The Suicide Exhibition

by Justin Richards

  They sat in the truck, Jacques smoking a thin but potent-smelling cigarette. The sounds of metal being hammered into place echoed through the night. But they waited until the train had moved off again before starting the engine. Smith drove without lights until they reached the narrow track up to the farm.

  “Drop me here, I’ll walk the rest of the way,” Jacques said. He leaned across to shake Smith’s hand.

  “You take care of yourself,” Smith said. “Thanks for your help. And for the truck.”

  “Happy to oblige,” Jacques said, lighting another cigarette.

  He jumped down from the cab, looking back through the open window, as if there was something else he wanted to say.

  “Yes?” Smith prompted.

  “I was just wondering…” He paused to take a drag on his cigarette.

  “Wondering what?”

  “I spent some time in London before the war.”

  “It’s a great city.”

  Jacques nodded. “Indeed it is. I very much enjoyed the theater, and the movies.”

  “Did you?” There was a slight wariness in Smith’s voice.

  “And I was thinking … Has anyone ever told you that without that beard you would look very like Leo Davenport—you know, the British actor.”

  Smith’s expression did not change. “No,” he said levelly. “No one else has ever mentioned it.”

  * * *

  It took Smith almost two weeks to complete his journey. Jacques had arranged contacts along the way from whom he could get new travel papers and fuel for the truck. He avoided the main roads and towns, but even so he was stopped on several occasions. Each time he was allowed to continue once his papers had been checked.

  Eventually he crossed into Portugal, and the going got easier. The country was technically neutral, but it was generally pro-fascist so he still needed to be careful.

  It was not until he was safely in Lisbon, with his crate full of “sugar” booked onto a cargo ship to Britain that he began to relax. He would travel on by plane, which was safer. Even if his cargo did not make it, he had at least deprived Streicher of his prize.

  An hour before the flight, alone in the men’s room at Lisbon airport, “Carlton Smith” peeled off his beard and dropped it into the rubbish bin.

  CHAPTER 9

  The inevitable paperwork had piled up while Guy was away. Most of it was routine, and just took time. But between the routine and the boring, he found a few moments to think about what had happened in Glasgow.

  Chivers was not interested. “Way above our heads, old boy,” he told Guy, while subconsciously dry-washing his hands. “Way above. Shouldn’t touch it with a barge pole, if you ask me. Best leave it to others. Rather them than us, eh?”

  But Guy was not about to leave it alone. It might be “above his head,” and he understood the necessity and value of secrecy, but the strange conversation he’d had with Hess haunted him. Now when he slept, as often as he recalled the flames and horrors of Dunkirk, he saw Lord Hamilton’s gaunt, pale, frightened face and Colonel Brinkman striding down the corridor toward him.

  The sergeant’s name was “Green”; he remembered that from their first meeting. But that was of little help—it was hardly an uncommon name or rank.

  Tracking down information about Colonel Brinkman proved more fruitful. Pentecross told himself his curiosity was justified—the Foreign Office should know what was happening, what information Hess had been so desperate to pass on.

  He called in a couple of favors. Finally, after a month getting nowhere by being discreet, Pentecross phoned a girl from Army Records. He’d met Mary Creasy at a party his mother had dragged him along to, and even Mother had noticed the girl was sweet on him.

  Mary didn’t need a lot of persuading to take a look at Brinkman’s file. She’d probably have done it without Guy’s rather flimsy story about informally checking the colonel out for a Foreign Office assignment. The agreement that they should meet for a drink once she’d looked at his file seemed incentive enough.

  At last he was making progress, Guy thought. A drink with Mary was a small price to pay. Until she told him that Colonel Oliver Brinkman’s exemplary service record ended abruptly in January 1940 with a handwritten note simply saying: “Transferred to special duties.”

  After hearing that, it was hard to maintain the pretense that he was interested in talking to Mary. She made a better job of pretending not to notice.

