Still, he reminded himself that in many ways he was now in an enemy city, and care needed to be exercised. No matter how unlikely, the possibility existed that even now he might be attracting unwelcome attention, possibly even deliberate observation. The policeman in the village was old and doddery - no need for him to report Simon’s presence. The same with the routine papers check in Chipping Norton, and also at the station. But you never could be too sure. It was time to blend in and perform some of the basic manoeuvres that Schubert had pounded into him.
‘Don’t make it so bleedin’ obvious!’ Schubert had implored him after the third or fourth practice. ‘If you keep turning around, back-tracking the way you’ve come or gazing into shop windows for no obvious reason, they’ll know what that means. If you suspect a tail, only check behind in a manner or fashion that you would normally adopt, like looking out when you cross a street. Then you can decide about how you can lose them. Make a plan, stick to it, but be prepared to modify it as necessary. It’s all got to look natural, that you don’t suspect you’re being followed, and not like some bleedin’ squaddie mincing about in his brothel creepers!’
In the end, even Schubert seemed satisfied with the modicum of skill he’d acquired in checking whether he was being tailed. One of the final exercises had taken place in a part of Berlin that he was familiar with, and he’d used this knowledge to shake off a team of six spotters. At the conclusion he even managed to sneak up behind Schubert and catch him unawares. ‘Beginner’s luck! Are you sure you haven’t done this before?’ Schubert had snorted, but he’d enjoyed the surprise just as much as Simon had.
The plan was to walk southeast, cutting through Hyde Park and into Mayfair. There was a tailor’s shop that he used to frequent along the route. He could do with some extra shirts and a suit to go with what RSHA had issued him-they were satisfactory enough, even down to the correct labels, but some of the material was coarse and made his skin itch. Besides, why not have the real thing? Almost certainly it was better quality even with the wartime restrictions and a tailor who knew him to boot. The risk was minimal. Besides, a leisurely stroll through the park would serve two purposes- firstly, he would get his bearings to observe the meeting area from a distance, just in case MI6 had the spot under twenty four hour surveillance, and secondly a more open area would make checking a tail easier. Just in case.
He shouldered his bag and set off along Praed Street, then moving diagonally across several streets in succession towards Sussex Gardens, in the general direction of the Bayswater Road. Pedestrian traffic was light, and so far there was nothing to indicate any sign of surveillance. He began to enjoy the exercise, and the air was still clean and crisp despite the confines of the city. But as he crossed Connaught Street a sixth sense began to prick him, an uneasiness that settled like an annoying itch between his shoulder blades. Glancing over his shoulder to check the street before crossing it, one of the pedestrians behind him, maybe fifty yards away, looked vaguely familiar. For an instant the man had checked his pace, and then carried on as if nothing had happened. Was it somebody on the train, or at the station? This street was much too quiet to make more than a casual, seemingly unobtrusive check. The Bayswater Road should be a far better location.
Simon made to his way onto the busy thoroughfare, turning left towards Speaker’s Corner. He reached the roundabout at the junction with Park Lane, preparing to cross over. As he turned to check for a gap in the traffic, he saw the same dark suit and hat, slightly further away this time. He looked to be hailing a taxi, not looking at all in Simon’s direction. Simon glanced left, in the direction of the city, but there was nothing of interest to catch his attention that way. As he turned back the route was temporarily clear, and he began to cross over. The dark hat and suit had disappeared, almost certainly into a car, but there was no sign of any taxis moving along the road towards him.
Hyde Park was an oasis of green set in the heart of the city.A mass of flowers and bloom added to the sense of serenity, despite the booming noise of the traffic. But he had no time for that now. Keep walking at a measured pace, he told himself. There’s likely to be more than one of them, possibly in a team. This is no time to panic. He set off south, willing himself to relax and look natural. A hundred yards in he noted a group of men in uniform approaching from the opposite direction, laughing and joking loudly to each other. They looked and sounded American. A sudden idea flashed through his head. As they reached his level he suddenly stumbled to his left, colliding with the nearest man. Both men lost their balance, and ended up sprawling on the ground. The American’s cap spun off onto the grass.
