by Glenn Dyer
Bruce studied Donovan’s full, round face. Although the man’s hairline had receded and what hair he did have was light gray, Bruce thought he looked younger than fifty-nine. He dropped his shiny leather briefcase and hat on one of two chairs in front of the desk, flopped into the other chair, and crossed his legs. Placing his elbows on the chair’s armrests revealed the monogrammed cuffs of Bruce’s gleaming white, custom-made Brooks Brothers shirt. He conveyed the image of recruits that Donovan was drawn to—men with strong personalities, products of the Ivy League. Being rich was a plus.
He had spent many hours with Donovan since the Office of War Information morphed into the OSS. The British intelligence agencies, which had been in the intelligence-gathering business since the late 1800s, scoffed at the efforts of the Americans to bully their way into a game the Brits believed they’d invented.
“Understood. I will communicate that immediately,” Donovan said, dropping the handset back into the cradle. “He’s not happy with us. Another situation where we ‘stepped on his toes,’ as he put it. But more on that later.” Donovan picked up a brown file. “So you’ve been through this?” he asked, holding up the file.
“Yes. Thoroughly.” Bruce had mixed feelings about Conor Thorn. Was Thorn an asset or a liability? But he did have a clear understanding where Donovan leaned.
“So what do you make of him? Why didn’t he work out in Tangier?”
Bruce formed a steeple with his hands and deliberated for a moment before answering. He was aware that Thorn’s father had a friendship with Donovan going back to law school, so tact was critical. “I don’t have a good answer, Bill. The training he received was thorough. Ciphers, cryptology, hand-to-hand combat. He also requested some additional training in small arms, according to his instructors out at Area F,” Bruce said, referring to the OSS training facility also known as the Farm, located at the Congressional Country Club far outside of Washington, DC.
“Top of his class. Still, Eddy wants no part of him. I respect Eddy, but we can’t put someone with all his training behind a desk, can we? It doesn’t make any sense,” Donovan said, setting the file down.
“You know what doesn’t make sense? Besides hating to fly, the Farm’s psychologist says that Thorn is also afraid of the ocean. So tell me, how does a guy that is afraid of the ocean get into the US Navy?” Bruce asked.
Donovan picked up the file again and took several seconds to peruse through it. “It says, and I quote, ‘is not fond of the ocean.’ I think there’s a difference.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Besides, in his case, I understand the comment. ”
Bruce waited for an elaboration, but none was offered. Donovan stood and walked to a window overlooking Grosvenor Street. “When we took him into the organization, we knew what we were getting. Not being on board the Reuben James when it was torpedoed was devastating to him. Then to be gut punched again with the loss of his wife and newborn son during childbirth—that nearly killed him. We saved him.”
“You saved him, Bill—from himself. I thought Thorn was a . . . risky project to take on. In peacetime, sure, but we don’t have the luxury of time. Mistakes cost lives right now. And they very nearly did in Tangier. But I have to agree—those two events seemed to have changed him. If you look closely at his service jacket before both incidents compared to after, it’s pretty clear that he was headed in the wrong direction.”
“So what do you recommend?”
“Well, I know you have been working on the list of your approved proposals from the joint chiefs.”
“I’ve been staring at it all morning. What of it?”
“I have a suggestion.” Bruce sat forward and put his elbows on his knees. “One of the proposals was to assign two agents to the Eastern Task Force commander. Thorn is former navy. Why not put him there? The assignment is based in London, and I can keep a close eye on him.” Bruce was intent on keeping Thorn on a short leash, regardless of the assignment—the fewer toes for Thorn to step on, the better.
Donovan stroked a layer of stubble on his chin. “Hmmm . . . that makes some sense. But then there’s the bad news that Butcher delivered this morning.”
“Bill, wait a damn minute. You’re not thinking—”
Donovan raised his right hand and stopped Bruce mid-protest. “I’m still processing things . . . many things. So give me some leeway here.”
