Deep Sea One

Chapter 29

DCI Patrick Smith had an appointment with one Mrs. Lancashire in Glasgow. He waited outside the gardens of his hotel for her car to collect him. He felt strangely numb about it all, although he had every reason to be unsure of his choices and he realized that he was clutching at his coat more than usual as he stood on the curve of the driveway in the late afternoon sun, which did not give much in the way of strength for him.

At a few minutes before five o'clock an inconspicuous vehicle stopped. A man in a suit got out.

"Detective Chief Inspector Patrick Smith?" the man asked plainly.

"Yes," Patrick replied quickly and the man opened the back door for him. Before he rounded the car, Patrick watched him briefly speak into his Bluetooth earpiece before he climbed in behind the steering wheel.

The police officer started at the loud click of the central locking system and acted as if he was used to the protocol of secret meetings with government bodies. Acting calm he peered out at the passing traffic, wondering what he was letting himself in for. But whenever doubt crossed his mind he would think of his good friend, Sam Cleave, and his encouraging words when he last saw him in the pub.

He knew that Sam was supposed to be back home soon from some wild-chase expedition and he wanted to at least have some news when they hit the pool tables again. It had been years since Patrick really took a chance in life, apart from the one skydiving instance where he almost died of fright, but he was due for a change. Besides, the course he wanted to take in his career, he believed, would serve a greater purpose than interrogating drug distributors and arresting pimps with better clothes than he had. He was elite and he had finally come to embrace it.

When they turned into the tree-lined lane in the West End he noticed that his fingers were wet with perspiration. Of course he was nervous. In this line of work, should he be accepted, there were more serious consequences and a lot more to look over his shoulder for. But the money was better, the perks were better and most certainly he could do with a less hands-on approach to the vermin in the gutters. For so many years he envied the suave and rugged men of this unit, thinking of reasons why he did not measure up, until one night after a few drinks he decided that he was every bit as capable as they were and made up his mind.

Passing Byers Road and its festive cafes and restaurants he started wondering what the woman looked like who was to interview him. He had heard of her once from one of the braggarts at the state office, but other than that he could find no information on her anywhere. And Patrick Smith could garner information from the mute mouths of corpses, if he so wished. He had an impeccable nose for deduction, intelligence and reconnaissance, making him an asset to any organization he would serve.

Down Ashton Lane the vehicle slowed and turned into the obscured driveway behind a disused little cinema. The trees sheltered the slow-moving car as the small tar path led to a parking bay of an old Victorian building with ferns growing from its foundations and rather malicious-looking cherub statues. Patrick looked up to the third story of the building where a shape stood in the window, watching him. It moved aside when the car stopped.

The driver opened his door, "Sir."

"Thank you," Patrick replied, and straightened his blazer before entering the door opened by a distinguished old lady.

"DCI Smith, welcome to Ashton House," she smiled. "Please, do come in."

After the obligatory pleasantries and a cup of tea, Mrs. Lancashire came to the point.

"Your credentials are very impressive, Detective Chief Inspector, but, as you know, this organization is not about who scored the highest marks or who arrested the most people. We need someone of reckless ambition with a knack for blending into the most mundane roles to obtain what we need," she stated with great ceremony.

"I understand, madam," he replied with as firm a tone as he could muster.

"Personally I think you look too clean for the job, but then again, I have been wrong before in judging prospective operatives and was left with my foot firmly in my mouth," she sighed with a little smile.

"I have been in contact with your one-up, and he has agreed to allow you to assist us with a small matter, after which your performance will be assessed, determining your future, if any, in this organization. Your brief military training is also vital here, which is good. Good," she said, perusing Patrick's file in front of her.

He swallowed hard. This was the moment of truth. Now he was allowed one chance to prove his worth and in his mind DCI Smith repeatedly reminded himself to listen closely to what Mrs. Lancashire said. Nothing was as catastrophic as a miscommunication in MI6, the British Secret Intelligence Service (SIS).

"I shall inform Vauxhall Cross of your inclusion in this operation and you are not to contact your current supervisor or discuss any of the details," she said, her formerly kind smile now substituted by a stern commanding expression.

"I understand, madam. When does my involvement commence?" he asked.

"As soon as you have been briefed, DCI Smith. You will be notified of the arrangements, but what I can tell you now is that the Portuguese government is working with the SIS to apprehend a rogue operative working for a German organization profiting from the sale of biological weapons. You will be dispatched to Germany for the duration of the operation to infiltrate and report on the status of the organization of one Walter Eickhart, a Nazi war criminal now active in the acquisition of bio-weaponry and rare artifacts," she told Patrick. It sounded like the very thing he had always wanted to be involved in, although deep inside he harbored some uncertainty as to his ability to pass the language barrier with his level of bad German.

"Oh, and don't be concerned about your command of the language," she added as if she could read his expression, "You will be working for a British company suspected of dealing with Eickhart."

She chuckled at the relief in his demeanor and with that she thanked him for coming so soon and showed him out, as she had attended to the front door.

"We'll contact you soon, DCI Smith. I look forward to seeing what you can do," she nodded as she shook his hand.

Patrick beamed with victory as the car drove him back to his hotel, two blocks from the pub where he was aiming to celebrate his appointment, even if it was probationary. He wished that he could call Sam and boast, but he simply had to wait for him to return from his stint in some foreign country with lovely Nina Gould.