‘Maralinga,’ Harold announced. ‘They’re calling it Maralinga – means “fields of thunder” in some sort of native lingo, I believe.’ He gave a hoot of delighted laughter. ‘Rather apt for a nuclear bomb test site, what?’

‘It’s certainly colourful,’ his wife agreed. ‘Who came up with the idea?’

‘The Australian chief defence scientist, so I’m told, a chappie by the name of Butement. Never met the fellow myself, but then I haven’t bumped into any of the Australian contingent as yet.’

Harold took a sip of the second cup of tea his wife had just poured him and, discovering it not warm enough for his liking, decided to ring for a fresh pot. He rose from his cosy armchair beside the open fireplace and crossed to the French windows. ‘Bound to meet up with them shortly, of course, now that I’m officially on board,’ he said, giving the bell sash two brisk tugs. ‘I shall be going down there any tick of the clock, I imagine.’

He looked out at the serenity of the landscape, where the elm tree cradled its burden of snow in the comfortable crooks of its giant limbs, and the white-laced hedgerow wound its elegant way down the slope that led to the brook. He did so love winter. The romantic in him particularly loved a white Christmas, and, the cold snap having well and truly set in, this Christmas of 1954 held every promise of being white.

‘Probably just in time for a stinking hot desert Christmas,’ he added, ‘blast my luck.’

‘How does the Australian public feel about this Maralinga business?’ Lavinia asked.

‘I don’t think they know.’

‘Really? How extraordinary. One would assume such drastic action would lead to immensely strong public opinion. What a strange breed they must be.’

‘No, no, my love, you misunderstand. The majority of them don’t know what’s going on. Well, not yet anyway. Their government’s keeping the news pretty much to itself – at least until the site’s established, and even then they’ll let the populace know only the barest minimum. In fact, if we have our way, the Australians will know only what we tell them they can know.’

‘Dear me,’ Lavinia tut-tutted. ‘And they’ll accept that, will they? The British public wouldn’t take kindly to being so ill-informed.’

She stopped abruptly. A light tap on the door was a precursor to the maid’s appearance, and she knew better than to discuss her husband’s business in front of the servants. Indeed, Lavinia felt privileged that Harold, in his position as deputy director of MI6, should see fit to share so much of his work with her. She was aware there was material that he did not offer up for discussion, and she never posed a query without his encouragement, but she enjoyed the degree of trust he placed in her. It meant that she could share at least a proportion of the huge burden of responsibility his job entailed. And that, in Lavinia’s opinion, was a wife’s bounden duty.

‘We need a fresh pot,’ Harold called to the maid from his position by the windows.

‘Yes, m’lord.’ The girl bobbed a curtsy and, leaving the double doors open, crossed to the large circular coffee table and picked up the tray.

‘And perhaps one or two of Freda’s scones?’ Lavinia directed the question at her husband rather than the maid.

‘Oh, by jove, yes,’ Harold readily agreed.

‘Jam and clotted cream, please, Bessie.’

‘Very good, m’lady.’ Another bob, and Bessie left, placing the heavy silver tray briefly on the hall table outside as she pulled the drawing room doors closed behind her.

Lavinia waited several seconds before continuing. ‘So it’s to our advantage that the Australians are so gullible.’

‘Dear me, yes.’ Harold returned to his armchair beside the fire. ‘And we have their prime minister well and truly in our pocket,’ he said as he sat opposite her. ‘Several years back, when Menzies agreed to our nuclear weapon testing off the coast of Western Australia, he didn’t even inform his own cabinet.’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Harold, that can’t be true.’

‘But it is, my love – heard it directly from the Old Man himself.’ Harold had just returned to his country estate in Sussex following his London meeting with Prime Minister Churchill. ‘Winston told me that in 1950 Attlee sent a top-secret personal request to Menzies regarding the use of the Monte Bello Islands,’ he explained, in response to his wife’s obvious disbelief. ‘Menzies agreed immediately in principle to the nuclear testing, and, according to Winston, there’s never been any record whatsoever of the man having consulted a single one of his cabinet colleagues on the matter.’

‘Goodness gracious.’ The impeccable arch of Lavinia Dartleigh’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. ‘Isn’t that somewhat irregular?’

Harold laughed. He adored his wife’s talent for understatement. Lavinia was the quintessential upper-class Englishwoman. Still beautiful in her early forties, she was the epitome of elegance, highly intelligent and at all times unruffled. Harold valued her greatly. She was the perfect wife for a man in his position.

‘Yes, my love, it is somewhat irregular.’

Harold Rodin Dartleigh, KCMG, KCVO, 6th Baron Somerston, was typical of many born to a life of privilege. He was arrogant and insensitive and took the services of others for granted. But, unlike a number of his contemporaries from equally advantaged backgrounds, he was not lazy and he was not a wastrel. Nor was he stupid. As a young man, Harold had distinguished himself in History and Philosophy at Cambridge University’s Trinity College, after which he had embraced a highly successful diplomatic career, serving in under-secretary positions in the British embassies of Beirut, Istanbul, Tokyo and Prague.

