A Gathering of Saints

by A Gathering of Saints (retail) (epub)

  The drawer beneath the wireless was crammed with an assortment of odds and ends that you might expect to find on a vessel like Sandpiper. An old knife switch, the tattered, salt-stained remains of the manual for the Marconi set, a pencil stub, a broken mousetrap, a few loose wires, a rusted butter knife minus its handle, a bit of coil spring and other parts from an ancient alarm clock… nothing to arouse suspicion during even the most meticulous of examinations. Not that Tennant was expecting Sandpiper to be searched but it never hurt to be careful.

  He removed the knife switch, the coil spring and the butter knife from the drawer, laying them out in front of the wireless. He wrapped one of the wire ends around a contact nut on the knife switch, fitted the butter knife and the bit of alarm-clock spring under the switch’s metal flange and joined the second wire from the headphones to the handle end of the butter knife; it looked a little bizarre but he now had a perfectly workable telegraph key.

  The jack end of the headphones appeared to be plugged into the faceplate of the wireless, but the connection actually ran down to the high-powered Telefunken transmitter hidden between the cabin sole and the keelson beneath his feet.

  The transmitter was powered by the same storage batteries used by the inboard engine and more hidden wires were connected to and within the new mast he’d stepped, transforming it into an extremely effective dipole antenna easily capable of reaching Heydrich’s private listening post in Hamburg. Since Tennant always sent his transmissions from a different spot on the river, he was safe from even the most sophisticated radio-detection devices in use by RAF Air Intelligence, which, Tennant knew, was actually a ghostly division of MI6, headquartered at 55 Broadway Buildings in London and the huge Victorian pile at Bletchley Park.

  Unstrapping his Rolex he twisted the outer bezel to give himself an elapsed-time count, switched on the wireless, which in turn activated the hidden transmitter, then bent over his ersatz telegraph key. Tapping quickly, he sent out his brief identifying call sign, then began to transmit his message.

  * * *

  For the better part of half an hour Morris Black had been following Guy Liddell through a maze of subterranean passageways and corridors that ran under the streets and buildings of Westminster. Their bizarre, Alice-down-the-rabbit-hole progression had started deep in the underground station close to SIS headquarters at Broadway Buildings and Black had long ago given up on trying to figure out where they were going. As usual, Liddell said nothing. From somewhere high above them Black could faintly hear the sound of the sirens announcing the evening’s first raid.

  Eventually they went through an unmarked blast door, along a dingy, ill-lit concrete-block passage, then up a spiralling flight of metal stairs bolted to the walls of a circular shaft. They finally reached another vestibule set with yet another metal door and went through. Black found himself standing in what seemed to be the corridor of someone’s house. A thin, oriental-style carpet runner was on the floor, some ornately framed prints of famous naval battles on the walls and proper lights in the ceiling.

  ‘Where exactly are we?’ Black asked finally, tiring of the anonymous trek.

  ‘The basement of Number 10,’ Liddell answered blandly. ‘Come along, Black, mustn’t keep these fellows waiting.’ The policeman blinked. Number 10 had to be Downing Street, the prime minister’s residence. My God, what had he let himself in for?

  Liddell paused in front of a varnished door, knocked once then pulled it open, standing aside and ushering Black forward. He stepped through the doorway and Liddell followed. The room was large, low ceilinged, and dark, the only light coming from a row of spotlights pointing at an enormous mapboard filling one wall and small desk lights ranged around a massive, rectangular table. The mapboard was screened by floor-length, black, felt curtains hooked to a ceiling track.

  In the centre of the table there was a raised bank of telephones in three colours, red, black and white. Four men were seated at the table, three of them in uniform, and one in a dark blue, very conservative suit. One chair, the only one with arms and set in the centre of the table with its back to the large, shrouded mapboard, was conspicuously empty.

  Liddell took Black across the room and seated him at the empty end of the table, then settled into the chair on the detective’s left. The sound of the sirens was now mixed with the steady crumping impact of the German bombs. No one else at the table appeared to take any notice. Liddell made the appropriate introductions.

