by Glenn Dyer
“I’ll have to suggest that to Colonel Donovan,” Thorn said, turning from Fleming to Bright, whose eyes were focused on Thorn’s hands as he wriggled the wedding band on his finger.
“Yes, you should. And tell him that Ian sends his warmest regards, will you?” Fleming replied.
“So you’re acquainted, I take it?”
“Yes, yes. Not as close as Emily here, but Wild Bill and I go back to early ’41, when we initiated efforts to coordinate our intelligence organizations. He’s been a great friend to the British.”
Thorn nodded, then turned to Bright, who was staring at him. “I understand from Colonel Donovan that you were the right hand of the prime minister. He went so far as to call you a ‘selfless patriot.’”
Bright looked down at the table and folded her hands. A wisp of her hair fell across her face. “Praise that I certainly don’t deserve, not in light of the sacrifices that so many others have made,” she said, looking a bit less cheery than she had when Thorn first arrived.
“Emily, how is your mother getting on?” Fleming asked.
“She’s strong, Ian. You must be to have a husband in the Merchant Navy all these years,” she said, draining her glass. “Can I bum a cigarette?”
“Yes, my dear.” After lighting Bright’s cigarette, Fleming turned to Thorn and offered him a cigarette.
Thorn waved it off. “Your father’s a man of the sea?” he asked, turning back to Bright.
“Yes. Or was. We lost him only a few weeks ago. He was the captain of the SS Empire Stevenson. A cargo ship carrying munitions that was part of the last convoy to Russia. Torpedoed by a U-boat.” Bright looked off in the distance as she spoke and took a strong drag on the cigarette.
“I’m so sorry,” Thorn said.
“Thank you. It still hurts. But my work has saved me.”
“I hate to lay it on so thick, but what word of Richard?” Fleming probed.
“None. All I can do is hope, pray, that he is alive. All we know is that his ship made it through.”
Fleming leaned toward Thorn. “Emily’s brother, Richard, followed in his father’s footsteps and joined the British Merchant Navy several years ago. He was aboard the merchantman Rochester Castle on convoy relief to Malta. His ship was strafed and bombed but made it through. No word on Richard, unfortunately.”
Thorn’s gut filled with a hot sense of sadness at the suffering that Bright was enduring. He caught his breath for a moment. You are not alone, Emily Bright.
Fleming turned back toward Bright. “Don’t look now, Emily, but the ever-popular Kim Philby is fast approaching, and he looks none too happy for some reason.”
Fleming put out his cigarette and readied another as Philby approached, wearing a blue pinstripe suit with a bright-white shirt. He had his hair slicked back with a sharp, long part on his right side. He took an empty chair and placed his drink on the table.
“And here I thought the Broadway was for senior officers,” Philby said, stressing the S in seniors.
“Tonight, Emily is an ‘evening member,’ with a powerful benefactor, I might add,” Fleming replied.
“Let me guess—none other than our intrepid prime minister.”
“You know, Kim, people who don’t know you—such as Conor Thorn here—don’t know when you’re being sarcastic and when you’re being serious,” Fleming said as he locked eyes with Philby.
“Well then, I should get to know Conor Thorn. So, who are you?”
“Conor works for Bill Donovan,” Fleming offered.
Philby turned sharply to Thorn at the mention of Donovan’s name. “Ah, Wild Bill Donovan. So tell me, Conor Thorn, why are the Americans so inept at keeping secrets?”
Thorn immediately saw where Philby was coming from—and going to. “Well, I’m not sure what the hell you’re talking about, but I’ll say this: we’re new to this spy game. But give us time. You’ll be learning from us one day.”
“Well, bloody good for you and Wild Bill Donovan.”
Thorn realized that throwing a punch in another bar, particularly one in the basement of MI6, would result in him being sent to an OSS outpost in the Aleutian Islands. But he would remember this conversation with the overserved Philby.