  “Oh Guy, I do hope you find what you’re looking for,” Mary said as they stood outside the pub. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help.” She wasn’t talking about Brinkman’s file. She tiptoed up to give Guy a kiss on the cheek, and he managed a smile.

  “Do call me,” she said.

  They both knew it was unlikely.

  * * *

  The air raid warning made up his mind for him. Guy had considered walking while the evening was clear and safe. But with the siren, he headed for the nearest tube station.

  The platform was already packed with people settling down for the night. It was midsummer’s day tomorrow, and the evening was warm which didn’t help the smell emanating from the crowd. Some people had brought food and bedding. While not relaxed, the atmosphere was calm. Guy picked his way through the sheltering people to the platform’s edge. There were not many people waiting, so chances were he’d just missed a train. He might have a long wait for the next one, especially if the raid had started.

  Beside him a tall man with thinning red hair and a round, freckled face nodded a greeting and offered a cigarette. Pentecross smiled a thank-you but declined. Apart from the hair the man looked far younger than he probably was. He was carrying a leather briefcase, hugging it under his arm as if afraid it might escape.

  “Pity about the raid,” the man said. His voice was cultured and assured despite his schoolboy looks. “It was shaping up to be quite a pleasant evening.”

  “It was,” Guy agreed. “I was just thinking I might walk to London Bridge.”

  “You work round here?” the man asked. “I have an office a few streets away, on the edge of Whitehall. But I end up all over the place these days. Some of the chaps I work with even have desks down here.” He looked round. “Well, not here exactly, but in unused tube tunnels.”

  Guy had heard of some government departments and even protected businesses being relocated underground for safety.

  “I’ve got a boring office job,” he said, vaguely.

  The man smiled knowingly. “Me too. David Alban.” He juggled the briefcase to shake hands.

  Guy was surprised how firm the man’s grip was. But he smiled and introduced himself. Chances were they’d never meet again. The tracks were humming which meant a train was coming. A crowd of people had built up behind them, pressing forward as the train approached.

  “Going to be a bit of a crush,” Guy said loudly to Alban as the train drew in.

  “Oh, I’m not waiting for the train.”

  “What?”

  Alban smiled, and again looked like an overgrown schoolboy. But his words sent a chill through Guy. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

  The train squealed to a halt and the doors opened. People were pushing past as they got out on to the platform. Alban stepped closer to Guy to leave them room. His voice was clear in Guy’s ear:

  “You really should drop this Brinkman thing, you know. It’s not doing you any favors, and it’s best to have nothing to do with those jokers from Station Z. Between you and me, their time will come.”

  * * *

  The office was in turmoil when Guy arrived for work next morning. There was more than the usual rush and bother. Messengers came and went at a run, and the phones seemed to be ringing constantly.

  “Drop whatever you were planning to do today. Going to need your help with the latest translation, there’s so much stuff coming in,” Chivers told Pentecross. “How’s your Russian?”

  “Passable,” Guy admitted.

  Chivers gave a snort of laughter. “Is t
here a language in which you are not ‘passable?’” he asked.

  Guy smiled. “Oh yes, plenty. I’m saving them for my retirement.”

  “Rather you than me.”

  “But why are we getting intercepts in Russian for God’s sake?”

  Chivers dabbed at his forehead with a grubby handkerchief. It was 21 June and the heat was building in every sense. “Because the glorious armies of the Third Reich are even as we speak preparing to march into the Soviet Union.”

  Guy felt the blood draining from his face. “How do we know what’s happening?”

  Chivers raised an eyebrow. “I was told not to ask. Enough said, eh?”

  “Does Stalin know?”

  “I’m told he’s been warned it’s imminent. But whether he believes us is another matter.”

  “But…” Guy was struggling to understand the implications. “That’s got to be a good thing, hasn’t it?”

  “Best news we’ve had all year,” Chivers agreed. “But for the moment it makes things bloody hard work. So all hands to the pump.”

