by Seb Spence
“Documents!” Minton exclaimed on looking into it again. He riffled through the slim sheaf of papers inside. Many of the sheets had technical drawings, and he noticed the word ‘Enigma’ on several pages. He also noted that most were stamped ‘Top Secret’. “These are almost certainly some of the documents that Cobalt acquired at Bletchley Park. But why have they been abandoned?”
“I bet this is Grace’s work,” Barton asserted. “She’s tricked them into leaving the case behind. She must have supplied them with the briefcase and then flicked the lever at some point after they put the bumf in. When they came to look for the documents, the case appeared empty, so they ditched it.”
“Clever girl!” Moncur said approvingly.
Just then, half-a-dozen Morays came into view walking towards them beside the lorries. Moncur recognised the men as members of Blue Section, the platoon he had had to run after when it went down the north side of the loch. In their midst, being frogmarched along, was a uniformed figure with his hands tied behind his back. It was Brigadier Vaughan.
Depositing him in front of Minton, the sergeant leading the group saluted. “We found him near the far end of the loch, sir. He was hiding in an old sheep-shelter on the hillside near the boathouse.”
“Excellent work, sergeant. Load him into one of the lorries and put a three-man guard on him. On no account must he be allowed to escape.”
Vaughan grinned. “Splendid day for a walk in the hills, wouldn’t you agree Minton?”
“Take him away,” Minton ordered, barely able to conceal his disgust.
Cunningham returned to the group just as Vaughan was being led away. The General glared at him coldly, then spoke to Minton in a low voice: “If it weren’t for the fact that he might be useful to us, I’d have him shot out of hand.”
“I know he’s as guilty as hell, sir, but there has to be a trial first.”
Cunningham watched as the man was bundled into the back of one of the nearby lorries. “‘Shot while trying to escape’, Minton – that’s all we would need to write in the report.”
One of the signallers in the back of the radio truck jumped down and called across: “General Cunningham, sir, the control centre at Stirling want to speak to you.”
Cunningham went over and took the microphone and headset the man was holding out to him. The general listened in silence for some time and then said simply, “Understood, out.” In frustration, he threw the headset and mic into the back of the lorry, and then, grim-faced, he returned to Minton and the others. “Cobalt has made it to the pickup.”
“Is it certain?” Minton asked, looking at his watch: it was just after 12 noon.
“A Coastal Command patrol spotted a plane semi-submerged in the sea off the east coast, near Arbroath. They sent out a coastguard cutter to investigate and found wreckage from a light aircraft, which they identified as a Fairchild seaplane.”
“Did it crash?” Barton asked anxiously.
“Probably not. The cutter crew reported that the plane’s floats were riddled with bullet holes. I suspect the plane landed at sea where the U-boat was waiting and once Cobalt was safely on board, the crew attempted to sink the plane before they dived. No bodies were found.”
Minton passed Cunningham the briefcase. “We’ve recovered some of the papers Cobalt was intending to pass on – it looks as if we have Miss Harrison to thank for this.”
Cunningham thumbed through the paperwork in the case. “Well, it’s something, I suppose,” he said peevishly, “but the fact is, Cobalt has got away, and even without documents she can blow the lid on our operation at Bletchley Park.” He stared down at the briefcase for a moment and then, looking up, continued: “We’re not beaten yet, though. We’ve lost this match, but we’re still in the game. This is a damage limitation exercise now, Minton. We have to persuade the Germans that whatever Cobalt tells them about BP is suspect. Vaughan could prove useful in this respect. We need to get back to London as quickly as possible.”
Chapter 12
1.
Wednesday, 21st May, 1941, 17.00hrs: MI5 headquarters, 57-58 St James’s Street, London
By late afternoon on the day of Cobalt’s escape, General Cunningham and Colonel Minton were back at the MI5 building in St James’s Street. After dealing with the aftermath of the events at Loch Carran, they had driven directly to the airfield outside Stirling where they had landed the previous evening and from there had flown back to Northolt, taking with them Brigadier Vaughan under armed escort. On arrival at St James’s Street, the Brigadier was taken to an interrogation room and left there with his guards, while Cunningham and Minton went immediately to the General’s office to discuss their strategy for questioning him.
