The Dark Chronicles

by Jeremy Duns

  ‘How are you enjoying it?’

  He wrinkled his nose. ‘Not much. Rather a scruffy-looking place. I was expecting more, somehow.’

  There was an awkward silence, and I wondered whether Templeton had sent him out of the meeting early because he was too junior to hear the rest, or because he hadn’t been able to stand the sound of his voice any longer. Perhaps he was nervous. I asked him if he wanted a drink, and he looked up at me with gratitude. Yes, I decided, it must be nerves. Probably his first mission in the field – I remembered how I had felt on mine.

  More guests arrived, most of them diplomats. Drink was consumed, and food eaten. Conversation turned to Korea, and the King’s health, and which mosques were worth visiting. Severn told me a series of anecdotes about old boys I had no recollection of, and I did my best to feign interest. But there was still no sign of Templeton, Osborne or Cousin Freddie. They’d now been closeted away for over two hours. What on earth could they be discussing?

  ‘Pretty girl,’ said Severn. ‘Is she yours?’ I turned to him, and he nodded at Vanessa, who was talking to a first secretary.

  ‘No,’ I said coldly. ‘She is not.’

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend.’

  I decided to change the subject. ‘How’s London these days – do I take it you’re working for Osborne?’

  Severn laughed bitterly. ‘That’s one word for it. The man’s a positive slave-driver, and I’m the one being driven. Or rather, it’s the other way round – would you believe he’s dragged me halfway across the world to be his chauffeur? Wish he’d got some local sod to drive him around the desert instead.’

  I suppressed a smile. ‘Why didn’t he?’

  He placed a finger to his lips. ‘Hush-hush stuff. Although no doubt Templeton’s given you some of the background?’

  I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realize. Templeton doesn’t tell me that sort of—’

  ‘Don’t pull that with me. You should have heard him in there – he couldn’t stop talking about you. You’re his boy. Stay close to him, I would. Only reason I’m chumming up to Osborne is because I reckon he might go to the top. And his politics are sound. He says what he means, anyway.’

  I made some assenting noises and went to help myself to more punch. I couldn’t work it out: was something significant going on here, or was it just the pressure from Moscow that was making me believe there might be? I found Severn’s attitude mildly surprising. His family were one of the richest in England, and I had presumed the Service was simply a hobby for him. But it appeared that he was, in fact, rather ambitious, and sharp enough at least to try to judge which way the wind was blowing.

  I made a note to myself to keep an eye on him, and turned to see Templeton, magisterial in a straw hat, cream linen suit and a pair of battered leather sandals, marching out of the house. Osborne and Cousin Freddie followed directly behind him. The meeting finally appeared to be over.

  ‘Hello, everyone!’ Templeton said as he approached the gathering. ‘Sorry to be the absent host. Is there any punch left?’

  Everyone laughed, and he kissed his wife and daughter. More introductions were made; glasses clinked; the sun beat down. A hookah appeared from somewhere and Templeton offered it to Cousin Freddie, who nodded in appreciation at being given his own amber mouthpiece to use. Some felt that Templeton had gone native, but I suspected that this sort of thing was simply solid tradecraft, an extension of the idea that a good agent always listens twice as much as he speaks. Cousin Freddie certainly seemed to become more talkative as he inhaled from the water-pipe, and Templeton sat cross-legged opposite him, nodding his head every once in a while.

  The shape of the party shifted, with separate circles forming. Osborne ambled over to speak to Severn, who noticeably stiffened as he approached. Osborne gave me a nod – we had met briefly during the war. He had put on a lot of weight since then, and the heat seemed to be getting to him: his hair was plastered to his forehead and his cheeks were flushed. I couldn’t see his eyes, as they were hidden behind small dark glasses with gold rims.

  ‘What’s the story with the missing diplomats?’ Vanessa asked him. ‘Is it true they were spying for the Russians?’

  I glanced across at Templeton to see whether he had heard, but he was still deeply engrossed in conversation with Cousin Freddie. Templeton tried to shield his daughter from any discussion of his work, but it had had the opposite effect: Vanessa was fascinated by the espionage world, particularly its more sensationalist aspects. She had been talking incessantly about the diplomats since they had vanished from their jobs at the Foreign Office a few weeks earlier.

