The Danger of Life E-Book

Ken Lussey

• Herausgeber: Fledgling Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 474

Beschreibung

It is late 1942. Group Captain Robert Sutherland's first week in charge of Military Intelligence 11's operations in Scotland and northern England is not going smoothly. A murder at the Commando Basic Training Centre in the Highlands is being investigated by one of his teams, until events take an even darker turn that draws Bob in personally. He is also trying to discover who was behind an attempt to steal an advanced reconnaissance aircraft from a military airfield in Fife, an investigation made no easier by the perpetrator's death. The complication he could really live without comes via a telephone call from Monique Dubois in MI5. An operation she's been running in Glasgow, without Bob or anyone else knowing, has gone badly wrong, and she wants him to intervene before it is entirely compromised. The Danger of Life is a fast-paced thriller set in Scotland during the Second World War. It is Ken's second novel to feature Bob Sutherland and Monique Dubois and picks up not long after the end of his first, Eyes Turned Skywards. The action moves back and forth across Scotland, with much of it set in Lochaber, where the present war intersects with another conflict that took place two centuries earlier: with deadly consequences.

Leseprobe

For my grandson Alistair

Prologue

‘Just as courage is the danger of life, so is fear its safeguard.’

Leonardo da Vinci

*

Stan had expected it to be easy. There had been no problems during practice on the ground in Norway. First you pulled the lever to open the hatch, then you dropped head first into the blackness below while facing towards the rear of the Junkers Ju 88 bomber. That way you avoided being hit in the face by the blast of the slipstream. Then it was simply a nice tranquil ride beneath your parachute down to an arrival in Scotland.

Stan had spent the flight from Norway lying on his stomach with the weight of his parachute, his radio and his other supplies pressing down on his back. The aircraft’s gunner was positioned just above him, while equipment and aircraft systems hemmed him in on both sides. This was no place for anyone suffering from claustrophobia. Stan was thankful that was not something that caused him a problem. Especially not right now, when there were more important things to worry about.

The main concern was the news over the radio that the diversionary air raid on Aberdeen, just to the south of them, had failed to find its target in the heavy cloud that had materialised in place of the forecast clear skies. The aircraft assigned to the raid were still looking for the city but were unlikely to continue doing so for much longer. If they turned back it would leave a single bomber flying steadily south west at 3,000m and looking very obvious to the British radar operators. The thought made Stan feel extremely vulnerable.

It was no real surprise when the intercom suddenly came alive with shouted warnings of a night fighter. A member of the crew had reported he’d seen a silhouette of an aircraft hunting them through a hole in the cloud. The pilot took violent evasive action and Stan found it was all he could do to avoid vomiting up the brandy he’d consumed before takeoff.

A little later they emerged from cloud for long enough to catch a glimpse of the coast, which confirmed they were over Scotland. But it was obvious to Stan that no-one on board the aircraft was certain which bit of coast they had crossed, or where they were in relation to his intended landing point. It was equally obvious that the crew was much more interested in evading the real or imaginary night fighter than they were in precision navigation. Stan had some sympathy for them.

‘Time for me to go, I think, oberleutenant,’ said Stan over the intercom to the pilot.

The gunner tapped him hard on the shoulder and gesticulated frantically. ‘No, wait, we need to connect the static line first!’

Stan realised that he’d been on the point of dropping through the hatch without the line that automatically opened his parachute being attached. As the instructor had said, gleefully, on the parachute course, ‘It’s not the fall that kills you, it’s the sudden stop at the bottom.’

Once the static line had been properly attached, Stan took a deep breath, and before he had time for second thoughts he operated the hatch release lever, as he’d been shown in Norway. A bad night suddenly got much worse. Somehow, he tumbled rather than dropped, and found himself wedged in the hatch in the floor of the aircraft, upside down.

Then Stan felt a Luftwaffe flying boot pressing down very firmly on his rear end, and suddenly he was falling free. The parachute opened while he was in cloud. Once clear of the cloud, he could still see nothing in the darkness below him. He was beginning to consider the frightening possibility that they had been wrong about the coast and he had been dropped over the North Sea by mistake when he caught a glimpse of what might have been a tree off to his right. He had barely braced when he landed heavily in a field, winding himself in the process.

So far, so good, he thought, after recovering his breath and gathering his parachute. Now he just needed to find a telephone, and a strong drink, though not necessarily in that order.

They said it always rained in Scotland. Private Hannes Lambrechts had seen pictures that proved that wasn’t true. But, in the short time since he’d arrived in this godforsaken corner of the country, the heavens had done little to prove the cynics wrong.

If it had been quiet in the big hut you’d have been able to hear the rain now, beating down on its outer skin. But it wasn’t quiet. The largest available space at Achnacarry was crammed with khaki-clad men, talking, cheering and shouting. The building was perhaps three or four times as long as it was wide, and in its centre was a boxing ring. The early arrivals and the officers had been able to take advantage of the folding chairs set in rows up the sides of the ring and at either end of it. But much larger numbers were standing behind the chairs, some trying to see around the heads of the men in front of them, others making surreptitious wagers on the outcomes of the contests taking place in the ring.

Hannes was standing at one end of the hut, where he could only catch glimpses of the action. He knew that he was witnessing ‘milling’. It was the sort of recreational activity that could only have been dreamt up in a place whose whole purpose was to prepare men to kill other men as effectively as possible and avoid being killed themselves in the process.

