The Watchers Page 5

  ‘Welcome, Colonel Corso, to this evidence session on the defence implications of American activities on British soil. You are the deputy base commander of RAF Croughton in Northamptonshire.’

  ‘Correct.’ A thick drawl from one of the southern states of the USA.

  ‘Colonel, this committee has the power to compel any witness to swear an oath. Now, I assume or rather hope I don’t need to remind you that the NATO Status of Forces Agreement requires that US bases on British soil be fully accountable to Parliament and compliant with British law.’

  ‘I am very well aware of the law, sir.’

  ‘Well then, over the last few months we have been examining evidence relating to various United States bases in this country suspected of illegal activity. This has led to a specific allegation against your own base, which, we have heard, was the site of a deeply worrying incident in February 1963, during an anti-nuclear protest. An explosion on the base. And a series of violent arrests outside the perimeter fence.’

  He paused briefly, and I felt a sadness so intense it was equalled only by my hope.

  ‘Civilians were seriously injured. As a result of direct action taken by serving American officers. This is the reason we have asked you to come here today. We need answers. We need accountability. You understand?’

  Corso smiled confidently, fixing his eyes on my employer. And for a long moment said absolutely nothing.

  My hope turned to anxiety. Answer him, answer him!

  ‘Colonel . . . perhaps it would be fitting for you to begin with an apology?’

  ‘An apology?’ Corso squared his shoulders. His face was heavy and lined, the battle scars of a difficult career, but his smooth uniform and polished medals lent him an easy authority. ‘For what, exactly?’

  ‘People died that day – a woman blinded – all British civilians. And you have the audacity to stand before us and question the reason for an apology? Sir, have you no respect at all?’

  Over poised pens and raised heads my employer’s question rolled across the room all the way to the pack of journalists at the back. For all his faults, Bestford could be powerfully arresting when he concentrated.

  He raised his voice. ‘Who authorized the security team to carry weapons and apprehend the protestors?’

  ‘That I do not know.’

  A wave of muttering swept through the room. My eyes fastened on the nearest window.

  ‘You don’t know who gave the order?’ The question hung in the air. ‘Or do you deny that they were carrying weapons, that shots were fired?’

  ‘What I deny,’ Corso snapped, ‘is the improper insinuation that US Air Force personnel acted inappropriately. Croughton is a Strategic Air Command base. The protestors were a security risk. They breached the perimeter fence nearest the hardened armament barracks. We needed to act.’

  In my head familiar images flashed: Mum leaving the hos­pital with dressings over her eye, the scabs on her face.

  ‘Then you’re saying your actions were justified.’

  ‘I’m saying it was necessary to exercise sufficient force.’ Colonel Corso was leaning forward, defiantly tilting up his chin, and as I watched him, feeling my own fury burn, all I could think about was the secret document in my possession. How it could make all the difference.

  ‘Colonel Corso,’ Bestford continued, ‘please tell us precisely what sort of weapons are stored within Croughton’s hardened armament barracks.’

  The witness dropped his gaze. At the far end of the room a huge portrait of Winston Churchill glared down upon him.

  ‘Our security systems are classified.’

  Bestford bristled. ‘Then tell us the nature of the work carried out at Croughton!’

  ‘The activities of US Air Force bases are determined by the Pentagon. Perhaps your question would be better addressed to them, Mr Chairman?’

  Bestford straightened in his chair. ‘Tell us then how can the British government sanction the presence of bases like your own when we have no idea what you’re doing on them? There is a broader point here, the significance of which should be noted by everyone present. The world is just the push of a button away from Armageddon. Need I remind you that if only a small proportion of the nuclear arsenals possessed by our countries or the Soviet Union were to detonate, the entire northern hemi­sphere would be plunged into nuclear winter.’

  ‘We all have our fingers on the red button. That’s why no one presses it. You’re an intelligent man, Mr Chairman – I assume you understand the concept of mutually assured destruction? Bases like mine are the first line of strategic defence, for your country and for ours.’

