Two Places at Once

Chapter One – The Usual Lies:

Willie's mother was fond of saying that, when in London, if it wasn't already raining than it was about to. Willie shrugged off his water flecked jacket and shook the moisture indifferently off it onto the ragged carpeting of the hutch before dangling it over the coatrack stood in the corner. True to his mother's wisdom and London's untiring fashion, it was raining, a slow, misty drizzle that had glossed his suit, jacket, and any revealed skin in a thin sheen of moisture and settled a keen, penetrating chill in his bones.

The hutch seemed to have absorbed the gloom of the city outside and was dark, damp, and cool. Willie set about turning on the various desk and floor lamps throughout the room while wondering where that requisition form for a space heater had ever disappeared to, en route to the winding labyrinth of finance department.

Willie was the first one in, an unusual occurrence as Neil almost always beat him to it. If Willie hadn't known any better he would have said Neil sometimes even slept there. Willie swung his satchel onto his desk and unclasped it, trying to ignore the eminent mound of files and folders that waited for him in the in-tray. He was convinced that it was of no coincidence that the word 'mundane' sounded so alike the word 'Monday.'

The door swung inward and Bob Judd wandered through with the same lackadaisical, unconcerned way he possessed that made observers wonder if he didn't just roam about idly until he happened to stumble upon the places he was supposed to be at the time he was supposed to be there.

Willie had come to realize this was nothing more than an illusion, however, and that Bob was actually smart as a tack, a jolly boy of twenty-five, perfectly aware of everything that went on in front of him, and in back. His manner still had a way of irritating people who didn't know him better, however, particularly his superiors. Willie knew it drove Neil nearly to the brink – which secretly all the more endeared Bob to Willie, because there were very few things that were quite so amusing as getting under Neil's skin.

"Have a good weekend?" said Bob carelessly, shrugging off his coat and hanging it next to Willie's on the rack.

"Good, thanks, yours?"

"Splendid," said Bob with a toothy grin. "Two days shacked up with lovely Clara. Nowhere to go because of the washout."

"The weather never would have stopped you," said Willie and Bob laughed in agreement. "Clara her name this week?"

"And last week," Bob protested. "I tell you, Willie. She's something."

"That's what you said about the last one."

"Nah, Clara's different." Bob perched himself on the edge of his desk, crossing his ankles. He had a slim, athletic body and a shock of sandy hair that Neil had warned to get trimmed the previous week. "Might even manage to make an honest man out of me."

"I doubt it," said Willie, edging around his desk and sinking into his chair. "You'll get into trouble someday, Bob. Mark my words."

"She's been positively vetted," said Bob indignantly, and put a hand up like he was swearing an oath over a Bible. "Strictly by the book. On my honor."

"Nothing honorable about it and you know it," said Willie, and decided he'd put off the inevitable long enough and hauled a pile of files out of the in-tray.

"You're just jealous because some people get all the luck," said Bob, smiling and hopping off his desk to go around and drop into his own chair. He made a leisurely grab for his own pile of folders, flipped one open in front of him, scanned the first page, and looked up, "Where's Neil run off to? His smiling face is the first thing I look forward to on a dreary Monday morning."

"Dunno," said Willie. "But if Neil's late you can bet it will be for something important. You don't suppose the world's ended and we just haven't noticed?"

"We would be the last to be told, true to form," Bob agreed with a grin. He shrugged in dismissal and turned back to his folder.

"Oh well, suppose he's just having a bit of a lie-in with Belinda," said Willie.

Bob grimaced, perhaps pondering the scenario, and eventually gave it up with another shrug. "To each his own, I suppose."

"Diane," said Neil Burnside with his grim Monday-morning look not reserved only for Monday mornings as he barged through the door in his typical fashion, hardly bothering to incline his head in greeting. "D-Ops rang from the sixth floor."

"Hullo, Neil," said Diane, not one to forget the niceties despite the early hour and smiled dryly from behind her typewriter. "My, my, but the cogs are churning early this morning. He'll be down in a minute, I'm sure."

