Doug tipped back in his swivel chair and clasped his hands behind his head, frowning.
“That’s twice now.”
“I’ve checked the kit as best I can.”
“And?”
“And it all seems to be working.”
“But nothing came through?”
“Nothing.”
“Something’s very wrong somewhere,” said Doug, getting more peevish, as forecast.
“Just a straight line instead of a sine wave, and mush in the headphones. Not a beep.”
Doug sighed, and almost whispered, “What the hell’s going on?”
Jon shrugged.
“This is supposed to be impossible,” said Doug. “You know that.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Well it is.”
“I know it’s pretty modern kit, but I didn’t know it was infallible.”
“Well it is. This simply can’t happen. It’s impossible.”
“Our end seems to be all right,” repeated Jon, “so it must be the other end that’s gone kaput.”
“It can’t.”
“Well it has,” said Jon, getting cross. “It’s the only explanation.”
“There has to be a reason for this,” said Doug thoughtfully, topping up the glasses.
“If you ask me,” opined Jon, “the bloke with the transmitting end has dropped it or trodden on it or broken it in some way, or even just lost the damned thing.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Don’t keep saying that.” Jon was getting peevish now. “Why is it impossible for God’s sake?”
“Because it’s not portable.”
“Not portable?”
“That’s right.”
“How come?”
“Because it’s imbedded, that’s how.”
“Imbedded?”
“That’s what I said. Imbedded. The bloke who’s got it is wearing the thing. Internally. It’s inside the man. Implanted. He can’t drop it or tread on it. Where he goes, it goes.”
“That wasn’t part of the briefing,” said Jon.
“And I probably shouldn’t be telling you now, either, so keep it to yourself.”
“So he’s actually wearing the transmitter, so to speak? I’ve never heard of a bit of kit like that before. Nobody said anything about it at the briefing.”
“Terribly new and hush-hush,” confided Doug. “Micro digital technology invented by some whiz-kid particle physicist. This is the first time it’s been used.”
“And it doesn’t work,” suggested Jon.
“It’s been working perfectly until now.”
“So what’s gone wrong?”
“Could just be a power failure,” said Doug thoughtfully.
“Flat battery, you mean.”
“Could be.”
“If he’s wearing it, how can he plug it in to charge it up?”
“He doesn’t. The charger is built in to the thing. Nuclear powered.”
“You mean that poor sod is walking around with a nuclear power station inside him?”
“Not quite. It’s a tiny bit of radioactive material, as I understand it, which generates just enough heat as it decays to charge up the battery and keep it going. It’s called a Radioisotope Thermoelectric Generator.”
“Oh. One of those!”
“Do you know about them?” asked an astonished Doug Ritchie.
“Never heard of them! But why can’t we get in touch with it to find out what’s wrong?”
“It only transmits. It’s not a receiver.”
“So it’s not much use to the guy wearing it, then.”
“Not much. It’s rather more for our benefit than his, so that we know where he is.”
“Except we don’t, because it’s not working.”
Doug thought for a moment.
“Perhaps it is still working, and the Comsat is just not picking up the signal. It’s finely tuned and aimed at the region where he’s working, I’m told. We know the rough area where the chap is going to be operating, and the satellite is tuned in to that area.”
“So the guy could have wandered off, out of range.”
“Exactly my thought. You’ve worked in the field for long enough to know that you need to travel around a bit from time to time.”
“I would still be out there if that bastard in Damascus hadn’t winged me. Nothing ever goes as planned. Sometimes you have to free-lance a bit, and operate out of theatre just to get the job done. Sounds like that’s what this fellow has done.”
“The point is, we shall have to keep monitoring the thing at the scheduled times in case he wanders back again.
“What if he’s been picked up by the opposition?”
“They wouldn’t find it, and even if he was dead it would still keep working.”
“Life out in the field is plainly not what it used to be in my day.”
“I suppose I shall have to tell Head of Section and ‘C’. They will not be amused.”
“Especially not if you tell them now. It’s three o’clock in the morning.”
“I wasn’t planning on ringing either of them – too risky. I’ll see them later this morning. You’d better come along too.”
“Our blokes at the Embassy can’t help I suppose?”
“The Embassy doesn’t know anything about this operation or that there is anything special happening on their patch.”
“Our chum really is on his own, then.”
“Very much so. And at high risk.”
Jon stood to leave.
“Thanks for the grog, and the extra briefing.”
“Keep it to yourself, that’s all.”
“Drinking on duty, d’you mean?”
They exchanged grins, as Jon Field closed the door behind him.
***
James Piper was Head of Section 7, one of the divisions of MI6 which carried out special operations. They concentrated on the Far East, but sometimes had to work in other areas as well or instead, depending on what was needed. In the past, Piper had been posted to embassies in the area himself, mostly as a so-called cultural attaché, but had also been out there on his own on special assignments. So he knew the ropes, and knew that part of the world quite well. Which was why his section had been given responsibility for this top secret mission. He knew a lot more about it than Jon Field, but decided to take him along to his meeting with Sir Geoffrey Sefton, together with Doug Ritchie, who had just briefed him on the night’s events – or rather the lack of events.
