The Lucy Ghosts Read online

  It was Army.

  He knew what they wanted, knew they'd been trailing him ever since he got back.

  He switched her engine on, the roar of the 3 litre exploding as it always did.

  Emma was a car born on the racetrack. The strange method of entry, with the doors opening up instead of out, was necessary because of the side members of its, for then, advanced multi-tube frame. The engine, a 2996 c.c. straight six cylinder, with Bosch fuel injection, pulled 240 b.h.p. The four speed, fully synchromeshed gearbox was positive in its movement, unlike many other squashy boxes of the era, and powered the car from a standing start to 60 m.p.h. in just over seven seconds. The most remarkable feature was the engine, tilted at sixty degrees to its left, which allowed the hood to be lower than any other sports or racing car of its time.

  Adam slipped the thin, upright gear stick into first and pulled out from the kerb.

  The Rover hastily swung into the line of traffic behind him and caused an elderly driver to brake her Renault sharply.

  'Bloody amateurs,' he chuckled as he heard the woman blare her horn at the Rover.

  He half saluted the traffic warden who winked his acknowledgement as he ticketed his way down the street.

  The Mercedes worked its way through Shepherd's Bush and onto Bayswater Road, towards Central London. It was early in the afternoon and the traffic light. The Rover kept its distance, not wanting to be noticed in the near empty road, an impossible task at the best of times. Five minutes later Adam passed Marble Arch and swung right into Park Lane. He kept the speed steady at twenty miles an hour, grinned when he saw the Rover being honked at by faster moving traffic. Staying in the bus lane, he passed the Grosvenor House and Dorchester before turning into the set back road at the front of the Hilton. He drove past the commissionaires at the entrance, the small crowd waiting for taxis gawking at the bright red sports car, and into the rear entrance where he pulled up under the canopy and parked.

  Although it was a 'No Parking' zone, he knew the car was safe, Wardens and policemen were usually reluctant to ticket or clamp it. The advantages of being a legend.

  Adam walked into the Hilton lobby, round to the lifts in the centre of the foyer. He took his time, knew they would be following him. The lobby was crowded, the lifts busy. It wasn't difficult to waste time, he was just one of the crowd.

  One of his followers came around the corner and towards the lifts. He stopped sharply, surprised at seeing Adam still there. He was an earnest young man, probably a pen pusher.

  Adam stepped forward towards the lifts and spoke to the man next to him.

  'Hope these lifts don't stop on every floor.'

  'Que?', asked the man, an Hispanic foreigner.

  'Lifts. Very slow. You like London?'

  'Si. Si. Very nice.'

  'First time here?'

  'Que?'

  'Good. Very nice.'

  'Si. Is very good.'

  'You enjoy. Is a great city.'

  Adam laughed and slapped the man gently on the back. He knew pen pusher would be confused, would think Adam knew the stranger well.

  They both entered the lift, the follower also slipping in behind.

  The foreigner pushed the button for Floor 16, Adam selected 17. Pen pusher, having elbowed himself to the back of the crowded lift, did nothing.

  The Otis lift stopped on Floors 2, 7, 11 and 12 before reaching the 16th.

  As the doors slid open, Adam once again patted the foreigner's shoulder.

  'Well, have a good time.'

  'Si. Thank you,' replied the surprised man, stepping out into the corridor.

  'See you later. Won't be long,' shouted Adam through the closing door, waving a final farewell.

  The stranger, now totally mystified, waved back as the door finally closed in his face.

  There were only three people left in the lift, Adam, the pen pusher and a grey haired man in a Burberry raincoat.

  The lift stopped on the 17th floor and Adam stepped out. Pen pusher didn't have the nerve to follow him, which is what Adam expected. He saw him lurch forward as the doors started to close, probably pushed the button for the 18th floor. Adam walked quickly to the housekeeper's closet by the emergency steps and went in, pulling the door to, but not shut, behind him.

  A few moments later pen pusher appeared out of the emergency exit door, having climbed down from the floor above. Adam gave him five for resourcefulness.

