Dead Secret

by Alan Williams

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘I think we’re being followed. We’re certainly being watched. I’m not particularly worried — I just want to find out how good he is. Ask the barman to get you a taxi and tell him to take you to the Ritz. When you get into the taxi, say you’ve changed your mind and give him the address of our hotel.’

  Five minutes later Hawn was walking briskly down the Ventura de la Vega. He bought a packet of cigarettes, an airmail edition of the Daily Telegraph, crossed the street twice, and stopped in a bodega for a quick brandy and a glimpse to see how the late Norman French’s death was rating in the British Press. His name had disappeared. The smart man with the dark glasses was leafing through a copy of Olé on the newsstand across the street.

  When Hawn got back to the hotel he called Anna up on the house phone. ‘Angel, ring down to the desk and ask for some writing paper and an envelope. Then stick Mönch’s stuff inside and address it to yourself at the LSE — not the flat, remember. They might just have someone tampering with the mail.’

  ‘I’ll do better than that —’ her voice was crackling, distant — ‘I’ll send it to my brother in Harrogate.’

  ‘But better not post it yourself. The porter can do it for you. Then go to the Ritz. I’ll join you there, one way or another, in about half-an-hour.’

  ‘Are we still being followed?’

  ‘I am. You didn’t see anyone?’

  ‘I didn’t get much chance. The taxi driver was like a madman.’

  ‘Good. If there’s only one of them, he’s probably decided to follow me. So champagne at the Ritz — in half-an-hour. And make sure you give the porter enough for the right postage.’

  ‘Any more paternal advice? What sort of disguise should I wear? Or should I create a diversion by going out into the street in my knickers and nothing else?’

  ‘Just look out for bag snatchers,’ Hawn said, and hung up.

  He went outside, into the Puerta del Sol, where he had a couple of coffees and wrote half-a-dozen postcards to fictitious addresses. He saw Anna leave the hotel, and after a moment get into a taxi. The aficionado in dark glasses was having his shoes shined in a cafe a couple of doors away.

  Hawn paid, and strolled back to the hotel. As he asked for his key the receptionist handed him an envelope, addressed to M. Thomas Hawn. The sealed flap bore the blue insignia of the Ritz Hotel. Inside, on Ritz notepaper, in a big childish scrawl, was the message in French: ‘Meet me here at 12.45. Lunch. With my best compliments, Charles.’

  Hawn had a confused sense of a time lag. It was now nearly 12.30. Anna would be at the hotel in five minutes. If he hurried, he would just make it by 12.45. He had told Anna to go to the Ritz because it was the only big hotel he knew in Madrid — at least, the only big civilized one. It was also spacious and quiet, and an easy place to spot strangers.

  He thanked the receptionist and walked out again into the bright autumn sunlight. The man in dark glasses was looking into a shop window and blowing his nose on a clean white handkerchief. Hawn went up and stood beside him and looked into the window. It was a leather shop — mostly women’s shoes, belts, handbags. The prices seemed even higher than Bond Street. He took a step sideways and said, in his best Spanish, ‘Will you share a taxi with me to the Ritz?’

  The man looked at him with empty black lenses. The bullfight gazette was again rolled up under his arm. With his free hand he reached inside his dark flannel jacket, pulled out a wallet and snapped it open. Hawn looked at the card behind the celluloid window. ‘Polizia de Securidad, Senor Hawn,’ he added, in English, with a heavy accent, ‘you will accompany me please.’

  CHAPTER 14

  Anna had seen Monsieur Pol almost as soon as she entered the main foyer of the Ritz. He had greeted her with a little cooing cry, stumbling awkwardly to his feet and pulling out a gilt-backed chair for her. He had a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, its neck wrapped in a white napkin, and three glasses. He poured her a glass and said: ‘So the good Doktor was not so lazy after all?’

  ‘It was you following us?’

  Pol spread his hands. ‘I regret, ma chère mademoiselle, but I had a man watching the American Express. A simple precaution. I wanted to protect you from any difficulties,’ he added ambiguously.

