by Doug Dollard
There was a noise behind me and I turned to see the man who had visited me in Queen Anne’s enter the room. Mary exchanged a few words with him and then she was gone, closing the door behind her and leaving us alone. I was beginning to wonder why the Royal Air Force was engaged in this whole process. If the accident were a suspected act of terrorism then MI5 would be the appropriate British investigative agency.
Without uttering a word the man who had visited me at Queen Anne’s moved across the room to where my wheelchair had been positioned where he took a seat in one of the high backed chairs, resting his cane between the cushion and the arm of the chair and stretching his legs out toward the fire. On closer inspection I noted his uniform was worn and hung loosely about him as if he had recently lost weight.
“Lieutenant Wellington tells me you are mending well Mister Riley,” he said once he had been seated. I quickly acknowledged as much. I could see he was studying me, watching closely for my reaction.
“How should I address you?” I asked,
“Sir James for now,” he answered civilly. Whitely had carefully considered the best means to secure the American’s confidence was to personalize their relationship.
“Perhaps you would care to explain why I am being detained,” I asked pointedly.
“You are here because you have yet to explain the purpose of your presence on British soil Mister Riley,” he chided me as if my question were no more than an expression of petulance.
“I believe I have explained why I am here on several occasions,” I answered smoothly. Pursing his lips he leaned forward, drawing a pipe and a pouch of tobacco from his jacket pocket. Without a word he proceeded to fill the bowl of his pipe with a pinch of tobacco he gripped between his thumb and forefinger.
Carefully he filled the bowl to its brim, lightly compacting the tobacco with his thumb. Holding the pipe stem between his teeth he dug into his coat pocket with his left hand, retrieving a small box of matches that he proceeded to shake, listening for the sound of the matchsticks rattling in the box. Fastidiously he picked errant bits of tobacco that had fallen on his trousers, disposing of them in a large green ashtray that sat on a small table between the two chairs.
Striking a match he held it away from him until the sulfur had burned completely away before moving it directly over the bowl. Slowly he drew against the flame until clouds of grey smoke billowed up through the stem. I disliked the acrid smell of cigarette smoke but the scent of tobacco smoke that drifted across the room from his pipe had a pleasing woodsy smell reminiscent of fall.
“You have told us you are here as a science writer to observe an experiment in thermonuclear fusion,” he said, staring absently into the fire that burned with a bright blue and yellow flame. He pulled on his pipe several times, leaning back in his chair and continuing to stare into the fire as if he were conversing with an old and trusted friend.
I had to admit his calm and deliberate manner was disarming, which I surmised was his intent. After what must have been several minutes he turned slightly to face me. I waited, knowing this was a game of nuanced meaning.
“I can find no evidence an experiment as you describe ever took place in Wilton Park Mister Riley,” he said in a tone that was more matter of fact than accusatory.
“I don’t understand,” I stammered, taken off guard by both his calm demeanor and his pointed denial the accident as I described it had taken place.
“Nor do I Mister Riley,” he concurred, his eyes focused directly on mine. “Tell me Mister Riley, what do you know of nuclear fusion?” I was immediately suspicious the commander was interested in more than the destruction of an experimental facility. There had been infinite speculation terrorists would eventually secure a nuclear device. Iran and North Korea were the most often mentioned sources for such a weapon.
I had grave doubts The Shield of Islam would be involved in such an attack. Their objective was the preservation of fossil fuels as the world’s principle source of energy. The wholesale destruction caused by a clandestine nuclear detonation would be counterproductive to their goals. Despite Ali’s willingness to sacrifice hundreds of lives he wasn’t a religious ideologue. If anything he was a capitalist bent on eliminating his competition, albeit in an unacceptably murderous fashion.
I could well understand the commander’s concerns assuming he feared a nuclear device had made its way onto British soil. But I could not decipher his odd interrogation method.
“You want to know about fusion?” I asked, unable to disguise my bewilderment.
“If you would be so kind. I have a keen interest in scientific developments.” He was staring at me intently now as if he were expecting some magical explanation that would resolve his concerns about my involvement.
“Well,” I began hesitantly, “Fusion is the process at the core of our Sun. What we see as light and feel as warmth is the result of a fusion reaction. At an atomic level when Hydrogen nuclei collide they fuse into heavier Helium atoms, releasing tremendous amounts of energy in the process. At extreme temperatures, electrons are separated from nuclei to form a plasma---a hot, electrically charged gas. As temperatures are far greater than any containment vessel could withstand an attempt was made to contain a controlled thermonuclear fusion reaction in a magnetic field. The product of this reaction is a stream of high-energy neutrons that are translated into heat used to power a turbine engine. In effect a steam engine powered by an unlimited source of heat energy.” Sir James appeared to carefully consider what I had said.
“You say this is the same process that occurs in the Sun?” Whitley asked, attempting to confirm his understanding.
“Precisely”, I stated.
“This is not a weapon, not a bomb?” He inquired, making certain there was no misunderstanding.
“No, of course not. It would be impossible to weaponize this process. Although,” I added upon reflection, “Thermonuclear bomb technology is child’s play compared to sustained fusion reaction containment.”
