The Shadow State

[weemadando]

This is a very early draft of an introduction to a piece of recently got inspired to try. Those of you who I have bounced ideas off, no spoilers please.



***FIC COMMENCE = 1***


Chapter 1


28 August 1976 0720GMT
Kingston upon Thames, London Metropolitan Area, United Kingdom

On a quiet street not far from Ham Common a family exits their conjoined brick home, the man sporting the attire of a city worker - conservative suit, briefcase and umbrella, the wife that of a shop lady and a young daughter in a school uniform. As a group they walk briskly down the street towards the nearby schools and station. Halfway down the street two men sit in a plumber's van eating their breakfast.

"Let me see that family file again." The man in the driver's seat demands. The folder is passed over, open to the right page. "Two daughters it says here. Twelve and Eight. I see an eight year old, no twelve year old. Second day in a row. Where're the logs from the overnight crew?"

"Got 'em here." The passenger scans the report, "No mention of her coming home. No bedroom light. This isn't going to be a quick one, is it Sir?"

---

28 August 1976 1745GMT
Century House, London

The wood panelling of the room and it's large, thick table and leather backed chairs gives it a clubby, collegial feel. There are five men seated around the table, all tailored suits and high quality tobacco. What conversation that they share is trivial, distractions from their evident anxiety. A sixth man enters, short and stooped somewhat by age with a lean build and a face, slowly sagging as time passes and closes the door behind him. In the corridor outside a light above the door illuminates. "Apologies for the delay everyone, please take one of these folders and sign and countersign the relevant registry information. Gregory, you're representing Five here, get us started." A fifty-ish man leans forward and begins to speak.

"Our subject is James Vernon Watkins, thirty six, married, two children. Lives in Kingston upon Thames. SIS officer, recruited upon graduation from Imperial College London with a Bachelors in Economics by Ogilvy Perham. No overseas duty on file, lots of analysis roles and a few task forces - most recently of the South East European section focusing on the Czech weapons exportation industry." Gregory turns to his notes for a moment and draws on his cigarette, "Randomly selected for vetting review on July 16th of this year. Surveillance period commenced this week and the absence of his twelve year old daughter, Elisabeth, was noted this morning as no one has sighted her for the duration of the surveillance. The school she is recorded as attending in his file states that her enrolment was cancelled and she never attended." A rumbling quickly speeds around the table.

"So where the hell is his daughter? Has he just failed to update his security file?"

"An approach by a colleague today resulted in him stating that Elisabeth is attending that listed school, Tiffin's Girls." The grumbling stops. Silence remains. "If she is at school, we have no idea where, nor do we have a motivation for him lying. Neighbours and friends report that they saw her during Christmas and also the recent school holidays."

"What is our theory at this point? Obviously he's compromised at some level, whether this is a kidnapping and extortion or if he's committed a crime and is trying to cover it up or being blackmailed-"

"That is why we're here. I want to increase surveillance on the home and work routines and try to get what information we can."

"Gregory, I don't think anyone here will object to that. Obviously that's not all if you felt the need to convene all of us."

"We need to operate under the worst case scenario assumption, that he has been turned and recruited. We need to vet every file he's ever pulled from registry and expand the vetting to include work colleagues and friends." A portly man kicks his chair back as he stands up and shouts.

"JESUS! Just what we need, another bloody Five witch-hunt!" The man's cigarette is violently stubbed out as an exclamation point on his statement. "Are we really going ahead with this Peter?"

The old man who had started the meeting stands up, "Yes Warwick, we will be going ahead with this. C has made it exceptionally clear that he wants a clean house and so we best work damn hard on getting him one."


---


15 September 1976 2115GMT
Kingston upon Thames, London Metropolitan Area, United Kingdom

They'd given up on a van or other external surveillance early on, now there were multiple crews of Security Service "Watchers" on duty at all times, covering the house from both front and rear as well as shadowing all members of the family. Ensconced in homes or in civic buildings with lines of sight, the listening and command posts all watched and waited.

