by Seb Spence
And now another, more important event was about to take place, an event that Cheyne himself had planned and was here to witness. At six twenty, a thin, bespectacled, fair-haired man entered the refreshment room, went up to the counter and bought a cup of tea, which he took over to a corner table. He had a newspaper folded in four clasped under his arm and placed it on the surface as he sat down. Ten minutes later, a short, thickset man with black, wavy hair and carrying a briefcase came in, ordered a half pint of bitter and a sandwich, and sat down two tables away from the fair-haired man. He took a book out of the briefcase and began to read it as he sipped his beer and ate his sandwich. Every now and then, he raised his eyes from the book and casually scanned the clientele in the buffet. After five minutes, he stood up and went over to the fair-haired man.
“Have you finished with your paper by any chance?” he asked, smiling. “I haven’t seen one today.”
“Help yourself,” the fair-haired man responded, “I’m done with it. There’s not much news, I’m afraid.”
The other man picked it up and returned to his seat. He placed it, still folded, on his table and began to read an article on the front page. Meanwhile, the fair-haired man drank down the last of his tea, got up and left. A short time later, the other man looked at his watch, drained his beer glass and then, having put the newspaper in his briefcase, went out onto the platform. He boarded a train to Northampton that arrived a few minutes later.
The transfer of the newspaper between the two men had looked perfectly innocuous, and an untrained observer would not have noticed anything suspicious in their actions.
In fact, no-one in the buffet had paid much attention to either of the men – no-one, that is, except Cheyne, who had been watching the pair inconspicuously by means of the mirror on the wall behind the counter. The other customers had sat around, eating their unappetising snacks, drinking or chatting; absorbed in their own thoughts and activities, they were completely unaware that one of the most important intelligence operations of the war was occurring in their midst. The white envelope from the safe in Hut 6B had been placed by Adamson in the folds of the newspaper and was now in the hands of the German agent, Hugh Silverman, alias Hugo DaSilva.
DaSilva and the other members of Cobalt’s cell had been nosing around Bletchley for several months, casually approaching anyone who they thought might be working at the Park and probing them discreetly about what went on there. However, the need to maintain the utmost secrecy about the work at GC&CS had been well drilled into the Bletchley Park staff, who were therefore wary and tended to be vague or evasive when asked about what they did. In addition, they were also suspicious of anyone showing a particular interest in BP, with the result that most of these prying conversations had been reported to those responsible for security at the Park. Adamson had been one of the ones approached by DaSilva and had dutifully informed his superiors about the encounter.
Cheyne and his team had been monitoring Cobalt’s cell since the start of January and were aware that the gang had started to take an interest in Bletchley. He had liaised with his counterparts in the Park and together they had decided that Adamson should be asked to cultivate DaSilva in order to find out more about what the gang were looking for. It was not long before DaSilva offered the clerk money for documentary evidence of the work being done there.
Judging by the questions DaSilva and his associates had been asking the staff, it was clear the gang had guessed that something important was going on at Bletchley Park but had little idea what. Cheyne felt that they would not rest until they knew exactly what was being done there, so he had decided to satisfy their curiosity: he had come up with a scheme to feed them false information about the activities at the Park and Adamson was to be the vehicle for this. Accordingly, Cheyne had arranged for some of the experts at the Park to produce a set of documents that would mislead the Germans about the nature of the work being done there and make Bletchley Park appear to be a relatively insignificant facility. Adamson was to be provided with these documents and told to pass them on to DaSilva at his next rendezvous with him.
Cheyne went out onto the platform and smiled to himself as he watched the Northampton train recede into the distance. DaSilva, he thought, no doubt believed he had just made a great intelligence coup; in fact, he was now in possession of some plausible but totally misleading documents about what went on at Bletchley Park. At least, that had been the plan.
2.
Tuesday, 20th May, 1941, 0100 – 1100hrs: Northampton
Elliott switched off the light in the first floor room he occupied at the boarding house and went over to the window, where he gingerly drew back the blackout curtain a fraction and peered into the dark towards the car parked fifty yards away down the street. He wondered whether the two security service men he knew to be in the car might be napping, for it was now 1am. As if in answer, a match flame blazed up momentarily inside as one of the occupants lit a cigarette.
“Ever vigilant!” he whispered to himself with a smile, and then noiselessly, so as not to disturb the other guests, he crept through to Hugo DaSilva’s room at the back of the house to join the other three, who had gathered there and were waiting for him. On entering, he found Vivian Adair sitting on the bed, studying a motoring map of Scotland which she had opened out over the counterpane. DaSilva himself was sitting at a table in the centre of the room, loading bullets into the clip of one of three Walther P38, Wehrmacht-issue automatics that were laid out in front of him. Things were getting serious now – it was no time for pocket pistols: for the next stage of their mission they would need something with stopping power. Bob Mitchell was standing by the table, drinking from a hip flask and idly watching DaSilva go through the loading procedure.
