Chapter 17
On returning to El Campo after my extended festive season, the first ‘A’ list’er that I encountered as I wandered my corridors of power was Marcel, and half-jokingly I left him in no doubt about Turkey, not the Country – the feathered variety. After at least half a dozen full Christmas dinners over the preceding month if I tasted turkey again, in any form, stuffed or otherwise, before Easter - he would be history. He went a funny colour, gulped and taking the bull by the horns explained that in honour of my return, the menu-del-dia today was a full traditional English Christmas dinner – with all the trimmings, and it looked as though he would be catering for a full greenhouse. Poor Marcel, he just didn’t understand the English sense of humour, of course I wouldn’t sack him – just consider it a formal warning.
I finally made it to my office and slumped into my made-to-measure chair, hand crafted by the same craftsmen that provided each new President of the US of A with his Oval office chair, and in front of me was exactly what I expected, a purple folder. Its colour signified that its contents were not earth shattering, but it contained information that I was very interested in.
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Ten days before Christmas Chalkie had been sat in his chicken coop (no you cannot have a larger control tower) surveying his domain when one of his phones rang, it was the one that pilots wishing to land at El Compo sometime in the future initially rang, and the gentleman on the other end quickly explained that he didn’t want to land at El Campo; he wanted to speak directly to me about a confidential matter. Normally this meant that some con artist couldn’t contact me through normal channels, I had a considerable number of ‘firewalls’ between me and a public telephone, so was trying to come in by the back door. There was nothing unusual about this and Chalkie had perfected his patter so that he could suss out the caller and have him or her off the line, with fleas in their ear, in less than thirty seconds, but five minutes later he still hadn’t made up his mind, so he decided to pass it on upstairs; although geographically it was actually downstairs. Putting him on hold he quickly bought David, who was El Campo’s ruler over the Christmas period ‘up to speed’. ‘He had a gentleman on hold that seemed to be genuine, and from their short conversation he seemed to be a pilot that had come across something unique. He freely admitted that he had information to sell, but only to the right person, although he had urgent personal reasons for wanting a quick settlement. He really didn’t want to have to go to the unscrupulous end of the market’, and so after making a few quick preparations the caller was transfer through to him.
David explained that I was in England on a family holiday and wasn’t expected back until the New Year, and had left explicit instructions not to be disturbed, unless the end of the world was nigh, although he (David) had full authority to act on his behalf; this was the best that he could offer.
The caller made a quick decision and briefly explained that he would not divulge his name, or the company that he worked for, or the location of his find, and then asked for David’s direct telephone number and a secure Fax number. Once he had these he told David not to leave the Fax machine unattended as he would be sending through three photographs directly, and then would, after giving him time to digest their contents, call him back, and then he then hung up; just like that, and so David waited for Mr Aaron Peters in Morocco to send him the Fax. He obviously was not current in hi-tec skulduggery.
---- a few days earlier ----
Aaron was feeling a bit lethargic as he sat at the controls of Morrelec’s Bell 412 helicopter; he had just dropped off a team of engineers at one site, and was now making his way alone to another sub-station that urgently required the remainder of his cargo. Normally, for safety reasons, he would follow the line of pylons crossing the Sahara Desert below but because of the urgency of the situation he had decided to save time by taking a short cut. Over to his left was a spur of the Anti Atlas range of mountains that not only looked hostile, but in this particular area were totally impassable on foot, by camel or vehicle, but not by helicopter. Normally he would gain altitude and then fly down the least inhospitable of the passes that crossed the range, just in case he had an in-flight emergency and had to set down, but as the power was out on the grid and the engineers waiting for his cargo had virtually no protection from the blazing sun he made an exception. A quick look at his GPS and he decided to make a bee line for the sub-station, even though it would take him over a couple of sections of absolutely lethal terrain if he had to ditch. He had been flying this particular 412 from new, six months ago, and it had never had so much as a bout of hic-ups so he felt confident as he set out over the first section, although he was now wide awake.
As he continued on over the relatively safe central area he noticed a long flat area in front of him, so with adrenalin now pumping he eased the Bell even lower for a spot of high speed low level flying, and as he skimmed a few feet above the sand he mulled over in the back of his mind that perhaps he was the first person in hundreds, if not thousands of years to be in this area, and then halfway across the plain, out of the corner of his eye he noticed something very peculiar in the side of the valley wall, a door, so he slowed and side slipped over to it, and was astonished to find a large hangar like structure set into a cut in the valley wall. It was covered with sand and the doors were well camouflaged so unless someone was on top of it, it was totally invisible. It looked abandoned so he decided to continue on with his supply drop but would investigate further on his way back.
