The tailor turned and walked towards the shop door. Simon busied himself by looking at yet more styles and patterns on display, while keeping the tailor discretely in view. He was just about to bolt the front door when another potential customer tried to enter.
He could hear the smaller man apologizing, in a polite but firm tone - no, he was sorry but it was too late to do any more business today. Simon did not recognize the newcomer but noticed the man glance his way and protest, saying that the shop was obviously still serving. The tailor heard him out and explained he was an old customer who would shortly be leaving. Perhaps the gentleman would care to return tomorrow?
The newcomer appeared disgruntled. He turned away abruptly and left. The tailor hurried back over to where Simon stood. ‘Sorry about that, sir.’ He shrugged, looking bemused. ‘I don’t know what’s happening today - everybody wants service at the drop of a hat! I’ll be as quick as I can.’ He disappeared behind a curtain that closed off the entrance to the stairwell.
As soon as Simon heard the tailor clumping up the stairs he walked softly to the back of the room, where a closed door was partially obscured by another curtain. With a last glance at the front window, he slipped behind and drew the curtain around. He tried the knob. Thankfully, the door was unlocked. He closed it quietly behind him. In front was another narrow room, filled on either side with great bundles of cloths and cottons stacked on either side. He walked through, into another room. It was just as he remembered, small but cosy.This was Mr Needham’s private office on the ground floor, filled with comfortable chairs. Here he would take tea with some of his favoured clients. The old man was a keen student of the Classics, and would love to sit for hours discussing the finer points of Socrates, Plato and even the rather turgid Peloponnesian Wars by Thucydides, one of his favourite books. Simon had spent several enjoyable hours in his company.
What was more important was the outside door and what lay beyond. Simon remembered a small garden, surrounded by high walls, with a grilled gate that led to the alley linking the rear of the buildings on Jermyn Street. Fortunately, the key was in the door. He tried the handle-locked, but a swift turn of the key produced the desired result.
The garden had been transformed into a small vegetable patch. Rows of neatly planted growths and in one corner a small greenhouse, filled virtually all the available space. He quickly walked along the narrow path that divided the two halves then hugged the far wall to where the gate was. As he reached it, he turned back to check his rear. There was an upstairs rear facing window at the back of the building. As he looked up he caught a quick glimpse of the tailor’s face, a look of surprise and shocked indignation before it quickly disappeared. Damn! He’d hoped for an unobserved exit. No matter. The gate was bolted from the inside. With a creaking squeal of rusty hinges, it opened.
Simon found himself in a narrow alley. To his right the alley ran back, paralleling the street, with gates to similar gardens and properties on either side. To the left a junction lay, not far from where he stood. He turned left, carefully making his way past several overflowing dust bins, inching the final few feet to where the alley divided. In front was a high brick wall. Slowly, he edged his head to look around the corner to his left. A tall man in a dark hat with his back turned to him came into view, leaning at the corner of the alley and Jermyn Street, maybe forty yards from where Simon now stood. The man seemed mainly interested in the street, and was smoking a cigarette. A quick glance to his right revealed another alley, with another junction. As quietly as he could, he walked down the alley and took the left hand turn.
As he passed the junction, he heard a low pitched whistle behind him. He hefted his bag higher up on his shoulders, and broke out into a hard, quick run. The alley turned right and went on for another fifty yards, his footsteps echoing on the concrete surface and walls on either side. Suddenly he found himself on another street full of shops and parked cars, not dissimilar to Jermyn. He could see an identical alley to the one he’d just come out of, almost directly head on. In a split second he made up his mind. The street was far too open- he’d be easily marked out. He sprinted across the road and dashed up the alley, trying to put as much distance as he could from whoever was behind him. Another junction loomed ahead. Without looking back this time he took the right hand turn, sped round the corner and found himself at the end of a narrow mews courtyard. There was nothing to it but to run and hope his pursuers would miss which way he’d gone.