They were quickly ushered into ‘C’’s office. He was staring at the computer screen on his desk, but motioned them to sit down. His PA brought them all a steaming cup of coffee and a plate of biscuits, both very welcome to Jon and Doug, who had been up all night.
“I gather there’s some sort of problem,” said ‘C’, looking up from his screen. It was a statement rather than a question.
“I thought you should know that we are still out of contact,” said James without further ado.
“Same as last night?”
“Exactly. Straight lining again, I’m afraid. Our end seems to be in good order, but we received no signal at the appointed time last night. No signal and no audio, just like the previous night.”
Sir Geoffrey Sefton sat back and grabbed the red phone to speak to Jack Salisbury.
“Straight line again last night,” Sefton said without further ado.
“So we have lost him, then.”
“Looks like it. Nothing since he sent the message that the planned pick-up had failed.”
“We need to plan what to do next,” said Salisbury. “Get over here as soon as you can.”
The red phone went dead.
“When was the last we heard from him? Sefton asked Piper.
“Friday.” said Jon. “I was on duty then, but I’ve had a straight line twice since then.”
“And today’s Sunday. So we’ve not been in touch now for just over three days.”
Sir Geoffrey t
urned to James Piper.
“How much does Jon know?” he asked James.
“I had to explain about the transmitter,” he replied, “but nothing else apart from what he was told at the briefing.”
“Good. I’ve just been checking your record, Jon, and particularly your security clearances. I think we can take you in to our full confidence about this operation, don’t you James?”
“Agreed,” replied James.
“Thank you, sir,” said Jon.
“No need to call me ‘sir’ from now on. ‘C’ is what everyone else uses, so that’ll do.”
Jon nodded.
“So you know that if our man is operating in the area we expect him to be in,” he said to Jon, “we are bound to pick up a transmission from him. Since we’ve heard nothing, and all our kit appears to be working, then the satellite has received no signal to send us. That can only mean that he’s not where he should be.”
‘C’ sat back and thought for a moment.
“Anyone got any better theories?”
“I wondered if it could be a battery problem in the man’s transmitter,” offered Jon. “Not sending a signal as it should.”
“That’s highly unlikely – some would say impossible,” replied Sir Geoffrey. “The battery is the really secret bit of the equipment we’re using. Except it’s not really a battery either. It’s some kind of supercapacitor made with graphene coated silicon. It’s a tiny chip which holds four times more power than the most modern lithium-ion batteries, and charges up in a flash. I’m told it’s the sort of thing that will be powering all our mobile phones in ten years or so.”
“What about the nuclear generator?” asked James.
“It was developed at Harwell, really for military use. It’s the same sort of thing that powers satellites, although on a sub-atomic scale. A tiny micro-chip of radioactive material generates heat as it decays, which is just enough to charge the battery and keep the whole thing going. The nuclear scientists at Harwell got together with a team of particle physicists to develop the whole transmitter, and in a way, our man is doing trials for them. But it never failed under tests. I got in touch with the project leader the first time the signal failed to arrive, and they can think of no reason why it should fail now, out in the field so to speak. Obviously, I’ll talk to them again later this morning.”
“Any way of re-tuning the satellite, to widen its field of operation?” asked Doug.
“There probably is, but in my view it would be far too risky. Our signal to the Comsat could easily be intercepted, and that would blow the whole operation out of the water.”
“Could the opposition have picked up our man and disabled the transmitter in some way?” asked Jon.
“It’s always possible that he has been picked up, especially where he is, in which case he’s having a very bad time indeed. But they wouldn’t find the transmitter. It’s too small to be discovered by scanners, at airports for instance, and the signal produced by the transmitter is virtually undetectable – the power is in the satellite, which is sensitive enough to pick it up.”
“Could a Geiger-counter detect the radioactive material?”
“Very unlikely,” replied ‘C’. “Far too small to generate anything detectable, I’m told. Our chap would need to wear it for some 10,000 years before the radioactivity had any adverse effect on him.”
“It sounds to me, then, that the transmitter must still be working,” said Doug.
“I agree,” said ‘C’. “I think the only explanation can be that our man has gone out of satellite range. But we must continue to listen out at the specified transmission times, in the event that he reappears where we expect him to be. I’m quite sure he will, if he’s still at all active.”
He paused, thoughtfully.
“James, can you arrange for Jon and Doug always to be on duty together when a transmission is due? That would save us having to up the briefing level of anyone else, which I am keen to avoid as this is such a very sensitive operation.”
“Of course we can do that. I’ll get on to re-arranging the duty roster as soon as I get back to my office.”
“It will mean a bit of extra effort and stress for you two,” he said to the pair, “but I hope you won’t mind.”
“Not a bit,” they said, almost in unison.
“Good. Any more questions?”