"He went up to C's office, did he?" Neil demanded. He was losing his hair, Diane noticed, receding hairline further emphasizing his large, sloping forehead and face the shape of a tombstone.

Diane hummed an affirmative, turning back to her work. It was early, too early for the Service to be this fussed, or for Neil to be for that matter. Sometimes she wondered if he didn't spend his nights down in the hutch, waiting to pounce on signals as soon as they came in. This train of thought immediately made her think of him and Belinda, and whether or not they were entirely alright. She certainly hoped so. She liked Belinda Wellingham, sweet society girl as she was, seen by Diane only from afar. Diane liked Neil, too, after a fashion. Belinda could do him a world of good if he let her.

"Am I on my bike?" Neil snapped.

"I wouldn't know," Diane shrugged, tugged her completed sheet of paper out of the typewriter and placed it on the desk by her elbow, replacing it with another. "If you are then it must have been a signal straight to C. I haven't had anything remotely interesting pass through my desk."

Burnside paced the floor in long, loping strides. He came to a stop and faced her, arms held loosely at his sides. "Is it true C will be stepping down at the end of the month?"

Diane looked up, fingers perched over the keyboard, and lifted an eyebrow coyly. "Well, I wouldn't know about that either, would I?"

Burnside smiled in the maddening way he did, stuck somehow between ingratiating and patronizing. "Nevertheless I'm sure you do."

"Well, I shouldn't then," said Diane, feigning bad-temperedness. "And neither should you. Probably a load of secretarial gossip, anyway." She began tapping at the second sheet, leaving firm black letters on the white sheet of paper. Her g was stuck. She'd have to remember to get that fixed before long.

"Let's say he is leaving, then," Burnside insisted. "Who do you think will get his seat?"

"The Deputy Chief, naturally, I suppose," Diane answered, permitting herself a small shrug.

"Even after all that business with that intelligence girl? What was her name? Wiseman? Certainly got her out of the way in a hurry. I wondered if Quincey wouldn't be following her."

Diane paused, fingers perched over the keyboard, and peered at Neil carefully, not for the first time wondering where he managed to get all his information from – and wondering also why he had pretended not to know Miss Wiseman's name. "Don't be ridiculous, Neil. Those rumors haven't got a spot of truth in them."

"Oh?" said Neil, studying her face in a way that made her feel like she was being interrogated. "What makes you so certain of that?"

"Well, for one thing Miss Wiseman wasn't the kind of girl who would fall in love with her boss, at least not a boss like Mr. Quincey. She's much too sober for something like that." Diane began again at her typing, not quite believing she was having this conversation with Neil Burnside of all people, steely-hearted head of the Special Section. Perhaps his infant marriage had, indeed, given him a greater awareness to things of the more romantic nature. "And, for another, I'm a woman. And a woman can tell things about another woman that a man couldn't. Anna Wiseman certainly didn't leave the building as a jilted lover, more like she'd just gotten away with robbing the second largest bank in Britain."

Neil didn't respond. He looked quite thoughtful and had resumed his pacing, long fingers threaded together behind his back.

Diane studied him covertly from behind her typewriter. "I'm surprised you didn't talk to her about it yourself, Neil," she said, and her attempt was rewarded with another raised eyebrow. "You knew Miss Wiseman quite well, didn't you?"

"Oh? Did I?" Neil was quite an accomplished liar. Diane would have been utterly convinced of his sincerity had she not already known the truth. She knew most of the girls in the typing pool, after all, and had heard in passing – from a fickle girl prone to romantic flights of fancy, attracted to rancid scandal like a vulture, and destined, no doubt, for early departure because of her loose tongue – that Miss Wiseman had phoned the hutch nearly two months ago in order to secure a private appointment with Neil, just before all those rumors concerning the Deputy Chief had sprouted up.

Diane wondered again, somewhat uneasily, what exactly Neil was playing at, but decided not to press the issue. "Just thought she was a special contact of yours from Tyler's department," she said with a shrug and forced a laugh. "For goodness sake's, Neil, you don't always have to try to make such a big mystery of things."