“I do have one question for Miss Bright though” Philby said, pressing on. “Why is an MI6 operative, a new and untested one at that, and not an MI5 operative assigned to clean up what is a domestic mess for the Americans?” Philby asked as he drained his highball.
How much does this asshole know?
“I trust the prime minister knows what he’s doing,” Bright said.
Philby pushed his chair back from the table, his legs a bit wobbly. “Well, good luck cleaning up the mess.” He stumbled as he headed back toward the bar but regained his balance before crashing into a table occupied by three huddled together, gray-haired men.
Fleming grunted. “Well, that was pleasant.”
“Ian, he’s just miffed that his section five isn’t involved. Pay him no mind.” She waved off the interaction with Philby as she spoke.
“Involved in what?” he pressed.
“Can’t say. But knowing you, you’ll pry the lid off someone and find out—it won’t be my lid though.” She smiled.
“Just tell me one thing,” Thorn interjected, still following Philby’s progress through the room with his gaze. “Whose side is he on?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
0900 Hours, Tuesday, October 6, 1942
Office of Commander Harry Butcher, Headquarters ETOUSA, No. 20 Grosvenor Street
A grim-faced woman held the door open to Commander Butcher’s office and with a practically inaudible voice announced Thorn and Bright’s arrival. When Thorn passed by the woman, he noticed that her eyes were red and swollen. She clutched a dingy handkerchief in her hand.
What the hell is going on here?
Thorn entered the office first. The air was fouled with stale cigarette smoke, and Thorn’s glance snagged on the six or so cigarettes in the glass ashtray on Butcher’s desk. But he also detected the smell of something else he couldn’t put a name to. Butcher was standing behind the desk, looking out a twelve-by-twelve-inch window, which overlooked Grosvenor Square.
“Did you know the British call the square Eisenhowerplatz?” Butcher said, his back to his guests. The engines of several vehicles could be heard through the second-floor window. “I am told that the square used to be beautiful: lush, green lawns and dense gardens. Now it looks as if the entire US Army has been training on it for the past month.” Butcher turned and approached Thorn and Bright. “Please, sit.”
“Thank you, Commander,” Thorn said. Butcher’s face was drawn and pale, and Thorn knew from his own days of standing long watches on the bridge of the Reuben James that it was from lack of sleep—Butcher looked as if he had pulled a few midwatches himself.
Butcher shook a cigarette from a pack of Lucky Strikes, which he tossed onto his desk, and proceeded to light up. “Well, let’s get on with it. I believe you have both been given a general idea as to our situation. Is that right?”
Thorn and Bright looked at each other and nodded.
“Good. I have a file here for you both to review. It contains notes on all the interrogations of the film lab’s staff and a copy of the report filed by Army Intelligence. There’s some background information on the lab’s staff. No red flags with the staff, except maybe the officer in charge, a Lieutenant Johannson. Not the sharpest tool in the shed.”
Butcher opened the file, pulled out a report, and pawed through it until he found the page he wanted. “As far as the break-in is concerned, based on a statement from Johannson, the lab had been broken into sometime between late Friday night and early Saturday morning.”
“What was taken?” Thorn asked.
“That’s just it—apparently nothing. That’s why Johannson didn’t report it. No equipment, no files, nothing, at least according to Johannson.”
“Has the lab been a target before?” asked Bright
.
“No. At least not that we’re aware of. It’s only been in operation for four months.”
“Fingerprints . . .footprints?” Thorn asked.
“Don’t know. A team from MI5 has been sent to the lab. G2 doesn’t have the resources. We’ll know something soon, but I do know there was some blood found on the door that was used to gain entry.”
“Who from MI5 is handling it, Commander?” Bright asked.
“A Trevor Hightower. Reach out to him and get briefed.”
“Will do,” Bright said.
“One thing you should know though. We couldn’t locate two of the people who visited the lab. One is an RAF warrant officer by the name of Montgomery. He’s attached to Coastal Command and—”
“Coastal Command?” Thorn asked.
Bright nodded, her attention riveted on the commander. “Their primary responsibility is to provide air cover and defense of convoys heading to the Soviet Union,” she recited to Butcher and then glanced at Thorn.
