by David Evans
No doubt Rupert Cordise was conspiring with Clive Beattie to kill Winston Churchill. Another entry gave his justification. Serve his father right. How? Dianna wondered. Winston’s father had been dead more than forty-five years. Furtively, she closed and replaced the book. She would decode the others. She returned to the small, decorous sitting room of their suite.
Dianna had barely settled herself when she heard a faint squeak and giggle from outside. Rupert pestering one of the maids again, she thought. He entered moments later, beaming, his face as pink and flushed as his bald pate.
“I hope you weren’t bored, my dear.”
“Not at all, Rupert. I have the Daily Mail and the Times to keep me occupied. I read in the rural edition of the Mail that there will be a concert here in Weymouth tonight.”
“Would you like to go? I have reserved tickets.”
“You are so thoughtful, Rupert. Yes, that would be nice. Then a quiet dinner after?”
“I know just the place. They make meat pies with a crust as flakey and light as a strudel.”
Dianna Basehart wanted nothing more than to get away from this loathsome creature. Now that she had the proof, she had no reason to stay. Yet she had to remain with him or he would be alerted. She forced a glittering smile and gestured to the small caster-mounted bar.
“I think I’d like a sherry, Rupert. Then perhaps a stroll on the beach.”
“High tea is at four,” Rupert reminded her.
“Yes, I’ll be back by then.”
Rupert brought her a small glass with a deep amber Spanish sherry, which she sipped mechanically. Then she came to her feet, put on a large, floppy sun hat and took her clutch purse. At the door she turned back.
“I should be here by quarter of.”
“That will be fine.”
Dianna strolled down the boardwalk. She breathed deeply of the salt air and listened to the quarreling of the gulls. At the point where the plank way turned at a sharp right angle, she paused a moment. She did a casual turn and looked back at the hotel. She saw no sign of Rupert observing her, so she went on out of sight of the windows to a public telephone. She lifted the handset and got a dial tone. At least it was working. Quickly she dialed the number of the Time Station. Vito Alberdi answered and the line went dead until she dropped in the required brass, one-shilling coins.
“Vito, did Steven come back?”
“He’s here now.”
“Good. I need to talk to him.”
Brian came on the Iine. “What have you got, Di?”
“First, how did it go with our friend?”
“Excellent. She’s where she belongs. Where are you?”
“I’m in Weymouth, with Cordise. So far, I’ve kept my virtue intact, but it’s becoming difficult. I have everything we wanted. I’ve seen his note system and translated some. Arkady was right. We have to act quickly.”
Brian thought a moment. “We have to catch him in something illegal.”
“What about a notation regarding a meeting to kill the Prime Minister? What about a stated purpose by Cordise that it is to get even with Winston’s father?”
Silence filled the line for a long while. “You’ve got all that?”
Dianna filled with pride. “Yes, I do.”
“We have to move at once,” Brian decided aloud. “We’ll miss Beattie, but it will destroy the plot before it can be carried off. I’ll be down right away.”
Dianna offered her advice. “We can do it tomorrow. Will you be using our people?”
“No. We’ll turn him over to Sir Hugh. Let MI-5 handle it.”
“If Cordise does not show up after next year, what happens to him?”
Brian laughed sharply. “Us, I imagine.”
Time: 1810, GMT, October 5, 1940
Place: Boardwalk, Seaview Hotel,
Weymouth, Dorsetshire, England
Brian arrived in Weymouth along with Sir Hugh Montfort and four agents of MI-5. They waited on the boardwalk while Brian took a stroll along the beach. Masked by the incoming evening fog, he lounged under an aged, salt-encrusted yew tree. Dianna joined him fifteen minutes later.
“You took long enough,” he jibed.
“High tea with Rupert. It was all I could do to keep from falling asleep. No, that’s not true. The man’s like a spider. Eight arms and all of them groping at me.” Dianna shuddered. “I feel ... unclean. When do we do it, and how?”