  She wanted to ask him what difficulties, then changed her mind. ‘Tom will be here soon.’

  ‘He has the documents?’

  ‘No.’ She looked quickly around the elaborate room.

  ‘Then you have them?’

  ‘No, I do not.’

  There was a pause. Pol sat very still, without expression, except that he had begun to sweat rather more than usual. The hotel was pleasantly air-conditioned. ‘Mademoiselle, I ask you not to play the comedy with me.’

  ‘This is no comedy, Monsieur Pol. We’re the ones who’ve been doing all the work, taking all the risks.’

  ‘With my money.’

  ‘Tom said we were being followed, so we took a few simple precautions.’ She went on to give him a brief description of their subterfuge, including the posting of the letter.

  Pol watched her, his fat comic face turned solemn, thoughtful. ‘They were following Monsieur Hawn, you say? They were not following you.’

  ‘Perhaps you know more about that than I do, Monsieur Pol?’

  He ignored this. ‘You arrived here without trouble. If you did not trust me with the original documents, you could have made a photocopy of them. There is a machine here in the hotel.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. The most important thing is that the documents should be safe.’

  Pol sighed; mopped his face with his silk bandanna: then wearily poured two glasses of champagne. Anna did not really want any: she had drunk enough already that morning.

  ‘Monsieur Hawn speaks German, does he not? He will have read the documents?’

  ‘If you were having us watched, you would know that.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He gave her a sad smile: though she now detected a tiny gleam of anger in his eyes. She guessed that he could be dangerous when he became angry. ‘As I told you, I had you watched at the American Express,’ he said at last. ‘But I did not have you followed here. Why should I? We trust each other, do we not?’

  ‘Then why did you bother to have us watched at all? Did you think we were going to take the documents and use them for our own profit? They would be very interesting to a lot of people.’

  ‘Only if they were handled correctly, by the correct people. They would need authenticating. That is something that you and Monsieur Hawn cannot do alone. That is why you need me.’

  Anna had left her champagne untouched. She said, ‘You still haven’t told me why — if you trust us so much — you had us watched this morning. And all the other mornings, presumably.’

  Pol reached again for his bandanna; the sweat was glistening on the tip of his goatee beard and he was breathing heavily; he drank his glass of champagne. ‘You must forgive me, Mademoiselle — but an old dog never forgets its tricks. My life is very complicated — I never know when friends will turn enemies, when trusted colleagues will turn traitors. You ask me to make exceptions — but in this game you can only make one exception too many, and you are lost.’

  ‘Then who was following us today?’

  He shook his head and a drip of sweat fell into his massive lap. ‘You and Monsieur Hawn have decided to combat the largest, the richest, the most powerful industrial organization in the world. To have received their attention this morning in an unsuccessful attempt to divest you of those documents is surely no trivial matter. You were lucky. We all were.’ He looked at his watch. It was almost 1.15. ‘Now what has happened to our friend, Monsieur Hawn? I was hoping to offer him lunch, and I’m getting hungry.’

  As he spoke, one of the huissiers arrived at his elbow, whispered something to him and passed him a note. Pol frowned, nodded to Anna, and said, ‘Mademoiselle, a small problem. Your beloved is enjoying the hospitality of the Spanish Security Police — Specia
l Section. They deal with counter-espionage and external threats to the State.’

  She stared at him. ‘Does he want to speak to me?’

  ‘There will be plenty of time for him to speak to you. Let me speak to him first. I can be of more help.’

  Pol was gone for nearly twenty minutes. Anna prided herself on being a practical girl who was good in crisis: but it was with immense relief that she saw Pol’s huge figure waddling back towards her. He sat down on the little gilt chair, which Anna was surprised could sustain his weight.

  ‘Eh bien, ma chère, our friend has some problems. It appears that someone with considerable influence has denounced him to the authorities, claiming that he is in possession of classified documents of interest to the State. Fortunately for him — as you told me — he has already got rid of those documents. The Security Police are therefore somewhat embarrassed by his presence. To release him would be an affront to his denunciators, who, as I said, are men of influence. The authorities have therefore devised a simple compromise. They have ordered his extradition. Regrettably, that will also apply to you.’