‘Hey, fella, mind where the hell you’re goin’. He sat up, a mixed look of surprise, indignation and amusement flashing across his face. ‘I know it’s never too early to have a drink, but are you OK?’
Simon rolled over, pretending to rub his right knee while easing the ache in his side where he had landed. ‘I’m terribly sorry, old boy,’ he said, playing the apologetic English gentleman to the hilt. ‘Afraid my knee gave way. Damn thing’s a nuisance, sometimes.’
‘Here, let me give you a hand.’ The American jumped athletically to his feet and leaned over to give Simon a hand back up. One of his colleagues retrieved his cap and helped him brush dirt off his immaculate uniform, while the other grabbed Simon’s kitbag. ‘Say, where did you get that problem? You ought to go see a doc about it’.
‘I have. In fact, too damn many of them. They can’t make up their minds what to do!’ Simon laughed ruefully. ‘Look, dreadfully sorry old boy, but thanks for giving me a hand. I hope I haven’t caused any offence.’
The American sized him up. ‘No not at all. Are you in the military?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I am. I’ve just got back from Anzio. I got wounded there. I’m now back home here on a spot of sick leave.’
His two friends gathered around. ‘You were at Anzio?’ They echoed. ‘Phew, that must have been a scary place.’
‘Yes none too pleasant.’ Simon grinned. All the time he stole the occasional quick glance back at the direction from which he’d entered the park.
‘Say, man, what about a beer? Me, Cal and Jim here have just got into town. We’re strangers here, and we could do with a bit of Limey- er, sorry, English company to show us the sights. How ‘bout it?’
‘Gentlemen, I’d be delighted to join you, but I’m afraid that I have a pressing engagement elsewhere. Terribly sorry, chaps.’ He smiled. ‘I’m sure you can find some friendly ladies who can entertain you far better than I can. Thanks once again’.
He took another quick glance, waved and walked off. The Americans said their goodbyes, and turned towards the Speaker’s Corner exit. During the conversation, Simon was sure he’d spotted someone near the park entrance who seemed to be taking an exaggeratedly long time bending over and tying his shoelaces, someone he hadn’t seen before. He made his mind up quickly.No point in trying to go near the rendezvous area today - too risky. That’s at least two behind me. If I’m being followed there’s almost certainly more. It’s time for a little test. Let’s see just how good they are.
Park Lane 1655
George Johnson sat in the back of the car. He was more than a little irritated. Why the hell hadn’t Menzies given him more men? One of the plods from Oxfordshire Constabulary was now sitting in the front seat, next to the driver. It was quite obvious to Johnson that the man was fairly useless at this sort of legwork. Well, what else could you expect from a country bumpkin? From what he had deduced , it looked like their target could well have spotted this constable, effectively ruling him out of any further part in the surveillance operation and alerting him to the tail. Better boot the man out now and send him back on his way home, and let the real pros get on with it. The same was probably true for the other joker.
So far this O’Malley character had done nothing particularly out of the ordinary, nothing that would immediately mark him out as someone well versed in tradecraft, as the murky world of espio
nage called their litany of standard operating procedures. But where was he heading? The pursuit was moving in a southeasterly direction. Now the bugger was in Hyde Park, not far from the Serpentine. Could this explain the flap, the buzz that had galvanised Menzies into action recently, this rumour about a rogue British agent? Johnson had not been fully briefed as yet, but he’d heard that the lower end of Hyde Park was under regular observation.
He leaned forward and tapped the shoulder of the plain- clothes policeman brusquely who was sitting in the front seat. ‘OK, mate, thanks for your help and all that, but you’d better clear off and head back home. I’ll send your friend along soon enough to join you at Paddington. If you can get out here and leave us to it…’ He left the rest unsaid.
The policeman nodded, looking rather sheepish, got out and walked away.