“I know you will find what I am about to propose distasteful, Minton, but it is the only way – we need to get Vaughan on side, and we need to do it fast. We must get him to contact the Germans and persuade them to disregard whatever Vivian Adair tells them about BP. You must use whatever means you think will get results, including, if necessary, agreeing to any demands he may make: exemption from prosecution, money, no matter what. Just make sure he gives us his complete cooperation – and get it quickly: a delay of even one or two days could nullify the effectiveness of Vaughan’s intervention. We need to kill Cobalt’s story before it has a chance to spread.”
Minton did not respond. To him, ‘distasteful’ hardly seemed a strong enough term to describe what he was being ordered to do, namely to promise a traitor, who was responsible for the deaths of scores of people, that they would get off scot-free if they gave their full cooperation.
Cunningham sensed his reluctance. “I realise you have qualms about this, Minton, but it’s absolutely necessary. Think of what’s at stake – it could mean the difference between winning and losing the war.”
“Very well, sir, I’ll try and negotiate with him.”
“You’d better make a start then. Good luck.”
As he walked along to the interrogation room, Minton tried to convince himself that Cunningham’s approach was the correct one. He could see the logic in the General’s argument but found it difficult to accept that justice could just be ignored like this. He paused outside the room and took a deep breath as the thought passed through his mind that this was the most unpleasant duty he had ever had to perform in his military career. He then entered briskly and ordered the guards to step outside, leaving him alone in the room with Vaughan.
The Brigadier had been supplied with civilian clothes and ordered to change into them, in case his major’s uniform held any concealed articles that might help him escape or commit suicide: items such as skeleton keys, cheese wire or cyanide capsules could be easily concealed in clothing. A chair had been placed for him in front of the interrogator’s desk, and he sat there, seemingly unconcerned, cleaning his glasses with a small handkerchief he had been given. Minton seated himself behind the desk and regarded him in silence: in his grey flannels, white short-sleeve shirt and canvas slip-on shoes, the Brigadier looked for all the world like a schoolmaster on holiday.
Vaughan put his glasses back on and, smiling in his avuncular way, began in a business-like manner: “Alright, Minton, I know how the system works, so I suggest we save ourselves time and trouble and skip the usual rigmarole.”
“Rigmarole?”
“Yes – creating the intimidating atmosphere, the courtroom theatrics, attempts to apply pressure. I suggest we cut straight to the chase and start discussing a deal.”
The horror of it was that Vaughan was right. He seemed to know how Cunningham’s mind worked and had predicted exactly what their strategy would be. As time was of the essence, Minton felt there was no choice but to go along with this suggestion. “What do you propose, then?”
“I will tell you everything I know and agree to become one of your double-cross operatives. In return, I want: complete immunity from prosecution; a guarantee of my personal safety; and a monthly stipend for life – nothing extravagant, of course, just enough
to live comfortably. Believe me Minton, it’s a very good deal I’m offering: I know I can help you neutralise the effects of Vivian Adair’s coup.”
After a pause, Minton replied. His voice had a mechanical tone, for the words he was saying were not the words he wanted to say, but the words General Cunningham would want him to say. “As you have correctly guessed, we are willing to offer you a deal in exchange for your full cooperation. I have been authorised by General Cunningham to accede to any reasonable request, and I therefore agree to the terms you propose. Although one condition is that you will have to remain in custody for the duration of the war.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s fair enough, provided by custody you don’t mean a prison cell. If you want to keep me under house arrest in some place that’s reasonably well-appointed, I can agree to that.”
