Winston's Spy

by Robert Webber

  It was on the way home that Captain Treves opened up a little. ‘So, now you have had the patriotic claptrap from Bullshit Bertie, what do you think?’

  Alex was still a little wary of Treves, and he chose not to say much; he was, however, surprised at the disrespect that the man showed his superior.

  Treves went on, ‘What do you know of Russia? I know that you left the country before you are born, but your ancestors were Russian. You are Russian nobility, and you must have a feeling about what is happening in your country.’

  Still Alex held his counsel and chose not to be drawn on the subject. Instead, he asked, ‘How long were you in Russia?’

  ‘Oh, several years,’ replied Treves vaguely.

  Alex decided that he did not altogether trust Treves, and so he decided that no further conversation would take place between them, and he snuggled back into the rear seat of the all-too-familiar black Wolseley car and awaited its arrival at his home.

  Alex longed to discuss the offer with Uncle Walter and his mother, but did not say anything to either as instructed. It had to be his decision, whether to trust these people who had acted with little regard to him over the past few days or whether to entrust his life to regular military service.

  *

  Monday came far too quickly, and, at 9.00am in the morning, the black Wolseley motor car was standing outside Alex’s house as Treves knocked on the door. Alex opened the door, and – without uttering a single word to Treves – got into the back of the car and closed the door behind him. Treves had little choice but to sit in the front passenger seat, rather sulkily, Alex thought. They drove off, taking a relatively short journey to their destination.

  On arrival at an office building not far from Whitehall, the car pulled over to the kerb, and the driver opened the door for Alex, who, without even acknowledging Treves’s existence, got out of the car and marched through the office door. Waiting on the other side was Major Bullimore, or Bullshit Bertie as Treves had referred to him discourteously.

  ‘Dear boy,’ Bullimore greeted Alex, ‘I hope you had a restful and reflective weekend? Come, let us go upstairs.’ He turned and made his way up the wood-panelled stairway, clearly expecting Alex to follow, which he did.

  It appeared that Treves was excluded from the meeting, a fact for which Alex was grateful.

  As they entered Bullimore’s office, and before either had a chance to sit, Alex began his well-rehearsed statement. ‘Major Bullimore, I resent the manner by which you introduced me to your organisation. Any rational person who had bothered to try to understand my family history and my personality would have realised that those in my position could not ever have sympathy with the Bolshevik or Communist regime in my country. They would have appreciated that an approach to my patriotism would have achieved the desired result in a faster, far less embarrassing and far more gentlemanly manner.

  ‘I do not hold with your methods, but I have sympathies with your principals and, consequently, should the role that you have planned for me in any way give me the opportunity of frustrating those who currently govern my country, it would be my patriotic duty to undertake such a role. I have always known that my past would direct my future. However, and please understand my sincerity in this condition, I will not work for and neither will I be associated with that man Treves, whom I trust about as far as I can throw, and dislike intensely.’

  ‘In that case, dear boy, I think we can reach an understanding, and, that being the case, all that remains for me to say is welcome aboard!’ declared Major Bullimore.

  ‘Please, Major Bullimore,’ said Alex, raising his hand, and, even as he continued, he was amazed at the major’s arrogance. ‘I find it wholly objectionable for anyone to address me as “dear boy”, so shall we reach an understanding that I will call you “sir” or “Major Bullimore”, and you shall call me by my given name or by any other name that is agreeable to us both?’

  ‘Very well, Alex, it shall be so,’ said the major (rather stiffly, Alex thought, but, then again, he had somewhat lost the locus of control of the recruitment process), ‘and thank you. I genuinely think that you have made a wise decision. I suspect that your war will be far more interesting than it shall be for many.’

  Alex and the major shook hands, and a corporal driver was summoned to ensure that Alex’s homeward journey was more comfortable than the earlier one that had brought him there. He reflected on the decision he had taken, realising that this was the first real choice that he had made on his own about his future and that it had been a significant stride forwards in his maturity.