He ran up the terraced lane as fast as he could, his legs beginning to ache, his breathing becoming more ragged and gasping. A burning began from inside his chest, brought on by the unaccustomed strain, but he ignored it, pressing on and forcing his body to dig deep. At least his ankle was holding up well. Another street lay ahead. As he reached the end he quickly glanced back. The man in the dark hat was emerging from the alley. He raised his right hand; something black pointing at him. Simon reflexly ducked down and dashed left. A screech of a ricochet echoed well above his head, followed by a large puff of brick dust. Bloody idiot! Trying to hit me at that distance with a pistol? He almost laughed in derision, but this was far too deadly a game to be amused at. He sprinted down the next street and took the first left turn.
He found himself in a much busier thoroughfare- it looked like Piccadilly again. The traffic was denser, the pavement crowded with ordinary citizens going about their business or heading home. He forced himself to walk, to slow down and ease his rasping lungs. His heart hammered away inside his chest, stressed as much by the thought of pursuit as well as the enforced and unaccustomed exercise. The shoulder bag was much too bulky and obvious, so he ditched it and his hat in the nearest doorway and kept close to the shop fronts, trying to make himself a smaller target. There was nothing much in the bag - spare clothes, his washing gear, nothing that could be incriminating. Walk, don’t run- Schubert’s words came back to him. Hide in the crowds, don’t draw attention to yourself. A running man is easy to spot. It was hard to resist the temptation to turn back, to check if he was still being pursued. He carried on walking quickly down the street, his shirt sticking to his chest, sweat pouring down his face. The crowds became thicker as a major street intersection came into view. Suddenly he saw an Underground Station sign - Green Park. Crouching as much as he could, he slipped diagonally through the other pedestrians and ran down the steps.
The concourse was busy; several queues were forming for tickets. He chose the shortest. Fortunately the wait was mercifully brief. He grabbed his ticket without waiting for the change and walked as rapidly as he could towards the ticket barriers.
A long flight of stairs took him down to the next level. A quick glance at a map on the wall told him which way he needed to go. This station had three different routes all passing through it. He chose the northernmost line and turned at the next corridor junction to his left.
The platform was full, almost heaving with people. He walked as far away from the entrance as he could, weaving a path through the throng and deliberately stood beside a group of men in Army uniform, their bulkier profiles useful in obscuring the view from any pursuer. Simon glanced at his watch- six o’clock. He could hear the sound of an approaching train rumbling to his left. A blast of warm wind passed up the platform, rocking him gently and ruffling his clothes, helping to dry his perspiration. The rumbling became louder, and suddenly the train emerged. It looked very full. He doubted if there was enough room for everybody present to get on board. The doors opened and the crowd surged forward, barely allowing those passengers on the train needing to exit to get off. As he moved towards the doors, he caught a glimpse of a dark hat just entering the platform area, with another man in tow, shorter, more muscular and tougher looking. His heart raced - they were still searching for him.
The blast of another train arriving on the southbound platform echoed above the noise of the crowd, somewhere to his rear. He stole a quick glance back down the platform at his pursuers. The two men were hurriedly consulting each other. Sudde
nly the taller man in the dark hat turned and moved away to check the newly arrived train. Simon crouched low, redoubling his efforts to get on the carriage, but it was a very tight squeeze.He was almost the last person to push his way onto his section of the crowded train, barely managing to push himself level with the open doors, and all the time keeping an eye on the far end. The shorter man was still scanning the crowd, and trying to force his way through the busy platform, but as the dismounting passengers exited from the train they impeded his progress. The doors began to close. Simon wasn’t going to make it! Suddenly a large hand grasped his jacket and pulled him even further inside.
‘Sorry ter ruin your suit, mate, but you were goin’ ter get squashed’, a voice in a broad Black Country accent breathed into his ear. Simon had barely enough time to twist around and smile his thanks before the doors closed in front of him and the train began to accelerate. The platform began to slip past quicker and quicker. He strained his head around to check the view- the MI6 man was still there! At almost the last moment before the train slipped into the blackness of the tunnel, his pursuer recognized him. Their eyes met for an instant. The other man smiled ironically, and tipped his hand in a mocking salute. Missed you this time, but we’ll meet again, the unspoken message in his eyes said.