  She stared at him. ‘Both of us? But when? How?’

  ‘My child, you have a car parked here in Madrid near your hotel. The authorities are allowing you twenty-four hours to drive to the French border at Irun-Hendaye. When you arrive there, you will check with the Civil Guard. If you fail to comply, the consequences could be serious for you — as well as embarrassing for me. I should add that it was after some persuasion from myself that the authorities agreed to take the more lenient line and allow you to drive back, instead of putting you on the next plane and making you pay your own fares. As well as impounding your car, of course.’

  ‘I’m sure we’re both very grateful to you, Monsieur Pol!’

  The Frenchman spread his hands across his belly. ‘You forget that I have my own interests in this affair. Six thousand American dollars’ worth, for a start.’

  Anna said, ‘There is something you forget. Or perhaps you don’t know? Monsieur Hawn agreed with Mönch to pay him another four thousand dollars, in exchange for a second set of documents.’

  ‘Eh bien?’ Pol stroked his little beard. ‘To what address? The same?’

  Anna nodded. ‘With us gone, you won’t be able to get it. And Mönch won’t give you anything without the money.’

  ‘Do not concern yourself, ma chère. There are ways — there are always ways. As long as I know that he will contact Monsieur Hawn at the American Express.’

  Anna, with slight misgiving, then described the misunderstanding over the indexing of Hawn’s name. Pol merely nodded; he seemed content.

  ‘Who denounced us?’ she added.

  ‘Ah! You ask me to speculate. The America-Britannic Consortium have a 90 per cent franchise here in Spain. One telephone call from one of their executives, objecting to the presence of a couple of foreign nationals on Spanish soil — need I go on?’ He looked again at his watch. ‘Mademoiselle, I hesitate to ask a favour — but would you consent to lunch alone with me? I am starving!’

  CHAPTER 15

  They returned to London, to a damp flat and the usual pile of bills, circulars, final reminders. But nothing from the Police or the Courts, summoning Hawn to appear at the inquest on Norman French. He knew that in a murder case these things took time: but he was surprised to hear nothing from Muncaster — no news, no explanation for the break-in at the flat, or for the incident involving Hamilton Motors.

  By now Hawn was dramatizing his precautions: he had rigged up a thread across the door of the flat; left a smear of Anna’s lipstick on the inside of the Citroën driver’s door; and never walked or drove anywhere without checking, every few seconds, who was behind him. His efforts yielded nothing but the very vaguest suspicions, which he could not substantiate.

  On the first day back he dropped Muncaster a note to the Yard, marked ‘Confidential’, but containing nothing more potent than the news that he was back. The Chief Superintendent replied two days later with a bland note saying that he would be in touch if anything cropped up. The only thing that cropped up was the inquest on Norman French. Verdict: Murder by Person or Persons Unknown. Apart from Muncaster, the first two policemen on the scene, and the forensic team, the landlady was the only lay witness. Hawn considered it odd, even irregular, that he had not been called. It was not like Muncaster to bend the rules, particularly in a murder case, unless someone was bending them from above — and from very high above.

  For Hawn’s part, he decided to lie low and await Pol’s further instructions — which he knew must come. There was also the small matter of Mönch’s second instalment, which would presumably have reached the Amex in Madrid by now, enclosing the old man’s hideaway so that the balance of four thousand dollars could be forwarded to him.

  It had occurred to Hawn, with varying conviction, that Pol himself had arranged their deportation simply in order to get his hands on this second document — and above all, on Mönch’s whereabouts.

  But the difficulty of ascertaining Pol’s actions was that it was almost impossible to deduce his true motives. It was not that Hawn had found him implausible, even a liar — these would have been simple defects on which to judge him; it was that the Frenchman was so thoroughly improbable. He was also tied up — on his own confession, and in some obscure way — with ABCO. But then, that might mean anything. The late Norman French had worked for ABCO. So had Shanklin and Doctor Alan Rice, and a certain Rupert de Vere Frisby, of the FO.