  The pencil between my fingers snapped. How could a soldier who was a guest in our country dismiss these concerns with such casual disdain?

  Beyond the latticed window, out on the Thames, a distant siren wailed.

  ‘US nuclear-armed bombers operate from the UK,’ Bestford continued. ‘One bomber caught fire on the runway at Croughton in February 1963. The day of the protest. Is this true?’

  It wasn’t. The truth was far worse.

  ‘February 1963?’ Colonel Corso hesitated. ‘No, no, I’m sorry. I don’t recall.’

  ‘But you . . . ’ Bestford hesitated, and I felt the colour drop out of my face. His knuckles were turning white from gripping his fountain pen tightly to prevent his hand from shaking. He’d promised me he wouldn’t drink this week!

  He found his voice again, but it was a shade quieter, or perhaps the siren outside was louder. ‘You . . . are the base liaison officer. You should know!’

  ‘Ordinarily, indeed. I would agree with you.’

  ‘Ordinarily?’

  Bestford then turned and looked at me with some anxiety – a sudden realization surfacing there – and my stomach swooped. Had I missed something?

  ‘Mr Chairman,’ said Corso, ‘I did not arrive at Croughton until two weeks after the protests.’

  Suddenly the admiral’s warning about the secret document clenched between my fingers was as distant as the winter my mother had joined the protests. No matter! Thirty million spent on upgrading your base since the disaster – new runways and secret armament barracks! I wanted to shout. What are you hiding about what happened there? What the hell is Project Caesar?

  I was struggling not to stand up and hurl these questions at him. Would I have risked my job and my relationship with the admiral to breach parliamentary protocol and intervene? Considering the heat of my anger, I honestly believe I might. But it’s senseless speculating about that now because what happened next eclipsed everything.

  A policeman dashed across the room to one of the windows and pressed his hands against the glass, peering out.

  ‘What is it, what’s wrong?’ asked Bestford as the thundering beat of a helicopter somewhere above us filled the room.

  ‘Get out!’ the policeman yelled. ‘Everyone out!’

  No one moved. No one said a word.

  ‘Get out, now!’ shouted the officer, in motion, grabbing the nearest journalist and shoving her towards the door.

  The room erupted. Cries of alarm rose. Chairs crashed down. People were trampled in the scramble for the door.

  Someone screamed, ‘Call the sergeant-at-arms! Get away from the windows!’

  ‘Robert, come on!’ Bestford yelled at me. He had made it to the door.

  I should have run. But from what?

  I turned. A powerboat was throwing up a great white plume of spray as it carved through the choppy grey waters towards a row of boats tethered immediately below the Houses of Parliament. It was burning. Out of control.

  ‘Robert!’

  This is the end, I thought.

  I leaped for cover behind the nearest bench and braced myself for the impact.

  – 5 –

  An iron taste in my mouth. I could still feel the heat from th
e blast on my face when I opened my eyes and squinted into the chaos. My head was throbbing. I saw the door and wanted to go to it, but somewhere near me a woman was crying out, ‘Help me, please!’

  The thud of the explosion had pressed painfully on my ears. I struggled to my feet, coughing against the fumes, staring into the flames licking at the tables and green-leather chairs. A terrible acrid smell hung in the air, burning my throat.

  I might have staggered to the door, to the safety of the Committee Corridor. Instead, I saw her. The slim young woman in the dark blazer lay on the carpeted floor like a broken doll. There was a deep wound on her forehead, and her face was covered with so much blood that I didn’t recognize her. Until my eyes fastened on the silver crucifix around her neck.

  Crouching down at Selina’s side, I squeezed her hand and pleaded with her to say something, anything.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she managed. ‘I . . . I can’t see you.’

  ‘Help’s coming,’ I said confidently while looking frantically around me.

  No one was coming.

  ‘Robert, please . . . I feel like I’m drowning.’