Brian quickly outlined his basic plan. Dianna would have to acquire the incriminating evidence and then lure Cordise out of the hotel. She would be watched constantly by the MI-5 agents, rotated frequently so that Sir Rupert would not become suspicious.
“I’ve already planted a cover story for you,” Brian explained. “A loyal young gentlewoman, recently returned from Canada. Husband in the Royal Navy. You were offended by what Cordise said about Hitler being a friend, became distrustful of him, and did a little ladylike snooping. Mostly what you can back up with your papers. The documents section did an even better job on yours than mine. The best expert would never believe they were made five hundred years from now.”
Dianna smiled. “High praise from you, sir. I’ll tell them when I get back. What I wonder is, what is going on with my supposed husband?”
“Right now, he’s doing routine navy things out in the Orient. He is in the files of the Royal Navy, paid regularly. No one who could detect the ruse has access to the records. Perfect isolation. I brought your mail. You even have a letter from him.”
Dianna raised an eyebrow. “This is a major operation, isn’t it?”
Brian looked a little sheepish. “I didn’t even know about the mail thing. Back to business. How soon do you think you can lure him out onto the grounds?”
“He never rises before ten. Will that be a complication?” She eyed Brian closely.
“Suggest a morning swim, or tennis, something to move him before too many innocent people are up and about.”
Dianna looked upset. “Do you expect shooting?”
“No. But it’s Sir Hugh’s idea, and I concur, that we simply want Cordise to disappear with no trace.”
Time: 0830, GMT, October 6, 1940
Place: Tennis Courts, Seaview Hotel
Weymouth, Dorsetshire, England
“Tennis? I feel ridiculous.” Sir Rupert Cordise balked as he appeared on the terrace of the hotel at eight-thirty the next moming in white flannel trousers, rubber-soled shoes, and snowy polo shirt. “Not even God is awake at this hour.”
“Oh, don’t be such a grouch, Rupert. It is the only time I could reserve a court.”
Rupert glared at her, his irritation a palpable thing. “Small wonder. No one in their right mind is up as yet.”
Dianna tried a pout. “You said this holiday was for us to do whatever we wanted. Come on, now. Just one set?”
“Tea. I haven’t even had my tea as yet.”
“Please, Rupert. Humor me? I promise, I’ll not have a headache tonight,” she added coyly. “It was the music—so loud. I’m sure you understand?”
Grumping, Sir Rupert Cordise started off down the flagstone steps toward the distant tennis courts. Beaming happily, Dianna quickly caught up and took his arm. A hedge of evergreens screened off the clay courts. Cordise held the gate for Dianna, who entered ahead of him. When he secured it behind him, he turned to find more people present than he had expected.
Six men, not dressed in the least for tennis, stood with the net to their backs in the near court, in a semicircle, facing him. He recognized the one in the center from his club. Sir Hugh Montfort. He was in something hush-hush in the government. Suddenly he recalled what Montfort did.
He was with MI-5. Military Intelligence. Color drained rapidly from Sir Rupert’s face. His hands became palsied. Swiftly he shot a glance to Lady Wyndamire. Her pleased smile had turned to a smirk. My God, she’s
with them! The realization of that shook him to the core. Sir Hugh stepped forward.
“Sir Rupert Cordise, you are under arrest for espionage, collaboration with the enemy, treason, and a few others we’ll think up later. Will you come peacefully?”
A sudden rush of rage replaced the fear and horror. “Damn you. Goddamn you all. You have no proof.”
Dianna delved into her purse and produced his diary, appointment calendar and address book. Smiling, she produced the clincher, “I believe you are familiar with the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations? The 1938 edition.”
His chin sank to his chest. All life dried to a withered husk. Slowly Rupert Cordise trotted forward with arms extended to accept the handcuffs Brian Moore held before him.
Time: 1645, GMT, October 6, 1940
Place: Time Station London, Thameside,
London, England
Back in London, Brian made a quick check with the historical log. He returned to the Beamer room with an expression of heavy concern. Dianna took a step toward him.
