Shadows over Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  It had been pure luck he’d landed in the midst of all this in the first place. After being rejected twice by the army, he had resigned himself to sitting out the war in some wretched factory with women and men too old to make a difference anywhere else.

  Then came the phone call from Arnie Kramer.

  He had known Arnie in the old days, and, though a public-school boy, he was a decent enough fellow and a fair hand around a card table. Now Kramer was no longer Arnie, but Arnold, and a major at that. He worked for the Intelligence Corps. The years had been good to him, he said. He’d settled down, moved up quickly, and now was having more fun in the system than he’d ever dreamed of when trying to fleece it with all his penny-ante games. The stakes were higher, and the game sometimes got dangerous. But the thrill was there, and sometimes there could be money in it. He was doing a bit of recruiting, he said, and could they possibly meet? Logan agreed.

  “But the army won’t have me,” said Logan after he had listened to the opening gambit of his friend’s proposal, certain that he must have been misinformed about his availability for active service.

  “The regular army—bah!” said Kramer with the usual disdain of one corps for another. “If they rejected you, that’s as good a recommendation as you could get!”

  “What exactly is it you want me to do?” asked Logan, his interest piqued.

  Kramer leaned his hefty frame forward, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, a sparkle of merriment in his small dark eyes. It was just like the old days, only now Logan was the prey. And now Logan had no idea he was being reeled in by one who had grown just as shrewd in the ancient game as he. “Just a bit of cloak and dagger, Logan, m’ lad!”

  “Spying?”

  Arnie nodded.

  “You’ve got to be kidding! What do I know about that?”

  Kramer threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Why, man, you’ve been doing it all your life!”

  “Cons, maybe. But hardly spying!”

  “Same thing. Only now you won’t have to worry about ending up in an English prison for it.”

  Logan touched his moustache thoughtfully. “I don’t know . . .” he said hesitantly, though his heart was racing with excitement. “I’ve got a family now, Arnie.”

  “Believe me,” answered Kramer in his buoyant style, “you’ll be in far less danger than all the blokes out on the battlefield. And you’ll work in London—no separation from your family. Of course, you won’t be able to tell your wife what it’s about. But you’ll be doing your country a great service, and she’ll forgive you in the end.”

  “What’ll I tell her?”

  “We’ll arrange a cover story, naturally. No problem. We do it all the time. Security and all that, you know.”

  “I hate to lie to her.”

  Kramer laughed again. “That hardly sounds like the Logan Macintyre I used to know. Reformed, eh?”

  “I suppose I have changed a bit . . .” Logan replied, stumbling over the words. He wished he had the guts to say more. But in a moment the opportunity was past. After all, this was hardly the time or place to start talking about God.

  “Very commendable,” said Kramer. “I’ve changed too, Logan, my man. But look at it this way—the secrecy is for your family’s protection as well as for yours and ours.” Kramer tried to keep his tone lighthearted, but from under his thick brown eyebrows he was eyeing his quarry. The only reason they wanted Logan was because he was sure never to be recognized by any of the opposing agents. They didn’t need him in the strict sense of the word. Anyone would do. But Arnie had always liked Logan, had seen him cool under fire, even if only during card game hustles, and had made up his mind that Logan was his man. Therefore, he eyed him carefully, not wanting to bring him in too quickly. Logan had to want it—the essence of a good con. So Arnie waited. “Don’t turn me down, Logan. You’ll be perfect for this work.”

  Logan didn’t turn Major Arnold Kramer down. He wasn’t about to miss out on a chance like this! He knew he’d be perfect for the work. He hardly needed Arnie to tell him that! At least, the work would be perfect for him. How could he refuse when he’d been hoping for an opportunity like this for the last six years?

  Allison would, or should, understand. If she loved him, she would be able to accept him and what he did—no questions asked.

  The impasse was a classic one, each expecting the other to make the move that would right the relationship and settle the rocking boat of their marriage. Allison expected confidence and open sharing; Logan expected blind trust.

