Ghost Station

By M A Fitzroy

It's 1976, the Cold War is still at its coldest, and retired agent John Dashwood is persuaded to return to supervise one last mission. However nothing at Ghost Station is quite the way he remembers it and everybody seems to have something to hide – including his two valued colleagues, Rick Wentworth and Harry Tilney, and his enigmatic boss Sir Charles Grandison. When operational necessity requires Dashwood to send Rick and Harry into a dangerous situation, the boundaries between friend and enemy begin to blur and he's left isolated and wondering which of his so-called allies he can really trust.

• Language: English
• Publisher: satis fiction
• Release date: Jun 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201088347

M A Fitzroy

When MA Fitzroy started writing M/M (or 'slash') fiction, it was common for writers to adopt a pen name of the opposite gender. Thus she chose 'Adam Fitzroy', which helped protect her from people who'd targeted her in the past, but was always careful to make no claims that the person behind that pseudonym was actually male. * In these more enlightened times, however, the real MA Fitzroy can at last stand up and be counted - as she always has to her closest friends! * Imaginist and purveyor of tall tales MA Fitzroy is a UK resident who has been successfully spinning male/male romances either part-time or full-time since the 1980s, and has a particular interest in examining the conflicting demands of love and duty.

Book preview

1976

1

London

The young man on his knees was called Piers. He was blond, aristocratic, hadn't a brain in his head - and the things he could do with that mouth of his made up for everything that was so wrong about him. John Dashwood had picked him up that evening, cruising what was superficially a straight pub in Soho ... or as straight as a pub in Soho ever got, at least. It was the kind of place with shiny brass ornaments above the bar and hanging baskets which in a kinder season would have been brimming with lobelias, pelargoniums and trailing ivy. It was late in the year, however; plant-life was in retreat and icy winds cut through the concrete canyons. Dashwood prowled obsessively, and at the Admiral Benbow he struck lucky.

This boy had it all. He had the dopey good looks Dashwood favoured, and enough old family money not to give a slap about his reputation. This made him uninhibited, and he couldn't have been much gayer if he'd tried. It had taken precisely thirty seconds to get his upper-class mitts on Dashwood's anatomy and only thirty minutes after that to drag him off to this converted horse's larder behind Chelsea Barracks, throw him up against a wall and inhale him to the root. Not only that, but there was the promise of an experienced arse to follow; Piers, it seemed, had been quite as long without sex as Dashwood himself. After a few flattering exclamations of joy at having his hands on a real man - Dashwood's sturdy prick rarely received such an enthusiastic welcome - capitulation had been almost instant. Piers enjoyed being ordered around and Dashwood - large, squarely handsome, with greying fair hair and a cruel gash of a mouth - had a lifetime of command experience. He was exactly what Piers was looking for, and they had both known it at once.

But oh, this was bliss; slow, deep, puissant with possibility, driving all thought out of his head except the need for more of the same. He had the boy's face between his hands now, fucking his mouth in time to a violent hammering which rose up insistently from the street. For all he knew or cared it could be the Apocalypse, with the universe smashing itself to oblivion outside; whatever it was, though, it served only to provide a discordant accompaniment he found peculiarly appropriate. Violence was what Dashwood did best; he had acknowledged that long ago, and when he found someone willing to have it visited upon him he had no particular reason for holding back. The boy was gagging and there were tears in his eyes, but Dashwood was in his element - so much so that the abrupt appearance of three police officers in the room did nothing at all to put him off his stroke. He knew they were there, he just did not care - and since they made no attempt to intervene, he continued until he achieved gratification. Not until he had completely finished with the boy did he drop him to the floor and step away.

Good, was it? A plain clothes officer faced him, his expression something between amusement and disgust.

Dashwood wiped himself languidly on a silk handkerchief. Thank you, it was excellent.

Put it away, then, sunshine - you're coming with us. The double entendre registered only belatedly. I mean to say, you're under arrest.

Dashwood finished straightening his clothing before replying. Both of us? he asked. Or only me?

Only you. We've been watching you for some time now. One of the other officers was helping Piers to his feet and installing him in a dressing gown. You should be more careful about the company you keep, the detective advised him. This man's a known pervert.

