by Alex Gerlis
* * *
The sun was turning a shade of red and dropping below the Mediterranean horizon when the Dakota descended to five thousand feet over the Gulf of Cadiz before threading its way through the Strait of Gibraltar and banking sharply before landing at RAF North Front. Michael Doyle walked with the aircrew towards the officers’ mess, glad of the opportunity to stretch his legs and aware they’d completed only the first leg of a long journey.
‘We’ll have a look at tomorrow’s charts now, sir,’ said Flight Lieutenant Reid, ‘and have a chat with the base commander. Unless there’s a problem with the weather or he advises otherwise, I’d like to be in the air at first light tomorrow morning. You’d better go and get some rest.’
* * *
They took off from Gibraltar as planned, the sea more grey than blue and deceptively calm as the plane appeared to skid over its surface. They’d been airborne only a few minutes when he was beckoned into the cockpit.
‘Conditions are very much in our favour, sir.’ The flight lieutenant was shouting to be heard; the Dakota still appeared to be climbing. ‘We’ve got a long old day ahead of us and if there are any problems we’ll have to build in an extra overnight, but we’ll do our best. Here sir, have a look at this chart. The good thing is that now we control North Africa the flight ought to be plain sailing and we shouldn’t have to take any detours. It’s about eight hundred miles from Gib to Tunisia, well within our range. It’s now, what… six o’clock, so we should land by midday, break to refuel ourselves and the plane and then head off again. All being well we’ll land in Libya by six tonight. In fact, it is feasible we could have done all this in one leg, but we’ve been advised this journey is a case of more haste, less speed. If I were you I’d settle down, try and get some kip. There’s likely to be some turbulence off the Algerian coast.’
Of course, he couldn’t settle down. He was exhausted, having hardly slept the night before, and every time he closed his eyes a battle for the control of his mind began, going over and over his cover story – the dates, the names – and then thinking about Henry who appeared before him with pleading eyes before fading away, now more rapidly than before.
‘I admit it’s neither the easiest nor the shortest route in…’
* * *
They landed at the RAF airfield at Souk-el-Arba in north-western Tunisia a few minutes before midday. Doyle was glad they weren’t planning on staying there for too long. The runways and buildings were strewn over a vast expanse of desert and appeared grey against the ubiquitous dirty yellow.
He left the Dakota to stretch his legs but was soon covered in sand. In the very short time he’d been off the plane the sand appeared to have got everywhere. Flight Lieutenant Reid wandered over to him from where he’d been keeping an eye on the refuelling.
‘Not sure I terribly like this, sir – this is what the bloody desert is like. Up there it’s as still as stone, no headwind or tailwind to speak of. But down here at ground level it feels like a storm’s brewing. Not keen on taking too much sand on board. We’ll head off as soon possible.’
They took off as soon as the Dakota had refuelled. Unable to sleep he wandered up to the cockpit entrance and waited politely as the crew discussed the girls living near RAF Hendon who currently occupied what little leisure time they had. A debate as to whether the prettiest girls were attracted by rank became quite raucous before they apologised to him and he said there was really no need, he quite understood. They found him a jump seat and he remained there for a couple of hours, the rush of the sea below them to the port side and desert – the never-ending desert – to starboard.
He was back in the passenger cabin when the Dakota dropped over the desert and landed at RAF El Adem, just south of Tobruk, a few minutes before six in the evening. He shared a room that night with the rest of the crew, each of them on camp beds in a room that was stifling hot when they’d entered it, but as night took its peculiar hold, the desert became bitterly cold.
They were up with the sun that Monday morning for the final leg of his journey with the crew of the Dakota. He’d become fond of them – their jokes, the constant ribbing of each other and their optimism. He knew that as aircrew in Transport Command their life expectancy was longer than fighter or bomber crew, but they still diced with death every time they took off. For them the future was their next flight and he became quite wistful, until he realised his fate was probably even less certain than theirs.