The contests were a highlight of every course. Each troop picked their best ten men and they were matched weight for weight against representatives from another randomly selected troop. One team of ten wore black shorts and shirts, while the other team wore white. At the blow of a whistle, the first pugilist from each team entered the ring, wearing boxing gloves, and tried to defeat the other team’s first representative. At the end of a minute the whistle was blown again and the first man from each team was immediately replaced by the second, who carried on the contest without a pause. At the end of ten minutes all members of both teams had fought, and points were totted up on the basis of two for an individual win, one for a loss and none for a disqualification. The overall result for each troop versus troop contest was then announced, not always to the approval of the audience. It was boxing stripped back to its barest essentials, and it varied from the comical to the savage. As soon as one ten versus ten contest had finished, another was lined up to begin.

Hannes wondered if the experience he was about to endure at Achnacarry would turn him into the sort of man who could flail away with boxing gloves at another man simply because he represented a different troop. But that wasn’t his primary concern right now. Hannes was looking for someone. He scanned the backs of heads and profiles of the men around him. He’d already tried the other end of the hut without success. Wartime training and diets, military haircuts and khaki uniforms gave a certain sameness to everyone present, but Hannes was sure he hadn’t been mistaken. He had only seen the man for a moment in passing that morning, and it was only the odd look on the other man’s face that allowed Hannes to believe that his first instinct had been right. But he needed to be certain.

Then, to his right, he saw a pair of eyes turn swiftly away from his sweeping gaze. The man was off to one side of the throng. Hannes began to ease his way through the tightly-packed and highly excited crowd. If the man knew Hannes was approaching, he showed no sign of it. Then, when Hannes came within a couple of metres the man turned to look directly at him, and Hannes knew immediately that he had been right. Something was different, but this was the man he had been looking for. He paused, wondering what to do next, then realised that the man’s gaze had shifted, looking over Hannes’ shoulder at someone behind him. The man nodded and looked away. Hannes felt a sudden sharp pressure on his back, like a punch.

The knife was swiftly withdrawn. As the life ebbed out of him, Hannes remained standing, supported by the surrounding crowd for just long enough to allow his assailants to move away unnoticed. Even after he had collapsed onto the floor and the medical officer had been summoned from the ringside, it took a little while for the blood seeping from the small wound in his back to reveal that his collapse was due to anything other than natural causes.

Chapter One

Group Captain Robert Sutherland kept to a height of two thousand feet as he flew his Airspeed Oxford training aircraft along the southern coast of Fife. After taking off from RAF Turnhouse he’d flown north east to pass over Cramond Island before crossing over the Firth of Forth and picking up the coast near Kinghorn. It was raining, and they were being buffeted by gusts and turbulence, but the base of the cloud was well above the aircraft, and visibility was good enough for Bob to keep clear of the barrage balloons. A little later he watched the naval air station at Crail slip below his left wing before he turned left at Fife Ness and headed north west, beginning his descent as he did so. At this time of the morning, even in the latter half of October, Bob had expected a little more brightness, but wherever he looked there was nothing but grey gloom.

‘A lovely day for a flight, isn’t it?’ Bob glanced to his right, where Flight Lieutenant George Buchan was beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable in the seat usually used by the navigator or instructor on these aircraft. A little behind them the occupant of the third seat in the aircraft, Sergeant Peter Bennett, seemed to be dozing, although since he was facing backwards it was hard for Bob to tell.

Buchan smiled. ‘If I’m honest, sir, I’m just grateful that all those anti-aircraft gunners back around the approaches to the bridge and the dockyards realised we weren’t a threat.’

Bob didn’t admit that the same thought had crossed his mind. The aircraft he’d borrowed belonged to 289 Squadron, based at RAF Turnhouse, whose job was to help test and train anti-aircraft gunners across Scotland. At least that meant that the various types of aircraft flown by the squadron were very well known to the men on the ground in this part of the country. He glanced again at the flight lieutenant. ‘I take it that you’d have preferred to travel up by car?’

‘No offence, sir, but we’d have had priority in any queue for the ferry, and from North Queensferry it’s only 35 miles or so to Leuchars.’

‘Remind me who we are meeting,’ said Bob.

‘Flight Lieutenant Charles Rutherford, sir. He commands the RAF Police flight at Leuchars.’

‘You’d consider him your normal contact on the ground here?’

‘Yes, sir. As you know, the job is a bit of a mix. Our role is partly to advise on security measures, and partly to keep the military police on the ground on their toes with spot checks and exercises. But we also collect intelligence with a view to identifying any patterns or emerging threats. For all those things our first point of contact, in my case at each RAF unit in Scotland and northern England, is the officer, or in some cases the senior non-commissioned officer, in charge of the RAF Police flight. The important thing to remember sir, is that none of these people report to us. Flight Lieutenant Rutherford reports partly through the admin structure at RAF Leuchars to the station commander, and partly through a separate command structure to the RAF Provost Marshal.’

‘You are suggesting I should adopt a diplomatic approach?’

Buchan glanced across the width of the cockpit at his new boss. ‘I’d not have phrased it quite like that, sir, but we tend to achieve a lot more by working with the men on the ground than we would by being heavy-handed. As far as most of them are concerned, MI11 is a bit of an oddity. A fifth wheel on the wagon, if you like. It makes their life much easier if we write favourable reports about the security at their establishments after we’ve made an inspection, and many of them recognise that our broader view, especially across different services, means we can offer advice they’d not get anywhere else. But they come in all shapes and sizes, and some are much more open and receptive to us than others.’

‘What about Flight Lieutenant Rutherford?’ asked Bob. ‘How does he feel about MI11?’

‘He’s one of the good guys, sir. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him. But our visit today was his idea. It seems he felt the circumstances made this something we should look at rather than the RAF Police’s own Special Investigation Branch, and that was why he telephoned me first thing this morning.’

Bob had cleared their approach on the radio with the control tower at Leuchars and after catching his first glimpse of the runway he lowered the undercarriage and flaps in preparation for their landing. ‘And the circumstances are that in the early hours of this morning one of his men shot and killed an intruder trying to access a parked aircraft at Leuchars?’