#
By Sunday evening, there were few signs indicating a heavy rain had soaked the streets and parks of London late in the afternoon. Lieutenant Kay Summersby, driving the olive-green Plymouth sedan transporting Generals Eisenhower and Clark, plowed through a few sizable puddles before turning sharply off Whitehall, onto Downing Street. As they drove past the barbed-wire fence and the machine-gun emplacement located beneath the street sign, Eisenhower was confident he had mentally readied himself for the evening ahead. He was not fond of the politicking and glad-handing his position as commanding general of the European Theater of Operations called for. He was a military tactician who was at his best when in front of a map in a roomful of officers and their men, not members of the demanding social and political circles of London.
While managing the relations with their British Allies was his responsibility, it paled in comparison to his responsibility to manage their collective efforts to strike back at the heart of Nazi Germany. It did not brighten his outlook knowing that most of the evening that lay ahead would do nothing to push him closer to that goal. As charming and enlightened as Churchill could be at times, the regularly scheduled weekly dinner, filled with cigar smoke and drink, sapped Eisenhower of his patience at times. Not one for talk, he typically found himself a captive listener of Churchill, who could talk the ears off the statue of Admiral Horatio Nelson. But Eisenhower realized that this dinner would be different. Churchill expected Eisenhower to announce the invasion date for Operation Torch. Churchill was certainly not expecting Eisenhower to announce news of a security breach threatening the success of the second front that Churchill, Stalin, and Roosevelt had been clamoring for.
Sliding out of the backseat of the sedan, Eisenhower headed to the front door of the prime minister’s residence and headquarters of the British government as a brisk wind swept down narrow Downing Street, snaring pages of discarded newsprint and other debris as it traveled over the smooth cobblestones. Eisenhower stopped on the white stone step several paces from the small, six-paneled, black oak door. The 10 was painted on the door below the top panel, its zero leaning to the left. The iron knocker in the shape of a lion’s head dared one to announce his presence.
“What is it, General?” said Clark, who stood behind Eisenhower.
“I wonder if, years from now, I’ll look back on this night favorably.”
#
Despite his apprehensions about the evening, No. 10 fascinated Eisenhower. It was interconnected with the residences of the chancellor of the exchequer, at No. 11, and the chief whip, at No. 12. Together, the collection of buildings contained more than two hundred rooms that included the Cabinet Room and Churchill’s private office, located on the ground floor.
Eisenhower was always taken aback by the small size of the prime minister’s dining room. The walls of the room were adorned with portraits of previous prime ministers, all of whom seemed to be staring down on those seated about the table. From where Eisenhower sat, he sensed that Neville Chamberlain’s eyes were particularly piercing.
Eisenhower and Clark waited ten or so minutes for Churchill to return. When he finally darted into the room, he looked as if his head would explode. Eisenhower’s hopes for a cheerful and sympathetic audience at dinner sank.
“Well, I cannot say that I am shocked—Stalin, that obstinate, pigheaded peasant.”
Eisenhower and Clark exchanged looks of surprise and rose from their seats. “Prime Minister, what are we talking about?” Eisenhower asked.
“Ike, this you will not believe. Uncle Joe wrote a letter to a Henry Cassidy, who is the Associated P
ress Moscow bureau chief.” Red-faced and with bulging eyes, Churchill waved a copy of a letter wildly in his right hand and punctuated his tirade with a cigar he held in his left. “Listen to this. ‘In order to amplify and improve the aid from the Western Allies, only one thing is required—that the Allies fulfill their obligations and on time.’ That bastard.”
Churchill crumpled the paper, tossed it into the unlit fireplace, and began pacing. Eisenhower and Clark stayed standing on the opposite side of the table, giving Churchill his stage.
“I have been summoned to the House of Commons tomorrow morning to address this letter,” the Englishman declared.
“What are you going to say?” Eisenhower asked.
“I will tell them not to press this matter unduly at a period that is certainly significant—in other words, I’ll say as little as possible.”
“Short and sweet. Always a good strategy,” Eisenhower said, hoping it would calm the agitated Churchill. “But will that be enough to calm the waters?”
