Maralinga (51 page)

She sounded forlorn, which for some strange reason gratified him.

 

Harold spent an anxious hour or so waiting as the de Havilland refuelled in Darwin. Again, he expected the arrival of police with orders for his arrest. He was not so much worried about the discovery of Gideon's body, which he considered safe for a day or so – no-one but he used the cupboard in his office. The woman, however, was a different matter. Had she talked?

But no incident occurred at Darwin airport and the de Havilland took off for its next fuel stop, Singapore. Having left Australia, Harold felt a degree safer, but time continued to be his enemy as they flew through
the night. In the morning, when it became known that he'd left Maralinga, they would have to release the woman. He kept a watchful eye on the clock.

After refuelling in Singapore, as the aircraft set off en route for Bombay, Harold's fear became palpable. It would soon be morning, he thought. Any moment now they would radio through to the aircraft. Any moment now, a member of the RAF crew would point a gun at him and place him under arrest.

He lifted his briefcase onto his lap, unlatched it and slipped his hand inside. His fingers encircled the Walther and, as the minutes ticked by, he sat there waiting.

 

Ned Hanson sought out Harold Dartleigh first thing in the morning to ascertain his further instructions. He'd spent a sleepless night, most of it propped up in an office chair outside the holding cells until the duty officer had persuaded him to go back to his barracks with the absolute assurance that there would be ‘no communication with the prisoners throughout the night'.

In the early morning, however, Ned could find no sign of Harold, either at his office or his barracks. Aware that Lord Dartleigh was to fly out that day, he rang the airport to check the time of his departure, although he knew it wasn't scheduled for several hours yet.

‘Lord Dartleigh flew out last night,' he was informed.

‘What? When?'

‘Around 1900 hours,' the controller said. ‘A last-minute change of plans. He had an urgent communiqué from London.'

Ned was utterly astounded. Why hadn't he been informed? What was he to do? Where were his orders?

Upon reporting the news to the military police, Ned was fortunately relieved of any further responsibility. The MPs informed Nick Stratton's superior officer, and the brigadier ordered the colonel's immediate release and return to duty. Personally, the brigadier considered the sooner the whole messy business was swept under the carpet the better, although he was exceedingly angry with Nick. He bawled him out in the privacy of his office.

‘Assaulting a member of the rank and file – and in public, man! In front of the
press
, what's more. What the deuce possessed you!'

‘I'm sorry, sir.'

‘Fortunately Sergeant Oakley has no wish to press charges,' the brigadier said, ‘which is just as well. This outrageous business of the woman being smuggled into Maralinga must be kept quiet at all costs. You say you're absolutely sure she's no risk?'

‘Absolutely sure, sir. I can personally vouch for her, I promise.'

‘Yes, yes, I'm quite sure you can.'

The brigadier gave a disapproving snort. Nick had admitted to having an affair with the journalist, which, in his view, was entirely improper. Thank God the Hoffmann woman's credentials were impeccable, he thought.

‘Of course, I'm not so sure Lord Dartleigh will see eye to eye with you,' he continued sternly. ‘If Dartleigh considers the woman a security risk she'll have to be investigated, in which case you may still
have to answer for your untimely outburst, you do realise that?'

‘Yes, sir, I do.'

‘Now get yourself off to Adelaide. And at the conference, you're to stress to those members of the press who witnessed the fiasco that occurred here yesterday the vital importance of discretion in the interest of national security. I don't care how you do it. Seek them out individually if you must, but this story is not to see the light of day.'

‘Yes, sir.'

Elizabeth was returned to Adelaide on the same flight, and Nick was surprised at how calm she was. He'd been surprised by her composure from the moment of their release. There'd been no protestation, no accusation. She hadn't attempted to explain her case to the brigadier or the MPs; she'd simply apologised for the trouble she'd caused. He had to admit that, at the time, he'd been grateful. It had certainly helped his own case.

‘All right,' he said when they were safely airborne, ‘what's going on?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You had the perfect opportunity back there. Why didn't you put your argument to the brigadier?'

‘Firstly, he wouldn't have believed me, and secondly, I don't have any proof.'

He looked at her askance. Neither reason seemed to have bothered her in the past.

‘But mainly,' she continued, ‘because I didn't feel the need.'

‘Oh?'

‘Dartleigh's doing it all for me, don't you see?' She
turned to him, her eyes gleaming with excitement. ‘Ned Hanson had no idea he'd gone. Dartleigh disappeared without even telling his own staff. That's the action of a guilty man. There was no communiqué from London. Harold Dartleigh's on the run, Nick. I've frightened him.'

