by Colin Gee
Gubbins opened a small notebook, made a swift entry and ripped out the page.
“Gather a few things and go to that address now. When you get there, ask to see Mr Campbell Stuart. Use my name as you see fit. When you see him, tell him that I said ‘cloche’. Clear, Sergeant?”
“Sir.”
“Mr Stuart will look after you and keep you safe. You will respond to no instructions or orders that do not contain the code word… err… Herbert. Is that clear, Sergeant Mann?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Closing the door as quickly as he could, Gubbins strode purposefully to his desk.
The phone was instantly in his hands.
“Ah, Turner, get me the director of MI6 please.”
Sir Stewart was not in his office and the duty officer was not prepared to divulge the present location of his boss to someone who not might be what he said he was.
Gubbins dialled a number from memory.
“The Guards Club. Good evening, how may I be of assistance?”
“Good evening, Squires.”
“Sir Colin, good evening. How may I help, Sir?”
“Is Sir Stewart there this evening by chance?”
“Yes, he most certainly is, Sir. I’ve just seen him pass by. Please wait, Sir.”
Squires moved as quickly as his disabled leg permitted, intercepting Menzies and bringing him to the phone.
“Menzies.”
“Colin here. My apologies for hunting you down, Stewart. I’ve just received some information that I need to share with you, and you’ll want to hear it now. Where’s convenient?”
Menzies would have liked to say the Guards Club, but it was extremely busy that evening so it simply wouldn’t do.
“Your office suit, Colin?”
“I will be waiting for you, Stewart. Come straight up. I will have the duty officer informed.”
No further words were spoken, at least not until Sir Stewart was sat in the chair recently occupied by Christine Mann, armed with a large scotch and an impatient ear.
Gubbins spoke at length without interruption.
“Damn and blast, but I hope you’re not right, Colin. I mean to say, the implications of… well, damn and blast it, man.”
“Quite.”
Menzies downed the remainder of his scotch in one.
Standing, he extended his hand to the SOE chief.
“Thank you for bringing this to me. I can do nothing tonight, not without raising suspicion. I’ll check Chivers’ report discreetly, and see what Philby’s contact report has to say about our mutual friend Vadim.”
“I’ll leave it with you, Stewart.”
“Thank you, Colin, thank you for your discretion too. I’ll keep you informed.”
They shook hands in genuine friendship, something they both appreciated and understood as a difference to the normal indifference and thinly veiled suspicion.
1312 hrs, Saturday, 23rd March 1946, MI6 Headquarters, 54 Broadway, London.
Fenton was part of the furniture as far as everyone who ever visited MI6 records was concerned. Rumours abounded as to his past and how he had come to be entrusted with the written history of the intelligence organization, but no one really knew anything about him, except that he was somewhat mad and also could find a specific file in the dark with a blindfold on.
Whilst his clerks could spend from five minutes to five hours locating a requested file, Fenton could just stroll down the lines of shelves, pause briefly, and return with the correct file every time, with or without the file code, originating officer, department prefix, often with nothing more than a rough date or a probable geographic location.
Black magic, some called it.
Both clerks recognized their latest caller and started to bluster.
“Calm down, I’m not here on an inspection. I just want to see this old fool.”
Fenton didn’t bother to look up from his desk.
“Just ‘cos you’re the boss now doesn’t mean that I’ve to stand for your insults, you know. I have my pride, Captain, Sir.”
The two clerks winced in anticipation of an explosion of voices, but Fenton was already rising to shake the hand of his former commanding officer.
“Lawrence, you old rogue.”
The two shook hands and patted shoulders, exchanging greetings like men who had shared extreme perils in each other’s company, as they had during the Great War.
“Right you two… hop it. Give the Captain and I the chance to catch up on tittle-tattle.”
The two needed no further invitation to escape the presence of the MI6 director.
Waiting until he was sure they had gone, former Battery Sergeant Major Lawrence Fenton was suddenly all business.
“I assume I did the right thing, because this isn’t a social call is it, Captain?”
“Correct, as ever, Sarnt-Major. Something to stay just betwixt thee and me.”
“Tea, Sir?”
“Most certainly, Sarnt-Major.”
A second cup had been consumed and still Menzies had not seen a single item of paperwork.
“Look, Lawrence, I don’t doubt your skills, but I believe that at least one report was filed on the 12th by Captain Chivers, and I know all our records were removed from Hamburg in safety, and I know they were brought here intact. It must be here.”
“Sir, respectfully, it isn’t here.”
“They cannot both have gone missing.”
“Unlikely I know, Sir, but I will know soon enough.”
Fenton strode off and disappeared out of sight.
“Early June 1945, you say, Sir?”
“Yes.”
Fenton returned with a number of leather bound books.
Menzies frowned.
“They’re not reports, they’re…”
“… logbooks. Yes, Sir, logbooks. We’ll soon know.”
Fenton ran a finger up and down the logged in documents, firstly looking at the filing officer names.
