by Glenn Dyer
“That’s some title, Elizabeth.” Thorn smiled. “Nice to meet you.”
Nel chuckled. “Well, Yankee humor. We can use some of that down here. Come, the prime minister is expecting you. He is talking to the president at the moment, whom he roused out of bed, mind you, so I am sure he will be done in short order.” Nel headed to a door marked Staircase 15, and the group began their descent. The dreary atmosphere in the staircase was bolstered by low light, peeling paint, and a frosty dampness that made Thorn consider what it was like in the deep winter.
At the bottom of the staircase, Nel hit a buzzer mounted on the wall alongside a massive wooden door that prompted someone on the other side to slide open a four-by-four-inch speakeasy door. The guard peering through silently approved the guests and slid open the door that sat on rails embedded in the concrete floor. They entered a hallway, narrow and low ceilinged. Thick wooden support beams that sustained the weight of the building above sprouted in every direction. Aiding that effort were sporadically placed steel girders, each painted a bright red and stamped with the name of its fabricator: Dorman Long & Co. As they moved down the hallway, Thorn noticed a middle-aged man dressed in a gray, double-breasted suit with a trench coat draped over his left arm, leaning against the wall at the far end. As they approached, he stood, his head barely clearing a wood support beam. Nel came to a halt and placed her hand on the gentleman’s shoulder.
“D’Arcy Osborne, this is Emily Bright and Conor Thorn. Also here to see the prime minister. D’Arcy is Britain’s minister to the Vatican.”
Bright’s look of surprise was not lost on Thorn.
We need to buttonhole this guy about the Brown Bishop, he thought. But when?
“A pleasure to meet you both,” Osborne said as he shook hands while adding a slight bow. “Elizabeth, I was just about finished with the prime minister, or I should say he was just about finished with me, when his attempt to reach the president succeeded. I simply would like to bid him farewell, as I am not quite sure when I will see him again.”
Thorn found it difficult to understand Osborne’s heavily accented speech. He spoke in a formal, restrained, upper-crust manner.
“I’m sure he won’t be long,” Nel replied. “The only item on today’s list was a review of the first day of Eleanor Roosevelt’s visit.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Osborne, but would it be correct to assume that you are acquainted with Henry Longworth?” asked Thorn.
“Oh, quite so. We worked together for several years before the war began. Rather interesting years, I must say.” Before Thorn could ask Osborne about Bishop Heinz, the door to Thorn’s right opened and revealed Churchill with his cigar wedged tightly between his fore and middle fingers. The room Churchill exited was not more than five feet wide and ten feet deep. A desk sat at the far end of the room, and olive-green metal shelves were anchored to the wall. On the desk were a green, hooded banker’s lamp, a black Bakelite phone, and an ashtray overcome with spent tobacco ash.
“Well, I see that I have merited a greeting party. Not entirely as big as the First Lady’s, but it will do.” Churchill smiled warmly at Bright and gave her a lingering hug, deftly avoiding stabbing her with his cigar.
Thorn noticed Bright blush a bit.
“And you must be Conor Thorn. I’ve heard much about you from Emily here and, of course, Bill Donovan. They both sing your praises.”
Thorn saw that Churchill’s comment deepened Bright’s blush.
“And your call with the president? It went well?” Nel asked.
“Oh, yes. Quite so. He is happy with the grand start to Eleanor’s trip, as am I. It will go a long way to further cementing our strong relationship,” Churchill said, waving his cigar and dispatching ash to the concrete floor.
“Prime Minister, I must take my leave,” Osborne said. “So thoughtful of you to spend time with me. I hope my briefing was found useful.”
“Oh, D’Arcy, of course it was.” Churchill turned toward Bright and Thorn. “D’Arcy is to be commended for his service at the Vatican.” Churchill began poking the space between him and Thorn with his cigar for emphasis. “A rat’s nest of spies if there ever was one. His work there has, indeed, been impactful, so much so that he will be knighted in a week’s time.”
“So kind, Prime Minister. I am sorry to say that I am running late for a lunch that is being given by your war cabinet. Good day to you all.”
“Certainly, you shouldn’t be late for your own lunch,” Churchill said.
“Mr. Osborne, might we meet with you to discuss a Bishop Heinz?” Thorn asked. “I believe he runs the—”
“German College,” Osborne finished for him.
Churchill, his brow furrowed, looked at Bright and cocked his head.
“I’d be happy to. Quite a scoundrel, that man. Certainly can’t be trusted. I’m staying at the Savoy,” Osborne said as he pulled on his trench coat.
“D’Arcy, I’ll walk you out,” Nel offered.