Neil smiled tautly and abruptly Diane knew that the topic of conversation had been closed. He pursed his lips in contemplation. "Who'll come in for the Deputy Chief, then?"

Diane frowned thoughtfully, "There's been noises about the Station head in Honk Kong."

"Least we'll be getting an intelligence man, then," said Neil. "Not a total incompetent like some of these Whitehall types."

"Careful, Neil," said Diane, "that's where you get your paycheck, after all."

"With the amount they pay us I don't think I'd even miss it if it was gone."

It was then that the door to the hallway swung open and Director of Operations Richard Hardwick, gray, grizzled, squat, and square, tramped across the threshold. "Morning Diane," he said gruffly. "Burnside, good to see you."

"Sir," said Neil cordially, nodding his head. He stood back to let Hardwick pass and lead the way into his office.

"Ring me if you get a call from Grosvenor Square, Diane," said Hardwick before shutting the door. "Otherwise hold my calls. Won't be a minute."

"Yes, sir," said Diane and the door to his office clicked shut, hiding him and Neil from her view.

"Where've you been then?" Willie demanded as soon as the hutch door swung open and Neil Burnside's reedy form made an appearance.

"We'd been about to ring the bobbies," said Bob without looking up from his work and earning himself not a glance of the slightest interest from Neil.

"Or MI5," said Willie, grinning to let Neil know they were only jest because sometimes Neil took things much too gravely. "In case you were defecting."

"I've been with D-Ops," said Neil.

"What, all this time?" said Willie and cast a despairing glance to Bob. "And here we thought we'd beat you to the grindstone for once."

Neil smiled faintly and walked over to his own desk while Willie and Bob looked on. He didn't take a seat, but patiently shuffled through the pile of papers that lay atop his desk.

"Well?" said Bob finally. "What did the boss want?"

"I'm on my bike," said Neil without turning, snatching hold of the folder he'd apparently been looking for.

"Where to?" said Willie, all business now, eyebrows furrowed.

"Saigon," Neil answered – offering no extraneous information, typical Neil, making one milk it out a single iota at a time.

"In Vietnam?" said Bob.

"Unless you know of any other Saigon," Neil answered.

"What are you off to do?" said Willie.

Willie could read the hesitation in Neil's eyes before he cautiously answered: "I've been instructed that it's need to know. I'm off to Missions Planning now to get my brief."

"Need to know?" Bob demanded indignantly and both Neil and Willie ignored him.

"Vietnam," said Willie, and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Thought that was still American territory. What's changed to make SIS interested?"

"After last April the American's haven't got a leg left to stand on in Vietnam," said Neil.

"Then what is this, some kind of SIS stand in for CIA?" Bob said.

Neil cocked an eyebrow, and Willie knew Bob had hit the mark, or at least glanced a near miss. "And if it was, would it really be so unusual? The CIA have certainly never hesitated to lend a hand if we lacked personnel."

"Still," said Willie. "I didn't think C was fond of lending his men do the American's dirty work. Especially in Saigon. Prime Minister isn't anxious to draw anyone's eyes to us in that mess, is he? We've managed to avoid it thus far."

"Who says I'm off to do the American's dirty work?" said Neil.

Bob sighed in exasperation, "Would have thought if they could trust one Sandbagger with it they could trust the rest of us. What if something goes wrong and Willie or I have to go in for a bust out?"

"You'll be briefed in due course should C think is necessary," Neil answered coolly. Neil had very little patience, Willie knew, when it came to Bob's more impetuous side.

"And in the meantime let's hope nothing goes wrong," Willie added.

Neil acknowledged Willie with a nod of his head. "Right, well. I'm off to Mission Planning. I'll be up again before I leave. Got a fourteen-hundred flight out of Heathrow."

"Right," said Willie, and watched Neil about-face out of the hutch, folder he'd grabbed from his desk held firmly under his arm. Willie had been unable to snag a look at the title.

