by Alex Gerlis
She stretched to point at the map. ‘Our supposition is that it’s shipped up the Bosphorus, across the Black Sea to either the Bulgarian port of Burgas or the Romanian port of Constanța, and from there either to the Danube or by rail to the industrial centres, of which the most important one is here – Bohemia, Böhmen as the Germans call it. Was part of Czechoslovakia, now part of what they call the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia – they call Moravia, Mähren. The Slovakia part is now a Nazi puppet state, but the Czechs are quite different. And they’re first-class engineers. We’re convinced this is where much of the Turkish chromium is going, especially to the Škoda works here – Pilsen.
‘But it’s one thing knowing this happens, it’s another thing proving it. Hence,’ said Christine as she returned to her seat, ‘Mr Black’s mission. Is there anything else he should look out for, professor?’
‘We know the mined chromium is brought to Istanbul which is the only Turkish port able to cope with that kind of cargo, and of course the Bosphorus leads into the Black Sea. We must assume that it goes through a primary cleaning process before it is transported – removing soil and other impurities. It is possible it is crushed, so would be in a more granular form, Mr Black, than these samples here.’
‘Your job,’ said Christine, ‘is to find where the chromium is being shipped from in Istanbul and then not only provide evidence of this, but also evidence of its route to and arrival in the Czech lands.’
Professor Harland had returned to his seat and was fiddling with his bow tie as he addressed the man opposite him. ‘For a long time I have been trying to impress on the authorities how critical a steady supply of chromium is to the German war effort. I’m delighted this is now being taken seriously. Believe me, Mr Black, if you succeed in finding evidence that could lead to the Turkish exports being exposed and possibly stopped, you’d have made an enormous contribution to the Allied cause. I wish you luck.’
Chapter 9
London
July 1943
Prince had been moved into a safe house in Holland Park in west London where he would live and be trained until his departure. He’d been driven to a pretty wisteria-clad house and followed Christine into a large sitting room where a middle-aged couple were standing with their backs to a stone fireplace.
‘Anthony and Mary will be looking after you. Your briefings will take place in the dining room, which has been sound-proofed. If you want to leave the house to go for a walk, please let Anthony know and he will accompany you. For the short time you’re here, Mr Black, you’ll have no other need to go out.’
‘If you do need anything, just let us know. We’re here to look after you,’ said Mary.
‘I make sure the house is secure,’ said Anthony. ‘I’ll show you to your bedroom upstairs.’
‘Later,’ said Christine. ‘Mr Gilbey will be here any minute now. We’ve got a lot of work to be getting on with.’
* * *
‘I hope you managed to rest this weekend, Richard?’
He didn’t reply. He was feeling decidedly nervous now as he, Gilbey and Christine Wright gathered round the table in the dining room at the back of the safe house. Through a pair of French windows he could see a small, pretty garden, a patio with a narrow strip of lawn behind it, bordered by a carefully planned array of flowers and plants. The garden was surrounded by a high brick wall, quite possibly as high as ten foot. A large black cat was sitting on the wall, the morning sun glinting off its fur as it cocked its head to catch a better view of who was inside its house.
‘I understand your tutorial on chromium went well, Richard?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And I understand Christine also used the meeting to explain the purpose of the mission?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Is everything clear?’
‘To an extent sir, but – and I’m sorry if I’m being awkward – what if I gather the evidence and it’s presented to the Turks and they just shrug their shoulders? I mean, isn’t it possible they’ll say thank you very much for letting us know, we had no idea – and then just ignore it and carry on supplying the Germans?’
‘Good point, Prince, though that’s a matter for those at a higher level than—’
‘…sorry to interrupt, sir, but surely the Turks would know we’re hardly going to declare war on them if they don’t stop these exports?’
‘True, but don’t forget that a country’s natural instinct is to be on the right side and I think the last thing the Turks would want to do is alienate or indeed antagonise the likely victors. We are confident, Prince, that if we – you – find good enough evidence it will help change Turkey’s mind and that will help our war effort enormously. So you’ll leave this country in a couple of weeks and travel to Istanbul. The route will be explained to you closer to the time. We would hope your mission in Istanbul will last no longer than a month – frankly we cannot afford to hang around too long for this intelligence. A month ought to be ample time to collect it. You certainly shouldn’t need to leave Istanbul. Christine is responsible for coordinating your mission. She has worked hard over the past few days to come up with your cover story. The focus of your training over the next week or so will be to familiarise yourself with your new identity, to give you some preparation in how to present it – other people will be involved in that too – and then some training in how to communicate with us while you’re there. I shall stay for the next hour while Christine outlines your cover story.’
There was a brief silence as Christine sorted her papers and Prince felt anxious; he was about to find out who he’d be – it was almost like one of those arranged marriages he’d read about, one of those where the bride and groom only meet each other on the wedding day.
