When ten minutes had finally passed, he returned to the window, but it was another three minutes before he spotted a single helicopter descending through the clouds. He waited a few more seconds before he felt it was safe to uncross his fingers, because if the second one was following in its wake, it would mean the operation had failed. His instructions from London could not have been clearer. If the woman was dead, her body was to be flown to Truro and placed in a private hospital wing, where a third team already had their instructions. If she had survived she was to be flown to London, where a fourth team would take over. The CO didn’t know what their orders were and had no idea who the woman was; that information was way above his pay grade.
When the helicopter landed, the CO still didn’t move. A door opened and the lieutenant jumped out, bending double as the blades were still rotating. He ran a few yards before he stood up straight and, seeing the colonel standing at the window, gave him a thumbs up. The CO breathed a sigh of relief, returned to his desk and phoned the number on his notepad. It would be the second and last time he spoke to the cabinet secretary.
‘Colonel Dawes, sir.’
‘Good evening, colonel,’ said Sir Alan.
‘Operation Tumbleweed completed and successful, sir. Puma One back at base. Puma Two on its way home.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sir Alan, and put the phone down. There wasn’t a moment to waste. His next appointment would be turning up at any minute. As if he was a prophet, the door opened and his secretary announced, ‘Lord Barrington.’
‘Giles,’ Sir Alan said, getting up from behind his desk and shaking hands with his guest. ‘Can I offer you some tea or coffee?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Giles, who was only interested in one thing: finding out why the cabinet secretary had wanted to see him so urgently.
‘Sorry to drag you out of the chamber,’ said Sir Alan, ‘but I need to discuss a private matter with you, on Privy Council terms.’
Giles hadn’t heard those words since he’d been a cabinet minister, but he didn’t need reminding that whatever he and Sir Alan were about to talk about could never be repeated, unless the other person present was also a privy councillor.
Giles nodded, and Sir Alan said, ‘Let me begin by saying your wife Karin is not Pengelly’s daughter.’
One broken window and a moment later the six of them were inside. They didn’t know exactly what they were looking for, but when they saw it, they wouldn’t be in any doubt. The major in charge of the second unit, known as the litter collectors, didn’t carry a stopwatch, because he wasn’t in a hurry. His men had been trained to take their time and make sure they didn’t miss anything. They were never given a second chance.
Unlike his colleagues in unit one, they were dressed in tracksuits and carried large black plastic bin liners. There was one exception, Number Four – but then he wasn’t a permanent member of their unit. The curtains were all drawn before the lights were turned on and the search could begin. The men meticulously dismantled each room, swiftly, methodically, leaving nothing to chance. Two hours later they had filled eight plastic bags. They ignored the body that Number Four had placed on the carpet in the front room, although one of them did search his pockets.
The last things they went through were the three suitcases that had been left standing by the door in the hallway – a veritable treasure-trove. Their contents only filled one bag, but contained more information than the other seven put together: diaries, names, telephone numbers, addresses and confidential files that Pengelly had no doubt intended to take back to Moscow.
The unit then spent another hour double-checking, but came across little else of interest, but then they were pros, trained to get it right first time. Once the unit commander was convinced they could do no more, the six men made their way out of the back door and took separate well-rehearsed routes back to the depot, leaving only Number Four behind. But then he was not a litter collector, but a destroyer.
When the sergeant heard the back door close, he lit a cigarette and took a few drags before dropping the glowing stub on to the carpet next to the body. He then sprinkled the fuel from his lighter on to the dying embers and moments later a blue flame leapt up and set the carpet alight. He knew it would spread quickly throughout the small timbered cottage, but he needed to be certain so he didn’t leave until the smoke caused him to cough, when he walked quickly out of the room and headed for the back door. After he’d left the cottage he turned around and, satisfied the fire was out of control, began to jog back to base. He wouldn’t be calling the fire brigade.
All twelve men arrived back at barracks at different times, and only became a single unit again when they met in the Mess for a drink later that evening. The colonel joined them for dinner.
The cabinet secretary stood by the window of his office on the first floor and waited until he saw Giles Barrington leave No.10 and set off purposefully along Downing Street towards Whitehall. He then returned to his desk, sat down and thought carefully about his next call, and how much he would reveal.
Harry Clifton was in the kitchen when the phone rang. He picked it up, and when he heard the words, ‘This is Number Ten, would you hold the line please,’ he assumed it would be the Prime Minister for Emma. He couldn’t remember if she was at the hospital or chairing a meeting at Barrington House.