  At the far end of the table was Stewart Menzies, head of the Secret Intelligence Service (MI6), a craggy, dark-haired man of fifty or so with a downturned mouth and a Guards moustache looking totally suited to the uniform of an Army colonel. To his right, on the same side of the table as Liddell, was Squadron Leader Frederick Winterbotham, director of the SIS Scientific Division, and beside him was Comdr. Alastair Denniston, the handsome, slightly tubercular-looking head of something called the Government Code and Cipher School. The well-dressed, sandy-haired man with the moustache sitting between the table and the mapboard was Maj. Desmond Morton, introduced as the prime minister’s personal assistant and lately the head of the Industrial Intelligence Centre, which, like the GC&CS, Black had never heard of before.

  Sitting there at the far end of the table, Morris Black realised just how appropriate it was that he had come here by such a convoluted, troglodyte path. These men were the knights of ghost and shadow, military demigods of an inverted Mount Olympus, their faces and names unknown to the general public above ground. He also knew that any one of them could destroy his career, and perhaps even his life, with a simple nod or the single stroke of a pen.

  ‘Inspector Black. Welcome.’ It was Menzies, his accent clearly Eton and Sandhurst. A member of the old guard before his time, as much politician as soldier.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Did Captain Liddell give you any indication of why we wished to see you?’

  ‘No, sir. None at all.’

  ‘You have no idea?’

  ‘Presumably this has something to do with Queer Jack,’ Black answered. On his right Desmond Morton smiled. For the first time Black noticed that the prime minister’s assistant had a rectangular wooden file box in front of him. It was yellow.

  ‘Ah, yes, that’s the name you’ve given this fellow,’ said Menzies, the basset mouth turning up briefly.

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m afraid so.’

  ‘I rather think we should get down to cases,’ put in Winterbotham crisply. ‘I’ve quite a bit of work to do.’

  ‘As do we all, Squadron Leader,’ answered Menzies, glancing at the ferret-like little man to his right. ‘Still, there’s no point in dragging this out. Since you seem so eager, perhaps you should begin, Winterbotham.’

  ‘As you like.’ The man in the RAF uniform looked down the table at Black. ‘From what Captain Liddell tells us, this Queer Jack of yours has now committed three murders.’

  ‘That we know of.’ No sense being too specific at this stage of the game.

  ‘Indeed.’ Winterbotham nodded. ‘It would also appear that the murderer has prior knowledge regarding the location of Luftwaffe raids.’

  ‘It would seem that way, yes.’ Black fought to keep his expression blank. By God! His instincts had been right. Queer Jack’s knowledge was the source of their interest.

  ‘This is disturbing.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Disturbing was hardly the word; a madman on a murdering spree who also happened to have the ear of the Nazi High Command.

  ‘Particularly to me and the other people at this table, not to mention the prime minister.’ Winterbotham glanced at Desmond Morton on the other side of the table.

  ‘Yes?’ said Black, trying to sound non-committal.

  ‘Yes,’ snapped Winterbotham. ‘This Queer Jack is in possession of information he should not have. We would very much like to know how he gets it. At the very least it represents a very serious breach of security… security I am ultimately responsible for.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, F
red, tell him!’ said Denniston, laughing harshly, the sound like a bark.

  ‘Allow me,’ said Desmond Morton, his voice calm and smooth. As he spoke, he reached out and touched the yellow box on the table in front of him. ‘What Squadron Leader Winterbotham alludes to is something which we presently refer to as Boniface, also known as Ultra.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ said Black.

  ‘Nor should you,’ Morton continued. ‘Boniface, or Ultra, are the code names given to messages to and from the German General Staff and sent between German field officers utilising something the Nazis call Enigma, a coding machine. Thanks to the best efforts of Commander Denniston’s people at GC and CS, we have managed to break those codes. Virtually all of them – Kriegsmarine, Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe.’

