After dinner that night Gregory went to see Sir Pellinore. The meeting was not a happy one. Gregory reported the progress he had made to date, then flatly refused the Baronet’s pleas that he should give up his plan. Seeing that nothing would move him, Sir Pellinore, being a man of his word, divulged, albeit with great reluctance and misgiving, the ‘Most Secret’ information that he had secured for him.
On Saturday afternoon good news came through from the Western Desert. For the past week the Eighth Army and the Afrika Corps had been engaged in a tremendous slogging match at El Alamein. Many tanks had been destroyed on both sides and the British had taken a considerable number of prisoners; but so far General Montgomery had failed to dislodge Rommel from his main positions. Now it was reported that another all-out attack had been launched that morning and definite breaches had been made in the German defences.
At six o’clock Gregory went down to the Tower and spent an hour with Sabine, questioning her about Hitler’s principal Military advisers, their habits, vices and personal backgrounds. At seven Mrs. Sutton brought her in her evening meal; so he left her. Out in the hall he said to the wardress:
‘I can’t stay tonight, but tomorrow evening I mean to pay her a late visit. How is the supply of port going?’
The wardress went to the cupboard and showed him that there was one bottle left. He said with a smile, ‘I could do with a drink, although it is hardly the hour for port. Let’s open it and have one. I’ll bring some more down tomorrow. You’ll join me, won’t you?’
Nothing loath, she fetched a corkscrew and glasses. They had two goes apiece; then he went out into the chill raw misty night, and took the Underground down to Gloucester Road.
After Rudd had served him with a meal he spent a worrying half-hour, obsessed with the fear that Kasdar might have got cold feet and not turn up after all. He had by now thoroughly examined every possibility for getting Sabine out of the Tower and made up his mind how he meant to attempt it; but if the Moldavian let him down his own plan would have been made for nothing.
His fears proved groundless. Soon after nine, with a sigh of thankfulness, he heard the heavy footfalls outside on the landing and Rudd showed in the big black-moustached Colonel.
The Moldavian was in an excellent humour and, as soon as Gregory had mixed him a drink, opened up their business. One of the tugs was at sea and the other two at Newcastle, so he had gone up there to see their Captains; and he had been lucky. The father of one of them had recently died and he had inherited a very pleasant property in Moldavia, so he was anxious to get home to enjoy it. He had sounded his crew and found that for the chance of getting back to their own country all but one of them were also willing to accept some risk of being caught by the British while making a break across the North Sea. His tug with its tow of barges should be off Harwich, on the way down to London, on November the 2nd, and he could fake engine trouble which would enable him to lie up at Burnham-on-Crouch for, anyhow, two or three days.
Kasdar had then taken the tug Captain down to Burnham and they had hired a car to explore the neighbourhood. A lonely inlet a few miles away, which could easily be identified, had been settled upon as the point of embarkation. The wording of an innocent sounding telegram had been agreed, which Kasdar was to send to the Captain at Burnham on the afternoon preceding the escape. That night he would have his tug lying off the inlet, and should he be challenged by naval craft he would say that, having taken her out for a trial that evening, she had broken down again. From two o’clock in the morning he would have a boat inshore ready to pick up his passenger.
Gregory was delighted. He felt that had he handled the job himself he could not have done it more efficiently; but now he was faced with the awful moment when he must make payment in advance or Kadar would call the whole thing off.
Already the Colonel was saying eagerly, ‘And now, my friend, don’t keep me in suspense. When is D-Day and where is this great seaborne expedition to make its landing?’
On the previous night Gregory had secured both those major secrets; and numerous others, from Sir Pellinore, but he did not mean to pass on much of his material yet. He shook his head. ‘Only the very top boys and the Joint Planning Staff know that as yet, and they are being as tight as clams. But in the meantime …’
‘Come!’ Kasdar broke in angrily. ‘I will not be trifled with. Either you …’
In turn, Gregory cut him short. ‘Don’t be so damned impatient! I am working on three separate people, all of whom could tell us what we want to know; but I dare not ask any of them outright. You have got to give me another day or two to get the high-spots. In the meantime here is something pretty good. The code-word for the operation is Torch, the naval commander of the expedition is Admiral Sir Bertram Ramsey—the chap who organised the evacuation from Dunkirk—and the convoys sail tonight.’