‘Yes, sir, apparently the intruder fired first when challenged, but missed. The RAF Police corporal didn’t miss when he fired back. The thing that made Rutherford decide to call me was that the intruder turned out to be a Polish Army sergeant, normally based at their camp at Tents Muir, just over there.’ As the aircraft swept in to land from the sea, Flight Lieutenant Buchan gestured towards the swathe of dark green forest visible behind the broad beach to their right. ‘The potential diplomatic and security complications mean that he wants the incident investigated by someone completely independent of the RAF Police, and I understand that the station commander at RAF Leuchars agrees with him.’

Bob was directed to park the aircraft at the end of a line of Handley Page Hampden torpedo bombers, in front of one of the large hangars that clustered together on the north side of the airfield. It was still raining and Bob was thankful that a car had been provided to take them to the station headquarters.

Flight Lieutenant Rutherford turned out to be a man in his forties who greeted them at the front entrance to the building before showing them to an office on the ground floor. Flight Lieutenant Buchan effected the introductions and the three visitors sat down around a wooden meeting table to an obligatory cup of tea.

Bob could see that Rutherford was a little unsure of his own involvement in the meeting and tried to put him at his ease. ‘Don’t mind me, Flight Lieutenant. I took over MI11’s northern operations at the beginning of the week and am here mainly to get a feel for the work we do. George will take the lead, assisted by Sergeant Bennett.’

Flight Lieutenant Buchan took this as his cue. ‘You told me what happened on the telephone, Charles. We’ll obviously want to talk to the corporal who killed the intruder.’

‘Corporal Fred Taylor,’ said Rutherford. ‘He’s a good man, and quite upset by what happened. He’s waiting to talk to you.’

‘We’ll also need to talk to the Poles in Tents Muir,’ said Buchan. ‘Do they know what’s happened?’

‘Yes,’ said Rutherford. ‘They’ve been good neighbours over the past couple of years, and part of their role has been defending the coastline here, including our own coastal margin. But there’s a major reorganisation going on and the unit that’s been stationed there is moving out, with others moving in, though on a much smaller scale. The invasion threat’s no longer present in the same way of course, but one of the changes we’ve made has been to increase our own RAF Regiment presence to make sure our coastal boundary to the east and along the River Eden to the south is secured now the Poles are moving out.’

Bob asked, ‘Do we know how the intruder got into the base?’

‘Yes, we do, sir,’ said Rutherford. ‘As they’ve been running down their presence in this part of Fife, we’ve been helping the Poles with some of the services that have been withdrawn. It seems that the gentleman concerned, Sierzant or Sergeant Jacek Winograd, had been on camp several times over the past couple of days to sort out mechanical problems they had been having with a lorry. Our motor transport flight was happy to help. As far as I can find out, Winograd came onto the base late yesterday afternoon and never left. He presumably hid somewhere and in the early hours of this morning made his way around the airfield to the 540 Squadron dispersal.’

‘540 Squadron?’ said Bob. ‘That’s not a unit I’ve come across before.’

‘Not many people have, sir. They were formed at the beginning of the week from two of the flights of what used to be No. 1 Photographic Reconnaissance Unit. They fly photo reconnaissance Spitfires and Mosquitoes. It was one of their Mosquitoes that Sergeant Winograd was showing a close interest in when he was spotted by Corporal Taylor.’

‘Sorry,’ said Bob, ‘I’ve sidetracked you. You were talking about the Poles.’

‘Yes, sir, the outgoing senior officer up at the Polish camp is Major Bartek Kaminski. Group Captain More, the station commander here at Leuchars, spoke to the major first thing this morning, and he is expecting a visit from us. I don’t know if the major still has field security police on his staff, or whether they have already moved out, but my betting is that he will have been doing his own check on Sergeant Winograd’s background.’

Buchan put his teacup down and looked across the table at Bob. ‘Do you think we ought to talk to Corporal Taylor, sir?’

Bob remembered he was supposed to be letting Buchan take the lead. ‘Of course.’

Flight Lieutenant Rutherford stood up. ‘It might be most convenient if I brought him in here. As I said before, he’s a good lad and he’s had a shock,’ he said, looking at Bob. ‘Go easy on him will you, sir?’

Corporal Fred Taylor looked like he hadn’t yet seen his twentieth birthday and wore his uniform and white-topped service cap as if it belonged to someone else. He was obviously extremely nervous.

‘Hello, Corporal,’ said Bob. ‘Take a seat. I’m Group Captain Sutherland and I’m here mainly as an observer. This is Flight Lieutenant Buchan, from Military Intelligence Section 11, based in Edinburgh, and this is Sergeant Bennett, also of MI11.’

‘Am I in trouble, sir?’ asked the corporal.

‘We are here mainly to find out what the intruder you discovered last night was trying to achieve and why he was here. Could you start by telling us what happened?’

‘I was on routine foot patrol, sir, over at the dispersal used by the photo reconnaissance squadron. It was about 1.30 a.m. and I thought I heard a noise coming from one of the parked aircraft. It was dark, of course, but the moon’s not far off full, so there was some light coming through gaps in the cloud. Then I caught a brief flash of torchlight and another sound, which I thought was the aircraft access hatch being opened.’

‘What did you do then?’ asked Flight Lieutenant Buchan. Bob was pleased that Buchan was keen to take over the interview.

‘I walked over towards the aircraft and then saw a movement underneath it. I shouted out a challenge and switched on my torch. I was about twenty yards from the aircraft and, in the light of the torch, saw a man in army uniform raising a pistol towards me. I threw down the torch to avoid giving him too much of a target and raised my Sten gun. He fired his pistol, and then I fired a short burst at the muzzle flash. Then I picked up my torch again and went over to him. It seems I had hit him twice, and the access hatch of the aircraft once.’

