Murder By Umbrella: The Nikki Sinclair Spy Thriller Series, #7

By Jaye Rothman

If you enjoy lesbian thrillers, you'll love reading the Cold War spy novels featuring MI6 agent Nikki Sinclair.

 

An umbrella-wielding assassin has murdered two scientists recruited from the Eastern Bloc on the streets of London. Nikki is assigned to the top secret facility in the English countryside, where she encounters the prime suspect, the intriguing Eva Horakova. Nikki races to identify the killer before another defector ends up dead.

 

Immerse yourself in Nikki's world - buy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jaye Rothman
• Release date: Feb 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393933663

Book preview

Murder By Umbrella is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events and actual persons are used fictitiously, and are products of the author’s imagination.

Chapter 1 Day One

London.

April 1978

An unfortunate affair, to say the least, PD said. But these things happen in the field.

The director-general sat behind his highly polished rosewood desk and stared at Nikki. Even at 10 p.m., he still looked fresh in an expensively tailored black pinstripe suit, crisply starched white shirt, and his old boys’ Harrovian tie. The man had recruited her at university and mentored her career over the years. For the last two, he held the highest position in the British Intelligence Services: head of MI6.

Would you like a drink?

No, thanks. Hoping to ease the tight band wrapped around her body and her mind, Nikki had drunk three double whiskies while on the plane from Cairo. And any discussions with PD required the highest vigilance.

I gather from Fraser all loose ends were tied up.

Nikki studied him. Increasingly, he was becoming more toad-like. But not the amiable, kindly Mr Toad from Wind in the Willows. PD’s neck had shrunk onto his shoulders, and a heavily lined brow drooped over eyes which never seemed to blink. Small patches of flaking eczema falling from the back of his hands peppered the desk as he turned the pages of a file. Although she’d seen him less than six months ago, he seemed to have aged a decade.

His head shot up, and his eyes held Nikki’s.

Somewhat to her surprise, she broke the contact first. Yes. She didn’t trust herself to speak further. Exhaustion seeped through her body and clouded her mind. Sleep had evaded her during the flight from Cairo. She’d deliberately avoided any thoughts about the deaths of the people she’d left behind. Instead, she’d spent hours rerunning every conversation shared with the Countess.

You did well in difficult circumstances. I’m closing the file. PD picked up a rubber stamp and pressed it onto the cover. I’ve had a request from the Home Secretary ... and the Minister of Defence. They want to borrow you.

Nikki’s mind searched for possibilities. She raised her brows. Borrow?

PD took a sip of the brown liquid in the cut-glass tumbler. Like Fraser, he had a taste for the malt whiskies.

Yes, they want to send you undercover. Here in England.

That’s highly unusual, isn’t it?

He nodded. It’s unprecedented. Apart from the war years, MI6 hasn’t been involved in internal security. That’s down to MI5. He paused to extract a cigar from a box sitting on his desk, cut the end and placed it in his mouth.

They need our assistance. He removed a gold lighter from his waistcoat pocket, held the flame to the fat brown tube and sucked furiously until the end glowed red. Clouds of smoke wafting across the desk reminded Nikki why she hated cigars.

He rose to his feet. They’re waiting for us.

Who?

The Secretary of State for Defence and Braithwaite, of course. Braithwaite was the head of MI5. The Home Secretary and Manning. PD’s mouth pressed into a thin line. A sure sign Manning must have done something to displease him.

Someone tapped three times on the door leading to the conference room. Nikki dutifully followed PD towards the door.

I want you to sit on my right, he said before turning the handle.

A rectangular rosewood table and eight chairs were the only furniture in the room. On the wall hung three gloomy oil paintings of battle scenes from the 18th century. The department had borrowed them from the National Gallery to remind visitors of Great Britain’s once glorious place in the world.

Nikki expected the Head of Operations, Duncan Barton, to be attending the meeting, but only Manning, the section leader of the Eastern European section, sat in the conference room. He nodded her way. She snorted silently. Obviously, she didn’t warrant a verbal greeting.