“Who knows? We have a plan, and we will stick to it. But this I can tell you: convoy PQ 19 will not be sailing for Archangel. We, the president and I, have been signaling for the past several weeks that we can’t keep the tonnage levels where they have been with Torch around the corner. The president wants to send one or two merchant ships at a time with several warships for protection. But now this ingrate will not be seeing that convoy, large or small, pull into that harbor.” The disaster that PQ 17 was had hardly faded when PQ 18 arrived in Archangel with the loss of thirteen out of forty-one ships. Churchill’s stance on PQ 19 pleased Eisenhower, as he had pushed hard to have the convoy’s war materiel channeled to Torch.
It took several minutes of continued pacing for Churchill to ratchet down his anger, after which, dinner progressed swiftly through a handful of courses. Servants, all elderly, came and went. Churchill continued to handle the conversational heavy lifting, to Eisenhower’s relief.
With dinner concluded, the three retired to Churchill’s office. It was small, overpopulated with furniture, and cluttered with a diplomat’s tools for war in the modern era: phones, Teletype machines, typewriters. The ancient tools for pursuing war, maps, were also present, splayed out over a long rectangular table, their corners held down by small, square-shaped beanbags. Still other maps, some rolled tightly and secured with black ribbons, comingled with maps that were loosely rolled. The office’s fireplace was crowned with a portrait of the reigning King George VI wearing a lush, green cape that was complemented by the pistachio green of the room’s walls.
It wasn’t long before Churchill lit a long Cuban Romeo y Julieta, his favorite cigar, and poured himself a brandy. “Well, Ike, I feel like a young boy who gets to drive his father’s car for the first time—light-headed with anticipation. What is the date for Torch?”
Eisenhower hesitated before replying. “November 8, Prime Minister.”
Churchill looked disappointed. “I was hoping for a date in late October. As you can tell, I am quite anxious to see this operation underway.”
“I understand, but the problem is that, given the recent decision to use American regimental combat teams based in the UK, equipping them so that each team is balanced in materiel and has received the proper amount of training takes time.”
Churchill squirmed in his seat. “I will make one more try at this. British commandos are more advanced in their training, so let’s put them into American uniforms and get on with it. We would be proud to have our men wear them. Things are desperate in Russia. There is hand-to-hand fighting in the streets of Stalingrad. I’ve received word that Marshall Zhukov is conscripting civilians to defend the city. Any delay will produce grave results.”
“Well, thank you for the offer. And I fully understand the dire circumstances on the Eastern Front. But, as agreed to by all parties, this needs to be an American operation. If we put British commandos in American uniforms, the press would undoubtedly uncover the ruse, and it would destroy the morale of American troops.”
“Well, I tried.” Churchill took a strong pull from his cigar and released a plume of gray-blue smoke above the heads of his guests. “The eighth it is.” He backed off.
It occurred to Eisenhower that Churchill would most likely work the back channels to get the date he wanted. “Prime Minister, there is one more thing I need to discuss,” he said as he put his untouched glass of brandy on a side table.
Churchill took a sip from his brandy and slouched deeper into his chair. Eisenhower looked up at the portrait of Chamberlain, whose scrutiny of Eisenhower was undiminished. “Go on, Ike. I’m listening.”
“Concerning Torch . . . we’ve had a bit of a security breach. It occurred a few days ago.”
Churchill sat up. “A breach? How serious?”
“Long story short, a message I received from the Combined Chiefs of Staff that outlined the directives of Torch has gone missing.”
Churchill sat quietly, clearly waiting for more of an explanation, and put out his cigar in an ashtray.
“It was being microfilmed as part of the process of compiling a diary of wartime events.”
“You’ve searched, I take it?”
“Thoroughly.”
“Damn it, Ike. It’s . . . it’s weeks away. What are you . . . What are we going to do? Without the element of surprise, the losses will be staggering.”
Eisenhower looked at Clark, then back at Churchill. “The general here and the rest of my staff must get back to the full-time job of completing Torch’s planning. I’ve brought in Bill Donovan and his OSS and given him the task of finding the document. I have full confidence in Donovan.”
