Death Order

by Jan Needle

  There were things in the air, he knew; everybody knew. The centre of activity, of the universe, was Bletchley Park, north of London, where signals intelligence had something big. But Carrington did not get to go there, and secrecy was high, with many rumours but few facts. For him, after the Venlo fiasco, being a British agent meant reading newspapers in Swedish, Danish and Norwegian, studying reports, poring over decodes, analysing situations. In February he was told that Britain would probably be invading Norway soon, but his pleas to be in place beforehand fell on deaf ears. His spot was London, his usefulness all of the intellect. As spring progressed he wrote briefing documents on the life, the people and terrain of Scandinavia, and gave assessments of how a British ‘intervention’ (the word invasion was never used) would be received. He knew beforehand that on April 8 the Royal Navy were to mine the fjords off Narvik, in neutral Norway’s territorial waters, and he was one of the first to learn of Germany’s devastating response, a full-scale invasion the next day. He monitored the course of the campaign to retake the country, exchanging messages with an MI6 man called Frank Foley, who organized the evacuation in an Irish Sea ferryboat of the Royal Family and much of the government. After both Norway and Denmark had fallen, Neville Chamberlain also fell, on May 10. It was the day Hitler tore into Belgium and the Netherlands, and the day that Winston Churchill became Prime Minister.

  Edward was in the flat with Erica when Chamberlain broadcast his farewell. Any tendency he might have had to crow, or scoff at his achievements, was modified by the dreadful news from the continent. The Twilight War, as Chamberlain had dubbed it, was over with a vengeance. The Norway disaster had been just an appetizer, it would seem.

  ‘Well, your man’s won,’ said Erica, when the broadcast was over. ‘Al Capone has got his finger on the trigger at long last.’

  ‘What can you possibly mean?’ flared Edward. ‘What possible alternative is there? At least we’ll fight now. At least there’ll be a fight.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Erica. ‘To the death, and probably beyond. Churchill didn’t do too well at Norway, though. Why should he do better now he’s ousted Chamberlain? How was Norway Chamberlain’s fault and not the First Sea Lord’s? I only ask.’

  The telephone rang in the lobby, and Carrington went, gladly, to answer it. It was Desmond Morton.

  ‘My boy,’ he said. ‘I might have need of you. Terrific news about dear Winston, we’re all delirious. But there are moves afoot. Treachery. Menzies can spare you, I’ve spoken to him. See me tomorrow morning at my office.’

  ‘It would be an honour, sir. Ten thirty?’

  ‘Fine. Carrington, you’ll not believe this, but I’ll tell you. Utterly shocking. After Chamberlain had quit, there was a meeting in his chambers. Him not present, but others, utterly disgraceful. This must not get out.’

  Indeed, thought Edward. And Morton, he realized, spoke with the confidence of the man who tapped the phones. His breath wheezed faintly, down the line.

  ‘They drank a toast. To the man who gave us Munich, the guilty man. “The King Over The Water.” In champagne. Rank treachery.’

  It did not sound that serious to Edward, given the circumstances of Neville Chamberlain’s fall from grace. It sounded more like a courtesy than a threat, a valediction. Perhaps Morton had been celebrating too hard.

  Then Morton said: ‘And there is a king, you know. Over the water. I don’t mean Chamberlain. He lives in Portugal, he deals with Nazis. Married to that dreadful Yankee woman, Wallis Simpson. Our information is that Hitler’s offered him the throne. Our throne. Edward becomes king again. Do you understand?’

  ‘But how can he? How can Hitler offer anything? He’d have to win the war!’

  ‘Or end it. There are people in this country who would do anything to end it. Powerful people, people in the highest echelons, people in the deepest sympathy with Hitler. And they would have a king again in sympathy with them. Edward the Eighth.’

  ‘But Churchill. He is PM now. He would never…’

  ‘Precisely. That’s the devil of it, isn’t it? The import of the toast. The King Over The Water will forever remain so, while Winston lives.’

  His voice had grown thick, with anger or emotion. Edward waited.

  ‘So Winston Churchill,’ said Desmond Morton. ‘Would have to die.’

