Agent of Fortune

by Kurt Magenta

  He barely had time to take in the dull hallway with its peeling flock wallpaper. The stairway was just ahead. Above, floorboards crashed and shuddered with the sounds of panic. A figure appeared in the stairwell, a pale ghost of a man with a dark slick of hair. He paused at the sight of the raiders, jaw slack. He glanced behind him as if tempted to run the other way, then thought better of it and raised his hands.

  One of the soldiers grabbed him by the bicep and led him down to the ground floor. ‘That’s it, sonny, you come with me.’ The others flowed up the stairs, three flights to the top of the house. Lucien heard the bang of a door being kicked open, shouts and scuffles – but no shots.

  By the time they reached the top landing, it was all over. The skinniest and youngest of the soldiers – acne sprinkled across his jaw – stood in the doorway. He addressed Thorn: ‘All clear, sir.’

  Thorn beckoned and they followed him. The electricity was working, the wan light negating the gloom cast by the blacked out windows. Off the short hallway, the largest room featured a single camp bed, a couple of bentwood chairs and a low table with an overflowing ashtray. Three smeared glasses sat next to an almost empty bottle of Cutty Sark whisky. At some point this had been an ordinary flat, perhaps with a radiogram and confortable chairs with antimacassars. Now it was a shabby hideout.

  Two men stood in it with their hands up, covered by three of the remaining soldiers. Like their companion, they looked scruffy, pallid and underfed.

  Opposite the living room, a bedroom contained two more metal cots, a twist of clothing on one of them. Lucien could hear Thorn and the fourth soldier clumping about elsewhere in the flat. Suddenly there was cry: ‘In here, sir!’

  Hayes strode out with Lucien and Vauthier behind him. At the end of the hallway there was what may have been a small store room, or a walk-in wardrobe. It was dominated by a card table serving as a makeshift desk. Next to another brimming ashtray sat an array of electrical gear. A radio transmitter.

  ‘Neat portable number,’ Thorn was saying. ‘See the valve and the Morse tapper? All fits into a pouch no bigger than my boy’s school satchel. Easy enough to smuggle. But how the blazes did they get into the country in the first place? That’s what I’d like to know.’

  Hayes grunted. ‘Posing as refugees. The neighbours probably sympathised. Well, you know where to take them now.’ He turned. ‘Cortel, Vauthier – come with me.’

  Lucien thought of the three wretched, scrawny men, roughly his own age. The spies. Hardly the sinister figures of propaganda. He wondered what had led them here, and how they had withstood the constant gnawing threat of discovery.

  Back in the car, Hayes arranged matters so that this time he was sitting next to Lucien, with Vauthier in the front beside the driver.

  Hayes asked: ‘Do you know how we found these men, Cortel?’

  Lucien knew the answer, but he waited.

  Hayes continued, ‘Major Maddox led us to them. Indirectly, of course. We believe there are others like them. We would have liked to have found them, but your own initiative has forced our hand.’

  Then he said the words Lucien had been unable to pronounce, even in his head. ‘As I think you’re now aware, Jasper Maddox is a traitor.’

  Back at the Westminster safe house, Hayes opened a desk drawer and produced a bottle of Glenlivet. Vauthier accepted a glass; Lucien declined. Once Hayes was seated with a heavy crystal tumbler in his hand, he returned to his story.

  ‘We think it started in Switzerland, before the war, when Maddox’s wife was ill. Our guess is that it was more about money than ideology. Maddox would certainly not have been alone if he thought Fascism was some kind of rampart against Communism. But personally I believe he was paid, and paid handsomely. His wife’s treatment was costing him a fortune. His family are army and country: landowners, but not immensely wealthy. Whatever political convictions he has made him easier to sway.’

  Lucien remembered his conversation at The Argyll with Anna. This raised another question, but the area was tender to the touch.

  ‘And so he began to spy on us. He was quite clever about it. He claimed to have established a network of informants within Germany, who would occasionally pass him intelligence. He organised several clandestine meetings with them. The resulting material looked genuine, but it was almost impossible to verify. Meanwhile he was passing on information – real, useful information – to them.’

