Chapter 2

Thornseats Lodge (originally Thornsetts) is a real place built in the nineteenth century for a steel family as a hunting lodge. Sadly, as I write, it has stood empty for around twenty years and is largely derelict. The history is interesting, though. It stands in moorland just outside the city of Sheffield.

***************************

Neither of us could resist the challenge. The organisation, since it ‘didn’t exist’, was known simply as ‘the company’, and written references lacked any capitals. Thus members could refer to their employment in general terms. Shooters might refer to ‘special forces’, but specialists to ‘the company’ with some addition to their speciality. I, for example, could mention private medicine, perhaps alluding to subcontracting for the NHS.

We packed clothes and personal items, a couple of cases and a rucksack each. Everything else would go in storage until we had somewhere permanent. We were collected in a nondescript SUV and taken out of the city to The Lodge, which the company had purchased and extensively renovated some years previously. A rambling Victorian edifice, set in extensive grounds, it made an excellent training base. We were shown to one of the enormous bedrooms which had been converted into a studio flat with all ‘mod cons’. There, we put our clothes away and donned working uniforms. A brief tour ended in the dining room where we had a choice of several excellent meals. As we tucked in, Eugenie turned to me and grinned.

“The condemned personnel enjoyed their last meal.”

I couldn’t help a chuckle. We had an early night, though not without a gentle, satisfying coupling. We’d been warned of an early start in the morning. We were, in fact, awake when the PA system announced, “Oh five forty. Trainees and instructors to the Gym for oh six hundred. PT dress.”

A five mile run at the eight minute rate stretched my fitness, though not Eugenie’s. Callisthenics and weight work, overseen by an instructor who managed to motivate me without the scathing criticisms of my original enlistment. It was clear that my fitness was not up to that expected of a field operative. A welcome shower, clean clothes, and breakfast at eight. For me, three hours of advanced medical training. That would, in time, lead to qualification as a physician’s assistant, along with training in critical care in the field. Eugenie had similar training in her speciality, including hacking and security.

After an excellent lunch, firearms practice for two hours, then I spent a couple of hours in the clinic, dealing with minor injuries and checks. There was nothing outside of my current training and experience, which was pleasing.

I won’t describe the routine, which was much like any military training, though without the shouting. Everyone there was a self-starter, and if my fitness was lacking I certainly worked to amend that condition. Every trainee spent time in their speciality, in my case the clinic and in Eugenie’s case, communications. The latter meant that occasionally I was on my own in bed for a couple of hours. We went through advanced hand-to-hand and survival training, and dealing with torture and chemical interrogation. After about three months we were beginning to find our feet when we were summoned to see ‘Colonel White’.

“You’re doing well,” he announced, “I thought you would, but it’s good to have that confirmed. I have a job for you, if you’re interested. We need to extract a woman from Latvia. She’s out of Russia, and it should be straightforward, but you never know.”

I glanced at Eugenie, who smiled and nodded. “Yes, sir,” I answered for both of us. “I assume there’s a reason you want us in particular?”

He frowned. “Yes, there is. She was raped, and is pregnant, and is diabetic. You know what pregnancy can do to a diabetic’s control. I haven’t got a female medic, Geoff, but the two of you can travel as tourists. There will be everything you will need for the diabetes when you arrive in Riga. Oh, and a Pinard stethoscope.”

I nodded. “I have one, but I assume that I won’t be travelling as a doctor?”

“Exactly.” He smiled. “Nor are you soldiers. But you will have the sort of clothes nature-lovers use, browns, greens, and good boots, that sort of thing. Binoculars. Digital SLR camera and tripod. You’ll travel in a rented vehicle, though you’ll break your journey and stay in hotels and guest houses some of the time.”

“Sounds like fun,” Eugenie commented.

“I hope it is. But you know Murphy’s Law? And O’Toole’s commentary?”

I snorted, and Eugenie glanced at me, eyebrows raised. “Murphy’s Law is that anything that can go wrong, will, and O’Toole’s commentary is ‘Murphy was a fucking optimist’.”

“I knew the Murphy’s Law thing, but I never heard the other.”

