by John Gardner
The hood went limp, pitching forward on the stairway, his head lolling over the top riser.
Arnie Farthing just ran, taking the stairs two at a time and jumping the last three. In the comparative safety of the street he hailed the first cab to come in sight, telling the driver to go to the Moderne, stay while he paid his bill, then take him on to the airport.
Arnie could not wait to get back and tell Naldo what, and who, he had seen in the Rue de Rivoli.
Chapter Thirty-three
Ever since his return to England, during the previous year – at the beginning of operation Symphony – Naldo Railton had been trying to make time to see his sister, Sara Elizabeth.
As children they had been very close, and Naldo looked back on his early years as a time of great happiness within his family. He could recall quite clearly the long period when his father was away – during the First World War, when he was tiny – and the romps and laughter he had shared with his mother and sister.
Sara Elizabeth was always called Elizabeth, or Liza, to avoid confusion with the great Sara of Redhill Manor. With the passing years she grew into a more serious child whose main preoccupation was music – inheriting her mother’s gift for the piano, and even dabbling in small compositions which were not without merit.
Serious though she was, Elizabeth could never be accused of being solemn, for her acute sense of humour usually prevailed over all things, even after she found religion to be her life’s mainstay.
The Haversage Sisters, as members of the Community of St Mary the Virgin were generally known, had their Mother House a mile from the centre of the small town – a Victorian Gothic building which overlooked Haversage from the north, almost as Redhill manor did from the west. Sara Elizabeth Railton first met members of this sisterhood during visits to Redhill Manor, and at nineteen she had already made up her mind to devote her life to God within the Community.
But the older nuns, together with at least two priests, bade her wait. With the coming of the war, she became stronger then ever in her conviction and, in 1942, at the age of twenty-five, Sara Elizabeth Railton became a novice.
Naldo was overseas at the time his sister was admitted fully into the Order – as Sister Elizabeth Mary – in 1945. He had seen little of her since, though they corresponded frequently. Now, Naldo, together with his future bride, took the opportunity to visit her, before the pair went on to see Barbara’s parents in Surrey to give them the news of a fixed wedding date – they had mutually decided on December 23.
Just as they were leaving the Manor for the arranged meeting with Sister Elizabeth Mary, the telephone rang. Naldo answered, expecting it to be some friend of Sara’s. A dusty, dry American voice was at the distant end. ‘Might I speak to Arnold Farthing?’
‘Not here, I’m afraid. This is Redhill Manor.’ Naldo knew immediately who was calling.
‘That’s the number I dialled.’ There was no hint of humour in Arnie’s case officer’s voice: ‘I believe he’s on his way to the Manor now.’
‘First I’ve heard of it.’ Naldo frowned.
What he said was true enough. Naldo was not to know how Arnie had arrived at Le Bourget airfield to see the last London flight of the day steaming down the runway on takeoff; nor how he had sweated out the night, positioning himself for a good view of the main small concourse doors, so he would have the advantage if new assailants came looking for him. By morning he had a seat on the nine-thirty DC-3 which would take him into the temporary London airport – a collection of huts, tents, and connecting duck-boards, formerly the Fairey Aviation Company’s aerodrome called Heathrow.
On arrival, Arnie took an airport bus straight into London, headed for Paddington Station – where Roger Fry finally picked up his spoor in the shape of a ticket office clerk – and the first train that would take him to Haversage Halt.
Fry hung up quietly, leaving Naldo standing with the receiver in his hand. He shrugged and told Barbara that it looked like Arnie had problems.
‘We’re going to have problems as well if we don’t get a move on.’ Barbara kept looking at her watch. ‘Didn’t you say they were very strict about visiting this monastery?’
‘Convent, Barb. Monasteries are for monks.’
‘Lord, I’m jumpy. Why does your sister have to be a holy woman? Nuns look like black crows or rooks to me. They scare the – ’
‘Yes, I know – ’
‘I was going to say – if you would listen – they scare the pants off me.’
‘Oh.’ Naldo looked crestfallen. ‘I thought I did that.’