  *

  A few days later, a motorcycle messenger arrived with sealed instructions stating that somebody would collect Alex the next day and take him to a specialist training school somewhere in England.

  V

  It had all begun some months previously in a well-furnished room in a gentleman’s club off Pall Mall in London, where two well-dressed gentlemen were sharing an aperitif before dinner. One was in in good physical shape and sported a neatly trimmed beard, of the type much favoured by naval officers, for this is what he was, and the other was overweight, slightly dishevelled in his customary blue-polka-dot bowtie, and was losing his hair rapidly.

  Commander Roland Jeffers had first met the scourge of British politics, Winston Churchill, in Egypt when the latter was Colonial Secretary in the early 1920s, and Jeffers was serving as a junior lieutenant on one of His Majesty’s ships stationed in the Middle East. The politician had been billeted on the ship while on a tour of British interests and the colonies, and the captain had assigned Jeffers to, ‘keep that blasted man out of my hair, at all costs.’

  Despite the twenty years or more difference in their ages, an acquaintanceship had grown between the politician and the naval officer, which had endured the career progression of one and the fall from grace of the other.

  The politician was pondering the worrisome events in Europe, and was discussing his concerns with Jeffers, especially about the role that Josef Stalin might assume in the conflict that was growing on the continent. He was keen to probe the naval man, who he knew had become a senior officer in Military Intelligence Section 2 (MI2), the military intelligence department that focused on Russia and Scandinavia.

  ‘It is my belief,’ the politician ventured, ‘that the key state in northern Europe will be the Republic of Finland. Should the Bolsheviks retake that country, which has only been independent since 1917, then the Baltic region will become wholly unstable. Would the Finns turn to Hitler for assistance? Or perhaps Sweden? The question of northern Europe will lie with which way the Finns play their hand. Have you got anybody based in Finland who could shed some illumination on the enigma?’

  ‘Only in the embassy,’ Jeffers responded, ‘It is not really considered a priority.’

  ‘Perhaps it ought to be,’ the politician concluded, ‘My money is on it becoming very much a priority and before too much more water has flowed through the Kattegat.’

  The seed had been planted, and after much searching of military personnel and recruits, Alex had been identified as the man destined to provide enlightenment.

  *

  Explaining his decision to enlist to his mother and Uncle Walter was unexpectedly easier than Alex could have imagined; it was almost as if they knew beforehand, for they accepted his news with an almost bewildering understanding. His mother asked which of the services he had chosen to join, and Alex explained carefully that he was still considering his options, but he was going on a course where the assessment of his skills would take place, and he would be matched to the appropriate service. Alex added that he did not know what lay ahead, but he did hint that whatever he was doing would help the tsarist cause.

  Uncle Walter smiled as he recalled the day when he had met Alex and his mother for the first time, remembering that shy and apprehensive boy who was overwhelmed by the new adventures that lay b
efore him. The boy who had developed into a man who was prepared to shoulder the responsibilities of his birthright, and who was prepared to work against the regime that had toppled the monarchy in the motherland. The smile on Uncle Walter’s face was one of pride.

  *

  At 8.00am the next morning, a drab, olive Austin car pulled up at Alex’s house, and a smart lieutenant in the uniform of a guards regiment bounded up the steps and rapped a staccato tattoo on Alex’s front door with his swagger stick. Alex opened the front door.

  The soldier greeted him with a cheery, ‘What-ho, old chap; I’ve been sent to collect you. Are you ready?’

  Alex reached inside the door, picked up his leather suitcase, and followed the lieutenant down the steps.

  Opening the boot of the motorcar the lieutenant heaved Alex’s case into the void, said, ‘I don’t think you’ll be needing much of that, old boy!’ and slammed boot shut. ‘By the way, my name is Phipps, and I’ve been assigned to watch over you.’ He stuck out his hand (which Alex shook), turned on his heel and jumped into the back of the car, clearly expecting Alex to follow.

  Alex was happy to oblige, and when he was comfortable, Phipps indicated the driver and said, ‘This chappie is Corporal Collins, and he’s deaf, dumb and blind, which makes him rather a unique driver; isn’t that so, Collins?’