“So, you are volunteering?”

I chuckled. “I obviously missed an important lesson. ‘Never volunteer’. Seriously, yes, we’re volunteering.”

“So draw any equipment you need and pack two rucksacks and two carry-ons. There’s a generous weight limit.”

Our outer clothes might almost be described as ‘digicam’. As ‘naturalists’ we’d wear stuff like that for almost the same reason as a soldier ... to be inconspicuous. But into those rucksacks went a digital SLR camera with a zoom lens, and a pair of excellent binoculars each. As well as a change of clothes, bivi bags, sleeping bags, camp stove. Into carry-ons our personal electronics and a change of underwear. Car into the city, train to Manchester Airport. We underwent a rather thorough inspection before being allowed on the aircraft, but in due course were in the air for the five-hour flight to Latvia. We spent a few hours exploring Riga before checking in to our hotel, and got a good night’s sleep before collecting a rental car and setting off into the country. It was a pity that we were there for a purpose, rather than to enjoy the country, but we made the most of the opportunity; there is a plethora of interesting wildlife; some if it is, perhaps, a little too interesting.

We didn’t head directly for our objective, but rather south of east. We found guest houses wherever possible, and used the bivvy bags where it wasn’t. We managed to photograph the more common fauna, but sadly didn’t manage to see a pine marten or lynx. I was just as pleased not to encounter a brown bear.

Four days after leaving Riga, we arrived in a small village a few kilometres from the border and found a guest house which catered to nature tourists. That evening, we left a discreet signal as instructed and made love before trying to catch up on sleep.

It’s a happy thing that we both enjoy rye bread. We had a good breakfast and the lady of the house made us sandwiches to take with us. We drove for an hour roughly north-west on very basic roads, and found a clearing where we could pull off. We then walked into some sparse birch woodland. There was certainly some birdlife around, but the only one we caught on film was a nuthatch; not something we needed to travel to Latvia to see, though we were happy to do so. After an hour or so, we returned to the car, and noted a leaf trapped under a wiper. Not saying anything, we just climbed in and moved off, heading north.

Movement under the pile of clothing and equipment on the back seat, and a head peeps out. “M ... mister Smith?” It took a moment before I registered my ‘contact’ identity. Just to confuse matters, we had two completely separate IDs. We’d travelled out as ‘Mister and Missus Jones’, and we had return tickets in that name, but we also had tickets in the name of Galbraith, along with a set for our ‘adult daughter’ Eloise.

“Hello, Eloise,” I said after a necessary pause to get my head together. ‘Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

She hesitated. “A little,” she agreed.

“We’ll stop shortly,” I suggested.

“Please, can we keep going?”

I shrugged. “Certainly. We’ll have to stop this evening. Our tickets are for the day after tomorrow.” I wasn’t watching her face, as I was driving, but Eugenie told me later that the woman’s expression fell. In the event, we ate as we drove. A brief stop to water the trees and for Eugenie to take over, and we drove until we reached a village with a tiny shop. There, a code phrase to the shopkeeper got me directions to a farm a few mile further on. It was only later I found out how complex the whole operation actually was: another couple who had been in country as ‘Galbraith’ before us, would take our return ride as ‘Smith’.

The farm also served as a B & B, but the lady of the house was British, though married to the Latvian farmer. We were shown to two rooms, each of which had large, ornate beds, with mattresses which were incredibly soft, and covered by thick duvets. We later found that the beds enveloped us in a warm comfort from which it was difficult to extract ourselves.

“Eloise,” I began, tentatively, “I need to examine you and note any injuries. Also to check your pregnancy...”

“I understand.” She began to disrobe immediately.

I found my instruments from our luggage. They were buried deep. In fact, in a compartment right at the bottom of my rucksack. They could not be said to be ‘concealed’, exactly, as they would show up to an x-ray. Eloise was completely naked before I finished, and Eugenie was still digging for the diabetic equipment. I had her lie on our bed and began a top to toe assessment. She was a very attractive young lady, though about six months pregnant, but her body was rather obviously marked with fading bruises and burn scars. I carefully recorded everything on a memory card which could be readily hidden.