Upon the outbreak of war in 1939, Harold’s father, William, 5th Baron Somerston, had been so horrified at the thought of losing his only son and heir that, through his many connections, he’d had the twenty-nine year old appointed special government envoy to Washington. The move had not dismayed Harold, who had had no deep desire to join the fray – not through any form of fear or cowardice on his part, but solely due to ambition. Death on a distant battlefield was not the destiny young Harold had in mind.

Having seen out the war in relative comfort, Harold had returned to England to care for his ailing father and, upon William’s death in 1946, had taken his seat in the House of Lords. Given his wealth of diplomatic experience, the Secret Intelligence Service had soon beckoned and he’d jumped at the chance, quickly advancing through the ranks to become deputy director of MI6.

To Harold’s extreme satisfaction, his achievements had been recognised in the highest of circles. In 1949 he had been awarded Knight Commander of the Order of St Michael and St George (KCMG) by King George VI for his work in the diplomatic service, and he had recently, early in this very year of 1954, been made Knight Commander Royal Victoria Order (KCVO) by Elizabeth II for service to the Queen and other members of the Royal family.

Forty-five years of age, just over six feet tall, and with a fit body but for a slight thickening of the girth, Harold was a distinguished-looking man. A good head of hair turning steel grey matched eyes of a similar colour, and his features were chiselled, patrician. But there was no denying a coldness about Harold. A coldness that some, in their self-admitted envy, dismissed as the arrogance of the privileged, and that others, perhaps of more generous nature and mostly numbering amongst his colleagues, maintained went with the job. The deputy director of MI6 had to be aloof, they said. And Harold was fun when you got to know him. He was frightfully clever, frightfully witty and an excellent dining companion. All of which was correct, so long as Harold was in the right mood.

Lord Dartleigh did have some genuinely staunch defenders, particularly amongst the high-ranking clergy, and the women with whom he mingled – mainly his colleagues’ wives, whose standing in society gave them a power of their own. They found it most admirable that never a breath of scandal could be laid at his doorstep. A family man with two grown children, Harold was faithful to a woman whom he clearly adored. The clergy applauded the exemplary marriage of so public a figure, and the women found his openly demonstrative devotion to his wife romantic, even enviable. Indeed, so enviable that several of the wives who indulged in the odd dalliance to match those of their husbands regretted the fact that Harold Dartleigh was unavailable.

And then there were the others – those who lived in fear of Harold. Some feared him instinctively upon first meeting, and for some the fear grew over time, but the results were the same. He unnerved them.

There was one element, however, upon which all were bound to agree. Harold Dartleigh was not a man to be crossed – by friend or by foe.

‘You mentioned the desert,’ Lavinia prompted. ‘I presume one’s not to know precisely which desert, or where?’ She only ever raised queries when the way had been paved for her, and in this case it had. She found the subject of Maralinga most interesting.

‘Quite right, my love, all very hush-hush, mum’s the word.’

‘Naturally. My guess is, nevertheless, South Australia. Wasn’t that the location of Emu Field?’ she asked innocently.

Harold chortled. He did so delight in his wife’s intelligence. ‘How the deuce did you know about Emu Field?’

‘I saw a brief report in the cinema last year.’ Lavinia’s reply was a mixture of apology and criticism. ‘In a Pathé Pictorial, I’m afraid. Hardly hush-hush.’

‘Ah. Well …’ Harold’s smile faded. ‘Maralinga will most certainly be hush-hush, at least for as long as we can keep such a place a secret. Once we start detonating, of course, the whole world will know, but by then we’ll have the site thoroughly secure and be able to monitor how much information we feed to the press. It’s one thing for the Monte Bello and Emu sites to be made public, but we’re talking about the establishment of a permanent nuclear testing ground, my love. All the more reason for MI6 to be running the show, and that’s exactly what I told Churchill. Our department should have been brought in right from the start.’

Harold enjoyed having a wife in whom he could confide, and was aware of how highly Lavinia valued his trust, but there was an added advantage to their shared confidences about which he was thoroughly objective. Their mutual trust was an invaluable element to the success of their marriage and, therefore, to their public image. Being confidants consolidated them as a team, not only to each other but to the world at large. And appearances were, after all, essential for a man in his position.

‘Winston and I are in agreement that it’s a bit of a worry giving the boffins free rein,’ he continued. ‘They can be a sloppy bunch at the best of times. Scientists care about nothing but the results of their experiments, which leaves the gates wide open for breaches of security.’

‘But the military will be running Maralinga, surely.’

‘The day-to-day operations, yes, but William Penney’s been put in charge of the tests – and all things relative to them – which is a bit of a worry, in my opinion. The fellow’s a physicist, for God’s sake.’

‘He’s also one of the world’s leading authorities on nuclear weapons and he’s been in charge of the British nuclear program for years.’

‘Well done, my love.’ Slinging one leg languidly over the other, Harold lolled back in his armchair and gave her a round of applause. ‘Pathé Pictorial?’ he queried.

‘No. The Times.’ Lavina smiled, unfazed by her husband’s blatant mockery. ‘And it’s Sir William now, by the way – he was knighted three years ago.’