"Well, well, so much for a nice, uneventful Monday," said Bob, casually loping by Willie's side, hands in the pockets of his slacks, as they made their way to Hardwick's office. The call from the fifth floor had interrupted their lunch, eaten at their desks as per usual while sorting through station signals and brushing crumbs off manila folders – extra third of the work having handed in their laps while Neil continued to plug away at whatever he was doing in Mission Planning.

"It does seem to come all at once, doesn't it?" said Willie. They entered the lift together and departed on the fifth floor, walking abreast down the hallway to the Operations Director's office.

"Afternoon, Diane," said Bob with a charming grin, pushing the door open with the heel of his hand.

"Hullo you two," said Diane, pausing from her work to share a smile. "You can go right in."

"Don't you ever get a lunchbreak?" said Willie, sweeping passed her desk behind Bob.

"I might ask you the same question."

"SIS will soon have a revolt on their hands if they're not careful," Willie replied, and stepped into Hardwick's office.

"Bread for all, and roses, too!" Bob tossed over his shoulder, already standing in front of Hardwick's desk.

Willie shut the door behind him, turned to face Hardwick, and immediately sobered having discovered the Director of Operations was not smiling.

"Take a seat, will you?" Hardwick flicked his wrist at the two of them. It was still raining outside, soft drizzle having increased to a heavy downpour. The rain beat a tattoo on the windows behind the dirty curtains.

"Sir," said Bob, and fell into one of the chairs sitting in front of the desk. Willie hooked another chair with his ankle and pulled it over to sit down.

"I suppose you've seen the East Africa signal?"

"Yes, sir," said Willie.

"I'd like to draw your attention specifically to Dubad Lutara, president of the Somali Democratic Republic."

"Ah yes," said Willie, nodding his head.

"Good old Lutara," said Bob.

"What can you tell me about him?" said Hardwick, which Willie knew was an endeavor for assessment rather than a real need for information.

It was Bob who answered, who had a head for details: "Fifty-six-years-old. Half a dozen official murders to his name, nearly as many wives, and twice as many enemies. As a young man he fought for Fascist Italy during the Second World War where he reached the rank of second lieutenant. Took command of Somalia four years ago after the assassination of his predecessor via a military coup. Supposed to be fond of placing long, chummy phone calls between Villa Somalia and the Kremlin."

"Right." Hardwick nodded in confirmation. Hardwick was a stern man, not given to levity, nor liable to be intimidated, with a square head topped with neatly trimmed gray hair, and who kept his agents at an arms' length. A fair man and a good D-Ops, he held Willie's honest respect and, what was more, Neil's. "Then you think he's aligned himself with the Soviets?"

"Yes, sir," Bob answered again. "Only a matter of time before they sign the marriage license."

"Caine?"

"I agree, sir," said Willie. "Most of Somalia's economic subsidies over the past three years have come from the Soviet Union. Not to mention humanitarian aid, transport of provisions and refugees – and it isn't as though the Soviet Union is accustomed to helping anyone if there isn't something they can get out of it in turn."

Hardwick nodded, looked down at the papers spilled across his desk, and looked back up, staring specifically at Bob, who – until then slouching unconcernedly in his seat – straightened his shoulders and picked up his chin.

"Until 1960, Somalia was under the care and supervision of Great Britain and, to a lesser extent, Italy," Hardwick said, donning his 'Professor's cap' as Willie liked to call it, a persona he used when explaining background on an operation akin to opening a history lesson at university. "They were released into independence and were doing quite well until Lutara's military takeover in '71. Lutara's reign hasn't exactly encouraged the development of his country, economically, socially, or politically, and neither has he wanted to admit how bad a hand he holds. Until now the Soviet Union have been leading the response to Lutara's crisis. As you can well understand, the United Kingdom isn't too fond of this current arrangement. We've an envoy from the Foreign Office heading out to meet with Lutara. They leave tomorrow morning on a ten o'clock flight."

"During which Britain will try to buy their way back into Somalia's good graces?" Willie guessed.

"The Foreign Office did not, of course, use such bald terms," Hardwick answered.