  Lucien said, ‘I’ve never been entirely clear on his role within the intelligence service.’

  Hayes smiled without humour. ‘The waters are rather murky. In short he’s a bridge between the domestic people, MI5, and ourselves, the overseas intelligence service. He’s turned himself into something of a one-man-band. As I say, he was cunning. His job, as he painted it, was to stem the flow of potential enemy agents into the British Isles.’

  ‘Hence his involvement in The Patriotic School.’

  Hayes nodded. ‘It was more or less his brainchild. We now realise that by putting himself in a position where he could vet refugees, he could also let a trickle of them through. Including his Nazi pals.’

  Lucien’s stomach was churning. He said, ‘The Inter-Allied Intelligence Group was his idea too, wasn’t it? Why did you let it go ahead?’

  For the first time, Hayes looked uncomfortable. ‘When he proposed your mission into France, we were fairly certain it was in order to glean intelligence for the other side.’

  ‘But you let me go anyway.’

  ‘We had to. It was the perfect opportunity. Sending you to France plugged the leak from the Deuxième Bureau, while giving us a chance of finding out exactly what Maddox was up to. For a start, we had no idea whether Madrigal was a genuine source or a fabrication. So, yes, we let you go.’

  ‘And you let him debrief me afterwards. I told him all about the network. Places, names…my sister!’

  Hayes raised his voice to match Lucien’s. ‘I don’t have to justify myself to you, Cortel. We needed to keep Maddox on a very long leash if we were to unearth more fifth columnists. But that time has passed. He’s on to us, just as he’s on to you. He led you on from the start.’

  Something occurred to Lucien. ‘Dédé knew. Or at least he had an idea. When he put me onto that boat with Maddox, he still wasn’t sure. But when I showed up in Paris, his suspicions deepened. He even tried to warn me.’

  Now Vauthier chimed in, his English lightly accented. ‘At first, you were the one who looked suspect. When you arrived in London, I learned very quickly that you had some kind of relationship with this British officer. As you know, we were wary of les Anglais and they of us. So I asked Chenard to keep a watch on you.’

  ‘Chenard was spying on me.’ It was not a question: Lucien had suspected as much since his conversation with Solomon Cantello.

  Vauthier shrugged. ‘Tit for tat, as the English say. When you both went over to the Deuxième Bureau, Chenard kept me au courant. I even spoke to Passy, but he did not want to hear me. In fact, he was pushing for better contacts with the British. To him, you were an asset. Of course, back then we were not aware that Maddox was a double.’

  Lucien’s sickness was beginning to worsen, but now it felt more like fury. ‘Maddox killed Chenard, didn’t he?’

  Hayes nodded. ‘At least had him killed. Yes, we believe so. Chenard wanted rather too much to be a hero. He began asking questions about Maddox. With tragic results.’

  Scenes from the night of Chenard’s death whirred through Lucien’s mind. ‘The daughter. Anna. How much does she know?’

  ‘Nothing, as far as we’ve been able to determine. In fact, the solution we’ve come up with may be the best for both of them.’

  ‘Solution? Surely the only option is to arrest him.’

  ‘No.’ Hayes rested his palms on his knees and gazed at the backs of his hands, as if trying to steady himself. He took a breath and expelled it. Then
he looked up. ‘We are going to offer him a deal. Or perhaps I should say – you are going to offer him a deal.’

  Lucien raked his fingers through his hair. ‘I see. You’re going to try and turn him.’

  ‘Yes. In exchange for his freedom – and indeed for his life – we are going to ask him to keep his lines of communication with the Nazis open. He will continue to feed them with information. Or rather, disinformation: the false intelligence we will provide to him. The advantages, we believe, may be considerable. As our friend Machiavelli said, never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception.’

  The tension was gnawing at Lucien’s nerves – his right leg bounced as if he was operating a foot pump. ‘Excuse me, sir.’ He stood and began to pace around. ‘And why am I to be the one who will offer him this deal?’

  ‘Partly to make amends. You have aided and abetted a traitor, Cortel. From the very beginning, your actions have been imprudent, if not downright foolish.’