  Black couldn’t help himself. His eyes widened as he sat back in his chair, stunned. ‘Good Lord.’ Beside Morton the empty armchair seemed to have a presence of its own. Black could almost see the portly figure of Churchill sitting there, cigar end drooping in the corner of his mouth, the huge map behind him stuck with the pins and flags that marked his secret knowledge of the war. In a single explicit sentence Black had been given what he knew must be the most important piece of intelligence information extant in England – somehow Denniston’s people had managed to break the Nazi staff codes and were privy to every move the Germans made – well before they made them, presumably. Incredibly, it seemed that Queer Jack was equally well informed. It was a security breach of enormous proportions. No wonder these men were so worried.

  ‘Good Lord, yes, quite so,’ murmured Morton, one hand still on the yellow box. He shifted his eyes towards Menzies for a slow moment then turned his attention back towards Morris Black. ‘Captain Liddell is convinced that the so-called Double Cross system has not been entirely effective and that there is at least one German intelligence agent at work here in London. According to him, it also appears likely that this agent is not working for the Abwehr, which leaves the esteemed Herr Heydrich of the SD, the Reich Main Security Office, as the man’s, or woman’s, most likely superior.’ Morton paused for a moment, eyeing the box in front of him. He sighed. ‘The point of all this, Inspector Black, is that if there is such an agent, and if he learned about our knowledge of the Ultra codes – perhaps through the activities of this Queer Jack fellow as you call him – it might well lose the war for us. At the moment there isn’t very much standing between us and a rout. If the Nazis took it into their heads to change their present system, we would have nothing at all.’ He looked carefully at Black. ‘There is no doubt about it, Inspector. If the Ultra secret is revealed, either by your Queer Jack or Liddell’s “Doctor,” we will lose the war.’

  Black felt a wave of nausea sweeping over him. This was no melodrama. He was being told in no uncertain terms that his investigation was the linchpin on which the war was hinged.

  ‘Of course there is nothing to actually prove Captain Liddell’s contention about this so-called agent,’ countered Menzies.

  ‘Do you want to take that risk?’ asked Morton dryly.

  ‘We’re taking an enormous security risk bringing a Scotland Yard inspector into this,’ Winterbotham muttered. ‘Churchill’s own private secretaries aren’t privy to Ultra. Even the king doesn’t know about it.’

  ‘Somebody does,’ Liddell said calmly, speaking for the first time. ‘Queer Jack is proof of that.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Menzies. ‘It could be a coincidence.’

  ‘I somehow doubt that.’ Morton opened the lid of the yellow file box and took out a single onionskin flimsy. He handed it down to Black. ‘What do you think of this, Inspector?’

  The policeman read the slip of paper he’d been handed.

  ‘What you have in your hands,’ said Morton, ‘is the original decrypt for the raid that’s going on over our heads as we speak. It refers to an adjustment in heights for the bombers concerned. The first message, giving the actual number of aircraft and their specific targets, was received several hours earlier.’

  ‘The four Z’s across the top of the message,’ asked Black. ‘What do they mean?’

  ‘That’s our own priority system for incoming messages,’ said Denniston. ‘One Z for the lowest-priority general information and so on.’

  ‘A signal ordering an invasion would have five,’ put in Morton. ‘Up until now we’ve only used four.’

  ‘Queer Jack’s use of the letter Z was our first clue,’ said Liddell.

  ‘The Germans don’t use it?’ asked Black.

  ‘No,’ said Menzies.

  The implication was clear. ‘Then Queer Jack is getting his information after it’s been received here.’

  ‘That would seem to be the case.’

  There was a long pause. Black handed the flimsy back to Morton, who returned it to the yellow box. Everyone at the table was watching Black, looking for an answer or perhaps an excuse. It was his moment and the choice was his – accept the challenge or back off. These were cold men, capable of anything. To them Black was nothing more than a pawn being moved across a chessboard, useful to attack but equally available for sacrifice if the game required it. They were asking him to risk everything. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. If they were asking him to risk so much, then his own demands would have to be equally great. This was power, raw and unadorned.

