HB looked at his watch, got up from his chair and put on his familiar brown work coat. He then picked up a file on top of the filing cabinet, and noticed a fleck of dust falling from the top. He suddenly thought of Agatha again, as even the files would have been dusted, she had been so thorough in her job. Then he left the office for a late afternoon meeting with his chief test pilot.
The Air Ministry had not changed much since Alex Swan had last walked these long corridors three years earlier. The flow of human traffic had calmed slightly, compared to the rushing around of secretarial and senior staff during his last visit at the height of the Cuban missile crisis. That time, he had found his Soviet spy. Although the contents of her handbag had revealed no more than just her love notes from the assistant head of the Overseas Office, who now thinks a lot harder before having affairs with newly appointed young female administrative assistants.
Air Commodore Alistair Higgins acknowledged Swan and rose from his chair as he approached his desk. ‘Alex, my boy. So good to see you here again. Not after anymore young lady spies with secret documents stuffed down their cleavages again, I trust?’
Swan reached for the outstretched friendly hand.
‘How are you, Sir Alistair? It’s been a long time. Actually no, I need a favour old boy. Are you doing anything this weekend? The Furrows are putting on a clay shoot, and I thought perhaps that you may be up for it, old chap.’
The Air Commodore broke into an even bigger smile. ‘Of course, my boy, love to. Victoria’s off this weekend for the annual W.I conference in Amesbury, so it would be just me, a good bottle of Chablis, and a half built model kit of a Lancaster that I have on the workbench in my shed at the moment.’
Swan smiled. ‘Well, that’s settled then. I will see you down there in the morning. Shall we say eight o’clock?’
Swan then noticed a model of a Spitfire perched on the Air Commodore’s desk and, picking it up to examine it more closely, admired the detail. ‘One of yours, Sir Alistair?’
‘Yes. This is the actual Mark 18 that I flew with 208 in the Sinai back in ’47. Note the unusual camouflage pattern of dark earth over slate grey. We found it blended in with the terrain really well and could fly recon sorties without getting harassed too much by the Arabs or the Israelis. Except for that one time of course, when some of our boys got bounced by those two American chaps from the infamous Israeli 101 squadron. I had been grounded with a twisted ankle from tripping over a damn wheel chock in the dark, and my kite was taken by another chap who ended up getting shot down. The local Bedouins brought him back the next morning in exchange for some bottles of Johnny Walker Black Label.’
Realising an error, Swan corrected him. ‘Wasn’t one of those 101 boys a Canadian, in what was that infamous Three-Way Spitfire combat incident?’
‘Yes, by Jove, I think he was!’
Swan smiled at the Air Commodore’s embarrassment and placed the model back on the desk. Then, seeing how relaxed Higgins looked, he decided to seize the moment. ‘Sir Alistair. I was wondering if I could have a private word.’
Higgins sighed. ‘Ah, I knew that there had to be a reason for your surprise visit.’
Higgins led Swan into a small room off of the main corridor and shut the door. ‘Right, Alex. What’s on your mind?’
Swan righted himself. ‘I take it that you are familiar with the Brinton incident?’
‘Of course. That poor chap James McGregor. What a shame. I met him a few times as well. What is the sudden interest in this?’
‘My client is his fiancé. She’s not happy with the conclusions of the inquest and wants me to look into it.’
Higgins pulled a chair and sat down. ‘Verdict was unanimous, Alex. It was a tragic accident.’ He gave Swan a cynical look. ‘But, from your facial expression, I suspect that you think otherwise?’
‘I’m not sure at this time, but a few things have cropped up and I’m starting to lay out the puzzle pieces on the table. I need to get into Brinton Aviation and at the moment, I do not want this to be official. Is there any chance that you could fix something for me?’
Higgins stood up and walked around a desk. ‘As it happens there is an evaluation team going up there next Tuesday. I could pull a pass for you to go along, too.’
Swan smiled. ‘Any chance of getting two?’
Higgins laughed. ‘For Arthur I suppose?’
Swan nodded. Higgins thought for a few seconds then let out a defeated sigh. ‘For you Alex my boy, no problem. You will have to learn a bit about avionics, as I could send you in as a couple of Ministry inspectors. The regular chap is away on holiday, so we were going to delay that visit until he got back. Looks like you and Arthur have the luck of the devil in perfect timing, what?’
Swan laughed. ‘I’ll give you the passes at The Furrows. I better also give you a list of technical babble to help you and dear old Arthur look the part, as they say.’
‘Thank you, Sir Alistair. I very much appreciate your help in this.’
‘Hush-hush though, Alex my boy. Don’t want to be called in to the Air Marshall’s office if this all goes belly up, you understand. Especially when our most top secret warplane project is involved.
Swan stood to attention. ‘You have my word, Sir Alistair, that I shall be as discreet as always. One more thing, you wouldn’t happen to have a copy of the McGregor enquiry?’
‘I can get you that now if you like. Follow me back to my desk.’
Five minutes later, Swan stood outside and looked at his watch. Now clutching a manila envelope containing the results of the inquiry, he looked up as Gable pulled up next to him in the Sapphire.
Howard Barnett’s meeting with his test pilot had gone well. He was now inside The Magic Box and had decided to go for a walk around the two jigs to inspect the partly assembled BR-101 production samples that were beginning to take shape. Satisfied that they would be ready within the 3-month deadline, he patted the huge main undercarriage wheel hanging down on its support.
Then ascending the stairs, he walked across the viewing gantry, past a set of rooms which had now been dubbed The Pentagram.
This pseudonym had been awarded due to the American occupants that had commandeered them during the assembly of the first prototype, and it had been home to them ever since.
The Americans consisted of six officials, The Suits, as Barnett jokingly referred to them, and fifteen technicians from a newly formed US aircraft manufacturing company called GTEC Incorporated. He sneered as one of the doors opened and one of The Suits, a tall thin man named Frank Maitland who was head of the Python Hawk project, stepped out and smiled at Brinton’s Chief Designer. ‘Hi Howard, how ya doin’?’
Barnett forced a smile and returned the pleasantries. ‘Oh, you know Frank, I’m just champion, now my supersonic lady is back home where she belongs.’
Maitland walked over to him and looked down at the half built airframes below. ‘Yippe. She sure is a beauty. By the way, when does P-2 get loaded for Pembridge?’
Barnett answered the American. ‘Should hopefully be brought out of shed tomorrow morning, and then loaded by the evening.’ They’re doing a night run and should be at Pembridge by 6 the next morning.’
Maitland smiled. ‘Gee, that’s great Howard. Or champion, as you Brits say up here.’ He started to walk away, but then remembered something and stopped. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Some of our boys will be making some noise downstairs working on the secret stuff. So could you tell your men not to go down there? We have an armed guard at the doors, so I wouldn’t want him to get itchy with his M-14, if you get the picture?’