The Torch Betrayal

by Glenn Dyer

  “I do not. At least at this point. He has been very . . . preoccupied of late. I know he has been somewhat upset at the American air force’s recent raids over Rouen. His mother and sister—”

  “Yes, yes, I am well aware, Major.” De Gaulle turned toward the window and slapped his gloves into the palm of his left hand several times, then stopped and turned to Dewavrin. “So what action have you’ve taken?”

  “I have sent Lieutenant Roget to watch his flat. I expect a report from him in short order.”

  De Gaulle nodded and looked at his watch. “Very well, report to me as soon as he is found.” He rose from the desk and approached Dewavrin, stopping well inside Dewavrin’s personal space. Dewarvin stiffened and held his breath. “I warned you about him. It seems that you have not listened closely enough. You must . . . have better control of your staff, Major. See to it.”

  “Yes, sir. But, General, there’s one more issue I should bring to your attention. It concerns—”

  “Not now, Major,” de Gaulle said as he pivoted toward the door. “I must be on my way. Send me a report.”

  Dewarvin turned to watch de Gaulle exit the office, leaving the door open wide as he passed through. Just as well, he thought, since he knew little about why the Americans wanted the absent and troublesome scoundrel as well. What could he have stolen? Whom could he have impregnated? Whom may he have insulted? The questions hounded him.

  #

  By the time Remy Toulouse arrived back at No. 10 Duke Street, the brass pendulum clock on the mantel of the bricked-in fireplace was softly chiming one o’clock. He shared what was once a drawing room with Lieutenant Lyon, who was in his chair behind his desk, feet propped up, head tilted back. His Adam’s apple pointed directly at the crystal chandelier, and his mouth was wide-open, as if stuck mid-aria. It was not a surprise that the two had become close. They had shared the same rank for most of the time they’d known each other, before the gift of a promotion was bestowed on Toulouse by his uncle. Even though Toulouse knew that it was underserved, initially it annoyed him that Lyon never paid any respect to his promotion. But what sealed their friendship was the shared belief that Dewavrin was nothing but a sadistic bastard.

  Toulouse dropped into his desk chair. He’d been on the run since Thursday night. The last two nights in Soho, the warm and supple hands of Chenguang, his healing angel, tending to his wounds. But he had lost two full days he could have been conducting business. All because he’d lost his temper. Their meeting with Chen’s boss, the Spanish embassy’s press attaché, had gone better than he had hoped. He was a long-time client who, besides being an enthusiastic buyer himself, was also willing to be the middleman with his German contacts, to help Toulouse market certain classified information he had access to. Sitting with Cheng after the Spaniard left their table at the Crown, a celebration had been in order, given their improving fortunes. He should have excused the pig of a barmaid after she dropped a pint of nasty English beer in his lap. Screaming at her and spitting in her face was a mistake—one he’d paid for dearly at the hands of the two English sailors. No one had helped him. Not even the policeman who had stopped to watch them beat him in the alley behind the pub.

  He started to roll up his right sleeve to inspect his wounds when the hateful clicking sound from the taps attached to the heels of Dewavrin’s boots on the parquet hallway floor stopped him. He whipped a pack of Player’s Navy Cut cigarettes at Lyon, hitting him on the side of the head.

  Lyon jumped in his chair and his legs crashed to the floor. It took a moment for him to register the clicking.

  “Toulouse!” Dewavrin stood in the doorway, posture ramrod straight, clutching a rolled-up sheath of papers.

  Toulouse pulled down his right sleeve and buttoned his cuff.

  Dewavrin slapped the rolled-up papers against his thigh, the sound echoing off the bare walls and wood floor. “Toulouse! Stand at attention. You too, Lyon.”

  Toulouse rose and moved from behind his desk, glad now that he’d had Chen press his trousers and shirt—one less thing for Dewavrin to chew on.

  “Toulouse. What has happened to . . .your face? It’s . . . Where have you been?” Before Toulouse could begin his tale, Dewarvin turned to Lyon. “Lyon, leave us. Report to Lieutenant Roget.”

  “Yes, sir. Straightaway,” Lyon said as he grabbed his uniform jacket from the back of his desk chair and scurried out of the room.

