The Final Flight by James Blatch (books to read in your 30s .TXT) 📗

tapes for his own assessment of Guiding Light? Is this them?” Susie held up the two reels from the box.

“It’s possible, but those two tapes would hold a maximum of forty minutes’ flying time. Doesn’t seem like a lot.”

“Could there be more tapes? Somewhere at West Porton?”

“I doubt it. Firstly, he’d have to have dozens for anything meaningful and secondly, what’s the point of having them at West Porton? We can’t read them. As far as I know, only the DF Blackton computer can do that.”

“So, he must have had some help on the inside. That must be it. Someone at DF Blackton, outside the official channels.” She picked up the sheet of handwritten notes. “And this was the result.”

“You think that’s possible?”

“I’ll make inquiries at HQ, see who we have close to DF Blackton. There’s usually someone on the inside for us when it comes to weapons manufacturers. Meanwhile, you sniff about inside TFU. We need to stay one step ahead of this Kilton person. It would be useful to know what he has on Millie.” Susie moved to the bed and shuffled the papers together. “Are you ready for this next phase, Flight Lieutenant? It may run counter to everything you’ve been taught about following orders.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are.”

Susie slipped the first batch of sheets into the pouch.

“Still, something’s not quite right, is it?” She turned over the next batch.

“What?”

“Why hasn’t this mystery person helping Millie said anything? I mean, they must have heard the news, but they haven’t come forward? They know something’s wrong. They’ve seen men killed, but they haven’t raised any alarms.”

Professor Leonard Belkin looked out across the Atlantic Ocean. It was overcast and grey. In the distance, plumes of rain swept across the sea from the low cloud. For the first time since his arrival a week ago, the westerly breeze brought a distinct chill.

He would light a fire today.

Heading back toward the cottage, he used a stick to keep steady on the uneven ground.

He wore a pair of binoculars on a leather strap around his neck; they bumped on his chest as he ambled up the gentle slope. At the top of the plateau, he paused and caught his breath before heading to the cottage by the old lighthouse.

After removing his binoculars and outer layers, he looked around for kindling and spied a newspaper.

As he unfolded The Daily Telegraph, something caught his eye.

Lions Thrash Out of Sorts Australia.

He fished out his reading glasses and checked the date of the paper. 6th June 1966. He wasn’t much of a newspaper reader anymore, but he couldn’t resist the details of a successful Lions tour down under, even if it was nearly a month out of date. He left it on the kitchen table, and rummaged in the bag Callum had handed him on the mainland. Inside, he found Saturday’s paper.

He picked it up and leafed through, sticking to his routine of avoiding the day-to-day ructions of politics and crime that seemed to pervade every page.

He moved to the open fire and scrunched up the large middle pages.

The travel section had a picture of a beach in Beirut. He stared at the image of the Bristol Hotel and wondered if twenty-four years in a row was enough for Lundy.

He screwed up the sheet and pressed it into the fireplace. Eventually he came to the last of the paper: the inside of the first and last pages.

Cricket scores on the right, news of a successful Gemini space rocket launch on the left.

He screwed the sheet up without turning it over to look at the front page.

The fire had a bed of old ash, which was perfect for building on. He pushed the scrunched up balls into a base layer.

Finally, he added a few twigs before fishing out a small log from the basket, placing it on top of the pile.

He rummaged in the wood basket for the packet of Swan Vestas matches.

Holding the lighted match against the newspaper, the flames took hold. The paper curled up quickly with the heat, revealing an RAF hat and a pair of eyes looking out at him, before the fire quickly consumed it.

Belkin paused for a moment, before using a stick to push the log further into the centre of the growing fire.

Standing up was an Olympian effort.

He put a hand out to the wall to help his balance, before sitting at the wooden dining table in the centre of the room. After balancing his strongest reading glasses on the end of his nose, he settled down to read of the Lions’ heroics down under.

27

Sunday 3rd July

“You’re not authorised to contact anyone at West Porton.”

Susie sighed. Roger hadn’t answered this time. Instead, she’d been connected with a more senior desk officer.

“I had to initiate contact. May saw me leave the house. He also turned up at the peace camp, twice. He nearly compromised me.”

“I see. And he was working with Milford?”

“Sort of. They worked on the project together, but May didn’t share his concerns. So we are drawing a bit of a blank at the moment. But the tapes that went to Blackton will hold the answer.”

The man paused. “The Service has someone there who will spot anything out of the ordinary with the mainframe computer. It’s a prized asset and under a great deal of scrutiny. Best keep your distance. They’re twitchy about this one.”

“So I understand.”

“This is your first field case, isn’t it?”

“Second, actually.”

“Well, be careful.”

He hung up.

Susie strolled around a quiet Sunday afternoon Salisbury, going over her training.

Pay attention to anything out of place, however insignificant. Try to picture what’s considered normal, what routines people follow, then investigate anything out of the ordinary.

Back at the B&B, a parcel was waiting for her.

She broke the seal on the pouch and pulled out a set of personnel records.

So, Mark Kilton had an MI5 file. A red flag.

It dated from the BAC TSR-2 project cancellation. They observed Kilton to have had contact with