  The love which had drawn them together was still there, but was buried beneath so many layers of selfishness and stubbornness that it surfaced upon rarer and rarer occasions. Yet as Logan sat silently next to the tall, sinister-looking Gunther on the speeding train, his thoughts focused on Allison rather than on what lay ahead. This did happen to be one of those infrequent moments when he fell into self-reflection, and he found himself wondering if he had done all he should have to make the marriage work.

  She was probably right—he was a louse. He didn’t deserve someone like her. But he’d make it up. He’d tell her everything. As soon as this assignment was over, he’d dash up to Scotland. Maybe even stay awhile. They had always been happy there. He was certain they’d be able to patch everything up.

  Just as quickly as the contemplative mood had come, it passed. With his marriage satisfactorily resolved in his mind for the moment, he could now turn his concentration upon the task at hand.

  7

  The Assignment

  Gunther was a German agent now controlled by British intelligence, MI5. His double agency was, of course, unknown to the Germans—one of a number of similar closely guarded secrets.

  Once Gunther had been enlisted to the British side, MI5 began to develop an intricate plan to use him to infiltrate Germany’s spy network. If Gunther’s defection could be kept secret from Berlin long enough to plant up to a half-dozen experienced Britons throughout mainland Europe, the benefits to the Allied cause could conceivably shorten the war considerably.

  The German had represented to his superiors in the Abwehr, the intelligence branch of the German military, that he had recruited several subagents. When, two months ago, they had radioed that they wanted to meet one of these recruits, British intelligence had to produce someone to fit the bill without risking any of their knowledgeable experienced men. Until the legitimacy of Gunther’s position was absolutely assured, MI5 had to play cat-and-mouse, insuring that the setup was sound. They could not risk putting a man who had vital information into the hands of the Abwehr. What if, after all, Gunther’s defection was nothing more than an elaborate trick to lure a couple of ranking British spies into German hands?

  Then Arnie Kramer had thought of Logan. His criminal record would make him an ideal recruit for the Germans. Kramer had his own little private network of eyes and ears throughout London, and had done his homework well on Logan. He knew Logan was down on his luck—marriage going sour, rejected by the army, unable to hold a job. He was the perfectly believable candidate for jumping ship. All MI5 would have to do would be to alter the name on Logan’s record, and everything else about his past should suit the Germans fine.

  Of course, Kramer didn’t think it would do to reveal the entire scope of the plan to Logan. No need for him to know that he was nothing more than a decoy, so that if Gunther’s loyalties were still to the east of the Channel, they could torture Logan all they wanted to and never get anything vital out of him. If Gunther was for real, and the plan held up, Logan would be in no danger, and they could easily substitute experienced men for the infiltration of the Abwehr later on. If there was danger . . . well, better one like Logan be sacrificed for the good of the cause than any vital information be lost.

  So Kramer made his devious offer to his old friend, played out his role of offering Logan a favor most believably, and suddenly Logan was a British spy—or at least so he chose to think. He didn’t much like the name Krame
r handed him. But Lawrence MacVey suited his Scottish accent, and he went along with it.

  “You won’t need to know a word of German, mate!” said Kramer. “Old Gunther’ll have them krauts so anxious to have you they won’t care about details like that. Everything’s so topsy-turvy anyway, you can’t tell who’s who anymore by what language they’re using. France is where most of the action is, and the French and English and German all mix up there so much—blimey! The tongue in a man’s mouth means nothing!”

  It’ll be a lark, thought Logan, and he wasn’t getting paid badly either. The first meeting on London Bridge with the German had instilled in him the seriousness of the situation. But he was still game to play out his hand. Gunther had briefed him thoroughly on what he was to do at the meeting with the Germans—which essentially amounted to nothing—and now they just had to carry it out. The Germans would be watching Logan, Kramer would be watching Gunther, and Gunther would no doubt be watching for the safety of his own backside. Little did Logan realize that he had been “brought in” for nothing more than this simple “one-act play” being staged for the Germans. But just as little did Kramer realize that when the time came to drop the curtain to end Logan’s brief performance, plans would change, and the single act would become a complex drama involving many actors, dozens of curtain calls—all carried out with inexperienced Logan Macintyre occupying center stage.