‘Tonight!’ Kasdar came swiftly to his feet. ‘That is certainly something worth knowing. But, if so, D-Day cannot be far off. Only three or four days, perhaps.’
‘Longer, I think. Don’t count on this. It is only an idea I got from something I overheard, and I may be wrong. But I gained the impression that this is a second and much more powerful expedition to take Dakar. If so, D-Day is still ten days off, at least.’
The Moldavian swallowed the rest of his drink, and said hurriedly, ‘I must go and get this in code for the other side. But it is not enough, you know, to induce me to handle the Sabine business. I want the date and place before I will do that. When is the earliest you can hope to get them?’
‘I may do so any time. As soon as I have anything worthwhile I’ll telephone you to fix another meeting.’
When Kasdar had gone, Gregory found that he was sweating. He strove to reassure himself by reasoning that the code-word Torch had now served its purpose. For months past, in an ever-increasing circle, more and more people in the Ministries and Service formations had had to be appraised of its meaning, so that thousands of officers, civil servants, typists and clerks, Captains of merchant ships, dock and railway officials, all now knew it to apply to the great offensive operation planned by the Allies for 1942; and therefore from some few of those thousands it must have already leaked to Eire and so through to the Germans. He knew too that the slowest vessels had started as early as October the 22nd and that the bulk of the troops had sailed on the 26th. It was only the last flotillas of the great armada that were to sail that night; so he was able to argue that the expedition’s departure could not have been concealed from men like Kasdar for more than another twelve hours. In the morning Glasgow and Liverpool would wake to learn that Clydeside and Merseyside had overnight become empty of shipping. Neutrals resident in those cities would unquestionably telephone that news to their Embassies in London.
Yet he hardly slept from worry and a succession of nightmares about appalling catastrophes which just might result from his personal action. The worst was the convoys being torpedoed; although once they had sailed they stood that risk anyhow, and if they had been going to Dakar they would have passed hundreds of miles outside the Straits of Gibraltar, which was the worst danger spot; so the red herring he had thrown out might help to minimise the risk they ran.
On Sunday morning there was again good news from El Alamein. A British thrust to the north had cut off a large pocket of Germans on the coast; but knowing that the Torch convoys had sailed everybody in the War Cabinet Offices was now anxious and restless.
Instead of supping with Sir Pellinore, at nine o’clock that night Gregory arrived at the Tower. The red-headed Mrs. Wright was on duty and, taking three bottles of port from his attaché case, he suggested that she might like to have a drink with him before he went in to start his interrogation. Like her colleague, she displayed no reluctance, and while they were having it she remarked:
‘You won’t have long with her tonight, sir, unless you’ve got the countersign. The gates are shut at ten, and no one’s allowed in or out after that, unless they have.’
Havin
g thanked her for the information, he went across to the Governor’s office, explained that he wished to spend at least an hour with the prisoner, and was given the countersign for the night, which would allow him to pass out of the wicket gate up till twelve o’clock. But he was warned that unless he was out by that hour he would be locked in till morning.
On returning to St. Thomas’s Tower he found that Mrs. Sutton had just come in from an evening off. It was about twenty to ten and she asked him if he had ever seen the Ceremony of the Keys. As he had not, and it was due to take place in only a little over ten minutes’ time down in Water Lane, just below the front door, she suggested that he should wait to see it before going in to the prisoner.