‘Ah yes, so he was, it had slipped my mind.’ It hadn’t at all – a further mockery. ‘Poor old Penney,’ Harold sighed, ‘he’s going to hate my guts more than ever when he hears I’m running the show.’

‘Why more than ever?’

‘He didn’t much like me at Cambridge, I’m afraid, and he won’t take kindly to this turn of events. In fact my personal involvement in the Maralinga project will be thoroughly irksome to him.’

Lavinia was faintly surprised. She’d known the two had attended Trinity College at the same time, but Harold had never mentioned any antipathy.

‘But the fellow will just have to put up with me, I’m afraid. MI6’s presence in Australia is essential. The last thing we need is another Fuchs episode.’

Harold was referring to the highly publicised conviction of the British physicist Klaus Fuchs four years previously. A German-born British citizen, Fuchs had been a key figure in the atomic bomb developmental program devised by the Americans during the war and early post-war years. The Manhattan Project, as the program was codenamed, had been largely dependent upon American resources and personnel, but a number of British scientists had been involved, and the shocking discovery that one of the most high-ranking amongst them had been a Soviet spy for years had reverberated around the world.

‘One can hardly blame the Americans for closing shop on us,’ Harold said. Then, dropping the flippant façade, he leaned forward, steel-grey eyes gleaming with the familiar intensity that his colleagues at times found disturbing. ‘We cannot afford to be slack in the nuclear stakes, Lavinia. There’s a Cold War in progress and the Russians have proved their ability to infiltrate the most seemingly inaccessible –’

Another tap at the door announced the maid’s imminent arrival.

‘I do hope you won’t be called away for Christmas, dear …’

The drawing room doors opened and Bessie appeared.

‘… Catherine and Nigel will both be home this year,’ Lavina smoothly continued as the girl bobbed back into the hall for the tray she’d placed on the table. ‘It would be such a pity to miss out on the full family affair.’

‘Nigel? Really?’ As always, Lavinia’s transition to the banal had been seamless, but Harold was taken aback by the news of his son. ‘Nigel’s coming home for Christmas?’

‘Yes, he telephoned this morning, while you were in London.’

‘Good heavens above, why didn’t you tell me?’

‘There seemed so many other things to talk about, didn’t there?’ Lavinia’s attention remained focused upon the maid as Bessie carefully placed the tray on the coffee table between them. ‘He’s very much looking forward to being home.’

‘Well, I shall certainly tell the department that I’m unavailable until after the festive season,’ Harold said, rubbing his hands together in pleasurable anticipation, perhaps of his son’s arrival or perhaps of his afternoon tea – it was difficult to tell which as he eyed the dish of scones. ‘I very much look forward to his being home too. They are warmed, aren’t they?’ he asked.

‘Yes, m’lord.’ Bessie nodded as she set out the Spode fine bone china side plates, together with the linen napkins and silver cake knives. ‘Freda’s had them in a hot oven for a good five –’

‘Excellent, excellent. So when does he get here?’

‘In a fortnight – just three days before Christmas.’

‘What fun. How jolly.’

Harold enjoyed his son’s company; they had a great deal in common. Twenty-four-year-old Nigel, having emulated his father, had joined the diplomatic corps and was currently an attaché at the British embassy in Rome.

‘And I told you, didn’t I,’ Lavinia continued, ‘that Catherine will be arriving Saturday week?’

‘Yes, you did mention it, I recall.’

The news wasn’t of equal interest. Harold didn’t really understand his daughter, and wasn’t sure if he cared to. Catherine was nineteen, studying art in Paris and had turned into quite the bohemian. He’d threatened to cut off her allowance the previous year if she didn’t enrol in university, or at least attend the Swiss finishing school he’d offered, but her mother had taken the girl’s side in the argument. ‘She’s very headstrong, my dear, and she’ll go to Paris in any event, so it might as well be with our support – God knows what she’ll get up to otherwise. Just for the two years of her art course, Harold. And she is very talented, you must admit.’ Harold had reluctantly acquiesced, but he’d been annoyed that Catherine had not followed her brother’s example and conformed to the image expected of one of her station in life. Her behaviour did not at all befit the daughter of a man in his position.

‘I’ll pour, thank you, Bessie,’ Lavinia said.

‘Very good, m’lady.’ Bessie bobbed and left, closing the doors behind her.

Silence reigned briefly while Lavina poured the tea and Harold attacked the scones. After slicing one down the middle, he smothered both halves with jam and then piled on the clotted cream.

‘My God, that woman’s worth her weight in gold,’ he said as he devoured the first half. Freda was undoubtedly the best cook they’d ever had.

‘You said Maralinga is to be a permanent testing ground,’ Lavinia remarked, passing him his tea. ‘How long do you anticipate being there yourself?’

‘Oh, I’ll come and go somewhat, I would think.’ Harold put down the cup and saucer, tea untouched, his scone taking priority as he embarked on the second half. ‘I plan to have an office permanently based there and a cipher clerk on site to send me regular reports, but I’ll front up for the detonations. The first series of tests won’t take place until around September next year; they have to finish building the place first.’ He shovelled the remains of the scone into his mouth and reached for another. ‘Aren’t you having any of these?’