“However, I have to emphasise that you must cooperate fully – any attempt on your part to lie or withhold information will be deemed to dissolve the agreement, and we will no longer feel bound to honour our part.”
“Of course, I agree absolutely. From now on, you can regard me as one hundred percent on your side. So fire away, I’m sure you’ve got a lot to ask.”
Minton considered for a moment and then began: “Who shot Cheyne and Maxwell?”
Vaughan chuckled. “Excellent, Minton – a good place to start: get me to confess to two murders right at the outset.” He shrugged. “Well, a deal’s a deal – I killed them.”
“Why?”
“I suppose I should start at the beginning. I have long since learned that it pays to keep informed about what one’s MI colleagues are doing. In Cheyne’s case, it certainly paid off, since I discovered that he had a team monitoring an Abwehr cell. It occurred to me it might be Elliott’s, so I got Cheyne to confirm this. I also persuaded him to keep me informed of how this surveillance operation was progressing.”
“How did you manage that? I can’t believe Cheyne would be so remiss as to divulge details of his operations to someone who didn’t need to know them.”
“Wasn’t difficult – you just have to know where the pressure points are and then squeeze them. I set up a meeting with him ostensibly to discuss his expenses. I had heard that he and his team had been running up some very large bar bills and entertainment costs in the West End – all in the line of duty, of course. Questions were being asked at high levels, and I told Cheyne I wanted to tip him off that there might be an investigation. I said he could be in line for an official reprimand, which might affect his career. I pretended to be sympathetic and said that I would be willing to support him – explain the need for the surveillance work, point out the costs were not unreasonable, that sort of thing. He was very grateful. I then steered the conversation round to BP and told him I was on a committee assessing potential security threats there. I asked him if he knew of any Abwehr interest in the facility. He realised that he probably wouldn’t get my support if he kept mum, so he revealed that he was aware of one group who were nosing around. At that point, I knew straightaway that it must have been Elliott’s cell that Cheyne’s team were watching, and I asked him to let me know informally how the business was progressing.
“We met several times afterwards, and at these meetings he briefed me about how the operation was faring, in particular, he told me about the plan to provide fake documents from the safe in Hut 6B to a member of Elliott’s cell. It was this that inspired our raid on BP. In planning our getaway from Northampton, it occurred to me that Cheyne would be suspicious when Elliott’s people disappeared from under the noses of his surveillance teams – he was bound to suspect Elliott had been tipped off by someone, and I would be an obvious candidate. So, I decided Cheyne was a loose end that had to be dealt with.
“I told him we needed to have a discreet chat in person about his expenses and offered to go up to Northampton to meet him. He picked me up at the station, but for some reason he had brought that oaf Maxwell along with him to drive us. We headed off to a house he had taken over as his base, but on the way he wanted to stop at a hotel – to take care of some business, he said. Maxwell very obligingly parked in a quiet cul-de-sac outside, which seemed like too good an opportunity to miss. I remember there was an ARP warden walking down the street when we arrived, so I had to let Cheyne attend to his business in the hotel before doing the deed. I had to finish off Maxwell, too, of course.”
Predictably, Vaughan showed no sign of remorse. On the contrary, in recounting the affair he seemed to show a certain satisfaction in how he had handled the situation. Minton had to remind himself his job was not to judge the man but just to get information. He refocused on the questioning. He wondered how much the Brigadier knew about Grace. “There was another woman in the seaplane that took off at Loch Carran – who was it?”
“Nobody important. A girl called Grace Harrison who worked at a club in Mayfair. Elliott used her to entice potential information sources along to his parties. She came up to Loch Carran with us just to help with the send-off for Vivian Adair and John Elliott. She wasn’t supposed to go off in the plane, but I suppose when the operation started to go pear-shaped, Vivian must have decided the best way to save her from falling into the hands of your people was to take her along on the plane. Can’t see the point of doing that, myself. Anyway, as I say, Miss Harrison is a very small and unimportant cog in the organization – I wouldn’t bother about her.”