They had another drink all round, then went out on to the stone gallery above the pit in which lay Traitors’ Gate. At 9.53 the Chief Warder, an ancient lantern in hand, joined the Escort of Troops awaiting him in the archway under the Bloody Tower, upon which Gregory and the two wardresses were looking down. Carrying the Keys, the Chief Warder proceeded in turn to the West Gate, the Middle and the Byward Towers. At each, as he locked the gates, the escort presented arms. The party then returned to the archway of the Bloody Tower where it was halted by the sentry with the challenge, ‘Who goes there?’ The Chief Warder replied, The Keys.’ The sentry demanded, ‘Whose Keys?’ The Chief Warder replied, ‘King George’s Keys.’ Upon which the sentry cried, ‘Advance King George’s Keys. All’s well!’ And so concluded the ceremony.
‘Really romantic, isn’t it?’ commented Mrs. Wright. ‘And just to think it’s been done the same night after night for nearly seven hundred years.’
Gregory spent his hour with Sabine, extracting more information from her about Hitler’s habits and those of his favourites. He was out of the tower by eleven-twenty and spent a somewhat better night owing to the comforting thought that the build-up for Sabine’s escape was proceeding well.
Next morning, at the Cabinet Offices, the little grey-haired Major telephoned, then came to see him about midday; and he was able to assuage his troubled conscience a little with the thought that he was, at least, the means of providing a mass of high level intelligence data which it would otherwise have been extremely difficult to obtain.
But Kasdar again loomed dark and sinister in his thoughts. He dared not hold out too long on the Moldavian, otherwise all that he had yet done would go for nothing. Steeling himself to it he rang up from a call-box outside on Clive Steps, and asked the Colonel to come down to Gloucester Road that night at eight o’clock.
Kasdar was punctual to the minute. Striving to make his voice sound natural, Gregory said to him, ‘I’ve got it for you, as I promised. D-Day is Monday, November the 9th.’
‘Kolossal!’ cried the Moldavian, almost quivering with excitement. ‘Now we have really got somewhere. And the objective?’
Gregory shook his head. ‘I am still stymied on that.’
‘But the one loses nine-tenths of its value without the other.’
‘I know. But I can’t help it. I’ll get it for you within the next twenty-four hours. And listen! I’ve got for you the British Order of Battle.’
‘You have!’
‘Yes.’ Gregory produced from his pocket a list of the Divisions and Brigade Groups that were taking part in the operation. He had compiled it without aid, simply by using his knowledge obtained in the War Room of the formations which had been moved to ports. He had not dared to fake it, as he felt sure that any Military Attaché would already have a shrewd idea of the best trained, fully equipped formations available, and would probably have had his civilian informants identify by their arm flashes those which during the past fortnight had moved up to the North.
After a glance down the list, Kasdar exclaimed, ‘This is good! You have done well, my friend! But not well enough. The objective is all important. When can you let me have it?’
‘Tomorrow, I hope. Anyhow by Wednesday. And that is the day for which I have planned Sabine’s escape. I mean that night. May I count on you to send a telegram giving the word to your tug Captain on the afternoon of Wednesday the 4th?’
‘Providing that you have by then given me the objective.’
‘I understand that; but we cannot afford to postpone our preparations. You are in a position to refuse your aid at any moment, should I fail you. But the preparations must be made. On Wednesday, after lunch, at half-past two, I wish you to be at the blitzed entrance to St. Thomas’s Hospital, on the south side of Westminster Bridge. I will be waiting for you there. By then, if I haven’t given it you before, I’ll be able to tell you the objective. But, Wednesday we must definitely meet in order to reconnoitre the approach by water to the Tower, and lower down the river; so that you can decide where you will have your car waiting to pick Sabine up that night.’
After a moment’s hesitation, Kasdar agreed. ‘All right then. Wednesday, two-thirty, outside the hospital, on the far side of the bridge.’
Having got rid of the Moldavian, Gregory went along by Underground to the Tower, arriving there about half-past nine. He went straight to the Governor’s Office to get the countersign, then again gave the two wardresses a glass of port and watched the Ceremony of the Keys with them. Soon after ten he was locked in with Sabine.
He talked to her until a quarter to twelve; then Mrs. Sutton came to the door to warn him that it was time for him to leave. He said he must have another five minutes, and when he came out he was cursing audibly at having had to terminate prematurely a most promising session of his interrogation. It was only by running for it through the dark rain-misted night that he managed to get to the wicket gate in time to save himself from being locked in.