  ‘I’ll need to know everything,’ said Black finally. ‘A list of everyone who is privy to this information to begin with and a complete overview of how the material is transmitted to the people on that list after it is decoded. I’ll also have to have authority to interview anyone on that list. Without exception.’ He sat back in his chair, waiting for the response he knew would come.

  ‘That’s absurd!’ snorted Winterbotham. ‘You’d be turning my entire security system on its ear.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s the only way,’ Black answered, trying to keep his voice even. He knew he was on shaky ground. ‘And there’s one more thing. My assistant will have to know about this, at least in general terms.’

  There was another long pause. Desmond Morton eventually broke the cold silence. ‘He’s right. Give him what he wants. Everything.’

  Morris Black felt a sudden, almost overwhelming surge of pleasure, replaced almost instantly by a cold and terrible fear. In that moment he knew that he had lost some part of himself that could never be regained and that he had seen something in himself he never knew existed. Power had been offered to him and he’d taken it gladly. The mark of this place would be on him forever.

  He brushed the thought away as quickly as it had come, listening to the dull and impotent clamour above his head as the raid continued, then realised, to his horror, that he was smiling. He was still no more than a pawn in the game but he knew that a single pawn in a chess match could mean the difference between winning and losing, success or failure. The men around the table stared at him and he stared back. The game was going to continue, and for the moment, the pawn was still in play.

  Chapter Eleven

  Monday, September 16, 1940

  9:00 a.m., British Summer Time

  Within twenty-four hours of being employed as Morris Black’s assistant, Police Constable Swift had accomplished a great deal. Returning to the Kensington Park Gardens garret on Monday morning, Black found it transformed. Several large maps now covered the walls in the smaller office next to Black’s – a gigantic Ordnance Survey chart of England, an equally large GPO map of London and a third map showing central London and The City. The maps were dotted here and there with coloured flag pins. In front of the maps a small metal secretary’s desk had been set up, complete with a large and very old typewriter. In Black’s own office he discovered a low pile of neatly typewritten sheets – his notes from the dockets on Rudelski, Talbot and Eddings, neatly transcribed.

  As well as putting the offices in order, Swift had managed to liberate a rather nice Alvis saloon from the stolen-car impound yard, and he’d also tracked down David Talbot
’s car, a 1936 double-entrance Ford Saloon. According to the secretary at the Royal Automobile Club, Mr Talbot kept the vehicle at a place called the Stag Motor Garage in East Finchley. The proprietor was a man named Gurney.

  The Stag Motor Garage was located just south of the intersection of the East Finchley Road and Fortis Green Road in north London. The place was completely anonymous, its yard hidden behind a high wooden fence. The sagging gate was hanging open and Swift drove the Alvis directly through, pulling to a stop beside the twin, green iron pillars of the garage’s petrol pumps.

  An assortment of vehicles was scattered around the rear section of the yard in various states of repair, the hard-packed ground around them black as pitch with a decade or more of oil stain. A large, windowless, corrugated-metal shed leaned against the south side of the fence with a row of smaller stalls and sheds facing it on the far side of the pumps.

  Black climbed out of the car and glanced around. Anything made out of wood was in need of painting and any metal he could see was patched and speckled with rust and grime. At least half of the vehicles at the rear of the yard had been relieved of their tyres and sat on blocks of wood and any free space between the sheds was piled with rusting wheel rims, bits and pieces of chassis and other spare parts. A motor car graveyard.

  Swift followed Black out of the Alvis and said, ‘I’ll see if I can locate Mr Talbot’s vehicle.’ Black nodded absently and Swift went off across the yard towards the collection of motor cars.

  A tall, blond-haired man in his early forties stepped out of the main shed, a wrench in one hand, a grey-faced, glowering dog at his feet that looked like a cross between a large wire-haired terrier and a bull- mastiff. Its large paws were stained with oil and the mustard-coloured fur on its flanks and lower legs was matted with it. The dog began to growl, baring a set of long, mismatched yellowing fangs as Black stepped forward. The tall man moved his free hand slightly and the dog quieted.