  ‘Quite so, sir,’ he replied, countering two of the adjectives that had been used to describe him, and he debunked the third when the corporal slipped the car into gear and pulled skilfully out of Onslow Gardens and into the traffic of the main road.

  ‘I gather that you went to Lassiter’s in Dorset, old chap?’ enquired Phipps.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Alex.

  ‘Oh Lord, how frightfully quaint,’ Phipps mocked gently, ‘you do not need to call me “sir”. I understand that we are to share the same rank, so it is quite usual to call each other by surnames or by anything else that suits us. My Christian name is Charles, and I know that you are Alex; what say you that we stick to that?’

  ‘That is fine by me, Charles,’ said Alex, warming to the man, ‘Yes, I was at Lassiter’s. You?’

  ‘Sherborne,’ Charles stated, as a matter of fact, ‘We used to trounce your lot at cricket and rugger, as I recall.’

  ‘Rather an unequal contest, though I recall we had the better of your school on more than one occasion,’ Alex reminisced.

  ‘So, how come you have ended up in this mob?’ Charles asked, although Alex suspected that he already knew the answer.

  ‘Drink!’ Alex proclaimed, ‘I got a little tipsy at a friend’s send-off as he went into the RAF, and I let my guard down. Bloody silly, really!’

  ‘Uxor formosa et vinum sunt dulcia venena,’ Charles said a little ruefully, ‘Beautiful women and wine are sweet venom. Now I cannot tell you where we are going precisely, but suffice it to say that we shall not be far from where you went to school, and the establishment to which we are heading is considered to be one of the best in the country. It is called the Grange, and it benefits from being on the coast; not that I suspect you will have any time to enjoy walks on the beach, as I rather imagine that you will be kept somewhat busy over the coming weeks.’

  Alex felt at ease with Charles at once. He was the complete opposite Treves and Bullimore, being relaxed, laid-back and seemingly without a care in the world; indeed, all the traits that had endeared Alex to Toby Palmer. Throughout the journey, and through the small talk that existed between them, Alex learned that Charles’s parents were landowners and farmers in Lincolnshire. Being about the same age, it was clear that, apart from the quirk of Alex’s birth, they were contemporaries.

  *

  About three hours after leaving London, Corporal Collins pulled up at a hastily erected barrier between the two brick pillars that were the gateway to their destination. Charles opened the window, and handed an envelope to the soldier guarding the gate, who saluted, turned smartly on his heel and went into a shed to report their arrival. A moment or two later, the soldier returned, saluted again and handed the papers back to Charles before opening the barrier gate. Corporal Collins drove along the short drive to a large, gabled house.

  ‘Welcome to the Grange,’ said Charles before leaping out of the car and opening Alex’s door, ‘Let’s go and announce our arrival.’

  Alex similarly exited the car, and they walked towards the house. As they approached the double oak doors, the right-hand one was opened, and Charles and Alex entered a distinguished, wood-panelled entrance hall of a house that had once undoubtedly served as the residence for a local dignitary.

  ‘Come on, this way,’ urged Charles, and he turned left through another oak door and into a room where two female civilian secretaries were sitting behind desks, typing busily.

  One of them looked up, smiled at Charles and said, ‘Go straight in, Lieutenant; he’s waiting for you.’

  Charles opened a door and entered the comfortable sitting room, where two men were sitting in easy chairs and cradling whisky glasses. At once, Alex recognised one of them as Major Bullimore, and the other was a grey-haired, kindly looking man clothed in the well-worn uniform of a naval captain.

  He’s an active sailor, thought Alex, noting that the dull gleam of the captain’s gilded rank badge was much faded by saltwater, and the medal ribbons signified service in the last war.