“They’re still out there, and they’re awake,” Elliott informed them. “Not that it matters much since we’ll be going out the back, as we did last night.”
DaSilva snapped the loaded magazine into its pistol. “Well, that’s the last one. I think we’re ready to go.”
Elliott had chosen their accommodation in Northampton very carefully: each of the three boarding houses in which the Kingsmead Players were staying offered a rear escape route. In their case, they simply had to go out the back door, remove a couple of loose planks in the back fence, behind the shed, slip into the garden of the adjoining property, and walk down the side of the house to the next street over. They had used the route the previous night to set out on their mission to Bletchley Park, and tonight they would be using it again: this time to effect their escape. It was just as well, he thought, that he had had the foresight to choose premises with a line of retreat, for within a few days of arriving in Northampton he had learnt that MI5 was watching all of them.
“Vivian, put the map on the table,” he ordered, “and I’ll talk everyone through the arrangements.”
Vivian Adair did not comply with his request immediately, but instead regarded him coldly for a few seconds. Elliott stared back at her, his lips pressed into a thin smile. Then without a word, she brought the map over and laid it out on the table.
“Excellent!” he continued. “Now, Hugo and I will leave just before dawn and meet up with Len. The three of us will take the Hillman and head up the A1. Vivian will leave here at the same time and join Miss Harrison at her digs. There they will await a message Hamburg are sending at 0800 hours confirming the time for the rendezvous with the submarine, and also the exact coordinates at which it will surface. The message will have to be decoded and a response sent, so I expect they won’t be able to make a start on their journey up north until around 0900 at the earliest.”
“You’re not going to make them drive up in that blue van are you?” DaSilva asked with a smirk. “It hardly seems very gentlemanly, us in the car and the ladies in that old clunker.”
“No, Lukasz has already taken the van; he has gone on ahead to make the transport arrangements at the other end. I’ve obtained another car for the ladies.” Elliott took a set of car k
eys out of his pocket and tossed them to Vivian Adair. “A black Riley Kestrel; it’s not fast but it handles well and it’s a sweet runner, so you should have no problems with it. There’s a can of petrol in the boot and hidden under the rear seat are a few items you might find useful, including an alternative set of number plates in case you run into trouble. You’ll find the car down the street from Miss Harrison’s digs.”
“I thought Grace was supposed to be joining us from Edinburgh?” Mitchell asked in a sharp tone. During the past few weeks, the strain of knowing they were all under surveillance by MI5, had started to unsettle him, and he was feeling on edge. Elliott had assured him that the intelligence services would not be moving against them anytime soon, however Mitchell was unconvinced.
“That was the plan, but unfortunately that drunken sot she works with caused them to miss their train on Sunday, and they had to pull out of their Edinburgh booking, so she’s coming up with Vivian. She’s told Miller that she’s taking a week off.”
“Why do so many of you need to go up?” Mitchell carped. “It’s going to make life difficult for the ones left behind.”
“Belt and braces – it’s imperative that the documents we have obtained on the work at Bletchley Park are passed on to the Abwehr–”
“And the SD,” Vivian Adair interrupted.
Elliott did not like being corrected, but he realised from the determined look on her face that she was ready for an argument; now, he felt, was not the time for confrontation.
“Yes, of course, and our colleagues in the SD,” he continued in a conciliatory tone. “So, to ensure that this information reaches its destination, we’re sending two teams, thereby doubling our chances of success. We’ve copied the documents onto microfilm so we now have two sets – the originals and the photographic copies. Each team will carry a set of the documents: I’ll have the microfilm and Vivian will have the originals.” As he said this, he passed her the leather music case that Grace and Joan Wilks had been using. Vivian Adair opened the case and riffled through the folder of documents it contained, satisfying herself that everything was there.
Elliott ignored this display of mistrust and continued. “Each team will also have a transmitter: I will have Vivian’s, and Vivian will have Miss Harrison’s, so we can both remain in contact with Hamburg in case there need to be changes to the arrangements. The two teams will proceed north separately and then rendezvous here at the farmhouse in the Borders.” As he made this last remark, he pointed to a location near the bottom of the map of Scotland that Vivian Adair had spread out on the table. “I have requested some assistance, so that we should have an escort for the last part of the journey, where we travel up via Edinburgh, Stirling and Callander – ‘The Gateway to the Highlands’.” As he said the place names, he traced with his index finger a route up the map. “I think once we’ve reached that stage, it will be very difficult for them to thwart us. If all goes to plan, Vivian and I will be picked up by the submarine; Hugo, Len and Lukasz will return to London.” He folded up the map and handed it back to Vivian Adair.
“And Miss Harrison?” DaSilva enquired.