  * * *

  The invasion of Russia—Hitler’s “Operation Barbarossa”—started the next day. Once the tanks were rolling across the border, things actually calmed down. But Chivers was wilting under the stress and the midsummer heat. Guy found him in his office, head in hands and sweating profusely.

  “I haven’t been home for three days,” he confessed. “God alone knows what the wife thinks I’m up to. Can’t remember when I last slept. Now they want me at some emergency meeting at the War Rooms. Spirit’s willing, but the flesh … Well that’s another matter.” He stood up, wobbled slightly and immediately sat down again.

  It hadn’t occurred to Guy before that the stress actually affected Chivers. But now he began to understand that the man just hid it well. They all dealt with it in their own way—Chivers’ apparent jovial disinterest was his way. He stood up again, and forced a smile.

  “Needs must when the devil drives,” he said, with a sigh. “And at the moment the devil is driving toward Moscow. Mainly, I gather, in equipment taken from the French when they threw in the towel.”

  “This meeting,” Guy said. “Can I go?”

  Chivers looked surprised.

  “I’ve finished the latest batch of translations,” Guy told him. “Not much to do that’s urgent.”

  “I doubt they want spare bodies clogging the place up. Precious little air down there as it is.”

  “I meant instead of you. As your representative. I’ve done that often enough before, though maybe not at this level. But, I mean, if you’re not…” His voice faded.

  “Not up to it?” Chivers finished for him. “I’m up to it, never fear. But…” He stared down at the papers strewn across his desk. “I could do without the distraction. It’ll just be a glorified pep talk from on high. So…” He looked up at Guy and nodded. “Good idea. I’ll have Maureen write you a chitty in case anyone asks.”

  Guy smiled back, though he was already wondering what he’d let himself in for.

  “Ten o’clock sharp, down in the War Rooms.” Chivers nodded his thanks. “Rather you than me.”

  * * *

  Deep under the New Public Offices building in Whitehall lay hidden the nerve center of Britain’s war effort. Guy had been to the War Rooms several times before. He found it even more claustrophobic and airless now. He had never seen it so busy.

  The meeting was little more than an update on the situation in the Soviet Union. Guy already knew most of it. Churchill sat at the end of the room in a fog of cigar smoke. He said little until the end of the meeting when he hauled himself to his feet and addressed the assembled officers and civil servants.

  “Herr Hitler has made a grave mistake,” he announced. The glint in his eye was visible even through the smoke. “He has opened a second front in the war. He is not a man to learn the lessons of history. Either he is impatient, or he considers us merely a thorn in his side. But make no mistake, this thorn will bleed him dry.”

  Guy slipped out of the room during the inevitable military updates. It was the diplomatic side of things that would interest Chivers, and that had already been amply covered. He made his way through the narrow corridor, squeezing past messenger girls and military personnel. Pausing at a junction of another corridor, he glanced to his left and saw a distinctive head of thinning red hair above the other people.

  The man from the underground station—David Alban. Guy eased his way closer. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to talk to the man, or just to let Alban see he was here. But as he got closer, he saw that Alban was speaking with an army officer. It was Colonel Brinkman.

  Guy took a step back, colliding with a woman carrying a message flimsy. He apologized profusely, earning a smile as she hurried on her way. She passed Alban and Brinkman, who were now walking slowly as they talked.

  The corridor cleared slightly, and Guy could make out some of the conversation ahead of him. Brinkman’s voice was calm and quiet. But Alban was more animated—loud and angry.

  “… poached their best agent, SOE won’t be happy.”

  Brinkman made some comment. It didn’t calm Alban. Guy caught snatches of his reply.

  “They’re already screaming blue murder at us for not getting enough involved. Smash bang wallop is the philosophy of the Special Operations Executive … No idea about intelligence gathering…”

  Again Brinkman’s reply was lost in the general noise of the bunker.

