He spoke to the driver through the window. ‘Fleet Street, please driver.’
The driver nodded politely, and Swan opened the door and climbed in.
The Old Bell was a pub frequented by the hacks of Fleet Street. Enjoying their infamous liquid lunchtime, the place was packed with the workers of the daily prints who had just completed their shifts. Peter Mander was no exception to this. As a freelance journalist, he was a regular in the establishment, being highly distinctive in his tired looking brown suit and scuffed brown brogues. As a chain smoker, Mander would always have a haze of cigarette smoke shrouding him. His reputation preceded him, as his stories would usually be the ones that caused a huge shock to the system. Some had been so controversial that they had led to the resignations of senior public figures.
Mander took hold of his half-filled glass of Watneys Red ale as he read the afternoon edition of the Evening Standard. Suddenly, he heard what he thought was a familiar voice.
‘Can I fill you up on that glass, Peter?’
Mander turned his head to find an equally familiar face smiling at him. ‘Alex, what a surprise. How the devil are you?’ Mander shook Swan’s hand.
‘Not too bad, thank you, Peter. I thought I might find you in here at this time of the day.’
‘Prints have finished for the day Alex, all ready for tomorrow now.’
Swan nodded. ‘So, how are things with you then Peter?’
‘Quite hot at the moment, especially with all the damn cuts and cancellations that our beloved new government are making. Anyway, what brings you to come and seek me out? The last time was the Bloomberg affair, so I know that you have something else for me to get my itchy mitts on my typewriter keys for.’
Swan glanced around, taking in the pub’s clientele. ‘Let me get you a drink, and we’ll find a nice quiet table to talk,’ suggested Swan.
Mander bellowed out a short laugh. ‘Ha, fat chance of that in here Alex. As soon as my competition sees us together, they’ll smell a meaty story brewing. We’ll have more ears around us than an office full of young, mini-skirted telephone operators.’
Swan ordered two pints of ale, paid the bartender and carried them back over to Mander.
He clinked glasses with the journalist.
‘There you go, cheers Peter.’
‘Cheers. So Alex, out with it man. What’s this all about?’
‘Well Peter, I do have something, but if I give it to you, I want your word that you will not run it, unless you do not hear from me in the next two days.’
Mander raised his left eyebrow. ‘Oh, this sounds a bit final, I must say Alex.’
Swan placed his face closer to Mander’s right ear and lowered his voice. ‘Put it this way Peter, if you do have to run it, then the same edition will most likely feature my obituary.’
Mander’s eyes widened and not to attract attention, he muffled a gasp. He whispered to the SID man. ‘My god Alex. What the blazes have you got yourself into now?’
Swan reached into his inside jacket pocket and retrieved an envelope, placing it on the table in front of the journalist.
‘All you need to know is in this envelope. I want you to tell no one of this, and put it somewhere safe for a couple of days.’
Mander looked down and quickly grabbed it, placing it in his jacket pocket. ‘Christ almighty, Alex. You’re really bloody serious about this, aren’t you?’
Swan stared the newshound directly in the eyes. ‘I am afraid so, but what I have is so hot, and it could upset transatlantic relations so severely, that we could be left out on our own in this Cold War, leaving us vulnerable to the Soviets.’
Mander gave a smile. ‘Yanks, eh? Well, trust them to be up to something dirty.’
Swan nodded. ‘Quite, but that’s all I can tell you for now, Peter, for your sake as well as mine. Keep it safe and thanks for everything.’
Mander shook Swan’s hand. ‘Anytime, Alex.’
Swan nodded. ‘Let’s hope so, Peter. Let’s hope so.’
Mander watched Swan walk through the pub and exit the stained glass doors. He picked up his glass, finished his drink and then reached into his pocket. He pulled out the envelope. Holding it in his nicotine stained fingers, he stared at it for a few moments then placed it back. He picked up his newspaper, got up from the table and walked towards the exit, acknowledging the familiar journalistic faces on the way out. Outside, Swan had caught another cab and was now heading for Curzon Street.
The short drive to the headquarters of MI5 was uneventful, the late afternoon traffic remarkably calm for this particular evening.
Swan emerged from the taxi and walked up the staircase at the front of the building, swung back the large oak door and walked up to the reception. A middle aged female receptionist with a telephone microphone around her head greeted him with a smile.
‘Good evening, Mr Swan, how are you sir?’
Swan smiled at Janet Ross. ‘I’m fine Janet, you’re looking well. Not your usual job here, is it?’
‘I’m just filling in for a receptionist on holiday. I’m still with R Section. So, what can I do for you, sir?’
‘I was wondering if Mr Stratton is in his office.’
‘I will just check for you, sir.’
Janet Ross checked the registration book. ‘I’m afraid Mr Stratton signed out of the building about an hour ago, sir’
Swan gave Janet a reassuring smile. ‘Not to worry, he will have gone to the Brigand Club. I’ll catch up with him there. Nice to see you again, Janet. We must catch up sometime. Good evening.’
‘Good evening to you too, Alex.’
Their eyes met for a few seconds, then Swan turned to leave. Ross watched Swan with more than just admiration for the former Head of A Section, and as he left the building, he suddenly thought more about her as well.
Swan emerged from Leconfield House and felt the cool London City breeze touch his face. He then noticed a man across the street with his head in a newspaper. As Swan walked down the steps, he carried out a quick character assessment of him, making out the man to be in his late twenties, six foot tall and rather relaxed. Too relaxed. The man shuffled his paper.
As Swan headed left down the street, he walked slowly, listening for any following footsteps as he crossed Piccadilly.
He then stopped to light a cigarette, and at the entrance to Green Park, covertly eyed his pursuer, who was just coming down the steps a few yards behind him. The man stopped and took out a map of London. Swan smiled to himself, instantly recognising a typical surveillance technique. He had acquired a tail, but how long had he had it? Was it since leaving the office? He would have been followed to The Old Bell, and seen handing the envelope to Mander.
He continued walking along The Mall, and a few hundred yards later, at the traffic lights in Trafalgar Square, crossed over and walked down Northumberland Avenue. A few paces more, and he had arrived at the steps of a building with opened gloss black doors. As he walked up the steps, he noticed the figure turn slowly into view, twenty yards to the right of him. Swan pretended to ignore him and walked through the doors into the Brigand Club.
Chapter 17
Inside the Brigand Club, John Stratton sat in a big green leather armchair with one hand nursing a cut crystal tumbler half full of malt Scotch. In his lap was a copy of The Sporting Life, opened at the results page.