“Here you are. Chivers… 8th June… report on a communist engineer officer he interviewed… follow up on the 10th…”
Fenton looked at the details and leapt off to get the files.
“Here they are,” he announced triumphantly, holding two standard report folders in his hand.
They took a cursory look at the contents, both hoping to find that which they sought simply mis-filed.
“Right, so we know he did his paperwork diligently…”
“It must be here!”
Fenton was away again, but this time returned without the triumph.
“No, it’s not there. It’s definitely not there. Now, the ‘event’,” Menzies had not told him everything, “Took place on the 11th June as far as you know, and he fell in front of the tram on the 14th. You assumed the report was filed on the 12th earliest and you were probably spot on.”
Menzies nodded.
“One moment, Sir.”
The file master returned with another red leather bound tome.
“You’re a genius, Lawrence.”
He had the visitor log for the Hamburg section.
“Yes and no, Sir.”
Menzies understood immediately.
The page for the day in question had been removed.
“Well that in itself proves that something isn’t right here.”
“Most certainly. Right then, Lawrence, can you get me all the filed contact reports for the 12th please.”
Within eight minutes, the files were present.
“These are kept in the annexe, hence the wait.”
Fenton leafed through them.
“What are you looking for, Sir?”
“Name of filing officer.”
“Ingram… Barton… god, I remember that idiot… Bridges… Cox… and Scotford.”
“Is that it, Sarnt-Major?”
“Yes, Sir, just five that day. Nothing looks out of the ordinary, except it seems that blithering idiot Barton could actually write.”
Fenton had always suffe
red fools badly, but Menzies didn’t inquire further.
“And the log for contact reports?”
With barely concealed smugness, Fenton leant across to the pile of logbooks he had retrieved previously, sliding the correct log book out.
‘Black magic!’
Consulting the appropriate page, the ex-BSM announced the names.
“10:02 Ingram, 10:04 Cox, 10:09 Scotford… Barton at 10:32… 12:33 Bridges. At 12:58, we have Chivers. That is all, Sir.”
‘Oh my God!’
Menzies stood.
“I won’t leave it so long next time, Lawrence, I promise. Thank you for your help, old friend.”
“My pleasure as always, Captain, and mum’s the word.”
“Quite.”
1201 hrs, Sunday, 24th March 1946, MI6 Headquarters, 54 Broadway, London, UK.
He had asked his opposite number in SOE to pop round, in order to fill him in on the latest developments.
Having done so, the head of MI6 was interrupted by the arrival of a large brown envelope, containing information that he had requested especially for this meeting.
Making his apologies, the envelope was opened and the contents scrutinized.
His visitor waited patiently, sipping an extremely pleasant sherry.
Major General Sir Stewart Graham Menzies read through the list carefully, the third time he had done so since the document had arrived on his desk.
It was uncomfortable reading, no matter how many times his eyes passed over it.
“Dear God.”
Suddenly remembering the other man in the room, he passed the document across, something he would never have dreamed of doing only a week previously.
“Sorry, Colin. This is a list of Philby’s commitments and involvements, and this,” he indicated the considerably larger document he had not yet read, “Is his roster and itinerary since 1st February.”
The head of SOE flashed his eyes over the single page summary that screamed nothing but trouble for the Allied cause.
“J-Cip? He’s part of J-Cip? How on earth did that happen?”
“I’ve no idea, Colin, but that could spell disaster for all our intended operations. We need to have a chat with him right now. If he’s talked, then we will find out and warn our leaders that we could be walking into an unmitigated disaster!”
“Either way, we need to have a word in the ear of someone at SHAEF.”
“Indeed. I’ll have a quick chat with Kenneth Strong and let him know that there may be a problem.”
Both men stood, knowing that delay was not in anyone’s best interests.
“Thank you for the sherry, Stewart. I’ll leave you to it, but do let me know if I can help further.”
“Thank you, Colin. I will do.”
Showing the SOE head to the door, Stewart Menzies voiced both their concerns.
“Let us pray that we can avoid a disaster.”
1557 hrs, Sunday, 24th March 1946, 7 Leinster Mews, Bayswater, London, UK.
Kim Philby sat at the desk, smoking calmly, his face betraying some amusement at his predicament, or perhaps a confidence in his cause, or in his understanding that the British played by gentlemen’s rules, or perhaps mere bravado.
The hidden observers couldn’t decide which.
The door opened and the main players entered to start a process that, once he saw who confronted him, he had little doubt, would end up not going well for him.
The hidden observers watched his bravado waver.
Sat opposite him were MI6’s main hatchet man and his sidekick, men with a reputation for being quite ruthless in pursuit of the truth.
“Right then, Philby. For now, I’ve no sodding interest in your political motivation. No interest in the whys and wherefores of what you’ve done, so save us all any political justification tosh to excuse your treachery.”
Philby gave nothing away, but was disappointed, as he had been practising the defence of his personal convictions since he had been dragged out of his office and driven off to God knew where some time beforehand.
