like this, Sam. Itâs to do with your father.â
âMy
father
? But he died when I was eleven. Brain tumour.â
âI know. Trevor Patrick Packer,â Waddell intoned. â1931â1971. At the time of his death he was a chief petty officer in the Royal Navy submarine service. On HMS
Retribution.
â
âA Polaris missile boat,â Sam interjected, baffled as to what this was about.
âThe starboard crew, whatever that means.â
âThey had two crews on the bombers,â Sam explained uneasily. âTook it in turns to man the boat. That way they could maximise the time the hardware was at sea. So what?â
Waddell paused momentarily.
âThe Americans think your old man passed secrets to the Russians.â
Sam gaped into the gloom, thinking he must have misheard.
âBollocks.â
For a moment he suspected Waddell was laughing at him. That this was some sort of practical joke.
âYouâre not serious?â
âThe Yanks are.â
âThen they need their brains examined. Whereâs this crap come from?â
âFrom the Russians, Sam,â Waddell told him. âOr rather from one particular ex-GRU officer whoâs just been given an American passport. The quid pro quo was a file full of intelligence on what the Sovs knew about British and American naval operations in the seventies andeighties. I tell you, over in the States theyâre having heart failure. Two retired US admirals were arrested yesterday.â
âJesus.â Sam felt poleaxed. âBut this is crap, Duncan. Utter crap. My old man was as proud as punch of the submarines he served on. He would never have betrayed his country, or his mates.â
Waddell didnât comment. They both knew that when it came to spying, appearances and reality could be very different.
âWhat does Five say about this?â Sam demanded.
âToo early. Theyâve only just been briefed,â Waddell told him. âWhat do
you
say, moreâs the point?â
âIâve told you. Itâs rubbish.â
âDid you ever wonder about him?â
âDonât be daft. I was a kid. What eleven-year-old suspects his father of spying?â
âYou donât remember odd visitors at home? Men with funny accents coming round for tea and walking away with brown envelopes?â
âDo me a favour, Duncan. This is a joke. Isnât it?â
âThe funny accents, yes. But for the rest, itâs deadly serious. We need to get to the bottom of it.â
âYouâre talking twenty-seven years ago,â Sam protested. âWere there any suspicions at the time?â
âNone at all.â
âWell, there you are.â
âOch, all that does is suggest the buggers got away with it.â
âOr that it never bloody happened.â
âThe Russians had your dadâs name on file, Sam. You think they plucked it out of thin air?â
Sam turned to stare through the windscreen. The moon was to their left, its soft light picking out a shape moving along the towpath, a couple, clinging so closely together that they made a single outline.
âSo whatâs being done about this nonsense?â Sam blustered.
âThe Security Service are going to start trawling tomorrow. Tracking down people who worked alongside your father.â
âFucking madness,â Sam hissed.
âWhatever . . . It needs clearing up.â Waddell tapped a hand on the dashboard. âFor the
Serviceâs
sake.â
Sam sensed some threatening edge to Waddellâs voice. âWhat are you talking about, Duncan?â
âYouâre his son. And the firm employs you.â
âSo?â
âIt makes certain people in the firmâs upper layers a little uncomfortable, thatâs all.â
âBecause some nutcase has accused my father of being a traitor? For Christâs sake, that doesnât make me one.â
Waddell shifted in