  While they awaited Pol’s call, Hawn and Anna sank back into the hack work of research. But it was now with a difference. What had begun as the vaguest theory had congealed, over the last three weeks, into a clear but complex conspiracy buried by more than thirty years, and covering half the globe: and which must, at all costs, be brought to light.

  On his first return to the Public Record Office, Hawn struck lucky. He was going through the confidential files of the Political Operations Executive (POE) in Cairo which had controlled, among many activities, operations in Turkey.

  Imin Salak was mentioned briefly and with enthusiasm — or as much enthusiasm as the dead prose of a secret memo is capable. Salak had been a dependable man who enjoyed the confidence of the Istanbul underworld, as well as having been virtually immune to the attentions of the police. The only drawback to his character had been greed. Salak required to be paid highly for his services, and was not satisfied with the local currency.

  There were several tedious memos relating to Foreign Exchange Control, in which the Treasury made the usual bleating noises of disapproval. Cairo and POE Turkey won the day — though one memo, from a Special Operator connected with the Consulate in Istanbul, added this note: ‘We must never lose sight of the possibility that a man who sells his services so highly, to the highest bidder, may transfer his allegiances elsewhere, if we are outbid. Whilst I have no reason to questions S’s loyalty, I must emphasize that that loyalty is primarily to himself.’ The author of this memo was the Consulate’s Information Officer, Rupert de Vere Frisby.

  In September 1943 a second memo was sent from Istanbul to the Plead of London Special Operations Executive by a Major Robert Dugdale: CONFIDENTIAL/POE/236/9WOLP.

  Am becoming concerned Operative Frisby. Very keen, good Turkish, but playing too close to the wicket. Keeping dangerous company. His contacts excellent, but drinks and gambles to excess, and in lowest places. Is attracting attention. Toby S has turned up — a true cowboy who treats Istanbul like a playground. Bad influence on de Vere. S’s pet protégé, Salak, is also concerning me. He plays poker for high stakes with S and de Vere, and both come to me with complaints that they need money. We have paid out rather more than ten thousand plus in less than a week. De Vere promises to repay it, but the Turk could become troublesome. There is too much skullduggery going on in this city, as it is. T S promises to behave himself, though I strongly suggest that if the situation continues, de Vere should be transferred. He is too open to blackmail. I also suspec
t that he has information which he is not divulging to higher authority.

  The reply had come five days later: CONFIDENTIAL/POE/ 942/9DARG.

  Contents of 236/9WOLP noted. Suggest if your concern continues, Operative should be transferred. TS’s loyalty cannot be questioned without definite proof. But keep careful tabs on the Turk. Must leave you to be the best judge of this. Am meanwhile arranging for de Vere to take a working vacation in Cairo where he will be subjected to vetting.

  The next reference to Rupert de Vere Frisby was that he had been posted to the Consular Service in Vera Cruz, Mexico. There was no trace of his Vacation in Cairo, and of what he might, or might not, have told his masters in the Political Operations Executive.

  But there was a further file on Imin Salak. It was dated early 1944, after Frisby’s departure, and written by a certain D. S. Frobisher, Commercial Attaché to the Istanbul Consulate: TOP SECRET. POE CAIRO. LE/942/WOLP.

  This is to confirm that I am authorized to pay Imin Salak, a Turkish National, Resident of Istanbul, an increase of two hundred pounds sterling (£200) per month for his services to the British Government. His only contact is to be Major T. Shanklin. Any additional payments must be sanctioned by POE. The agent’s duties are to keep detailed observation of all vessels entering and leaving Istanbul. Ends.

  Hawn ran a further check. Major Dugdale had been transferred himself three months earlier to France. So Salak seemed to have won the day — with the help of Toby Shanklin.

  Anna had extended her holiday from the London School of Economics and was spending most of her waking hours working through piles of Photostatted documents, files from the LSE and the Petroleum Institute Library, and reference books from the British Museum.

  Hawn had meanwhile restricted himself to reading all the standard books on the Second World War — trying to find anything that gave a clear indication of how the Germans had solved their fuel problem.