‘I ate a late lunch.’

‘Ah, right.’ He piled more jam onto his side plate. ‘I’ll be off on a recce trip shortly, of course – have a look at the site and check out the Australian scientific representatives. Although I have dossiers on all three and they’re not only harmless, they’re ideal.’ He gave a snort of laughter as he scooped up a spoonful of cream. ‘Two of them are actually British – accepted positions in Australia after the war – perfect choices to liaise with the Australian government. Penney’s done a damn good job there, have to give him that much.’

Harold paused long enough to demolish another half a scone, then, dabbing his mouth with his napkin, continued. ‘I’ll be gone a good several weeks, I’d think, given the travel there and back, and I need to get the full layout of the place. I must say, the prospect intrigues me. Do you know they’re building a ruddy great township in the middle of the desert? It’s quite extraordinary. The airstrip’s a mile and a half long! Imagine that. Right out there in the middle of nowhere. Quite, quite extraordinary.’

He contemplated the remaining half-scone that sat on his plate and decided against it, picking up his cup and saucer instead. ‘They’ll want me to leave pretty soon, I should imagine, but I’ll stave off any plans until the new year so I can catch up with Nigel.’ Then he hastily added, ‘Catherine too, of course – don’t want to miss out on the family Christmas, what?’

He could tell from the look in his wife’s eyes that she was on the verge of beseeching him, yet again, to disguise his blatant favouritism in the presence of the children, but Harold couldn’t be bothered talking about Catherine. He had far more important and exciting things on his mind.

‘I have a plan up my sleeve which I don’t intend to share with the boffins,’ he said, ‘nor with the armed forces. In fact, just to be on the safe side, I shan’t even inform my own officer who’s to be stationed there.’ He leaned back in his armchair, cup and saucer cradled against his chest. ‘There will be a covert MI6 operative salted amongst them,’ he announced with a smug smile. Then, little finger delicately extended, he lifted the cup to his lips and sipped. Harold always drank tea in the daintiest manner.

‘I’m having one of my top undercover men seconded to Maralinga,’ he said, and toyed briefly with the notion of telling her who – she knew Gideon Melbray from their embassy days in Washington. But he decided against it. No names, no pack drill must remain the order of the day. Pity, he thought, he’d have enjoyed her reaction. Lavinia had liked Gideon a great deal, he remembered, she’d found him a most attractive fellow. But then, everyone did. People were drawn to Gideon’s beauty and tended to trust him – which, of course, made him such a valuable covert operative.

‘By jove,’ he said with a gleeful grin, ‘wouldn’t old Penney be just livid if he knew he had an MI6 spy in his midst.’

 

‘I have to say I’m not happy about this, Harold. I’m not happy about this at all.’

Three days later, having been informed by the Prime Minister’s Office of MI6’s involvement, Sir William Penney appeared bordering on livid, which was unusual for a man of his normally affable disposition.

‘Just a precautionary measure, old chap. You mustn’t take it personally.’

Aware of the perverse pleasure Harold Dartleigh was finding in his one-upmanship, Penney wondered exactly how else he was supposed to take it. ‘I have headed Britain’s nuclear weapons program since 1947,’ he began testily. ‘My leadership skills have never been questioned –’

‘And they’re not being questioned now.’ Harold was quick to appease, although he felt superior – Penney was such a typical boffin in his opinion. Good God, even the look of the man – small in stature, lanky straight hair, horn-rimmed glasses … It was a source of wonder how he’d ever achieved leadership in the first place, Harold thought. ‘No-one’s undermining your authority, William. We’re just keeping an overall eye on things for security purposes. Can’t be too careful after the Fuchs affair, can we?’

The comment only added insult to injury as far as Penney was concerned. ‘There’s been not the slightest hint of any breach of security throughout the tests I’ve conducted.’

‘Well …’ Harold looked just a little dubious. ‘A whisper did reach our ears that Operation Hurricane came close to being compromised.’

‘How?’ William Penney was understandably appalled. Having received a knighthood from Queen Elizabeth II for heading the successful detonation of Britain’s first nuclear device in the Monte Bello Islands, he was outraged that Dartleigh should cast a shadow over the momentous event. ‘How and by whom, exactly, was Operation Hurricane compromised?’

‘Oh, come, come, William, you of all people can’t expect me to answer such a question.’ Harold managed to flatter and patronise at the same time, a skill he’d perfected over the years. ‘Need to know, old man.’ He smiled and tapped his nose with his forefinger in true conspiratorial fashion. ‘Need to know.’

The adage was one Sir William Penney himself regularly used, and the practice was one he intended to adopt at Maralinga, where everyone, scientists and armed forces alike, would work strictly on a need-to-know-only basis. It was clear that Harold Dartleigh intended to annoy him, Penney thought. He maintained a dignified silence.

Harold decided it was time to back off. ‘Nothing to worry about, William, I can assure you. A minor leak – safely discovered and contained.’ There had been no breach of security at all at Monte Bello, but Harold had felt the need to establish himself in the pecking order. ‘Just as I can assure you,’ he continued, ‘that MI6 will in no way influence the chain of command at Maralinga.’ He smiled jovially. ‘Good heavens above, I won’t even be there half the time.’