“Steve, is there something wrong?”
“Yes. There is. First, Sir Hugh told me on the way that Cordise will not be given a public trial. He will be kept in a detention center. I found out what will happen to him. He will die of a heart seizure next May at the detention center. But the threat still exists against Winston Churchill. He still may be assassinated.”
Time: 1124, GMT, October 7, 1940
Place: Offices of MI-5, Bayswater Road,
London, N.W. 1, England
After three weeks of furious activity, Brian Moore welcomed a return to routine. Seated behind his desk at MI-5 headquarters, he abandoned heavy thought to work his way through the mound of papers and files stacked in his in basket. Among some routine translations of Enigma, he came upon one that immediately banished his ennui. It turned out to be an exchange between Luftwaffe Headquarters, Berlin; and the Headquarters, Luftflotte II, of Field Marshal Kesselring at Brussels; and Headquarters, Luftflotte III, of Field Marshal Sperrle now established at Saint-Denis outside Paris. Brian got that far in what appeared a predictable higher headquarters harangue when the next words galvanized him.
“It is hereby authorized for your Air Fleets to activate Operation Über Sturm. The attack will be conducted in daylight on the first of November.” It went on to list the squadrons to be involved. In the margin, one of the code boffins had scrawled the destination of “Over Storm”: Coventry.
From the far side of London, a steady rumble of exploding bombs underscored the icy, skeletal hand that clutched at Brian’s heart. Samantha lived and worked in Coventry. Not only she, but thousands of good and innocent people, some of whom Brian had met and come to like. Although he knew for certain that Coventry would be demolished, his first reaction was natural and normal. They had to be warned in time. Brian reached for the inter-office phone.
“Sir Hugh,” he began without preamble when his boss came on the line, “have you read Enigma intercept 11904?”
“Yes, I have,” came the cool, dispassionate reply.
“Need I remind you that we have an office there? Nine people are working out of there. I suggest we should get them out before the Germans start to bomb in three weeks. In fact, I’d suggest the whole city be evacuated.”
“Not possible,” Sir Hugh snapped.
“Why not? There are hundreds of university students there. They could be moved easily. And circumspectly.”
Sir Hugh put steel in his voice, despite, his own anguish at what he had to say. “And the Germans will find out and Enigma will be compromised.”
Brian wouldn’t give up easily. “But these are civilians, innocent people.”
“Sir Brian,” Sir Hugh began formally, “are you not familiar with the term, ‘acceptable corollary damage’?”
Ice formed in the pit of Brian’s stomach. Of course he had heard of it. That didn’t mean he had to like it. He had also been aware that Coventry was bombed repeatedly during the first two weeks of November, with the resultant loss of over fourteen thousand homes and a thousand lives. But if he could prevail on Sir Hugh to see the PM about getting their people out ... Getting Samantha out, his mind mocked him.
Brian swallowed the looming sensation of defeat. “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”
“Excellent. Then I can count on you to be part of a delegation going to the Prime Minister to urge him to stand fast on his decision to protect our Enigma project regardless of the cost. We’ll be seeing him tomorrow.
“Oh, by the way, excellent work on that Cordise affair.” His voice dropped, became confidential. “I’ve no doubt that after the war there will be a modest little trial, and a firing squad. Bad for morale if we do it now.”
Brian suppressed a shudder. Did everyone in the spying game become so damned callous? He suddenly realized that Sir Hugh had asked a question, and was asking it again. One that instantly alarmed him.
“The—ah—lady who turned in Cordise? How is it that she came to you?”
“I’m a friend of her husband. We were at Eton together.” He hoped the lie would hold up.
“I took the liberty to pull his file. An excellent record, if a bit—ah—bland. D’you think he could be recruited?”
Brian was not ready for that. His response came out somewhat jumbled. “No, not at all, sir. He’s not the sort. Abhors desks. And he’s determined to reach flag rank.”
Sir Hugh chuckled. “A stint with us would not hurt that ambition, what?”