"What's the interest in Somalia, anyway?" said Bob. "Haven't much trade value to speak of. What does the UK care if the Soviets snatch them up? For that matter, why do the Soviets even want them?"

Hardwick frowned in disapproval at Bob's brazenness, perhaps interpreted as unintentional disloyalty by a less understanding individual, but nonetheless answered, "Somalia has a major natural reserve of uranium, one of the largest deposits in the world, in fact. Not to mention they've close ties with Saudi Arabia. Russia has been vying for the Saudi's attention since Ford and Khalid shook hands. Perhaps the Russians hope to approach Khalid roundabout through Lutara."

Bob shrugged carelessly, "Lutara doesn't like Westerners, though, does he? Especially the British. Spent some time in a UK POW camp during the war if I'm not mistaken. Granted amnesty, of course, but I suppose that might still rankle a bit."

"Well, the Foreign Office is hoping he might put some of his personal feelings aside for the good of his country."

Bob shrugged, "Doesn't seem likely. From what I've read he doesn't seem to be the most understanding of blokes."

"Supposed to be a bit erratic, too, isn't he?" Willie interjected. "Something of a nutter."

"That certainly does seem to be the media's image of him," Hardwick agreed. "But then there's also conjecture that that's exactly how Lutara wants the media to see him."

Willie placed a question that had been nagging him for some time; history, after all, had never been his favorite subject at school: "Right, and how does the Special Section figure into any of this?"

Hardwick glanced at Willie only briefly before again turning his eyes on Bob. He cleared his throat. "This Foreign Office delegation is headed by Deputy Under-Secretary Sir Roderick Hives. He's well aware of Lutara's unfriendly feelings toward the West and so harbors some ambivalent feelings of his own. Not to mention the country isn't exactly in a state of total civil accord at the moment. Half of Lutara's own cabinet would like to see him out of office, and it's a feeling shared by the majority of his poor and hungry public."

"So Hives is twitched and wants a bit of comfort," said Willie.

"Hives has asked for SIS to act as escort to the entire envoy generally and to himself specifically," said Hardwick.

"Sir," Bob started, a note of objection in his voice. "Sandbaggers aren't supposed to be sent on babysitting jobs like this. Can't the station handle it?"

"You needn't remind me, Judd, what Sandbaggers are and aren't supposed to do," said Hardwick gruffly. "I'm well aware this isn't the typical Special Section job."

"But Hives asked for a Sandbagger specifically," Willie finished for him. No wonder the man was so sullen. Pressure from above was always liable to rub Hardwick the wrong way. Hardwick liked to run his directorate as he saw fit, not at the will and whim of some ignorant, interfering politician.

"Yes," Hardwick admitted with a sigh. "And Hives has SIS friends in high places. We are at his beck and call. We won't send both of you, of course. I wasn't going to give into that no matter who Hives called. So I'm giving the job to you, Judd."

For a moment it looked like Bob was going to argue. His mouth dropped open but Willie shot him a warning glance. Bob's lips snapped back together. "Yes, sir," he said stiffly.

"Missions planning will be waiting for you."

"Yes, sir," said Bob again, and sighed as he pushed himself out of the chair. "I expect I'll cross paths with Neil on his way up."

Willie didn't get out of his chair yet. "What did you want me for, sir?"

Hardwick waited until Bob had left the office and shut the door behind him before looking at Willie squarely for the first time since he had come in. "Ah yes, Caine. With both Burnside and Judd away you'll have to hold down the fort."

"Yes, sir," said Willie, and hesitated, unsure whether or not he should voice his concerns. Neil had come out of the marines, Willie out of the RAF, their past head of section from and back again to a foreign station. Bob was the first directly out of the nursery the Special Section had picked up in nearly a decade – a trial run, of sorts, and one Willie sincerely hoped worked out. Bob had been with the Section now for nearly six months. He was still relatively inexperienced, a bit cocky – Willie would even admit insolent, perhaps, would be the better word – and ultimately very young.

"Maybe it would be better to send me, sir, to Somalia."