Whitley had to admit he was impressed by the American’s quick if facile explanation. The reference to bomb technology was troubling however. Not that he was technically knowledgeable enough to know if what he had just heard were complete science fiction. The lads in the science section at SIS would need to review the transcripts of this meeting to discern if there were any merit to Riley’s claims.
It surprised Whitley the American had so far been so unexpectedly cooperative, almost naively so. In fact Riley had been so forthcoming the Wing Commander was rethinking his strategy. After a moments reflection he decided to risk a more direct approach.
“I am curious Mister Riley. Among your personal affects was a note with the words Southwick House and Overlord written on it. Can you tell me the significance of these?”
I had forgotten I had written the note. When I first arrived at the Savoy I sorted through brochures on historic London I found in my room. One of them featured the icons of D-Day. I guess I wanted to pretend I’d have time to visit them so I jotted down their names on some stationary I found in the desk drawer. I must have placed the note in my pocket and forgotten about it.
“I had planned to visit Southwick House,” I answered, curious to know the commander’s reason for asking.
Again Whitley was surprised by the American’s candor but disappointed he would concoct such an obvious lie. The security surrounding Southwick House would make it impossible for any unauthorized civilian to gain entry. Far more important was learning the American’s reasons for targeting Southwick House.
“For what purpose,” the Wing Commander asked, not at all certain now what his prisoner would reveal.
“I wanted to see where Eisenhower commanded the troops during D-Day,” I said, not knowing what relevance this had to the tragedy at Wilton Park or for that matter his concerns there may be a nuclear device hidden somewhere in Britain.
Whitley had to exercise extraordinary self-control just to keep from pushing out of his chair in pure astonishment
. The American had just nonchalantly revealed one of the most closely held secrets of the war.
His mind racing, Whitley considered the implications of what he had just heard. Very few people knew of Eisenhower’s intention to move his headquarters from Camp Griffiss in Bushy Park to Southwick House near Portsmouth when the balloon went up. The implications of what he had just learned were startling.
If the American knew of Eisenhower’s plans what else did he know and more importantly, did Riley convey this intelligence to the Germans. He must tread cautiously now. He was convinced Riley was mingling facts with pure fabrications, but for what purpose was not as yet clear.
“How were you planning to travel,” Sir James asked.
It was an odd question in a series of odd questions but I thought it best to answer if nothing more than to alleviate Sir James’ concerns I was being assiduously cooperative.
“I assumed I’d take the train to Portsmouth Harbor and catch a taxi at the terminal,” I said, assuming Sir James was attempting to cross reference my actions on the twenty-third to activities linked to the destruction at Wilton Park.
Whitley wondered if Riley wasn’t making an attempt at the much-ballyhooed American humor. Portsmouth was a hive of activity in preparation for the invasion of Europe. It was heavily guarded and off limits to civilians. Southwick House was a secure military facility currently in use by the His Majesty’s Royal Navy.
The entire area was under military control, guarded and patrolled around the clock. The American would not have been able to pass through multiple layers of security without the appropriate credentials and any effort to gain access without authorization would have resulted in his detention. That conundrum would have to wait. Whitley had one last and most important question to ask and he was admittedly fearful of the answer he might receive.
“What was the significance of writing the word Overlord on that same slip of paper?” he asked, his heart pounding in anticipation.
I stared over at the Wing Commander in mild surprise.
“The D-Day landings of course,” I said, again surprised the Sir James was interested in such innocuous details. “The sixth of June, 1944. The Allies stormed the beaches at Normandy. That famous photograph of Eisenhower standing in front of Southwick House on that day, not knowing if the landings would succeed. I simply intended to get a sense of the history of the place.”
Sir James’ blanched and a loud ringing began pulsating in his ears. He grew light headed and felt sick to his stomach. This simply couldn’t be he told himself. He wanted desperately to stand but could not trust his legs would hold him.
I could see the commander sinking back in his chair, a look of despair taking control of his face.
“Are you not feeling well Sir James,” I inquired. He appeared visibly shaken and I worried he may be having a stroke. I was about to seek help when he raised his arm, signaling he needed no assistance. After what seemed like several minutes the color returned to his cheeks and his eyes returned to their cool blue, unfathomable depths.
“Why the sixth of June?” the Commander inquired when he had sufficiently recovered himself enough to speak.
It was a strange question and I wondered why it had been asked. Certainly the commander was not interested in a history lesson even assuming he would require one. Never the less his tone was insistent.
“There weren’t an adequate number of landing craft to do it sooner and the weather was unexpectedly poor. Waiting until June for the weather to clear was necessary and it carried the added benefit of securing additional Higgins Boats.” The Commander seemed to struggle with some malady he was fighting to control. Finally, seeming to regain his composure he appeared satisfied his questions had been duly answered.
“I believe that will be enough for today Mister Riley,” he said, his voice a mere whisper. “I’ll see to it Lieutenant Wellington returns you to your quarters.”