  She wasn’t the only one. I had never met either man, but both were well known to the community here. Donald Maclean, the son of a Liberal MP, had been head of Chancery in Cairo, while everyone seemed to have a story to tell about Guy Burgess. He had been in the Service before the war, worked for the BBC during it, and afterwards had joined the Foreign Office, eventually being posted to Washington as a second secretary. The rumour was that he and Maclean were Soviet agents who had been on the brink of being exposed by Five. Their disappearance was the talk of the town, and as a result, several diplomats within earshot turned to see how Osborne would reply to Vanessa’s question. Such subjects were not generally broached in public, but if ever you were going to pick up a titbit it would be at the Templetons’ party.

  ‘It doesn’t look good,’ Osborne admitted sotto voce. ‘The bad news is that Five now want to interrogate Philby about the whole affair.’

  ‘Really?’ said Vanessa, placing her hand over her mouth. There was an almost audible intake of breath from people seated nearby. Kim Philby had been Head of Station here before Templeton, leaving for Washington in ’49. We were sitting less than a mile from his old house: he had been the first from the office to live out in this neighbourhood, and several others had followed suit, the Templetons included. I knew Philby and Burgess had been friends: the regulars at the Moda Yacht Club still hadn’t forgiven either man for the time they had become royally drunk in the bar on one of Burgess’ visits out here. But that hardly seemed enough to hang him for.

  ‘They don’t seriously suspect him?’ I asked.

  Osborne removed a handkerchief from his jacket and wiped the back of his neck with it. ‘Apparently, yes. They claim he’s the only person who was in contact with Burgess and also knew Maclean was under suspicion. But the whole thing’s absurd. Everyone’s blaming everyone else, and it looks like Five want to blame us.’

  ‘I heard they were queer,’ said Severn, who was now on his fifth glass of punch by my count. ‘Part of the Homintern.’ He gave a braying laugh, and Osborne glared at him. ‘Well,’ Severn trailed off, ‘they’re snakes in the grass anyway.’

  ‘We once had a snake in our garden in Cairo,’ said Joan Templeton brightly, and polite titters rippled around the chairs. ‘No, really, we did! What was it, Vanessa – a cobra?’

  ‘No, Mummy, it was an adder! And the snake-charmer brought it there especially, remember?’

  The conversation moved on. People began reminiscing about the embassy ball in ’47, when the Fleet had visited, while Severn continued to knock back the punch and Osborne turned more and more scarlet. The heat was starting to get to me, too, and I excused myself to stretch my legs.

  I wandered through the house and back to the landing-stage. The boat crew were busy chatting to one another, and looked up at me with surprise.

  ‘Does anyone have a cigarette?’ I asked, placing my fingers to my lips.

  One of them smiled and produced a packet. Although disappointed I couldn’t get hold of Players in the city, I had gradually become accustomed to the taste of Turkish tobacco. As I gratefully accepted the cigarette, I pondered the conversation about Maclean and Burgess. By the sound of it, they were indeed doubles. I had occasionally wondered whether there might be others, but had been grateful I didn’t know who they were any more than I imagined they knew of me, working on t
he well-established principle that the fewer people who were in on a secret the more likely it was to be kept. But it seemed the two men had planned their flight together, so perhaps they had been aware of each other’s secret beforehand – and then there was the extraordinary possibility they might have been aided by Philby. I had nobody to confide in but Yuri, or whomever else Moscow sent to run me. Once away from a meet, I was on my own.

  I chatted to the boat crew for a while, then wandered back into the house. Joan had decorated it with her customary good taste: elegant silk screens, mementoes from the family’s time in Egypt and a few artfully placed carpets. I smoked my cigarette and eyed the staircase that led up to Templeton’s study. I knew from the office that he often left the last thing he had been working with on his desk. Perhaps he had done the same now. Everyone was sitting outside, enjoying the party – would anyone be likely to notice if I were away for a few more minutes? I thought not. I headed towards the staircase and started walking up it.