‘I trust you will communicate that in the briefing,’ Penney said stiffly. ‘Shall we go in? I believe they’re ready for us.’

William Penney had reluctantly invited Harold Dartleigh to a heads of departments meeting at Aldermaston in Berkshire. Roughly twenty miles northwest of Aldershot, RAF Aldermaston, an abandoned World War II airfield, had for several years been the selected home for Britain’s nuclear weapons program.

‘After you, William.’ Harold stepped courteously aside, giving a quick nod as he did so to Ned Hanson, his assisting officer, who had been waiting by the main doors discreetly out of earshot. ‘After you.’

Ned joined them, and the three entered the briefing room, where around twenty men were seated waiting. Scientists and engineers from every area of expertise, they headed the various departments of Sir William Penney’s research team.

Harold and Ned Hanson sat in the vacant chairs that had been reserved for them down the front, while William Penney marched directly to the table facing the assembly, behind which, on the wall, was a projection screen. He did not introduce Harold Dartleigh, nor did he make any formal address to the gathering, having greeted his team earlier and chatted with each man personally, well before the arrival of the MI6 representatives.

‘Let’s get straight down to business, shall we,’ he said, signalling to his young assistant who was standing by the slide projector at the rear of the room.

Shades were drawn over the windows, the room dimmed, and a large map of Australia appeared on the screen. Picking up the slender wooden baton that served as an indicator, William Penney proceeded to give an account of the testing ground, its location and the reasons for its choice.

The Maralinga site, he explained, was approximately 250 miles north-west of the coastal township of Ceduna, and roughly 600 miles from Adelaide, the capital city of South Australia. A remote region where the Great Victoria Desert met the Nullarbor Plain, it was barren, uninhabited and the perfect choice for nuclear weapon testing. The desert terrain was flat with little scrub cover, but sandhills to the south formed a natural barrier, which was ideal for security purposes. His glance at Harold Dartleigh was a reminder that security was always uppermost in his mind.

Harold read the meaning in the glance and smiled pleasantly.

Penney called for the next slide, and a plan of the site appeared on the screen. He talked his team through its layout: the landing strip and airport, the experimental areas and laboratories, and the village designed to accommodate, during peak requirements, up to 3000 men.

Contrary to Harold’s scathing opinion, William Penney excelled in command, and the team members present, most of whom had worked with him on previous projects and held him in high regard, listened respectfully as he continued.

Further slides were projected and, over images depicting a vast and desolate landscape, Penney explained the harsh conditions under which they would all live – the searing heat of the days and the unexpected chill of the desert nights. He summed up with good humour, however. ‘Most of the time it’ll be as hot as Hades,’ he said, ‘but the army is building a swimming pool, so all is not lost.’

There were chuckles amongst the men, and, as Penney placed the baton on the table signalling the end of his talk, there was a smattering of applause, which he acknowledged but quickly stemmed, holding up his hands for silence.

‘I have received notification from the Prime Minister’s Office that MI6 is taking a particularly strong interest in the Maralinga project. As everyone here is aware, security has been a foremost issue in all our past work, and will continue to be so at Maralinga. I am sure, therefore, that you will all join me in welcoming aboard Harold Lord Dartleigh, who, as most of you will know, is the deputy director of MI6.’

The abrupt, and very pointed, introduction did not in the least bother Harold who rose from his chair offering his hand.

‘Thank you, Sir William,’ he said.

As they shook, Harold gained a smug satisfaction from the image they presented. No-one could fail to notice that the peer of the realm stood a good half a head taller than the bespectacled little scientist.

Gesturing that the floor was now Harold’s, William Penney retired to a nearby chair, and Harold initiated a token round of applause, which to some might have seemed just a fraction patronising.

‘One might well ask what possible advantage MI6 has to offer in the light of Sir William’s impeccable leadership over the years,’ he said with a smile, which, if intended to be self-deprecating, didn’t work, but then he didn’t really intend it to. ‘And the answer is very little, because very little is necessary. Our presence at Maralinga will simply be an added precaution, given the precarious and uncertain times in which we live.’

He beckoned to his assisting officer, and Ned, a burly, pleasant-looking man in his early thirties, joined him.

‘I’d like to introduce Ned Hanson of MI6’s Defence Signals Branch who will be permanently stationed at Maralinga.’ Dropping the charm, Harold got down briskly to the business of the day. ‘I’d be most grateful if you’d extend Ned every courtesy and assist him with any enquiries he may have on my behalf. Your help will be of inestimable value, and most appreciated, believe me. I shall, of course, be down there myself from time to time, but for the most part,’ he clapped Ned heartily on the shoulder, ‘Ned’s your man.’

Business over, the charm once again emerged. ‘Our presence will be very low key,’ he said, ‘more secretarial than anything really. None of that cloak-and-dagger stuff, I can assure you – in fact you’ll hardly notice we’re there.’ He gave a personable grin and gazed around the room, establishing eye contact with as many as he could. ‘I look forward to working with you all very much, and I thank you for your attention.’

