Foxtrot 6

As the Hilux entered the corner I turned hard, aiming to apex halfway round the turning point. At the moment the car enters the turn I pulled the handbrake up swiftly. The back wheels locked up, and the car began to slide, tightening up the turning circle.

I whip my head round to face forwards. As the Hilux's nose came round to face the narrow gravel track into the forest, I stamped on the clutch pedal, selected first gear and floored the accelerator. The SUV shot forwards into the narrow dark lane with it's overhead cover of foliage.

'You're just a frustrated rally driver aren't you?' Mike chuckles.

'Oh, so you've noticed then.'

+++

Chapter 4 - Arrival

Manchester Airport, Saturday, 29 June 2024.

Inevitably my bag was the last to arrive on the baggage carousel. My luggage consisted of a big military surplus Bergen backpack and silver metal camera case which flew in the baggage hold, and a leather laptop bag which was carry on.

I retrieved my Bergen and case and headed out of the exit. I considered taking the tram into the city centre, but then I'd have to walk to the block where my flat's located, and I really didn't feel like it. Besides, I still had money left over on my expense account, so I'm getting a taxi.

This is a case of meet the new Cold War, which is totally different to the old one. Unlike the old Cold War, which was all about the Iron Curtain, the Berlin Wall and Checkpoint Charlie and borders closed airtight. This is different. The border between Poland and Russia is subject to a treaty that forbids either country from erecting a border barrier of any kind. The treaty came into power in 1993. The border between the Russian Federation and the West is porous. There are points in the border where the powers that be in Moscow want people to be able to cross without troubling customs and immigration.

An open border between Russia and the west has advantages to the Kremlin. It has a lot to do with the West's sanctions on Russia. Following the invasion of Ukraine the rest of the world pretty much turned off the taps, officially nothing goes in or comes out of Russia. In reality, there are points where stuff crosses the border under the radar. These aren't done using small dirt tracks. Some of the smugglers routes are big enough to drive down with a truck carrying a forty foot cargo container.

Mike and I had slipped into Russia using one of these routes. Getting out might not be so easy. I had a nagging fear that the helicopter who had chased us until we were under tree cover might be waiting for us along with a detachment of Spetsnaz special forces. However, our crossing of the border was reassuringly uneventful.

We had three potential exit points in mind. In the end we opted for a crossing point that was located on a track running through the middle of a thickly wooded valley. It was reasonably close, fifteen kilometres, just under ten miles away to the east. We chose this because the almost constant tree cover would do a lot to shield us from the helicopter that was still searching for us.

I'd like to say that the crossing was uneventful, but that'd be stretching things. We had two close shaves; on both occasions the Mil 17 hovered overhead, it was clearly searching for us. Mike and I came to the conclusion that the helicopter lacked a thermal imaging kit so they could detect the Hilux's hot engine through the leaf cover.

We crossed the border with me showing my talents as a frustrated rally driver. I floored the accelerator in a mad dash over the border to safety.

Stepping through the sliding glass door into bright sunshine, I stood and paused, savouring the relief at being home and safe. I fished my shades phone out of my chinos and then got my phone out and called Nell.

'Yello,' she said when she eventually answered.

'Why do Americans answer the phone by shouting out a colour?'

'Smitty!' She sounded elated to hear my voice, 'you back already?'

'Yeah, the flight had a tailwind.'

'Whatever,' she said, 'you on the way home? When will you get here? Did you get me anything from duty free?'

Ah, a thousand and one questions, which one should I answer first? Deal with the duty free first, that's where Nell's primary interest lay.

'Yes, I got you something from duty free at Krakow airport,' I tell her. 'Well, one and a half things actually.'

'One and a half?' Nell sounds confused.

'Yeah, I got a bottle of that perfume you like, Marc Jacobs Daisy, and a bottle of Glenmorangie scotch. The perfume's for you, obviously, although I suspect that you'll help me drink the scotch too.'

'I'll do my best to help out,' she says, 'you hungry?'

'I could manage to put some grub away,' I tell her. 'I had a snack on the flight. It wasn't much and being Ryanair I got charged through the nose for the privilege.'

'Oh poor baby,' she says in a playfully teasing tone, 'I'll order from Uber Eats, Chinese OK?'

'Sounds great.'

'I'm glad you're back,' she says, 'I'll feel safer now.'

'Safer?' my Spider senses start tingling. 'Why? What's happened?'

'I got assaulted, at work last night,' she says.

'You're not hurt are you?'