  Pen pusher disappeared down the corridor and turned left at the end.

  Adam slipped out from the closet and went through the emergency exit. The concrete, uncarpeted stairs dropped away endlessly. Without hesitation he started to run down the stairs, two at a time.

  Two hundred feet below, in the foyer, pen pusher's colleague had come in search of his partner. After a fruitless quest he went to the concierge's position to ask if there were any restaurants or coffee shops on other floors, just as Adam came out of the stairwell doorway and left by the front entrance. Neither saw each other in the throng of the lobby crowd.

  Adam walked round the building and to the back entrance where he saw the Rover parked. The Gullwing had drawn a small crowd of admirers, two boys in jeans and their mother. Adam crossed the street quickly.

  'Excuse me,' he said, putting the key in the lock and turning it to release the slim door handle.

  'Your car, mister?' asked the elder of the two boys.

  'Yes.'

  'It's beautiful.'

  'Thank you,' replied Adam, swinging the door up.

  'Cor!' blurted the younger brother. 'It opens up.'

  'Would you like to sit inside?'

  'Could they?' said the mother.

  'Of course.' Adam knew he should be moving, but also enjoyed sharing the car with these two young boys. He reached out and lifted the younger brother, no more than seven years old, and lowered him into the car.

  'The steering wheel's broke,' said the elder of the two.

  'No it's not,' answered Adam, leaning in and pulling the tilted wheel upright, locking it into place. 'It's meant to be like that. To make it easy to get in. Remember, this was a racing car. Not many would be able to get in, let alone drive it.'

  He watched the young boy twist the wheel and pretend to drive the car.

  'Careful, Alex,' said his mother.

  'He's okay.'

  'Let your brother have a go now.'

  The disappointed boy climbed out and his brother lowered himself in. After Adam had answered his questions about what this knob did and what that switch was for, the grateful mother and her two excited sons disappeared into the hotel.

  Adam slipped into the Mercedes, switched on the engine and pulled away from the kerb. Then he noticed the packet on the passenger seat and grinned, stopped the car.

  He climbed out and went over to the Rover and left the packet jammed under its windscreen wiper.

  Ten minutes later the pen pusher and his partner came out of the rear entrance and saw that the Gullwing was gone.

  'Fuck it!' shouted pen pusher, dreading the report that he would have to file highlighting his failure. 'Fuck it!'

  They opened up the Rover and climbed in.

  'What's that?' asked pen pusher's colleague.

  'Where?'

  'Under the bloody wiper.'

  There, as a final taunt to their dismal failure, was the remains of a bag of chips wrapped in the faded newsprint of yesterday's paper.

  'Very clever,' said the official voice on the telephone. 'And very childish.'

  'Why was I being followed?' asked Adam, the receiver resting on his shoulder as he looked out of the apartment window to the street below. The blonde he fancied in the jewellers would soon be going home, her day's work complete. He still hadn't angled out how he was going to introduce himself to her. Probably the F40. She was definitely a Ferrari type, the Gullwing being too noisy and too basic. He decided then that he would browse in the jeweller's tomorrow, leave the red coloured sports car at the kerb where she could definite
ly see it. Maybe ask her to show him something in the window.

  'You were told to keep out of sight.'

  'Nobody's going to recognise me.'

  'As a soldier you obey orders.'

  'I did. I’m strictly on leave. That doesn’t mean being trapped in my flat.'

  'No, you were told to lie low, not draw attention to yourself. Those were your orders. In the three days since you've been back, you've done everything except stay at home. Nightclubs, casinos, trips to restaurants for lunch. Usually with companions who are, let's say, more than noticeable.....,' the puerile envy in his voice made Adam smile ',....not exactly keeping a low profile, are we?'

  ‘Right.

  'What?' demanded official voice.

  'I don't need nursemaids.'

