr James Vernon Watkins," Gregory steps through the door "Not fiddling with your restraints I hope? They are there for everyone's safety."
"Wh-"
"No questions for now Mr Watkins." the second man comes in dragging two more steel chairs, which he places on the other side of the table and the men sit and slouch down into.
"Mr Watkins, we need to establish a few things first. I am Gregory of the Security Service, this is Warwick of your own Secret Service. You are James Vernon Watkins, born March 21 1942?"
"Yes, b-"
"You were recruited into MI6 at age twenty three by Ogilvy Perham."
"Yes." James begins to tremble.
"You currently work on economic intelligence relating to Czech arms exportation?"
"Yes."
"You have two daughters." A pause, for the first time.
"Y-yes."
"Where are your daughters Mr Watkins?"
"Rose attends the local primary and Elisabeth attend Tiff-"
"No she doesn't Mr Watkins."
"Mr Watkins, can you please explain why you lied on your security reports regarding the whereabouts of your daughter?" Warwick takes the lead as Gregory leans back to consult his notebook.
"I couldn't provide the new information."
"Why not? You tell us what school she's at and we put it in the report. It's not difficult. Did she drop out?"
"No."
"Is she pregnant? Is that why you've been hiding her?"
"SHE'S TWELVE!" shouts Watkins, finally beginning to show cracks.
"We know she's not at your house. Hasn't been for months. We checked. We know she has never turned up for a class at Tiffin's. We checked. We know she's not with any of your or your wife's family. We checked. We know she hasn't turned up as a Joe Bloggs in a hospital or morgue. We checked." Watkins begins to shake, his face turning a deep red as he grinds his teeth, "We know she's not been in police custody. We checked that too. You see that I'm running out of ideas here and we've got a lot of anxious sorts who seem to think she's sitting in Leningrad with a gun to her head getting you to hand over anything you can lay your hands on. And others who think that you've buried her in a wood somewhere and have been trying to keep the whole thing quiet."
"SHE'S SAFE!" He shouts, "SHE'S SAFE! And alive, God, you sick urgh," he shudders, regaining some composure "You bastards."
"But safe where?" Asks Gregory, leaning forward. "Afterall, her letters haven't provided much of a clue. We've only had a few hours, but there's clearly some form of substitution cipher as they're nonsense."
"What aren't you telling us Mr Watkins? Give us the address, so we can go and verify her safey ourselves."
"I don't have an address." Watkins admits as he slumps into his chair, sighing as he does. He laughs a little to himself and then leans forward towards his interrogators. "You have to promise that you will hear this story out. No matter what I say and how ridiculous it is, you will wait until I finish the story before asking questions or taking any other action." Gregory and Warwick share a look.
"OK Mr Watkins," Gregory pauses as he places a cassette recorder on the table and starts it, "Tell us your story."
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Chapter 2
29 September 1976 0900GMT
Security Service HQ, Gower St, London
Gregory Smythe brushes down his suit sleeves, a nervous tic in front of the assembled throng. This was the largest briefing that he was ever aware of having taken place and easily an order of magnitude larger than any he'd ever addressed, of the eighty invitees, there were scarcely any empty spaces. He saw a few familiar faces speckled throughout the audience. The large room is set up as a lecture theatre, a slide projector to one side of him and the lectern which he is gripping with whitened knuckles remind him of his university days. As some latecomers continue to sneak in and find seats he triggers the first slide. Bold text in letters three feet high appear on the screen.
OPERATION MERCURY BOXER
TOP SECRET
UK EYES ONLY
OCHRE POPPY CLEARED INDIVIDUALS ONLY
A bead of sweat forms in his receding, greying hairline and runs down his forehead. "Good morning everyone, I think we'll begin. This is an introductory briefing for Operation MERCURY BOXER. All of you have been vetted and granted OCHRE POPPY clearance, so you can remain seated. You will notice that today we have in attendance members from all branches of the United Kingdom's intelligence, military and diplomatic services. My name is Gregory Smythe of the Security Service and I have been placed in command of this Operation. Please, can you hold all questions until I've completed the initial briefing. Now, I'll begin -" A second slide triggers, showing a school photograph of a smiling Elisabeth Watkins.
---
29 September 1976 0904GMT
10 Downing St, London
"Prime Minister, always an honour to visit. Home Secretary, good to see you too."
"Peter, thank you for coming, please take a seat. We're all too old to be standing up anytime someone important comes into the room." The old, stooped figure of the MI6 Deputy lowers himself into a chair in the meeting room. James Callaghan and his Home Secretary take their seats at the table. The Prime Minister adjusts his thick rimmed glasses and takes a sip from the cut crystal glass of water in front of him.
"Sorry Peter, we're just waiting on one more person." The Prime Minister apologises, "Did Merlyn here tell you anything about this meeting?"
"He didn't I'm afraid Prime Minister." The door swings open again.
"Good morning Mr Prime Minister, Home Secretary. And to you Peter."
"Morning Clarence, long drive over from Gower Street? Or that famous Five punctuality?"
"Thank you both for coming", Prime Minister Callaghan interjects, "We need to talk, urgently, about Operation MERCURY BOXER." The surprise on the two old spies faces is palpable.
"We're only just starting that today Sir."
"I only found out about it thirty minutes ago from Merlyn in a daily brief. I've had this job barely six months, Merlyn not even a month and I'm beginning to wonder how anyone survives their term."
"What is the issue Sir?"
"It's a known quantity. That's the issue." Peter and Clarence cannot help themselves now.
"What do you mean 'a known quantity' Prime Minister?"
---
29 September 1976 1621GMT
Security Service HQ, Gower St, London
Gregory nearly chokes as he listens to Peter and Clarence relay the results of their day's meetings. "The genie is out of the bottle now! We've got nearly two hundred people who are indocrinated into OCHRE POPPY now."
"Gregory" Peter interjects, "We haven't been told to back off. Both the Prime Minister and The Family feel that we're trapped in a deal with the devil signed off by Walpole and George the First back in 1722. This relationship has never been equal, the information, benefits and people have only ever flowed one way."
"We know that Downing Street is compromised. They've got some form of listening device or other system in there which we've never picked up. And you know how hard we've checked for anything in there." Clarence raises an eyebrow and Gregory with this statement.
"I know Sir."
"So, we know Downing Street is compromised and the PM and The Family have both admitted to being leveraged. It seems that while we wait on the school year to finish, we should go over the staff there again to make sure that if we have to relocate the PM we're not moving a mole with him. Meanwhile, review security for The Family - involve no one who hasn't been cleared OCHRE POPPY. Establish a safehouse system for both parties. Assume all existing procedures have been compromised." The three men look at each other silently for a few moments. Before Gregory shifts in his chair and breaks the silence.
"How is this being handled?" He pauses before clarifying, "Legally I mean."
"Clarence and I have come to some agreement about that," Peter begins, "It's British soil, but not part of the United Kingdom. Some may have been British subjects, but certainly not what we'd consider citizens."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, Gregory-" Clarence leans in conspiratorially, "That as of now Operation MERCURY BOXER is operating as if this is a foreign state on UK soil. We're not going to a war footing, but these people are not British citizens for the purpose of the law."