‘What happened then?’ asked Buchan.

‘The sound of the gunfire brought others to the scene very quickly. The Polish sergeant, as I’m told he was, was taken to the medical centre in an ambulance, but it seems he was already dead.’

‘Was there any indication as to what the intruder was trying to do?’ asked Bob. ‘Any sign of explosives or that sort of thing?’

‘No sir, though I’m told that a copy of the local one-inch to the mile Ordnance Survey map was found on him.’

Buchan asked, ‘Did anyone else witness what happened?’

‘Not as far as I know, sir, but quite a few people heard the shots. I know why you are asking, of course. But you have to believe that I’d never have fired first. If I’m honest, I’d never have thought that I could shoot a man. Training on the range is one thing, but knowing that you are firing at a real living person is something totally different. In the heat of the moment, though, and after he’d fired at me, it was somehow easier than I expected.’

Bob found he believed the young man. As a pilot Bob had been no stranger to death, or to killing, but it was only recently that he had been forced to confront the need to pull the trigger of a gun pointing at a man standing a few feet away from him. The corporal’s account brought back unpleasant memories, but the truth of what he said was compelling.

Sergeant Bennett drove the borrowed staff car out of RAF Leuchars and through the neighbouring village. Bob sat in the back with Flight Lieutenant Buchan.

In the village they turned right to pass the eastern end of a spectacularly decorated church. ‘You don’t see many like that,’ said Bob.

‘No, sir,’ said Sergeant Bennett. ‘That’s St Athernase Church. The blind arcading around the chancel and apse at this end dates back to before 1200. It’s said to be one of the two or three finest pieces of Norman stonework anywhere in Great Britain. It’s nice to see something that reminds us that the world wasn’t always at war.’

Buchan saw the look of surprise on Bob’s face. ‘Peter was studying to be an architect before the war, sir. Travelling around the country with him is a real education.’

Bennett said, ‘There’s not much call for architects in wartime, sir, as it seems possible to produce anything you want in concrete or corrugated iron. And I suppose that after the war the priority will be on minimising cost and maximising speed when we rebuild what’s been destroyed.’

‘I’m not sure I entirely agree, sergeant,’ said Bob. ‘I get the feeling that after years of austerity, people will want something different and better.’

‘I hope you are right, sir,’ said Bennett.

‘What did you make of Corporal Taylor’s account of what happened this morning, sir?’ asked Flight Lieutenant Buchan.

‘I believed him,’ said Bob. ‘It ought to be possible to confirm his story about who fired first by talking to those who heard the shots.’

‘Yes sir, that’s something Sergeant Bennett and I will look at when we get back to Leuchars. Anyone within earshot should have a clear idea of whether the burst from the Sten gun was before or after the shot from the pistol. Though, like you, I think we will find he was telling the truth.’

Sergeant Bennett turned the car off the narrow road they had followed from the village onto a gravel track that led towards the edge of a forest. A few hundred yards into the forest they were flagged down by two men in khaki uniforms at a barrier across the road. Beyond was a large clearing which seemed to be full of corrugated iron-clad Nissen huts.

‘Your favourite sort of architecture, sergeant,’ said Bob as he wound down his window to talk to the nearest soldier, who looked miserable in the rain. ‘Hello, Group Captain Sutherland and colleagues to see Major Kaminski. We are expected.’

Bob was vividly reminded of the last time he had been confronted by a man in a Polish army uniform carrying a rifle and found himself wondering what Lady Alice Gough was doing now. At least these men were actually Polish and not German.

‘Yes, sir. You need to take the first left, over there, and follow the track for a couple of hundred metres until you see a brick-built building on your left. The wooden hut next to it is the camp H.Q. You will find Major Kaminski there. There’s a parking area on the right, opposite.’ The Polish soldier stepped back and waved to his colleague to raise the barrier.

‘Major Bartek Kaminski of the 2nd Polish Rifle Battalion at your service, sir.’ The major was a wiry man in his late thirties who gave the impression of having considerable pent-up energy.

Bob returned the major’s salute, then introduced himself and his colleagues. ‘I’m sorry our meeting couldn’t have been under slightly better circumstances, Major. I understand you know what happened at Leuchars earlier this morning?’

‘Yes, indeed, Group Captain More telephoned me this morning. Very regrettable. Look, we don’t get many visitors here, could I offer you some real coffee?’ The major left the three of them in the small meeting room into which they’d been shown while he went out to organise refreshments.

Once they were all sitting round the table, there was a slight pause while Major Kaminski passed round cigarettes. ‘No thanks, Major, I’m a pipe man myself.’ Bob rarely smoked his pipe, but it was a convenient deflection on occasions like this.

‘Do you mind if I ask a question, Group Captain?’ said the major.

‘Not at all.’

‘Are you quite certain that Sierzant Winograd was, as you might call it, up to no good?’

‘It does very much look that way, Major. Flight Lieutenant Buchan and Sergeant Bennett will be talking to anyone they can find who heard the shots, but it does seem very likely that Sergeant Winograd fired at the RAF Police corporal first, before being shot by him.’

‘Then it is a matter of great sadness to me that we should end our time in this part of Fife under a cloud. We have been on very good terms with our RAF neighbours since we established the camp here.’

‘I understand you are on the move, Major?’ asked Bob.