“I think it’s fair to say that you and I both know that you are in the shit up to your fucking neck. And talking of your neck, we already have enough to slip a noose round it and send you to Hades.”
Schofield and Tester, MI6’s men to call on when ‘wet work’ was the order of the day, stayed silent to let the former’s words burrow home.
The two had been selected very deliberately, Menzies believing that Philby’s knowledge of their reputation would give the proceedings a head start.
In this assumption, he was wholly correct.
Philby was dragged swiftly from his thought process, as Tester cracked his knuckles noisily.
Behind the two-way mirror, Menzies smiled at the theatrical but effective move.
Schofield leant forward.
“So, Philby,” he spat the name out like it was poisonous, “I want to know what you have passed on to your Communist bosses, and we will start with your involvement with J-Cip.”
Philby smiled.
“Sorry, can’t tell you. It’s Top Secret.”
In a blur, Tester moved forward and planted a hard slap directly on the traitor’s left ear.
The pain was excruciating, as the shock wave did damage internally.
Philby yelped and started to shed tears, as much from the shock of being struck as from the pain.
“You can’t do that, you bastards. We don’t do that!”
Schofield laughed.
It wasn’t a pleasant laugh and would have graced a Hammer horror villain’s repertoire.
“You useless piece of shit! No one cares about you. Understand, you fuck? No-one cares about you at all? Your only chance to see the fucking sun again is to sing like a fucking canary on heat.”
He sat back, lit two cigarettes, and passed one to his companion.
“Now, before my agricultural friend decides to hit you hard, I suggest that you tell me what you’ve passed to your masters.”
“This isn’t right. You can’t do this. Ask Sir Stewart. Ask him. He won’t stand for this abhorrence!”
Leaving his observation point, Sir Stewart Menzies entered the interrogation room as if by magic. Schofield and Tester leapt to attention.
“Ah, Philby.”
“Sir Stewart. Help me please. This is all a mistake and I can explain everythi…”
“No mistake, you traitorous swine. None at all. You’ll answer each and every question these men ask you. That’s all that you need to think about right now.”
“But Sir Stewart, this is wrong, so wrong. Now you’ve seen this, you have to stop it…please!”
Menzies leant forward, his nose almost touching Philby’s, the malevolence in his eyes telling the traitor everything he needed to know about his future, should he not talk.
Menzies words reinforced his inner screams.
“Who do you think ordered this, you treacherous scum?”
He let the words sink in and watched as Philby’s eyes betrayed him.
“Listen to me, you worthless piece of shit. You are here because I want you here. Talk and you will live. Hold anything back and my two men here will have no qualms in introducing you to death in a variety of awful ways, and, for the record, they will be acting under my orders.”
Without a further word, the head of MI6 exited the room, climbed the basement stairs and departed from the MI6 safe house, knowing that his men would get all that was needed.
Tester cracked another few fingers and chuckled audibly.
Schofield hawked and spat a gobbet of phlegm straight in Philby’s face.
Philby fell apart.
1616 hrs, Monday, 25th March 1946, 12th US Army Group Headquarters, Arlon, Belgium.
“Good God man! You tell us this now? Now?”
This was an Eisenhower that Bradley had seen once before, but was an all-new experience to Sir Kenneth Strong.
“It was felt that… I felt that I needed to know exactly what had happene
d before I brought this to you, Sir.”
Eisenhower lit another cigarette in his anger, the one he had let at the start of Strong’s report still smoking away by his right hand.
“So we could be compromised across the board, Sir Kenneth?”
“Yes we could, Sir, but I take another view.”
Eisenhower and Bradley exchanged glances, and it was Bradley that gave voice to their feelings.
“And how do you get to this view, Sir Kenneth?”
“The wretch Philby was incorporated into J-Cip group on March 16th. We’ve examined his official business and involvements, and there are no cross-overs with anything that could bring him good information on Spectrum or Pantomime, not until the J-Cip involvement.”
The two American officers remained silent and impassive.
“That involvement presented him with a disinformation folder containing the efforts being made to mislead our Soviet enemy. Now, much may be extracted from that, but it would be without proof. Furthermore, we have seen some enemy responses which would indicate that our operation with the French was successful in planting the false file in such a way as they have taken it as fact and moved some forces accordingly.
Bradley poured himself another coffee, his face reflecting the thunderous turmoil inside.
“The very latest photo recon missions show no response that could be interpreted as inconsistent with the enemy’s full belief in ‘Ash’, and certainly nothing that might make us think that our real intentions have been compromised.”
“Nothing?”
“Absolutely nothing at all, Sir.”
Bradley took a swig and set the mug down slightly harder than he intended, sending some over the table.
“So… are you seriously asking me to risk my army in an attack that may be compromised by some English spy who was given a complete Ash file, who passed that on to his masters, who may remain fooled by it and some other French file… or may not… on the basis that there doesn’t seem to be any movement of enemy forces that would be appropriate to a compromised Rainbow Plan?”
Ike doubted he had heard that many words from Bradley in one go in his entire time with the man.