---
15 October 1976 1922GMT
10 Downing St, London
The rain was coming down in the slow, heavy London way. A fog of liquid droplets deadening the sound of the city. The staff entrance to Downing St was busy as the day staff finally started to head home. A man in his thirties descends the few steps to the pavement. "That's him. White, 5'8", medium build, sandy blonde hair. Wearing blue suit, college tie, blue overcoat using a black umbrella. He's heading East, towards Whitehall." The checking of the Downing Street staff had finally borne fruit after nearly a fortnight of fruitless research. Finally they'd stumbled upon it. A vetting file which always seemed to be dropping into the gap between desks, getting sorted inside another file, being picked up by accident along with stack of others. It moved from desk to desk, always avoiding scrutiny. Only when it was about to be returned to Registry did someone finally take note. The file had never been opened. Under the gaze of a dozen sets of eyes, it slowly yielded it's secrets. In some ways the work was masterful - every form perfectly duplicated, every signature perfectly forged. In others it was amateur - no backstopping of any of the story. No schoolmates remembered them. No addresses checked out. How this file had ever been planted, let alone cleared raised more unpleasant questions.
What it had done however, was identify their man. Orpheus Blake. Minor secretary in Downing Street who'd apparently walked into the job after his predecessor had retired. No one can remember hiring him, no one could even recall exactly what it was he did. Everyone had assumed he was part of another section. No one had ever stopped to ask him more than the time of day. He was simply there. As one might expect a piece of furniture to be there if you looked. "Now heading North on Whitehall."
Tonight, Operation MERCURY BOXER was finally hitting the streets. Ten teams of Watchers, a nearly unprecedented number, manoeuvring carefully around the target, keeping him at the centre of an ever-moving web. "Target approaching Trafalgar Square, lost visual in the crowd crossing the Mall." Gregory and the other senior officers sit in their makeshift command centre, chain smoking and trying desperately to conceal their stress as the radios intermittently crackle with a new update. "Got him again, he's changed clothes - now wearing a brown tweed suit, no overcoat."
"We sure that's him?"
"Same face, same briefcase, same tie." Comes the response.
"Blimey, he's good." remarks one of the officers listening with Gregory, "That was a fast change. On the move no less."
"Target now northbound on Charing Cross, handover." Gregory rubs his temples as he rests his elbows on the table in front of him. He lights another cigarette and stares at the map of London in front of him.
"He's crossed Irving St, still heading North."
"Is anyone else suspicious," Gregory posits, "That he hasn't made any countersurveillance moves yet? The clothes change is one thing, but no random stops, turns or double backs."
"He's been in position for about six years as best as we can tell. Could be getting complacent." The radio blurts an interruption.
"He's entered a premises on Charing Cross Rd, East side of the street. Looks like a bar."
---
16 October 1976 1017GMT
Security Service HQ, Gower St, London
The control room stank, stale air, smoke, body odour and endless cups of coffee all contributed to it. "OK Lucas, what have you been able to find?" Gregory lifts a pen from the table and prepares to take notes. The young researcher is flustered, and stumbles over his words.
"Well the bar-inn-p- pub- public house as it's officially recorded was first listed sometime in the sixteenth century. But it's not on any official registers for business ownership, liquor licensing, land tax, revenue or anything else we checked. I even talked the breweries and their distributors. No one has any contracts with that pub. That shop exists only insofar as it is a gap in the official plans and documentation and it's clearly sitting there."
"How many of us have walked down that street before?" Everyone in the room nods. "And how many of us can remember having ever seen a bar that belongs in a Shakespeare play there? Not a single one of us I bet." Gregory notes the frowns as realisation spreads. "Hiding in plain sight, not more than a bloody mile from us. What have we learned?"
"Watchers have been taking pictures of everyone entering and leaving the premises. We'll be getting the first sets developed soon."
"Good. I want to start trying to track and ID these people."
"Sir, if I may," Lucas interjects, "I think there's a bigger picture that we're missing here." He pauses and looks at the faces around him - all far his senior and waiting for the promised epiphany, "But the details I've been given to work with and the plans that I've seen - that pub cannot be more than about ten yards wide and ten yards deep. Yet somehow, we've had that much of foot traffic going in and out?"
-=-=-=-=-=-
Chapter 3
25 October 1976 1932GMT
MI5 Safehouse, Norwich
James looked past the panel of debriefers at his wife and daughter happily playing a board game with two of the minders in the front room. In the small kitchen, with heat radiating from the old wood stove, James sits at the circular table, too small for all three of the men who were dismantling his life, but they crowd around it anyway, with folders and notepads and endless cups of tea. He was glad to be in a safehouse in the countryside, even if it was more "custody" than "protective". He remembered how that first interrogation had gone. The looks of horror on the faces of his questioners as he babbled nonsense at them. Then had come the psychologist and the psychiatrists and the neurologists. And they'd seen Laura and Molly too. All sane. All normal. Then the first letter had come. And owl swooping in the door to deliver a letter at the first safe house, past a MI5 man bringing the kebabs for the night shift. Then a second letter, blown under the door of the interrogation room by a stiff breeze, even while two guards stood outside. He'd smiled as he saw it blow in, happy that he'd made Elisabeth promise to write home to mum and dad twice a week.
Then - almost a month ago now, they'd gotten their first real bite. A reply to a letter James had written with a dozen pairs of eyes watching his every move. The front page of a newspaper had been included. Complete with moving pictures. Apparently it had caused quite a scene at Q divisions labs when every analysis kept on coming back saying it was just paper and ink. They'd kept up the letter writing since then. Carefully constructed questions - curious, but not prying. Things that a twelve year old girl would know without having to ask questions of others and draw attention. Apparently this correspondence had been given the name FRAGRANT SAND. Their first source on the other side
"Sorry, we'll start over again there James." The Inquisitor apologises, before they'd given him their names and the sessions had become less interrogation and more conversation, James had chosen nicknames for them. The Inquisitor is an older man with a doughy frame and thinning white hair. He always speaks with a gentle voice and a slow cadence to go with a relaxed, faded Welsh accent. His questions start and you can't help but talk as he uses the smallest prods to break down inertia and ease the friction on you speaking. But there's a coldness to him - James sensed it in the first session, back in that cell under London, stinking of fresh glue, cuffed to a chair. His eyes never waver - always watching James' own or his hands, seeking any movement that may betray a lie or half-truth. The Soldier was middle aged, weathered face, hard eyes, calloused hands and the hint of a scar just visible above the collar. He's got a Northern accent, but rarely speaks, at least not directly to James. Finally there was The Professor, younger - barely thirty with a slightly mousy face, untidy goatee and the classic academic garb of vest under tatty tweed coat. He spent most sessions absorbed in the files, or making notes in the margins of various books as James talked. But he had the ear and clearly the respect of both The Inquisitor and The Soldier, which intrigued James.
"Yes, umm, I took her shopping for her school equipment. We went to Charing Cross Rd and - and -"
"Use the token if you have to James." The Inquisitor's eyes flick to James' hand. The token was a recent idea, a cheap bronze brooch Elisabeth had begged him to buy at a flea market years ago as a little girl. She'd loved it, worn it with everything. She'd been heartbroken when she'd realised that she'd forgotten to pack it. He squeezes it in his hand, feeling it's sharp corners dig into his palm while he concentrates on her happy smile as she wore it that first time. He can feel the fog burning away in his mind as memories begin coming into focus once more.
"We went into this pub - the Leaky Cauldron. Looked like it had been there forever, but I'd never seen it before that day. We'd been told we'd be met there. A few other families were there too, all looking fairly lost. Eventually this severe looking old woman appeared from the back of the room and asked us all to follow her."
---
26 Oct 1976, 1319GMT
Charing Cross Rd, London
"Madge exiting. Going South." The Watcher's had occupied several key pieces of real estate in the area now. Businesses and landlords up and down Charing Cross Rd all sitting slightly flusher as vacant offices and flats were suddenly occupied by a rush of new tenants. Telephoto lenses behind urban hides proliferated as quickly as secure phone lines to these premises as Charing Cross Rd became as closely scrutinised as any spot on Earth. "Who's taking her?"