She chased him to the car and within half an hour they were pulling up in the large forecourt of the convent which, Naldo admitted, looked to be the ideal place to shoot a horror movie.
A silent novice, in white habit and with downcast eyes, led them along passages and through carved Norman arches, erected in the 19th century. Everything sparkled, as though dust was Satan’s work and had to be driven out daily. The quarry-tiled floors shone, as did the woodwork and a life-sized crucifix set into an arched and gilded embrasure. The air was filled with the mingled scent of wax polish, well-kept wood, flowers, and incense. Finally, the novice tapped on a heavy wooden door and opened it to reveal a pleasant room with easy chairs, a nice watercolour of the downland above Haversage, and a table on which sat a tray with coffee and cups. The red and black quarry tiles of the passages continued into the room. Barbara was later to remark that the place must be ‘bloody cold in winter with all those tiled floors and hardly a carpet in sight.’
The novice whispered that Sister would be with them soon. She left the door open, as did Elizabeth when she arrived.
‘Oh, but you’re lovely.’ She held Barbara by the shoulders, her arms fully outstretched. Naldo, I hope you realise what a lucky man you are to be taking such a bride.’ Sister Elizabeth Mary was almost unrecognisable to her brother – her face framed in the white oval of a wimple and long black veil, while her body, full and shapely as he remembered it, was hidden by the long black habit, gathered at the waist by a slim white knotted cord. He knew it was his sister only by voice, laugh, and the incredible smile which had brightened many days of his adolescence.
Barbara relaxed in the young nun’s presence, for she was taken off-guard by Sister Elizabeth Mary’s almost vibrant attitude to life. In the Convent Guest Room, they drank coffee and nibbled digestive biscuits.
‘What on earth do you find to do with yourself all day?’ Barbara asked ingenuously.
Elizabeth flicked at her black veil with one hand, threw her head back, and laughed. ‘There are not enough hours in the day for us. You have no idea, Barbara – Mass at six o’clock, the singing of the office, chores around the house. I teach in the local school – music of course – and there’s the garden to keep up, and the wood carving, and executive work for our other houses. We have two in Africa and three more here in England. One is a hospital for people addicted to alcohol and drugs. Between ourselves, I prefer my teaching. I deal with very small children, and it’s quite touching how they show their affection. I’ve a sneaking feeling that, at heart, they think I’m a penguin.’
Barbara giggled. ‘And what else do you penguins do?’
‘All the time, we serve God. In every way – work, prayer, and play.’ She saw Naldo’s slightly uncomfortable look, and the way he glanced at his watch – this was after an hour’s cheerful conversation – ‘It’s all right, dear brother, I’ve long since given up any hope of converting you.’
Naldo made a face at her. ‘You’d be surprised. Sometimes my work brings me nearer to God than you’d imagine.’
His sister sighed. ‘Well, brother, it’s never too late. Remember what Saint Augustine said, and he found himself wrong in saying it: “Too late came I to love thee, O thou Beauty both so ancient and so fresh, yea too late came I to love thee. And behold, thou went within me, and I out of myself, where I made search for thee.” Oh, dear, I’m showing off. I’ve been studying the Confessions.’ She looked
straight at her brother. ‘You all right, Naldo?’
From down the passageway, slick with polish, came the rise and fall of voices, so strong, yet paradoxically so frail – nuns singing words almost as old as time in the silver beauty that is plainsong.
Come Holy Ghost our souls inspire,
And lighten with celestial fire…
Naldo stood silent, unknowingly swaying to the simplicity of the rhythms, his eyes glued to the chessboard pattern of the tiled floor. His mind drew back two months, for in Saint Augustine’s words, just quoted by his devout sister, he thought he had found the way to Hans-Dieter Klaubert; the Devil of Orléans; Lightning to the Russian NKVD; Harold to the British Secret Intelligence Service.
The last time he had read those words of Augustine was in the pink house in Northolt – land of commuters, trains, businessmen and women who left their houses to work in central London and slept each night, safe now from the bombs, in this little clutch of beehive dormitories.
