The Torch Betrayal

by Glenn Dyer

  “Listen to me. I’ll grant you that there are disturbing revelations concerning Longworth that we need to get to the bottom of. But don’t waste your time chasing Philby. You’ll look like a fool.” With that, she spun around and headed toward the elevator.

  “So do me a favor,” Thorn said, trailing behind. “Get me the home address for this guy Bullard. I want to check out his place.”

  Bright stopped again and turned to him. “Just what are you looking for?” she asked, her tone only slightly less frustrated.

  “I don’t know. I may not know until I find it,” Thorn said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  1600 Hours, Saturday, October 10, 1942

  OSS Headquarters, No. 70 Grosvenor Street, London

  As Thorn grabbed the doorknob, he heard Bill Donovan’s raised voice through the door.

  “Take a seat, Thorn,” David Bruce said without looking up when Thorn entered the office. Bruce’s tone was eerily similar to the Naval Academy’s superintendent when Thorn had been called on the carpet for removing the University of Virginia’s bus’s engine the night before the academy took them on in football. Removing the engine alone was enough to get Thorn in hot water, but convincing the offensive line to dump the engine in the Severn River had nearly made the superintendent’s head explode. That hadn’t ended well. Get ready, Conor, he thought.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hello, Conor,” a red-faced Donovan said. He was seated on a brown leather couch with several files in his lap.

  Thorn swiveled a club chair so he could see both men and took his seat.

  “You or me?” Bruce asked, looking at Donovan with wide eyes and raised eyebrows.

  “You’ve been chomping at the bit for the last few hours. Have at it.”

  Bruce turned his attention to Thorn but sat back and appeared to order his thoughts before he spoke. “The colonel is right. I have been ‘chomping at the bit’ ever since he received a call from General Eisenhower, who, in turn, received a call from the prime minister that was prompted by a visit from a Henry Longworth. Does that name ring a bell, Thorn?”

  “It does, yes, sir.” Shit does roll downhill.

  “Well, that’s a good start. Because it seems Longworth certainly remembers you.” Bruce sat up straighter. “People tend to remember those who accuse them of betraying their government.”

  “Sir, I did not accuse him of anything. I asked some questions about his nephew, who had been seen at the film lab after General Eisenhower’s missing document was taken there. He took offense to his relationship to someone who might know something about the missing document. He pretty much wrote his own script about our meeting.”

  Bruce held up his hands to stop Thorn. “Listen, Thorn, it’s no secret to anyone over here that we are new to this wartime intelligence game. We work hard, every day, to build a reputation as an effective, trustworthy organization. We need to cultivate support among the British to be able to tap into their experience. Pissing off a member of the prime minister’s war cabinet isn’t helpful. In fact, it’s plain stupid.”

  Thorn’s anger simmered. “We were following the few clues we did have. We wouldn’t have been doing our jobs if we hadn’t. It was just odd that someone who might have walked out of the film lab with the missing diary page was the nephew of a cabinet member.”

  “That might be a reason to trust the nephew. Did that occur to you?” Bruce said, his scoffing tone not lost on Thorn.

  “I think it makes no sense to trust anyone until we find the missing diary page,” Thorn said in Donovan’s direction. I could use some help here, Colonel.

  Bruce sat back in his chair but kept his gaze locked on Thorn.

  “Did this nephew give you straight answers when you talked to him?” Donovan asked as he stood and put his files on Bruce’s desk.

  “He was the nervous type. Maybe not the brightest member of Coastal Command, and Bright did notice something odd.”

  “Odd? Meaning?” Donovan asked.

  “While I was asking Montgomery questions, Bright looked around his quarters. She found a small packet containing a tarlike substance.”

  “What was it?” asked Bruce, lighting a cigarette.

  “We’re not sure.”

  “So what the hell are we talking about?” Bruce asked as he tossed his lighter onto the desk.

  “Bright thinks it might be opium.”

  “So now you’re investigating illegal drug use by some low-ranking RAF officer? What the hell does this have to do with finding the missing diary page?” Bruce fumed.