Her excitement was contagious, and so now was her theory. Nick found himself tending to agree with her. Perhaps Dartleigh really was guilty, he thought, but if so, guilty of precisely what?

 

Harold couldn't believe his luck. They'd left Bombay hours ago and still no crew member had confronted him with the news of his arrest. At one stage he'd dozed off, his hand still resting in the briefcase on his lap. By now he'd been twenty hours without sleep. But he'd snapped wide awake as he'd felt the briefcase move. He'd clasped it tightly to him, his right hand clutching at the Walther inside.

‘Sorry, sir,' the crew member had said. ‘Didn't mean to disturb you; just thought I'd make you more comfortable.'

‘Thank you, Lieutenant,' he'd heard himself say, as cool as a cucumber. ‘How very kind of you, thank you.' He'd closed the briefcase and put it on the seat beside him. ‘How soon do we arrive in Istanbul?'

‘Four hours, sir.'

‘Splendid. Radio ahead and book me into the Istanbul Hotel, will you, there's a good chap.'

From that moment on, Harold had started to relax – only a little though, not enough to let down his guard.

They landed in Istanbul, where they were to stay the night, just twenty-four hours after leaving Maralinga.
It was shortly before midday and Harold caught a taxi directly to his hotel. The crew members were staying at the nearby RAF base, and everyone was to report to the airport at 0600 hours, one hour before the scheduled take-off for London at 0700.

The following morning, the crew members reported as ordered, but there was no sign of Harold Dartleigh. No-one worried; it was typical of the man's arrogance. But twenty minutes before departure time, when he still hadn't appeared, there was genuine cause for concern. They had a schedule that needed to be maintained. The flight lieutenant contacted the Istanbul Hotel and was informed that Lord Dartleigh had not checked in.

‘We have a booking for him,' the desk clerk said, ‘but he never arrived.'

Harold Dartleigh had disappeared without a word, leaving behind him a very confused RAF crew unable to explain his absence.

Several days passed and still there was no explanation offered for Harold Dartleigh's mysterious disappearance. Nick's far-reaching connections could come up with nothing, and when Elizabeth contacted Reginald Dempster in London, he too was confronted by a wall of silence.

‘MI6 isn't giving out a word on the subject,' he said when he phoned her back. ‘A strictly “no comment” response, I'm afraid.'

Always thorough in his investigations, however, Reg was able to offer the interesting news that Harold Dartleigh had not been sighted in his home area of Sussex, nor had he been seen at any of his regular London haunts.

‘The chap seems to have vanished.'

Elizabeth, convinced that her bluff had proved successful, was delighted.

‘They think I have proof, Nick,' she said, ‘proof about the circumstances of Danny's death. They've secreted Dartleigh away somewhere. It's time to stir the pot.'

P. J. was more than happy to give Elizabeth's article front-page prominence. Why not? The subject matter appeared controversial in its suggestion, but the article simply reported the facts and was in no way libellous. Elizabeth's story was an editor's dream.

MARALINGA MYSTERY
, was the eye-catching headline, and the subtitle beneath a picture of Harold Dartleigh read:
MI6 has questions to answer.

The article, written by E. J. Hoffmann, who had gained quite a following amongst
The Advertiser
's readers, stated that Harold Lord Dartleigh, deputy director of MI6, had mysteriously disappeared from the Maralinga atomic test site on 9 October. Lord Dartleigh had left no details of the reason for his abrupt departure, the article said, or of his intended destination. His on-site staff had not been informed, and it appeared no-one knew of his current whereabouts. MI6 was refusing to release any information.

Elizabeth then turned the piece into an indictment of MI6. Surely, she suggested, the British public had the right to demand accountability for the actions of one of its most senior public figures. She wrote of the historical ties between Britain and Australia and the strengthening of the bond the two countries shared through the post-war atomic test project, and closed the article with a direct challenge:

Australia, too, as the host country for the British nuclear test program, has every right to insist upon answers from MI6. Why has such a key figure in our midst vanished without a trace and without giving any reason for his actions? This journalist, for one, demands an explanation.

The E. J. Hoffmann article was picked up by other leading newspapers and syndicated throughout the country. Harold Dartleigh's disappearance became a major story in Australia, a fact which was quickly brought to the attention of the relevant authorities in Whitehall, but still there was no response from MI6.

 

Gideon Melbray's body was discovered three days later. He'd been reported missing by his workmates and barracks roommate for a whole week now, and it had been presumed he'd gone AWOL, although no-one could understand why. The discovery of his decaying body came as a shock to all.

Ned Hanson, who had duplicate keys to Harold Dartleigh's office, had unlocked the doors to allow the cleaners access. A putrid smell had instantly been detected, and the office cleaners had traced its source to the cupboard.