  'What makes you so... The trouble with you, Nicholson, if your records are anything to go by, is that you don't give a damn. That you've got a bloody death wish. Now, some people say that makes you an exceptional soldier. I say that makes you a liability. I don't mind you getting killed. But I don't want half a dozen innocent bystanders gunned down with you in your blaze of glory. You're to stay in. That's an order.'

  'For how long?'

  'Until we tell you different.'

  Adam heard the phone go dead. He returned the receiver to its base and went back to his vigil. In the background, from the kitchen, he heard Lily preparing his evening meal.

  'What's for supper?' he shouted.

  'Just you wait and see,' came her muffled reply.

  It was a game they played, she never telling him what she was cooking, he always asking. In the six years she had been with him, he had never been disappointed. It was simple English cooking, so different from the haute cuisine he lived on in the restaurants. But it was the best food he knew.

  He decided not to stay in. Even if he was recognised because of that picture, he would far prefer to be out in the open, in the freedom of his own space where he could defend himself without hindrance..

  He dreaded whatever they his Command had in store for him. He regretted not going back to Northern Ireland; he had become an outsider.

  The depression would come quickly; it always did when things were out of his control. It was his dark half, the part of his soul that plunged him into despair and solitude. He thought of his dead twin Marcus, of his other spirit that always shared his life and lived within his body.

  In silence, as he waited for the girl across the road, he cursed the unknown security officer who had carelessly allowed his photo to be splashed across the front page of the Times.

  Ch.7

  Lindbergh Airport.

  San Diego

  California.

  She'd been waiting for him at the airport; frustrated when the Tannoys had barked out that the United Airlines' flight from Washington would be late.

  The frustration had remained bottled up, turning to anger as a second announcement informed her that there would be a further delay due to traffic problems over Denver.

  'It's always Denver,' Billie thought. 'What's so special about Denver?'

  Phil Tucker came through the gate thirty minutes later, more than ninety minutes late.

  'Billie Knutsford ?' he asked, approaching her cautiously.

  'Yes.' Dammit, she nearly said 'sir' again.

  'Hi' he smiled, offering his hand. 'Phil Tucker. Say, I've got a flight out of here in another fifty minutes. We aren't going to have time to get to the office.' There was no way he was going to stay overnight; not if he wanted a peaceful weekend at home with Jean, his wife. She always hated him going out of Washington. 'Can we find somewhere private here?'

  'Sure. How about my car?'

  'Great.'

  She led him out into the car park, towards a bright yellow and red 1989 Jeep Renegade. Billie unlocked the central locking and they both climbed in.

  'These discs're for you.' Tucker took a case of discs from his briefcase. 'They're just slices from our data base in Langley. I need you to run some checks on them.'

  'What am I looking for?'

  'You understand this is top secret. I mean, no-one.'

  'Yes.'

  'Good. Okay if I smoke?'

  She nodded. She hated cigarettes and it would take days to get the smell out of the car. She watched him take out a Camel from the soft pack and light it with a Zippo. Then he told her about Reindeer. As he spoke, she opened a window. There was more smog in here than San Fran, she thought.

  'But who was he?' she asked when Tucker had finished.

  'A nobody. Someone we'd forgotten about.'

  'Important enough for someone else to remember. Lapland's in Finland, isn't it?'

  Tucker nodded. 'Reindeer was over sixty. Been drawing a pension for ten years. We’d retired him. I guess it wasn’t one of the elves. It was a professional hit. Clean, right on the button. Anyway, he left an envelope for his wife, to be opened if anything happened to him. She rang on the number he'd left.'

  ‘He was an asset?’

  ‘Sure’.

  ‘Sleeper?’

  ‘Not really. Just someone we’d call on if we needed local information.

  ‘Was he productive?’

  ‘We never used him. We just had him there in case.’

  'How many others have we got out there like him?'

  'A few. Not as many as we had. Not since we turned to satellite surveillance under the Carter Administration. But enough, in case we ever needed them. Anyway, a lot of them were just stuck out there in the field, they'd integrated into their communities, there was no way we could get them out. Mostly locals anyway.’