Piers had made no attempt to wipe his mouth and was running his tongue luxuriously over debauched wet lips. He did not seem unduly repentant. All right. I'm sorry.

You will be, if we have to search this place for drugs. What do you think, Constable? Does this man look stoned to you?

The burly officer sniffed in disdain. Very likely, he said. Perhaps we should take him in for examination?

The suggestion wiped the smile from the young man's face, and he turned in alarm to the officers. You can't ...

We can, my boy, the detective told him. And we will, but maybe not this time, eh? We'll be watching you, though, you can be sure of that; just you behave yourself from now on. He turned back to Dashwood. Any possessions?

The clothes I stand up in.

Right then. Car's outside.

And, after that, it was all extremely simple. Dashwood was ushered to the door of an anonymous black Jaguar and settled himself in the rear seat, the detective shuffled in beside him and the uniformed constables got into the front. There was a thick glass partition between the two compartments but even so Dashwood waited until the vehicle had left the mews and was out of sight of the house before he spoke again.

What possible reason could you have, Tom, for interrupting me in the middle of the sweetest fuck I've had in ages?

Sorry about that, mate. In the seat beside Dashwood, the young detective seemed to relax at last. Maybe he'll still be waiting when we've finished.

And maybe pigs will fly.

At least you got your end away, was the envious response. Pretty impressively, too, if I'm any judge. Best thing I've seen outside of a blue movie.

You need to get out of the house a bit more, young man - maybe get your own end away occasionally. Dashwood paused long enough to consign the pliant Piers to the dustbin of history. I take it we're going underground?

We are. Shit hit the fan again, I'm afraid.

They do realise I'm retired, don't they?

They do, John. I'm sure they do. Unfortunately, a secret agent is never really retired - and, for reasons nobody's bothered explaining to me, it seems that nobody on the entire planet will do for this particular job but you.

*

A few streets away, a narrow entrance from what was usually a busy shopping street gave onto something which had long ago been the yard of a coaching inn. The Flitch of Bacon had stood there for more than two hundred years; now, its footprint was preserved in the shapes of early twentieth-century commercial buildings and its name had become that of the narrow yard, just large enough to turn a Rolls-Royce in, which opened out from an archway between a bank and a handbag shop. All around it anonymous buildings glowered into featureless grey space; three concrete steps led to plate glass doors supervised by a uniformed security man and a plaque proclaimed the enterprise within to be GS Holdings, which the few directories that listed it described vaguely as a financial concern of some sort.

Dashwood stepped out of the car, lit a cigarette, and waited. When the door of the building was opened for him, he and his escort stepped into a grimy lobby where a second security man delved behind his desk and brought out two photographic identity badges.

Welcome back, Mr Dashwood, he said.

Thank you, Sid. I don't think I'm staying, though, am I?

I wouldn't know, sir. Clearly Sid knew very well, but did not consider it his place to say anything. It's always a pleasure to see you.

Dashwood grimaced, clipping the badge to his lapel, and joined his colleague by the lift.

Well, Tom, what's it about? With a creaking of ancient winches the mechanism engaged and the lift began to sink slowly through the floor.

Something in Germany. Tom Bertram had taken off his trench coat and slung it over his arm. The two uniformed officers, if such they were, had remained with the car.

East or West?

Don't know.

Not a lot of use then, are you? Dashwood's voice was low and gritty, his tone weary rather than angry.

As usual, in fact, was the wry response. You know what it's like here, John, they treat us like mushrooms - keep us in the dark and feed us shit.

One of the reasons I took the opportunity of retiring when I could, Dashwood reminded him dourly.

And one of the reasons they have you on lifetime recall, Bertram pointed out. If you don't manage to get yourself shot in the meantime, they'll probably still be pulling the same stunt when you're eighty-five.

Now that's something to look forward to!

The lift jolted to a halt, and the doors opened onto a damp-smelling basement piled with junk. Old desks and filing cabinets seemed to have migrated here haphazardly, together with remnants of unidentifiable office equipment, the whole ensemble redolent of spiders and dirt. An unmarked door appeared to have been neither painted nor opened for decades and on the other side of it was still another security man - this one conspicuously sporting a shoulder holster. He nodded them through, and they stepped onto carpet and into an atmosphere of businesslike restraint; the whirr of fans and the click of typewriters were virtually the only sounds to be heard.

