*
As darkness fell, the housekeeper put up the blackouts and Jim Vanderberg arrived home. He was not alone.
Wilde shook his old friend’s hand and then gave him a bear hug. They were of similar height; but Wilde appeared half an inch taller because he held himself erect, shoulders back like the boxer he was.
‘Tom, it’s grand to see you. Sorry I’m so late, but as I’m sure you can imagine things are getting a bit hectic at Grosvenor Square. The wires are red hot and the ambassador’s in a blind funk. The siren almost paralysed the bastard.’
‘Don’t worry, your housekeeper has been looking after us a treat.’
‘Mrs Harley’s a treasure.’ Vanderberg shook his head. ‘God, Tom, the streets out there are a madhouse! No streetlights, no headlights. I heard two crashes and lots of screeching of tyres on the way home. The blackout’s going to kill more people than Adolf’s bombs.’
Jim Vanderberg had been Wilde’s closest friend since they roomed together at college in Chicago. The divergence of their career paths had done nothing to lessen their bond; they shared a world view which included a certain disdain for the despots of right and left, and their appeasers. Wilde’s eyes drifted towards his host’s companion, who stood awkwardly by the door.
Vanderberg turned. ‘Tom, this is Lincoln Tripp, my young colleague from the embassy. Harvard-educated, fresh out of his first posting to Moscow. And no doubt very glad to be back in civilisation.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Tripp.’
‘And you, sir,’ the young man said. ‘I greatly admire your Tudor biographies.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’ Wilde cast an appraising eye over the young man. He was a bit of a dandy – good three-piece suit on a day that didn’t really warrant a waistcoat, silk kerchief falling from his breast pocket and bespoke shoes that had been polished to a mirror shine. His hair was clean and a lick fell carelessly across his brow. Wilde wondered how long he had spent in front of the bathroom mirror to achieve the effect. Maybe young Tripp fancied himself as a poet. He also wondered what the Soviets had made of him.
‘So,’ Jim said, ‘where are my other guests? Where, pray, is the gorgeous bolting bride?’
‘Oh, she’s just popped up to our room to put on a dash of lipstick in your honour.’
‘Our room? Why, you’re not even married yet, you dirty dog!’
Wilde laughed. ‘Let’s just say I feel married in spirit.’
Vanderberg lowered his voice. ‘I wouldn’t mention to Mrs Harley that you didn’t actually manage to get darling Lydia to the altar. Awfully proper, my housekeeper. And where is the mysterious young man you rescued from the French?’
‘His name is Marcus Marfield and he’s parked himself in your library. He’s rather fragile. What they used to call shell shock or battle fatigue . . .’
As he spoke, Marfield appeared in the doorway. He surveyed the newcomers without expression. Wilde beckoned him into the room. ‘Marfield, come and meet our host, Jim Vanderberg, and Mr Lincoln Tripp.’
*
At supper, they ate roast lamb. Jim Vanderberg cracked open the Gevrey-Chambertin that Wilde had brought from France and proclaimed it superb; then Tripp regaled them all with tales of Moscow. Wilde noted how Tripp could not keep his eyes off the exquisite face of Marcus Marfield.
‘What really got me about Moscow,’ Tripp was saying, in full flow now, ‘was the smell. No one washes. No one cleans their homes. I don’t think they have soap. Sweat, vodka, cabbage and cooking fat. Not a good mixture.’
‘I take it you’re not a great admirer of Bolshevism then, Mr Tripp,’ Wilde said.
‘Oh, I wasn’t talking about politics. Their idea of politics is a thing called dialectical materialism. Have you heard of that?’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s hogwash. Dialectical materialism is a quasi-intellectual excuse for murder and theft.’ Tripp directed a glance towards Marfield. ‘But the shambles they’re in, I really think that’s just the Soviet culture. They’ve got a hungry peasant society that they’re trying to shoehorn into an industrial class. And, well, bread and trains come way ahead of soap on the list of priorities.’
‘I suppose’, Lydia said, ‘that if no one washes or cleans they all end up smelling the same and no one notices. Sounds a sensible idea to me.’
