I posted several paragraphs of my latest novel a couple of days ago, talking about the importance of research. I promised I would post again after another draft, ironing out a few wrinkles. Here it is. The prologue to Twisted Wire.

PROLOGUE

Nigel Silsbury was a spy although no-one would have guessed. A small man of slight build with thinning sandy hair, he could be mistaken for an accountant of comfortable means. Dressed in a smart Savile Row suit, he sat at the table by the window of Ray’s Jazz Café in Foyles bookshop. Clasping and unclasping his hands around a hot cup of coffee, he watched passing pedestrians with hunched shoulders scurry along with bowed heads.

The weather was not going to improve anytime soon according to the weather forecast in The Herald. He closed the paper and read the article on the front page. Putin was not going to give in on the Crimea. Russian troops were firmly embedded in the Ukraine after a protracted campaign orchestrated from the Kremlin. It was not going to be long before Latvia became the next target; so reported Enda Osin, political correspondent for The Herald. 

Vibrations inside his jacket pocket alerted him to a call. He pulled the phone out and looked at the screen. A text instructed him to be outside Leicester Square tube station in half an hour for a meeting. He picked the coffee up and sipped.

A meeting outside the confines of the office was unusual when in London but dangerous times called for caution. No-one, particularly the Americans, were willing to admit the Cold War had not ended; it had just been put on hold. London and Brussels bled agents from the eastern bloc and from the USA. One could almost trip over them. The department warned the Foreign Office but as expected, the warning was largely ignored.

He put the coffee down to look at his wristwatch. There was enough time to walk up Charing Cross Road after leaving Foyles, the bookshop he loved to browse in. As a teenager, his mother, Gloria Grant, later Lady Silsbury, had encouraged him to spend time there. He loved history, particularly Russian and Ottoman from the early eighteenth century. His mother was a great believer in broadening the mind by reading.

With politics an everyday subject discussed around him, he soon became interested in political history. He left college at eighteen, shortly after his mother’s messy divorce over an affair with her boss Lord Silsbury of the Foreign Office. Three years later, encouraged by his mother, Nigel enrolled in Georgetown University and studied for a Master’s degree at The Centre for Eurasian, Russian and East European Studies.

Nigel wrapped the scarf around his neck and folded the ends across the top of his jacket before pushing an arm into one sleeve of his coat, held out politely by a waiter. Twenty minutes before the meeting; he could have a slow leisurely walk to the square despite the cold weather.

London had a vibrant atmosphere he loved. Despite working abroad from time to time he always returned as soon as possible. His stepfather insisted he enlist in the army at eighteen and an easy and interesting administration posting to Germany was arranged for him. He later refused a commission and a posting to Nicosia, wishing instead to continue his studies at home. That lasted six months before travelling to America and Georgetown.

It was on his return from the United States that he was first contacted by a colleague of his father’s, offering him ‘an interesting position in the service of Queen and country.’

A gust of wind blew yellow leaves in circles about his feet as he stepped out onto the pavement. More swirled down from the tall Plane tree, some landing in puddles. Nigel dug his hands in pockets and waited to cross the road as a 176 bus passed on its way to Leicester Square.

The brightly lit interiors of stores, shops and small café’s cast long blocks of light across the pavement and road in the gathering dusk. Nigel breathed in deeply as he walked and smiled at an old dishevelled man shuffling from one foot to the other as he played an Irish reel on a harmonica.

Upon arrival outside the station, he saw Dewsbury standing just inside the entrance. Dewsbury moved inside and took the long escalator down to the platforms. At the bottom Nigel trailed him across the white tiled floor, following the signs for Northern and Piccadilly lines. A blast of cold dirty air signalled the imminent arrival of a train. He wiped his watering eyes and sat on a bench next to Dewsbury as the train emerged and rattled out of the tube. With screeching brakes and rumbling doors, it spewed office workers out onto the platform.

Dewsbury took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose into it. “Bloody soot,” he said, looking at the black smudge on the handkerchief. “This was supposed to be a thing of the past.”

Nigel ignored him. Crossing his legs, he said, “So what’s going on?”

“Things are happening. Krane’s signals are more frequent and Moscow sent our old friend Viktor to London. Whoever Krane is, he’s been inside our house too long. A memo generated from our ops room was sent to Moscow by him the same day. GCHQ picked up the signal for a few seconds and then lost it. This sudden activity made Whitehall jumpy and is one of the reasons we are here and not in the office. Anyone above grade five is looking over their shoulder. The situation is bloody serious and getting worse.  We don’t know if we are dealing with a cell but all the indications are that something big is about to happen. Anyway, keep me informed on what your source is up to. He’s a useful conduit if anything unusual is happening in Brussels or Westminster.”

Dewsbury removed his glasses and wiped them with a tissue. “Has your contact been to Brussels lately?” he continued.

“He’s supposed to be meeting me in a couple of days. I’ll have something for you then.”

Nigel got up and walked to the far end of the platform. He stood waiting for a train home and looked across the rails at the grubby curved wall opposite. An old poster covered in grime, advertising a London show, reminded him of a similar poster dating back to the early 60’s. It was stuck on the curved wall of the deserted ‘ghost station’ Unter den Linden as he travelled to East Berlin on the night of Picasso’s death. He closed his eyes briefly and saw the barbed wire strung along the platform edge as the train rattled through the station.  

July twelfth, 72’, the train pulled into Rosenthaler Platz, the only crossing point into the east. The East Germans were waiting on the platform. Unable to warn Picasso, traveling in another carriage, Nigel watched his agent being pulled from the crowd and dragged away. In the early hours Picasso succumbed to torture and was shot after giving information on two other Russian informants working for MI6. It was the worst moment in Nigel’s career. Despite that, Whitehall insisted he stay and manage the desk in East Germany for six months before returning to London.

Years later the name Krane was unearthed in the notes of a defector and identified as the mole within MI5 who had given Picasso’s name to the Stasi. Krane was still in place but the net was closing in. Nigel gritted his teeth as the train arrived.