At the end of a stub corridor Bertram paused, knocked on a door and ushered Dashwood through it. Then he turned away, leaving him to the mercy of the man inside.

*

Sir Charles Grandison regarded his visitor across an oaken slab of desk and a couple of yards of executive carpeting, chewing his lower lip thoughtfully. The two had met only once before, when Sir Charles had shaken Dashwood's hand and wished him well in his retirement. Dashwood hadn't cared for him then and he didn't much care for him now. During his time in hospital, the result of a parachuting accident which had left him learning to walk again over a period of many long, excruciating months, he had grown an extra skin to protect himself from the machinations of the world in general and this man in particular – and also those of the intelligence network of which he was the head.

Sit down, John. Anyone who took Sir Charles's cosy and welcoming manner at surface value would have been a fool; the genial old buffer-like persona concealed a core of steel. Piers Fetherstonhaugh, proprietor of Tarquin's Ravishing Strides in Kensington Church Street. Has quite a reputation as a lad-about-town, you know, John. All sorts of odd practices: bit of bondage, bit of masochism. Not quite your sort of thing, I would have thought, but then we never really know the people we work with - do we? A purple-covered file on the desk conspicuously bore Piers's name and photograph on the cover.

I wasn't planning to marry him. Dashwood drew casually on his cigarette. Sir Charles splashed whisky into a tumbler, and thrust it hospitably into his visitor's hands.

Any port in a storm, then, was it?

Not exactly. The boy sucks like the proverbial vacuum cleaner.

One snow-white eyebrow quirked in interest. Really? Never had that sort of thing myself, always rather fancied the experience. Irrelevant to the matter at hand, however. Unfortunately. Grandison coughed and put Piers's file firmly out of his line of sight. You'll be aware that this organisation has undergone considerable evolution since you left us? As you know we lost our previous director, poor Price, in particularly desperate circumstances nine months back, and we've had to resort to temporarily borrowing talent from organisations with a similar focus to fill the void. I had every intention of promoting Wentworth to the directorship, but Whitehall are strongly opposed to it; they think he's still too young. Personally I believe he's actually much too good, and that's what worries them - quite a few bodies buried among the higher echelons, you see. I've argued my case but they remain obdurate; the best I could thrash out in the end was a compromise - and that, I'm afraid, involves you.

Dashwood crushed out the cigarette in an ashtray and swallowed a mouthful of whisky. I thought it might.

I'm offering you temporary re-assignment as director, Grandison went on. Six months maximum, although we'll pay you for a year. Give Wentworth an opportunity to impress; lend him the benefit of your greater experience.

So that whatever débâcle it is that you've got brewing in Germany will be laid to my account and not his, is that right?

Absolutely. Grandison was not at all perturbed by the accusation. Bertram mentioned it, I suppose? I'm afraid he exceeded his authority.

I shouldn't think he wanted to see me railroaded into something without realising what I was taking on. In my day, we called that loyalty.

Ha! We called it that in my day, too. Sir Charles was smiling. Wentworth could do with one last major triumph in the field to make him the obvious choice for director.

I see. So you want me to perform a miracle for you?

Naturally. Authorisations are in place for you to take over immediately. Brief your section officers on the German thing, make sure Wentworth comes out of it smelling of roses, and as soon as it's finished and he's appointed, you can go back to picking up rent boys in Soho. Only you can't expect me to believe you wouldn't relish the opportunity to be in charge of the section for a while. Every pawn always wants to be king, John, and very few ever get the chance; you'd have had yours sooner, if you hadn't been so badly injured two years ago.

Not for the first time in Dashwood's experience, it seemed there was little choice. All right. I suppose I've started already, have I?

Quite. You'll find full information in your office. Set the ball rolling, grab a change of clothes, report back here. And good luck.