  Dewavrin clicked his way to the center of the room. “I asked you a question.”

  “I was in a fight two days ago. I sought medical attention.” He had worked on his story with Chen since yesterday, in between visits with his clientele.

  “With whom?”

  “Several Royal Navy sailors.”

  “What did you do to incite this so-called attack?”

  “Nothing. I attacked them . . . sir.”

  Dewavrin cocked his head and slowly said, “Explain.”

  “I overheard a British sailor say something about French . . . capitulation. He was joined by one sailor, then another, in their condemnation of the French army. It disgusted me.”

  Dewarvin stiffened. “Go on.”

  “After saying something about their faggot king, I was set to walk away when one sailor said that he was glad that the Royal Navy sunk the French fleet at Mers-el-Kebir. I could not take such a comment in stride. My father and brother were—”

  “Yes, yes, I know all about the loss of your father and brother.” Dewarvin moved toward the fireplace but stopped and turned sharply back to Toulouse. “But your defense of their memory does not excuse your absence from your post for the last two days. Do you understand me?” Dewarvin’s tone had softened.

  The worst of the storm had passed. “Understood, sir.”

  “I shall have to report this to General de Gaulle, as he was here today, asking to see you. I will not lie to protect you. I will never do that.”

  “I am not—”

  “Shut up, Toulouse. I’ve had enough. Now tell me something, and it better be the truth this time,” he said. It took five heel clicks for him to get back to the center of the room. “What would someone from the American army intelligence unit want with you? Have you disgraced yourself and the BCRA in your duties at the American film lab?”

  Toulouse’s posture relaxed and he turned to look directly at Dewarvin. “I . . . I haven’t the slightest idea, Major.” Remember the sound of my voice, Dewarvin, Toulouse thought. This is what it sounds like when I'm truthful.

  “Hmmm. I am asking questions of my contacts, and I will get to the bottom of this.” Two heel clicks and Dewarvin was inches away from Toulouse. He poked the rolled-up sheath of papers into the middle of his chest two times. “And if I find that you are lying to me, no uncle will save you from my hand. Understand?”

  Toulouse noted breath tainted with cigarette and a touch of garlic. “I do, sir.”

  Dewarvin poked Toulouse once more, this time making him lose his balance. His superior turned on his heels and made for the door. “Get back to work. There is a pile of photos on your desk waiting for analysis. Get busy.”

  Toulouse stood there until the heel clicks completely faded, then turned back to his desk and settled into his chair. He chuckled under his breath and allowed a smile to appear as he rolled up his shirtsleeves. Satisfied that the cuts on his knuckles and the backs of his hands and wrists had begun to scab over, he reached into his pants pocket to remove a key chain and opened his bottom desk drawer. Beneath a spare uniform was a bottle of cognac and a rectangular tin with a small but stout combination lock. He opened it and glimpsed his stash of deep-black opium pellets, the size of gumballs. He tossed in a roll of British pound notes and a folded, two-square-inch piece of wax paper containing three pellets. This wasn’t the bulk of his supply. That resided in a small suitcase safely tucked under the floorboards in Chen’s flat.

  At the bottom of the drawer sat a manila envelope. He pulled it out and opened it after pausing to see that he was still alone. His
collection of photos, lists, and documents was growing. It was time to do something with them.

  At the sound of footsteps in the hallway, he locked the tin, slammed the drawer shut, and tossed his key chain on his desk. It slid across the surface and settled at the base of a framed photograph. Lyon reentered and moved toward his desk. He waved at Toulouse, who ignored the greeting. Instead, his eyes drilled into the photo. It depicted his mother and sister, their hair mussed by the wind, sitting in front of an oval wooden sign that read “Village of Ville-Musée, Rouen.” The River Seine, in the background, was swelling and white capped. His mood shifted. His chin settled on his chest. “Fucking Americans. A price will be paid.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  1100 Hours, Sunday, October 4, 1942