Half an hour later he set the 412 down in a cloud of dust, shut her down and dismounted from his trusty steed, then walked over to inspect the small door set in one of the huge hangar doors, they were definitely hangar doors, but who did they belong to? Inspecting the large padlock securing the door he noticed a Luftwaffe eagle carrying a swastika, he knew his military history, it was his hobby, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. He shook the lock but all that achieved was to shake out the sands of time. It was a stout lock, in pristine condition, the arid desert conditions were not conducive to corrosion (rust) so it was going to take a seriously large bolt cropper to get past it, and bolt croppers were not standard equipment on a helicopter, but an emergency tool box was, when overflying such desolate terrain. A squirt or two of WD40 and he attacked the lock with hammer, pliers and screwdrivers but all he achieved was to put a few scratches on it, so it was time to investigate the surrounding area and perhaps find another way inside. As he came to the end of the large doors he noticed a large red stone that was totally out of place, ‘no, it could not be as simple as this’ he thought as he lifted it to one side, and below it, wrapped in a greased rag was a key; obviously someone had expected to come back. Wiping the key clean he returned to the lock and inserted it, and the oil had done its job as the lock was quickly lying on top of the rag in the sand, and he tentatively pushed the door open, switched on the torch from the tool kit and almost had a heart attack.
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David was starting to get a tad bored when suddenly the Fax machine burst into life, and as soon as the first photograph appeared it had his one hundred percent undivided attention. It was obvious that Mr. Peters had only a rather old mobile phone with an inferior in-built camera with him when he had entered the hangar, but the three grainy photos that the machine spewed out were clear enough. The first one showed two Fieseler Fi 156 Storch 2nd World War liaison aircraft, and they were in amazingly good condition. In the second one there were three Focke-Wulf Fw 190’s single seat fighters – with the promise of more behind them, and the third one showed two Junkers Ju 87 Stuka dive bombers, again in amazing condition, and again with the promise of more behind them, and David immediately became very suspicious, these photos were just too good to be true.
Working on the information that he already had to hand he started a systematic search for the aircraft, and by the time Mr. Peters called him back David had checked out all the Moroccan Electricity Companies and found that only one operated Bell 41
2 Helicopters, Peters had let slip that he had ‘set the 412 down’. He then checked that Companies web site to find out if any of their power lines went out into the desert; they had one and even indicated its route on a map. He was in the process of downloading high definition satellite imagery of the entire run when his phone rang.
‘Impressed?’ came the voice down the phone, and then David started to seriously interrogate him, although poor Mr. Peters didn’t realize it. By the end of the call David had learned among other things that he was off to the UK for the Christmas holidays, and even narrowed it down further when he let slip ‘the Fens’ in his excitement when David tentatively agreed the sum of money that he mentioned, conditional on him not mentioning the find to anyone else. Just before he terminated the call he agreed to contact David the day after Boxing Day, although David had every intention of contacting him earlier, either to explain to him the error of his ways if he was wasting his time, or to impress him with his detection skills.
David had found out about the dogs leg in the power cables (there were three on the map), the impassable terrain (that narrowed it down to one), and two flat areas. It then took him almost an hour to find a straight shadow where one shouldn’t exist, straight lines are virtually unheard off in nature, and a further thirty seconds to find the stone that had hidden the key, the marks in the sand where the Bell had set down, and a rag. He then started to think that perhaps Mr. Aaron Peters was not a con artist after all, and after glancing out of the window at the solitary cloud in the blue sky, he determined that the end of the world was indeed nigh, and rang Andrew.
Twenty-four hours later David sat at his desk and studied Mrs. Shelly Peter’s medical history, and he now understood the reason behind the need for a quick deal, it was to buy drugs. Shelly Peters was Aaron’s sister-in-law and (according to the very efficient private investigator that he had put on the case) his one and only love, although his brother Jack had been the one that had finally turned her head. Aaron had never found anyone better than Shelly so had remained single, and whenever he was in the Country he lived in the Granny annex attached to the side of their beautiful eighteenth century cottage. They had all jointly owned the property and lived in peaceful co-existence until Jack and Shelly had a tiff. Jack then went on a business trip and Aaron returned home unexpectedly and comforted his one true love, and unfortunately she reciprocated. The next morning they were mortified and agreed not to mention it again, but then two weeks later Shelly was diagnosed with cancer and they were convinced that it was punishment from on high for their indiscretion. Unfortunately the cottage was situated slap bang in the middle of an Area Health Authority that didn’t have the funds for certain very expensive drugs, so quickly their joint savings started to disappear as they paid for them with their own money, and finally, in desperation, they sold Shelly’s beloved cottage to the lowest bidder, because he assured them that they could remain there as tenants infinitum, on condition that they would be responsible for the upkeep of the property, but then unfortunately along came the floods and down went their savings again. They were now considering Council housing as they could not continue maintaining the listed building and purchase the expensive drugs that were keeping Shelly alive at the same time.
