I'd always messed around with clocks as a hobby and over the years had built up quite a collection. Most of them didn't work, but now I was able to sit down and repair them and generally increase my knowledge of horology.

You never really leave the Service. I was attached to the Secret Intelligence Service, known variously as S.I.S. or M.I.6., concerned with foreign threats to the country.

Officially, I didn't exist, I and the half dozen men I worked with. We were trained by the S.A.S. and before being drafted into the 'black' section, we had to be up to their level. Following this came further 'dirty tricks' involvement before we were sent on any mission.

My name, Jonathan Barlow, is fictitious for obvious reasons. I'm 62 now, but at the time this happened I'd been out of the Service for three years.

This chap walked in one day with a clock and asked me to repair it. I'd been on active duty for 20 years, and you know them as soon as you see them.

"What's the matter with it?" I asked.

"Um, are you alone, Sir?" He was young, about the same age as I'd been when I joined M.I.6. originally.

"I'm alone. What's the problem?"

"Well, Sir, we'd just like you to hang onto this for a few days. There's, er, something in it."

"Where in it?" I asked him.

"Behind the dial, Sir."

It was a large, antique fusee mantel clock, and very heavy. It struck the hours on a huge, coiled gong, and chimed the quarters on a nest of bells.

"Actually, Sir, it doesn't really need repairing. It's just that we want someone we can trust to hold it until the owner can pick it up."

"I guessed that. How will I know the customer?"

"As soon as he walks in, he'll start counting out dollar bills on your workbench. In fact, he is an American. Then he'll ask for his heirloom. Just let him take it, Sir, and that's that."

"Who're the villains?" I asked him.

"The Russians are rather interested in the piece, Sir."

"I see. You're sure you weren't made coming here?"

"No, Sir, of course not. Too careful for that." His tone bordered on the indignant.

"The Ivans are just as good, my lad, and probably a damn sight better. Always remember that." It was a bit like scolding a puppy.

"When should I expect the owner?"

"One week, Sir, definitely no later."

"And if he doesn't come, what then?"

"Then I'll be back, Sir, but we have no doubt he's going to make it."

"Right," I told him. "See one of you in a week."

He said goodbye, opened the door and I watched him stride off down the street. From force of habit I had a look around. The youngster had turned left. There was a car parked further up the road to the right on the far side, and the bloke inside didn't drop down behind the dashboard quite quickly enough.

I watched chummy get into his car, pull out and start to drive away. The other car did the same. Why wasn't I surprised? This meant that I'd been made as well. Precautions would be taken that night.

My workshop used to be the garage and was attached to the house, which was accessed through a door set at an angle in the far wall.

I carried the big clock through into my drawing room and set it on the table in the middle of the room. I'd examine its contents later that evening.

I made all the usual precautions. My bed looked as though someone was in it. I dug out my Sig Sauer P226, cleaned it, made sure the action was good and loaded it. I strapped my knife to me, then went around the house and made sure all was secure. Then I set about seeing what secret the clock held.

Very carefully, I removed the dial and a piece of paper fell out onto the table. It was written in Cyrillic, but the only words that made sense were something about artificial gravity. The rest of the writing consisted of equations and complicated mathematical formulae. Languages were another thing we had to learn, and I was reasonably literate in Russian. I also knew that artificial gravity concerned manned space flight.

At a guess, we'd copped this from the Ivans and naturally enough, they wanted it back. I was pretty sure I could expect a visit.

Copyright (c) 2009 Mike Bond