First thing on Tuesday morning, having decided that it would be as well to let Colonel ‘Himmler’ know how the interrogation was going, he called at the M.I.5 office. That bustling and cheerful officer listened to his report with interest, then said:
‘It will take a few days to arrange for her trial, but I see no reason now why it shouldn’t be started next week.’
Gregory nodded. ‘After another two long late sessions I reckon I’ll have sucked her dry; so I should be able to make my final report to your little Major friend on Thursday. In any case I’ll be through well before the weekend.’
Having thus ensured against any sudden interference with his plans by M.I.5 during the next forty-eight hours, he walked across the Park to his office. There he learned that the El Alamein battle was still raging furiously. The Germans claimed that Rommel was winning the tank battle but the signals from General Alexander contradicted that, and in the southern sector our infantry had made an important advance, taking many prisoners.
Everyone realised that a great deal hung on the outcome of the battle, but both victories and defeats in the Western Desert were no new thing; so, from the Chiefs of Staff down to the most junior Major, the whole personnel of the Fortress Basement had their thoughts on the Atlantic.
As super security the position of the Convoys was not even marked up on the map in the War Room; it was known only that they had taken a wide sweep out into the ocean so as to be outside the range of the Fockewulf aircraft that the Germans used to spot for their U-boat packs. But it was also known that a concentration of no less than forty U-boats was lying off the Canary Islands; and the Convoys had to go through the Straits of Gibraltar. Still worse, for some reason that even the sailors seemed unable to explain, they would have to spend no less than forty-eight hours milling round outside the Straits while they were regrouped into new formations for the assault. From the present position of the U-boats it looked as if the Dakar cover story had got through; but when those hundreds of ships had to become more or less stationary, circling round one another for two days and nights at no great distance from the Straits, it seemed almost impossible for them to remain undiscovered, and that the U-boats would not come racing north to deal death and destruction among them.
There was, too, another cause for acute anxiety. The original British plan
had been to throw everything into the Mediterranean, for three landings at Oran, Algiers and Philippeville, but the Americans had baulked at the idea, fearing that if the Germans came down through Spain the whole expedition might be cut off and bottled up in North Africa.
To ensure keeping open a supply line to it they had pressed for the major landing to be made at Casablanca, on the Atlantic coast, and only a minor one at Oran. The British had argued stubbornly for landings at Algiers and Philippeville, because the prime object of the operation was to get into Tunisia as rapidly as possible and join up with the Eighth Army advancing from the East; and Philippeville was five hundred miles nearer to the Tunisian border than Oran. But the best that could be got was a reluctant consent by the Americans to a landing at Algiers, and they also continued to insist on one at Casablanca.
The decision to abandon the Philippeville landing was to prove an error of the first magnitude, as it resulted in the Germans being able to get strong forces into Tunisia before the Allies could do so, and a most costly campaign of many months’ duration before the enemy were finally thrown out. But the matter which was causing such anxiety at the moment was the Casablanca landing. Being on the Atlantic coast the seas on its beaches were much rougher. On average there was only one really calm day per month, and on four out of every five the giant rollers were so high that they would make it impossible for the assault craft of the separate expedition, which was on its way over direct from the United States, to be beached without being battered to pieces.
Down in the Fortress Basement there was now nothing that anyone could do but await results, and there were still five days to go. The strain was almost unbearable, and like his colleagues Gregory could not help being affected by it; so he was glad when his tour of duty was up and he could concentrate solely on his own intensely harrowing problems.
That night he again reached the Tower at nine-thirty, secured the countersign from the Governor’s Office, stood the two wardresses a glass of port, and went in to see Sabine. She had frequently begged him to tell her how he was progressing with his plans for her escape, but he had refused to do so from fear that as the time drew near she might arouse the suspicions of the wardresses by showing signs of excitement. He therefore followed what had become his established routine of questioning her about leading Nazi personalities.
Traitors' Gate Page 43