‘Right, Jimmy, pull up to that ‘phone box up there,’ he spoke to the driver. ‘I’ve got to report in. While I’m doing that, nip across to the other side and have a look- see if you can spot the others and which way our man is heading.’
Curzon Street 1705
It was quieter here. The roar from the traffic on Park Lane was diminishing. Since leaving the park he had not been able to spot any more pursuers. The man who had lingered over his shoelaces seemed to have disappeared. So had the man in the hat. But that did not necessarily mean no one was still interested in tracking him.
He remembered Schubert’s comments. ‘A good surveillance team will have people in front as well as behind you. They might even have back-up using cars, or maybe even a second team. If they’re really good – if they’re a top level full-on professional effort, then you’re right up shit street because you won’t be able to spot them.’ He had laughed sarcastically. ‘In that case, you should feel very honored by the amount of attention they’re paying you! But assuming that something has aroused your suspicion then you’ll need to take action. Nothing too obvious to start with, otherwise they’ll either draw the net in tight around you, or back right off, summon up reinforcements whom you probably won’t see, and that’ll be it - finis.’ He drew a finger across his throat. ‘If you need to lose a tail then choose familiar ground where your local knowledge can give you the edge.’ He remembered that last training exercise in Berlin.
He made his mind up quickly. His old shirt-makers in Jermyn Street would be as good a spot as any. It would be interesting to see if old Mr Needham was still running the show, and whether he would still be recognized after nearly six-year’s absence.
He turned into Bolton Street, still maintaining the same unhurried pace. Next it would be Piccadilly, then cross over and on into the heart of Mayfair.
Broadway Buildings 1715
Monckton picked up the ‘phone, listened intently, asked a few questions, and replaced the handset.
‘Well?’
‘That was Johnson, Chief’, said Monckton. ‘Our suspect has left Hyde Park, crossed Park Lane and is now heading towards Mayfair. They’ve just spotted him crossing Piccadilly.’
‘Did he go anywhere near the rendezvous location?’
‘No. Not even close enough to give it a once over.’
‘Hmm. Has this O’Malley done anything out of the ordinary?’
‘No Chief, but Johnson suspects our man spotted one of the team. Probably one of the two policemen we were using, possibly one of the team in the park- he can’t be certain. But the route across the park is suspicious. O’Malley veered off to the left and exited the park near Curzon Street, rather than carrying on his original course, which would have taken him past the spot we’re rather interested in. Apparently he collided with some Yanks and fell to the floor. One of the team who was following at a distance had to take emergency action to avoid detection, and it was shortly after that when O’Malley turned left. They think the collision was not accidental, definitely something done on purpose to get a good view of who was behind him.’
‘Blast!’ Menzies frowned. ‘Well, at least the good news is that this seems to confirm that O’Malley is our man.’
‘Shall I order them to pick him up?’
Menzies didn’t answer immediately. His eyes became distant, focusing on some imaginary location on the far wall. If this was a German agent, could he take the risk of losing him in the bustle of the city?What would the consequences be if this man escaped surveillance, made contact and reported back to Berlin? Could he afford to take that chance? His future career might well depend on the decision he made now.
He decided to gamble. ‘No, Charlie, let’s keep tailing him for now. We’ve got all the Abwehr agents under wraps, and most if not all of Schellenberg’s as well. I very much doubt if O’Malley will head to one of their usual haunts. If I was Schellenberg I’d use a hitherto unused resource with a safe house, someone we don’t know from past form. And they must have a transmitter at this location, or close by, to get a message back to Germany. So far our monitoring chaps have not detected anything new in terms of clandestine radio traffic. That suggests to me that we have, somewhere in London, a hidden transmitter on a listening brief only - up till now. We need to nail it and this is our opportunity.’
‘But isn’t it a huge risk to let him go, let him get into contact-‘.