Another briefing room, another wooden table strewn with charts, more walls covered with maps, Flight Lieutenant Reid doing his best to sound matter of fact.
Six hundred and thirty miles to the next base.
Around three and a half hours flying time.
Weather good but reports of sandstorms in the Sinai which may be heading north… and some intelligence about enemy aircraft spotted south of Cyprus.
In the event, there were no sandstorms and whatever enemy aircraft may have been hanging around south of Cyprus had gone by the time they flew by. It was just before eleven in the morning when they landed at RAF Lydda, south of Tel Aviv.
‘End of the road for you, sir?’ They were in the officer’s mess and the Dakota crew had just been told they needed to get down to Cairo as soon as possible.
Michael Doyle said he guessed it was and thanked them very much. Half an hour later he was in the office of the station commander, an annoyed-looking type in his late fifties who was wearing his peaked cap, jacket and tie despite the sweltering weather.
He didn’t bother offering his guest a seat or asking how his journey had been. On his desk was a bottle of whisky, the cap off and less than half the contents remaining. An empty bottle of the same whisky poked out of the rubbish bin by the side of the desk. He stood facing out of the window, looking across his airfield, his back to Prince.
‘My orders are to get you to Habbaniya.’ He couldn’t have sounded more resentful.
‘Habbaniya, sir?’
‘Main RAF station in Iraq, to the west of Baghdad. Whenever I feel miserable about being in this godforsaken place I remind myself that at least I’m not in Iraq… Jesus Christ… I suppose you’re one of those types who doesn’t drink before lunch?’
It was obviously meant as a rhetorical question but Prince still muttered a ‘no thanks’.
‘You won’t mind if I do, eh? Now listen, it’s roughly six hundred miles to Habbaniya and I dare say if pushed I could get you a ride there today but…’ He’d paused to pour himself what Prince regarded as an excessive measure. ‘But that’d mean you probably having to spend the night at Habbaniya once you land there. If you’re happy to hang on to the morning then 162 Squadron have to fly a Bristol Blenheim up there and you can hitch a ride. Ever been in one?’
He replied that he hadn’t.
‘You’ll enjoy it, then. The Blenheim’s a bloody quick bomber – can do around 270 miles an hour. Crew of three but they’ll find somewhere to squeeze you in.’
They left RAF Lydda before nine that Tuesday morning and Michael Doyle spent the duration of the three-hour flight wedged in between the rear of the cockpit and a bomb bay. His suitcase was stuffed under his feet and he clutched his backpack.
It was a bumpy landing into RAF Habbaniya. He stood on the apron for a minute or so to become orientated and allow the noise in his head to subside. A black shape approached from the direction of the airport building, the sun causing the shape to appear and then disappear. As it came closer, eventually pulling up in front of him, he saw it was a black Austin 18 with a Union Jack flag flying from the bonnet. A short man in a white suit and a wide-brimmed trilby stepped out and marched towards him.
‘Sorry there’s no red carpet and all that. You’re Black, aren’t you?’
He said he was and the other man simply said ‘Martindale’ before steering him to the rear of the car. He barked some orders in Arabic and Doyle’s suitcase and backpack were placed in the boot.
‘A couple of hours into Baghdad I’m afraid. The ro
ads here are dreadful – worse than Cornwall. You know Cornwall well?’
Michael Doyle replied he’d never been there and Martindale shot him a look of disbelief.
‘I’m number four or five at our station in Baghdad, by the way – bit of a jack of all trades. My job is to get you to Baghdad, get you cleaned up and then off to Istanbul without frightening the locals. Any questions?’
‘When will I be travelling to Istanbul?’
‘Thursday seems like the best bet. Gilbey says according to your backstory as I understand it you’d have been in this damn city for a week or two so at least you should have a passing idea of what the bloody place looks like. Anything else?’
