THE FIRST ANGEL 6

The security directory listed PX657 as Julian Appleby-Jones, an archetypal old-school Whitehall civil servant – disarmingly ineffectual and as devious as racoon. These near extinct types still wore suits. Very few “suits” did anymore. That noun had become a generic term amongst my European colleagues for officials with any sort of power. Julian Appleby-Jones didn’t have a great deal of power, but his bosses had it in shed loads and he knew how to work it. He made my skin crawl.

‘Professor Granger, how perfectly nice of you to return my call so promptly. How are feeling today?’

‘I’m fine thank you Julian. How are you?’

‘Ragged dear boy, but we must press on mustn’t we?’

‘Sorry to hear that. What can I do for you.’

‘Well it’s rather a case of what I can do for you. You see there’s a very important event coming up and it’s my pleasure to inform you that you are required to attend.’

‘What kind of event, Julian?’

My hackles were beginning to itch.

‘Not possible to say, Dear boy. The thing is, it starts tomorrow so you will need to pack some things for a short stay rather quickly. There’s a car coming for you at 15.00.’

‘Three o’clock? That’s very short notice. Julian.’

‘I believe I did say it was very important.’

‘That doesn’t give me much time to make arrangements with my people while I’m away . . . how long is this event going to be?’

‘Oh um, a week . . . or two.’

‘Two weeks? How am I going to---‘

‘Don’t worry old chap, it will all be taken care of.’

I was annoyed rather than worried – until the little snake told me not to be.

‘Where is this “event”?’

‘Need to know and all that – sorry. The car comes at 15.00 please be ready. You have had all your tropics jabs haven’t you?’

‘Yes, but why—‘

‘’bye Professor. Must be orff. I have a lot of people to contact.’

The line went dead. It had to be about Brenda. It couldn’t be a jolly for Euresco programme participants in some exotic location patting each other on the back. That wouldn’t go on for two weeks plus Julian’s assurance that things would be taken care of sounded ominous.

The car was forty-five minutes late. An idiot organiser in London forgot about the fifteen centimetre dump of snow and the fact most of the roads in East Anglia would be untreated – there was nobody to do it. Rural counties like Norfolk had no budget for a fleet of AI clearing machines.

Two security guys sent as escorts took me to a grey all-wheel drive vehicle. We used to call them SUVs, but there was nothing sporty about this cubic chunk of re-cycled plastic.

The journey was dreadful. Throughout it the vehicle’s four drive wheels independently scrambled for grip with a discordant cacophony of four powerful electric motors whining at different speeds. Inside there was also discord. The driver loudly complained at having to drive halfway across Norfolk in pitch dark to an RAF base instead of Norwich International, a mere ten kilometres away. The journey would normally have taken an hour. We arrived at RAF Honington at about 7.30pm.

The gates to the airbase swung open automatically and closed the second we passed through. We sped across snow free taxiways to an unmarked Lear-Elecroprop illuminated by a couple of small floodlights. Two Anthrodroids of a make I didn’t recognise seemed to be fighting a losing battle to clear snow off its wings while four robotic snow ploughs sped up and down clearing enough of the runway for take-off. My mostly mute escorts either didn’t know or wouldn’t say where I was being taken. They left me at the door of the aircraft. Two hostesses greeted me. I felt rather apprehensive about the weather, but as soon as we took our seats the props wound up to speed and within ten minutes we were airborne in the hushed luxury of an electrically powered executive aircraft. During the flight lasting just over an hour, the two hostesses brought a dish of Gentse Waterzooi and a half bottle of Cotes du Jura white wine.

It was totally black outside when the plane started its descent. I could feel we were getting lower as distant pin points of light appeared but there was no indication of where we were landing. I felt my heartbeat increasing. I could tell we were very near the ground then a row of bluish lights appeared. We touched down almost immediately. Apart from the runway lights, we taxied along in darkness. I noticed a dark within dark shadow of a building as the pilot brought the machine to a halt. The hosties jumped up and prepared the exit, then beckoned me. The pilot appeared and all three stood by the door.

‘Welcome to Belgium, Professor. I hope you enjoyed the short flight.’

I believe I answered in the affirmative, but I was distracted by the limousine parked right by the exit steps. Standing by its open rear door Dietmar Wolfenhausen, Director General of Euresco, bundled in a leather coat, waved at me.

‘Jonny, so sorry about the cloak and dagger stuff, but this meeting is necessarily very hush hush. I heard you had a terrible journey so I thought it was only right that I should meet you here personally. Wonderful to see my old friend again.’

‘Good to see you, Dietmar. What’s going on?’Where is this place?’

‘We’ll leave that for tomorrow. Let’s just get you to the hotel so we can get a beer together. You’ve arrived at an old Belgian airbase. It’s only used for special flights these days.’

We drove for about twelve kilometres past a couple of small towns on poorly lit roads lined with small shops and smart looking houses. Many were boarded up. It didn’t appear to have snowed much, but it was very cold. The dashboard on the limo indicated -15.  After a short while we turned onto a narrow road lined with dense woodland. We eventually came to a heavily razor-wired gate across the road. An armed soldier let us through. I could see high fencing stretching through the trees in both directions.  In the lights of the car I thought I saw a broken sign tangled in a bush. It read, “Welcome to C.”

‘Where is this, Dietmar?’

‘Were are in what used to be Vossmeeren Center Parcs in Lommel. When people no longer wanted to spend leisure time in tropical leisure centres the company had to close most of them. They tried to make this one into a business conference venue, but it failed. It was bought by the European government due to its close proximity to the Dutch and German borders. Mostly it’s used for planning, education and training. The hotel and conference centre is very well equipped. The leisure facilities are still in use for R&R.

After a drive through more forest we drew up in front of a large three story building with a rather grand newly constructed entrance lobby. The whole complex surrounded by trees. The carpark opposite was littered with top end luxury cars.

My luggage was whisked away to my room. Dietmar took my arm.

‘Come, Jonny let’s have that beer, I think you probably need it.’

He led me in the main reception area. It was full of people I assumed to be delegates. I recognised a few, As we approached the bar the crowd respectfully parted for us.

‘That’ll get some of them wondering. Dietmar whispered.