  Donovan glared at Thorn, and Thorn realized if he couldn’t convince Donovan that they were on the right track, he couldn’t convince anyone.

  “Most likely nothing. But it paints Longworth’s nephew as someone who isn’t on the up-and-up. Maybe someone to keep our eye on for a few days.”

  “And what about Longworth?” Donovan asked as he paced the floor, his hands in his pockets. Thorn heard the sound of coins jingling.

  “Well, that’s where it gets interesting. We’ve found out that he’s been communicating with a bishop in Rome on a regular basis. He’s using the diplomatic pouch that goes back and forth between Westminster Cathedral and the Vatican.”

  Donovan stopped pacing and exchanged glances with Bruce.

  “That has to be a violation of the Vatican’s neutrality, isn’t it, Bill?” Bruce asked.

  “I’m not sure, but it does violate the pouch’s diplomatic immunity.”

  “Colonel, that’s the least of it. It turns out that this bishop has a reputation for being an informer for the Abwehr.”

  Neither Bruce nor Donovan responded. Thorn looked at each man. Bruce was first to move, quickly putting out his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray. Donovan then dropped into the chair beside Thorn.

  “You have to be joking. Where did you learn that?” Donovan asked.

  “Something a friend of mine mentioned led us to MI6’s Central Registry. They have a file on this Bishop Heinz. He even has a nickname: ‘the Brown Bishop.’”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Bruce said under his breath.

  Thorn leaned forward. “But there’s something screwy going on. His file at Central Registry says he’s dead—just last month.”

  Bruce threw his head back. “Aww, come on. You’re telling us you’re chasing a dead man?”

  Thorn twisted in his chair to face Bruce. “That’s just it. I don’t think he’s dead.”

  Donovan and Bruce shared bewildered looks “How do the hell do you figure that?” Donovan asked.

  “Well . . . the last guy to check out the file, just a week ago . . . is dead too.”

  Bruce slammed his desk with the palms of his hands and shook his head. “Bill, this has gone too far. We—”

  Donovan halted Bruce with a raise hand. “Go on, Conor.”

  “Colonel, I’m convinced that we’re onto something. I can’t explain why the last guy who read the file is dead. Maybe . . .” Thorn rubbed his forehead with his fingertips, then stopped suddenly. “Maybe he doctored the file to knock us off track. And them someone took care of a . . . …loose end. I don’t know. But I do know you’ve to back me on this. We’re stepping on someone’s toes.”

  “Why are you so convinced?” Donovan asked, his face knotted with doubt.

  Thorn sat back. “Thursday night, someone took a couple of potshots at Bright and me.”

  Donovan sat bolt upright. “Good God. Was Emily hurt?”

  “No.” And I’m OK too, Colonel. “We hit the dirt just in time.”

  “And you think all of this is connected somehow?” Donovan asked.

  “After learning about Longworth’s relationship with Heinz and seeing his file, I don’t think—I know it is. That shooting incident wasn’t random. At that point, we hadn’t accomplished much. Actually, we had only seen Longworth’s nephew. He was the one person that Commander Butcher and G2 hadn’t questioned because they couldn’t find him. We rattled him, and . . . I think L
ongworth too.”

  Donovan and Bruce fell silent for several moments. “Do you have any leads that don’t point to Longworth?” Bruce finally asked.

  “Well, we did track down the Frenchman Toulouse. That led nowhere. Just some hothead that has it in for us and the Brits. He’s just an errand boy, running back and forth from the BCRA to the film lab.”

  “That reminds me,” Donovan said. He reached back toward the desk and snatched a notepad. “Who’s Lieutenant Johannson?”

  “Ahh, he’s in charge of the lab. Supposedly the point man for Miss Weddington when she drops off material to be microfilmed. Why?”

  “I got a call from Commander Butcher and according to Weddington, he’s been AWOL for the last two days. No one knows anything. What’s that mean to you?”

  Thorn was quiet as he thought, and Donovan threw the notepad back on the desk.

