by Alex Gerlis
‘And once we’ve done that,’ said Martin, ‘I’ll subedit the article and rewrite it to fit the correct style, ensure it’s consistent with your other articles for Travelling and Travellers and then send it on to New York.’
‘I didn’t know I’d written any other articles.’
‘Indeed you have – take these.’ He handed over a few sheets of paper. ‘Half a dozen articles I’ve written in your name. Going by date, the first two we’ve already filed in your name as part of your trip around the Middle East – one from Cairo, the other from Jerusalem. They will appear in the August edition of Travelling and Travellers, which is rather helpful for your cover as I understand it is available in top hotels in Istanbul and Ankara.
‘The next two articles you should file when you’re in the last city before you travel on to Istanbul. This article here is about that journey, the final one to Istanbul. You choose the slug – if it starts with a vowel we’ll know you’ve arrived safely and all is well, by which I mean no tricky questioning by the police, searches not too intrusive, nothing you’re suspicious about, that kind of thing. If you choose to begin it with a consonant it will tells us you’ve arrived but have cause for concern. On the day you arrive, re-type the article on the hotel’s typewriter with the appropriate slug and file it the next day, which should be the Monday. Destroy the original copy of the article. Then look to file another article with an update towards the end of the week, ideally on the Thursday. And another point, Michael, the notebook you have there – that is for your writing. Only use it to make notes on what you’re writing about, nothing else. You should write out the articles or drafts of them in longhand in this book. The hotel you’ll be staying at has typewriters. When you’re ready to write the final version of an article, type it up in the hotel and then take it to the Grand Post Office to be wired to Zurich.’
‘We will keep our communications with you to an absolute minimum, Michael, we don’t want to draw attention to you.’ Christine was smiling as she spoke. ‘For that reason we won’t contact you at your hotel. We will communicate with you by telegram, which will come from the Travelling and Travellers bureau in Zurich and be sent poste restante to the Grand Post Office in Istanbul. The telegram will come from Traveller Zurich and we’ll restrict the messages to acknowledging receipt of your articles. However, if we want you to pull out of Istanbul and head back home we’ll suggest a visit to Ankara, do you understand? If you receive such a message you’re to drop what you’re doing and head back. We are of the view that any telegrams from us which go into any more detail could arouse suspicion and we don’t want that, do we?’
Prince nodded in agreement.
‘Well that’s all splendid.’ Tom Gilbey stood up quickly and smoothed out his jacket. He looked ready to leave. ‘I think Christine and Martin have come up with a top-rate cover story for you and I have every faith you’ll have mastered everything by Friday, Prince… Michael. I’ll leave you three to it – plenty to get on with, eh? Oh, one final question from me – are you any good at photography?’
* * *
The cameraman, was how Prince thought of him – he was never given a name; all Prince knew was he worked for the Service and was obsessed with cameras to the extent he looked personally aggrieved when Prince told him he wasn’t especially interested in photography and as far as he was concerned one camera was pretty much the same as another.
‘But every camera is unique!’ The cameraman had looked hurt. ‘Each make is as individual as a different breed of animal!’
The cameraman also seemed put out at the camera Prince was to take on his travels.
‘It’s a Kodak 35 Rangefinder and I don’t like it. Granted, it’s an improvement on the original Kodak 35 but to me it just feels too simplistic, a bit too… easy, nothing like the sophistication that you’d find in European cameras. If this was a German camera for example I’d be much happier, then I’d—’
‘…but it’s not a German camera, is it?’ Christine had been sitting quietly at the other end of the dining table. ‘The idea is very straightforward – our colleague here is based in the United States, so therefore he should have an American camera.’
‘Which is indeed what he has – so much so that if anyone bothers to check they’ll find the serial number is from a batch made in 1941and sold in New York City that year. The Kodak 35 was originally produced in 1938, this version, supposedly improved, came out in 1940. It does come with this leather case which is handy I suppose. It is not terribly difficult to use. Are we able to go outside?’
‘There’s the park nearby.’
‘I’d have thought a couple of hours there and we ought to have mastered it. We can take some photographs in here to try out the flash. You won’t be developing your own film, will you?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware.’
‘Very well, I’ll develop the film tonight and bring in the snaps tomorrow for you to have a look at.’
‘But let me make it clear,’ said Christine, ‘that this camera is, to all intents and purposes, a front. It’s for show, a decoy if you like. You are to take no compromising photographs on it, if you get my meaning. All the photographs are to be general scenes and of the buildings and sights around the city about which you’re writing. The idea is that if anyone suspects you or just wants to check on you, they’ll take a closer look at the camera. They’ll see it’s a standard American camera, not modified, and if they decide to go as far as developing the film then there’ll be nothing there to attract their attention.’
‘Whereas this… this is an altogether different proposition – one of my great favourites. In fact, I’d go as far as to say this is my favourite camera. This is an absolute masterpiece.’
The cameraman had produced a small object from his jacket pocket and was cradling it in one hand, turning it gently, a loving smile on his face. He held his hand towards Prince, palm upwards. On it was a small, rectangular stainless steel box with two dials and a small button on one surface and what appeared to be a lens on one side.