Harold was pleased. The tone of his address had impressed the men, he could tell – as well it should. The situation had called for diplomacy, and his balance between the authoritative and the informal had been perfect.

‘Thank you, Sir William,’ he said, relinquishing the floor with gracious aplomb. ‘I appreciate this opportunity to chat to the team.’ He returned to his seat, the implication being you may carry on.

As Sir William Penney rose to conclude the briefing, he thought how very little Harold Dartleigh had changed. The man was as arrogant, detestable and self-opinionated as he had been at Cambridge. They didn’t need him at Maralinga. The whole team had been working like a well-oiled machine for years – on every level, including that of security. And now, when all their hard work had paid off and they were to be awarded the supreme opportunity of a permanent nuclear testing site, MI6 was stepping in. They didn’t need MI6, he thought. And certainly not in the form of Harold Dartleigh.

 

The King’s Rooms, in the heart of London, not far from Soho Square, was a highly exclusive gentlemen’s club. Rumoured to have been one of King George IV’s favourite haunts, with bawdy bars and backrooms and accommodation upstairs for whatever resulted from the evening’s activities, its architecture and its history were colourful. The former tavern had been converted to a club for gentlemen in the early Edwardian era, when adventurous entrepreneurs had simultaneously acquired the adjoining property and linked the two to create an opulent health spa, complete with black and white marble-tiled steam rooms and mineral baths. Now, nearly fifty years on, the King’s Rooms, with its historic bathhouse, plush lounges, fine dining and service par excellence, was a renowned oasis for gentlemen of the upper classes. Here the idle rich and the elite of the professional world could mingle freely, unbothered by the common herd.

For Harold Dartleigh, the King’s Rooms was a home away from home.

‘I shall be staying at the club tonight,’ he said to his wife as he prepared to leave for London.

‘Very well, dear. You haven’t forgotten that Catherine’s arriving tomorrow, have you?’

‘Of course not.’ He had. ‘I shall be home in time for dinner, I promise.’

He picked up his briefcase, and his wife followed him into the main hall where Wilson, the butler, was waiting beside the front doors.

‘Excellent.’ Lavinia’s smile was just a little forced. He’d forgotten all about his daughter’s arrival, she thought. He wouldn’t have forgotten if it had been Nigel. ‘She’s so looking forward to seeing you.’

Lavinia very much doubted whether Catherine was looking forward to seeing her father at all – the friction between them was not one-sided – but she considered it her duty to offer the pretence of their daughter’s affection.

Harold donned the hat and scarf Wilson offered, but not the overcoat, choosing to carry it instead – it would be warm in the car.

The butler swung open the doors, and Harold and Lavinia, arms linked about each other’s waists like young lovers, walked outside into the main courtyard and the crisp cold of the morning.

‘Take care, my darling,’ she said, kissing him tenderly on the lips as she always did.

‘I shall, my love.’ He returned the kiss with equal tenderness, feeling the faintest sense of arousal as he recalled their lovemaking the previous night.

‘I’ll miss you,’ she whispered, and they exchanged a smile, both aware of what the other was thinking.

‘I’ll miss you too.’ He kissed her again before crossing the gravelled courtyard to where the Bentley was waiting, the chauffeur standing to attention beside the rear passenger door.

The engine turned over, Harold settled himself and, as the car slowly pulled away, gazed through the window at his wife. Captured in the clear frosty light, with the ivy-clad stone walls of the house a perfect background, she looked so beautifully English. Lavinia was still such an attractive woman, he thought. How very lucky he was.

Harold made love to his wife on a regular basis. With the exception of those times when he was called away from home, he made a point of having sexual intercourse once a week, sometimes twice if business did not necessitate his staying in the city for a night or so. He considered sex beneficial on all levels. Good sexual relations lent vitality to his marriage, ensured his wife’s contentment, and enhanced their public image as a couple. Besides, he very much enjoyed it.

 

The steam baths and pools of the King’s Rooms were deserted, as was customary in the mid-afternoon. But this was Friday. In an hour or so they would be crowded with prominent businessmen, barristers, politicians and the odd judge, all winding down after a long week’s work, some buying time before embarking upon a weekend of family duties they might have preferred to ignore.

Harold, towel around his waist, skin a glistening mix of sweat and water, sat alone on one of the marble benches in the main steam room, the mist all-enveloping and the silence absolute but for the steady drip-drip of condensation. The steam rooms of the Edwardian bathhouse had been beautifully preserved. A large arch led from the main room to several smaller rooms, all linked with arches, and the floors throughout were impressively tiled in black and white marble. The ceramic wall tiles also being black and white, the overall effect was surreal, a misty, maze-like, all-consuming chessboard.

Having checked out the steam rooms and finding them deserted, Harold now sat facing the main door, awaiting the arrival of his guest. He loved having the place to himself. He’d deliberately arrived a good twenty minutes early in the hope there’d be no-one here. He hoped no-one would arrive during his planned meeting too – he enjoyed talking business in the steam rooms. No matter though – if the place got crowded, they could easily adjourn to one of the private lounges.