“Miss Harrison will also return to London. However, she cannot continue working with Miller: he’s become too risky. She will have to find another music hall act to join. I’m sure that a girl with her charms and talents will soon be able to find a new position. Once she has established herself, she will start to operate under Hugo’s direction.”
“What about the rest of us?” Mitchell asked.
“In your case, you will leave at the same time as us and make your way to Castle Station where you will meet up with Joan. You are both to return to London and await further instructions. Ted and Barry will leave from their boarding house simultaneously with us and make their way to Birmingham. Once they are installed there, they will start gathering information on the effectiveness of our attacks on the war industries in the Midlands”
“Is this information that we’ve found about Bletchley Park really so important?” Mitchell queried.
“Yes, indeed! MI5 think they have outmanoeuvred us by supplying false information, but in fact they have helped us to obtain some documents that will be of immense value to the Reich. At the moment, Bletchley Park are intercepting and decoding huge amounts of German military signals: communications from the army, the navy, the Luftwaffe and even the security services are being read on a routine basis, which gives the British a considerable advantage. Our side are completely unaware of this development, believing that the Enigma enciphering system is secure. By alerting them to what’s going on at Bletchley Park, we could significantly change the course of the war. ”
“Well, why can’t we just pass on the information over the radio?”
“Because (a) there is too much information – it would take weeks to encode and transmit it all – and (b) because there are a lot of diagrams: we have the complete blueprints for one of the machines they are using to break into our Enigma signals.”
“Why not send it via the Spanish diplomatic bag, then?”
Elliott sighed. “Because it’s not secure for unencrypted information – the Spanish will see it, and they’re playing their own game. They may decide the information is too important to pass on to Germany. To them, a standoff between the British and the Germans might be preferable to a German victory. Besides, Hamburg is keen to debrief Vivian and me in person, so we would be leaving the country anyway. We might as well make the most of this opportunity and bring out something useful with us.” He looked at each of them in turn. “Are there any other questions?” he asked in a frosty tone.
Mitchell and DaSilva shook their heads, while Vivian Adair simply stared at him sullenly.
“Very well then,” he continued, “the MI5 goons assigned to watch us are unlikely to discover that we’ve given them the slip until around 1.30 this afternoon – when we don’t appear at the theatre for the second day in a row they will get suspicious. However, by then we will be far away.” He went to the dressing table, opened a drawer and took out a wooden make-up box, which he took over to the table and set down. Unlocking it, he tipped out the contents unceremoniously on the surface and pressed a concealed lever inside to open a secret compartment at the bottom of the box. From this, he first took out four rolls of used banknotes, mainly of one-pound and ten-shilling denominations. The two largest bundles he gave to DaSilva and Mitchell. “As you two are staying on, you will need the most cash, so I have divided up the bulk of our funds between the pair of you. You’ll be the bankers for the rest of the cell.”
He opened out one of the smaller rolls, put it in his wallet, and then gave the last roll to Vivian Adair, telling her: “This should be more than sufficient to cover your expenses over the next thirty-six hours, after which you and I should no longer have any need for British currency.”
He then took out of the compartment four identity cards and after selecting the one with his photograph on it, handed out the remaining ones to the others. “As from tomorrow afternoon, I suspect we will be the most wanted people in Britain, so we will need new identities. You know the drill – memorise the details on your card and come up with a cover story to trot out in case you are questioned.”
“Next,” he said, looking at DaSilva, “the pistols, please, Hugo.” DaSilva handed him and Vivian one of the Walthers, keeping one for himself. “We must do whatever is necessary to ensure we reach our destination tomorrow. If it means leaving a few bodies in our wake, so be it.”
Vivian Adair glared at him contemptuously, but the look was lost on Elliott. He reached into the compartment one last time, took out four small objects and held them out in the palm of his hand so that they were visible to everyone: four amber capsules. “Cyanide – hopefully these will not be needed, but in the event that any of us fall into the hands of MI5 you are to take your capsule. They must not learn anything about our operation. It will ensure the safety of the others.” They each picked up one of the lethal capsules.
&nb
sp; Sitting on a tray on the dressing table was a bottle of champagne and four glasses. “This is my last bottle,” Elliott said, going over to it and carefully easing out its cork. “I’ve been saving this for the right moment, and I think the time has come”. He half filled each of the glasses and handed them round. DaSilva stood up alongside the others as Elliott proposed a toast. “Here’s to the success of our operation. Victory to the Reich!”
#
Barton had spent most of Monday relaxing after the excitement of the previous few days. His aim had been to have a quiet day and get ready to leave Northampton the following morning. He intended to spend the rest of his leave with two old university friends who had recently got married and now stayed near Oxford. They had given him a standing invitation to visit, and he felt the time was opportune. Bronx had decided to return to Stanmore and spend the rest of his furlough going round his London chums.