"Team Two, we'll take her." Madge, as they called her, was a favourite of the Watcher teams. It wasn't her real name, they still hadn't found that out, but the rule was that if you ID'd someone new, you got to name them. And as a dowdy woman in her fifties with frizzy white hair barely under control and a patchwork cardigan, Madge was one of the more fitting names. What made her a favourite though was that she was an easy mark. Each day she left the pub and slowly dawdled her way down to a Tobaccanist on the Embankment to buy a particular Indian blend of tobacco which only a few places in London stocked. Then she tended to slowly make her way back by the same route. A simple, easy tail. She'd never run a countersurveillance movement, never even looked like she was leaving a mark or making a dead drop or handoff. It was just like following a grandma doing the shopping. A pleasant change for Watchers used to trying to keep a track of the new Lithuanian cultural attaché or any of The Cousins who happened to be in town.
A knock at the door breaks the concentration of Nicholas Jones, as he tries to track all of his teams' movement on the map in front of him. "Someone get that," he shouts before keying his radio, "Team Six, status?"
"Still at Kensington Gardens. Looks like Errol might be player. He's clearly waiting for someone." comes the crackling reply.
"We'll get you some support." Jones lays the radio down and looks at the newcomers to the room, "You'll have to excuse me for a moment. Griggs - get additional teams over to Kensington Gardens, Button - everything we have on Errol, get a package together for a briefing. Now gentlemen," he turns to the newcomers, "how can I help you?"
"Mr Jones it's a pleasure as always," Lucas says, "I even brought alone some roast beef sandwiches to make up for my intrusion."
"You know the way to our hearts Mr Matthews." Nicholas grins as he takes the two large paper bags and sets them on the table, "And I recognise the Bobs from technical services, but not the two. Care to fill me in?"
"We're going to try and drill some microphones into The Cauldron tonight, hence the three Bobs." The three Bobs all grin eagerly. It was a predictable piece of unintentional, institutional humour putting three men called Bob into the same team, but they got along famously and no one had ever had a bad word to say about them. Except the Russian Embassy's KGB counter-surveillance team and a few IRA players who were currently deceased. They were on record having several very unpleasant things to say about the three Bobs, or would have if they were not already dead.
"And the other two?"
"A water main is going to burst tomorrow. These fellows are some ex-Royal Engineers who are going to ensure that when it bursts, it should, in theory, flood The Cauldron." Lucas pauses as he see's the raised eyebrows, "We need to see what happens. We've got fifty theories on how all this is happening from the boffins and this is an experiment which can wipe half of those off the board."
"Sounds like a good start. It would be nice to have more of an idea of what's happening. So - new eyes. Take a look out the window fellows, I'm guessing you see a record store and book shop?" The Three Bobs and the two Royal Engineers look out and mutter agreement. Jones keys his radio, "We've got new eyes, can someone mark it?"
"On it," comes the reply, there's a brief pause then, "Red cardigan, black scarf." On the street below a young lady wearing a red cardigan and black scarf walks past the record store.
"Watch her hand gentlemen." She subtly begins dragging a piece of chalk as she reaches the diving wall between the record store and the book store, the thin white line on the wall just enough for the men to focus on. To the new eyes, she suddenly seems to stop moving. She's still walking but not moving forward. The white chalk mark on the wall keeps stretching and then suddenly, streaming out behind her, like a piece of set being pulled from behind a curtain is the frontage of a grubby old pub. "Gentlemen, I give you The Leaky Cauldron. From the looks on your faces, I assume you can all see it now?"
---
26 Oct 1976 2120GMT
Security Service HQ, Gower St, London
"Everyone, meet Errol." The slide machine clicks and a slightly fuzzy telephoto shot of Errol's face appears on the projector screen in the meeting room. "It's easy to see why he was given that name." A few smirks and sniggers ripple around the attendants. "He is one of forty individuals we've identified who we are currently tracking. Today he became a priority." A new slide clunks and clacks it's way into place, showing him sitting at a park bench with a second man. "Kensington Gardens at one thirty today. He made contact with an unidentified individual, who we are calling Alonso. They spoke for about fifteen seconds and then exchanged envelopes. We followed Errol back to Westminster where we lost him at the Tube. Alonso went to the toilets in the park and when we sent someone in to check, he'd disappeared from in there."
"How the hell are we meant to follow these people? I mean, if they're able to just disappear like this. I mean it's bad enough trying to follow the rezident around without being rumbled, but these people Gregory, being able to just vanish at will?"
"That's a problem for another day. Today was important for a few other reasons. We had our first authorised debriefing sessions with The Family and the Prime Minister. Which were illuminating to say the least. We ended up having to use techniques that were pioneered in the Watkins' debriefing to keep them on track. What we do know, is that they were contacted the first day in office and felt an immediate and deep trust of this person who they had never met before and who appeared, without warning when they found themselves alone. They signed extension clauses to a treaty which grants autonomy to this Ministry of Magic, as they term themselves, and all of it's subjects. Legal, given what information we've been able to gather about said treaty, have said that whatever it's original intent, that it is being maintained under duress. Which is supported by both The Family and the Prime Minister's accounts." Gregory places his hands flat on the table and looks at the assembled faces, "The fact is, this Ministry of Magic is an apartheid regime, forcing their governance on us without the knowledge of our citizens."
"Does this change anything?"
"Long term, almost certainly." Gregory states, closing one file and opening another. "Short term however, we are remaining in an intelligence gathering role only. Which is about to expand. FRAGRANT SANDS has identified several children who are also 'muggle born', to use their own term for it. Meaning that both parents are from a non-magical background. We've traced their families and identified two who are likely to be excellent targets for recruitment. There are an additional three possibles. All of their families are now under watch. Harry, you'll be handling the recruitment, the files are all here."
"Thank you," Harry takes the files, "These are all children though Gregory."
"I understand that Harry. A few are due to be graduating - they are the primary targets. But it is very literally kid gloves time. OK. That's everything for tonight. We'll expect the first reports from the tapping operation and the flood in tomorrow night's briefing."
---
27 October 1976 0240GMT
Charing Cross Rd, London
The pub had finally emptied out around midnight. Hardly anyone had come onto the street though, they'd simply moved away from the windows and the lights had turned off. The fact that they were watching tables clean themselves in the darkened pub just made all The Watchers slightly more uncomfortable than they'd expected. Inside the adjacent stores, the Three Bobs begin their work. Turning their hand drills as fast as they dare, they make painstakingly slow progress auguring through the masonry. As long minutes pass they eagerly await the moment of breakthrough.
"We're twenty seven centimetres deep. Should be through any time now."
"Suction please Bob, full blast, don't want to drop any dust on the other side."
"Got it Bob. How's that wire coming Bob?"
It was near enough to five in the morning before the Bobs quietly left the bookstore and restored it's locks and alarms. As they walk down the street they hear a timid voice calling behind them. "Sirs! Excuse me, Sirs!" They stop and turn taken aback at the sight. An emaciated child sized figure with blotchy grey skin in filthy, tattered rags almost skips towards them with an innocent smile on it's face. It halts just short of them and holds out it's hand with the three long wires of their microphones in it, "I think you forget these Sirs." Bob reaches out and takes the microphones.
"Thank you?" Bob says haltingly.
"Oh no, thank you Sirs, I couldn't bear for you to have left something behind." The figure snaps out of existance with a loud pop, leaving the Three Bobs standing on the street in disbelief. A homeless man peers out from a huddle of blankets in a darkened doorway and lifts his beanie up from over his eyes.
"You alright Bobs?" He asks, "That's something you don't see every day."
