Swan nodded. ‘Indeed he was.’
Higgins pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. ‘During his investigations, he came across a mechanic that was a Polish refugee during the war. After some snooping around, it turns out this chap’s father is working for the Ivans as part of their top secret rocket team.’
‘Good grief!’ was all that Swan could say.
‘Exactly. He has caught a damn Russian saboteur right in the thick of Britain’s most top secret military aircraft programme.’
‘What has Stratton done with him?’ Swan enquired.
‘Well, he’s arrested him, and he’s now in MI5 custody.’
Swan shook his head. ‘They’ll take him down The Well, poor bastard.’
‘The Well?’ Higgins asked in a puzzled manner.
Swan turned and looked at his friend. ‘Where we take spies for interrogation. It’s a disused siding on the Metropolitan and Circle Lines, located between Regent’s Park and Great Portland Street stations. It was built to act as a relief line, should a train get stuck in that area. There’s a series of small rooms built into the brickwork. MI5 commandeered it during the war, and brought German, Italian and Japanese spies there for questioning. Since then, it has been refurbished with special sound proofing and used for Eastern Block spies and traitors to the crown. The place is deep underground, with only one way in and out. Our people enter it by way of a service lift above ground in Park Crescent. This is just a small circular concrete structure with a blue coloured door. A plaque on the door just says London Underground Maintenance Lift House Number ML3483. Authorized Staff Only. Passengers that pass on their way to and from work between the two stations, may just notice a siding going off to the right, completely oblivious as to where that siding goes, and what is at the end of it.’
Higgins gasped. ‘My god Alex. I had no idea that places like that existed in this country. If you ask me, it sounds like the sort of thing you would probably find under the Kremlin.’
Swan tapped his nose. ‘Need to know only old chap, and believe me, you don’t need to know.’
‘So what will they do to him down there?’
Swan handed Higgins a cup of tea and sat down at his desk.
‘They’ll give him a beating. Then Stratton will oversee some questioning. Eventually they’ll break him for some information, and then toss what’s left of him into The Scrubs. The poor sod may even hang, but no one would get to know about it. Some have never come out alive. We had a traitor down there once who hanged himself on the flex that supported the big overhead lamp. When one of the agents entered the room in the dark, the first thing they did was turn on the light, to see the man dangling with the current electrocuting his already dead corpse.’
Higgins shivered and Swan noticed his expression. ‘Espionage is an ugly business, Sir Alistair. It really isn’t endless Vodka Martinis and glamorous foreign women you know.’
Higgins shook his head. ‘Some nasty times we live in, Alex. Still, at least we got him, so we can put the pieces together and close the case on the attempted sabotage I suppose.’
Swan leant forward in his chair and looked at Higgins. ‘Not quite old chap. I spoke with Howard Barnett yesterday. He’s come out of his coma with no problems, and after what he has told me about what happened to him, it seems that John Stratton has gone and got himself an innocent man.’
Chapter 15
Andy Morrison stood at the small porcelain basin, turned on the taps and placed his blood stained hands into the sink, allowing the tepid water to wash the blood off.
It was not his blood. He watched as the crimson puddle diminished and cascaded down the plughole; the remaining water gradually becoming clear. He always looked forward to this moment, a session with a new client.
His job was done for now and he had washed his hands on this particular episode. Morrison was an ex-Corporal of № 2 Parachute Regiment.
In 1962, during his tour in Borneo, his platoon had infiltrated a terrorist hideout, capturing an important group leader. They had held him until the arrival of an intelligence officer so that the man could be interrogated. John Stratton had walked into the hut and demanded the prisoner be handed over. Morrison didn’t like the attitude of this civilian from the Intelligence Unit, and became aggressive towards him. Two men who had accompanied Stratton had taken hold of Morrison, attempting to restrain him. However, using his strength and large muscly build, Morrison had broken free and, losing his temper, had placed an arm around the neck of one of the men and used him to defend himself from the other one, who was brandishing a wooden truncheon. During the struggle, the pressure placed on the man’s neck had been too much, and a few moments later, Morrison had released his grip. The man fell dead to the floor.
Morrison was arrested and, facing a manslaughter charge, was sent to Changi Prison, awaiting transfer to Colchester, pending trial. Morrison had enjoyed the Army and regretted his actions taken in the height of combat.
A few days into his internment at the military prison, he was taken to a room and placed in front of someone he instantly recognised. Stratton had stared at him from across the table and had presented him with an alternative to his predicament of facing the hangman’s noose.
The next day Morrison was driven to London and in Curzon Street, entered through the large oak doors of Leconfield House.
After a short induction period being instructed in the latest interrogation and counter-resistance techniques, he had been given his first assignment as an Enforcer. His methods had given him the nickname of Ammo and amongst the circles of the Security Service, this was how he was now addressed.
Morrison exited the bathroom and spoke to a man sitting at a desk outside another room. ‘He’s all yours now, Mr Martin. You should find him more co-operative.’
Dennis Martin grinned. ‘Thank you, Ammo.’
Morrison opened another door and went inside, filled the kettle and sat down at the table. He picked up the newspaper while waiting for the kettle to boil his water for his tea.
Next door, ‘Ammo’s latest customer sat weeping in the solitary wooden chair in the middle of a dimly lit and damp room that had been purposely built with soundproof panels suppressing the sounds for its sole purpose. This was one of three rooms of the special interrogation centre, deep below the London streets, more commonly known as The Well. Leonev Kostowyz choked on some of his blood he had swallowed from the wound on his broken inner lip.
Before the beatings he had been stripped of his Brinton Aviation overalls and shirt, and now sat tied to the chair, wearing only a blood soaked string vest, underpants and socks. The only light in the room was a desk lamp with a 100 watt bulb that blazed in his face each time he lifted his head up.
He was confused and bewildered as to why he was here. The accusations regarding his father had upset him. He raised his head again as Dennis Martin entered the room. The interior was ideal for the purpose. The walls were plain white with a stone floor. On the hard floor’s surface, the faint blood stains of previous traitors could still be seen. There were no windows and only one entrance and exit.
At short periods a rumble could be heard as an underground train passed by on the nearby District and Circle Line, as passengers obliviously went about their daily routine.
Martin walked in front of his captive. ‘Good Morning, Mr Kostowyz. My name is Dennis, and I’m here to ask you some questions.’