‘The other thing’s their teeth,’ Tripp said. ‘Even worse than the English.’ He laughed aloud.
Vanderberg was unimpressed. ‘First lesson of diplomacy, Mr Tripp – don’t insult the host nation.’
Tripp’s face fell. ‘Gee, I’m sorry, Mr Vanderberg. That was really out of order.’ He nodded towards Lydia and Marfield. ‘Please accept my apology.’
Lydia smiled thinly. ‘Nothing to apologise for, Mr Tripp. Your observation was perfectly accurate.’
*
After supper, Lydia said she would have an early night, so Vanderberg and Wilde retired to his study, leaving Marfield and Tripp smoking cigarettes in the sitting room.
‘What’s going to happen, Jim?’ asked Wilde, as he settled into a comfortable chair. ‘Are we Americans going to join this war like we did the last?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think Roosevelt sees the danger of the despots, but he’s hamstrung by the American people. They don’t want to join a European war.’
Vanderberg snorted. ‘FDR doesn’t like the Germans. To tell the truth, there’s a lot about the British that he doesn’t care for either – particularly their Empire. But his negative feelings about the Germans go a lot deeper. I don’t think he enjoyed his time as a schoolboy at Bad Neuheim back in the nineties. His problem is the non-intervention lobby.’
‘Can he overcome them?’
‘The British and French are counting on him. Bill Bullitt, our man in Paris, is harried constantly by the French. They are convinced we’ll save them. Bullitt sent a cable to Roosevelt saying that every day he is obliged to explain to the French in no uncertain terms that America will remain neutral, but to no avail. The Frenchies tell him – and these are pretty much Bullitt’s words – “Yes, we know all that, monsieur, but the Germans will make it impossible for you to remain detached, and you will be drawn in.” ’
‘Maybe they’re right.’
‘Maybe.’ Vanderberg leant over and filled Wilde’s glass from the whisky decanter.
Wilde held up the glass. ‘Your health, Jim, and safe passage for Juliet and the boys.’
‘Cheerio.’
They sipped in companionable silence, then Wilde asked about young Lincoln Tripp.
‘He needs guidance,’ said Vanderberg. ‘A little too brash for his own good. Well, you saw that with the teeth. Bit of a blunder.’
‘Oh, he’s OK. You’ll smooth those rough edges.’
‘You’re right. He’ll learn.’ Vanderberg laughed. ‘You know, I didn’t want to embarrass him, but the truth is he begged me to be allowed to come along and meet you. Seems he’s a big fan of yours. Particularly mentioned your work on Walsingham.’
‘I’m flattered. Is he a history graduate?’
‘Indeed. Anyway, he was keen to meet you – and I was happy to oblige him. It’s good for a young diplomat to make influential friends. Meeting people is three quarters of the job.’
‘Tripp will be fine. He has the look of privilege.’
‘Oh yes, he’s very well-connected, but he’s not without merits of his own, so I don’t want you thinking Daddy got him the job.’ Vanderberg paused and looked his old friend in the eye. ‘Look, I make light of it, but I was really sorry you and Lydia didn’t tie the knot. I had my speech written, and there were some good jokes and reminiscences in there. Juliet was very sad for you. She thinks you’re the perfect couple.’
Wilde nursed his whisky. ‘So do I, of course. That’s why I wanted to marry her. I’ll try again one day, but I’m not going to hold my breath. This has been going on almost three years now. Will she, won’t she? Maybe, maybe not.’
&nbs
p; ‘Is she OK? She seems very tired – not her usual dynamic self.’
‘These last few days have knocked her.’
They sat in companionable silence, both aware of the gaps in each other’s lives.
‘And you?’ Wilde said eventually. ‘You must be missing Juliet and the boys.’
‘I’ll miss them like crazy, but at least I’ll know they’re safe,’ said Vanderberg. ‘I had the devil’s own job securing them berths – almost every Yank in Britain was looking for a way home. They’ll be somewhere in the Atlantic by now, cruising steadily on a westerly course.’
Wilde couldn’t argue with the decision. God alone knew what this city would be like when the bombs rained down. In the meantime, here in this room, with his best friend close by in an armchair, and both of them with good whisky warming in their hands, he felt at peace with the world.