Yes, sir. Dashwood stood and accepted the handshake he was offered, then left the office without another word. His feet were moving mechanically, but his brain was several leaps ahead and concerning itself already with the cares of his temporary appointment. He did not speak to any of the staff he met as he passed through the underground complex, nor did anyone expect it; the mantle of duty was visible upon him, and not for the world would any member of the service be willing to interrupt his deliberations.

*

The director's office was approached through a vestibule in which - to his astonishment - sat a woman in her fifties with dark hair and an air of menacing efficiency. Harriet Smith was an unchanging part of the furniture, an asset no director could properly manage without, and took her status as a valued employee of the service very seriously. In the past her attitude to Dashwood had been distant and arrogant; now, however, she got to her feet respectfully when he entered the room.

Harriet, he exclaimed. What on God's green earth are you doing here at this time of night?

My job, she told him coolly. Sir.

Of course. But I hope you're planning to get some rest as well?

I've booked a cubicle, she assured him. Temporary sleeping arrangements were often required and one large room on the top floor had been divided by ramshackle hardboard partitions and furnished with cots for the purpose.

Good. Set me up with all the files I need, and you'll be able to crawl off and get your beauty sleep for a couple of hours. He eschewed any remark about it not being necessary in her case; Harriet would always rather have been considered useful than beautiful. Who's our contact with the Americans these days?

Still Daniel Webb. She followed him into his office and presented him with a set of keys to the confidential file cabinets. He's retiring at the end of the year.

Dashwood grunted. Arrange a breakfast meeting, will you? Here, if he can make it. Tell the section officers I'll see them in an hour. And I'd like coffee, please.

Harriet nodded acquiescence. I'll organise that right away. You'll find your paperwork in the top drawer.

As she left, Dashwood unlocked the cabinet and drew out a slender purple-covered folder time-stamped a few hours earlier. He sat down and opened it - then rifled through the desk drawers until he found a packet of cigarettes, took one out and lit it. He barely noticed a few minutes later when Harriet brought him the requested coffee.

*

Harriet knocked and entered the room again precisely an hour later. Dashwood's ashtray was filling almost by itself, and half the coffee had gone cold and white in the cup. She lifted it away and said, Webb will be here soon after six-thirty, and the section officers are waiting.

Thanks, Dashwood nodded. I'll see them now. You'd better get off to bed. Back at seven, please, there'll be plenty to do in the morning.

Of course.

Harriet's departure heralded the arrival of three men, soberly suited and looking like the random assortment of clerical officers who tended to wash up on the shores of any civil service department. The fact that they were at work and capable of functioning at almost one-thirty in the morning made them unusual, but there was nothing to give a casual observer any hint of their profession. These were all active service agents, all to a greater or lesser extent hired killers; they were what the public - if they thought about their existence at all - would probably have referred to as spies.

Dashwood rose to greet them. He had worked with each in the past and liked them all, but that would not prevent him sending any one of them - or indeed all three - into certain death if he had to.

Rick. Harry. He shook their hands, but nodded only slightly in the direction of Tom Bertram. I haven't forgiven you yet, young man.

The first two exchanged a rueful smile, from which it was clear that the story of Dashwood's interrupted entertainment was already common knowledge. Bertram shrugged, and they all seated themselves except Dashwood who wandered around the desk, perched his backside on it, folded his arms and lowered his head.

Well, as you've no doubt heard, a couple of hours ago I was doing my level best to excavate a boy's tonsils when this clown turned up. He nodded towards Bertram. I don't need to tell you how I feel about being hauled in here to hold your sweaty little hands without so much as a by-your-leave, now do I?

At least you got a chance to finish. Rick Wentworth - a tall, thin individual with an expression redolent of misery - summoned up a wistful smile. If it had been one of us, I doubt he'd have let us get that far.

I wouldn't, confirmed Bertram. Any more than you'd have let me.

Wentworth glared at him. You'd never have got yourself into that situation in the first place, he replied. And if you had, I'd have been far too astonished to stop you.

Humanitarian grounds, put in the third man - smaller, with a pleasantly open face and a mop of dark wavy hair. Have to think about the boy. Could easily have choked him to death ...

"Enough! This isn't Sunday Night at the London Palladium." Dashwood turned to the senior man.