THE THREATENING LETTERS

By Bob French 

The afternoon light was beginning to fade and the calm wind, that had been throughout most of the day, had started to freshen.  Peter Harlesden, a thirty-five-year-old civil servant, working for the Ministry of Science was worried.  He had already received several threatening letters, which he had ignored, but now it appeared that ‘they’ were getting serious.

          Beside him, as he walked slowly along the deserted beach at Jaywick Sands in Clacton with Alex, his wife.  She had recently retired from the army as an Intelligence Corps officer.  They didn’t speak but walked silently along the beach subconsciously listening to the rhythm of the waves rushing up upon the sand and the screeching sound of the seagulls that circled above them, hoping for some discarded scraps of food.

          She knew they were heading towards the ‘Never Say Die’ pub, just off the beach.  He had taken her there once, many years ago when he had been threatened by ‘them’ and he had managed to satisfy their needs.  After that, he'd made a promise that he would never allow himself to get into that situation again.

          Alex slipped her arm through his and hugged him. “Let’s sit a while and see if we can put together a plan where you both can come out of this alive,” and nodded to the weather-beaten bench that faced the sea and distant horizon.

          Once they were comfortable, Peter took a deep breath, closed his eyes and slowly allowed his head to tilt back.  “All we know so far is that Jacobson, the head of the Science Secretariate at the Ministry of Defence has been compromised.”

          Alex didn’t face him but quietly spoke to the horizon. “Yes, and that he had bragged about his affair with a rather attractive woman he met on a package holiday to Turkey last summer, to Maurice White, after a game of squash.”

          She smiled to herself. “It appears that she had taught him things that weren’t even published in the Kama Sutra and because of his conduct, which would become a threat to the security of the project, Maurice White had discretely reported him to his security people and then of course, GCHQ started to take an interest in Jacobson.”

          Peter nodded. “But I know GCHQ.  They will only act if Jacobson is contacted by the person who set him up.  They won’t move to neutralize him until then.  Not their style.”

          Alex frowned and shook her head slowly.  “Knowing GCHQ, I’m inclined to think that they or MI6 will probably wait until they know who is behind this honey trap against Jacobson, then try to discover what they want. What will happen to Jacobson?  Will be he killed?”

          “Good heavens no.  We’re British, we don’t go around killing off our own.  No, he will be quietly retired with a D Notice slapped on him and his family.”

          They didn’t speak for a few minutes, then Alex took out a packet of cigarettes and lit up.  Blowing smoke into the air above her head she asked “Does his wife know about this holiday affair?”

          Peter thought for a minute, then shook his head.  “No, he would have worked out that if he told her, she’d walk out on him which would automatically alert the security services.”

          “What I don’t understand is that if it is the Russians behind this operation, why Jacobson?  He’s no big fry, in fact, he’s fairly junior really.  It doesn’t make sense.”

          “Good point.  He has only recently been appointed head of the secretariat from the Department of Agg and Fisheries.”  Peter thought for a minute. “Just thinking outside the box, what if it was someone with a grudge against him.  You know; found out that he was going on holiday by himself and set up a simple honey trap or sting.  Then when he returned to the UK, waited a month or two, then posted a couple of photographs of him with his fancy woman in compromising positions with the threat that the photographs would be sent to MI6, unless he resigned?”

          “Yes. That’s quite possible.  You can buy any sort of service you want in Turkey if you have the money.”

          Peter sat quietly looking out to sea then spoke.  “Three questions; who would undertake such a venture.  Who would gain from Jacobson’s demise and who would know Jacobson’s holiday plans?”

          “Harvey Sebastian Flood.”  They said his name together.

Peter turned to face Alex. “Flood; the man everyone thought would take over the secretariate after the sudden death of Billington.”

          Alex frowned at Peter’s suggestion.  “Flood is a fool.  He has only reached the position he is in now because his father is an MP who just happens to work in the treasury.  No, I am convinced that it’s not the Russians.  They are not interested in gathering intelligence about financial matters of the United Kingdom, they want information about Project 47.”

          “You may be right.  Remember last year.  Someone started that rumour about Flood and Jacobson’s wife at the Christmas Party.”  Peter paused to collect his thoughts. “But Billington had them investigated; nothing was proven.”  Peter shook his head slowly. “Several thought the whole thing was a whitewash, which was typical of the civil service.  You know the saying, one does not hang out one’s dirty washing in public.”

          Alex dropped her cigarette butt and ground it into the sand. “Do you think Flood had Billington murdered, or do you think there’s a Russian connection?”

          “Flood’s a mysterious character and also very ambitious, but I don’t think he would go as far as killing someone.  No there has to be something a little more simple, more sinister.”

“What do you mean?”

          “Let’s just say that Flood and Jacobson’s wife were having an affair.  Now the sudden death of Billington was put down to kidney failure.  If you factor in that Jacobson’s wife is one of the doctor’s receptionists at the surgery where Billington was a patient.  It is not beyond the realms to think that she could have easily altered a prescription, say increased the strength of one of his medicines and suddenly you have a perfect undetectable death.  Then Flood, who was expected to be appointed the next head of the science secretariate doesn’t get the job. Jacobson does.  So Flood, plans a double coup; he compromises Jacobson who is then removed by the security services and, being the unsuccessful choice as the next head of the secretariat he is given the job.”

          “That’s it! And as a result, Flood becomes the director of Project 47.  That’s clever, even for Flood, very clever.”

“Yes,” said Peter, “but it doesn’t end there.  Flood is not the problem.”

Alex sits forward on the bench and turns to faces Peter. “Then who is it?”

“Flood is married to a Ukrainian woman.  She came over in 1983 and has since taken British citizenship.  They were married in 1995 after a whirlwind courtship and if one believes the rumours, are still madly in love.  No children yet.”

“And you think she’s the mastermind behind this plan?  Is GCHQ aware of her?”

“Oh yes, but she’s as clean as a whistle.  She’s buried herself deep into her local community; started a mother and toddler group, sings in the local church choir, helps in the local primary school as a teaching assistant and is a Girl Guide leader. A pillar of respectability in every sense of the word, one may say.”

“And you suspect that Mrs Flood, after she has sucked every last detail out of Flood about Project 47, will quietly vanish back to where ever she came from, leaving Flood to face the music.”

Peter nods slowly, then stands up.  “Put my life’s savings on it, my dear.”

The light had started to fade and the gay promenade lights that lined the coast road suddenly came on and started swinging gently in the wind.

Alex hugged his arm as they walked slowly back along the beach. “I knew you would sort out the last chapter of your book.  You can now tell those beastly publishers to stop sending you threatening letters, and we can get back to looking after our garden.

Copyright Bob French