He could not know that his Uncle Caspar was, almost at this very moment, reading the same words, and making the same connection, in the same pink room.
*
The present C had written a long explanation of the general reaction of the Secret Intelligence Service to their mystery agent Harold. ‘In retrospect, there was no sense of urgency,’ he said, the green ink spilling across the pages in his small, almost copperplate hand. ‘You will appreciate that I took over in a full capacity in November 1939, and I had already been doing C’s job and my own for several months.
‘I was aware of these signals coming in from Berne, and the crypto of an asset coded Harold. I suppose it was not until January or February 1940 that a real investigation began. I queried Berne regarding the source and they, in turn, gave me the bare facts. Hornet had advised them of someone operating out of Germany who would, for a while, be using the very simple checkerboard cipher. He had told them that the source was top grade, and the material would be CX – C’s Eyes Only.
‘Naturally I instituted a check on Hornet, and found him to be unavailable, for the reasons you now know. As I have already written, it was exceptionally difficult for me to believe that Harold was the late C’s personal source. It was too dangerous to take the reports at more than face value.
‘To be honest, now the facts are known, I cannot think of any officer in the Service who would not, at that point, have accepted the intelligence input from Harold with anything but scepticism.
‘I alone instructed the decrypts to be examined and assessed, and ordered that not too much reliance should be placed on them.
‘When the war ended, in the light of the investigation regarding Tarot and the OSS operation Romarin, I made it my business to collect every single item in this dossier. They come from many files, and have not been easy to trace. There is no reason to be in any way suspicious about this, as our dead files are, by the very nature of secrecy, spread over a wide area in our Registry, the Central Foreign Office Registry, and the Treasury. This is for security only.
‘However, my feelings now are that we ran an asset inside the Nazi SS to his detriment, and our own grave loss. You will see that we were dealing with a man who remained completely loyal to us without us giving him assistance, even though we should have known, from his later terrible and emotional turmoil, that we had a true bill of sale on our hands.
‘I carry the blame for not having Harold serviced properly, and must take responsibility for what has happened to him. Indeed, there are times when I feel I am responsible for the dreadful things he was forced to inflict upon good French, American, and British men, women, and children in order to keep his cover. This is a hard burden to carry, but heaven knows how much harder it must have been for him.’
Red-eyed, and muzzy through lack of sleep, Caspar closed the heavy folder and stretched back in his chair. He had stayed awake throughout the night, fascinated and almost incredulous at what he read.
Herbie had shown concern for him – staying awake also and bringing him coffee at regular intervals.
‘Why not you have a little rest, Mr Caspar? No good this staying up through the night.’
Caspar had replied sharply, ‘Get off to bed yourself, Herb. Don’t stay up on my account. There’s work I must do.’
‘This I am knowing. It is you I think of.’ And Herbie retired looking pained and hurt.
Caspar, by the time he reached the final pages of the First Folio, was not just tired, but angry and frustrated. It stretched his incredulity when faced by what appeared to be the obvious conclusion – that le Diable d’Orléans was in reality a British asset; and that he had provided possibly the most accurate intelligence available to the Secret Intelligence Service throughout the whole war. The anger boiled inside his mind and brain as he riffled back through the decrypts, knowing none of them had been taken seriously. If only someone with an ounce of true ability had put Harold’s decrypts alongside the facts, as they emerged after the events, they would have seen that the asset – even though they had no knowledge of who the man was – had been Grade A Plus. He was a supermole the like of which had not been in place anywhere else through those days of carnage and massacre between 1939 and 1945.
Twice a month, regular as clockwork, letters had come into Berne or Zurich from private soldiers, NCOs, and officers of the Wehrmacht; men of the Luftwaffe; even officers and men from the Kriegsmarine. They had been posted from places as far apart as Paris, Calais, Berlin, Hamburg, Brussels, and Prague. How in heaven’s name the man had managed it was beyond Caspar, but the originals, with copies of date-and-place stamps, were all there, preserved in cellophane slipcases, with the decrypts next to them, plus the more secure encryptions for onward transmission to London.