And then, from far off in the house, he heard a sound that checked his breathing and made the hairs on his neck stand on end.
Marfield was singing.
CHAPTER 9
Philip Eaton had still not mastered the problems associated with dressing and undressing with only one arm and a badly damaged left leg. Tonight was doubly difficult. Having spent ten minutes getting from his day clothes into his pyjamas, the telephone had rung and he had to set about reversing the operation.
At last he was dressed. Almost. He couldn’t put on a necktie or cufflinks without assistance and he still had trouble with his shoelaces, so he left them loose and sat down on the sofa to wait. Five minutes later the bell rang and he called out that the door was bloody open.
Guy Rowlands came in, cigarette between his fine fingers, a benevolent smile on his charming, well-bred face. ‘Oh dear, Philip, let me help you.’
‘Damn it, Guy, this is the bit I hate. Pain is simply something to be endured, but the humiliation of not being able to dress properly is intolerable.’
‘I know, truly I do. Let’s get that tie on you and be on our way. The first lord awaits us.’
‘I’m an adult for pity’s sake, not a bloody infant.’
*
It was clear to Eaton that Winston Churchill was a changed man. Even at this late hour, you could sense his energy. And why not? He was back in charge of the Admiralty as First Lord and had been asked by Chamberlain to join the War Cabinet. He had accepted, of course, and had wasted no time in heading off up Whitehall to the Admiralty, a place he knew well and loved from his time there in the Great War, to meet the Sea Lords, chiefs of staff, civil servants and section heads. It was said he had closeted himself with these men from 6 p.m. until late, acquiring detailed information on fleet deployments and their needs. This was the first day of a conflict that he believed would be a second great war, and there was no time to lose.
Now it was half an hour past midnight and Churchill was back at his apartment in Morpeth Mansions across the road from Westminster Cathedral. But he had no intention of retiring to bed just yet, for important men were arriving from their homes, summoned secretly by telephone.
At last they were all assembled in his sitting room. It had the intimacy of a college common room, with men lounging wherever they could on sofas, armchairs, hardback chairs, even the floor. Every man was equipped with a brandy glass and their smoking implements of choice, be it cigarettes, cigars or pipes. A single, low-wattage bulb barely lit the room, and the lack of light and the pall of tobacco smoke simply added to the atmosphere of mystery and conspiracy in this blacked-out space. Eaton knew it was no accident but design – for drama had suited Winston Churchill all his life. He had always been something of an actor, and he liked to have the leading role.
He got right to the heart of the matter.
‘We all know what has to be done, gentlemen. We have to impress our cause upon the American public and political opinion. With the minimum of delay.’
Churchill’s growl was commanding. He clutched a long Havana cigar between his puffy fingers. A wisp of blue smoke spiralled lazily from the burning tip to join the cloud that hung around the ceiling.
Eaton, like every other man in the room, felt the weight of the moment.
Churchill had clearly taken a risk in calling this meeting, for its purpose could not be discussed outside this room; even the prime minister had not been told, and nor would he be. But this was a time for such risks; wars were not won by faint hearts.
‘And we must bear in mind,’ Churchill continued, ‘that the Hun will do all in his power to deter our American friends from intervening or supplying us with arms. You may think that this will be a war of many tons of steel and iron. You may think that it will cost countless lives and much misery. And you would be correct. But it will also be a war of words, of propaganda, and that, in the first instance, is a battle we must win.’
Philip Eaton watched him and listened with admiration. And yet he wondered why he had been summoned here when he had only been out of the plaster cast on his leg two weeks, and had still not mastered life without a left arm. He was beginning to understand.
Since the hit-and-run incident, he had been away from his MI6 desk, convalescing. Oh, he had received reports from Terence Carstairs on a regular basis, so he knew what was going on, but that wasn’t the same as being there, taking vital decisions, analysing reports from abroad, dispatching agents into the field or travelling overseas to the stations under his control.