Hardwick waved Willie's suggestion aside. "Bob will be able to handle himself perfectly well on a security detail like this one, Caine. Besides, I'd like you standing by for any call for assistance in Saigon."

"Of course," said Willie. "What exactly is Sandbagger One up to in Vietnam, sir?"

Hardwick sighed. "I've been given strict instructions from C that anyone but to whom it would be vital shouldn't know."

"It's some kind of CIA adopted job, isn't it?" said Willie.

Hardwick's brow furrowed. "Burnside tell you that?"

"No, sir. It's just that Vietnam has been a primarily run CIA theater for the past decade and I didn't think the UK was too eager to get their hands on it."

"Well," said Hardwick. "You're right about that. Vietnam's a mess. The Prime Minister wants no part of it. And I may as well confirm that Burnside is, indeed, working as a favor to the CIA."

Willie nodded his understanding. "Shouldn't I better read the brief, then, in case I need to step in?"

"All in due time, Caine. And if all goes right than that time will never come. But I wanted to let you know, just in case."

"Don't make any plans for a last minute holiday?" Willie smiled loosely.

Hardwick nodded, "Unless you're prepared to break them."

"Or that holiday happens to bring me near Saigon."

"Right."

"Alright then, sir," said Willie, and stood, sensing he was dismissed. "I'd better get a head start on some paperwork, hadn't I? I'll be outnumbered tenfold now without Neil and Bob."

Hardwick cracked a rare smile. "Best of luck, Caine."

The hutch was predictable empty when Willie returned. His coat had dried but left gray puddles of soggy carpet beneath it from where the rain had dripped off. He pulled out the chair behind his desk, quizzically addressed his half-eaten sandwich from his interrupted lunch, and decided he wasn't very hungry.

The door opened and he looked up to see Neil come stomping in, a quality of suppressed haste hanging off his limbs. The hunt was up and Neil had caught the scent; Willie knew this pre-operation Burnside well, the slight impatience that hung off his figure, a curbed fervor to get out on the trail.

"Willie," said Neil with a nod. "Talked to Bob. Whitehall's bagged him for a babysitting job, have they?"

"Bob was less than thrilled."

"Can't fault him for that," said Neil, and muttered something under his breath in which Willie caught the words "interfering" and "bloody bureaucrats", evidently directed at Downing Street. He was shuffling some things around on his desk again, replacing the folder he'd taken down to Missions Planning.

"Bit of light reading for the trip?" said Willie offhandedly.

The corner of Neil's lip twitched upward in the nearest thing to a smile he would permit himself. "Something like that. Background on the Phoenix Program."

"Ah," said Willie, nodding slowly. "F-6 now, though, isn't it?"

Neil didn't answer. He was riffling through the drawers of his desk, probably looking for a pack of cigarettes.

"Why'd C pick you?" said Willie. There wasn't any competition among the Sandbaggers, no jockeying for promotion or anything that might otherwise muddle the success of their missions, and both Willie and Neil knew it. Neil wouldn't take Willie's inquiries for anything more than their face value: frank curiosity, concern to make sure the Service didn't have their Tab-A anywhere else then its proper slot.

Neil shrugged. "I'm Sandbagger One. C thought I was the most suited for the operation. Besides, you've just gotten back from Helsinki."

"Yes, but I know Vietnam," said Willie. "At least in that I've been there before."

"And I'm sure it was duly noted by C," Neil replied.

"How are you getting over the boarder?" Willie asked.

"Over from the Ukraine," said Neil. "Posing as a Soviet industrialist."

"Hope you've brushed up on your Russian," said Willie, looking up at Neil's towering, gangly form standing over his desk. "Have you drawn a weapon?"

"Not until I reach Saigon."

Willie digested this bit of information slowly, lips pressed firmly together, nodding his head. "Well watch your back over there, Neil, right?"

"Right, Willie." Neil turned on his heel.

"Anything specific you want me to tell Belinda?" Willie called to Neil's retreating figure.

"The usual lies," Neil replied with a sigh, whether resigned or irritated Willie couldn't tell.