As David read the comprehensive report he knew that the investigator was not a super-sleuth, he was a vintage car enthusiast who had parked his Mk1 Cortina (the ones with the round head and tail lights) at the bottom of their garden, flicked a switch that disabled its engine then walked up to their front door, rang the bell and asked if he could use their phone to ring the AA. Fortunately Aaron volunteered to have ‘look’ at the car first and after a few minutes miraculously got the engine started, and as a sign of his appreciation the intrepid investigator offered to buy Aaron a drink (or three) at a nearby hostelry. Two hours later Aaron was almost in tears as he recited his life history, although he never did divulge where the windfall that he was hoping to receive was going to come from, just that it would go straight into the pot to provide for Shelly and the cottage, he would still have to continue working in Morocco.
Christmas Day was not a day of joy in the Peters household; Shelly was having a ‘bad day’, and Jack was just starting to make their Christmas dinner (Spaghetti Bolognese) when the door-bell rang. ‘I wonder if it’s Father Christmas’ he mused as he made his way to the door; he was pretty close. Mr. Jeffries, Shelly’s consultant stood in the pouring rain (after all it was England) with five people behind him.
‘May we come in please?’ he pleaded, and after they had all removed their coats Jack had another shock, two of them were nurses. Mr. Jeffries then indicated to the distinguished looking gentleman that seemed to be in charge of the others and said, ‘may I introduce Professor Walters’, and then went on to explain that he was the head of the Cancer Care and Research unit at a very prominent London hospital. Well that was his job done, he could now go back to his Turkey safe in the knowledge that his hospitals scanner appeal had just exceeded its target; exit Mr. Jeffries.
Professor Walters then took over and indicating to the other gentleman, ‘this is Doctor Jameson, my Senior Registrar, and I think that the uniforms tell you what Doreen and Sylvia do - are you Aaron or Jack?’
‘Jack, what are you doing here?’
‘Going to save your wife’s life I hope, could I have a word with Aaron please?’
‘AARON GET YOUR BACKSIDE OUT HERE NOW!!!’
Professor Walters handed Aaron a letter with an old fashioned red sealing wax seal on it, and asked him if Jack knew about the Stuka’s. Professor Walters hadn’t a clue about any Stuka’s and neither did Jack, so he instructed Aaron to open the letter in the kitchen, ‘but first can my staff please meet Shelly’.
Dear Mr. Peters, or may I call you Aaron?
David Williams my Director of Security informs me that you have come across something incredible in your travels. He has carried out an investigation, the details of which I will not bore you with at this time, but suffice to say we now both believe you to be the ‘genuine article’ – his words not mine.
As an act of good faith I have arranged for Professor Walters and his team (as a matter of extreme urgency) to take over the care of Shelly, your sister-in-law. He is one of the Country’s most eminent Cancer Specialists and will from now on (with all your approvals of course) be treating her, not with the drugs that you have been so selflessly providing, but with the very latest ones that have only just been approved. I assure you that this is not a short term act of kindness on my behalf, Professor Walters now has the funding to treat Shelly with any and all drugs, medicines and techniques that become available in the future.
Please pass on to your Sister-in-law my very best wishes, and I look forward to meeting you all in the very near future.
Andrew Michaels (AKA Santa Claus)
p.s. please find enclose an aerial photograph that may be of interest to you. Ho Ho Ho
Aaron looked at the attached photo, it was a typical intelligence photo with points of interest highlighted, Stone – recently moved, Marks in the sand indicating that a helicopter fitted with skids (Bell 412 or similar) had recently landed there, Shadow line – could indicate a building of substance deliberately camouflaged beneath it. Cloth – most likely grease impregnated - with imprint of a key in it.
‘Drat’, he thought that he had been so clever, but at least he knew that he had made the right decision.
Jack and Shelly questioned him endlessly as the nurses first inserted a cannula into her arm, and then attached an intravenous drip. ‘I have made a promise, but I am sure that all will be revealed soon’ he told them, and left it at that, then Dr Jameson gently removed a phial from a small cooler box that they had bought with them and quickly injected its contents into the cannula, then everything else was forgotten as all eyes turned to Shelly.
An hour later I rang the Peters doorbell, introduced myself and had a quick chat with each of them, as an ambulance was due in forty-five minutes to transfer
her to Professor Walters private ward. Shelly had already started to feel ‘funny’, but he assured me that in the early stages of her treatment this was a good sign, and I told her that after her stay in hospital she was more than welcome to convalesce in the sun at El Campo. Jack was a babbling wreck, but Aaron was full of thanks, and in total awe of David, then he invited me into the kitchen for a cuppa, and out of earshot we got down to the serious business.