“Then let us move into the Cabinet War Room, shall we?” Churchill ushered Thorn and Bright down the hall, to a square-shaped room. In the ceiling, red-painted steel girders crisscrossed above a blue-felt-covered table that mirrored the shape of the room. Churchill took his seat with his back to a world map that spanned ten feet of the wall. A box covered in red leather that rested directly in front of the prime minister mesmerized Thorn. It was too big for a cigar box and too small for a toolbox. Thorn supposed it was the perfect size for a gun box, in case Churchill wanted to calm the dissension among his cabinet members.
Churchill settled into his chair and relit his cigar. As he did, Thorn and Bright took seats side by side, near the door to the hallway. A small fan adjacent to the map and above Churchill’s shoulder whirled and oscillated, dispersing the cigar smoke throughout the room.
“Hopefully, you both bring good news.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Thorn and Bright switched off briefing Churchill. Thorn led the charge when it came to explaining the suspicions about Longworth, his behavior at Paddington Station, and his connection to the Vatican and the Brown Bishop Heinz, something that Churchill seemed to take particular note of.
“He’s a fascist?”
“To the extent that he earned the name ‘Brown Bishop,’” Thorn said.
“And his own file at MI6’s Central Registry,” Bright added.
Churchill lost the pinkness in his cheeks as he pulled another cigar from his breast pocket. Thorn waited for him to light his cigar, but he just continued to scowl at Thorn.
Churchill turned his attention to Bright as she gave details about Montgomery, Toulouse, and MI5’s tailing of Toulouse that led to information concerning his involvement with the Spanish embassy.
Churchill dropped back in his chair. “And what do you make of all that?”
“Unclear, Prime Minister,” Bright said. “It’s a neutral country, but one governed by fascists being visited by a low-level member of the French intelligence. It’s concerning.”
“It may all be connected,” Thorn said.
The room fell silent except for the sound of the fan. Churchill cocked his head toward the two agents and took a moment before he responded. Thorn looked at Bright, who gave no indication she might know what was coming.
“What you’ve done—what you both have done—is, to my mind, not make much headway in actually finding the missing document. That alone will make me lose sleep. There appears, at this point, no direct connection from the document to Longworth, his nephew, or this BCRA chap. But what disturbs me more is this information about Longworth’s correspondence habits.” Churchill stood and leaned on the table. “Tread as heavily as is necessary with Longworth, with no concern as to my feelings. Do so quietly, but get to the bottom of this bloody Frenchman. And above all, do not lose focus on locating the damned missing diary page. That is ultimately the paramount mission. Understood?” Churchill moved away from the table.
Thorn was the first to rise from his seat, followed by Brigh
t. The reply, “Understood,” uttered crisply and in unison, echoed off the steel girders above.
Thorn and Bright were not quite out the door of the cabinet room when Elizabeth Nel entered through the door behind them. She handed Churchill a note that he unfolded and read. He fell back into his chair. Thorn heard the air in the seat cushion as it was quickly ejected by Churchill’s girth.
“Please sit again. Both of you,” Churchill said in a low voice. Nel stood stoically beside him as he stared at the note. Thorn and Bright exchanged glances as they retook their seats. A list of possible complications raced through Thorn’s mind.
Churchill leaned over to Nel and whispered something. She raced from the room.
“Emily, we have received news of your brother.”
Thorn turned and studied her. She sat on the edge of her seat, hands folded in her lap. He could not detect her breathing. “It is not good, I’m afraid.” It took a moment before her shoulders slumped and she let out a long breath. She continued to stare at Churchill.
Nel returned, approached Bright, and laid a white handkerchief embroidered with the initials of E. C. N. before her. Bright didn’t touch it.
“Yes, sir. I . . . What happened to—”
“He succumbed to wounds that he received in the attack on his ship. I am told he is credited with saving the lives of several men during the attack. That is all we know. I am deeply sorry and . . . entirely sad.”
Thorn reached for Bright’s hand and squeezed it. He felt her hand tremble and she grasped his tightly.
Churchill and Nel quietly left the room.
“I’m so sorry. Good, decent people losing family. God knows I wish it weren’t the case.” Thorn understood too well loss and sacrifice and the unfairness of heaping so much of it on one person. He questioned if Bright too needed to seek justification for the sacrifices made by others.
“It’s war. And nothing about it is fair, Conor.” Her voice was soft and choked by emotion. With her free hand, she grabbed the handkerchief from the table and dabbed at the corners of her eyes and slowly rose from her chair. Thorn stood and pulled her to him, slipping his arm around her waist. The look of surprise quickly dissolved into one of relief. He felt her heart pounding. Or was it his?
As her green eyes brimmed with tears, he kissed her. She didn’t resist, giving herself to him. It was one kiss, lasting no more than a few seconds, but when he broke it off, she stared at him.