---
27 October 1976 1107GMT
Charing Cross Rd, London
It began slowly, a few little rivulets of water running down the street, before suddenly a large seam of asphalt gives way and a rush of water begins burbling out. The pedestrians scatter as the water builds more and more boiling over the curb and onto the footpath and building on this new path from inexorable creep to a rapidly flowing creek. It hits The Leaky Cauldron almost dead centre to the eyes of the The Watchers, the Royal Engineers grin as they admire their handywork. Lucas patiently watches the water as it flows under the door and presses against it, forcing it open ever so slightly. He smiles as he watches it continue to flow into the pub, soaking it's floor. "Well done gentlemen. Well done."
---
27 October 1976 1434GMT
Security Service HQ, Gower St, London
Gregory Smythe reclines in the old wooden chair as he listens to the report, cigarette dangling lazily in his mouth. Across his desk from him sits Warwick Cooper busy reeling off the latest facts from the Watkins family's ongoing debriefing.
"There's one thing that get's me Warwick." Gregory interrupts, leaning forward almost conspiratorially, "This family loves their daughters. That much is clear."
"Yes." Answers Warwick, intrigued as to this line of thought."
"So why is it that they struggle so hard to remember her - the truth about her?"
"Defence mechanism? From lying for the past year and half?"
"Doubtful - after six weeks of debriefing they would have shown more signs of that. And it's not obfuscation. Certainly not deliberate anyway. I have a theory."
"Go on." Warwick watches Gregory intently as he butts out his cigarette.
"It's not a nice theory."
"They rarely are in our line of work."
"People who go off to live in this other place - they don't come back do they? We have such limited information, but it doesn't seem like there's much for them to come back to - all the jobs, all their friends are on the other side."
"True enough, but you are right - we don't have enough intelligence for more than the wildest speculation."
"What if the forgetfulness is by design? What if these families always start out with the best intentions of staying in touch, but as time goes on they remember to write less often? That once they are adults it becomes worse - they don't need to visit home anymore, there's no reliance on the parents. Birthdays and Christmases together are forgotten. Neither side knows what is happening to the other. The children are now adults, raised in an environment of awe and wonder at this fantastical place." Gregory gestures madly, sweeping his arms around in the air as if pointing out an unimaginable vista, "And begin to if not forget, then care less for the problems of the real world and it's pain and suffering and poverty and it's boring 9 to 5. Meanwhile, those left behind hear from their children less and less. They forget more and more - they remember the times before they went off to school, but less and less of after that." Gregory pauses to light another cigarette. "What if we'd found Watkins ten years from now? What would we have seen? Would there have been some old family portraits showing them as a happy family - the loving parents and two carefree young girls, but nothing of Elisabeth as she grew up? No photos of her heading off to Dover with some friends to drive around France or graduating from university? What would they have said when we asked about her? Would they just have said 'Oh, she was such a nice girl growing up, but we don't talk anymore - I haven't seen her since '83.'? As if she was estranged, another girl grown up and then lost to the streets or run off with someone they didn't approve of. Would she have eventually been made a non-person by whatever it is which is causing them to forget the details of her now?"
"It's an interesting theory Gregory-"
"Here's the really unpleasant part Warwick," Gregory interrupts, "How many families do you know with that old photo on the mantle and the child who they don't talk about anymore?"
-=-=-=-=-=-
Update 19/4/2012 - Chapter 4 posted. This is a bit messy as I wanted to get to some future events. That's the problem with a multiple year narrative.
***FIC COMMENCE = 1***
Chapter 1
28 August 1976 0720GMT
Kingston upon Thames, London Metropolitan Area, United Kingdom
On a quiet street not far from Ham Common a family exits their conjoined brick home, the man sporting the attire of a city worker - conservative suit, briefcase and umbrella, the wife that of a shop lady and a young daughter in a school uniform. As a group they walk briskly down the street towards the nearby schools and station. Halfway down the street two men sit in a plumber's van eating their breakfast.
"Let me see that family file again." The man in the driver's seat demands. The folder is passed over, open to the right page. "Two daughters it says here. Twelve and Eight. I see an eight year old, no twelve year old. Second day in a row. Where're the logs from the overnight crew?"
"Got 'em here." The passenger scans the report, "No mention of her coming home. No bedroom light. This isn't going to be a quick one, is it Sir?"
---
28 August 1976 1745GMT
Century House, London
The wood panelling of the room and it's large, thick table and leather backed chairs gives it a clubby, collegial feel. There are five men seated around the table, all tailored suits and high quality tobacco. What conversation that they share is trivial, distractions from their evident anxiety. A sixth man enters, short and stooped somewhat by age with a lean build and a face, slowly sagging as time passes and closes the door behind him. In the corridor outside a light above the door illuminates. "Apologies for the delay everyone, please take one of these folders and sign and countersign the relevant registry information. Gregory, you're representing Five here, get us started." A fifty-ish man leans forward and begins to speak.
"Our subject is James Vernon Watkins, thirty six, married, two children. Lives in Kingston upon Thames. SIS officer, recruited upon graduation from Imperial College London with a Bachelors in Economics by Ogilvy Perham. No overseas duty on file, lots of analysis roles and a few task forces - most recently of the South East European section focusing on the Czech weapons exportation industry." Gregory turns to his notes for a moment and draws on his cigarette, "Randomly selected for vetting review on July 16th of this year. Surveillance period commenced this week and the absence of his twelve year old daughter, Elisabeth, was noted this morning as no one has sighted her for the duration of the surveillance. The school she is recorded as attending in his file states that her enrolment was cancelled and she never attended." A rumbling quickly speeds around the table.
"So where the hell is his daughter? Has he just failed to update his security file?"
"An approach by a colleague today resulted in him stating that Elisabeth is attending that listed school, Tiffin's Girls." The grumbling stops. Silence remains. "If she is at school, we have no idea where, nor do we have a motivation for him lying. Neighbours and friends report that they saw her during Christmas and also the recent school holidays."
"What is our theory at this point? Obviously he's compromised at some level, whether this is a kidnapping and extortion or if he's committed a crime and is trying to cover it up or being blackmailed-"
"That is why we're here. I want to increase surveillance on the home and work routines and try to get what information we can."
"Gregory, I don't think anyone here will object to that. Obviously that's not all if you felt the need to convene all of us."
"We need to operate under the worst case scenario assumption, that he has been turned and recruited. We need to vet every file he's ever pulled from registry and expand the vetting to include work colleagues and friends." A portly man kicks his chair back as he stands up and shouts.
"JESUS! Just what we need, another bloody Five witch-hunt!" The man's cigarette is violently stubbed out as an exclamation point on his statement. "Are we really going ahead with this Peter?"
The old man who had started the meeting stands up, "Yes Warwick, we will be going ahead with this. C has made it exceptionally clear that he wants a clean house and so we best work damn hard on getting him one."
---
15 September 1976 2115GMT
Kingston upon Thames, London Metropolitan Area, United Kingdom
They'd given up on a van or other external surveillance early on, now there were multiple crews of Security Service "Watchers" on duty at all times, covering the house from both front and rear as well as shadowing all members of the family. Ensconced in homes or in civic buildings with lines of sight, the listening and command posts all watched and waited.
The inter-service meetings had been excruciating - as each contact, however random, was vetted in turn the investigation meandered slowly, occasionally hitting a dead end and slowly re-directing itself as new pathways were exposed by the mounting pressure. When James' wife had served a Bulgarian embassy official's wife at the boutique in which she worked the case had exploded into a frenzy. Every drop of intelligence ever gleaned from Bulgaria or any of their diplomatic outposts was re-examined. But that lead dried up, as all the others had, and the Watchers continued their surveillance.
"Cor, look at that!" Exclaims a young member of the team.
"What are we seeing?" The duty supervisor rushes to the window of the darkened room with his binoculars, excitement in his voice after long days and nights of tense tedium.