Broadway Buildings 1830
Menzies had finally run out of invectives, a very rare occurrence indeed. Monckton was amazed at the sheer torrent of vituperation that had flowed from his commanding officer’s lips for the preceeding quarter of an hour. It was bad enough for some plod to go shooting his pistol off near a busy street, so Menzies had raged. Anybody could have been injured or killed. Didn’t Oxfordshire Constabulary train their firearm officers in correct procedures? And of course, O’Malley had escaped, to boot. The Chief was furious. Finding the trail again would be difficult, if not impossible. At least they had the rendezvous location under close observation, and sooner or later their man would show up again. But Menzies hated not being in control. He had ranted on and on about his own stupidity in taking this course of action, until he finally ran out of adjectives to describe his personal short-comings. All in the privacy of his own office, of course.
Just then, Menzies reminded Monckton very much of his Brigade Regimental Sergeant Major at Sandhurst, a man with a truly wonderful command of the English language.He rarely swore, but when he did so there was none finer in expressing in exquisite and breathtaking detail all the profusion of lower life forms that were superior in intellect and ability to whichever particular unfortunate that was the subject of his considered attention. It was an art form in itself, something that never ceased to amaze and delight those in earshot - but not quite so joyous an occasion for the object of his withering intellect and vocabulary. Monckton could smile now, but he still remembered with embarrassment the occasion when he’d almost completely cocked up a commanding officer’s formal dress parade.
His mind quickly wandered back to his Sandhurst days, many years ago. At the end of the gruelling cadet officer’s course, those who had been successful were honored in a passing out ceremony. As the leading graduate Monckton had been placed in charge of the parade of officer cadets, all two hundred or so of them. The barracks were crowded - a huge number of parents, relatives and friends had turned up to witness this special occasion, the day when officer cadets were graduating with a commission into the regular army. It was his job to lead the individual platoons in column around the parade square, finally passing in front of the dais where the academy commandant, invited VIP’s and whichever senior general happened to be available stood to take the parade’s salute. He was twenty-two at the time, a very nervous and freshly minted second lieutenant indeed.
Part of Monckton’s duty was to announce in stentorian tones the orders of command to move the entire parade around the square at the correct step while he led from the front, making sure that he got the pace just right. This wasn’t as easy as it sounded - to do it properly, one almost needed eyes in the back of one’s head.
As it was, the pressure of the occasion had almost got too much for him. He managed to get the first part correct, but he made a complete balls-up of the next bit. Instead of barking out ‘officer training course number one hundred and thirty two will march past in column of route, number one platoon leading’, it came out as ‘number one balloon leading’. The ribbing he received later from his fellow graduates was almost unbearable, but nothing compared to the dressing down the RSM gave him the following day just before his course made its final departure – right in front of the whole Sandhurst training staff.
But there was always a silver lining to each black cloud, even now. Back then, it had got his name noticed, and not just for the wrong reasons. And now his boss was in a bit of a blue funk. It was time to cheer him up.
‘It’s not all that bad, Chief,’ he said soothingly. ‘Every cloud, etcetera…O’Malley’s behaviour definitely confirms him as our German agent. OK, so we lost the trail at Green Park. By the time Johnson got to Bond Street, our Mick friend had disappeared to whichever rock he’s going to crawl under. But the really good news is that we’ve got him on film - we have a photograph. In fact we have several.’
‘What?’ Menzies’ ears pricked up. ‘A photo of him?’
‘Yes, chief. It was taken from the back of our car, as O’Malley was crossing a street. Kirby in Technical is sure he’s got at least one good image. It’s being processed in the basement as we speak.’
‘Excellent.’ Menzies sat forward, brightening visibly. ‘I was beginning to think I’d made all the wrong decisions today.’