‘Yes, indeed. My unit has been based here at Tents Muir for some time now. But times change and the Polish army in Scotland is reorganising as our equipment improves and as we change away from a defensive stance and towards preparation for the liberation of our homeland. Like most of my men I am a refugee twice over. You may be aware that in early 1940 the governments of Poland and France agreed to form a Polish army in France. There were over 80,000 of us in France when the Germans arrived there. Those of us who could, escaped from Dunkirk in May and June 1940 with men of your own army and French troops. For most of the last two years we have been stationed in Scotland, mainly helping defend the east coast.’

‘What will become of your camp here?’ asked Bob.

‘In the short term, part of the camp is being used to accommodate men from the Polish parachute battalions that are training up to operational readiness in Fife, but that’s only a temporary measure. I expect the last of my men to have left by the end of next month, and I can’t see the paratroops staying far into next year. I imagine the camp here will then begin to return to nature, unless some other use can be found for it. But I don’t know what that might be. It’s much too close to the coast, and to RAF Leuchars, to be used as a prisoner of war camp.’

‘What are you able to tell us about Sergeant Winograd, sir?’ asked Buchan.

‘Ah, yes, down to business. I am sorry to have to tell you that I have been able to find out very little so far. He was a new arrival here, being a member of the 4th Polish Parachute Battalion who are based on the south coast of Fife at Elie. I’ve spoken to his porucznik, or lieutenant, and it seems that Winograd was quite a new member of the battalion who no-one seems to have known very well. The lieutenant has gone to their battalion headquarters to see what records they hold about him. And I have alerted the security people at our divisional headquarters about what has happened, with a request that they, too, see what can be found out about Sierzant Winograd.’

Bob said, ‘One thing it would be helpful to know is whether he had ever had any pilot training. It’s too early to say, but it’s possible that he was trying to steal an aircraft rather than damage or examine one.’

‘Most of our men with pilot training found their way into the Polish squadrons of the RAF, sir,’ said the major. Then he gestured at the medals and wings on Bob’s uniform jacket. ‘But I’m sure you knew that already.’

Flight Lieutenant Buchan stood up. ‘We’re really grateful for your time, sir’ he said to Major Kaminski. ‘I think that Sergeant Bennett and I will be at Leuchars until tomorrow. If you come up with anything about Sergeant Winograd’s background, would it be possible to let me know? I will be contactable via Flight Lieutenant Rutherford’s office there. After that, you can reach me on this telephone number.’ He handed over a card. ‘In the meantime, is there someone here who at least knew the sergeant well enough to come down to Leuchars this afternoon and identify his body? It will be a step in the right direction if we can establish that the man carrying Sergeant Winograd’s papers was actually Sergeant Winograd.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said the major.

As the car approached the village of Leuchars, Bob turned to Buchan. ‘I get the sense that you’d prefer to take this on from here, Flight Lieutenant?’

‘If I’m honest, sir, I’m not sure how much more there is for us to do. The Polish security people might or might not come up with something on Winograd that explains what he was doing and why, but we are very much in their hands for that. We have some checking to do on Corporal Taylor’s account of events, but that’s really a case of tying up loose ends rather than looking for any great revelations. We will also pay a visit to 540 Squadron to see if it’s physically possible for someone to start up and take off in a Mosquito without external assistance. Do you by any chance know, sir?’

‘No, I’m afraid not, though it’s a good question. How will you get back to Craigiehall when you are done?’

‘I’ll get one of the drivers to come up in a car and collect us, sir. I’m assuming you’ll be flying back to Turnhouse this afternoon?’

‘That’s the plan, Flight Lieutenant.’

Chapter Two

As it turned out, things didn’t quite go to plan. On returning to the station headquarters, Flight Lieutenant Rutherford passed on an invitation from the station commander for Bob to lunch with him. Bob was directed up to Group Captain More’s office on the first floor.

‘A belated welcome to Leuchars, Sutherland,’ said More. ‘I’m sorry I was elsewhere when you arrived.’ The well-built man in his forties pulled on his service raincoat in his outer office. He then turned to his secretary, sitting behind her desk. ‘Marjorie, if anyone wants me, I am showing an important visitor around the station and will get back to them later. I take it you fancy a bite to eat, Sutherland?’

‘Yes, of course, Group Captain.’

‘Call me Andrew, please. Do I call you Robert?’

‘Bob would be better.’

Group Captain More led the way out of the main entrance. ‘It’s only a short walk to the mess and the rain’s eased off. I’ve asked Wing Commander Eric Gill to meet us there. Since the beginning of the week he’s been the officer commanding 540 Squadron, though before that he was in charge of the two flights we had based here that became his squadron, so it’s business as usual really.’

Wing Commander Gill turned out to be a lightly-built man of above average height in his early thirties. Bob had a slightly unsettling sense of having met him before but couldn’t quite remember where.

As the mess steward showed them to their table, the wing commander said, ‘I wondered if it was you, Group Captain. You commanded 605 Squadron at Croydon during the Battle of Britain, didn’t you?’

Bob found himself trying to place the face. ‘Yes, I did, but I’m sorry: though you look familiar, I can’t quite remember why.’

‘They were busy times, sir, and I flew for the competition, so you’d probably not have noticed me.’

At last it clicked. Bob said, ‘You were a flight commander on 111 Squadron at Croydon Aerodrome at the same time, weren’t you? Call me Bob, by the way. I was a wing commander myself until the beginning of the week and I’m still getting used to the idea I’m being addressed if someone says, “group captain”.’

Group Captain More laughed. ‘You had the Luftwaffe turning up in large numbers to bomb the hell out of out of London all day and every day, and 605 and 111 Squadrons still regarded one another as “the competition”?’

‘We did,’ said Bob. ‘Though come to think of it, not nearly as much as we both tried to get one-up on 72 Squadron, who were also at Croydon for the first couple of weeks of September 1940. They flew Spitfires, you see, and the Hurricane squadrons always felt the Spitfires got more than their fair share of the glory.’