  Eleven

  When he put the phone down, Edward was in turmoil. Morton, perhaps, was drunk. Or mad. Or stupid. Or maybe he was completely sane, and it was he himself who could not come to grips with this new topsy-turvy world. When Erica asked who it had been, he replied, with a certain confidence and an audible distaste, ‘Someone talking nonsense’. But within minutes he was no longer sure, and next morning the verities had slipped once more. The major, still puffy-eyed from the night of celebration, had backtracked rapidly from wild tales involving Winston Churchill’s death, but had offered calmer possibilities to replace them. Most powerfully, he had offered Edward action, linked with Scandinavia.

  At first, Edward listened with unease as Morton blandly slid around his assassination claims. There were dark schemes afoot, he said, some going back for years, and if Hitler could achieve it, the replacement of King George by his brother could only occur at the cost of Winston’s life. But Morton’s job was to prevent such things, which was why he wanted Edward’s help. He had, after all, been originally his protégé, and ‘C’ had confirmed his excellence in all things Nordic. Edward smiled modestly, and agreed to do his best, if it were so ordained. While wondering, with well-concealed impatience, at the details.

  But with details Major Morton was less forthcoming, and Edward’s unease turned into something deeper when he named the ‘traitors’ who had drunk the shameful toast. They were the young Lord Dunglass, who had gone to Munich with Chamberlain as his parliamentary private secretary in 1938, Chips Channon, an amiable but half-witted American who was Rab Butler’s PPS, Butler himself – a friend and admirer of Chamberlain who worked in the Foreign Office under Halifax – and a fourth as yet unnamed. Morton caught Edward’s involuntary eye-movements, but instead of pouncing, instead of switching on the bluster, he changed gear.

  ‘I can see you’re dubious,’ he said. ‘But don’t dismiss it out of hand. You perhaps don’t realize how long and desperately people have fought to keep Winston Spencer Churchill in the wilderness, and how furiously angry many of them are that he is back in power. Between these walls, Carrington, I will pledge to you that there are plotters in high places, and as an indicator of just how high, I will add that Lord Halifax himself is possibly one of them. Halifax was called in privately to Chamberlain’s room at the same time as Winston, and assumed the job was his. It went to the upstart, by force of personality. Halifax will not forget it, or forgive. Believe me.’

  ‘But Lord Halifax hates Hitler!’ said Edward. ‘He has worked with Chamberlain against him tirelessly. He is the Foreign Secretary!’

  ‘Worked with him to what end? Appease, appease, appease! They lost their fight to prevent the war, but never their desire for peace. If Chamberlain had not fallen, he would have caved in. Halifax as well.’

  There was something in that, and there was something plausible in Morton’s attitude. Despite the paleness of the eyes, the aura of post-alcoholic suffering, his exposition now was grave and measured. The misplaced bonhomie, the unchecked schoolboy enthusiasm that Edward so distrusted, was tightly reined. Wild phone calls were of the night: this, perhaps, was serious. He tapped a light tattoo on his desk-top with his fingernails, and sighed.

  ‘No one’s suggesting, do you see, a full-scale plot to undermine Winston on the spot. Not at the moment, anyway. But there’s an undercurrent you may not be aware of. This war is costing money. It is costing Britain millions every month. It is costing our industrialists dear, and our exporters. War is a moral luxury to some of these people. However just our cause is, they see only their cash balances dwindling. Germany’s in the same boat. War is financed by industry, and the power in any land, behind any thr
one, behind Hitler or behind our own democracy, is a body of immensely wealthy men whose allegiance is ultimately to their wealth, and perhaps to each other. They talk to each other, they commune with each other, and there is a pressure for peace among them. It’s international, my boy, and that’s the danger. It’s international in that they see themselves above nationhood, beyond patriotism, and they want the war to end. It’s only a short step from desiring peace to seeking it, of course. It’s only a short step from thinking Neville Chamberlain hard done by, to blaming Churchill for his ills. Winston’s going to win this war for us, as I’m sure you understand. Only Winston can win this war for us. But believe me, Hitler is not the only enemy.’

  For the moment, they were on the same wavelength. Morton, eyes narrowed, hands clasped before him on the desk, seemed decisive, intelligent. Edward felt excitement in his guts.

