Free The Oktober Projekt by R. J. Dillon

Majesty’s Government. As a respected FCO
troubleshooter, Lostock was accustomed to bringing home damaged goods, which
Nick on that day surely was.
    ‘We are going straight to the airfield,’ she briskly announced,
not wishing to stare at the CO8 officer slouched beside her in a totally
dishevelled sate.  
    ‘Great,’ said Nick, shrugging off his lethargy.
    As part of her strict mandate, Lostock never uttered another
word during the drive to the Latvian Air Force base at Rēzekne where a
Royal Air Force BAe 125 executive jet waited. She even scolded the flight
attendant, a Leading Aircraftman from Cardiff who had the temerity to enquire
if Nick would like a second glass of orange juice during the flight.  
    Touching down at RAF Northolt a Ford Galaxy its windows tinted
grey, swept out to park by the aircraft steps.  
    ‘Thanks for all the help,’ said Nick as Lostock officially
handed him over to two of the Service’s security officers, its very own
praetorian guard. As one of them opened the Galaxy’s rear door, Nick impishly
kissed Lostock’s cheek before they could hustle him into the car.
    ‘My pleasure,’ said Lostock to the back of the speeding Galaxy.
    Sandwiched between his two minders, Nick sat back as snatches
of countryside slipped by; trees stripped of leaves the grass a dismal autumn
green as the Galaxy headed for Hertfordshire.
    ‘Do I get a clue where we’re going?’
    ‘Aspley.’ One of his minders answered, his scowl saying he
didn’t care to be troubled again.
    Aspley Grange overlooked Berkhamsted with a proprietary air. A
rambling Victorian Gothic house built for a brewing baron as a symbol of his
social status, it became government property in the 1920s in lieu of unpaid
taxes. The extensive walled estate was dominated by the large house with its
added mansard roof, a wing with its own chapel, all set within secure grounds.
Housing intelligence staff during the Second World War, it had been in Service
hands since the 1950s, acquired in a surreptitious deal, or so the legend went.
From three-quarters down its serpentine drive, Nick saw the chapel’s spire
rising above the trees, to its right the castellated turrets covering an older
part of the house. Instead of stopping by Aspley’s grand entrance the Galaxy
crunched round the wide drive, turning fast off the gravel onto a tarmac avenue
by a complex of uninspired annexes added sometime in the Eighties.  
    Jerking to a stop outside a two-storey block, Nick’s minders
ushered him inside fast, a troublesome guest who had to be brought in by the
servants’ entrance. Inside, the bare breeze block walls had been tastefully
rolled in cream emulsion, intensifying the strip lighting as it bounced back
off floor tiles, buffed to a reflective gleam. Above the acoustic door to Suite
1, a pair of lights, one red, one green were set in the wall; as one of Nick’s
minders directed him inside with a stiff, straight arm, the red light blinked
on. Sitting at a table Nick waited until the door gently closed, its lock
rotated home. There were cameras tucked high into each corner and a two-way
glass directly opposite the table in a far wall. Nick had been in the
interrogation block on numerous occasions, during training and when CO8 had
brought in defectors who, according to a Service euphemism, underwent ‘active
debriefing.’  
    The first interrogator to arrive was Bill McEntee, an avuncular
figure who reminded Nick of a history master with his round, calm indefatigable
face that carried a permanent lopsided grin.
    ‘How are you Nicholas?’ McEntee asked, crossing to the table,
his brown brogues scuffed at the toes gliding along.
    ‘I’ve been better Bill,’ said Nick as McEntee sat himself down,
unfastening his tweed jacket, dusting a speck of dust from his lapel. ‘Thought you’d
retired?’
    ‘Kept me on for the specials,’ McEntee said, taking out a small
wireless receiver from his pocket, looping it over his ear. ‘Technology,’