“Personally,” said Doug Ritchie, “I’m curious to know where our man is, and who he is. Anyone we know?”
‘C’ looked across at James Piper, the Section head.
“I suppose it’s only fair to tell them, since they know nearly everything else.”
James shrugged and nodded.
“I can’t emphasise too strongly how very secret this whole venture is, so I must have your absolute guarantee that none of this will go any further, even to those within this service. At present, I have not even dared to tell the politicians who are my masters. Neither the Foreign Secretary nor the Prime Minister knows anything of this, nor, if I get my way, will they be told anything until we have a successful conclusion.”
Both men nodded their agreement.
“I will only say that Maurice Northcot, who I’m sure you know, is now in North Korea to collect vital information from our agents over there. He’s operating very much on his own. Not even the Ambassador knows he’s there, but he should by now have made contact with, shall we say, friendly agents. You will understand, I hope, how very disturbing it is to have lost contact with him, even though we are not in direct communication with him. That would have been to put him at even greater risk, a situation which he fully acknowledged before he left.”
“I know Maurice very well,” said Doug. Jon nodded. “I also know that if, as it seems, something’s not gone as planned, he would keep going to achieve the aim of the operation, whatever that is. It’s plain to me now that something has gone wrong, and that he has moved out of area to salvage what he can of the mission, regardless of his own safety.”
“Any one of us would have done the same, Sir Geoffrey,” said Jon.
‘C’ looked at the men closely for a moment.
“Thank you gentlemen.”
As the meeting broke up, the Head of MI6 asked James Piper to stay behind.
“It’s been going through my mind, James, that if Maurice doesn’t appear on our screens again soon, we may need to send someone out there to try to find out what’s happened to him. We need to know whether he’s still on the case, so to speak, or whether we have to start again in some way.”
“I agree,” replied James. “This mission is too important to let it slide, and the information Maurice has gone out there to collect must be of the utmost importance, although I’ve no idea, of course, what that information is.”
“Only a handful of people do know, and if you don’t mind, I won’t add you to the list; not yet, at least. But you can take my word that it is of vital international importance.”
Sir Geoffrey looked at his computer screen again.
“The problem is, who shall we send?”
He looked across at James.
“Someone from your section, perhaps, but who?” he asked again.
“I need to think about that.”
“We may not have much time. Whoever goes will need detailed briefing, and probably some training as well. Has anyone from your section ever been to Korea before?”
“I don’t think so – certainly not in my time.”
“As I thought. So we would need to send someone who is totally unfamiliar with the area, and who probably won’t even speak the language.”
James nodded agreement.
“As you know, I’ve looked up Jon Field’s records. They were on my screen when you arrived. The injury he sustained in Damascus was serious, but should have healed enough by now to make him fit enough for field work again.”
“He’s certainly itching to get out somewhere,” said James. “And he’s said often that he should be fit enough.”
; “Well, subject to all the proper checks, I am inclined to select him as a back-up if we need to send someone else out there. He’s already half briefed as it is.”
“Could be an excellent choice. His name was going through my mind as well.”
“So be it, then. His record also shows that he is a natural linguist, if there is such a thing. Very quick to learn. We may need to put that to the test, as we did with Maurice Northcot, although he already spoke the language. You’d better tell him immediately, and arrange for him to have a thorough medical as soon as possible. If he passes that, we’ll get him to Bourleywood House for a detailed briefing and some basic language training if there’s time.”
“I’ll get on to that straight away, although he’s probably gone home by now, having been here all night.”
“You will also have to arrange to take him off the watch-keeper’s roster. There was one of his other colleagues at our limited briefing – what was his name again?”
“Giles Clayton.”
“Ah, yes. Well get hold of him, and jiggle the roster so that he and Doug Ritchie are always on duty together, while Jon is detached for training. Let me know if you think Giles should have any further briefing.”
“Certainly.”
“In spite of all this James, Jon will not be our first choice to send out there.”
“Who then?”
“Kang Soo.”
“One of the SAS men?”
“The survivor. His colleague was executed as an American spy.”
“I remember.”
“Kang Soo volunteered to go back with Northcot, but he eventually chose to work alone. But Soo has only recently returned from there, knows the background and knows what Dr. Choi looks like. Jon will be third man, so to speak.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Let’s hope this turns out to be no more than contingency planning, and that we re-establish contact with Maurice before we need to put any of this into effect. I must say that this is all very worrying. I just hope that nothing’s happened to him.”
***
The first thing James Piper did when he got back to his office was to send Carol, his P.A., down to the mess for a bacon sandwich while the kettle boiled. He was starving.
The second thing he did was to think.
He needed to speak to Doug and Jon, but they had both been on night duty and then had to stay on at the end of their shift for the meeting with ‘C’. They were by now probably at home and in bed. He looked at his watch. Nearly half-past-eleven. They were on duty again this evening – eight ‘til eight was the night shift. He’d ring them later – about five o’clock would probably be about the best, he thought. They would both be up and about by then, and if they weren’t, they should be.