  Two meetings subsequent to London Bridge had aborted. The first had been blown, of all things, by Scotland Yard, who had not been informed that the trawler was in the hire of MI5. Contrary to Arnie’s steadfast assurances, Logan nearly wound up back in jail. The second time a heavy fog had prevented their making contact with the German sub.

  Now he and Gunther were about to make a third attempt. Their train was within minutes of Cleethorpes, a fishing village on the northeast coast of England, where MI5 had another trawler ready to carry them to a rendezvous with a German U-boat in the North Sea.

  As the train jerked to a stop at the tiny coastal station, Logan stole a glance at his associate. He is a cool number, thought Logan with mingled admiration and intimidation. He knew very well that Logan was a complete novice. Yet the fact seemed not to bother him. It was almost as if—

  No, that is too crazy even to consider! Logan argued with himself. Arnie would never have sold me out! He guaranteed that Gunther was completely dependable.

  Logan’s mind went back to his second meeting with his old friend, as if trying to reassure himself now that it was too late to back out. Kramer had laid out the plan to him. “Dependable,” he’d said; “ . . . all ours. Nothing to worry about, Logan!” Gunther had proved himself on several missions, Arnie had added. “There’s no question he’s with us . . . no question!” According to the major, Gunther had gone to work for the Germans in the first place under some duress and had been very cooperative right from the beginning when British intelligence had captured him within two hours of his parachute landing.

  Might his cooperative spirit been just a bit too convenient? Logan found himself wondering. But he dismissed the thought from his mind. He didn’t even want to think what might happen if, once they were aboard the sub, Gunther decided to betray him to the Nazis.

  That was the trouble with this business—you could never really trust anyone.

  Gunther rose from his seat, gathering his belongings from the upper compartment. Logan followed him down the aisle, and soon they stepped out into the chill evening air. He looked around and was at least relieved that it was a clear night. No fog would abort this meeting.

  “It’s the Anna Marie, isn’t it?” said Gunther, glancing furtively about.

  “What?”

  “The trawler,” said Gunther tersely, as if the failure to read his mind was a serious flaw. “The trawler is the Anna Marie?”

  “Yes, that’s it,” replied Logan. What is this? he thought. Surely Gunther wasn’t quizzing him at this late hour! But just as surely he didn’t need to be reminded of the name of the trawler.

  The two walked silently on. Logan drew his overcoat tightly around him. The streets were deserted, but Logan knew it was more than the January cold that kept them in. The east coast of England had been hit hard by the Luftwaffe. Not as dramatically this far north as farther south, but the fear of attack was always present. What would these simple townsfolk think if they knew that but a few miles away, in their placid fishing waters, a Nazi submarine lay awaiting reports from two supposed spies?

  What would they do if they thought he was one of them? No doubt, shoot first, and ask questions later.

  A brisk ten-minute walk brought them to the dock. It reminded Logan of Port Strathy. Fifteen or twenty boats of varying sizes bobbed up and down at their moorings. No human being was in sight; the only sounds were the creakings and groanings and bumpings and scrapings from the docks, boats, and ropes—all accompanying the gentle slap-slap-slap of the water against the sides of the rocking vessels. A single boat pulling out to sea at this hour was certain to arouse suspicion, and no doubt MI5, with their intense mistrust of all other agencies, had informed none of the locals of what was about to transpire.