  Alban stopped, and Guy was close enough to hear the man’s response.

  “Too right it’s your concern,” Alban said. His voice was lower now, but no less angry. “Or it soon will be. SOE are all right, they’re Churchill’s baby and still the blue-eyed boy. It’s their job to ‘set Europe ablaze’ as Churchill put it—spying, sabotage, counter-attack. But we need to up our game in eastern Europe now that the second front has opened. That means MI6 needs more funding. Everyone knows how vital our work is at MI5, and if SOE is sacrosanct then the only place that funding can come from is Station Z. Close you down, and that frees up funds and personnel. It’s only a matter of time.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply, but turned and stalked back down the corridor. Alban’s shoulder brushed against Guy’s as he went past, but he gave no sign of recognition.

  Guy watched him go, then hurried after Brinkman. He kept the colonel in sight, but was careful not to get too close. The whole place was a maze of passages and rooms. It was now three times the size it had been when first completed just days before the German invasion of Poland.

  When Brinkman stepped into one of the offices, Guy decided that enough was enough. What was he doing, following an army officer about the place just because he didn’t understand the man’s role?

  But it was more than that. There was something important going on here. Chivers didn’t know about it, Guy was sure. And twice now Brinkman’s intervention had interfered with Guy’s ability to do his job. He wasn’t especially happy with the work he had to do, but he was determined to do it as best he possibly could.

  Brinkman emerged from the office almost immediately, now carrying a cardboard folder. He headed on down the corridor, toward the exit stairs.

  Guy was on his way out too, so he found himself again following. He turned away quickly as Sergeant Green appeared and Brinkman handed him the folder. Guy kept back as the two men spoke. Then Brinkman set off down another corridor, away from the exit.

  So now Guy was following Green. The man walked briskly to the stairs and out of the War Rooms. Guy was close behind, but Green never once looked back.

  Out on the street, Green paused to look round. Guy stepped back quickly into the shadows. But the sergeant had already spotted who he was looking for.

  A woman emerged from the shade of a doorway where she had been keeping out of the glare of the sun. She was wearing a long dark blue skirt and a white blouse with a short jacket over it. It was hard to tell how old she was—probably not as old as she looked, with her
dark hair tied up severely behind her head, and black horn-rimmed spectacles.

  Green and the woman greeted each other quickly and with the ease of people who knew each other well—as friends or colleagues. They set off along the pavement, heading into Whitehall.

  Instinctively, Guy followed. Chivers wouldn’t expect him back at the office for a while yet. In fact, if he didn’t make it back in for the rest of the day, Chivers would just assume that he was stuck in an interminable meeting down in the War Rooms.

  Quite why he was following, Guy wasn’t sure. Maybe he would find out where Green worked—what Whitehall department was home to the mysterious Station Z. Assuming they were heading for an office in Whitehall.

  He became less certain of their possible destination as he became more certain of something else. He glanced back several times. He made a short detour round a square and back again in time to hurry after Green and the woman. It wasn’t long before Guy was sure that as he was following them, so someone else was following him.

  He waited until he was passing a narrow alley, and ducked down it. Pressing himself against the wall, he waited. He had caught only glimpses of the figure behind him, so he was surprised when a woman’s voice called round the corner. He was surprised too by the American accent.

  “I know you saw me, but I wasn’t following you.”

  There was obviously no point in pretending, so Guy stepped back out on to the street.

  She was probably in her late twenties, tall and slim, wearing a belted raincoat despite the warm weather. Her fair hair was cut short, curling away from the collar of her coat, and her features were thin and slightly angular.

  “So what’s your game?” the woman demanded. “Why are you interested in Sergeant Green and Miss Manners?”

  Guy considered denying it, but she had been following him for long enough to know the truth. He glanced down the street—it was empty.

  “It’s all right,” the woman said. “I know where they’re going. Tell me who you are and what you’re up to and I’ll let you in on the secret.”