  On Board BOAC Flight 777 to Whitchurch Airport, England

  Thorn hated flying as much as Cain hated Abel. The difference was that Thorn couldn’t kill the thing he hated. He sat in the first-row aisle seat of the Douglas DC-3, acutely aware that they were eight thousand feet above the Bay of Biscay. Each adjustment in the altitude, whether smooth or abrupt, resulted in a flinch and tighter grip. He hadn’t opened his eyes or loosened his viselike grip on the seat’s armrests since they’d taken off from Lisbon. Heugle, the bastard, had been lights-out the minute he’d hit the window seat next to him. Thorn groaned when he overheard the stewardess tell the passenger behind him that the DC-3 would land outside London with its full flight of twenty-five passengers in about two hours. His physical misery even kept him from introducing himself to Hedy Lamarr, the last passenger to board the flight, unbeknownst to his slumbering friend.

  With his eyes slammed shut, he recoiled when the actress reached across the aisle and touched his forearm. “I didn’t mean to startle you, but is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all?” she asked.

  “No. Not really,” Thorn said, opening his eyes but keeping his grip on the armrests. He couldn’t exactly place the slight accent.

  Hedy dropped the book she was reading, Victory Through Air Power, on her lap, took off her wide-brimmed, floppy hat, and reached for a thermos of coffee she had stored beneath her seat. She poured a cup of the black liquid. “Are you sure? Flying as much as I do, I recognize what a terrified person looks like. And you look terrified. Coffee?”

  Thorn raised his hand to decline the offer.

  “All right. How about some water, then?”

  “No, thanks, Miss Lamarr.”

  The raven-haired actress smiled. “Call me Hedy. And you are?”

  “Conor Thorn,” he said, extending his hand, which she took. “And sleeping beauty here is Bobby Heugle, my friend and partner in crime.” Her hand was warm from holding the cup of coffee. She locked her gaze on him with her green eyes. There was no denying that the woman was beautiful. “You’re as glamorous as my wife said you were, Hedy.”

  “Conor, any girl can be glamorous. All she has to do is stand still and look stupid.”

  Even with a sour stomach and a slight taste of bile in his mouth, he still laughed. “I’m sure there’s more to it than that.”

  She held the cup in both hands and blew on the hot brew. “Not according to my agent.” She turned to him. “You hate flying, don’t you?”

  Thorn sat back and gripped the armrests again. “You could say that. Believe it or not, it used to be worse. The fear, that is.”

  “Well, that’s good news. I know one related issue is the feeling of not being in control. Is that something you deal with?”

  Thorn gave her incredulous look. “Why do you know so much about fear of flying?”

  Heugle suddenly took in a large, quick breath, his head slumping forward.

  “Oh, let’s say that I read a lot.”

  “Obviously more than just scripts.”

  “Yes. And I’ll take that as a compliment. So, if you don’t mind me asking, what happened to you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What was the inciting incident that brought all this fear on? Did you lose someone in an air crash?”

  Thorn stared at her.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ve gotten too personal. It’s that—”

  “It’s OK. It’s something that I try real hard not to think about. Especially when I’m on a plane.” Thorn turned forward and rested his head back, on the headrest. “But, of course, it’s all I think about.” He shut his eyes. “I was six. It was 1922. My father was invited by an old army buddy to a flying circus out in Mineola, out on Long Island. The whole family went. Our seats were front and center. Could see everything.” The churning in his stomach went up a notch. He took in a deep breath and released it slowly.

  “After the main event, the planes took up a group of army reserve officers. One plane, a huge two-engine Martin bomber, had five passengers, all in an open cockpit behind the pilot. After a series of figure eights, it went into a nosedive and couldn’t pull out. It crashed—burst into flames less than two hundred yards from us. Three died immediately; three others, before they got to the hospital. I can still smell the smoke from the fire.”

  Hedy drained her cup and replaced it atop the thermos. “That would indeed be difficult to forget. I’m so sorry.”

  Thorn opened his eyes and took another deep breath. “It’s OK. It’s not like I fly every day.”

  “Thank the Lord for that, Conor Thorn.”

  Thorn nodded fell silent for several minutes. He watched Heugle sleep and wondered how mad he’d be when he realized that he’d slept through a flight with Hedy Lamarr sitting across the aisle from him. Of course, I could wake him. But the guy needs his sleep. “You’re a long way from Hollywood. What brings you to this sinister corner of the world?”