‘From now on, you’re Michael Eugene Doyle. Not Mike – you have a strong aversion to being called Mike. Your mother used to call you Gene – Eugene was her father. You were born in Dublin in 1905 so you’re now thirty-eight. You’ve moved around a lot though, Michael, that’s a feature of your story – always be slightly vague about the dates. Memorise them but don’t volunteer them, if you see what I mean. It’s important people don’t find it easy to pinpoint where you were at any given time – it will help explain your story if people ever get too interested in it.
‘When you were seven – in 1912 – your family emigrated to England, which will account for a predominantly English accent. First of all you lived in Birmingham, in Digbeth, which was then a largely Irish area but your father struggled to get full-time work – you can allude here to anti-Irish prejudice. Two years later, in 1914, you all moved to London and lived with your mother’s brother in Kilburn, another Irish area. The fact it was a maternal uncle’s house ought to help confuse the trail if anyone starts digging. That is highly unlikely, but it is important you have confidence in the story. But I cannot emphasise enough, Michael, how little you should volunteer about yourself.
‘In 1916, when you’re eleven, the Easter Rising has an effect on your family, who can be described as Republican sympathisers though not activists. You can start tracing a certain anti-British sentiment back to this time. You leave school in 1918 when you’ve just turned fourteen and start work as a window cleaner’s assistant. You have ambitions to make more of yourself but blame the English for your lack of opportunity. You are sufficiently inspired by partition in 1921 to want to return to Ireland but don’t do so until June 1923, a month after the Irish Civil War has come to an end. By the time you return to Dublin you’re eighteen and enrol at college, ending up as a journalist. That is what you are now, Michael Eugene Doyle – a journalist.’
‘That’s my cover in Istanbul?’
Christine nodded.
‘Beats being an engineer, I suppose.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘In Denmark I was an engineer – among other things.’
‘Let me continue, Michael. You become a journalist but it would be wrong to pretend you’ve been a terribly successful one
. In Ireland you spent a few years as a subeditor on various local newspapers and—’
‘I’m not terribly sure of the difference between a subeditor and a—’
‘Don’t worry, we have someone who is going to come in and train you on all the finer points of journalism. We are where now… ah yes, in 1929, when you’re twenty-four, you emigrate to the United States. Hundreds of thousands of Irish people emigrated to the United States in 1920s, so good luck to anyone who wishes to delve into that.’
‘So will I be Irish or American?’
‘You’ll have an Irish passport, after all, Ireland’s a neutral country. In the United States you do a variety of jobs, moving around, but all the time to and from cities with substantial Irish populations – New York, Boston, Chicago, Pittsburgh – all the details will be in your biography. There’s a brief marriage in… when was it, here we are… in 1933 in Boston to a woman who was from San Francisco, but you walked out on her and eventually divorced. It’s much easier, we find, to have a person who is divorced rather than having to explain why in their late thirties they’ve not married.’
‘And no children, I presume?’
‘No children, Michael, no. The jobs you’ve been doing are what one might term menial ones – working in factories, driving, that kind of thing, with some periods of unemployment. Then in 1937, your luck changes when you’re taken on by a magazine based in New York City called Travelling and Travellers. Again you’re a subeditor, so as will be explained to you, there will be no by-lines.’
‘Does Travelling and Travellers even exist?’
Tom Gilbey spoke for the first time in a while. ‘Travelling and Travellers has existed since the early 1920s. As we understand it, it was the indulgence of a millionaire who had made his fortune in coal. His youngest son was interested in travel and wanted to start a magazine and his father funded it – subsidised it really. In fact it is not a bad magazine at all, because of the money the father put in it was able to hire decent writers and send them all over the world. As a result it acquired a reasonable readership, although of course not enough to make the magazine profitable. In 1939, Travelling and Travellers faced a crisis. The millionaire died and his surviving children were unwilling to continue subsidising their youngest sibling’s magazine, so it was put up for sale. Our station in Washington came up with the idea of purchasing it. It was a good opportunity for us, providing us with perfect cover for agents around the world. Travelling and Travellers is well established, if anyone checks it out they will see that. We purchased it through a front company and have installed our own managing editor who ensures it works as we wish it. We’ve even opened a European bureau in Zurich.’
‘And the magazine keeps going despite the war?’
‘Remember it’s an American magazine, they don’t have the problems and restrictions we have. They’re still able to print and distribute it, even sending copies around the world.
‘And recently, Michael, you’ve had the good fortune to be given an assignment, to become a writer rather than a subeditor. You have already had one article published and more will follow as you head off on your assignment.’
‘Even though I’m not a writer.’
‘Ah, but you will be. All will become clear, but your copy will be submitted to the magazine’s bureau in Zurich and from there to New York via London, where someone will adjust your articles to bring them up to the required standard. It’s a bloody good cover, Michael, if you’ll excuse my language, Christine.’
She ignored Gilbey and selected a few sheets of paper, pushing them across the table towards the man now to be known as Michael Doyle.