‘I can see that’s an argument that must have been had in many messes,’ said More. ‘I’ve spent the last few years in Coastal Command so can’t really comment with any authority. But as I’ve got the benefit of the company of two ex-fighter men, which do you both think is better, the Spitfire or the Hurricane?’

Lunch had been served. Bob’s ham, egg and chips looked as if it should see him through until evening with little difficulty. Bob looked across the table at Gill. ‘Have you any thoughts on that, Eric?’

‘I think I’m probably biased as, of the two, I only flew the Hurricane in air-to-air combat. The photo reconnaissance Spitfires are wonderful aircraft but not comparable. But didn’t you fly Spitfires as well, Bob, or have I got that wrong?’

‘Yes, I did, with 602 Squadron at Grangemouth and Drem, before I was posted onto Hurricanes with 605 Squadron. I’m not sure that the early Spitfires were representative of what has followed since, but both types of aircraft have their plus points in combat. Overall the Spitfire seems likely to outlast the Hurricane, which has already been moved in large numbers to training or ground attack roles. I’d imagine that the photo reconnaissance version of the Spitfire is a pretty special aircraft?’

‘They can fly high and fast, certainly,’ said Gill, ‘but there’s something about the idea of being in a single seat fighter that doesn’t have guns that is a little disconcerting.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Bob. ‘I find that even if I’m only flying a Hurricane down to RAF Northolt for a meeting in London, I want it fully armed. You never know who you might meet.’

Group Captain More said, ‘I heard you put that into practice on a Junkers Ju 88 up at Wick a few weeks ago, Bob. That must have been unexpected.’

Bob thought back to his encounter with the German bomber over the sea off Wick. ‘That’s true, and it also upset a Spitfire pilot from RAF Castletown who thought the kill was going to be his. A successful day all round.’

‘But now you’ve moved on to very different pastures,’ said Group Captain More. ‘Or is that something you can’t talk about?’

‘No, I see no problem with that. I’ve taken up the offer of a job as deputy head of MI11, or Military Intelligence Section 11, in Edinburgh. I started on Monday and spent Tuesday and part of yesterday in London, so I’m very much the new boy. I’m here with one of my teams to get a feel for the sort of work we do.’

‘Is it what you expected?’ asked Gill.

‘I’m not certain what I expected, if I’m honest, but I can see there’s a fair amount of work to be done to establish a distinct role for ourselves. At present we sit in a slightly grey area with large overlaps with a number of other agencies.’ Bob was going to go on to describe the extent to which that seemed to have caused a lack of focus within MI11 but decided that might be a revelation too far.

‘Are you based at Turnhouse?’ asked More.

‘No, I’m living in the officers’ mess there, having fought off invitations from my parents to move back in with them. They live in Cramond, only a couple of miles up the road, but I take the view that 30 is just a little old to be returning to live under the parental roof. MI11 has offices at Craigiehall, an old country house quite close to Turnhouse. It’s home to several army units, so security isn’t a problem. The proximity to RAF Turnhouse has one real bonus as far as I’m concerned. MI11 has set up an arrangement with the officer commanding 289 Squadron that allows me to borrow one of his aircraft when the need arises. That means I can keep my hand in on the Hurricane or use an Airspeed Oxford if I need more seats. The Oxford isn’t my favourite aeroplane, I must admit.’

They were enjoying a cup of tea to round off the meal and the other two men were smoking. Gill sat back in his chair and said, ‘Did you have any plans for this afternoon, Bob?’

‘I need to get back to the office at some point, though I suspect they will be able to survive without me. Why do you ask?’

‘Our discussion about the Spitfire and Hurricane led me to wonder whether you would like to fly in a twin-engined aircraft that I think is better than either of them, or any other single-engined fighter on either side.’

Group Captain More laughed again. ‘I suppose I should have seen this coming. Eric here is a huge enthusiast for the Mosquito. I have to admit I like my aeroplanes to have a little more substance to them, and a little more room in them, but I can’t deny that the de Havilland Mosquito is an outstanding aircraft.’

Bob grinned. ‘I’d love to.’ He’d only ever glimpsed the Mosquito at a distance on the ground and thought it one of the most beautiful aeroplanes he’d ever seen. He’d have mortgaged his parent’s substantial house for the chance to fly in one, but it seemed that no-one was asking him to.

It had stopped raining as Bob looked out of the squadron’s office window towards the aircraft he was due to fly in. Gill had driven him around the north side of the airfield to an area that was contained in the angle of the two main runways. Several Mosquitoes and Spitfires were visible, apparently placed at random. He knew that in reality this was a carefully planned pattern of parking intended to minimise the impact of any sudden attack by a German aircraft coming in from the sea.

Gill came into the office, which occupied part of a wooden hut. ‘I’m told that the weather’s clearing from the west. We’ll head that way to give you a chance to see the view from high altitude and appreciate the performance. Sorry about the fleecy boots and overalls.’ He gestured at the clothing Bob had pulled on. ‘They’re hardly elegant. We tend to get togged up to look like the Michelin man when we fly. It can get very cold at altitude, even with the cockpit heater on full blast.’

‘Is the aircraft the Polish sergeant was trying to get into last night out there now?’ asked Bob.

‘No, it was towed off to the squadron hangar for repair. The RAF policeman only put one hole in it, in the access hatch, so it should be easy enough to fix. Anyway, are you ready?’

‘Yes, I took a comfort break before I put these on.’

‘Just as well, it’s not great to get caught short in a Mosquito.’