"Owl, a bleedin' snow owl. Just landed on their bedroom's windowsill."
"You pulled me over here for an owl?" The bird sits patiently on the ledge, pecking away at it's reflection.
"Sorry Sir, always went birding with my dad, but - that owl, it's not from Britain, not even migratory."
"Where would you find it?"
"Arctic Sir. Or Tundra. Movement Sir." The bedroom curtains shuffle and the dim illumination of the bedside lamp lights up the owl. James' silhouetted form looks down at the owl as the window slowly opens.
---
16 September 1976 0911GMT
Century House, London
The tape player sat on the table in the middle of the room and was rewound and played again, "It's a letter from Elisabeth," comes the voice. Gregory stops the recording. "That was recorded last night, at the same time, the Watchers took the photos you can see in front of you. He let the owl in, then he and his wife both read the letter which you can see affixed to the owl. There was no substantive conversation after this point and we cannot infer much from the limited exchanges." The MI5 man halts his report, anticipating the questions.
"An owl?" The incredulous voice is accompanied by many raised eyebrows, "Why not a more traditional method of contact? Even a pigeon?"
"Not just any owl. Bubo Scandiacus, the Snowy Owl. Most definitely not endemic to Great Britain. However it is widely distributed throughout Scandinavia, Russia and North America."
"So this could be the Russians or the cousins using it?" The room devolves into a hubbub as neighbours share theories.
"There are some further observations to make here - Watkins states that it is a letter from his daughter," Gregory holds up his hand, halting the questions, "and more importantly there is no sign of emotional distress from either himself or his wife after the letter is received and read."
"So no duress? This isn't extortion or kidnapping?"
"I guess it probably rules out her being dead as well."
"As we speak," Gregory continues, "One of our teams is making entry to the home and will be attempting to secure this letter. Now that we know there is correspondence, we will be conducting a focused search for that too."
"What about the owl?"
"A team attempted to follow it, but lost it heading North over Ham Common." The room settles into it's burbling background noise for a few moments before the old, stooped man at the head of the table speaks.
"Grab Watkins today - Five will run the interview and Six will sit in. Five, let the Watchers know that we're breaking cover. Turn that house over and find what you can. Make sure that the wife and other daughter are picked up and taken to a safe house. Something about this stinks to high heaven and I'd rather blow the chance to double him than have this boy going rabbit on us and be forced to see him getting chummy with Brezhnev on the front page of Pravda."
---
16 September 1976 0952GMT
Century House, London
For James Watkins, it was a day like any other. He scoured the various compiled clippings from a hundred newspapers around the world for any reference to new military or arms deals and contracts. Other officers came to him for his expertise, wondering about shipment dates and quantities of arms being sent to various liege states and warlords. As he sipped at his freshly poured tea and considered another document, he noticed that the office around him had grown quiet. Seven unfamiliar men stood near his desk, his supervisor conferring with one of them. "Mr James Watkins?" The nearest man spoke. The voice had a hard tone, military or police - authoritative, but not overbearing. His suit was nice, but not expensive, his build lean and strong.
"Err, yes?"
"Please come with us Sir."
"But my work - I need to return files to the Registry before I can leave."
"That will not be of any concern. Please, stand up now and come with us." James looked around the office, from other desks his co-workers stared, but no one made a single motion or spoke. He stands and goes to pick up his case. "Leave everything Sir." James obeys, following the man and flanked by two more as the others begin to search and document his desk, overcoat and briefcase.
---
16 September 1976 1032GMT
Century House, London
James had never been into this part of the building before. It scared him on a primal level. He had known that places like this must have existed, but had never visualised it before, beyond the typical jokes of the Spanish Inquisition. But it was banal. That made it more terrifying. The linoleum obviously freshly laid, the glue smell still in the air. "Oh God", he thinks, "Why does this room need fresh linoleum?" The walls painted the same atonal beige as a hospital corridor. One wall has a simple steel door, it's peeling paint probably once labelled Evergreen or Pine. The chair and the desk in front of it are simple stainless steel constructions. He feels the cold steel of handcuffs around his wrists and ankles.
In another room nearby Gregory Smythe of MI5 and Warwick Cooper of MI6 sits amongst a small group of others, watching a CCTV feed of the room. "Is he ready yet Gregory?"
"Give him a few more minutes to simmer. Wait for him to decide to test his shackles. If we come in then, we'll have him on the back foot immediately."
James waits, there are no windows, no clock, no way to tell the passing of time. He begins to shuffle in the chair, slowly trying the limits of his bonds. The door soundlessly sweeps open.
"So, Mr Watkins, Mr James Vernon Watkins," Gregory steps through the door "Not fiddling with your restraints I hope? They are there for everyone's safety."
"Wh-"
"No questions for now Mr Watkins." the second man comes in dragging two more steel chairs, which he places on the other side of the table and the men sit and slouch down into.
"Mr Watkins, we need to establish a few things first. I am Gregory of the Security Service, this is Warwick of your own Secret Service. You are James Vernon Watkins, born March 21 1942?"
"Yes, b-"
"You were recruited into MI6 at age twenty three by Ogilvy Perham."
"Yes." James begins to tremble.
"You currently work on economic intelligence relating to Czech arms exportation?"
"Yes."
"You have two daughters." A pause, for the first time.
"Y-yes."
"Where are your daughters Mr Watkins?"
"Rose attends the local primary and Elisabeth attend Tiff-"
"No she doesn't Mr Watkins."
"Mr Watkins, can you please explain why you lied on your security reports regarding the whereabouts of your daughter?" Warwick takes the lead as Gregory leans back to consult his notebook.
"I couldn't provide the new information."
"Why not? You tell us what school she's at and we put it in the report. It's not difficult. Did she drop out?"
"No."
"Is she pregnant? Is that why you've been hiding her?"
"SHE'S TWELVE!" shouts Watkins, finally beginning to show cracks.
"We know she's not at your house. Hasn't been for months. We checked. We know she has never turned up for a class at Tiffin's. We checked. We know she's not with any of your or your wife's family. We checked. We know she hasn't turned up as a Joe Bloggs in a hospital or morgue. We checked." Watkins begins to shake, his face turning a deep red as he grinds his teeth, "We know she's not been in police custody. We checked that too. You see that I'm running out of ideas here and we've got a lot of anxious sorts who seem to think she's sitting in Leningrad with a gun to her head getting you to hand over anything you can lay your hands on. And others who think that you've buried her in a wood somewhere and have been trying to keep the whole thing quiet."
"SHE'S SAFE!" He shouts, "SHE'S SAFE! And alive, God, you sick urgh," he shudders, regaining some composure "You bastards."
"But safe where?" Asks Gregory, leaning forward. "Afterall, her letters haven't provided much of a clue. We've only had a few hours, but there's clearly some form of substitution cipher as they're nonsense."
"What aren't you telling us Mr Watkins? Give us the address, so we can go and verify her safey ourselves."
"I don't have an address." Watkins admits as he slumps into his chair, sighing as he does. He laughs a little to himself and then leans forward towards his interrogators. "You have to promise that you will hear this story out. No matter what I say and how ridiculous it is, you will wait until I finish the story before asking questions or taking any other action." Gregory and Warwick share a look.
"OK Mr Watkins," Gregory pauses as he places a cassette recorder on the table and starts it, "Tell us your story."
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Chapter 2
29 September 1976 0900GMT
Security Service HQ, Gower St, London
Gregory Smythe brushes down his suit sleeves, a nervous tic in front of the assembled throng. This was the largest briefing that he was ever aware of having taken place and easily an order of magnitude larger than any he'd ever addressed, of the eighty invitees, there were scarcely any empty spaces. He saw a few familiar faces speckled throughout the audience. The large room is set up as a lecture theatre, a slide projector to one side of him and the lectern which he is gripping with whitened knuckles remind him of his university days. As some latecomers continue to sneak in and find seats he triggers the first slide. Bold text in letters three feet high appear on the screen.