'No, no,' she says quickly, 'an asshole punched me in the face, I've got a black eye.'

'Right, we'll talk about it when I there,' I tell her. 'I'll get a taxi and be home soon.'

I tapped the app and whistled up an Uber. As I sat in the back of the cab, I mulled over things that were now beginning to bother me. Like? Well, Nell and I aren't an item, hell, we're not even friends with benefits. So why do I feel angry that someone's hurt her?

When I first met Nell she was between accommodation. To be blunt, she was virtually homeless. I offered her the spare room in my flat. Rent free to, she just has to chip in towards the weekly grocery shop. When she accepted I felt strangely pleased, not just that she took me up on the offer of accommodation, but the fact that she was to be my room mate.

Long stay serviced apartments; they're basically a flat with a hotel's room service and all utilities built into the exorbitantly high rent. I got a two bedroom loft apartment in a converted red brick Victorian warehouse n Manchester's trendy Northern Quarter. It goes by the name of 'the Warehouse'. I got a two bedroom unit simply because it was the only thing available.

The blurb on the website described it as 'cosy, chic and central.' I'd have to agree with that. I chose a serviced apartment because I fancied a little luxury, I'd been living in a bedsit in a cold, draughty Home in Multiple Occupancy. My landlady liked to remind me that my bedsit was: 'your home in my house.' When she found out that I have Aspergers Syndrome, she used the same principle to communicate with me that British tourists us in countries where English isn't the first language; speak slowly and loud.

The Warehouse has luxury by the bucket load. A concierge, coffee shop, in-house convenience store, gym, pool and even a cinema room. Yeah, it's all very salubrious.

I can afford the rent thanks to my Granddad. He'd spent much of his working career down one of Stoke-on-Trent's coal mines. Granddad Tom was made redundant in the early nineties when the mine where he worked was closed down. After working in the pit for thirty years he got a hefty redundancy pay off. Granddad put the money into buying houses around Stoke, doing them up and renting them out.

Just before I went back to university as a postgrad he died from a heart attack. We'd always been close, and it hit me hard, but he left me a legacy. He'd already liquidated his property portfolio, and he split his estate between mum and me.

I like having Nell as a flatmate. We have a good relationship. We're friends. Could we become friends with benefits? Maybe, but I'm kind of worried it'll ruin our friendship.

+++

Chapter 5 - Sunday

The Warehouse Serviced Apartments, the Northern Quarter, Manchester, Sunday, 30 June 2024

'So, how's England?' A young, perky, blond girl is on the screen of Nell's laptop. 'Does it really rain all the time?'

I recognised her; she's Taylor, Nell's kid stepsister.

'No, it's been kind of hot and sunny here for the last couple of weeks,' Nell tells her.

Standing behind the couch I crouch down and loom over Nell's shoulder.

'It does rain quite a lot here in Manchester, but thanks to global climate change things are looking up. Now the rain's warmer,' I grin, 'hello Taylor.'

'Hello Smith,' she says. 'Hey, I've been meaning to ask you, is that your first name or your last name?'

'My Surname.'

'So, what's your first name then?'

'Wolf,' Nell chips in, 'you know, like the animal.'

'Really?' Taylor squeaks, 'aw, that's so cute.'

'No it isn't,' I shake my head. 'My mum thinks she's alternative, as a result I got lumbered with a first name that's both pretentious and, so far as I'm concerned, just a little embarrassing.'

'Aw don't get upset Wolfie,' the blonde girl in America giggles, 'it's a cute name.'

'And with that I'll leave you two to chat without me being a fat, hairy gooseberry,' I stand, grab the backpack with my university things, and head off to my bedroom.

Even with the door closed I can hear the giggling and shrieking from the living room. When I fire up my laptop, log in to Spotify and load up the classic alternative playlist. Soon the Buzzcocks Ever Fallen In Love With Someone You Shouldn't Have

is helping to reduce the volume of transatlantic girlish glee.

I sit cross legged on the bed with my laptop, well, on my lap and get on with homework for my doctorate. As far as the subject for my research is concerned, I couldn't make this stuff up. I mean it.

My doctorate's in history, and I'm looking into an incident that occurred in April 1966. A top secret Soviet jet fighter aircraft crashed into the Havelsee, a lake straddling the British and Russian sectors of Berlin. British military intelligence immediately mounted a salvage operation, promising to return the aircraft and the bodies of its two pilots to the Russians.