The two men made their way out of the hut and over to an aircraft parked fifty yards away, on a square concrete area protected by blast walls. ‘I’ll do the external pre-flight checks while you get aboard, Bob,’ said Gill. Bob paused briefly to look at the aircraft. The beauty of the Mosquito that he had admired from afar was even more striking when he was this close to one. This example was painted an overall mid blue colour and looked extremely purposeful, as if it were as keen as he was to leave the ground behind.

Bob followed the instructions of an airman and clambered awkwardly up a short ladder into a hatch on the underside of the aircraft. With his Mae West life-preserver and a parachute harness on over his thick overalls there was very little room to manoeuvre. Once inside the aircraft he was directed by the same airman, who now had his head and shoulders inside the bottom of the cockpit, to strap himself into the right of two seats, positioned a few inches further back than the left one.

While he waited for Gill, Bob looked around the inside of the cockpit. He’d flown a number of different aircraft and was very used to those with Merlin engines, though not as a pair. He put himself in the position of Sergeant Winograd and wondered if he’d have been able to work out without instruction how to start and take off in a Mosquito. Having decided the chances of missing some vital stage in the process were simply too high, he reminded himself that Sergeant Winograd had also been trying to access the aircraft in the dead of night and would have been concerned to use his torch as little as possible for fear of discovery.

Gill’s arrival proved that the cockpit was even snugger than Bob had imagined. With Gill in the pilot’s seat and Bob in the navigator’s, the two men were pressed against one another, the front of Bob’s left shoulder making contact with the rear of Gill’s right shoulder. ‘Cosy, isn’t it?’ said Bob, over the intercom fitted in the leather helmet he had donned.

‘It’s certainly not a fat man’s aeroplane, and that’s all the more obvious because of the cold weather gear we have to wear for the altitude.’

The airman had closed the access hatch in the floor of the aircraft. Bob looked around again. ‘Given the struggle I had getting into the aircraft, I now understand why you were at such pains to talk me through the procedure for getting out in a hurry.’

‘Do you remember it all?’

‘I think so.’

‘So long as you don’t forget to attach your parachute pack to your harness you’ll not go far wrong. As I said, if you get stuck in the hatch, it’s up to me as the pilot to help with a good push of my foot. You can rest assured it will be a very good push!’

‘A couple more things you really need to know before we set off,’ said Gill. ‘If we crash-land, then there’s an escape hatch in the roof of the cockpit, which can be opened by these levers here. And while it’s not such an issue for the navigator, if you find yourself in the pilot’s seat of one of these and you crash-land, then remember to pull your feet right back on impact.’

‘Because of the lack of strength of the lower fuselage?’

‘No, because your feet are otherwise directly in line with the arc of the propellers. Experience has shown that when the propellers strike the ground there’s a reasonable chance of them disintegrating and blades coming through the side walls of the cockpit at speed. There have already been cases of serious injury caused in accidents the crews should have been able to walk away from.’

‘Thinking about last night’s shooting,’ said Bob, ‘would one man on his own be able to start a Mosquito without outside assistance?’

‘In theory, yes. Some models of the Mosquito need an external power source, but we are self-contained. Though you’d need to know a lot about the aircraft to be able to start it up in the dark and then taxi and take off without taxi or runway lights, which I believe were switched off at the time.’

Bob looked around again. ‘Maybe he was hoping to hide in the aircraft until first light this morning, though that would have been getting on for 7.30 a.m.’

‘That seems high risk. The place would have been coming to life by then.’

‘You are probably right. Let’s see what my team turns up.’

As they were talking, Bob had been watching Gill going through his pre-flight checks.

‘Right, we’re ready to start.’ Gill took a last look outside to ensure none of the ground crew were standing near the propellers before starting up the engines, one after the other. The pilot waved to indicate to the men outside that the wheel chocks should be removed, and Bob watched as the aircraft eased forward, gathering speed as it taxied away from the parking area.

‘I’ll talk you through the process in more detail on the way back, Bob, but for the moment it’s simply worth you knowing that once you’ve taken off and got the wheels up, half the battle’s won. Sensitive throttle management is essential to avoid swinging to the left as the power builds up. The key point to bear in mind is that the aircraft will become airborne at not much more than 100 knots, but the minimum safe speed for single engine flight is over 180 knots, even when you’ve raised the undercarriage and flaps. There’s always an uncomfortable few moments after you lift off as you wait for the speed to build up.’

‘What happens if there’s an engine failure during that time?’

‘You crash, it’s as simple as that. If you’ve got any sense you fly straight ahead and aim for the flattest piece of ground you can see. Trying to turn will just mean you crash more badly. It’s not helped by the fact that the undercarriage takes 25 seconds to retract and only then will she really begin to accelerate. And if one engine did fail, the hydraulic pressure would be lower, and the undercarriage would take twice as long to come up.’

‘Thanks, Eric, that makes me feel even better,’ said Bob with a laugh.

Gill lined the Mosquito up at the end of the runway and Bob felt himself holding his breath. He was always happier when flying as pilot and was a poor passenger in an aircraft. And the knowledge that the failure of either of the two Rolls-Royce Merlin engines when they were working hardest just after takeoff would have such serious consequences certainly focussed his mind.

He needn’t have worried and they were soon flying into the base of the cloud over Guardbridge, to the west of Leuchars.

‘We’re going for a maximum rate climb, Bob,’ said Gill. ‘I want to give you a feel for the high altitude performance. Make sure your oxygen is switched on, will you? It will be essential for this flight. The regulator’s on your side, near the entry through to the nose section.’

‘We talked over lunch about the unarmed Spitfires. How do you feel about flying unarmed Mosquitoes over enemy territory?’ asked Bob.