‘Are there any messages from London – I was just wondering if Mr Gilbey had any news for me perhaps?’
Martindale shook his head; he still looked incredulous from the revelation that this Mr Black had never been to Cornwall. ‘Were you expecting any?’
* * *
Martindale’s way of giving Michael Doyle a ‘passing idea’ of what Baghdad was like was to collect him from his hotel at seven o’clock on the Wednesday morning (‘thought you deserved a lie-in’) and drive through the city as if he owned it.
It was the same black Austin 18, with the same driver, that had collected him from RAF Habbaniya the previous day. Martindale lounged beside him in the back seat while delivering a bored commentary on the sights of the city; he seemed to specialise in mosques and went into excessive detail about which one belonged to which sect. They frequently had to stop for one hold-up or another, Martindale impatiently winding down the window and shouting in Arabic, in much the same imperious tone as he used with his driver.
They stopped by a barber’s shop for Martindale to have a shave and then went for coffee in a small cafe where the walls, ceiling and floor all seemed to be made of mosaic tiles. Martindale left him alone there for a while.
‘I need to check in with a so-called contact while I’m in the area.’
When he eventually returned (‘bloody man wasn’t there, never is’) they drove on to a post office for Prince to wire through the two articles Mason had written for him to file from Baghdad. ‘We’ll park up here. You’ll see the post office across the square when you turn that corner. Wouldn’t do for you to turn up to wire your stuff through with me in tow, eh? Can’t see Gilbey approving of that.’
And then it was lunch, at what Martindale described as his ‘club’ on the banks of the Tigris. They sat at a table on the veranda, a rickety fan directly above them having little effect on either the heat or the flies other than to move both in their direction. Much of the lunch was conducted in silence, punctuated by Martindale grunting and complaining about his lot.
‘London promised they’d have me out of here by last Christmas, for Christ’s sake. There’s no sign of me leaving before the next one. Did they say anything about me?’
Michael Doyle shook his head. As far as he recalled, Tom Gilbey had described Martindale as more of a clerk than a spy and said his main asset was an ability to speak Arabic.
‘Well, do mention me in dispatches, eh? Say how helpful I’ve been and all that… would be very much appreciated. Have some more wine, Doyle, keeps surprisingly well considering the fetid atmosphere. Now then, I’ll tell you the score while we have a coffee here and then drop you back at your hotel. The train leaves at eight o’clock in the morning. We’ve arranged for another car to collect you and take you to the station – won’t do to have me waving you off, will it? Let’s finish this bottle. I still can’t believe you’ve never been to Cornwall.’
* * *
Michael Eugene Doyle felt strangely calm from the moment he stepped on the Taurus Express at Baghdad station on the Thursday morning. He was shown into the first-class coach and was relieved it was arranged in a way to afford maximum privacy to its passengers.
He also had a small sleeping compartment to himself and was confident he could spend the next three days more or less in seclusion. He’d read through the articles Martin Mason had written on the journey and which he was to file on arrival in Istanbul. He also read the extensive notes he made in his notebook based on the Baedeker. He was looking forward to the journey and for a chance to see the sights.
‘You can look at the journey on the Taurus Express in one of two ways, I suppose,’ Martindale had reflected on the veranda of the club by the Tigris. ‘Ever read Murder on the Orient Express by that Christie woman… no? Well this Belgian detective called Poirot actually travels to Istanbul on the Taurus Express, though his starting point is Aleppo. Once he’s in Istanbul he takes the Orient Express on to London and naturally the train becomes a place of murder and intrigue. You could spend your journey deciding who amongst your fellow exotic passengers are likely to be murderers… or spies!’
‘And the other way I could look at the journey?’
‘Depends on whether you’re an ancient history buff, I suppose, but you’ll be travelling through the cradle of civilisation as they call it – you know, Babylon, Mesopotamia. Not sure how much of it you’ll see from a train though.’