The aircraft, a Yak 28 interceptor, NATO codename Firebar, had its top secret radar surreptitiously removed by British Army scuba divers. The Radar was sent to the Royal Aircraft Establishment at Farnborough in England. Over a period of seventy-two hours it was taken to pieces, photographed, reassembled and flown back to West Berlin. When it was back in Germany, the British military reattached the radar unit underwater and salvaged the aircraft.

Right now I'm trying to find members of the British military intelligence team who worked on the project, all the better to interview them and get primary sources for my research project.

I'd been working for a couple of hours when there was a quiet knock on the door.

'Yeah,' I grunted.

Nell stuck her head round the door.

'Sorry about driving you out of the living room,' she apologised, 'can I get you a coffee to make up?'

'That'd be nice,' I follow her into the living room, 'though a bottle of wine would be better than coffee.'

'OK,' Nell replies perkily, 'you do that and I'll get us a take out.'

'Now that,' I grinned, 'sounds like a plan.'

The couch is supposed to be big enough for two, but I'm beginning to have serious doubts about that. With Nell and I sitting together it just seems a little cramped for two fully-grown adults. Especially if they want to maintain personal space.

We're sitting there drinking a nice Pinot Noir and watching TV as we wait for the curry to arrive. It's YouTube, and for some reason Nell wants to watch an old episode of I Dream of Jeannie.

'Do you know why I wear my hair in a ponytail?' she asks out of the blue.

'I hadn't given it any thought,' I admit and reach for my wine, 'is it because it's easy to keep neat and tidy?'

'Well, yeah, that's the practical reason but it's not the main reason,' she says. 'For most women with long hair, a ponytail's sort of a bare minimum hairstyle. Like you said, it is kinda easy to keep tidy.'

'Oh good,' I say murmur, 'I got it right.'

'The thing is, as a trans girl in conservative Texas, a ponytail represented everything I dreamt of.'

'What do you mean?' I ask.

'Well, when I was in high school, and very much in the closet as transgender, I began to crave a ponytail,' she says. 'Mostly though, I think I was influenced by Barbara Eden in I Dream of Jeannie. When I watched reruns of the show I used to wish I had long hair swept back in a ponytail.'

'Seriously?' I ask, 'you wanted a ponytail so you could look like Jeannie?'

'Hey! Don't knock Jeannie, she's a feminist icon. She holds all the magical powers that men don't have and chooses to use them to help the man she loves. She may call Tony Nelson 'master', but what she really means is 'darling'.'

'I stand corrected.'

She reaches for her own glass of wine and takes a sip.

'There's something I do want to talk to you about,' she says, her voice has an edge of caution to it now. 'It seems that I have a stalker.'

'You what?' I can't believe what she said. 'Who's stalking you?'

'The bozo who did this to me,' she points to her black eye, 'I phoned the Moulin

Lounge to see if I can work on the weekend, but Tony the manager said no. Seems that the asshole who hit me has been hanging round the club looking for me.'

'Shit,' I hiss, 'you OK with this?'

'No, not really,' her façade of bravery slipped and her voice sounded wobbly, 'it scares me and I'd really, really like a hug.'

I put my wine glass on the coffee table and open my arms. She snuggles into my embrace. Then without warning, gives me a chaste peck on the cheek.

'Why haven't we done this before?' she asked.

'What?' I'm puzzled and sound it, 'cuddled or kissed.'

'Partly cuddled,' she said, 'but mostly this...'

Nell's lips touched mine. Her eyes were smiling, and she was soft and pleasant.

Nell's kiss felt like it had a lover's touch.

'You know what, you're right,' I tell her when we break for air, 'Why haven't we done this before?'

'Because you were just a li'l bit transphobic?' she suggests with a cheeky grin.

'Nah,' I grin back and shake my head, 'more like because I was afraid if we became friends with benefits it might spoil things as just being friends.'

'It won't,' she replies. 'Don't be so tense babe, you're going to love being my boyfriend.'

'Do I have a choice?' I raise a questioning eyebrow.

'Nope, not from here on in,' she chuckles, 'just let me be your Jeanie hun, let me used my magic on you, for you. Oh, but don't expect me to call you master. Like ever.'

+++

Chapter 6 - Blue Monday

Battersby House, Sackville Street, Manchester, Monday, 1 July 2024

I press my right knee into the bike's fuel tank and bank off Whitworth Street Street onto Sackville Street. The motorbike mounts the kerb and comes to a halt at an big but anonymous Victorian red brick building.

There's a ramp down into a basement garage, but further progress is halted by a red-and-white striped barrier pole. Next to it is a grey plastic sentry box. I know the procedure. I have to wait for someone to authorise my presence.

