Wally Woods knew this depressing block of 1930s flats just off the North Circular Road. Years ago when he was a young A4 surveillance officer, starting his career, he’d often sat outside it. In those days, at the height of the Cold War, the block had been home to a group of East German intelligence officers and their families. When the wall had come down in 1989 they had melted away like snow.
Wally and A4 had moved on to other targets. New, younger surveillance officers had been recruited and now he was a team leader. Apart from his partner, Maureen Hayes, he was the only one of the team who actually remembered the Cold War. Halton Heights had moved on too, though it still looked just as down at heel. Now it was home to some Syrian diplomats and their families.
It was a quiet day for A4. For once they had no big operation on, and Wally and his team had been briefed to observe the comings and goings at Halton Heights. The briefing officer, Liz Carlyle of the counter espionage branch, had told them that this was part of establishing background information on a new target. The job was to photograph anyone going out or coming in. But if any one of three men suspected to be intelligence officers appeared – and she had handed out rather poor-quality photographs which looked as if they had come from passports or visa applications – they were to follow him and report on his movements, as well as photograph whoever he met. It was the sort of job A4 hated – vague and promising little action.
By ten a.m. on this hot, sultry morning, nothing at all had happened. Wally was happy with his position, parked in a layby outside a line of small shops at the side of the flats. He had a good view of the ends of the semi-circular drive that led to the front door. Maureen was in the launderette, one of the shops in the row, putting some old clothes from the A4 store through a wash. If the call came to move, she’d just abandon them.
From where he sat, Wally could see Dennis Rudge apparently dozing on a bench just opposite the flats, with a full view of the front door, while a few yards behind him, in a little park, the youngster of the team, Norbert Bollum – they called him Bollocks – sat on another bench reading a paper. Other members of the team were parked up in nearby streets or driving slowly around in the vicinity.
Wally yawned and looked at his watch. Another four hours before the shift ended. Then his eye caught a movement – Dennis Rudge, whose head had been sunk on his chest, had suddenly looked up.
Wally’s radio crackled. ‘There’s action at the front door. One male. I think it’s Target Alpha.’
The door of the launderette swung open. Maureen came out and got into the car beside Wally. Several streets away a car did a three-point turn and two others that had been parked up started their engines.
‘He’s standing at the door. Looks as though he’s waiting for someone,’ came through from Dennis on the radio. As he spoke a black people carrier with smoked windows turned into the semi-circular drive.
‘There’s two, no, three men getting out,’ reported Dennis a few minutes later. ‘Leather jackets, short hair. They look military. They’re unloading big holdalls. I think they’re going to go inside.’
‘Get pictures – including the luggage,’ ordered Wally. Clutching her handbag, Maureen got out of the car, walked briskly across the road and past the flats. The camera concealed in her handbag would supplement the pictures Dennis got from his bench.
After everything was unloaded and all the men had gone inside, the people carrier drove away. Following his brief, Wally let it go, and kept his team at Halton Heights in case anyone left the flats. But by two o’clock, when their shift ended, no one had emerged, and Wally withdrew his people. Control at Thames House would make a preliminary report of their findings; Wally and his team would be debriefed in detail the following day.