  'One old guy gets killed. Doesn't mean the Russians, or anyone else, took him out. Could just be a local murder, an accident that we're taking the wrong way.'

  'No. Too professional.'

  'Was "Reindeer is dead" an open code?' asked Billie. This was CIA jargon for a code concealed within an innocuous message. The Japanese had established this technique successfully during the Second World War, just after their attack on Pearl Harbour. "East wind rain" had been the sentence, a grim warning to their embassy staff in Washington to destroy sensitive documents as the two countries were about to enter into war. Such codes were being used regularly by the activist groups on the Californian campus'.

  'No.' Tucker wound his window down and flicked his spent cigarette out.

  'What's the computer say?'

  'Nothing.'

  Billie sensed they had come to the heart of the problem. 'If he was an asset, he must've been in the computer. I remember when we transferred from paper to tape. I spent three boring years inputting some of that information.'

  'Which is why this is so damned sensitive.' He lit another cigarette and didn't see her scowl. 'When we checked the database, we found all the information relating to sleeper networks before 1958.....,' Tucker paused, as if disbelieving what he was about to tell her. '.....I know this is crazy, but there's a virus in the system that knocked out all the information on our European networks before 1958.'

  'You're kidding?'

  'I haven't flown all the way here for a joke. No. The virus was activated yesterday.'

  'How?'

  'As soon as we punched in a question on Gunnar Yokob....'

  'Who?'

  'Reindeer. That was his name. Anyway, soon as we input his name, this virus just upped and knocked out the file. The words just disappeared on the screen, one by one. First the A's, then the B's, right through to Z. Just fucking destroyed the file. When we called up the rest of the European network, exactly the same happened. Within fifteen minutes it had wiped out ten percent of the information we had on the agents in Europe right up till 1958.'

  'That's impossible.'

  'So impossible it happened. We've sealed off the computer room, switched off the whole system. When we powered up again, it just continued where it left off. We tried to dump the information onto safe systems, but they wouldn't transfer. Just got a message up saying ''NO COPIES OF THIS CLASSIFIED INFORMATI
ON CAN BE MADE.' So we isolated the pre 1958 section until we can get some answers.'

  'Only on info before 1958?'

  That's right.'

  'What're these?' She held up the discs he had given her.

  'A few files hadn't been corrupted. Expenses, simple memos, that sort of thing. Just thought there may be an answer in there. If you chase the binary. There’s also a report on Reindeer and a breakdown of the rest of our old asset base. You might just find something we missed.'

  'How long's that virus been there?'

  Tucker shrugged. 'We've only just found the damn thing. Everything was a lot less secure in those days.’

  'Don't you check for viral infection?'

  'Regularly.' The questioned irritated Tucker. It hadn't been his idea to involve the girl. 'As long as you know what you're looking for. Trouble is, these files are never opened. No need for it. The virus could've been introduced years ago. Even before we knew about viruses. It was just waiting for us to go into those old archives, waiting to be triggered off. It was Reindeer, and not knowing who he was, that made us backtrack into the files. Nobody's needed them for nearly fifteen years.'

  ‘So it could be someone in the Agency?’

  ‘Could be. Or outside. We’re running blind right now.’

  ‘So I’m in because I’m in the backroom and no-ne will be expecting me.’

  ‘One of the reasons. They say you’re pretty hot as well. This is your chance to show what you’re made of. With all these latest peace and trade negotiations, the last thing we need is to find the KGB are still up to their old tricks. And we have to protect our assets. Even if they are all sixty and senile.'

  'That it?'

  'Yes.' Tucker flicked his second cigarette out of the window. 'Gotta quit these soon. They're killing me.'

  'I'll need an index. A list of everything that's been contaminated.'

  'Okay. Anything else?'

  Tucker turned the door handle and climbed out of the car. 'You go. I'll walk back and wait for my connection.' He closed the door, then leant in the window as she started the engine. 'I forgot. Before the computer went down, it came up with one fact on Reindeer. We recruited him after the war. He was German. We think he could've been part of the VT’s.'