‘Yes, Chief, I’d noticed’, Monckton agreed, rather dryly. ‘We’ll get copies of the best image circulated to all our agents. This should take care of all known German safe houses. It means our chaps observing Hyde Park will be able to spot O’Malley well before he gets into range. That’s where he’s bound to identify the traitor and attempt contact. That’s when we nab them both.’
‘Indeed, Charlie, indeed.’ Menzies leaned forward excitedly. ‘I want to see this photo as soon as it’s ready. Make sure enough copies get made- we’ll get them out to all our agents. Send one to Scotland Yard. They’re a lot sharper than their country cousins, and we’re going to need extra help on this one. I’ll need to go see the Commissioner- set up a meeting in the morning.’
‘And MI5?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Menzies sighed reluctantly. That was a meeting he was not looking forward to. He didn’t get on particularly well with the current head of MI5. Almost certainly he would have to face some embarrassing questions, particular about how MI6 had cocked up the pursuit, and why MI5 had not been involved sooner. Hopefully he would be able to bluff his way through without an inquiry involving the Joint Intelligence Committee, the senior body involved with assessing and regulating the intelligence community’s activities before reporting upwards to the Home Secretary. ‘Have you got someone to talk to the tailor?’
‘Only briefly, Chief, but I’m sending Johnson around first thing tomorrow morning, armed with a photo and a search warrant, although it’s unlikely we’ll need one. One other thing - it seems obvious to me that O’Malley knew the area around there, which rather suggests he’s got a good knowledge of London. Maybe it is from before the war?’
‘Yes, that’s a possibility. Schellenberg is using someone who hasn’t got previous form, I’m sure of it. If he’s lived in England before, we may be able to find out his real identity. That could be of considerable use. Good.’ Menzies seemed to have recovered and forgotten his previous tantrums. ‘This is not over yet, just round one to Schellenberg, although it was a close one. Let’s see if we can do better in round two.’
14 Holly Park Terrace, Hanwell, London 1930
It was becoming more and more difficult to suppress his excitement. After all these years, they’d finally contacted him. He still found it hard to believe. The message had come through nearly three days ago, a coded missive informing him to expect a new
arrival, someone to trust implicitly and aid to the greatest possible extent, while at the same time keep a careful eye over. No, the message had not given any specific details except a password to establish the newcomer’s identity. And that was it. It was almost unreal. Nothing for ages- he thought that they’d forgotten his existence. There had been virtually no direct contact since the start of the war, apart from the coded messages that flew across the ether of Northern Europe at night. At first, he’d listened excitedly late each evening around the agreed transmission time, but as time went by the messages became less frequent, and never anything specifically addressed to him. The months turned into years, but still nothing came his way apart from the usual routine contact making sure he was still there, still listening, but with the inevitable message – nothing for you at the moment. At one stage he almost gave up, but the insidious words and promises made to him years before echoed in his brain and drove him back to his lonely vigil. And besides, he had plenty of time. Apart from his work his life was otherwise an empty shell, with little to hurry home for. There was no longer a wife or child, nor would there ever likely be again.
The years leading up to the war had been an exciting time. He’d been seduced by the rhetoric of Oswald Mosley, the self- styled leader of the British Union of Fascists. The political landscape in Britain was a morass of weakness, vacillation and apathy. A good dose of National Socialism was just what the English needed to wake the country up and galvanise them out of their middle class lethargy and self-centred pursuits. Who needed the creaking and archaic institutions that ran the Empire anymore? One needed to look no further than the modern fascist systems of government already installed in Spain, Germany and Italy. These were the up and coming countries, where a small group of the faithful had seized power and created order out of chaos and lethargy. And the leading proponent was Adolf Hitler-what a man, what a symbol! His single-minded drive and charisma was unparalleled. And look what he had achieved in so short a time. There could be no better example of how a strong leader could sweep aside decay and stagnation to mould a better future.
London Calling Page 13