They all brought precise greetings to Aunt Anna (Flemart); Cousin Ingrid (Stoltz), between whom the sender, on one occasion at least, suggested there had been a lot more than should have been the case, even with second cousins; Great-Uncle Karl (Mulders); Cousin Peter (Diester); and Paul (Dopft), the old family friend. They had all come from people whose name and initials were variations of the three letters RKT – Kurt Thomas Ruchart; Rikard Theodore Kulle; R. K. Tannen. How in God’s name had the censors missed that one? After all, the Germans were methodical to say the least. Yet, it seemed, they had missed it.
The letters were almost an art form in themselves – gossipy, joke-ridden, wildly pro-Nazi with constant references to the gallant Führer or the writer’s brave comrades-in-arms. They were also long, and incredibly painstaking, for it took ingenuity to write naturally and remain bound by the conventions of the almost childish checkerboard cipher.
Hornet had obviously devised that particular checkerboard with great care. On graph paper the whole thing ran 52 squares by 52, making a board that could take four entire alphabets – two across the top and two down the left-hand side – the letters jumbled and set at random. In the main checkerboard there was therefore room for nearly three thousand further jumbled characters – over a hundred alphabets. To decrypt the letter you followed the instructions given by Hornet, writing down alternately the second letter from the left of a line, then the first on the right of the line, changing the order every twenty lines or so.
Then you simply used the letters thus taken as you would use a map reference – the first A across coupled with the first A down would bring you to the true letter, wherever it lay within the grid.
It was wholly insecure, for a sharp wrangler could soon exhaust all mathematical possibilities and so construct the checkerboard grid himself. Yet nobody had questioned the letters, while the intelligence they carried was vital and exceptional.
Harold had given a good week’s warning before Plan Yellow – the Nazi assault into Holland, Belgium, Luxembourg, and France – together with full details of strategy, which, if it had been taken seriously, could not only have saved thousands of lives but also possibly prevented the Nazi occupation of Europe. He had also revealed the date, together with the strategy of Barbarossa,
the invasion of Russia, over a month before it took place. Some letters contained most secret specifications of arms – including minor details of work progressing on the V1 and V2 weapons, the specifications on new armour and design of tanks. Others gave hints of the morale of the Wehrmacht, the Luftwaffe, and the Kriegsmarine, especially where it applied to the submarine packs working out of the French ports. After his visits to Berlin, when he was often in the company of Hitler’s court, Harold would report on the leading figures of the regime, even political analysis of the interaction between Hitler and his generals. Harold was the first to covertly give an alert to a growing plot among high-ranking officers – the plot which led to the attempted assassination on July 20, 1944 – but by that time Harold’s own mind appeared to have become unhinged. If anyone had taken his intelligence seriously in the first place, they would have realised by that point that they had an unstable agent in place.
Now, with the knowledge that Harold was Klaubert, Caspar’s fury grew. Soon after the D-Day landings, Harold’s letters became almost unintelligible, full of self-pity and remorse.
‘How can I atone for the sins I have committed against my fellow human beings? Can I ever seek forgiveness, or find peace?’ This was the constant theme, intermingled with quotations from scripture or the saints.
Indeed, Caspar thought, how could the man live with himself? Mentally he made plus and minus columns. Klaubert-Harold had stuck to his word and given British Intelligence the best information of any asset in place. The minus to that lay firmly on the consciences of those officers – C included – who did not make any deep examination – or correctly analyse the quality of the information.
Having seen the ‘Orléans Russians’ transcripts, Caspar knew that Klaubert-Lightning had fed them only low-grade intelligence, except at moments when he felt it would further the cause of the Allies as a whole. A large plus there.
But the huge, overpowering minus was the ruthless way Klaubert had maintained his cover – the hundreds sent to the slave-labour and death camps; the Resistance groups smashed and their members executed after bloody torture; and finally the family matter – Tarot, Caspar’s own people, and his two relatives, Caroline Railton Farthing and Jo-Jo Grenot. Were they dead? Was Klaubert dead, or still seeking his forgiveness?