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David had been very busy since that first telephone call, and by midnight on the twentieth we had a plan. The first thing to be sorted out was Mrs. Peters, and Caroline quickly solved that problem, she roused everyone in National Health Service (‘what Christmas holiday? – never heard of it’) threw loads of my money at the relevant cash strapped appeals and research projects and bingo - sorted.
Second thing was what to do about the find, secrecy was obviously paramount so the fewer people that were in the loop the better, and as Aaron (it was too complicated to say Mr. Peters – which one?) had proved that he was able to keep the secret, he was an obvious choice to be on the inside, but in what capacity?, then I had one of my ideas, how about as my personal helicopter pilot, although I didn’t actually own one. I had often pondered as I climbed into yet another charter helicopter that it would be much easier if I had my own, at least I would know which side the entrance door was on, so, over a conference telephone link - ‘Teddy, how easy is it be to buy a helicopter?’
‘What - over Christmas?’ he moaned.
‘What Christmas’ I snapped down the line, and that was sorted, but what type? Carol, who just happened to be in David’s office at the time, ear-wigging (another of Topsy’s sayings), solved that one – ‘one with wheels on please, skids mess up my deck something chronic, and so Teddy quickly found a high specification Agusta Westland AW109S Grand that was ready for delivery, but had no one to be delivered to. All it needed was registering and another lick of paint – ‘ring HHA I told him, they owe me a big favour’. Another problem sorted. Everything was going fine – but no one apart from Aaron had actually seen the dusty aircraft, I didn’t even know how many aircraft there actually were.
‘Leave that with me’ said David, in his ‘plausible deniability’ voice. Then it was down to the logistics of actually getting them out of Morocco, and a rough plan quickly came together.
--Back to Christmas day at the Peters household--
As we sat in the kitchen, dunking out pyramids, he again thanked me most profusely, but by this time he had had time to think, and realised that the package that I had put in place for Shelly’s long term care had not only extended her life expectancy considerably, but that the sums involved to fund such a package would far exceed the ‘finder’s fee’ that he had agreed with David. ‘How can I ever re-pay you?’
‘How about by becoming my personal rotary wing pilot – when can you start?’
It took us less than thirty seconds to sort out the nitty-gritty of the deal, as Morrelec had an annoying little habit of permanently losing his pay cheques, it had happened three times in the past year so he thought that that should be sufficient grounds for ‘in lieu of notice’, and then I told him what he would be ‘driving’. ‘OOOOH ain’t we the posh one then’ he said approvingly; another one that had a lot to learn about me, and as there wasn’t a lot that he could do apart from hold Shelly’s hand (and he quickly understood that I knew all about ‘that’ as well) I had a few jobs for him to do,
1 - Go and check on the registration and preparation of my new ‘chopper’, and remember Christmas is cancelled.
2 - Think of a name beginning with ‘T’.
3 - When you are satisfied with everything, fly it down to HHA and twiddle your thumbs whilst they spray it – and don’t worry about the colour scheme, they know exactly what it is.
4 - Hire a ground crew on a monthly contract to carry out the servicing in the short term.
5 – Set in motion the hiring of permanent ground crew, but have a word with John first.
6 - Arrange for ample fuel, oils, spares and any specialist support equipment that you might need to be delivered to El Campo and the Lady S by a week next Friday, and ditto John again.
7 - Fly the said machine to the Isle of Wight and complete a short ‘landing on a moving ship’ course.
8 - Fly ‘whatever its name is’ and your mechanics to El Campo, and don’t let them get any grease on the seats – any questions?
He was a quick learner and readily agreed, and then it was fond farewells and I was back into the chartered 109S Grand that was parked in a field just down the road. I thought that I might as well get a taste of what was to come, then it was back to Robin and his family for my third Christmas dinner (with all the trimmings) of the season, I wonder if David could put out a ‘contract’ on Bernard Matthews for me?, although as we lifted off I looked down at their cottage and thought, ‘perhaps I should give Aaron a little bonus when all the aircraft are safely out of Morocco’.
---- and finally - back to the new year ----
After I finished scanning the contents of the folder I rang Carol, ‘what time are we leaving?’ I had only just arrived home but it was quite literally a flying visit, I was off on yet another jaunt, this time to Morocco.
‘Just as soon as Aaron arrives with ‘Twinkle’ (I couldn’t persuade him to choose another name – it was Shelley’s nickname)’ she said, ‘he should have arrived two days ago but he is stuck in France with a volcanic rash - or some such thing’.
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