“Yes, Bill is a good man. I owe him much. But his OSS is not fully operational, is it? I’m told that it is only now establishing its presence here in England and elsewhere.”
“Bill is clear on what’s at stake, I can assure you.”
Churchill fought his way out of his chair and shuffled to the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes locked on the portrait of King George VI for several moments. “Tell Bill Donovan that I insisted he accept some help from us,” Churchill said, his eyes still locked on the king. “It would normally be someone from MI5—their mission being domestic counterintelligence—but I have someone in mind from MI6.”
Churchill turned to face Eisenhower and Clark. “Emily Bright. She’s a newly minted MI6 agent. I did everything I could to keep her with me. She operated as the secretary for the Joint Planning and Joint Intelligence Committee and general staff. She was indispensible to me during the early years of the war, in the dark days. With time being of the essence, she’ll help the OSS navigate the wartime landscape here in Britain, which can be a bit challenging.”
Eisenhower nodded in agreement. “That’s a good idea, Prime Minister.”
“She is known to Bill Donovan. They met when Donovan was sent to England in 1940 by the president, to determine if we were going to survive.”
Eisenhower rose from his chair as a clock on the mantel chimed the arrival of the twenty-third hour of the day. “I am sure she will be a valuable asset.”
“It’s getting late, but let me read something to you before you leave.” Churchill stepped to his desk and rummaged through the myriad reports and files, and pulled a single sheet of paper from the mess of paperwork. Eisenhower, his mission of the night completed, was miffed that his hoped-for quick exit was being stymied by the loquacious Englishman.
“When I first read this quote from Herr Hitler’s speech a few days ago, I believed it was quite humorous,” Churchill said, donning his reading glasses. “The Allied leadership are nothing but, and I quote, ‘military idiots who are either mentally sick or perpetually drunk.’” He let go of the paper, and it floated to the desktop.
Churchill looked somber, and it tore at Eisenhower’s guts to see him that way, to have disappointed this great man.
“I can’t say I find it that humorous now. Good night, General Eisenhower, General Clark,” Churc
hill said, the gloom in his voice palpable.
CHAPTER EIGHT
1500 Hours, Monday, October 5, 1942
Athenaeum Club, No. 107 Pall Mall, London
He passed beneath the Doric portico adorned by a statue of Athena at the Athenaeum Club—Athena, the goddess of wisdom. The statue’s surface was gleaming gold leaf. Inside the entrance hall, he glimpsed the shimmering image of a gray-haired man in black tie through the glass door. He stood stoically, hands clasped behind his back as if on guard for any egalitarian-minded people who had ideas of storming the inner sanctum of the private club. His feeling of comfort in these types of exclusive settings ran contrary to his communist-leaning sympathies.
“You must be Mr. Stoker.” The statement from the old man rang with condescension. “You’re late.”
“What gave me away?” Stoker said, removing his raincoat and fedora.
The old man tilted his head back, his eyes narrowing to slits. He didn’t like the question. “Mr. Philby said to look for a gangly man, one with abnormally long arms and large hands.”
Miles Stoker frowned. It wasn’t the first time he heard such a description of himself, but that didn’t mean he had to accept it from someone who was older than dirt, like this arse. With his lips pursed, Stoker lurched toward the old man, who was unfazed.
The old man pointed to a narrow doorway located along the wood-paneled wall of the club’s entrance hall. “Mr. Philby is waiting . . . in the South Library.”
Upon entering the library, Stoker was immediately overwhelmed by the sight and smell of so many books. Three levels of books formed a fortresslike structure along three walls of the rectangular room, each level serviced by a substantial iron-and-wood ladder that operated along a rail system. The wall closest to the door hosted a fireplace, free of flame at the moment. Flanking the fireplace, sitting across from one another, were two men separated by a low table. One was Kim Philby, situated deep in a leather armchair, a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other. Across from him was someone Miles didn’t recognize, but a long face, narrow mouth, and elongated, thin nose signaled a privileged background.