The truth was he didn’t see much of it at all. He’d been travelling since early the previous Saturday, having hardly slept the night before the flight to Gibraltar. From then on he’d just managed to grab an hour here and an hour there, even when they were on the ground.
The train moved north past Kirkuk, stopping at Mosul where he found himself in the station waiting area with a Canadian priest who told him they were in the land of the Old Testament. ‘On the other side of the river – that’s where Nineveh was.’
From there the journey continued in a blur, it was as if he was experiencing a dream. The border crossing from Iraq into Turkey was surprisingly straightforward. The steward advised him that it was customary to tip the border guards as a mark of appreciation for their hard work.
‘Is that when they come aboard or when they leave?’
‘Both.’
Once they’d crossed into Turkey he began to think about Martindale. He could understand the roundabout route to enter the country, it helped his cover story. But if there was a flaw it was in Baghdad: Martindale busying himself around him, the car with a Union Jack on its bonnet, for heaven’s sake. It made him feel uneasy.
Their first stop after the border was Nusaybin, and from there they passed through Gaziantep, Adana and Ankara. The Taurus Express left Ankara at first light and the three hundred miles from there, across the Anatolian plateau, was the most dramatic part of the whole journey. Every few miles it seemed as if they were entering a different terrain: desert one minute, and a few miles later verdant agricultural land.
The train slowed down a little as the endless countryside gave way to more built-up areas. It was then he experienced a strange sensation: he was wide awake now, well rested and no longer in a dreamlike state. But he became very aware of the light: all around the train it seemed much brighter in a way that could not simply be put down to the approach of noon. For all of the time they’d been travelling through Turkey the sky had been devoid of clouds but now it was as if they had been above, though unseen, and had now lifted. As the train travelled on the shores of the Sea of Marmara its surface shone like a mirror – quite possibly the reason for the bright light. He’d never seen such an array of colour and his senses continued to be tested as they travelled along the northern shore of the sea, into the outskirts of the Asian side of Istanbul.
Some of the areas they travelled through were like shanty towns, the houses opening onto the railway line. Further along the track the houses became villas, in many cases quite magnificent ones, towering above the railway line. And then the Taurus Express slowed to almost walking speed and he became aware of the noise around them, as if everyone in the city was shouting at the same time. It was still some way off noon on the Sunday when the Taurus Express edged its way into Haydarpasa station, the terminus jutting out into Bosphorus from the Asian side of the city.
Michael Doyle was capti
vated as he stood at the edge of Asia, staring across the river into Europe. On the quayside half a dozen boats bobbed gently in the swell as they waited to ferry people around the city.
‘Be careful about Istanbul – some of these oriental cities can go straight to your heart and bypass your brain completely. It’s a magical place, there’s no doubt about it, but remember, this is business – don’t go and fall in love with the bloody place.’
Tom Gilbey’s warning hadn’t meant a thing to him when it was given back at the safe house, but now he began to see what he meant. He was aware he’d been taking in the sounds, oblivious to everything else, and only now realised the porter was telling him his ferry was waiting.
Chapter 12
Istanbul, Turkey
August, September 1943
The office of the secret police near the Dolmabahçe Palace remained open all day and all night precisely for people like him: the informers and the spivs; the chancers and the lowlifes; the fantasists and those with information – half-baked gossip more likely – to sell. This office was for those whose job brought them into contact with foreigners and political opponents of the regime: the taxi drivers, the maître d’s in the better restaurants, doctors and concierges like him – especially concierges like him.
He’d gone during his lunch break on the Monday, annoyed to be spending much of it in a taxi there and back and irritated at how long he’d have to wait before they saw him. But he’d only been waiting a few minutes when an inspector he knew well – and who usually paid well – spotted him and beckoned him through to a small room with no windows but a large skylight and a painting of a mosque he didn’t recognise on the wall. Inspector Uzun nodded appreciatively when he spoke and studied the piece of paper.