London was notified immediately and MI6 stated it would handle the murder investigation, then, in typical secret service fashion, refused offers of collaboration from all other relevant authorities, both British and Australian. Again no announcement was made and no information offered regarding Harold Dartleigh.

It was Elizabeth's article that eventually proved the catalyst. The editor of one of the more salacious London newspapers whose editor's eagle-eye constantly roamed the world for gossip, noted the Australian interest in Harold Dartleigh. Although Marty Falk considered the content of E. J. Hoffmann's article of no particular value, the disappearance of Lord Dartleigh of Somerston greatly
interested him. A peer of the realm always made for good reading, particularly a peer of Dartleigh's stature.

The story appeared on the tabloid's front page exactly two weeks after Harold's disappearance. The headlines were lurid:
HIJINX IN THE PEERAGE! PEER OF THE REALM VANISHES! WIFE AND FAMILY DESERTED.

Beneath were two photographs of Harold with a different beautiful woman in each, and beneath the photographs was the further headline:
THE BLONDE OR THE BRUNETTE – WHICH IS IT, LORD DARTLEIGH?

A third and smaller photograph of Lavinia Dartleigh, impeccably groomed and dignified as always, was inset to one side. The actual content of the article was remarkably thin, Marty's principle being that carefully cropped photographs and headlines that insinuated were all that was necessary to provide the readers with what they wanted.

Aspersions have been cast on the supposedly idyllic marriage of Harold Lord Dartleigh, 6th Baron Dartleigh of Somerston,
the article snidely read.
Apparently His Lordship disappeared a fortnight ago, abandoning his wife, well-known socialite and benefactress Lady Lavinia Dartleigh, without so much as a word. He's not been seen since and his whereabouts are unknown, but rumours abound. One can only presume that in deserting his marriage of over twenty years, Lord Dartleigh's latest affair is a little more serious than his previous peccadilloes.

Upon reading the article, Lavinia Dartleigh was furious. How dare they portray her as the pathetic
deserted wife, she thought. How dare they intimate her husband was a philanderer.
Previous peccadilloes
indeed! Harold had never once strayed throughout their marriage. As if she didn't have enough to contend with, she thought angrily, and she stormed out of the house.

Later that afternoon, upon returning from the local beautician and hairdresser, Lavinia found herself accosted by members of the press who'd travelled down from London. No sooner had she pulled up in the front courtyard and stepped out of her car than reporters and photographers appeared, apparently from nowhere.

They'd actually been waiting for some time, but had kept themselves well hidden for fear she'd drive off upon seeing them. Now they emerged like magic from behind bushes and shrubs and conifers in stone tubs to surround her, camera shutters clicking and questions firing.

As always when sensing a major story, the general press had moved with startling speed. Having been alerted to the fact that Harold Dartleigh had vanished, they'd swooped upon MI6, but had been unable to glean any information whatsoever. ‘No comment' had been the terse reply to all queries. The reporters were not to be fobbed off, however. The disappearance of the deputy director of MI6 was big news and the press had every intention of getting the story by whatever means possible, including the harassment of Dartleigh's wife.

‘What can you tell us about your husband's disappearance, Lady Dartleigh?'

‘Is there another woman involved as rumoured?'

‘Has he left the country?'

‘Why has there been no statement to the press?'

Alerted by the commotion, the domestic staff appeared on the scene. The housekeeper stepped out onto the porch glowering forbiddingly, the cook and the maid peered through the front windows, and Wilson, the butler, strode into the courtyard waving an imperious hand at the reporters, bent on rescuing his mistress.

But Lavinia did not need rescuing.

‘I'll tell you about my husband's disappearance,' she screamed at the top of her voice. ‘I'll tell you about the bastard I married!'

The past month had been altogether too much for Lavinia. She'd had enough. She would tell her story and MI6 could go to hell.

 

The banner headlines shocked the world. Splashed across a photograph of Harold Dartleigh was the single word
TRAITOR,
and in bold black letters beneath the picture:
DEPUTY DIRECTOR OF MI6 A RUSSIAN SPY.

The story that followed was brief. As yet, little specific data had been made available to the press.

The British secret service community is in a state of shock this morning with allegations that Harold Lord Dartleigh, 6th Baron Dartleigh of Somerston and deputy director of MI6, has been identified as a Russian spy. The allegations, made by his wife, Lady Lavinia Dartleigh, came to light when Lord Dartleigh's recent disappearance was investigated by the press.

Buckingham Palace, MI6 and New Scotland Yard have all declined to comment on the matter. However,
the Palace has informed us that an announcement will be made later today.