“Where is he based, Commander?” Thorn asked.
“Northwood, southwest of here.”
“Sounds like a good place to start, but you said two people,” Thorn said.
“I did. The other is a Captain Toulouse, attached to the BCRA, Free French Intelligence. They’re over on Duke Street. You need to know that this Toulouse happens to be a nephew of General de Gaulle. And that could be a big problem for us.”
“Yes. I get it,” Thorn said. “A question, sir: We know where the diary page was last known to be, but why was it being microfilmed?”
Butcher shrugged. “It’s part of the process of compiling the general’s wartime diary. We’ve been doing it for months. Why do you ask?”
“Just filling in some missing information. Whose responsibility is it to handle the day-to-day diary work?”
“Well, by my direction, Elizabeth Weddington handles the brunt of it.”
“By any chance is Weddington the woman who let us in?”
“Yes.”
“Has she been questioned?” asked Thorn.
“Yes, by me, very early on.”
“She was the last person to possess the document?” Bright asked.
“Yes.”
Butcher squirmed in his chair somewhat. “Listen, both of you. You’re barking up the wrong tree, so don’t waste your time, which you don’t have much of.”
Touchy. Thorn stole a quick glance at Bright, who nodded at Butcher.
“Before we leave, I’d appreciate it if Bright met with Miss Weddington for a moment, if you’ll allow it. I can’t help but wonder if she would be more comfortable talking with another woman instead of a man. We might learn something.”
“Ahh, suit yourself.” Butcher closed the file and handed it to Thorn. “We’re done here.”
Thorn and Bright began to stand, but Butcher held up his hand to stop them.
“Let me add to the picture. General Eisenhower has orders from the highest Allied levels that the French, free or otherwise, be rendered blind and deaf as to what may or may not be happening in French North Africa. You understand what ‘orders’ means, Mr. Thorn?”
“Yes, sir. I have my own set, and I have every intention of following them.”
“Good. Now we’re done.”
Thorn and Bright stood.
“Remember.” Butcher tapped the face of his watch with his index finger to finish his thought.
“Understood, Commander.” Don’t worry. The clock in my head doesn’t tick; it pounds with each passing second.
#
Miles Stoker stood outside the brick building that housed the film lab, his neck tilted back, his face to the gray sky, his wide-brimmed hat in his hand. A fine mist settled on his face as he watched a white-bellied, two-engine, twin-tailed plane making a very low approach to the nearby runway. The sound from the plane’s engines filled the air around him and rattled in his chest. His good ear was overwhelmed with engine roar.
“Are you lost, sir?”
Stoker continued to track the plane’s approach.
“Sir?” Someone was tapping him on his shoulder.
He spun around and saw a US Army private jump back a step. The man held up both hands in a surrender pose. “Sorry . . . sorry, sir. You looked a bit lost. I was just asking—”
“No, no. My apologies entirely. Bad ear, you see. Just taking in the scenery. Quite impressive.”
“Very good, sir. So you know where you’re going?”
“Yes. Right in there, if the guards at the front gate were correct. This is the Eighth Army Air Forces film lab, right?”
“That would be right.”
“Thank you, Private. I’ll be on my way then.” Stoker replaced his black felt hat on his head and moved toward the building. After a minute of orienting himself, Stoker found himself at the double doors to the film lab. Another army private, a rifle slung over his shoulder, was there to greet him.
“Your business, sir?”
“Ahh, I’m with British Intelligence. I’m here on official business.”
“Identification?”
“Certainly.” Stoker pulled a leather wallet from his raincoat pocket and flipped it open. The private leaned over and squinted. As he silently read the identification card, his lips moved.
“OK, Mr. Higgins. You may pass,” the man said as he opened and held the door for him.
He removed his hat and entered.
Inside the lab, the first sensation was the intense, sinus-clearing chemical odor followed by the loud, low-bass hum of machinery. The only person in sight was a lieutenant, stooped over a counter, examining a stack of photos with a magnifying glass, deeply engrossed.