With that he moved to rise from his chair, struggling to secure his footing as if he were physically exhausted. Even with the assistance of his walking stick Sir James moved uneasily, pausing as he neared the door to the lounge. Turning back he stared across the room as if to confirm I were still seated in my wheelchair in front of the fire.
“Thank you Mister Riley,” he said in an almost wistful tone. And then he was gone, the sound of his cane against the hardwood floorboards echoing down the corridor. For several minutes I sat there staring into the fire, wondering what had just happened.
It was some time before Lieutenant Wellington reappeared. She seemed distracted and uncharacteristically flustered. Without a word she took the handles of my wheelchair and spun me around, moving rapidly through the doorway and down the hall toward my room.
But instead of bringing me back to my quarters we continued on through the foyer toward the rear portico. Just before the double doors leading out onto the portico we stopped while Lieutenant Wellington grabbed a coat from a rack of assorted military garments and two blankets from the shelf beside the rack.
Tucking the blankets around my legs and over my shoulder she donned her coat before wheeling me out onto the portico. One of the guards followed a short distance behind us but remained inside, watching us through the patio doors that were sectioned in clear glass.
Outside were several large columns that rose up from a stone patio in support of a roof that was attached to the main building. The patio was two meters off the ground and overlooked a large field of frost-covered ground leading up to a dense barrier of leafless trees. The air was cold and damp. I could see white clouds of vapor escaping from Wellington’s mouth with every breath.
“Croquet,” she exclaimed.
“Excuse me?”
“This is our croquet lawn,” she said by way of an explanation. On closer inspection I could just make out the metal rings and wooden posts that lie stuck in the ground at various intervals.
“I see,” I said as if locating the croquet lawn had been on my mind for some time.
We were both quite for a while. The cold stole the heat from my body and I began to shiver though I enjoyed the fresh air after so long a confinement.
“I’m sorry,” she exclaimed, noticing my reaction. “I’ll bring you back inside.”
“Not just yet,” I implored her. “A few more minutes, please.” She was standing beside me, her unbuttoned jacket bundled up around her, her body tensed against the cold.
“You caused quite a stir,” she said, staring out over the lawn and avoiding my gaze.
“How do you mean?” I was mystified, having no inkling to what she was referring. It occurred to me there might not be any listening devices on the portico at this time of year. Few would have ventured out here in the cold or stayed long if they did. I wondered who else beside myself were guests here. The mansion was quite large, four stories in fact. Certainly room enough for others.
“I’m not supposed to speak to you,” she said in a near whisper. She was staring at me now, an expression of concern marking her features. I nodded.
“It’s alright. I think we can talk safely out here,” I assured her. I knew exactly what she meant. I would not have pressed her for information in any event. I couldn’t fathom how I could possibly have caused a stir however, as I had said nothing of importance since arriving.
“You’re not a German spy are you?” she asked. I smiled and would have laughed except I noted her expression was deadly serious.
“No, I am not a German spy. I’m not a spy for anyone,” I added, though that was not entirely true. She seemed to relax, accepting my denial.
“You should be careful what you say in there,” she admonished me. I stared at her quizzically, noting she was staring intently at the mansion behind us. There was a distinct note of fear in her tone that had not been there before.
“I’ll take you in now,” she said, gripping the handles of my wheel chair. I held up my arm, signaling her to wait a moment.
“Are you in pain?”
“What
happened back there?” I asked, turning to look back at her.
“I’m sure I do not know Mister Riley,” she asserted. “I was not in the room if you recall.”
“Yes, but you know more than you are saying.” I was watching her carefully, searching for any sign she might in fact be keeping something from me.
“I am here to attend your injuries Mister Riley. Whatever else transpires here is not of my concern.”
“Then why bring me out on the portico and why aren’t you afraid to be alone with me? If I am a suspect in an act of terror, hell if I’m being held as a suspect then it’s strange you’d feel safe being alone with me.” As soon as the words had left my mouth I regretted them.
“You are in no condition to be a threat to anyone Mister Riley,” she commented wryly. “I could fend you off with my little finger should you ever give me cause.” Her wry sense of humor relieved some of the tension but I repressed the urge to smile.
“You need fear nothing from me,” I assured her. “Perhaps we could take some fresh air again later,” I hinted.
“Tomorrow morning perhaps. I must return to my duties at Queen Anne’s now. You will be on your own until then. The guards will bring your meals. Please try to eat something. You need nourishment if you are to heal.” She smiled at me then, her expression softening. “I’ll take you in now,” she said, shivering slightly from the cold. Taking the handles of the wheelchair we retreated to the warmth of the mansion.
The guard followed us back to my room where he took a position just outside the door. Wellington started to assist be back into my bed but I declined.
“I’d rather spend a few more minutes sitting up,” I protested. “I can manage getting back into bed on my own later,” I assured her. She eyed me suspiciously but relinquished her hold on my wheelchair.
“Take care to stay clear of trouble while I am gone Mister Riley,” she admonished me. And then she was gone, leaving me to ponder the strange events of the day alone. I was disheartened and mystified by everything that had happened from the explosion at Wilton Park to today’s interview with Wing Commander Whitley.