  ‘And my part, sir? The English aristocracy, I’m afraid, is a bit of a closed book to me. But on the German side…’ An idea fell into his mind, so obvious. ‘The Scandinavians. War industry. That’s how they’d communicate. Am I to go there?’

  Morton was chuckling.

  ‘Hold up, hold up! Not yet awhile! I admire your perspicacity, and yes, that’s the ultimate goal. But softly-softly. You’re not the only Nordic expert in the service, you know. We have a man, a man called Foley. Your first job will be to work with him. In fact, your job will be to work on him, to watch him, to check him over for me. He’s good, he’s brilliant, and he’s probably as sound as a bell. But there are certain indicators, little worries, and we need to know. What do you say to that?’

  For many moments, Edward said nothing. He had heard of Foley, had worked with him through the medium of crackling morse during the Norway campaign. In as far as anyone could hope to be, in the bitterly envious soil of the SIS, Foley was unblemished. Morton, watching carefully, was nodding.

  ‘You’ve heard of him. You think I’m mad. But it’s not what it seems. Nobody’s suggesting he is a traitor, he’s one of our very best men. He was an agent in the Great War, he’s done wonderful work, wonderful. But there are indications, hints, which we must check out. He’s close to some of the Germans, he married one, for heaven’s sake. What’s more, he spent ten years and more living in Berlin, speaks the lingo literally like a native, and after Berlin – he came out when the show blew up – he went to Oslo. Now, as you’ve already guessed, if there is a link-up between our high-born plotters and their equivalents in Germany, that’s the way it’s going to come. So is it coincidence, or is it not? Wherever you look, there’s Frank Foley and there are Scandinavians. Birger Dahlerus, Wenner-Gren, you know the names. Quite frankly, young man, we would be insane not to be vigilant. We want him watching, and you’re the man to do it.’

  They both paused for thought. It was a fine morning. Perhaps the summer would be as marvellous as had the last. The traffic noise in Whitehall was muted by the heavy curtains, despite the open window.

  ‘It would be inappropriate in me to say it felt un-British,’ Edward said, at last. ‘It’s just—’

  ‘Foolish, too,’ Morton interrupted. ‘We all have sacrifices that must be made. And for the moment you are not watching on a colleague, because you are not working for MI6 but directly for Winston. And for the good of Britain. You are a very lucky young man. We want you in France in three days time. Try to get to Paris before the blessed Boche.’

  ‘France?’

  ‘That’s where Foley is. There’s some gunk called heavy water that the Frogs want to off-load onto us. Our man in Paris is Lord Suffolk – a rum’un and no mistake. Working with a chap called Allier; French but very sound. They’re expecting you. You’ve not done this before, have you? Active service?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Desmond Morton grinned like the Cheshire cat.

  ‘Enjoy yourself, then. But remember – Foley is your target. Be vigilant, and don’t be taken in. He’s come straight from the heart of it. Norway.’

  They shook hands.

  Inevitably, perhaps, Frank Foley was not in Paris. But Edward, delighted to be carrying a gun at last, hardly cared. When he met Lord Suffolk – officially the science attaché at the British Embassy – the delight increased. Suffolk loved the war as he had loved nothing else in life, and had turned his part in it into romantic fiction. As France slipped into chaos, he let his dress and demeanour slip to match. He greeted Edward half drunk, at eleven in the morning, and offered him champagne. He was in stained black trousers and an open shirt, and his chin was rapidly disappearing beneath a growth of soft, curly hair. Their job, he explained, was to quarter Paris and the surrounding towns collecting scientific and industrial hardware from factories and labs, arranging their dismantling and packaging, then sending them to Bordeaux to be transhipped to Britain. To this end he had selected two Embassy secretaries as helpers, with brains to equal beauty, who matched him drink for drink late into the night, then killed their hangovers in work. It was something of a relief to mind and liver when Edward was assigned to help Jacques Allier, a less flamboyant man than Suffolk, who did not like champagne. He had tracked the heavy water to a hiding place in an Auvergne jail, he said, and needed muscle and another gun. Edward, feeling neither strong nor very brave, shook hands with Suffolk and kissed both girls goodbye. The plan was that they would meet again in Bordeaux, where Suffolk was soon to go to commandeer a freighter for his scientific booty.