“Leftenant?” Stoker said, moving closer to the counter.
The officer didn’t move. “What?”
“My name is Higgins. Attached to MI5, British Intelligence. May I have a word?”
“About what? And it’s lieutenant, Mr. Higgins, Lieutenant Johannson,” the officer said, raising his upper body to a standing position. He placed the magnifying glass on the counter and, with both hands, smoothed some errant hairs on the top of his head.
“Yes, of course, Lieutenant Johannson. I’m here—”
“About the break-in . . . the missing document, whatever the hell it was. Am I right?”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. What did you say? I’ve a bit of trouble with my hearing, you see.”
“I said,” the lieutenant said, drawing out his words, “the missing document—you’re here about that.”
“Ah, yes, Left—Lieutenant. Correct. So what can you tell me?” Stoker drew closer to the counter and placed his fedora on it.
Johannson starred at the wide-brimmed hat for a moment. “Listen, Mr. Higgins. Been through this with a whole bunch of other muckety-mucks. I’ve got a lot of work to do. Why don’t you talk to Commander Butcher from Ike’s office? He’ll fill you in.”
Stoker’s confidence in his ruse was growing. “Already done, Lieutenant. But I’ve got bosses like you and Commander Butcher, and I need to form my own picture about this tits-up situation.”
“What the hell did you say?”
It was the first time that Stoker clearly picked up on the slight drawl.
“Sorry, Lieutenant. I meant to say that I was looking into just what went wrong.”
Johannson began shaking his head, smirking as he walked down the counter toward Stoker.
“Lieutenant. The missing document. Is there anything that you haven’t already reported to the other . . . investigators?”
Johannson scratched his head and looked up at the ceiling. “Well, can’t say there is.” He massaged his chin and looked down at the floor. “I . . . can’t think of anything.” He shook his head slowly. “Oh, there was one thing.” Johannson’s attention turned to the lab’s doors as a young woman in her midtwenties entered along with an American sergeant. The woman, with auburn hair and light-bronze-colored skin, had a briefcase that was handcuffed to her wrist. She approached
the counter. “Excuse me, Mr. Higgins,” Johannson said, scurrying down the counter to meet the woman.
Stoker took the opportunity to take some notes while Johannson fussed over the woman. When he looked up, he saw them both looking at him. They broke off their staring almost immediately followed by a high-pitched laugh from the woman. Johannson took the briefcase from her and disappeared into the rear of the lab, returning quickly with another briefcase, which the woman cuffed to her wrist. She turned toward the door, which the sergeant held open. Before passing through it, she turned briefly and shot a look at Stoker, complete with a wry smile.
Johannson returned, and Stoker could discern the remnants of a blush on his cheeks.
“So who was that, Lieutenant, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“That’s Miss Weddington. She works for Commander Butcher . . . in Ike’s office. She comes here a lot.”
“She’s quite . . . pretty.”
“I’ll say. I can’t keep my staff in line when she’s here. That’s why I’m her point man,” Johannson said, the tenor of pride unmistakable.
“You mentioned there was something else. What was it?”
Johannson looked blankly at Stoker. At that moment, Stoker knew he could waste no more time in this tomb. “I don’t rightly remember what it was, Mr. Higgins. Sorry. If I remember—”
“Listen, Lieutenant Johannson.” Stoker motioned Johannson closer to him, and the man complied, leaning over the counter. Stoker went nose-to-nose, which made Johannson noticeably uncomfortable. “The missing document. It is critical that it be found. If you or any of your staff should come across any information . . . any information at all concerning its whereabouts, I can say that British Intelligence would pay dearly for it. I personally will see to it. Am I making myself clear, Lieutenant? We will pay. I will personally see to it.”
Johannson backed up a step. He nodded solemnly as if he had just heard a dying man’s confession. Stoker reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small card. “Here is where I can be reached. Call anytime. If not me, someone will answer. Trust me.”