‘You’ll get the full biography, as I say, in a day or two but in the meantime this is a list of key dates. I’ve also written down some thoughts on how I see Michael Doyle, which means you can start thinking like him and also start acting like him. I see him as something of a loner, someone who has something of a chip on his shoulder and is unsettled in the sense that he constantly moves around. But the most important thing is that he gives little of himself – you don’t allow people to become terribly close to you. You’re the kind of person who fits well into the background. You are the opposite of the life and soul of the party.’
‘But it’s important,’ said Tom Gilbey, ‘to avoid standing out for being too much of a loner or too curmudgeonly. And at the same time you’re a journalist – a writer – and so you don’t want to be too much of a shrinking violet. Christine, when’s he seeing the journalist?’
‘This afternoon, sir.’
‘Jolly good. You’ll get along well with Martin. He’s an interesting man.’
* * *
By the time the man they’d called Martin arrived Richard Prince – now starting to think of himself as Michael Doyle – had read through Christine’s notes once. He had to admit it was a clever backstory. Now he just had to assume the persona of Michael Eugene Doyle and learn to be a journalist.
‘Martin Mason.’
The man who’d just introduced himself was older than Prince had expected and was slightly dishevelled, though not enough for him to be described as unkempt. He wore a green tweed jacket at least one size too large and brown trousers riding a bit too high on his ankles. Most notably he didn’t wear a tie, and not only was his top shirt button undone but the one below it too. The top pocket of his jacket carried an array of pens, one of which appeared to have leaked, leaving a dark stain just under his heart.
Although the first impression he gave was one of mild eccentricity his handshake was firm and he smiled as he looked Prince in the eye. They were in the dining room at the back of the safe house, and as Prince made to sit at the table Martin Mason gestured they should sit in the two easy chairs closer to the fireplace.
‘There’s no need to be formal, is there? You are Michael Eugene Doyle, I understand?’
Prince said he was; certainly not Mike, though he was developing quite a liking for Gene.
‘Michael is more common, stick to that. Christine has given me some details about Michael Eugene Doyle and your mission, of course. I should emphasise that I know nothing about your real identity or your life. Please avoid the mistake of letting any of that slip out.’
Martin Mason spoke beautifully: a strong, clear voice with the slightest hint of an accent. His words were pronounced in the precise way of people who speak a foreign language fluently.
‘Let me tell you a little bit about myself, Michael – that way I can present my credentials!’ He laughed and from a bulging inside pocket of his jacket produced a pipe, a pouch of tobacco and an expensive-looking gold lighter. He took a minute or so to fill the pipe, light it and check he was happy with the result before returning the pouch to his pocket.
‘I’m from Germany.’ He paused to take a few puffs from his pipe, carefully observing the man opposite him through the smoke. ‘I will tell you my story, briefly though – our interest here is Michael Doyle, not Martin Mason. Martin Mason is the name I’ve had since I settled in this country. I chose one that sounded as Anglo-Saxon and non-Jewish as possible. It’s better you don’t know my original name – in case you’re ever questioned about me – but I’m Jewish, fifty-nine years of age and a journalist. I was a journalist in Berlin for many years and I was reasonably successful and enjoyed my job. But all that changed in 1933, in October. One of the first things the Nazis did when they came to power was to pass a law preventing Jews from being journalists. I decided to leave, there and then. I had few ties in Germany. I’d been divorced for many years, we had no children and my parents were dead. In many ways journalism was – and is –my life, and there was no point in staying if I couldn’t be a journalist. At first I went to the Netherlands where I had a number of friends, but I couldn’t cope with the language. I went from there to Paris where I spoke the language but struggled to get work, and then to Brussels, where there was more work. However, once Germany invaded Czechoslovakia in March 1939 I decided that was that and came to England. It was not e
asy. By then I was, what – fifty-five years old – that’s what you call getting on, eh?
‘Fortunately my English was good enough for me to work on the production side of newspapers. When the war started I was interned at first as an enemy alien, but was then recruited to help British intelligence – a very good friend of mine from Berlin was working in that field and was able to recommend and vouch for me. It makes me feel as if I’m doing my bit. When Mr Gilbey asked me to help with your case I was delighted of course.’
Martin Mason leaned back in his chair and refilled his pipe.
‘What do you know about journalism, Michael Doyle?’ There was a glint in his eye followed by a smile, as if it was a trick question.
‘Not an awful lot, apart from the obvious I suppose.’
‘Were you good at English at school?’
‘Yes, it was perhaps my favourite subject, after history. I always got good marks at composition.’
‘Well, that’s a start, eh? The important thing about journalism is for you not to be overwhelmed by it, if you get my meaning. There are no mysteries about it. If you can understand it as a straightforward process then you will have done well. You need to see journalism as…’ He paused while he extracted a pen from his top pocket and used it to loosen the tobacco from his pipe before tipping the contents into an ashtray. ‘You need to see journalism as the simple matter of telling an interesting story in a clear manner, in a way that captures and retains the interest of the reader, informing and entertaining them in the process. That’s it really, it’s as simple as that!’