  “It could just be some guy shacked up with some a woman or someone on a bender, but it seems too coincidental,” Thorn said. Damn, you were making some headway in rough seas there for a minute. Until this newsflash. “I’ll dig into this Johannson character. And I want to look into Longworth’s background some more. I need to understand the relationship between him and Heinz. That relationship seems to loom larger than anything this Johannson might be involved in.”

  Bruce grimaced and shook his head. “Bill, the prime minister needs a heads-up on Thorn’s . . . thinking,” he said.

  “Agreed. I’ll handle that as soon as I make this clear: Conor, I do not want any further direct contact with Longworth unless you get my approval. Your ass shouldn’t be the only one on the line with General Eisenhower or the prime minister.”

  Thorn took a deep breath an exhaled slowly. “Understood, Colonel.”

  “Now, get going. I need to reach out to the prime minister and try to convince him he may have a spy in his cabinet.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  1800 Hours, Saturday, October 10, 1942

  Caxton Bar, Saint Ermin’s Hotel, No. 2 Caxton Street, London

  The bar was filled with men, some in uniform but most in civilian attire. What few women there were in the bar soaked up the rapt attention of the men. Cigarette smoke swirled above the heads of the bar’s patrons, who were predominantly English, and glasses were raised to survival. Thorn stood in the bar’s entry, off the lobby of the hotel, and spotted Bright looking at the crowd of celebrants while seated on a small cream-colored sofa in a window alcove.

  “There you are,” she said, a cup and saucer resting in her lap.

  “How did your meeting go?” Thorn asked as he sank into an armchair opposite her. Before she could reply, a middle-aged woman approached and, without taking notice of either of them, noisily closed the window shutters behind the sofa and then turned and left.

  “As expected. I was able to fit in at least two words while he paused for breath. I didn’t realize that he and Longworth shared some history.”

  “So you didn’t lay it out for him, the connection between Longworth and Heinz?”

  “No, I did not. I must be absolutely sure that there are reasons to suspect he’s involved in something nefarious. His station demands that.”

  Station my ass. “Listen to me—we’re onto something here. And I think I convinced Colonel Donovan of that fact.”

  “That’s just it. It’s not a fact in my mind; it’s only a theory.”

  Thorn shook his head. I don’t understand why she won’t at least try to connect the dots.

  “Any luck connecting with Hightower?” Thorn asked.

  Bright sighed heavily. “No. I’m quite confounded by it all. But there is something else I need to tell you,” she said. “You have to promise me you won’t overreact.”

  If she defends Longworth any more . . . Thorn hesitated, then nodded.

  “About five minutes before you arrived, while I was ordering my tea, I caught sight of Maggie. She was in the lobby talking to someone. But before I finished ordering, she had already left.”

  “Oh. That’s too bad.” He looked at her questioningly. “Why would I overreact to that?”

  “It was who she was speaking to.”

  As long as it wasn’t Bobby Heugle. “Go on.”

  “Special Operations Executive . . . they do their recruiting upstairs.”

  The SOE? Another one of Britain’s clandestine organizations, this one set up by Churchill to “set Europe ablaze.” “Maybe she’s doing some research for a story,” Thorn said.

  “Conor, few people in Britain even know the SOE exists. They don’t talk.”

  “Wait a minute. Don’t tell me they recruit people who aren’t Brits.”

  “That’s what I’m not sure of. I’d have to reach out to someone.”

  “All right. And I’ll track down Maggie. I’m sure there’s an explanation for it.” Maggie, talk about pushing Dad’s buttons. “By the way,” he said. “I understand that a who’s who will be at Paddington Station in a couple of days to meet Eleanor Roosevelt, including members of the cabinet. I was thinking of heading out there to—”

  “To do what? To badger Longworth yet again?” Bright rolled her eyes.

  “No, no. Just call it an opportunity to observe.”

  “Or an opportunity to annoy?”

  Thorn heard footsteps close behind him and turned to see Ian Fleming approaching their table.

  “You two look way too serious to be in a bar, so I come bearing gifts.” Fleming placed a tray with three martinis on the table between Thorn and Bright and, with a quick move, snatched one and plunked down on the sofa next to Bright. “And what are the two of you conspiring about? And if you can’t tell me, just say, ‘Oh, shut up, Ian.’”