The inter-service meetings had been excruciating - as each contact, however random, was vetted in turn the investigation meandered slowly, occasionally hitting a dead end and slowly re-directing itself as new pathways were exposed by the mounting pressure. When James' wife had served a Bulgarian embassy official's wife at the boutique in which she worked the case had exploded into a frenzy. Every drop of intelligence ever gleaned from Bulgaria or any of their diplomatic outposts was re-examined. But that lead dried up, as all the others had, and the Watchers continued their surveillance.

"Cor, look at that!" Exclaims a young member of the team.

"What are we seeing?" The duty supervisor rushes to the window of the darkened room with his binoculars, excitement in his voice after long days and nights of tense tedium.

"Owl, a bleedin' snow owl. Just landed on their bedroom's windowsill."

"You pulled me over here for an owl?" The bird sits patiently on the ledge, pecking away at it's reflection.

"Sorry Sir, always went birding with my dad, but - that owl, it's not from Britain, not even migratory."

"Where would you find it?"

"Arctic Sir. Or Tundra. Movement Sir." The bedroom curtains shuffle and the dim illumination of the bedside lamp lights up the owl. James' silhouetted form looks down at the owl as the window slowly opens.



---


16 September 1976 0911GMT
Century House, London


The tape player sat on the table in the middle of the room and was rewound and played again, "It's a letter from Elisabeth," comes the voice. Gregory stops the recording. "That was recorded last night, at the same time, the Watchers took the photos you can see in front of you. He let the owl in, then he and his wife both read the letter which you can see affixed to the owl. There was no substantive conversation after this point and we cannot infer much from the limited exchanges." The MI5 man halts his report, anticipating the questions.

"An owl?" The incredulous voice is accompanied by many raised eyebrows, "Why not a more traditional method of contact? Even a pigeon?"

"Not just any owl. Bubo Scandiacus, the Snowy Owl. Most definitely not endemic to Great Britain. However it is widely distributed throughout Scandinavia, Russia and North America."

"So this could be the Russians or the cousins using it?" The room devolves into a hubbub as neighbours share theories.

"There are some further observations to make here - Watkins states that it is a letter from his daughter," Gregory holds up his hand, halting the questions, "and more importantly there is no sign of emotional distress from either himself or his wife after the letter is received and read."

"So no duress? This isn't extortion or kidnapping?"

"I guess it probably rules out her being dead as well."

"As we speak," Gregory continues, "One of our teams is making entry to the home and will be attempting to secure this letter. Now that we know there is correspondence, we will be conducting a focused search for that too."

"What about the owl?"

"A team attempted to follow it, but lost it heading North over Ham Common." The room settles into it's burbling background noise for a few moments before the old, stooped man at the head of the table speaks.

"Grab Watkins today - Five will run the interview and Six will sit in. Five, let the Watchers know that we're breaking cover. Turn that house over and find what you can. Make sure that the wife and other daughter are picked up and taken to a safe house. Something about this stinks to high heaven and I'd rather blow the chance to double him than have this boy going rabbit on us and be forced to see him getting chummy with Brezhnev on the front page of Pravda."


---


16 September 1976 0952GMT
Century House, London

For James Watkins, it was a day like any other. He scoured the various compiled clippings from a hundred newspapers around the world for any reference to new military or arms deals and contracts. Other officers came to him for his expertise, wondering about shipment dates and quantities of arms being sent to various liege states and warlords. As he sipped at his freshly poured tea and considered another document, he noticed that the office around him had grown quiet. Seven unfamiliar men stood near his desk, his supervisor conferring with one of them. "Mr James Watkins?" The nearest man spoke. The voice had a hard tone, military or police - authoritative, but not overbearing. His suit was nice, but not expensive, his build lean and strong.

"Err, yes?"

"Please come with us Sir."

"But my work - I need to return files to the Registry before I can leave."

"That will not be of any concern. Please, stand up now and come with us." James looked around the office, from other desks his co-workers stared, but no one made a single motion or spoke. He stands and goes to pick up his case. "Leave everything Sir." James obeys, following the man and flanked by two more as the others begin to search and document his desk, overcoat and briefcase.