  Vauthier chimed in. ‘Maddox took you for a pigeon the second you stepped onto the boat. Did you think you were some kind of agent of fortune, sent by the fates to save the honour of France? He had you running around chasing cagoulards – ghosts. But the only spy at the heart of the Deuxième Bureau was you!’

  ‘That’s enough, Vauthier,’ said Hayes sharply. He turned back to Lucien. ‘Cortel, your actions have shown that you are capable of great courage, and I believe you have the makings of a fine intelligence officer, once the naivety and impetuousness have been stripped from you. This is your chance to prove it. Maddox trusts you. In his own way, I believe he even likes you.’

  Lucien stopped walking. He nodded. ‘Very well, sir. I will of course do my best. But what if he suspects that we know? What’s to keep him from running?’

  ‘Running where, exactly? To France? To Germany? He’s no use to them there. No. Maddox is a gambler with a very high opinion of himself. He’ll want to see this through to the end. He may well try to strike a deal of his own, but eventually he’ll see things our way. And if at first he baulks, we have another bargaining chip.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The daughter. If he runs, her position will be very precarious indeed.’

  Anna. This was truly a nightmare.

  ‘I understand, sir. I’ll try to get a message to him. But it won’t be easy. Usually he comes to me. He leaves handwritten notes or sends cryptic telegrams. I always have to emphasise urgency to get him to surface.’

  ‘Well do that. Tell him you have news from André Dehix, for example.’

  ‘Why should he believe me?’

  ‘Because it happens to be true.’ Hayes reached into his inside breast pocket and drew out a fold of paper. ‘This came through in the early hours of the morning.’

  He gave it to Lucien, who sat down to read it. The message was brief. ‘Chorale circuit still open. Further transmissions pending. Madrigal.’

  Lucien felt a fugitive glow of pleasure. ‘It may be enough.’

  ‘Good. Make sure you meet somewhere neutral, preferably in plain sight. Don’t let him lure you onto his territory. When you know where and when, I’ll have my men keeping a discreet watch.’ He paused. ‘And take that gun of yours.’

  Chapter 29

  One Last Stroll

  The Gargoyle Club was still open, the name above its doorway glowing softly blue. Indeed, Soho seemed gloriously impervious to the bombing, like a cool outsider smoking a continental cigarette on the fringes of a fight.

  Even if Lucien had been in a position to argue, he could hardly have faulted the choice of the club as a meeting place. The ambient noise of the upstairs bar would mask their conversation, and the risk of any violence was lessened by the presence of numerous potential witnesses. Still, as he entered the restaurant on the ground floor – where the jazz quartet was strumming through its first set – he was grateful for the feel of the gun tucked into his waistband.

  He glided through the smoke and the music and climbed the stairs to the bar, his legs heavy and reluctant. At the top he scanned the familiar scene: the round tables with their vellum-coloured lamps, glowing like the restaurant car of a night train. It was relatively early, and not all the tables were occupied.

  But he saw with a jolt that Maddox was already there, in uniform, tie askew and red-banded cap sitting on the table in front of him. The table was near the front wall, under one of the blacked-out windows. Lucien crossed to it with a flower of ice blooming in his guts. He pulled out a chair and sat down.

  ‘Good to see you, my boy,’ said Maddox. ‘You know, I feel it’s the first time we’re able to talk almost as equals.’

  Lucien’s throat was dry and he had to swallow before he could speak. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘Oh, come along. This is not about Dédé. I know very well what that fat fool Hayes has been telling you.’ He raised his hand to signal the waiter. ‘In fact it’s almost a relief. Nothing weighs so heavily as a secret, to quote your countryman La Fontaine. Talking of which...’

  He shifted in his seat to take something from his pocket. Then he opened his palm and let the contents tumble onto the table. Five worn cubes of ivory, their colours faded. Chenard’s poker dice.

  Maddox said: ‘I’m truly sorry about your friend.’

  Lucien felt as if his entire body had clenched. ‘How could you do it Maddox?’