  Major Bullimore declared, ‘Come in, Alex, and you too, Charles; take a seat. Let me introduce you to Captain Bell, who supervises our section at this establishment and who will be looking after you over the next couple of months. Charles here will be monitoring your progress and reporting back to me, but do not worry too much about that, as he is an amiable fellow, and I suspect that you will become great friends; I do not doubt that his reports to me will be entirely favourable. Now, it is almost lunchtime, so what can I get you to drink?’

  ‘Scotch with a little water for me,’ said Charles.

  Alex inclined his head slightly to show that this would be fine for him also, even though it seemed to be the height of decadence to be partaking of strong liquor before the clock had struck midday.

  When they were seated, Captain Bell said, ‘After lunch, young Charles here may show you around and get you settled in. I think you will be in Hut Six, which is almost empty at the moment. There is only one other resident, a chap called Florian, who is Czechoslovakian and has only been here for a week or so. He is a bit of a quiet chap, so you and Charles might like to try to liven him up a little?’

  In the distance, a gong sounded, and Bell said, ‘Jolly good! Lunchtime!’

  They all rose and went back through the entrance hall, and continued through into what had probably been a ballroom when civilians, in less-troubled days, occupied the house.

  Having taken their places at an empty table, a smart steward dressed in a ridiculously starched, white jacket appeared. Captain Bell asked what the fare of the day was.

  The steward announced proudly, ‘We have some rather nice vegetable soup to start with that Cook has prepared from what we’ve grown in the garden, and, to follow, he has made a very delicious rabbit stew from those bunnies that you and Commander Moncrieff bagged at the weekend. For dessert, he has constructed the most spectacular of trifles.’

  Alex was amazed; he had not envisaged such gastronomy in the armed services; in fact, he had somewhat anticipated having to find a way of supplementing the service diet with some of the delicacies that he had enjoyed since moving to London, but, on listening to the lunch menu, he wondered if this would prove necessary.

  To accompany lunch, a rather excellent bottle of decanted 1928 Château Margaux was brought deferentially to the table and offered to the captain.

  ‘Exceptional,’ he said, ‘and you’ve even let the bugger breathe a little this time, I see!’

  The steward dribbled a little into the captain’s glass, and after the ritual of assessing colour and
bouquet he sipped a little, swirled it around his mouth and declared it to be perfection. Alex thought that his stay at the Grange was going to be quite an enjoyable experience, and a world apart from what he had been expecting.

  After lunch, Alex was taken to find his lodging. On reaching Hut Six, Alex entered and dropped his bag in the hut, which was a rather crude affair that seemed to be constructed mainly of corrugated iron and bricks, with windows and a central stove. The whole structure looked if it had been thrown together quickly and without much thought for the comforts of the residents who would occupy these quarters. His roommate, Florian, was out, but Alex could see that the space around his bed was neat and extremely tidy. Alex wondered what Florian would be like, as he could not recall ever having met any Czechoslovakians in the past.

  Charles bounced into the room. ‘Come on, old boy, it’s time to show you around this place,’ he announced, and he turned, marching out of the door without waiting for Alex.

  Alex followed him outside, and Charles made good on his promise to give Alex a tour. The old house seemed to be surrounded by the temporary huts like the one in which Alex was billeted.

  Charles explained that they were called Nissen huts after a Major Peter Nissen of the Royal Engineers, who had invented them as a cheap and practical storage hut during the Great War. ‘Now we use them for everything, including storing bods like you, old boy!’

  Charles and Alex walked down what must have been a formal lawn in an earlier life towards what Alex thought was a wide river.

  ‘That over there,’ said Charles pointing, ‘is the Isle of Wight, and this body of water is called the Solent.’ After turning 90 degrees to his right, Charles continued, ‘Over there is the town of Lymington, and from there you can catch a paddle steamer across the water to a place on the island called Yarmouth; not that you will have time for such pleasures!

  ‘Many of these huts will be where you will learn all the things that you need to know to survive in this game, and some are home to other people in a similar situation to you, but perhaps for different organisations. That said, they don’t encourage too much fraternising, as knowing too much about others who are here could compromise security. There are even girls here, but they keep them strictly apart from us lecherous, red-blooded lads!’