Manning appeared to have fallen from grace in PD’s eyes. Nikki narrowed her eyes at the man. How long would he last in his present position? The last few years hadn’t been kind to him. Now he’d lost the little hair he’d had left, and rumours abounded that his health had begun to fail. He sat, deep in thought, chain-smoking his usual Woodbines. Red-rimmed eyes showed a lack of sleep.

Braithwaite, the prematurely white-haired head of MI5, was sat four chairs down from PD’s usual position. He nodded at Nikki but didn’t attempt to stand or shake her hand.

The two Ministers stood to one side of the table, heads close together. Nikki listened for a snatch of conversation, but they kept their voices deliberately low.

Good evening, gentlemen. PD’s greeting cut through the muted murmur. He turned to Nikki. You know Alan Braithwaite, of course. Nikki smiled at the head of MI5, but he lowered his eyes. Let me introduce you to Dyfan Jenkins, Home Secretary, and Harry Brown, the newly appointed Minister of Defence.

Pleased to meet you, Nikki. Jenkins’s accent came from the Welsh valleys. The off-the-peg suit and black suede shoes he wore revealed pride in his working-class roots.

She shook his hand and turned to Harry Brown. The Minister of Defence was a giant bear of a man, whose longish red hair could have done with a trim. You did an excellent job in Cairo.

Nikki muttered her thanks.

Let’s begin. The command came from Nikki’s boss. Time is of the essence.

PD had taken control of the meeting. His wife, the only daughter of one of England’s wealthiest dukes, had inherited a large estate in the Sussex countryside, and he was a staunch Conservative. The Labour government wanted to raise taxes on Britain’s wealthy and privileged upper classes. How he managed to serve those set out on destroying his way of life was beyond Nikki’s comprehension.

He pulled out the chair on his right and, as instructed, Nikki sat down. The smile he sent to Braithwaite didn’t reach his eyes. You’d better brief Nikki. Don’t leave out any details.

Braithwaite straightened in his seat and opened a brown file. Two men were killed in Oxford Street within two weeks of each other. The public and media are under the impression these were random murders, but we know they’re not. It’s only a matter of time before the press discover these men are connected. They worked together at a top-secret facility in Sussex, one which specialises in developing nerve toxins.

Braithwaite sipped from his water glass. Shortly before they died, both men reported an assailant carrying an umbrella had stabbed them in the calf. Members of the public witnessed the assaults but, unfortunately, nobody could provide an accurate description of the assassin, only that he carried a large black umbrella.

The first scientist to die was Laszlo Mester. Braithwaite glanced down at his notes. He was a Hungarian who came to England after the ‘56 revolution. That afternoon Mester took the train to London and then the bus to Oxford Circus. He’d told one of his colleagues he planned on purchasing an anniversary gift for his wife in one of the department stores. When Mester exited the bus, he felt a sharp pain pierce his calf. And then, at home, he became short of breath. His wife called an ambulance and, adhering to standard procedure, contacted the facility. Laszlo Mester was admitted to Chase Farm Hospital in North London, where his condition rapidly deteriorated. He died twelve hours later.

A week later the second victim, Arkady Zakutin, was attacked. Exactly like Mester, he travelled to London by train, and then caught the bus to Oxford Circus. He had an appointment with a cardiac specialist in Harley Street. He was alighting from the bus when he thought he saw someone waving a black umbrella. Like Mester, Zakutin experienced a stabbing pain in his calf. He didn’t think any more about it until he’d returned to the facility and begun to feel unwell. Thirteen hours later Zakutin died.

Braithwaite rubbed his thumb over a small cut on his chin. The autopsies of both men revealed high levels of muscarine in their bodies.

Muscarine? I’ve never heard of it, Nikki said. What type of toxin is it?

It’s a natural product found in certain mushrooms, the Secretary of Defence said. It’s used in medicine to treat various human conditions, but if engineered, muscarine has the potential to kill people.