The security guard steps out, he has the same powerful build and heavily-jowled face as a bulldog. The guard looks like a surly bad tempered bugger. That's because he is.

'You work here?' he speaks with a gruff gravel voiced accent that hints at too many cigarettes and hard liquor.

'You know I do,' I tell him.

'Can I see your ID?'

I have an ID card. I fumble to pull my gloves off, unzip my jacket and show him the ID card on the lanyard round my neck.

'Take your helmet off.'

I raise the flip front instead.

'No, I said take it off.'

'Oh c'mon, you know who I am,' I sigh. 'We go through this every day Garry mate.'

'I aint your mate!' he snaps, 'and you should know by now to take your helmet 'off.'

I comply. Like I have a choice. He compares the image on the ID card with my face, grunts, smirks and returns to the guard box. The barrier raises and I cruise slowly over the threshold.

'Every day,' I mutter, 'what a sodding jobsworth!'

The Bike cruises down the ramp with me hardly troubling the throttle, just letting gravity do all the hard work. I park up under one of the sparse neon tubes in a place

where the unblinking eye of a CCTV camera has the best view of my bike.

My bike's a classic 1979 BMW R90S. It's in black, with a yellow pinstripe on the fuel tank and a bikini cockpit fairing. The helmet goes in the right hand Krauser suitcase pannier, and I unfasten the left hand one from the frame to use as a briefcase.

The lift isn't working. As per usual. I take the stairs up to the office suite on the top floor. Through the door marked 'Trans-Atlantic Institute for Strategic Studies,' and I'm in the office.

My team has a cluster of desks in a corner of the large open plan office. There's loud voices arguing. Nothing unusual about that here. Neither is the subject matter.

'I'm just saying that Dinosaurs helped build the pyramids,' a skinny desi guy with a heavy duty Midlands accent says. 'There used to be a TV show where they did stuff for humans, so why couldn't they be used to build stuff?'

'Was this TV show The Flintstones by any chance?' A middle aged black guy in a suit asks. He sees me and rolls his eyes, 'see what I have to put up with?'

'Hey it's an improvement,' I shrug my jacket off and hang it up, 'at least he's not convinced the pyramids were built by little grey men from Mars any more.'

'The greys don't come from Mars,' VJ sniffs in an aggrieved manner. 'Everyone knows that they come from Kepler-186F, an Earth-like planet orbiting a red dwarf star in the Cygnus constellation.'

The guy VJ has been arguing with sighs theatrically, picks up a plastic tub and trudges off to the kitchen.

'VJ, don't wind Bomber up, OK?' I tell him.

'Well he shouldn't take the piss out of what I believe,' he whines back.

VJ, Vikram Jalal, if you insist on being formal. He's a short scruffy herbet. Today he's dressed in baggy jeans and a black t-shirt with a ginger cat playing with a hexadecimal dice The caption reads: 'Dungeon Meowster.'

I shrug and follow Bomber into the kitchen. Campbell 'Bomber' Harris. He's originally from Southwark in London, but left the smoke to join the RAF. He served more than ten years in the air force as a Rock Ape. Meaning he was in the RAF Regiment. He was a Flight Sergeant when he quit to become a civilian.

Bomber became a mature student on leaving the air force. He has a first in international relations.

He's standing watching a flat screen TV on the wall. It's showing images of a portly buffoon jogging with a dog. He seems to be wearing garish Bermuda shorts and a threadbare business shirt. His yellow hair is plastered across his head like a Shrove Tuesday accident.

'What a twat,' Bomber grunts.

'I thought you were one of the party faithful,' I say.

'I am, the problem is he isn't,' Bomber grumbles and changes the subject, 'so, you had a proper breakfast this morning?'

'It depends on what you consider as a proper breakfast,' I answer, 'does a cup of instant coffee count?'

'Nah,' he shakes his head, 'but it's all right, you're in for a treat.'

The fact that Bomber's a talented amateur baker has a lot to do with the popularity of The Great British Bake Off. In a good way.

'I was on a baking jag over the weekend, yeah,' he takes the lid off the plastic-wear and offers its contents to me. 'Fancy an apple Danish?'

'Not half.'

Bomber puts the last remaining pastry on a paper plate and hands it to me. My mouth waters in anticipation.

'Oh, there y' are,' a Scouse accented female voice announces.

I turn to see Viki Yip, a short, slim Eurasian girl dressed in a vaugley punk style; multiple piercings and long black spiky hair with bright blue highlights.