  As I reached the top, I heard raised voices – they were coming from Templeton’s study. I pushed open the door and saw Templeton towering over Severn, his eyes bulging out of his head and his face flushed. He looked like he was about to hit him. He spun round on his heels at the sound of my entering, and I immediately hid my cigarette behind my back – he disapproved of smoking.

  ‘Paul,’ Templeton said, his jaw clamped together in quiet fury, ‘I wonder if you would be good enough to put Charles up this evening? I fear we’re a little short of room here.’

  ‘Of… of course, sir,’ I said, and Templeton bowed his head at me and stalked out of the room.

  I stepped forward and helped Severn up – he had slipped to the floor.

  ‘What the hell did you do?’ I asked in wonder. I’d never seen Templeton lose his temper in this way.

  Severn looked up at me with clouded eyes. ‘Search me,’ he said, slurring the words. ‘I only placed my hand on her leg, I swear.’

  After a decent interval, I took him by the arm and led him downstairs.

  *

  By the time we reached my flat in Pera, Severn’s head was lolling against the side of the jeep. As I had helped him downstairs, Templeton had discreetly taken me to one side and given me the keys to the vehicle, telling me to return it to the Consulate-General transport park as soon as I was able. Then he had placed a hand on my shoulder, thanked me, and trudged back to the party. I didn’t get the chance to see Vanessa before leaving to check if she was all right.

  I managed to drag Severn up the stairs and hoisted him onto the couch in my tiny living room. I took his shoes off and went back down to the jeep to lock up. As I did, my eye fell on a flap of yellow material peeking out of the underside of the driver’s seat. I jimmied the seat up, slid it out, and squinted at it in the glare of the afternoon sun. What on earth… ?

  It was a large-scale fold-out map of Turkey, and someone had drawn small black circles at several points on it: I counted thirty of them.

  I quickly considered my options, and came to the conclusion there were two: I could either make a copy of the map and give it to Yuri at our next meeting, or I could replace it under the seat and forget I had ever seen it.

  My first instinct was to copy it, of course. Here, finally, was something substantial to give Moscow. But was it, and if so just how substantial? I had no way of knowing. It was a strange sort of morality, perhaps, but it was mine: I was uncomfortable with the idea of handing over a secret I didn’t even know myself. And there would be nothing lost if I replaced it. After all, it was only thanks to Severn getting blotto that I had seen it at all. I might just as easily not have done – and it might not be important at all.

  No, it had to be important. Osborne had come out here because of this, and Severn had obviously driven him, Templeton and Cousin Freddie to some or all of the marked locations.

  Perhaps, it occurred to me, there was a third option. I could find out what the map meant myself, and then decide whether it was something I felt I could pass to Yuri. I glanced down at it again. The nearest circle was positioned just outside Izmit, a town about sixty miles away – if I took the jeep, I could be there and back in a couple of hours. Severn was passed out, and everyone else was still at the party in Beylerbeyi. I had a jeep at my disposal…

  I walked back up to the flat and into the living room. Severn was snoring now, his head tilted back. I went over to the dresser and wrote a quick note explaining that I was returning the jeep and would be back shortly. I placed it by his head, then went into the bedroom and removed a metal case from beneath a floorboard. I took out Father’s Luger, which I had taken from his body in Germany six years earlier, and held it in my hand. It was heavy and cold. I placed it in my waistband, then turned off the lights, locked up the flat and returned to the jeep.

  *

  Once I had crossed back over the Galata bridge, I took the road out of town, heading through a landscape of grey mosques and olive groves until I was driving along the coast, the wind blowing dust into my hair. The circle on the map was a few miles short of Izmit, and as I reached the spot I saw a wide earth track heading off the road and decided that it must be the location. I slowed to a snail’s pace, checking for signs that the site might be occupied or under surveillance. There didn’t seem to be any, so I slowly drove down the track, eventually coming to a dead-end at the crest of a hillock. I parked the jeep and got out to have a look.