‘Yes, it is,’ interrupted Menzies, somewhat impatiently. ‘I’ve thought long and hard about this. We’re still in position to catch the mole in Hyde Park, so nothing’s changed there. And if O’Malley somehow spots our tail and escapes, we can catch him later - after all, presumably he needs to identify the mole as much as we do. But the transmitter’s important, too. After all, how will he get a message back to Schellenberg?’
Monckton was still worried. In his opinion the transmitter was a minor concern. But he knew there was no point discussing this any further. Once Menzies made up his mind, nothing would dissuade him from pursuing his plan. And even if they lost him tonight, O’Malley would still have to show his face at one of the Thursday lunchtime rendezvous’ in Hyde Park.
Jermyn Street 1725
He glanced at his watch- it was time to hurry. He couldn’t remember if the tailors closed at five, five-thirty or six. Maybe opening hours had changed in wartime. His plan very much depended on access, and a closed shop would severely derail what he had in mind. Already he could see signs of business closing for the day, doors being locked and ‘open’ signs being turned over to ‘closed’. At last, his target hove into view. Needham and Sons, established 1809, the discrete brass plaque announced. To those in the know it was one of the oldest and most revered shirt-makers in the city, and a very fine general tailor to boot as a less well advertised but still profitable side line- definitely on a par with the calculated refinement and snobbery of Saville Row, more so if you talked to Mr Needham. He mounted the steps and was relieved to see some signs of activity inside through the display window. With a sideways glance back up the street he pushed open the door and entered.
Little had changed since his last visit. It was a long, narrow store, the first part exclusively devoted to examples of the latest styles and fashions. Rack upon rack of cotton cloth, stands with shirts in different sizes, colours and cuts predominated. Further back there were changing rooms. He remembered another room upstairs, devoted almost entirely to suits, jackets and trousers.
‘Be with you in a minute, sir’.
A small, balding and bespectacled older man in a waistcoat called out to him. He was finishing serving an imposing looking client in his late forties, wrapping up a collection of neatly folded new shirts in a neat brown paper package. Simon nodded and smiled, taking the opportunity to wander around, pretending to be inspecting the variety of patterns and colours on display, while keeping half an eye on the glass window frontage. So far there was nothing of note to see. He doubted his pursuers would be so obvious as to enter the store, but almost certainly their next move would be to ensure that all exits were observed. He needed to act fast.
The customer was busily writing a cheque. He made his goodbyes, and without a
backward glance left. The tailor closed the till and scurried around to where Simon was waiting, casually examining a display of striped shirt cloths.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘Yes.’ He turned around. ‘I don’t know if you remember me, but I used to shop here regularly before the war. You should have all my measurements. Mr Needham knows me well. Is he around?’
‘Sorry, sir, but he goes home early on a Wednesday these days. You missed him by a few hours. We’re just about to close.’
‘I know. Sorry I’ve left it this late, but I’ve only just got back home. I have been abroad a long time.’
‘I see, sir. Active service?’ The tailor smiled ingratiatingly.
‘Yes, you could say that.’
‘What regiment are you in?’
‘The Royal Tank Regiment.’ Well, it was almost true. Omitting the fact that it was the German equivalent was a mere oversight.
‘May I ask your name?’
‘O’Malley’. The real O’Malley had been a British liaison officer attached to the First US Armoured Division, operating inside the Anzio beach-head. There was no way Simon would use his real name, now that he suspected MI6 was in pursuit.
‘Sir, if you’ll bear with me, I’ll pop upstairs to check our records. I’ll do what I can tonight, but if you want Mr Needham’s personal attention it might be best to come back at ten o’ clock tomorrow morning. I’ll just go and lock up the front door.’
‘Thanks very much. I really do appreciate your help. I’m sorry to impose at such a late hour.’
‘It’s not a problem, sir,’ the man smiled. ‘The customer always comes first at Needham and Sons, particularly if they are old and established clients. In the meantime, have a look around at our current stock. Shirts and ties are over here, suits and trousers are upstairs. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
London Calling Page 12