  I looked down to see . . . blood, blood everywhere, an open wound in Selina’s stomach, and in her hand a huge splinter of glass she had pulled out. I pressed my hand against her body to stem the flow of blood. The nights I’d dreamed of touching her, tenderly, gently. Not like this.

  One bloody hand flew up to clutch at her necklace. She hesitated, as if struggling to remember something, then, gasping for air, managed to say, ‘Robert . . . I’ve seen them.’

  ‘Don’t try to speak.’

  ‘Their faces . . . Robert . . . their faces are made of shadows.’

  Those words, that familiar phrase, struck a new kind of fear into me. Was she hallucinating?

  ‘Robert!’ Bestford’s cry broke in suddenly from behind me, and I turned to see him emerge from the billowing smoke.

  ‘Selina,’ I said. ‘We can’t move her . . . ’ I was fighting a losing battle with the pulsing wound, blood gushing through my fingers. If I moved her, she would die. I knew it.

  Bestford was coughing. ‘We must get out!’ he gasped.

  Selina was trying to talk, panic etched onto her face, but I shushed her. ‘I won’t leave you,’ I told her.

  I looked around desperately. I couldn’t see Bestford now, but someone was coming towards me out of the smoke and orange glow thrown out by the tangled wreckage. A man. I could see his mouth moving, but all sound was dead. I seemed to be suspended underwater, watching his movements as if in slow motion, observing every line on his face, his uniform, his badge.

  ‘I won’t leave her,’ I yelled at the policeman.

  More figures moving slowly through the smoke, mouths forming words I suddenly couldn’t hear. Then I passed out, I think.

  *

  My vision was hazy, my head pounding as I squinted into the harsh light.

  Where am I?

  In a few seconds my eyesight adjusted, sharpening into focus: bright sterile walls, a row of beds and a strong scent of medicinal alcohol.

  ‘Welcome back,’ said a rough voice. ‘You had me worried.’

  Bestford was sitting at the bedside wearing an expression of intense anxiety. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up. His tie was loose.

  ‘How long have I been here?’ I asked in a hoarse voice.

  ‘Two hours, perhaps.’

  I tried to move and found that I could, pretty easily, but that didn’t stop my heart from racing. The adjacent bed was empty.

  ‘Where’s Selina?’

  ‘No more questions. Try to rest.’

  ‘Where is she?’ I shouted, jolting upright.

  He gave me the sort of look I hadn’t seen since the day my grandfather told me of my parents’ deaths, and a terrible realization stunned me into a long silence.

  ‘I’m sorry, Robert. I’m sorry.’

  Selina was dead. And it was my fault.

  My fault.

  Bestford was talking to me, but I wouldn’t listen, I couldn’t. Selina, she was all I could think of. It didn’t seem possible that she could be gone.

  ‘Robert . . .’

  I saw her now, standing in the living-room doorway that morning, a blue towel covering her chest, her hair tumbling loose to her shoulders, her lips curving in an easy smile.

  ‘Robert!’ Bestford’s face loomed over mine. ‘She’s not responding, but they have her under constant surveillance.’

  For a moment the words just hung there. ‘Then she’s alive?’

  ‘In a coma,’ he said quietly, stepping back.

  ‘But I . . . It’s my fault. I asked her to come to the inquiry after her interview.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You couldn’t have known. No one could.’

  I swung my feet out of the bed, only now realizing I was wearing a hospital gown. No matter, I had to see Selina. She would be here somewhere. I stood, but a sharp pain exploded in the side of my head and made me pause.

  ‘Take it easy now. You took quite a blow. Flying glass and debris.’

  Defeated, I sank back onto the bed. A thought struck, and I grabbed Bestford’s arm. ‘What happened to Colonel Corso?’

  Bestford shook his head. ‘Vanished. We’re trying to trace him.’

  ‘Listen to me, Paul. We need to talk to Corso. Immediately.’

  Before I could move, Bestford reached into his suit pocket and produced the slim document I had kept to myself. Only Selina and the admiral had known about it.

  He saw my questioning expression and said, ‘They found it on you when they brought you in. Robert, what the hell were you thinking?’