  Jacques Allier was a sombre man, although prepared to talk. Before the Germans overran Norway, Edward learned, he had mounted an operation to smuggle out all the heavy water stocked at the Norsk Hydro, which was the only producer in the world. The twenty-six canisters had reached Paris via a flight to Edinburgh – organized by one Frank Foley – a train journey down the length of Britain, and a ship across the Channel. Now, after a month of nervously transferring it from place to place as the situation worsened, the French government were giving it to the British. When they reached the prison, at Riom, and an official tried to argue that they had no authority to remove the canisters, Jacques Allier took out a pistol and levelled it wordlessly at the bureaucratic face. If the man had held out for five seconds he would have been dead. He collapsed in three.

  The roads to Bordeaux were heavily congested. As the British had retreated to the beaches of Dunkirk, the government of France had run for the southern port in case the worst should happen. Allier’s Simca, freighted with nearly four hundredweight of heavy water, groaned and squeaked its way through the lorries, cars and refugees on foot. Petrol could have been a problem, but once more Allier’s ruthlessness paid off. He explained, tersely, to Edward what their cargo was, and what it would mean if German scientists got hold of it. Quite simply, that was worth dying to prevent. For Edward, the stainless steel containers, and the job, took on a deeper significance.

  It was in Bordeaux, when they crawled through the traffic to the docks, that he at last met Foley. They saw Suffolk first, on the cluttered deck of a filthy coalship called the Broompark, looking more piratical than ever. His shirt was open to the waist, and his beard was long and straggly. One of his girls was next to him, incongruous in a floral summer dress, and with them was another girl, more soberly turned out, and a small man in a brown suit. Allier, at the steering wheel of the overheated Simca, gave a grunt.

  ‘Ah. Bon. Foley.’

  Carrington was fascinated. Foley looked like anything in the world except a secret agent. A shipping agent, more likely, standing on the Broompark’s deck checking bills of lading. His face was round and turnip-like, a soft felt hat crammed on it, and his boots were brown and polished. The collar-points of his white shirt had rolled up in the heat. Edward approached cautiously, following Allier. There were handshakes all round, and congratulations. Suffolk placed a dirty paw on Edward’s shoulder and pushed him forward.

  ‘Frank. A new young man. He’s done sterling work.’

  ‘Let me guess.’ Foley’s voice was soft and mild, but not particularly friendly. ‘Edward Car
rington. I have been warned.’

  Over the next few days, as the rush to load the Broompark became more frantic, there was little time for anything except work. Lord Suffolk served his purpose as a liaison between the French scientists and government officials who were going to Britain to carry on the war, and he was good at smoothing difficulties with pantechnicons of furniture and the occasional arrival of a weeping mistress, or in one case two. In some way he appeared to hearten the French, many of whom were disoriented and depressed by the appalling events, by his insouciance. He took to drinking almost constantly from a champagne bottle in his hand, while his two girls, one fair, one dark, gave the proceedings a weirdly festive air. Foley, on the other hand, laboured with officialdom, consigning space to microscopes and industrial diamonds, helped tirelessly by his cipher clerk, Margaret Reid. Edward was delegated to meeting new arrivals, screening them for importance to prevent the Broompark sinking under her weight of refugees, and commandeering essential supplies.

  At 11 p.m. on the night of June 18, when Edward was sitting bog-eyed with weariness in the small metal box that served him as a cabin, Foley sought him out. His round face was grey with tiredness.

  ‘I know why you’re here,’ he said. ‘You probably imagine that I don’t. You young men are all the same, at heart. Gullible. Take my advice, Edward. Don’t trust anybody too far. Do what you’re told, but think about it. They’re usually using you.’

  Edward had no reply. The possibilities were endless. He was being pumped, or he was being warned. Those were just two of them.

  Foley said: ‘Well done. Don’t trust me, either. Don’t be drawn. You’re interested in the Swedish angle, aren’t you? The Scandinavian connection. Good. I think you could be useful. We’ll talk about it later.’