  The Anna Marie sat silently waiting in the seventh slip down, an innocent-enough looking forty-foot trawler. Though MI5 had procured the ship, Gunther had hired the crew, which consisted of two sailors. They had been kept in the dark about the purpose of the mission, but were Nazi sympathizers quite willing, for the right price, to carry out a mission of dubious intent with sealed lips. Logan would have preferred an Admiralty man at the helm, but Gunther had convinced Kramer that the Germans would too easily spot a Navy man. “Perhaps,” Logan told Kramer at the time, “but would they have any more difficulty spotting an MI5 man?”

  “You, my boy,” Kramer had replied, “that’s the difference! I’ve seen you hob-nob with society one minute, and the next pass yourself off as a coal miner. The Germans will be plum pudding for you, putty in your hand, as it were. Why else do you think I recommended you for the job?”

  Logan tried to catch hold of Arnie’s confidence in him. He wished Gunther would do the same.

  Gunther approached the boat, making no apparent effort to muffle the echoing of his boots as they walked out to the slip. He stopped, leaned forward, and called out in a low but clear voice, “Is there anyone aboard?”

  Logan cringed. That German accent—it was going to get them all strung up if he blurted out something in the wrong crowd.

  Before he had a chance to worry further, a figure appeared from below. In the darkness Logan could make out a man shorter than himself, small and wiry. An electric torch suddenly flashed on its beam, seemingly aimed directly for Logan’s eyes. It blinded him momentarily.

  “What’s yer business?” came a harsh voice in a gravelly whisper.

  “If the fishing is good—especially the herring—we’d like to engage your boat.” It was the prearranged code phrase. Any Cleethorpes fisherman worth his salt knew there to be no herring off the coast at this time of year.

  “Oh yeah—that is, ah . . . the fishing is good, especially at night,” came the nearly muffed reply.

  Gunther grimaced with disgust at another incompetent. Even though he had already spoken twice with the man, he liked to play the little game with code phrases carried off to perfection.

  He said nothing further, but swung aboard the trawler. Logan followed. In a moment his feet were planted firmly on the deck. He glanced about to take in his surroundings. He had had no formal training in the spy business, but Arnie had done his best to instill in him some practical tricks of the trade. The foremost principle was to examine your surroundings so that you had at least two possible plans of retreat and escape in mind at all times. You could never tell when a setup would turn on you. When that happened, a second or two delay could be the difference between getting away and landing in prison camp.

  What Logan saw was a typical fishing vessel, not unlike Jesse Cameron’s, though a little smaller, complete with all the nets,
ropes, and other gear essential to earning one’s livelihood at sea. The reek of fish was everywhere; there could certainly be no doubt as to the authenticity of this craft! Vessels such as these had made a success of the evacuation of Dunkirk the year before, and since then the British had commandeered several for use in patrolling the coast. There was no way to tell, from a quick look about, whether this was a permanent MI5 craft, or was being used just for the night.

  The three men headed for the cabin, located aft. Logan could not help being reminded of his first experience aboard Jesse Cameron’s boat, on that crisp northern morning when she had shanghaied him aboard her trawler. It had turned out one of the most memorable days of his life. He had learned a great deal that day, about more than fishing. The fact that he had almost drowned did not in the least diminish the value of the experience.

  But though the Anna Marie evoked such pleasant memories, it had little else in common with the Little Stevie on this chill and sinister night. On that day years ago he had been disappointed to have the cruise off Strathy’s harbor come to an end. Tonight, however, he was praying for the hours to pass quickly and to get the whole thing safely over with.

  At the same time, he was looking for an escape route should the whole operation blow apart.

  8

  Interview at Sea

  “So, Herr MacVey,” began Colonel von Graff. “You do not mind if I use your real name? I find code names so tedious.”

  They had located the German submarine without difficulty, had been taken below, and Logan at last found himself face-to-face with the stern German officer who could well determine his fate. The man spoke perfect English, but with a thick accent.

  “You’re the boss,” replied Logan, striking a cocky, halfway belligerent attitude. Arnie had told him not to grovel; they would buy his story more readily if he didn’t make it too easy for them, and maybe respect him more in the process. “No one respects a weakling!” he had added.