To Harold, the King’s Rooms was far more than a home away from home; it was a highly valued place of business where confidences could be exchanged free of potential eavesdroppers and gossipmongers. At the King’s Rooms an English gentleman’s privacy was respected, which, in Harold’s line of business, was eminently desirable.

The door opened and a towel-clad figure stood silhouetted against the light. Even through the veil of steam, Harold couldn’t fail to recognise the body. Few were as finely honed as Gideon Melbray.

‘Hello, Gideon,’ he said.

‘I take it that’s you, Harold?’ Gideon closed the door and made his way towards the voice.

‘Of course it is, man. Good to see you.’

Harold shook the younger man’s hand, and Gideon sat, peering about, his eyes adjusting to the gloom.

‘Got the place to ourselves, have we?’

‘We have.’

‘That’s lucky.’

‘Not really. The baths are generally deserted around this time of day.’

‘Ah.’ Gideon nodded. ‘Right.’ He wouldn’t know himself – he wasn’t a member of the King’s Rooms, visiting the club only on the rare occasions Harold summoned him. Usually they met in one of the lounges.

‘I left word at the front door,’ Harold said. ‘I presume you had no trouble getting in?’

‘Good God, no, far from it. Mention your name and it’s open sesame around here. The head doorman treated me like I was royalty.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ Harold smiled, pleased by the remark. But then he’d always found Gideon’s admiration pleasing. Anyone would. It was flattering to be admired by an Adonis.

Gideon Melbray was indeed a handsome man. Gifted with a charm he knew how to use and with golden-haired looks that belied his thirty-five years, Gideon somehow managed to maintain the essence of youth. He and Harold had met at the British embassy in Washington just prior to the end of the war, when Gideon, a newly-arrived attaché, had replaced Harold’s previous assistant.

Gideon had been instantly in awe of the worldly Harold Dartleigh, heir to a peerage and the epitome of sophistication. Harold, in turn, had been flattered by the young man’s unashamed admiration, and had happily become his mentor, inviting him into his home and therefore his life.

Lavinia, too, had taken Gideon under her wing. She’d introduced him to Washington’s elite, who, impressed by his beauty, had welcomed him into their midst. Gideon’s beauty, however, had not been his principal calling card. Any friend of the Dartleighs would have been acceptable. The acknowledged doyens of Washington society, along with the crustiest of old-money families, had embraced Harold and Lavinia from the outset. An English title always had been, and always would be, the perfect entrée to the capital city of the free world.

At the end of the war, when the Dartleighs had returned to England, they had relinquished all personal ties with Gideon, despite the fact that he too had returned to his mother country. Lavinia would have liked to have kept in touch, but Harold had deliberately allowed the relationship to peter out, deeming it wise for professional reasons, which he did not share with his wife.

In accepting his position with MI6, the first person Harold had recruited had been Gideon Melbray. Gideon, with his looks and charm, had a talent for insinuating himself into the lives of others, an asset Harold had recognised as invaluable in a covert operative. His judgement had proved correct and Gideon, while ostensibly serving in the diplomatic corps, had become one of MI6’s most valued undercover agents. It was no longer possible for the two of them to socialise openly as they had in Washington.

‘How’s Lavinia?’ Gideon sprawled indolently on the bench, his back against the wall, his legs spread wide, surrendering himself to the sensuality of the heat. ‘I haven’t seen her since the French embassy ball, and that was months ago.’

Whenever he bumped into Lavinia, as he did on occasions – London could be a very small place for those who mingled in certain circles – Gideon took great care to observe the rules. He always had an excuse at the ready when an invitation was extended, but he regretted the necessity. He missed Lavinia. He’d been immensely fond of her during their Washington days.

‘I thought she was looking splendid,’ he said. ‘Quite the most beautiful woman there in fact –’

‘Lavinia’s very well, thank you,’ Harold interrupted, brusquely dispensing with the niceties – they were not here to talk about his wife. ‘Let’s get on with things, shall we,’ and he proceeded to give a succinct account of Sir William Penney’s briefing at Aldermaston the previous week.

Accustomed to Harold’s manner and unfazed by his rudeness, Gideon raked the damp hair from his face, sat forward, elbows on his knees, and listened attentively.

‘The boffins will close ranks on us,’ Harold said in conclusion. ‘Penney’s highly protective, and his team works on a strictly need-to-know basis – they’ll play safe and report only on their specific areas of expertise. Not one of them will dare offer an inside observation or opinion, which means we’ll be left well and truly in the dark.’ Annoyance flashed in his steely eyes. ‘It’s ludicrous allowing boffins to run the show, it’s not their place. I intend to know everything and to be one step ahead the whole time, which is where you come in.’

‘What about your man from Defence Signals Branch, Ned what’s-his-name?’

‘Hanson – he’s a plodder. Non-assertive, strictly clerk material, which is why I chose him. He’ll do his job, mind his own business, and everyone will feel safe with him.’ Wiping the sweat from his face with a hand towel, Harold allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. ‘Ned will be our perfect frontman. He’ll plod along unwittingly, the face of MI6, while you will gain people’s trust and gather what you can.’