  It was late afternoon now, but the sun was still a glaring hole in the sky, and it beat down on my neck as I walked around trying to see what it was that Severn and the others had driven out here to see. I decided I had turned off too early, as there was nothing but scrub and a few beech trees. After several minutes of fruitless searching, I headed back to the jeep and started reversing back down the track to rejoin the road. It was probably just as well, I thought… But as I tried to angle one of the wheels, I saw something that made me hit the brakes: a tree stump.

  If I hadn’t been here with the map, it would never have given me pause for thought. But it was the only stump around, and it was setting off alarms in my head. I braked again and went to the back of the jeep, where there was a small bag of equipment: driving gloves, binoculars and a torch. I took the torch and walked up to the stump. Kneeling down, I placed my hands against the side of it, and pushed.

  The stump lifted: it was on a hinge. I brushed away soil and leaves to reveal netting. Pulling that away, a dark hole about the width of a man appeared, and I saw a narrow wooden ladder leading down. I took a breath. There was still a chance to turn back, pretend I’d never seen the map, pretend none of it had happened. But Yuri’s words came back to me: ‘Unless you can provide a higher grade of material, it is perhaps best that we discontinue our arrangement.’ I reached out for the top rung of the ladder.

  A few seconds later I landed in darkness. I grabbed the Luger from my waistband and turned on the torch. I was in a low tunnel. There was an opening to my left, and I crouched down and crawled through it.

  The space was bigger than my bedroom in Pera. Most of it was taken up with wooden crates. I pushed aside a layer of plastic sheeting in one and shone my torch down on it: cold metal glinted up at me, and I caught a whiff of cosmoline.

  I spent several minutes poking around the boxes, prying with my fingers and the torch. I found rifles, pistols, binoculars, a radio set and even commando daggers. The latter confirmed all my suspicions: this was a stay-behind base.

  Early in the last war, several groups in England had been secretly trained and provided with underground arms caches such as this, the idea being that if the Germans invaded a resistance force would already be in place ready to counter them. The concept of the Auxiliary Units, as they had been called, had expanded as the war had progressed. Instead of waiting until a country fell to the Axis powers and then dropping supplies to hastily assembled partisan groups, as had happened in France, men in several countries were discreetly approached and asked to commit to staying on as part of resi
stance forces in the event of invasion. In Singapore, these groups had initially been called ‘left-behind parties’ until someone had realized that it might not be the best name to inspire volunteers, and changed it to the rather more inspiring ‘stay-behind parties’.

  But why would the Service need stay-behind parties in Turkey? The answer was obvious: the threat of Soviet invasion. If there were to be another war, as many were predicting, Turkey was an obvious flashpoint – the Russians could slip over the mountains along the long border and the army wouldn’t know what had hit it. Britain didn’t fancy that idea, so had set up these bases as a precautionary measure. That meant that there must also be men who knew where the bases were and had been trained in guerrilla warfare – that, presumably, was where Cousin Freddie came in.

  I made sure there was no sign that I had been in the cave, then clambered back up the ladder and hoisted myself out of the hole. I carefully replaced the netting, the foliage over it and the stump, then headed back to the jeep and drove off, my heart thumping in my chest.

  I arrived back at the flat around dusk. I replaced the map under the driver’s seat and entered the flat. Severn hadn’t moved from where I had left him, and his snores had only increased in volume.

  I tore up the note I’d left him, and headed for the comfort of my bed.

  XV

  A lot had happened since that summer eighteen years ago. Turkey had joined NATO, and the Americans had soon taken charge of the place. All three of the Templetons were dead: Joan from cancer a couple of years ago, Colin more recently by my own hand. And Vanessa, whose love I had ignored for so many years, then tried but failed to return… she, too, was gone.

  My dreaded meet with Yuri had been a wash-out: I had waited in the chill morning mist outside the warren of the Grand Bazaar for half an hour, but he had never turned up. I had tried again the following day, then three days after that and so on according to the schedule, but he had never shown his face again. Part of me had been relieved, as the prospect of blowing the stay-behind bases had made me very uneasy: if the Soviet Union did invade, the entire security of Turkey might depend on them, and that was a measure of influence I wasn’t sure I wanted to have. But Yuri’s vanishing act had also seemed rather final: it seemed Moscow had carried out its threat, and discarded me.