‘This is the Minox Riga, so named because it is made in Latvia. It is by far the world’s smallest camera. It is perfect for the purpose of espionage – take it, have a careful look.’
Prince gingerly took the camera.
‘Don’t worry, it won’t bite, it’s actually most robust. They were first manufactured in 1936. This one weighs just under five ounces, which is more or less equivalent to the weight of a couple of eggs. As you can see, it’s somewhat smaller than a cigarette packet – it’s three inches long and an inch wide and the depth is around half an inch. Don’t be tempted to keep it in a cigarette packet though. People do. It’s tempting but also obvious.’
‘Don’t worry on that score – we’ve come up with a rather clever storage space for it.’
‘Thank you, Christine.’
‘The wonderful thing about the Minox Riga is that it takes very good quality photographs, including of documents. For the latter, the camera has four legs which screw in so they can be kept separately – they’re in this little box here. It also comes with this measuring chain… here you are… to help ensure the right distance when photographing documents.
‘The film strip fits in here, inside the chamber of the camera, which can take fifty frames. The film is a quarter of the size of that in a 35-mm camera. If you asked me to recommend improvements to this camera I’d be hard pressed to come up with any.’
‘Which is praise indeed.’ Christine had got up to walk round the table to have a look at the camera. ‘You’ll have an opportunity to practise now with both cameras, and by the time you come to leave we’ll show you where to hide this camera and also where to conceal the film.’
‘So I’m not to attempt to send pictures back?’
‘Absolutely not, no – that’s far too risky. The photographs could well be the inconvertible evidence we’re after. You’re to hand-carry the film back.’
* * *
Early on the Friday afternoon
Christine announced he was ready. He’d mastered his brief very well, she said. His ability to hide messages in the articles was more impressive than she’d hoped and the cameraman was very pleased with his use of the two cameras. He’d mastered his backstory and was fluent in all aspects of his new identity.
‘I’ll be here early in the morning for your journey to the airfield. But before that, we need to pack.’
Spread out on the dining room table was everything he would be taking with him; everything belonged to Michael Eugene Doyle, a journalist living in New York City, originally from Ireland. The clothes were from the United States, as were the toiletries. There was nothing to connect him in any way with Richard Prince, let alone to the United Kingdom.
On one of the chairs were the clothes he’d wear the next day, and next to it a decent-looking suitcase – one that was clearly well made but slightly worn through years of use, as evidenced by a multiplicity of labels stuck to it. Christine lifted the case onto the table.
‘Have a careful look at it, Michael – take your time. Tell me if you can spot anything unusual, any place where one might hide something.’
He examined the case carefully, tapping it all over with his hands and a ruler, shaking it, holding it to the light, turning it upside down.
‘I can’t spot anything.’
‘Good. Now look at the handle – underneath it are two small indentations in the leather lining. You’ll need something sharp, like this pen, to press them, like this… you see, it takes some effort, there we are.’
The handle opened into two sections, still connected at the top. Christine picked up the Minox from the table and slotted it into the void, along with the chain and the stand legs. She then pressed the two parts firmly together and they closed with a click.
‘It’s impressive, eh? And here, have a look in your toiletry bag – see if you can find hidden compartments in any of the items in there.’
Ten minutes later he admitted he couldn’t. Without saying a word Christine picked up a tube of foot ointment and twisted the top of it; the tube separated about a third of the way down. The top part contained ointment, the bottom part held a spare film for the camera.
‘You’d better pack, Michael Doyle. I’ll see you at five thirty tomorrow morning. You’re happy with all the arrangements for your journey to Istanbul?’
‘Happy may not be the right word, but they’re reasonably clear if that’s what you mean.’
‘I admit it’s neither the easiest nor the shortest route in but it is one least likely to draw unwanted attention to you.’
* * *
Tom Gilbey came to see him that evening. ‘I’m told you’ve passed with flying colours. Well done – I had every confidence in you.’
‘Is this your pre-mission pep talk, sir?’
‘I suppose it is. I just wanted to give you an opportunity to ask me any last-minute questions.’
‘I think everything is perfectly clear, sir. I travel to Istanbul and try to obtain concrete evidence showing that chromium is being exported from there into German territories. I then return as soon as possible with that evidence.’
‘Exactly. And just to reiterate, you’re flying solo on this one. There’s no backup, no support in Istanbul, no emergency button to press in the unlikely event of things going wrong. If they do, you just get the hell out of there.’
‘I know…’
‘In a sense, it could be safer that way. There’s no one there who knows about you and can betray you, or even just slip up and let the cat out of the bag. Although it is reassuring in one sense to have backup and support, I know many agents who prefer to be on their own. There’s something else, Richard. I made a point of meeting with Chief Superintendent Newton yesterday and impressed on him how important the search for Henry is. I got the impression he is rather pleased to have come out of retirement and I think he is setting about the search with some enthusiasm. He seems very organised, and I told him if there was anything he needed with which I could help, he’s to have no hesitation in contacting me.