‘And my cover?’

‘You’ll be working with the Department of Supply. I’ll have you transferred for training in the next couple of months, and when you’ve served time there, you’ll be seconded to Maralinga as senior requisitions officer. As SRO you’ll have freedom of access to most areas, but if you run into any difficulties, you’ll contact me and I’ll arrange the necessary clearance.’

‘Sounds like the perfect set-up.’

‘Yes, it does rather, doesn’t it?’

They shared a smile, and Harold stood. ‘Ready for a cold plunge?’

‘I’m game if you are.’

Outside, the modernised pools, shower bays and benches, which retained the black and white tiled motif of the original steam baths, remained deserted, but business was clearly about to pick up. From the nearby change rooms came the sound of male voices and the slam of locker doors.

Gideon followed Harold’s example. He dumped his towel in one of the wicker laundry baskets and, as Harold submerged himself naked in one of the two cold plunge pools, he took a deep breath and threw himself into the other.

‘Bloody, bloody freezing,’ he said breathlessly as he scrambled out and accepted the fresh towel Harold handed him. ‘Bloody, bloody freezing and bloody, bloody stupid – I don’t know why you do that!’

Harold laughed, and led the way to the large heated spa pool at the far end of the complex. They lolled in the shallow warmth of the water, watching as a number of towel-clad men in various shapes and sizes emerged from the change rooms.

‘Good timing,’ Gideon said.

‘Yes.’ Harold glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘The first bunch usually arrives around four.’ Then he noticed Gideon’s eyes were focused upon the one man in the group with a well-built body. ‘No funny business, Gideon,’ he muttered, ‘not around here. I won’t have it.’

Gideon’s gaze lingered a second or so longer, then, as the man disappeared into the steam rooms, he turned to Harold wide-eyed. ‘I meant good timing because we had the place to ourselves,’ he said.

‘Of course you did.’

Harold scowled a warning, which Gideon met boldly, in a way no others would dare.

‘Where’s your sense of humour, Harold?’ he said, finally breaking the moment with a rakish grin. ‘A little joke, that’s all. No harm intended.’

‘You may need to watch your particular brand of humour at Maralinga.’

‘Oh, really? And why’s that?’

‘It might not be appreciated by hundreds of men captive in the middle of the desert,’ Harold said dryly. ‘You might just find yourself in a spot of bother.’

Gideon laughed. ‘I would have thought, given the circumstances, I might just find myself somewhat in demand.’

‘You know exactly what I mean, damn you,’ Harold growled. ‘You could draw unwanted attention to yourself and put us in jeopardy.’

‘I have never put us in jeopardy.’ Gideon dropped the flippant manner. He too was annoyed now. ‘And I can assure you that, in the line of duty, my attentions have never once been unwanted.’

‘All right, all right.’ Harold held up his hands in uncharacteristic surrender. ‘I take your point.’ He did. There was no denying the fact that Gideon’s powers of seduction were unparalleled. Men and women succumbed equally to his charms and Gideon himself was quite happy to serve both. A true hedonist, he found pleasure in all forms of sex, and gave pleasure in return. The information he’d garnered from his willing conquests had proved invaluable over the years.

‘You’re good at your job,’ Harold said with rare magnanimity, ‘I’ll admit that. I’m just telling you to practise a little caution, that’s all.’

‘Of course I will.’ Gideon was placated in an instant. Praise from Harold was scarce and he valued it highly. ‘I’ll be one of the boys, I promise.’ He grinned suggestively. ‘But you just never know, do you, what some boys might get up to out there in the desert?’

Harold couldn’t resist a snort of laughter. Gideon was incorrigible.

It had been that very incorrigibility that Harold had found so attractive upon first meeting. Along with Gideon’s beauty, of course – Harold had always admired beauty. The brief affair they’d had in Washington had been the only time he’d succumbed to a sexual relationship with a man. Apart from an experimental episode at Cambridge, but then everyone succumbed to the odd university crush. Harold had no regrets at all about the affair. In fact, these days he considered his actions to have been very much in the line of duty. Through his personal influence and, indeed, his inspiration, Gideon now served a far greater purpose than that of a mere clerk in the diplomatic corps. Their mutual infatuation had, in Harold’s firm opinion, been most advantageous.

‘I’m done,’ he said, climbing out of the spa and grabbing his towel.

Gideon continued to loll. ‘Are we going back into the steam room?’ he asked.

‘I’m not. You can. Feel free to stay as long as you like.’

‘Oh.’ Gideon was clearly disappointed. ‘I was hoping we might have a quiet bite of dinner somewhere.’

‘Impossible, I’m afraid, I’m dining with colleagues.’

It was true, but even if it were not, Harold would have lied. Self-discipline was far easier to put into practice, he’d found, if one kept well away from temptation.

‘Treat the club as your own,’ he said. ‘I’ve arranged for all expenses to go on my account and the masseurs here are excellent.’

Beauty was to be admired from a distance, Harold thought as he crossed to the shower bays. Some things were simply not possible for a man in his position.