Minton was relieved to hear this. Assuming Vaughan was telling the truth, he clearly had no suspicions that Grace had been working for MI18. Thankfully, Cheyne at least had had the sense not to mention that to the Brigadier.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I turned renegade,” Vaughn continued. “It’s the usual story, I suppose: passed over for promotion. I could see I wasn’t going to get any further up the greasy pole, whereas people who were much less deserving than I was, but who had the right connections, were being promoted above me. Well, I thought, if my talents are not being recognised, why not see if the other side will appreciate them. And I have to say this new arrangement has worked out very well until now. The Abwehr have been very satisfied with my work and have rewarded me generously.”
Minton found the self-congratulatory tone intensely annoying but controlled himself and ignored the remarks.
Vaughan seemed to be getting into his stride and went on: “Actually, Minton, I think it might be better if we stopped this question and answer thing and I just told you all that I know. I appreciate what’s important, and I have a fair idea of what you need to find out. I also have some thoughts on how you might put a damper on Vivian Adair’s mission.” Without waiting for Minton’s reply, he launched into an account of his work for the Abwehr.
#
It was nearly midnight when the interrogation drew to a conclusion. It had not been an agreeable experience listening to Vaughan describe at length, in a half-bragging tone, his involvement with the German intelligence services and Elliott’s cell, but at the end, at least Minton was satisfied that Vaughan had kept his side of the bargain. He had provided a goldmine of information about Abwehr activities in Britain, detailing its organisation, priorities, modus operandi and the network itself, including names and addresses of agents and sympathisers. Among his contacts was another attaché at the Spanish Embassy, a colleague of Ortega, the known Abwehr agent who never appeared at the stakeout in Grindley Street and who had since disappeared completely. Vaughan also revealed the locations of hidden caches of weapons and money, and of safe houses, including one he had set up for his own use, complete with transmitter, in the Essex countryside.
With Vaughan’s assistance, Minton formulated a scheme to cast doubt on the information that Vivian Adair would be passing on to her controllers. According to this plan, Vaughan would be issued with a uniform similar to the one he had been wearing at Loch Carran and then be taken to a phone box on the Harrow Road in Wembley, not far from the main railway line running north from Euston. An overnight train from Glasgow was due to pass through Wemb
ley around six thirty in the morning. Shortly after it had gone through, Vaughan would use the phone box to call his contact at the Spanish Embassy and ask him for assistance: money, civilian clothes and a car. They would arrange to meet at a nearby park. Vaughan would feed the man a concocted story that he had been taken to Glasgow for interrogation after his capture in the highlands and that he had then been transported by overnight train to London but had contrived to escape from his captors. He would instruct the man to send an urgent message to the Abwehr in Berlin, via the Spanish Diplomatic bag, telling them what had happened and warning them that during his interrogation he had learnt that the information carried back by Vivian Adair was suspect. Vaughan would then use the car supplied by his contact to go to the safe house in Essex and from there he would later send a message himself using his own transmitter. The message would say that the information Vivian Adair had brought back had been planted by MI5. Needless to say, Minton was aware that during the whole operation, Vaughan would have to be kept under close surveillance to ensure he did not try anything.
Involving the attaché like this would provide corroboration: it would appear to the Germans to confirm that the Brigadier had indeed escaped and was not under the control of MI5. Vaughan was pleased with the deception and confident that it would do the trick.
Minton, however, was far from certain the Germans would swallow the story, but it seemed to be the best shot they had. He could do no more. Feeling the effects of two days with hardly any sleep, he lay back in his chair, exhausted.
“I have to say,” Vaughan observed after a while, “Vivian Adair’s a remarkable woman. It took a great deal of bottle and coolness to do what she did at BP, not to mention escaping from under the barrels of your guns at Loch Carran. She’s a very skilled operative.”
“So it seems – even to the extent of being able to fly a seaplane.”