  “Thanks for the drinks. I believe we both could use them. Oh, and shut up, Ian,” Thorn said, snatching a martini from the tray.

  Fleming snorted into his drink and managed to spill most of it on his trousers.

  Bright smiled at Thorn and turned to Fleming, who was sopping up his martini with his handkerchief. “On a different note, tell me something. How well acquainted are you with Henry Longworth?” she asked as she took the last martini.

  Fleming shot a quizzical look in her direction. “Hmm, that’s a question out of the blue. Well . . . he has history with Winston. And Winston is, among his many laudable qualities, exceedingly loyal to his friends. But Longworth does have a growing reputation for being a bit of a . . . crackpot.”

  “A crackpot? That’s rather harsh,” Bright said.

  Thorn sat back and nursed his drink, letting Bright dig a little bit.

  “Maybe, but it looks as if it’s deserved. He seems to be unrestrained when it comes to voicing his disdain for our Soviet ally.”

  “What’s the reason for his attitude toward the Soviets? They seem to be pulling their weight and then some,” Bright said.

  Fleming drained what was left of his drink. “Emily, it comes down to plain hatred for the communists—a hatred once shared by Winston himself, by the way. That was when Longworth and Winston were of like mind.”

  “There’s a distrust of Stalin in a lot of places, including among many in the United States,” Thorn said.

  “Yes, but it goes further for Longworth. He couldn’t care less about providing the second front that Stalin is screaming for. In fact, at Naval Intelligence Division, we heard that Longworth told Winston in a cabinet meeting that he should put off Torch until some security breach the Americans are dealing with is contained.”

  Thorn and Bright exchanged quick glances. Fleming stopped talking, and Thorn saw that Fleming had taken note of the exchange. So Longworth wants to put off Torch. I hope Bright heard that. Fleming fed a cigarette into a silver holder.

  “You were saying, Ian?” Bright said.

  “Yes . . . well, according to a school chum of mine who is our naval attaché in Moscow—or should I say, NID’s man in Moscow—calling off Torch wouldn’t bother the Russians too much.” Fleming’s eyes darted from Bright to Thorn, looking,
Thorn thought, for any reaction.

  “Why is that?” Thorn asked.

  “Word is they think that Torch is a horrible idea that will achieve little strategically.”

  “So where exactly do you get all this information?” Thorn asked.

  Fleming snorted and squinted through the haze of smoke he blew across the table. “Ah, Conor, you will soon learn that the British intelligence community resembles a big, happy family—a family that shares.”

  Thorn polished off his drink. “A family of spies. Hold on to your wallets, everyone.”

  Bright nailed Thorn with a look of disapproval, but Fleming roared with laughter.

  “So, it’s your turn. Tell me—why the interest in a member of Winston’s cabinet?” Fleming asked.

  “I wish we could get into that, but we can’t. Not now,” Bright said, looking at Thorn. “In fact, we’ve said too much already. Can I trust you not to mention our interest in Longworth to anyone?”

  Fleming nodded, smirking slightly. “I am the most trusted man in England. You should know that by now, Emily.” Fleming, his smirk now a wide grin, was reloading his cigarette holder when a youthful, petite woman in an olive-green wool jacket and skirt approached the table and pulled a small envelope from a cloth satchel that hung from her shoulder.

  “Mr. Fleming, message for you. I’m to wait for a reply.”

  Fleming, his cigarette holder at an angle between his pursed lips, tore open the envelope and read the short note. “Ahh, it seems that my boss is in a bit of a snit with the admiralty and is looking for some . . . creative solutions.” Fleming turned to the young woman. “Tell him I will be along momentarily.”

  “Yes, sir,” the messenger said as she saluted and turned on her heels to exit the bar.

  Fleming gathered up his lighter and cigarettes from the table and donned his officer’s hat. “Well, I must be off. Duty and all that.”

  “Ian . . . can you tell me if the organization upstairs recruits people from . . . say the US?”

  “Well, my impression is that they’ll take anyone crazy enough to join them. Cheers to you both.”