  “Well, time marches on. War or not, Hollywood is still in business. My latest film premiered in Lisbon two nights ago.”

  “I’ve been in a completely different world the past several months. What film are we talking about?”

  “That would be Tortilla Flat, or, as I learned at the premier, O Milagre de Sao Francisco.”

  “Steinbeck, right?”

  “Why yes,” Hedy said, raising her eyebrows in surprise. “My, you are an educated man.”

  “I am not big on going to the movies, but my wife . . . my wife said you were great in Algiers.” The DC-3 hit a pocket of turbulence, and Thorn sucked in a deep breath; he looked around the cabin quickly, as if he were trying to follow the flight of a darting hummingbird. The turbulence passed, and some of the tension left his shoulders as he slouched forward a little.

  “So what are you doing to contribute to the war effort?” she asked.

  “What am I . . . ? Well, I was in the navy for a few years—an executive officer on a destroyer pulling convoy duty in the North Atlantic. That is, before the navy said I wore out my welcome.”

  She shot him a confused look but didn’t pursue it, which relieved him.

  “Not much since. One thing I do know—I’m not pulling my weight. I want to do more, but I can’t seem to figure out where I fit in. Do you know what I mean?”

  “As far as fitting in and wanting to do more, yes, I can relate. After all, I’m an Austrian making a living in Hollywood. And I tire of all the people who think all I can do is . . . stand in front of a damn camera.” Now it was Hedy’s turn to fall silent. She balled up her fists and shook her head slowly.

  “If you hadn’t become an actress, what would you have chosen to do?”

  Hedy relaxed her hands. She slumped down into her seat. “I think of that often. I would say an inventor.”

  “Really? That surprises me. I would have thought—”

  “A housewife perhaps?”

  “No, no. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Would you believe that a little over a year ago, I and a dear friend of mine received a patent for a radio-wave-skipping technology that would make the US navy’s radio-controlled torpedoes incapable of being jammed?”

  Thorn jerked his head back at her nonchalant explanation of technology she’d
invented. The words rolled off her tongue like she was giving a lecture at MIT. While he hadn’t assumed anything about her intelligence, she surprised him with it nonetheless. “I . . . I don’t know what to say except that’s very impressive.”

  “Well, the navy wasn’t that impressed. After rejecting our technology, which was bad enough, they said that I would do more good selling US war bonds. I think they call that a crushing blow.”

  “But one that you survived.”

  “You’re sweet. But enough about me. Are you feeling any better?”

  “Honestly, a little. Thanks for being such a welcome distraction.” Thorn sat back and closed his eyes. “You know, Hedy, my friend will be pretty upset that I didn’t wake him.”

  Hedy Lamarr laughed. It was a full-throated, almost bawdy laugh. It made Thorn’s head spin. His late wife Grace laughed in the same way.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  1130 Hours, Sunday, October 4, 1942

  Claridge’s Hotel, London

  David K. E. Bruce, chief of the Office of Strategic Services in London, was fifteen minutes late. He was generally an impatient man, and slow-moving service staff irked him immensely—and the service staff at the American Club was exceptionally irksome. Why had he agreed to meet Ambassador Winant there for breakfast to begin with? It could have been worse. He’d left after coffee, using his meeting with Donovan as the reason for his escape.

  When he stepped through the foyer of Bill Donovan’s hotel suite into the main sitting room, he’d found Donovan seated behind a large art deco–style desk, a phone handset glued to his ear and a cigarette burning away with an inch of ash about to fall. Donovan, who looked to be doing all the listening, acknowledged Bruce with a nod. Donovan scratched out a note on a slip of paper and handed it to Bruce. It read “Menzies!!”

  Bruce frowned and nodded at Donovan, silently expressing his sympathies for Donovan having to endure another lecture from Menzies, the fifty-two-year-old head of MI6. Brigadier General Stewart Menzies, also known in Britain’s cloak-and-dagger world as C, never lost an opportunity to remind Donovan and Bruce that the Brits had been at the spy game long before the thought of fielding a team ever occurred to Donovan. Yet Donovan seemed to take it in stride.