---


16 September 1976 1032GMT
Century House, London

James had never been into this part of the building before. It scared him on a primal level. He had known that places like this must have existed, but had never visualised it before, beyond the typical jokes of the Spanish Inquisition. But it was banal. That made it more terrifying. The linoleum obviously freshly laid, the glue smell still in the air. "Oh God", he thinks, "Why does this room need fresh linoleum?" The walls painted the same atonal beige as a hospital corridor. One wall has a simple steel door, it's peeling paint probably once labelled Evergreen or Pine. The chair and the desk in front of it are simple stainless steel constructions. He feels the cold steel of handcuffs around his wrists and ankles.

In another room nearby Gregory Smythe of MI5 and Warwick Cooper of MI6 sits amongst a small group of others, watching a CCTV feed of the room. "Is he ready yet Gregory?"

"Give him a few more minutes to simmer. Wait for him to decide to test his shackles. If we come in then, we'll have him on the back foot immediately."

James waits, there are no windows, no clock, no way to tell the passing of time. He begins to shuffle in the chair, slowly trying the limits of his bonds. The door soundlessly sweeps open.

"So, Mr Watkins, Mr James Vernon Watkins," Gregory steps through the door "Not fiddling with your restraints I hope? They are there for everyone's safety."

"Wh-"

"No questions for now Mr Watkins." the second man comes in dragging two more steel chairs, which he places on the other side of the table and the men sit and slouch down into.

"Mr Watkins, we need to establish a few things first. I am Gregory of the Security Service, this is Warwick of your own Secret Service. You are James Vernon Watkins, born March 21 1942?"

"Yes, b-"

"You were recruited into MI6 at age twenty three by Ogilvy Perham."

"Yes." James begins to tremble.

"You currently work on economic intelligence relating to Czech arms exportation?"

"Yes."

"You have two daughters." A pause, for the first time.

"Y-yes."

"Where are your daughters Mr Watkins?"

"Rose attends the local primary and Elisabeth attend Tiff-"

"No she doesn't Mr Watkins."

"Mr Watkins, can you please explain why you lied on your security reports regarding the whereabouts of your daughter?" Warwick takes the lead as Gregory leans back to consult his notebook.

"I couldn't provide the new information."

"Why not? You tell us what school she's at and we put it in the report. It's not difficult. Did she drop out?"

"No."

"Is she pregnant? Is that why you've been hiding her?"

"SHE'S TWELVE!" shouts Watkins, finally beginning to show cracks.

"We know she's not at your house. Hasn't been for months. We checked. We know she has never turned up for a class at Tiffin's. We checked. We know she's not with any of your or your wife's family. We checked. We know she hasn't turned up as a Joe Bloggs in a hospital or morgue. We checked." Watkins begins to shake, his face turning a deep red as he grinds his teeth, "We know she's not been in police custody. We checked that too. You see that I'm running out of ideas here and we've got a lot of anxious sorts who seem to think she's sitting in Leningrad with a gun to her head getting you to hand over anything you can lay your hands on. And others who think that you've buried her in a wood somewhere and have been trying to keep the whole thing quiet."

"SHE'S SAFE!" He shouts, "SHE'S SAFE! And alive, God, you sick urgh," he shudders, regaining some composure "You bastards."

"But safe where?" Asks Gregory, leaning forward. "Afterall, her letters haven't provided much of a clue. We've only had a few hours, but there's clearly some form of substitution cipher as they're nonsense."

"What aren't you telling us Mr Watkins? Give us the address, so we can go and verify her safey ourselves."

"I don't have an address." Watkins admits as he slumps into his chair, sighing as he does. He laughs a little to himself and then leans forward towards his interrogators. "You have to promise that you will hear this story out. No matter what I say and how ridiculous it is, you will wait until I finish the story before asking questions or taking any other action." Gregory and Warwick share a look.

"OK Mr Watkins," Gregory pauses as he places a cassette recorder on the table and starts it, "Tell us your story."

[pte chib]

That was excellent will there be more?

[LadyTevar]

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