OPERATION MERCURY BOXER
TOP SECRET
UK EYES ONLY
OCHRE POPPY CLEARED INDIVIDUALS ONLY
A bead of sweat forms in his receding, greying hairline and runs down his forehead. "Good morning everyone, I think we'll begin. This is an introductory briefing for Operation MERCURY BOXER. All of you have been vetted and granted OCHRE POPPY clearance, so you can remain seated. You will notice that today we have in attendance members from all branches of the United Kingdom's intelligence, military and diplomatic services. My name is Gregory Smythe of the Security Service and I have been placed in command of this Operation. Please, can you hold all questions until I've completed the initial briefing. Now, I'll begin -" A second slide triggers, showing a school photograph of a smiling Elisabeth Watkins.
---
29 September 1976 0904GMT
10 Downing St, London
"Prime Minister, always an honour to visit. Home Secretary, good to see you too."
"Peter, thank you for coming, please take a seat. We're all too old to be standing up anytime someone important comes into the room." The old, stooped figure of the MI6 Deputy lowers himself into a chair in the meeting room. James Callaghan and his Home Secretary take their seats at the table. The Prime Minister adjusts his thick rimmed glasses and takes a sip from the cut crystal glass of water in front of him.
"Sorry Peter, we're just waiting on one more person." The Prime Minister apologises, "Did Merlyn here tell you anything about this meeting?"
"He didn't I'm afraid Prime Minister." The door swings open again.
"Good morning Mr Prime Minister, Home Secretary. And to you Peter."
"Morning Clarence, long drive over from Gower Street? Or that famous Five punctuality?"
"Thank you both for coming", Prime Minister Callaghan interjects, "We need to talk, urgently, about Operation MERCURY BOXER." The surprise on the two old spies faces is palpable.
"We're only just starting that today Sir."
"I only found out about it thirty minutes ago from Merlyn in a daily brief. I've had this job barely six months, Merlyn not even a month and I'm beginning to wonder how anyone survives their term."
"What is the issue Sir?"
"It's a known quantity. That's the issue." Peter and Clarence cannot help themselves now.
"What do you mean 'a known quantity' Prime Minister?"
---
29 September 1976 1621GMT
Security Service HQ, Gower St, London
Gregory nearly chokes as he listens to Peter and Clarence relay the results of their day's meetings. "The genie is out of the bottle now! We've got nearly two hundred people who are indocrinated into OCHRE POPPY now."
"Gregory" Peter interjects, "We haven't been told to back off. Both the Prime Minister and The Family feel that we're trapped in a deal with the devil signed off by Walpole and George the First back in 1722. This relationship has never been equal, the information, benefits and people have only ever flowed one way."
"We know that Downing Street is compromised. They've got some form of listening device or other system in there which we've never picked up. And you know how hard we've checked for anything in there." Clarence raises an eyebrow and Gregory with this statement.
"I know Sir."
"So, we know Downing Street is compromised and the PM and The Family have both admitted to being leveraged. It seems that while we wait on the school year to finish, we should go over the staff there again to make sure that if we have to relocate the PM we're not moving a mole with him. Meanwhile, review security for The Family - involve no one who hasn't been cleared OCHRE POPPY. Establish a safehouse system for both parties. Assume all existing procedures have been compromised." The three men look at each other silently for a few moments. Before Gregory shifts in his chair and breaks the silence.
"How is this being handled?" He pauses before clarifying, "Legally I mean."
"Clarence and I have come to some agreement about that," Peter begins, "It's British soil, but not part of the United Kingdom. Some may have been British subjects, but certainly not what we'd consider citizens."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, Gregory-" Clarence leans in conspiratorially, "That as of now Operation MERCURY BOXER is operating as if this is a foreign state on UK soil. We're not going to a war footing, but these people are not British citizens for the purpose of the law."
---
15 October 1976 1922GMT
10 Downing St, London
The rain was coming down in the slow, heavy London way. A fog of liquid droplets deadening the sound of the city. The staff entrance to Downing St was busy as the day staff finally started to head home. A man in his thirties descends the few steps to the pavement. "That's him. White, 5'8", medium build, sandy blonde hair. Wearing blue suit, college tie, blue overcoat using a black umbrella. He's heading East, towards Whitehall." The checking of the Downing Street staff had finally borne fruit after nearly a fortnight of fruitless research. Finally they'd stumbled upon it. A vetting file which always seemed to be dropping into the gap between desks, getting sorted inside another file, being picked up by accident along with stack of others. It moved from desk to desk, always avoiding scrutiny. Only when it was about to be returned to Registry did someone finally take note. The file had never been opened. Under the gaze of a dozen sets of eyes, it slowly yielded it's secrets. In some ways the work was masterful - every form perfectly duplicated, every signature perfectly forged. In others it was amateur - no backstopping of any of the story. No schoolmates remembered them. No addresses checked out. How this file had ever been planted, let alone cleared raised more unpleasant questions.
What it had done however, was identify their man. Orpheus Blake. Minor secretary in Downing Street who'd apparently walked into the job after his predecessor had retired. No one can remember hiring him, no one could even recall exactly what it was he did. Everyone had assumed he was part of another section. No one had ever stopped to ask him more than the time of day. He was simply there. As one might expect a piece of furniture to be there if you looked. "Now heading North on Whitehall."
Tonight, Operation MERCURY BOXER was finally hitting the streets. Ten teams of Watchers, a nearly unprecedented number, manoeuvring carefully around the target, keeping him at the centre of an ever-moving web. "Target approaching Trafalgar Square, lost visual in the crowd crossing the Mall." Gregory and the other senior officers sit in their makeshift command centre, chain smoking and trying desperately to conceal their stress as the radios intermittently crackle with a new update. "Got him again, he's changed clothes - now wearing a brown tweed suit, no overcoat."
"We sure that's him?"
"Same face, same briefcase, same tie." Comes the response.
"Blimey, he's good." remarks one of the officers listening with Gregory, "That was a fast change. On the move no less."
"Target now northbound on Charing Cross, handover." Gregory rubs his temples as he rests his elbows on the table in front of him. He lights another cigarette and stares at the map of London in front of him.
"He's crossed Irving St, still heading North."
"Is anyone else suspicious," Gregory posits, "That he hasn't made any countersurveillance moves yet? The clothes change is one thing, but no random stops, turns or double backs."
"He's been in position for about six years as best as we can tell. Could be getting complacent." The radio blurts an interruption.
"He's entered a premises on Charing Cross Rd, East side of the street. Looks like a bar."
---
16 October 1976 1017GMT
Security Service HQ, Gower St, London
The control room stank, stale air, smoke, body odour and endless cups of coffee all contributed to it. "OK Lucas, what have you been able to find?" Gregory lifts a pen from the table and prepares to take notes. The young researcher is flustered, and stumbles over his words.
"Well the bar-inn-p- pub- public house as it's officially recorded was first listed sometime in the sixteenth century. But it's not on any official registers for business ownership, liquor licensing, land tax, revenue or anything else we checked. I even talked the breweries and their distributors. No one has any contracts with that pub. That shop exists only insofar as it is a gap in the official plans and documentation and it's clearly sitting there."
"How many of us have walked down that street before?" Everyone in the room nods. "And how many of us can remember having ever seen a bar that belongs in a Shakespeare play there? Not a single one of us I bet." Gregory notes the frowns as realisation spreads. "Hiding in plain sight, not more than a bloody mile from us. What have we learned?"
