Biggles prompt! There's a three-way prisoner-exchange shuffling happening between Agencies and the Brits got dibs on a Soviet agent...
"Not our usual sort of circumstances, sir," Biggles said equanimously when Air Commodore Raymond met him at the gate of the military facility where Biggles had, as requested, reported. "What's the gen?"
"This way, Bigglesworth." The Air Commodore led him briskly along. A pair of military police fell into place behind them. "It's not what you're thinking. Not what you would guess in a million years, I expect."
"Most likely not," Biggles said lightly. "I'm not a great guesser. Might I have a hint, sir?"
"I'm going to take you to the heart of the matter, so to speak. And then we'll talk."
Biggles wondered what sort of interesting case might be in the making -- clearly something to do with national security; would it involve stolen gold, or an incursion across the frontier of some allied nation, perhaps? His heart beat rapidly.
And then they came to a window looking into a cold concrete interview room, and he stopped very suddenly when he saw the slim figure sitting at a metal table, stiff and erect, wearing a rumpled grey jumpsuit.
"Von Stalhein," Biggles said, the name startled out of him. "What --" He got his bearings. "Might I ask what this is all about? He couldn't have --" He stopped again; he could not get over how strange von Stalhein looked, dressed as a common prisoner, staring at nothing, the slim hands laying flat and still on the table. It was clear that von Stalhein could not hear or see them. It seemed impossible that von Stalhein had been captured like some ordinary criminal. "How did this happen?"
"He's been handed over to us by the Soviets," the Air Commodore said. "It was an ordinary thing as these things go, an exchange of people, some of ours for some of theirs. We returned a few of theirs, and got two of ours back who are being debriefed now. And the Home Office also negotiated this somehow."
"He is here against his will," Biggles said slowly, turning to look through the glass. It felt voyeuristic somehow. "He didn't choose to make the exchange."
"I expect not," the Air Commodore said quietly.
There was a cup of coffee by von Stalhein's right hand, untouched as far as Biggles could see. The man's rigidly erect posture and calm, steady gaze at what must, to him, have appeared a mirror or a wall (though of course he would have known its purpose quite well) spoke of a man expecting to be tortured or executed.