Brian recalled that Lord Walter Cuthbert-Hobbs had been Admiral Lord Walter before he had become head of MI-5. “No, not at all, sir. But Archie would rather make admiral before accepting an office instead of the deck of a ship.”
A moment of silence followed. “I’ll trust your judgment on this, Brian.”
Brian all but sighed audibly at that. “You’ll not regret it, sir.”
“What about Lady Allison, then?” Sir Hugh suggested.
A groan escaped from Brian. “She’s a socialite, sir. What’s to say she may not take it in her head to be off for Canada again tomorrow? Or to join her husband in the Orient? She’s served her country well this time. I think we should leave it at that.”
“Hoarding your sources, Brian?”
“No, sir. Not intentionally. But I’m worried about this planned bombing of Coventry. I sincerely believe we should be allowed to get our people out.”
Sir Hugh cleared his throat roughly. “So do I. We are on the very sharp horns of a dilemma with this. If we prevail upon the PM to make an exception, and it gets out, then every special interest will demand the same treatment. Which brings us back to Enigma, and the enormous good it can do our side.” Then he grew chatty. “You need not come in in the morning. I’ll meet you at the Residence, eight o’clock, for early breakfast with the PM. We’ll need every gun we’ve got. There’s going to be others there who feel as you and I. They’ll bring tremendous pressure to bear.”
Well, that was something. Brian rang off. The image of Samantha Trillby swam before his eyes.
Time: 2030, GMT, October 7, 1940
Place: Hamphill Aerodrome, Warwickshire, England
Wendall Foxworth took off in the lead Vic of three aircraft with the test of 12th Group’s 57 Squadron. At least Squadron Leader Marsh had long since stopped talking down to them as though they were simpleminded children, Wendall thought with relief. “Vees of three,” for God’s sake, instead of the proper term, Vics.
Although only a mere enlisted pilot, Wendall had thought for a long time that there was something basically wrong with their aerial tactics. To change from echelon left to echelon right required the port aircraft to accelerate, and the inner aircraft to throttle back, and vice versa, during the crossover in order to hold the V formation. Experience had taught Wendall that this made them easy targets for the Germans.
The Luftwaffe
fought in independent flights of a senior pilot and his wingman, joined in combat by another similar pair. This allowed them to do crossovers with ease and no reduction of air speed. They could literally flip and flop in midair, allowing the streams of .303 slugs to flash past them harmlessly, Wendall often wondered how many, if any, people on the ground sustained injuries from these stray bullets. Obviously, the government would never make it public, he accepted. Tonight it would be more of the same, he acknowledged.
“Able Leader to Able Squadron. Time to clear our throats, lads. Arm and fire a short burst.”
Wendall Foxworth reached down with a gloved hand and flipped the arming switch for his eight Browning machine guns. He closed his right index finger over the trigger and let go a five-round burst. The red-orange of eight tracers, placed every five cartridges on the link belts, arched out and down toward the surf that boomed inaudibly ahead and below.
“Able Six to Able Leader,” Wendall heard in his earphones. “My guns did not fire.”
“Rearm and fire again, Able Six.”
Wendall clearly read the disapproval in the voice of Capt. Marsh. After a brief pause, he again heard Peter Woodcock in Able Six.
“Didn’t work, Able Leader.”
“Did your mechanic charge the guns?”
“Yes, sir. I believe so, sir. I didn’t watch him, Able Leader.”
“Didn’t you check it, Able Six? You are supposed to, you know.”
A long, tense silence followed. “I—I suppose I forgot, sir.”
“Fine. Tum out of formation and return to base. Maybe you can get them charged and rejoin us when we are headed back here with the Huns on our backs. And—ah—Woodcock, three days confinement to quarters. Except for scheduled patrols.”
Wendall Foxworth gave silent thanks to God, and all the gods of his Saxon, Druid ancestors that it had not been him. Then the pain struck him. Sandy would not be waiting for him. Mentally he replayed that fateful day.