"Watchers have been taking pictures of everyone entering and leaving the premises. We'll be getting the first sets developed soon."
"Good. I want to start trying to track and ID these people."
"Sir, if I may," Lucas interjects, "I think there's a bigger picture that we're missing here." He pauses and looks at the faces around him - all far his senior and waiting for the promised epiphany, "But the details I've been given to work with and the plans that I've seen - that pub cannot be more than about ten yards wide and ten yards deep. Yet somehow, we've had that much of foot traffic going in and out?"
-=-=-=-=-=-
Chapter 3
25 October 1976 1932GMT
MI5 Safehouse, Norwich
James looked past the panel of debriefers at his wife and daughter happily playing a board game with two of the minders in the front room. In the small kitchen, with heat radiating from the old wood stove, James sits at the circular table, too small for all three of the men who were dismantling his life, but they crowd around it anyway, with folders and notepads and endless cups of tea. He was glad to be in a safehouse in the countryside, even if it was more "custody" than "protective". He remembered how that first interrogation had gone. The looks of horror on the faces of his questioners as he babbled nonsense at them. Then had come the psychologist and the psychiatrists and the neurologists. And they'd seen Laura and Molly too. All sane. All normal. Then the first letter had come. And owl swooping in the door to deliver a letter at the first safe house, past a MI5 man bringing the kebabs for the night shift. Then a second letter, blown under the door of the interrogation room by a stiff breeze, even while two guards stood outside. He'd smiled as he saw it blow in, happy that he'd made Elisabeth promise to write home to mum and dad twice a week.
Then - almost a month ago now, they'd gotten their first real bite. A reply to a letter James had written with a dozen pairs of eyes watching his every move. The front page of a newspaper had been included. Complete with moving pictures. Apparently it had caused quite a scene at Q divisions labs when every analysis kept on coming back saying it was just paper and ink. They'd kept up the letter writing since then. Carefully constructed questions - curious, but not prying. Things that a twelve year old girl would know without having to ask questions of others and draw attention. Apparently this correspondence had been given the name FRAGRANT SAND. Their first source on the other side
"Sorry, we'll start over again there James." The Inquisitor apologises, before they'd given him their names and the sessions had become less interrogation and more conversation, James had chosen nicknames for them. The Inquisitor is an older man with a doughy frame and thinning white hair. He always speaks with a gentle voice and a slow cadence to go with a relaxed, faded Welsh accent. His questions start and you can't help but talk as he uses the smallest prods to break down inertia and ease the friction on you speaking. But there's a coldness to him - James sensed it in the first session, back in that cell under London, stinking of fresh glue, cuffed to a chair. His eyes never waver - always watching James' own or his hands, seeking any movement that may betray a lie or half-truth. The Soldier was middle aged, weathered face, hard eyes, calloused hands and the hint of a scar just visible above the collar. He's got a Northern accent, but rarely speaks, at least not directly to James. Finally there was The Professor, younger - barely thirty with a slightly mousy face, untidy goatee and the classic academic garb of vest under tatty tweed coat. He spent most sessions absorbed in the files, or making notes in the margins of various books as James talked. But he had the ear and clearly the respect of both The Inquisitor and The Soldier, which intrigued James.
"Yes, umm, I took her shopping for her school equipment. We went to Charing Cross Rd and - and -"
"Use the token if you have to James." The Inquisitor's eyes flick to James' hand. The token was a recent idea, a cheap bronze brooch Elisabeth had begged him to buy at a flea market years ago as a little girl. She'd loved it, worn it with everything. She'd been heartbroken when she'd realised that she'd forgotten to pack it. He squeezes it in his hand, feeling it's sharp corners dig into his palm while he concentrates on her happy smile as she wore it that first time. He can feel the fog burning away in his mind as memories begin coming into focus once more.
"We went into this pub - the Leaky Cauldron. Looked like it had been there forever, but I'd never seen it before that day. We'd been told we'd be met there. A few other families were there too, all looking fairly lost. Eventually this severe looking old woman appeared from the back of the room and asked us all to follow her."
---
26 Oct 1976, 1319GMT
Charing Cross Rd, London
"Madge exiting. Going South." The Watcher's had occupied several key pieces of real estate in the area now. Businesses and landlords up and down Charing Cross Rd all sitting slightly flusher as vacant offices and flats were suddenly occupied by a rush of new tenants. Telephoto lenses behind urban hides proliferated as quickly as secure phone lines to these premises as Charing Cross Rd became as closely scrutinised as any spot on Earth. "Who's taking her?"
"Team Two, we'll take her." Madge, as they called her, was a favourite of the Watcher teams. It wasn't her real name, they still hadn't found that out, but the rule was that if you ID'd someone new, you got to name them. And as a dowdy woman in her fifties with frizzy white hair barely under control and a patchwork cardigan, Madge was one of the more fitting names. What made her a favourite though was that she was an easy mark. Each day she left the pub and slowly dawdled her way down to a Tobaccanist on the Embankment to buy a particular Indian blend of tobacco which only a few places in London stocked. Then she tended to slowly make her way back by the same route. A simple, easy tail. She'd never run a countersurveillance movement, never even looked like she was leaving a mark or making a dead drop or handoff. It was just like following a grandma doing the shopping. A pleasant change for Watchers used to trying to keep a track of the new Lithuanian cultural attaché or any of The Cousins who happened to be in town.
A knock at the door breaks the concentration of Nicholas Jones, as he tries to track all of his teams' movement on the map in front of him. "Someone get that," he shouts before keying his radio, "Team Six, status?"
"Still at Kensington Gardens. Looks like Errol might be player. He's clearly waiting for someone." comes the crackling reply.
"We'll get you some support." Jones lays the radio down and looks at the newcomers to the room, "You'll have to excuse me for a moment. Griggs - get additional teams over to Kensington Gardens, Button - everything we have on Errol, get a package together for a briefing. Now gentlemen," he turns to the newcomers, "how can I help you?"
"Mr Jones it's a pleasure as always," Lucas says, "I even brought alone some roast beef sandwiches to make up for my intrusion."
"You know the way to our hearts Mr Matthews." Nicholas grins as he takes the two large paper bags and sets them on the table, "And I recognise the Bobs from technical services, but not the two. Care to fill me in?"
"We're going to try and drill some microphones into The Cauldron tonight, hence the three Bobs." The three Bobs all grin eagerly. It was a predictable piece of unintentional, institutional humour putting three men called Bob into the same team, but they got along famously and no one had ever had a bad word to say about them. Except the Russian Embassy's KGB counter-surveillance team and a few IRA players who were currently deceased. They were on record having several very unpleasant things to say about the three Bobs, or would have if they were not already dead.
"And the other two?"
"A water main is going to burst tomorrow. These fellows are some ex-Royal Engineers who are going to ensure that when it bursts, it should, in theory, flood The Cauldron." Lucas pauses as he see's the raised eyebrows, "We need to see what happens. We've got fifty theories on how all this is happening from the boffins and this is an experiment which can wipe half of those off the board."
"Sounds like a good start. It would be nice to have more of an idea of what's happening. So - new eyes. Take a look out the window fellows, I'm guessing you see a record store and book shop?" The Three Bobs and the two Royal Engineers look out and mutter agreement. Jones keys his radio, "We've got new eyes, can someone mark it?"
"On it," comes the reply, there's a brief pause then, "Red cardigan, black scarf." On the street below a young lady wearing a red cardigan and black scarf walks past the record store.
