She had expressed her frustrations at the MOD’s policy of restricted budgets and limited resources and the effect it had on her husbands work.
“Well, why don’t you suggest that he seeks private sponsorship?” Sir Richard asked.
“He’s already spoken to the Americans, but I’m not having that.”
“Then may I ask a colleague of mine to get in touch? We’re always looking at diversifying our technology.”
It had led from there. The Professor had received a telephone call that seemed innocuous, and eventually met with two specialists from Maxim at The Grosvenor House Hotel. There, he agreed to supply the company with a working prototype within eight months. However, things went wrong, it seems, and now the professor and his device were missing. Sir Richard was concerned, for the professor hadn’t kept a second appointment at the Hilton Hotel in London. It was suspected that one of Maxim’s board had decided that the device wasn’t to be shared with the world and intended keeping it for the use of his own target clients.
Azif Bin Haffir was a Cambridge educated Saudi oil-billionaire. As a young man, he’d been sent to Eton, but then read Economics and Politics at Cambridge, followed by a spell at Sandhurst and then a brief career in the Saudi army. He had friends in high places in the Saudi Royal family, most European nations, as well as contacts with American Businesses.
He was also a Moslem and determined to ensure that when the oil dried up, Saudi Arabia would be a secure and wealthy nation state, unaffected by the problems of the West, and above the squabbles of the Middle East.
A meeting was held in Whitehall between six members of the board of Maxim and certain government officials. It became accepted conjecture that Haffir had diverted the professor and his device to his own private project, from which neither Maxim, nor any nation or government would benefit. The frightening aspect was trying to identify who would benefit, and similarly, against whom the device could be used.
Iraq and Afghanistan came to most people’s mind first, but then Israel loomed in on the scenario, and a host of ‘what ifs’ were available. The potential consequences for an assault on Israel by personnel and armour equipped with the device would mean a greater likelihood of a nuclear incident in that region.
Okay, then why was I in Scotland?
Haffir, it seems, was very astute and aware of the CIA and other Western Intelligence agencies. He was also aware of the satellite technology utilised in gathering intelligence. Knowing that it was simply a matter of time before his involvement became known, and in order to confuse and to protect his investments and allow his pet projects to develop as far removed from the most spied on region of the globe, Haffir had bought a small uninhabited island off the west coast of Scotland.
Constructing a complex facility, deep into the rock, he successfully avoided satellite scrutiny and casual observation. Apart from some hardy and rather unfortunate sea birds, there was little interest in a slab of damp rock. However, satellites are useful, with thermal imaging and other devices, so once they knew where to look, it could easily become apparent that the unnamed shipping hazard was a lot more than something unwary seamen could bump into at night.
A fishing boat bobbed at it’s mooring at a small jetty in Shieldeig, a small village in a bay dominated by a pebbly beach and a freezing wind in winter.
Normally a helicopter ran across to undertake such a mundane task of transferring supplies to and from the mainland, for the small number of personnel that staffed the island. The cloud base was almost touching the water, with rain filling the gap between the sea and sky, being driven almost horizontal by the wind, so the helicopter was firmly tied to its pad on the island. The boat, an elderly Scottish trawler, was well able to cover the distance in a matter of forty minutes on a fine day, but on a filthy day like this, in double the time.
Two men had gone to the shop, while two others guarded the boat, awaiting their return. To be honest, guarding was a loose term, as these men were hardly inclined to brave the elements on such a day as this, not for a scruffy boat and a few meagre supplies, regardless of whatever orders they’d received.
My task, as simple as it sounded, was to get to the island and to see if I could assess the situation, secure the device and any specifications, before affecting the release/rescue of the professor. The professor was expendable, while the technology wasn’t. If I couldn’t save the device, then I had to destroy it and any computer or paper records that existed.
Why me?
Our observations and assessments of Haffir and his resourcefulness to date had concluded that the technical defensive systems on the island would prevent any incursion of a Special Forces team by air or sea. Such a move would simply accelerate the destruction and removal from British soil of the device and any records that might exist. It was, however, determined that a small party of two people arriving by legitimate means, albeit without anyone’s knowledge, would be in a better position to operate covertly without alerting the security.
That was why I was getting damp and cold whilst looking for an opportunity to board their boat. I wasn’t alone, for I had one companion. In compromise to the American assistance with satellite intelligence, Mike Hanley joined me in the operation. He was currently observing the men ashore to ascertain how long we had to attempt to get on board. We knew that only three or four men came over on a boat that was big enough for ten or twelve, so there were places that we could hide.
Mike returned, slithering in beside me.
“They’re stocking up with quite a lot, but they’ve gone to the pub while the shopkeeper packs up their boxes.”
“Last time the others joined them for a quick pint, will they do it again?”
He shrugged. “This must be a shitty job, so I expect that they’ll risk it.”
The two men on the boat were in the small wheelhouse. The rain was slackening off to a fine drizzle, so if they were going to try to grab a quick break, now would be ideal. Sure enough, one popped his head out looked around at the bleak coastline, where there was absolutely no sign of other human beings. The next moment, both men left the boat and ran towards the small pub overlooking the beach, some five hundred yards away.
I didn’t have to look at Mike, but made my way down to the beach, keeping the rocks between me and the pub. Once I hit the pebbles, I could hear Mike was following. We entered the water and waded out until we could dive.
The water was so cold that it took my breath away for a moment. Holding my breath, I swam underwater over to the stern of the trawler, on the seaward side, where I surfaced and clambered aboard. Mike was a few seconds behind me.
We ducked down and made for the forward fish hold. It was relatively clean and lacked any evidence that it had been used to store fish for a very long time. Just forward of this hold was a small locker used for nets. Predictably, it was empty, apart from some cork floats, an old tarpaulin and a broom missing most of its bristles. We clambered in and closed the door behind us. There was no light at all in here. A hatch was above our heads, leading to the deck, so Mike eased the rusting latch and it creaked open a few millimetres.
“Oil!” I said.
He nodded, reaching into his pouch and squirting some WD40 from a small can. I smiled, for here was a man prepared for every eventuality.
He eased it up and down until it opened and closed silently, so we closed it and settled down to wait.
“You’re a strong swimmer,” Mike said in the darkness.
“Thanks, but I’m bloody freezing now.”
“Keep the wetsuit on, as it’ll warm up the water from your body.”
He was trying to teach me to suck eggs so I simply smiled and pulled the tarpaulin over us to wait for our departure.