  ‘Oh, it’s “Maddox” now, is it? No more “sir”? Well, so be it.’ He shrugged. ‘Chenard was getting far too curious, and at a delicate stage, too. He even followed me home after one of our little meetings. Had to take him out of the picture. Not personally, of course.’

  The waiter appeared. Maddox said, ‘A Gibson for me, Albert, as usual. Lucien – still a French 75?’

  ‘Not tonight.’

  Maddox dismissed Albert with a glance.

  Lucien said, ‘You had Goucher killed, too, didn’t you?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Rather less sorry about that. Never had much time for the popular press. Reporters had more class in your father’s day.’

  Lucien could hear the cocktail being shaken. It reminded him of an approaching rattlesnake.

  ‘And the escape route in Paris,’ he said. ‘You were the one who had it closed down. You wanted me to use Dédé’s network, to expose it.’

  ‘Quite right.’ The Gibson arrived and Maddox sipped it while watching the waiter leave. ‘Your debrief was most rewarding. We thought we’d let the Chorale circuit function for a while, glean some more information, then wrap it up before it could do any harm.’

  ‘So why did you have me arrested by the Gestapo?’

  Maddox shook his head. ‘That was mere happenstance. But I made allowances all the same. Your alias was on a list. If picked up you were to be handed over to the Abwehr – top priority. Found it quite easy to get away from them, didn’t you?’

  Lucien shrugged. ‘It didn’t feel easy at the time.’

  ‘Their instructions were to dump you and watch you. We weren’t expecting you to be quite so slippery.’

  ‘I knew you were using me. But I thought I was feeding you information for our side.’

  ‘The masquerade was amusing, I have to admit. Life is so dull without a little treachery.’

  Lucien shifted in his seat. ‘But the Nazis, Maddox! They’re monsters, you must know that?’

  ‘Do I? If the Germans lose, you’ll see what comes next. Is Stalin any less of a monster? And what about us? What kind of monstrosities will we commit before it’s all over? There are no monsters, Lucien. Either that, or they are each and every one of us.’

  Lucien said quietly, ‘My father didn’t believe that.’

  ‘No. But of course he preferred to spy for the Russians.’

  Lucien bristled. ‘You’re lying!’

  ‘Really? Why would I do that? Imagine: your perfect papa, working
for the Communists! You must miss him dearly. That’s what made you so easy to recruit. A lost little boy, looking for a father figure. Who’s going to replace him now, I wonder? Surely not Hayes? What does he propose, by the way?’

  The air raid siren interrupted them, its wail rising and falling. The hubbub of conversation faltered, then continued.

  ‘Freedom,’ said Lucien. ‘In return for working for us, feeding disinformation to your friends on the other side. Either that, or you’ll be arrested and hung as a traitor.’

  Somewhere in the distance, a giant’s footsteps pounded across the sky.

  Maddox smiled. ‘The word is ‘hanged’, my boy. You’ll never quite be English, you know. But don’t worry, it won’t come to that. I know the drill. There will be no trial. No publicity. They’ll leave me alone in a room with a pistol. But I don’t think I’ll be taking either option, thank you very much. In fact I rather think Hayes is going to arrange for my disappearance. A new passport and a ticket to somewhere neutral. Switzerland, perhaps. Or Tangier might be more jolly.’

  ‘They’ll never agree. And think about Anna. If you don’t accept, they’ll make life impossible for her.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ He slid a hand beneath the hat on the table. ‘What do you think I’ve got under here? Let’s go and talk to Hayes. One last stroll.’

  Lucien snorted. ‘You’re taking me hostage? You think Hayes cares about me? Even I’m not that naïve.’

  ‘Agreed, which is why you won’t be alone. Look behind you. Table across from the bar.’

  Lucien did so. And there was Valerie Dancourt, with two men he didn’t recognise. They looked solid and capable in their double-breasted suits: Maddox’s hired muscle. He realised with a shock that these men had probably killed his friend.

  Valerie was pale, an untouched drink in front of her, something incongruously pink in a cocktail glass. As he watched she turned her head slowly to meet his gaze. Her smile bore an odd trace of sadness, but there was something else in her eyes.