‘Oddly enough, I have no problem with the idea. For me the Mosquito simply feels right for the job. It’s also a relatively safe way to fight the war. It’s early days yet because the aircraft’s not been flying in this role for much more than a year, but I’ve seen some figures that suggested our losses haven’t been much more than one aircraft for every 500 hours of operational flying.’

‘That is pretty exceptional,’ said Bob. ‘I’d hate to think what the comparable figures were for the Croydon-based Hurricane squadrons in September and October 1940.’

‘I doubt if it was a tenth as good as that,’ said Gill, ‘or perhaps even worse.’

‘Wow,’ said Bob as they broke through the top of the thick layer of cloud over Fife and into sunshine under blue skies. ‘That’s a sight that never fails to thrill me.’

‘We’re only at 12,000ft, not even nearly there yet. The aircraft ceiling’s well over 30,000ft, and we often use everything we have. We’ll go up to something like that, then descend. I had in mind a quick turn-around at the naval air station at Machrihanish near Campbeltown on the Kintyre peninsula, and then thought you might like to fly her back to Leuchars. How does that sound?’

It sounded great to Bob. He spent part of the outward flight transfixed by views that seemed to take in a large part of western Scotland and, later, through the haze, Northern Ireland.

At Machrihanish, Gill taxied the Mosquito around the quieter southern side of the airfield. ‘Right, Bob, this is where we get really cosy, though it can be done. I’d prefer to avoid stopping the engines, which I’d need to do if one of us got out of the aircraft to allow us to change seats. So, what I want to do is squeeze in front of you and get myself down into the nose compartment. You can then move across into this seat, and I will climb back up into the navigator’s seat.’

The process was made more awkward by the thick clothing they wore, but the two men were able to change seats.

‘Right,’ said Gill, ‘let’s taxi round to the eastern end again, and get clearance for takeoff.’

Bob did so, finding the view forward was even better from the pilot’s seat than it had been from the adjacent navigator’s seat. At Gill’s instruction, he moved out onto the runway and lined up along the centre line.

‘As I said earlier, this is the tricky part, Bob. Well, this and the landing. Can you remove your left outer glove while we take off? The throttles need a really gentle touch and I don’t want your glove deadening the feel. I talked earlier about the problem of the gap between takeoff speed and safe minimum single engine speed, and all you need to remember about that is to clean up the aircraft as quickly as possible once you are certain we are airborne. The flap control is here, in the centre of the console, with the “F” on it. Next to it is the undercarriage control. Are you ready?’

‘Yes,’ said Bob, keen not to spend too long sitting on the end of the runway.

‘Right, grip both throttles in your left hand and twist your wrist a little so the left throttle advances ahead of the right throttle. Ever so gently, now. There’s not much movement between idle and full throttle. And watch out for the pull to the left. That’s the tail up, and we’re airborne. Wait long enough to make sure we’re not going to sink back down onto the runway, then raise the flaps and the undercarriage. That’s it. Well done.’

Bob found he was sweating. ‘Will you navigate, Eric?’

They kept low and fast on the flight back, dipping back beneath the tail of the cloud as they crossed East Lothian. They remained under it as they turned north towards Fife and landed at Leuchars.

‘Hello,’ said Gill, ‘it looks like we’ve got a welcoming committee.’

As the propellers came to a halt and relative silence replaced the roar of two Merlin engines, Bob looked over to where Gill had indicated, to see Flight Lieutenant Buchan and Sergeant Bennett standing beside a RAF staff car. ‘It does look like that’s for me,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Eric, that’s been a real revelation. I’m very grateful.’

‘Not at all, Bob. Group Captain More has suggested more than once that I’m on a mission to sell the Mosquito to anyone who’ll listen to me, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to add another convert to my list.’

‘It’s an impressive aircraft, I have to admit. For the first time I can understand why there are so many enthusiasts for the Mosquito as a weapon of war.’

‘That’s all I can ask for. Remember that in the fighter versions you get four cannons in the front of the belly and four machine guns in the nose as well. They really do pack a punch. Anyway, that’s the end of the sales pitch. Have a good trip back to Turnhouse.’

An airman had brought over Bob’s service shoes, raincoat and peaked cap and he stripped off his overalls and boots on the tarmac before walking over to the car.

‘Hello sir,’ said Flight Lieutenant Buchan. ‘Sorry to be dogging your heels, but Major Miller has been trying to reach you. I understand that the Security Service have some sort of emergency on, and insist they talk to you personally. There’s a secure phone you can use back at station headquarters.’

Chapter Three

Bob had only met his second in command, Major Miller, briefly at the beginning of the week and knew he was going to have to work hard to overcome an instinctive dislike of the man. There was something about him that Bob simply didn’t trust. It may have been the sense that he had been quite close to Bob’s predecessor, who had been sidelined as part of a far-reaching shake up of Britain’s intelligence agencies that had, in part at least, been Bob’s doing.

Mostly, though, it was simply the sense that Major Miller gave of wanting everything to be done in the way it had always been done. Bob knew he was going to have to make changes to his northern outpost of MI11 and felt that Miller was going to be one of the problems he needed to tackle, rather than an ally. It didn’t help that Bob had walked into an office at Craigiehall on Monday just as Petty Officer Andrew MacDonald, the junior member of his Royal Navy team, stopped himself in the middle of a sentence whose final spoken words were ‘Major Mother Hen’. Bob had pretended not to hear but wondered whether MacDonald’s lack of regard for the major was widely shared.

Bob used the phone in Flight Lieutenant Rutherford’s office. Bob’s secretary, Joyce Stuart, put him through to Miller. ‘Hello sir,’ said the major. ‘I’m glad I’ve been able to reach you. Flight Lieutenant Buchan told me you were testing out a theory about what the intruder was trying to do with the aircraft, and that meant actually flying one.’