Lady Dartleigh stated that she has been interviewed and relentlessly harassed by MI6 personnel for the past four weeks. She knew nothing of Lord Dartleigh's activities, she says, and the threat of her title being revoked owing to the treasonous acts committed by her husband has proved the final straw.

 

‘Hell hath no fury …' Harold murmured. He put down the newspaper and gazed out his apartment window at the Moskva River. Naturally Lavinia felt betrayed. Poor dear, he thought. His peerage would most certainly be revoked, and she would so hate being plain Mrs Dartleigh. She'd probably abandon his name altogether and revert to her own highly respectable maiden name in an attempt to avoid any association with the traitorous creature who had been her husband. Harold wondered if his children would do the same. Yes, he thought, Nigel undoubtedly would. But Catherine, surprisingly enough, might not. Catherine was a rebel who didn't care tuppence for public opinion. That was what had so annoyed him about his daughter, he recalled – her steadfast refusal to conform. So dangerous for a man in his position to have adverse attention directed towards members of his family. But who knows, he now wondered. Perhaps Catherine and her arty friends in Paris were communists. Many of the artistic community were. Perhaps his daughter might even understand.

Harold did not consider himself a traitor at all. He considered himself a soldier in a war against injustice. Far more than a soldier, in fact: he was a leader
paving the way for a new world order. There were those born to lead and those born to be led and, like any great movement, communism needed leaders. Harold Dartleigh considered himself the perfect man for the job. He always had.

Harold had embraced communism at Cambridge University, along with Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean and others of his
alma mater
who'd been stimulated by the exchange of ideas and philosophies. The passionate intellectual bonding between young men was heady stuff, particularly to Harold, an only child who'd led an indulged but empty existence. Communism had also served as a form of private rebellion against a father whose apathy and weakness of character he'd despised. Harold had needed a purpose and commitment in his life, and communism had provided both. He'd joined the Party, readily accepting the ideals of those who believed wealth and position should be earned and that people should share equally in the benefits of national prosperity. Given his privileged background, his zeal had surprised some of his fellow Party members.

Harold had never applied the principles of communism directly to himself, however. There'd been no need to. He'd far better served the cause by continuing to live a life of luxury. The power and privilege of his position was not only advantageous to the Party, but, in the eyes of his employer, the Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti, it provided the perfect camouflage. The KGB was unrelenting in its insistence that its operatives maintain appearances. Even Harold's marriage to Lavinia had been arranged for the purpose of camouflage. He'd become genuinely
fond of her, he had to admit, although at the time he would far rather have married Aline, a Lebanese girl he'd fallen desperately in love with while serving at the British embassy in Beirut. But Aline hadn't at all fitted the required image.

Harold had been a first-class spy. He'd delivered high-level documentation and intelligence on all manner of subjects that the British and American governments had believed were top secret, but he was particularly proud of his recruitment of Gideon Melbray to the cause of world communism.

When the two had met in Washington, Harold hadn't been able to believe his luck. Gideon Melbray was perfect material. He spoke four languages, including Russian, as indeed did Harold, and there was the added bonus of his beauty. Their brief mutual infatuation had made the conversion easy.

When Harold had finally been offered the deputy directorship of MI6, he'd been elated by the power such a position afforded him. He'd been elated too by the recruitment of his comrade-in-arms, Gideon Melbray. His only regret had been the necessity to temper the ardour of the relationship they'd shared in their Washington days. Sexual dalliances were one of the very few luxuries Harold denied himself. A man in his position could not afford to be caught out.

For twenty long years, Harold Dartleigh had served the Party, a passionate and committed communist devoted to the cause in which he truly believed. For twenty long years, he'd also led the life of the seriously wealthy, with country estates, servants at his beck and call and every whim indulged. Harold had always had the best of both worlds.

Not any more, he thought as he gazed out at the majesty of the Moskva River. The view from his rented two-bedroom flat on Kutuzovsky Prospekt was quite spectacular and he knew he should be grateful for the fact. There were many who lived in community blocks with no outlook at all. But the apartment was poky and cold, and already he ached for the beauty of Sussex and the warmth and comfort of his country house. He would miss his baronial estate and his lifestyle and his family. He'd always known they were the price he would possibly have to pay, but he hadn't expected the change to be quite so radical. He'd expected more of a hero's welcome. Indeed, he'd anticipated that, if and when the time came, his arrival in Moscow would be heralded as a triumph for the Comintern; he was, after all, a genuine British aristocrat who had defected to his beloved Mother Russia. Surely the Kremlin propaganda unit would wish to make an example of such devotion. Surely he would be offered a highly respected consultancy position within the KGB.