Nikki’s mind raced. She’d never heard of the facility he’d mentioned even through the grapevine. Toxins created by mushrooms. It seemed bizarre and unreal, like something straight out of a sci-fi movie. As for Eastern European scientists working on a secret project, which Whitehall Mandarin had given that the stamp of approval? She addressed her question to the Minister. What were Mester and Zakutin working on?

Do you know much about toxins?

Nikki shook her head. No, not really, but I know there are three types.

Yes, that’s right. Chemical, biological and physical toxins. The Chemical Defence Establishment (CDE), as you know, is based at Porton Down. Scientists there conduct research on chemical and biological weapons. The Norton on the Marsh facility, however, develops and modifies toxins from living cells or organisms, mostly plants.

Modified. A red light flashed in Nikki’s brain. What do you mean, Minister?

"For example, ricin is extracted from castor beans. It’s toxic whether inhaled, injected or ingested. A minute amount can cause pain, inflammation and haemorrhage, and then death.

After the East German government built the Berlin Wall in 1961, the Soviets and Eastern Bloc countries raised the stakes by increasing their stockpiles of arms and nuclear weapons. The West had no alternative but to spent millions on the arms race. Soviet missiles, as you know, are aimed at the heart of Europe and the UK.

He took a sip of water. In 1918 an assassination attempt on Lenin failed. Russian scientists discovered the bullet had been dipped in poison, ricin. The potential for creating weapons using plant toxins appealed to Lenin. He ordered the building of a laboratory to investigate possibilities, essentially so he could murder his enemies without leaving behind any trace of foul play. Lenin named it the Special Room.

Over the years, the Soviets have changed the name repeatedly. Nowadays, it’s called Kamera. In English, ‘The Chamber’. The laboratory’s location is moved to a different area of the Soviet Union every two or three years. Unfortunately, we have no idea of its current whereabouts.

Dyfan Jenkins tapped his fingers on the table. After 1961, the government, and our allies, decided to develop toxins as a counter-measure. We concentrated on those that wouldn’t leave devastating effects on the environment. So, if we wanted to target a specific area like Red Square for instance, rather than involving the whole city of Moscow, we’d have the ability to concentrate our efforts.

PD drew on his cigar and exhaled a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. One of the scientists who defected provided information confirming the Soviets are advanced in the production of toxins. One vial of modified botulinum, another one of these toxins, has the potential to wipe out the population of Birmingham.

Although the Home Secretary’s revelations caused her deep unease, Nikki maintained a neutral expression. Minister, you mentioned Norton on the Marsh.

It’s a rather unusual place, Harry Brown said. It’s near Selsey in Sussex. To all intents and purposes, it seems to be a quaint English village. However, all people living there are in the employ of the Ministry of Defence. There are no exceptions to this rule. During the working week our scientists live in comfortable cottages.

He glanced around the table. Some of them are permitted to return to their families at weekends or to spend a weekend in London. It depends on their security clearance. A small number of soldiers guard the perimeter, and the village has only one entrance and exit. The laboratories are located in a wing adjacent to the manor house. All in all, it’s a charming place to live, and the scientists seem quite happy.

Nikki’s smile was brief. The place sounded more like a prison. Supposing the residents want to visit Selsey during the week?

They can’t. Braithwaite sounded tetchy. It’s not a holiday camp. It’s a top-secret facility. The scientists know the rules, and they abide by them.

And if they don’t? Nikki glanced at her boss.

PD nodded, giving her the clearance to keep asking questions.

We would know if any of them tried to leave the grounds. A battalion of squaddies providing security would entail an extortionate expense, so each scientist has an electronic tag fitted around their wrist. Braithwaite paused for a moment, as if waiting to be commended for his financial acumen. The American military developed the technology after the war, and we borrowed it. When the scientists leave the facility, the tag’s removed. But inside the facility, they must wear it day and night, even when they sleep. The device lets us know exactly where they are at all times. It’s a cost-effective way of monitoring them. He beamed as he glanced around the table.