  ‘It’s everything we need,’ I said, meeting his watery eyes. ‘Something called Project Caesar, run out of RAF Croughton. I’m sure it’s linked to the incident in ’63. We have to find out what it is.’

  He looked at me despairingly. ‘You just don’t give up, do you? You’re a man obsessed. You’ve made your mother’s battle a crusade.’

  ‘This inquiry was always going to take time.’

  ‘And we’ve run out of that.’ Bestford’s face had closed off.

  ‘Paul, this means everything!’

  ‘And we have nothing!’ he said, standing abruptly and crossing the room to the window. ‘No evidence that nuclear weapons were stored illegally at Croughton, no real information about what happened that night in ’63. And I am under considerable pressure to give an accurate picture of what did happen to the Secretary of State for Defence, who’s very quickly beginning to suspect that the whole thing is nothing but a wild conspiracy theory cooked up by left-wing campaigners drunk on their own imaginations! Don’t you get it, Robert? It’s my credibility on the line, not yours.’

  He shook his head, looking away from me, perhaps thinking, as I was, about the long hard months we had spent pounding pavements together on the campaign trail in the Havens.

  This was a crisis. If Bestford gave up, how would I ever learn the truth about the protests at the US base at Croughton back in February 1963? How and why Mum was blinded, what had caused the explosion that had scarred her face.

  ‘Robert, the inquiry will be postponed until further evidence comes to light that more convincingly demonstrates the illegal operation of American facilities on British territory.’

  ‘But the biggest clue you’ll ever have is in your hand!’

  He looked down at the secret document I had procured, the only evidence we had that might explain the explosion that had happened at RAF Croughton. ‘If the ministry knew we had this . . . we’d be finished.’ He fidgeted nervously with the document.

  And then I had to look away as he meticulously shredded my every last hope.

  – 6 –

  Monday 7 February 1977, Westminster

  Only two days
had passed since the hospital let me out, and already I was losing control. Out of bed five or six times in one night, just to check the doors and windows. Then I would curl up in a ball on the bed, my mind churning with thoughts – Selina’s final words to me: their faces are made of shadows, the admiral wishing me luck the morning before the explosion, Bestford postponing the most important inquiry Parliament had conducted since James Callaghan became prime minister.

  I dragged a hand through my hair, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. You look dreadful, Robert.

  Abruptly, I turned away, out into the hallway, away from the man in the mirror with the deadened eyes, but there was nowhere to go. Without Selina, this wasn’t home. Every room in the darkened flat echoed with an eerie silence. I needed to get out, some fresh air, anything to take my mind away from the guilt gnawing in my gut, but the front door remained closed. The loneliness was insufferable. My dedication to my work had come at a price; I just hadn’t felt it until now. Selina had always said I should have made more of an effort with the other researchers in Parliament. They had their friends, the late raucous nights in Bellamy’s Bar. I had my work. And beneath it all a nagging sensation of something left behind, unfinished. Something waiting for me.

  I went into her bedroom, flicked on the light. Her bed was made, her clothes hung in the wardrobe. Neat and orderly. Just like her. But how well did you know her, really? A large space in the row of books on the shelf above her bed caught my attention. And on the bedside table a thick volume with a brown leather cover. The Bible.

  For obvious reasons I didn’t like being around Bibles these days, but I picked this one up, and it fell open to a dog-eared page. A passage was underlined, the Olivet prophecy in Matthew 24 – Jesus’ prediction of the signs that will precede the end days: ‘The sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light; the stars will fall from Heaven, and the powers of the heavens will be shaken.’ I thumbed through. Underlined in the Gospel of Luke:

  ‘And Jesus asked him, saying, “What is thy name?” And he said, “Legion”: because many devils were entered into him.’ And again in Matthew: ‘The demons begged Jesus, “If you drive us out, send us into the herd of pigs.” He said to them, “Go!” So they came out and went into the pigs, and the whole herd rushed down the steep bank into the lake and died in the water.’