Free The Lucifer Network by Geoffrey Archer

like this, Sam. It’s to do with your father.’
    â€˜My
father
? But he died when I was eleven. Brain tumour.’
    â€˜I know. Trevor Patrick Packer,’ Waddell intoned. ‘1931–1971. At the time of his death he was a chief petty officer in the Royal Navy submarine service. On HMS
Retribution.
’
    â€˜A Polaris missile boat,’ Sam interjected, baffled as to what this was about.
    â€˜The starboard crew, whatever that means.’
    â€˜They had two crews on the bombers,’ Sam explained uneasily. ‘Took it in turns to man the boat. That way they could maximise the time the hardware was at sea. So what?’
    Waddell paused momentarily.
    â€˜The Americans think your old man passed secrets to the Russians.’
    Sam gaped into the gloom, thinking he must have misheard.
    â€˜Bollocks.’
    For a moment he suspected Waddell was laughing at him. That this was some sort of practical joke.
    â€˜You’re not serious?’
    â€˜The Yanks are.’
    â€˜Then they need their brains examined. Where’s this crap come from?’
    â€˜From the Russians, Sam,’ Waddell told him. ‘Or rather from one particular ex-GRU officer who’s 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 they’re having heart failure. Two retired US admirals were arrested yesterday.’
    â€˜Jesus.’ Sam felt poleaxed. ‘But 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.’
    Waddell didn’t comment. They both knew that when it came to spying, appearances and reality could be very different.
    â€˜What does Five say about this?’ Sam demanded.
    â€˜Too early. They’ve only just been briefed,’ Waddell told him. ‘What do
you
say, more’s the point?’
    â€˜I’ve told you. It’s rubbish.’
    â€˜Did you ever wonder about him?’
    â€˜Don’t be daft. I was a kid. What eleven-year-old suspects his father of spying?’
    â€˜You don’t remember odd visitors at home? Men with funny accents coming round for tea and walking away with brown envelopes?’
    â€˜Do me a favour, Duncan. This is a joke. Isn’t it?’
    â€˜The funny accents, yes. But for the rest, it’s deadly serious. We need to get to the bottom of it.’
    â€˜You’re talking twenty-seven years ago,’ Sam protested. ‘Were there any suspicions at the time?’
    â€˜None at all.’
    â€˜Well, there you are.’
    â€˜Och, all that does is suggest the buggers got away with it.’
    â€˜Or that it never bloody happened.’
    â€˜The Russians had your dad’s name on file, Sam. You think they plucked it out of thin air?’
    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.
    â€˜So what’s being done about this nonsense?’ Sam blustered.
    â€˜The Security Service are going to start trawling tomorrow. Tracking down people who worked alongside your father.’
    â€˜Fucking madness,’ Sam hissed.
    â€˜Whatever . . . It needs clearing up.’ Waddell tapped a hand on the dashboard. ‘For the
Service’s
sake.’
    Sam sensed some threatening edge to Waddell’s voice. ‘What are you talking about, Duncan?’
    â€˜You’re his son. And the firm employs you.’
    â€˜So?’
    â€˜It makes certain people in the firm’s upper layers a little uncomfortable, that’s all.’
    â€˜Because some nutcase has accused my father of being a traitor? For Christ’s sake, that doesn’t make me one.’
    Waddell shifted in