"Watch her hand gentlemen." She subtly begins dragging a piece of chalk as she reaches the diving wall between the record store and the book store, the thin white line on the wall just enough for the men to focus on. To the new eyes, she suddenly seems to stop moving. She's still walking but not moving forward. The white chalk mark on the wall keeps stretching and then suddenly, streaming out behind her, like a piece of set being pulled from behind a curtain is the frontage of a grubby old pub. "Gentlemen, I give you The Leaky Cauldron. From the looks on your faces, I assume you can all see it now?"
---
26 Oct 1976 2120GMT
Security Service HQ, Gower St, London
"Everyone, meet Errol." The slide machine clicks and a slightly fuzzy telephoto shot of Errol's face appears on the projector screen in the meeting room. "It's easy to see why he was given that name." A few smirks and sniggers ripple around the attendants. "He is one of forty individuals we've identified who we are currently tracking. Today he became a priority." A new slide clunks and clacks it's way into place, showing him sitting at a park bench with a second man. "Kensington Gardens at one thirty today. He made contact with an unidentified individual, who we are calling Alonso. They spoke for about fifteen seconds and then exchanged envelopes. We followed Errol back to Westminster where we lost him at the Tube. Alonso went to the toilets in the park and when we sent someone in to check, he'd disappeared from in there."
"How the hell are we meant to follow these people? I mean, if they're able to just disappear like this. I mean it's bad enough trying to follow the rezident around without being rumbled, but these people Gregory, being able to just vanish at will?"
"That's a problem for another day. Today was important for a few other reasons. We had our first authorised debriefing sessions with The Family and the Prime Minister. Which were illuminating to say the least. We ended up having to use techniques that were pioneered in the Watkins' debriefing to keep them on track. What we do know, is that they were contacted the first day in office and felt an immediate and deep trust of this person who they had never met before and who appeared, without warning when they found themselves alone. They signed extension clauses to a treaty which grants autonomy to this Ministry of Magic, as they term themselves, and all of it's subjects. Legal, given what information we've been able to gather about said treaty, have said that whatever it's original intent, that it is being maintained under duress. Which is supported by both The Family and the Prime Minister's accounts." Gregory places his hands flat on the table and looks at the assembled faces, "The fact is, this Ministry of Magic is an apartheid regime, forcing their governance on us without the knowledge of our citizens."
"Does this change anything?"
"Long term, almost certainly." Gregory states, closing one file and opening another. "Short term however, we are remaining in an intelligence gathering role only. Which is about to expand. FRAGRANT SANDS has identified several children who are also 'muggle born', to use their own term for it. Meaning that both parents are from a non-magical background. We've traced their families and identified two who are likely to be excellent targets for recruitment. There are an additional three possibles. All of their families are now under watch. Harry, you'll be handling the recruitment, the files are all here."
"Thank you," Harry takes the files, "These are all children though Gregory."
"I understand that Harry. A few are due to be graduating - they are the primary targets. But it is very literally kid gloves time. OK. That's everything for tonight. We'll expect the first reports from the tapping operation and the flood in tomorrow night's briefing."
---
27 October 1976 0240GMT
Charing Cross Rd, London
The pub had finally emptied out around midnight. Hardly anyone had come onto the street though, they'd simply moved away from the windows and the lights had turned off. The fact that they were watching tables clean themselves in the darkened pub just made all The Watchers slightly more uncomfortable than they'd expected. Inside the adjacent stores, the Three Bobs begin their work. Turning their hand drills as fast as they dare, they make painstakingly slow progress auguring through the masonry. As long minutes pass they eagerly await the moment of breakthrough.
"We're twenty seven centimetres deep. Should be through any time now."
"Suction please Bob, full blast, don't want to drop any dust on the other side."
"Got it Bob. How's that wire coming Bob?"
It was near enough to five in the morning before the Bobs quietly left the bookstore and restored it's locks and alarms. As they walk down the street they hear a timid voice calling behind them. "Sirs! Excuse me, Sirs!" They stop and turn taken aback at the sight. An emaciated child sized figure with blotchy grey skin in filthy, tattered rags almost skips towards them with an innocent smile on it's face. It halts just short of them and holds out it's hand with the three long wires of their microphones in it, "I think you forget these Sirs." Bob reaches out and takes the microphones.
"Thank you?" Bob says haltingly.
"Oh no, thank you Sirs, I couldn't bear for you to have left something behind." The figure snaps out of existance with a loud pop, leaving the Three Bobs standing on the street in disbelief. A homeless man peers out from a huddle of blankets in a darkened doorway and lifts his beanie up from over his eyes.
"You alright Bobs?" He asks, "That's something you don't see every day."
---
27 October 1976 1107GMT
Charing Cross Rd, London
It began slowly, a few little rivulets of water running down the street, before suddenly a large seam of asphalt gives way and a rush of water begins burbling out. The pedestrians scatter as the water builds more and more boiling over the curb and onto the footpath and building on this new path from inexorable creep to a rapidly flowing creek. It hits The Leaky Cauldron almost dead centre to the eyes of the The Watchers, the Royal Engineers grin as they admire their handywork. Lucas patiently watches the water as it flows under the door and presses against it, forcing it open ever so slightly. He smiles as he watches it continue to flow into the pub, soaking it's floor. "Well done gentlemen. Well done."
---
27 October 1976 1434GMT
Security Service HQ, Gower St, London
Gregory Smythe reclines in the old wooden chair as he listens to the report, cigarette dangling lazily in his mouth. Across his desk from him sits Warwick Cooper busy reeling off the latest facts from the Watkins family's ongoing debriefing.
"There's one thing that get's me Warwick." Gregory interrupts, leaning forward almost conspiratorially, "This family loves their daughters. That much is clear."
"Yes." Answers Warwick, intrigued as to this line of thought."
"So why is it that they struggle so hard to remember her - the truth about her?"
"Defence mechanism? From lying for the past year and half?"
"Doubtful - after six weeks of debriefing they would have shown more signs of that. And it's not obfuscation. Certainly not deliberate anyway. I have a theory."
"Go on." Warwick watches Gregory intently as he butts out his cigarette.
"It's not a nice theory."
"They rarely are in our line of work."
"People who go off to live in this other place - they don't come back do they? We have such limited information, but it doesn't seem like there's much for them to come back to - all the jobs, all their friends are on the other side."
"True enough, but you are right - we don't have enough intelligence for more than the wildest speculation."
"What if the forgetfulness is by design? What if these families always start out with the best intentions of staying in touch, but as time goes on they remember to write less often? That once they are adults it becomes worse - they don't need to visit home anymore, there's no reliance on the parents. Birthdays and Christmases together are forgotten. Neither side knows what is happening to the other. The children are now adults, raised in an environment of awe and wonder at this fantastical place." Gregory gestures madly, sweeping his arms around in the air as if pointing out an unimaginable vista, "And begin to if not forget, then care less for the problems of the real world and it's pain and suffering and poverty and it's boring 9 to 5. Meanwhile, those left behind hear from their children less and less. They forget more and more - they remember the times before they went off to school, but less and less of after that." Gregory pauses to light another cigarette. "What if we'd found Watkins ten years from now? What would we have seen? Would there have been some old family portraits showing them as a happy family - the loving parents and two carefree young girls, but nothing of Elisabeth as she grew up? No photos of her heading off to Dover with some friends to drive around France or graduating from university? What would they have said when we asked about her? Would they just have said 'Oh, she was such a nice girl growing up, but we don't talk anymore - I haven't seen her since '83.'? As if she was estranged, another girl grown up and then lost to the streets or run off with someone they didn't approve of. Would she have eventually been made a non-person by whatever it is which is causing them to forget the details of her now?"
"It's an interesting theory Gregory-"
"Here's the really unpleasant part Warwick," Gregory interrupts, "How many families do you know with that old photo on the mantle and the child who they don't talk about anymore?"
-=-=-=-=-=-
