Prologue
Heathrow Airport
Evening (1982)
etective Inspector Julian Watkins marveled at the man’s brass. The suspect was doing everything in his power to call attention to himself. Heathrow was one of the busiest and most cosmopolitan airports on earth, but even so, the sight of an elderly Scot, in full Highland dress, hobbling off the train, was raising eyebrows and drawing stares.
Julian, a tall man with a trim moustache, shrugged. While maintaining his distance, he followed the Scot up the escalator that led to the airline terminal.
The vast terminal wasn’t too crowded, so Julian held back and watched as the Scot navigated through the building to an alcove containing several rows of coin-operated lockers. Julian kept as far away as he could; there was no way of following in there without being spotted, but then there was no real need for him to stalk any closer.
A discarded magazine, left on a chair, caught Julian’s eyes for an instant. Perhaps one eye would have been more accurate, for he also kept the Old Scot in constant view. The magazine was an American edition of Newsweek. The cover was an aerial shot of the aircraft carrier H.M.S. Hermes, and the caption, playing on a recent popular film title, read: “The Empire Strikes Back.”
Hermes, along with the bulk of the Royal Navy, was on its way to re-take the Falkland Islands from Argentina. Britain was at war, and her sons would soon be fighting and dying. Julian had served in the Royal Navy, as had his father and grandfather.
The Old Scot passed two soldiers armed with automatic weapons. They had nothing to do with the burgeoning war in the South Atlantic; they were patrolling because of the I.R.A. and the interminable “troubles” in Ireland that had erupted once more, causing terrorists to plant bombs in England.
Julian was in the airport, not because of the Falklands or Ireland, but because of the Cold War and NATO. He smiled as he recalled the old curse about living in interesting times.
The Old Scot lifted the flap of the sporran in front of his kilt and withdrew a key. He gave a quick look around. There was only one other person nearby, a dumpy old woman about eighty in wrinkled tweed, wearing very thick spectacles and rummaging through her purse. The Old Scot ignored her, checked the number on his key, located his locker and inserted the key into the lock. Before he could turn it:
“Pardon me, ducky,” said the old woman, waddling toward him with the gait of an ailing crab, holding a similar key and pointing to her glasses, “Can you read the number? My eyes …”
With a smile and a nod, he took her key and squinted at the number as she continued her lament. “Print the bloody things so tiny!”
He tapped the locker next to his and handed her back the key. She fidgeted, trying to insert the key into her locker. “Thanks, luv. It’s rare these days to meet a gent what still knows ’is manners.”
The Old Scot grunted in agreement as he turned his key. The two doors swung open simultaneously. He couldn’t suppress a gasp, for to his horror, inside his locker was a colourful sampler with “The Jig is Up” delicately embroidered on it.
“Is something wrong, Mr. MacPhearson?” asked the Old Woman.
He spun to her as the sound of his spoken name caused the seeds of panic to sprout in his belly. She shook her head, reached into her locker and pulled out a large powder-blue envelope. The Old Scot gasped at the sight of it.
The Old Woman’s eyes gleamed and her voice seemed clearly more refined. “Dear me, Mr. MacPhearson, dear me. I thought you had misplaced this. Very important, top secret NATO stuff, you know.”
With surprising agility MacPhearson tore the envelope out of her hand and bolted down the row of lockers … straight into two beefy constables who stepped out from either corner. He struggled with the strength of a much younger man, but it was no contest; he was rendered helpless in seconds.
Julian appeared and nodded, and the policeman extended the Old Scot’s hands as the Inspector snapped a pair of cuffs on them.
The Old Woman, now smiling, toddled over, shaking her head in amusement. “It was the costume, Mr. MacPhearson. Such pretty young knees for such an ’auld Kiltie.” With that she placed her hand on MacPhearson’s face and ripped false skin away, revealing a man of no more than thirty. “Fuck off, Grandma!” was all he could manage and there was not a trace of the Highlands in his accent.
“Such language, Mr. MacPhearson! Or is it Mr. Grey? Or Comrade Kirsonova? Or Herr Von Kramm? Have I missed anyone?”
At Julian’s signal, the police dragged “MacPhearson” away. Julian turned, beaming at the Old Woman, “Congratulations, Laura.”
Laura settled herself comfortably into her old Bentley as it pulled away from the airport and, under the expert skill of her long-time chauffeur, entered the motorway for the forty-five-minute drive back to central London. Julian, in the jump seat, sitting across from her, pulled out a cigar and gave her a quizzical look. With easy familiarity, she nodded her consent for him to light up.
Julian settled back with a cloud of smoke swirling about him. “Fine bit of work. Really first-class. You’ve always had a flair for this foreign-agent business. Though, how you cracked this case by studying a half-eaten cucumber sandwich is what escapes me.”
Laura wafted away some of the smoke with a wave of her hand. “You saw the sandwich.”
“Yes. I saw it.”
“But you didn’t notice what you saw. Mother made certain I learned how to notice.”
“Well, I think you’re every bit as good as your mother was.”
She leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes as the memories started to work their way through the years.
“My mother … ah, she was something, all right. You know she wouldn’t have touched this case. Hated espionage and working with the government. She preferred straight crime. Her first government case came quite by accident.”
He nodded, “The ‘German Flower Vendor of Nineteen-Fourteen’?”
Julian noticed a glimmer of sorrow cross Laura’s face. “There was an earlier case. It even involved me. I was seven at the time. No one to this day has ever heard of it. Too many big people involved. And it nearly destroyed Mother … she would rarely speak of it.”
“Oh, come on. Tell. It can’t hurt now!”
He beamed so much like an eager child begging for a story that Laura couldn’t refuse. She sighed and smiled ruefully. “You’ll sit and mope all the way back to town if I don’t, won’t you?”
He huffed in theatrically outraged dignity.
“All right. I was there for part of it. I’ll tell you what I saw happen, what I was told happened, and what I deduced must have happened.” Laura closed her eyes as she quietly remembered. “The world is so different now. Nineteen hundred and six might just as well have been another planet.”
Outside the window was the familiar view of London. Towers of glass and steel dwarfed the Victorian survivors of a more elegant age. Laura cast her thoughts back, making herself see what was, and in her mind’s eyes the huge towers faded away, the flashing signs vanished and the bright electric street lamps flickered into yellow gas. The speeding traffic slowed and the cars melted into carriages, horse-drawn drays and Hansom cabs. The noise of the modern city was gone, and she heard the clip-clop of hoofs against cobblestone. She started to speak …