Thank you, Alan. PD’s tone was distinctly chilly. And the village itself, Minister?

There’s a typical English pub, a shop, sporting amenities and an indoor swimming pool, and a cinema. Professor Watkins, the head of the facility, runs a tight ship but he has to keep the scientists happy. I understand he organises showings of Eastern European films twice a week.

Nikki froze. Why movies from behind the Iron Curtain?

Because we want them to feel at home, but also satisfied they made the right decision, Dyfan Jenkins cleared his throat. They’re defectors from Eastern Bloc countries.

All of them? And they’re developing toxins powerful enough to wipe out humanity? Nikki felt the colour drain from her face. She glanced at PD, but he merely shrugged.

The Home Secretary frowned. Yes, but they’re under very close supervision.

Not close enough if two scientists have been killed within two weeks of one another. Nikki couldn’t understand their failure to see the implications.

Exactly. PD said in support. My thoughts entirely.

Braithwaite glared at both of them in turn. You sound like the gutter press. They’re enjoying a rise in circulation because the great British public, it seems, can’t get enough of a story involving an umbrella-wielding assassin.

On Wednesday I appeared on Newsnight, the Home Secretary said. The popular BBC current affairs programme was broadcast nightly. And I found it a very unpleasant experience. The presenter grilled me regarding the effect this is having on our economy. Directors of the department stores on Oxford Street report their profits have plunged since the murders. Members of the public are frightened to go shopping because of the risk of being stabbed by an umbrella. These killings are affecting public morale and our tourism trade.

Why defectors, Minister? Nikki said. It seems like a risky strategy.

The ministers glanced at each other and then Dyfan Jenkins said, Yes, it is. But the Eastern Bloc countries are far ahead of us in the research of neurotoxins. That’s why we jumped at the chance to recruit those defectors who approached us.

Where’s the toxin that killed Mester and Zakutin?

That’s a good question. Braithwaite shook his head. The answer is that we don’t know. He kept his gaze fixed on the table. The actual sample disappeared with the formula and the files.

When did someone notice the solution was missing?

Braithwaite didn’t glance up. We’re not entirely sure. After Mester died, the toxin was still in the lab under lock and key. After Zakutin’s death, however, the vial had vanished.

Who’s in charge of security?

Braithwaite lifted his eyes and looked at Nikki.  A man called Bryant. He’s worked for MI5 for ten years. A competent officer and trustworthy.

PD relit his cigar and puffed on the pungent tube. He’s incompetent, in my opinion. Why didn’t Bryant take steps to secure the toxin after Mester died? He glared at Braithwaite. Two scientists dead, and the formula and toxin missing. The whole affair is an unmitigated, bloody shambles.

The Home Secretary pursed his lips. I agree with you, Francis.

PD visibly winced at the overfamiliar use of his first name. He preferred government ministers addressed him by his title of Director-General.

"If our cousins get to hear of this, Harry Brown said, it will be both an intelligence and a diplomatic disaster. This time we won’t be forgiven, and there will be no reprieve. Our standing in Europe will be severely diminished, leaving room for our neighbours champing at the bit to take our place."

The neighbours were France and Germany who, for years, had vied with the British to become the USA’s best friends in Europe. A long, ominous silence filled the room.

Braithwaite shrank further down into his chair. I’ve instructed Bryant to assist you unconditionally. He will organise your accommodation in the village. The head of MI5 drained his glass of water and then pulled a clean white handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed at the tiny beads of sweat dotting his forehead. Probably stressed that his coveted knighthood was slipping away. Three months ago, a scientist who had defected from Czechoslovakia began working at the facility. Bryant has his suspicions about the woman, but nothing conclusive so far.

Nikki weighed up the possibilities. Had MI5 probed deeply enough into the backgrounds of the defectors? Could they have missed KGB involvement somehow?  Maybe Russian Intelligence had blackmailed or threatened Mester and Zakutin. Then, when the scientists had refused to comply or co-operate, KGB agents had used the toxin they’d developed to murder them. Perhaps to convey