‘I can’t begin to imagine how dreadful this Henry business is for you, Prince, and if it’s any consolation while you’re away, I just want you to know we’re doing everything we can.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘In any case, I can’t see us persuading you to go on another mission if we let you down, eh?’
Chapter 11
Istanbul, Turkey
August 1943
‘I admit it’s neither the easiest nor the shortest route in…’
Christine’s remarks that Friday afternoon in the safe house in London assumed an increasingly ironic and infuriating significance throughout his very long journey to Istanbul. It was a magnificent example of understatement which echoed around the noisy passenger compartment for every one of the thousands of miles. In the odd moment when he managed to snatch some rest – sleep would be an inaccurate description – he’d wake up to imagine her sitting next to him, admitting he wasn’t travelling by the easiest route, nor the shortest one. Frankly, he thought on more than one occasion, walking through occupied Europe to Turkey would have been easier.
The journey had begun at five thirty that Saturday morning. Christine came to pick him up with a Service car and a driver. Anthony and Mary had been up at four preparing a breakfast for which he had no appetite whatsoever and when he left they stood shoulder to shoulder in the hall and appeared to be genuinely sorry he was leaving.
He’d no idea where he was going and settled down for a long journey but within a matter of minutes they drove into RAF Hendon in north London, a sign for 512 Squadron over the gate. The car deposited them outside a low brick building covered in camouflage netting where once again Christine checked everything in his case and the backpack he carried. She also checked his clothing as he stood behind a screen, passing every item out to her.
They then went through to another room where three men in flying gear, all in their early twenties, were sitting around a table. On the wall behind them was a large map. On the table was a pot of tea and an array of cups, and piles of toast were already being consumed by the crew. Before they’d had a chance to introduce themselves an older officer entered, nodding formally at his visitors and marching over to the map after he’d helped himself to a piece of toast.
‘I’m Wing Commander Leach, this is Flight Lieutenant Reid who’s in charge of your flight. Pilot Officer Murdoch is his co-pilot and Flying Officer Logan is the navigator. I understand you’re to be referred to as Mr Black?’
Prince nodded.
‘Splendid. Flight Lieutenant, perhaps you’d talk us through the journey?’
Flight Lieutenant Reid sounded even younger than he looked. ‘It’s a long old journey, eh? Should be fun though. First leg is from here to Gib.’ He was standing next to the map, pointing to Gibraltar. ‘Only thing is, of course, we can’t take a straight route for obvious reasons, Spanish not terribly keen et cetera. So once we take off we’ll head due west and then turn south to take us over the Atlantic. We’ll keep about fifty miles off the Portuguese coast, then once we’ve cleared their coastline turn east to fly over the Gulf of Cadiz and then through the Strait of Gibraltar. Weather conditions are favourable so I’d estimate eight hours flying time, perhaps a few minutes less if the wind over the Atlantic doesn’t turn nasty.’
‘You’re flying in a Dakota, which is a comfortable aircraft.’ The wing commander hadn’t taken his eyes off Prince. ‘Unusual for us to fly with just one passenger but I was told yesterday this would be the case. It’s a reliable plane and has a range of around 2,100 miles so you should be fine.’
‘What about enemy aircraft?’
‘A bit of an unwritten rule – they tend to leave solitary transport aircraft alone, as do we. In any case it’s hardly worth their while exposing themselves to engage us. Not that the flight will be entirely risk free, but I’ve made sure you have a first-class crew.’
‘When do we leave?’
&nb
sp; ‘Ten minutes,’ said the flight lieutenant, standing up now and gathering charts from the table in front of him. ‘Don’t want to be trying to land at Gib in the dark.’
He was left in the briefing room alone with Christine, but only for a minute or so. She told him he’d better get a move on because it wouldn’t do if the flight took off without him and they both laughed, the tension in the room now evident.
‘Remember, Michael, this crew will take you as far as Palestine. There’ll be another flight to take you on from there. It goes without saying you don’t mention a word about your mission.’
‘Of course.’
‘They know better than to ask, but best let them think your journey ends in Palestine. Any questions, Michael?’
He paused while he tried to think of one or two, more to show willing than anything else, but shook his head.
‘I’d best remain here. Bon voyage, Michael, I look forward to seeing you in a few weeks.’
He’d opened the door by now, the roar of engines from the apron drowning out her voice.
They took off on time, the Dakota banking sharply over London before settling on a westward course. After a few minutes the co-pilot came into the passenger compartment and told him they would be flying at an altitude of between eight and nine thousand feet for as long as possible as that way they’d be able to maintain their maximum speed.
All the while he looked at England rushing by below him, fields of greens and browns broken up by winding roads and deep lanes, by woods, a village in the distance and then a town below them. And all he could think of was that Henry could be somewhere there, somewhere below him.
Would his son even remember him?
They passed over another town, climbing slightly as they did so. The sight of a church spire and a playing field brought tears to his eyes. The Dakota started to climb and soon England began to disappear between layers of dirty cloud. He realised the question of whether Henry would remember him would only arise if they actually found him, and every minute took him further away from his son.