Churchill growled on. ‘We need aircraft and we need ships, and America is our best hope of acquiring them in short order. The Nazis and their allies in the States will work to thwart us at every turn. Nor should we underestimate our foe, for Dr Goebbels is a master of the dark propaganda arts. He will tell the Yanks that Britain should be left to rot and that Europe should be left to Germany – and many will listen to him.’
While Eaton had been away, his work at MI6 had been covered by Guy Rowlands. Now that he was back in harness, Rowlands was literally a shoulder to support him. Not only had he done his tie and shoes, but he had driven him here from his Chelsea home in his silver BMW 328, a two-seater sports roadster that seemed rather out of place in the smoky, almost empty London streets.
‘I think I’m going to have to swap this little beauty for something a bit more British,’ Rowlands had said with evident regret.
‘You always were a flashy bugger, Guy.’
‘What do you think I should go for – Bristol? Alvis?’
At Churchill’s flat, Rowlands had helped Eaton up the stairs then made him comfortable on a rather fine sofa.
Eaton tried to ignore the pain. His leg was worst. The fractures had healed, but he would never walk without a limp. The loss of an arm was another matter; the difficulty there was more to his sense of self than the physical handicap. If he had been a religious man, he might have thought the injuries just reward for his sins. His many sins. But there was no God.
He gazed around the room at the others present. He recognised them all and knew most of them. What they shared was either loyalty to Churchill or a role in the dissemination of information, or both. The press baron Beaverbrook was there of course, as was Sir Frederick Ogilvie, director-general of the BBC. Who else? Duff Cooper, still on the back benches; the ever-present Brendan Bracken, one of Churchill’s best friends; Desmond Morton, who had provided Churchill with so many secrets regarding German rearmament; the scientist Frederick Lindemann.
And then there were the secrets boys: Eaton and Rowlands sharing the sofa while their boss Sir Hugh Sinclair, chief of MI6, occupied a wing chair. Sir Hugh – known to one and all as Quex – had nodded in acknowledgement at Eaton on entering the room. Eaton had afforded him a smile in return and tried to conceal his shock; Quex was gaunt, his flamboyance gone. ‘God,’ Eaton whispered to Rowlands. ‘He looks worse than me. Is he ill or simply under pressure?’
‘Both, perhaps.’
Across the room, Maxwell Knight and Guy Liddell from MI5 sat in the shade nearest the door, watching, evaluating. Like cats.
Liddell had passed
a few words with Eaton before taking his seat. ‘Good timing, Eaton. Don’t want to miss the war.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Come, come, don’t be like that. Anyway, we’ll need you boys. Five’s really up against it. We have upwards of sixty thousand German nationals resident in Britain, and they’ve all got to be checked out. That’s without the other aliens and undesirables we need to vet. My complement of staff doesn’t quite make a couple of rugby teams.’
Eaton smiled at Liddell but made no promises. His gaze now was focused on Churchill’s pug-like features, as he tried to spur on the impish Beaverbrook.
‘Max, your papers sell more than any in the land; you will be at the forefront of this battle for America’s hearts.’ He stabbed his cigar towards Ogilvie. ‘The BBC, too, of course. Goebbels most certainly understands the power of the wireless – we must do even better.’
He began to address the men from the Secret Intelligence Service. ‘Your role will be obvious to you. Your agents in Germany and the occupied territories must report anything that shines a light on the filthy behaviour of Hitler’s thugs. We know there will be atrocities and great cruelty, for we have seen such things from them already. These degradations must be publicised so that the decent men and women of the free world cannot turn away and say “This has nothing to do with us.” In our own operations we must ensure that civilian casualties are kept to a minimum. And at home, it is the task of the Secret Intelligence Service to prevent anything being done by fifth columnists to harm our country’s reputation in the wider—’
He stopped in mid-sentence because there was a knock at the door. It opened and Churchill’s wife Clemmie stood there, attired in dressing gown as though she had just risen from her bed. She nodded briskly to the assembled men, then approached her husband and spoke a few words in his ear. He instantly rose from his seat and followed her from the room.
The men sat silently save the occasional cough. Churchill returned five minutes later, his face grave. Eaton knew the old boy was an emotional man and, watching his fallen face, he wondered for a moment whether he might cry.
Nemesis Page 5