“I’m . . . I went too far,” Thorn said, setting her free.
She looked down and dried her eyes with the handkerchief, then looked up him. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
1030 Hours, Wednesday, October 14, 1942
Office of Field Marshall Keitel, Wunsdorf, Germany
The hour-long drive south to Wunsdorf from Berlin went by quickly, this primarily due to Canaris’s last-minute decision to take his two wire-haired dachshunds along with him. The playful and loyal dogs kept him occupied physically and, thankfully, mentally. When he had been summoned the day before to a meeting with Wilhelm Keitel, chief of the Supreme High Command of the German Armed Forces, he’d inquired as to the purpose. He was not given the courtesy of a reply.
Upon exiting his Mercedes, he gave instructions to the driver to take his dogs for a long walk and take note of their bowel movements, as he would want a report when he returned. The driver took his leave, and Canaris turned to look up at the massive bunker complex that housed the OKW—Oberkommando der Wehrmacht.
On Canaris’s first visit to Wunsdorf in the summer of 1939, Keitel had gushed with praise for his “fortress,” explaining that the bunkers, walls, and floors, which were composed of concrete and iron reinforcements, were more than three feet thick. He was especially proud of the fact that the bunkers were designed to look similar to houses from the air, so they had sloping tile roofs and chimneys that concealed air filter systems. At Keitel’s urging, German efforts to mask the bunkers went so far as to have fake windows painted on the walls. Nothing was as it seemed, mused Canaris.
Canaris was met by an SS guard who took him to Keitel’s office located in one of the two floors below ground level. Canaris found Keitel seated comfortably behind his desk in an ornately designed throne-like chair, its seat back rising well above the head of the field marshal. Keitel made no move to greet Canaris.
“Your trip was uneventful?” Keitel was in full dress uniform. His collar, buttoned tight, was decorated with the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross. Two rows of campaign and service ribbons adorned the area above his left breast pocket. Canaris heard the drone of a ventilation system as it spewed a metallic-smelling flow of air.
“It was, Field Marshall. It is good to see you. You look well.”
“Well then, why do I feel like shit?”
“I am sorry to hear that. Is it the Eastern Front that makes you ill?”
Keitel looked slyly at Canaris, who realized that he made Keitel a bit nervous. “It is a factor. One hour ago, I received an order from the führer. He wants the suspension of all activity on the Eastern Front except for Stalingrad and the Terek River in the Caucasus.”
“The führer is right, of course.”
Keitel again surveyed his visitor carefully. “Admiral, I will tell you what the führer is—he is deeply disappointed and dejected over your inability to provide any reliable material intelligence on where and when the Allies plan to establish a second front. When will you have the intelligence we are asking for? And I don’t want a question thrown back in my face. I want a direct answer.”
It provided no comfort to Canaris that Keitel wasn’t acting on his own initiative. The field marshal, who had a reputation as Hitler’s lackey, was clearly doing the bidding of his master, which put Keitel in the class of spineless desk warriors.
“My direct answer, Field Marshall, is soon.”
“That is all you have to say? What are you waiting for?”
“The Abwehr has uncovered intelligence regarding multiple targets for the second front. As I have told the führer myself, inaccurate intelligence serves no purpose. With much satisfaction, I can say that, any day now, I am expecting specific intelligence directly from inside Churchill’s inner circle.”
“His inner circle—what does that mean? Whom are you speaking of?”
“I can say no more other than to say that it is someone close to the prime minister himself.”
Keitel leaned over his desk and stared down at Canaris, “If he’s so close to Churchill, why doesn’t he shoot the schweinhund?”
Canaris sat motionless, silently hiding his amusement at Keitel calling Churchill a pig-dog.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
1100 Hours, Wednesday, October 14, 1942
Westminster Cathedral Clergy House, No. 42 Francis Street, London
Even the cool day couldn’t keep Longworth from sweating through his linen shirt. He was running late. The courier would be leaving with the pouch in less than fifteen minutes.
He steered the battleship-gray Humber around a double-decker bus that spewed a thick cloud of exhaust as it lumbered down Victoria Street, and picked up speed as he turned onto Ashley Place, leaning hard into the curve that connected to Morpeth Terrace.
Longworth eased the car alongside the curb in front of the clergy house. He jumped out and squinted at the early-morning sun. The chilled air against his damp shirt made him shiver.
While Longworth waited for Edith, the housekeeper, to answer the door, he took out the two envelopes he intended to drop in the pouch. His only concern was that no one see the letter that was addressed to himself care of D’Arcy Osborne, for it would certainly arouse suspicions.
The door opened and Edith stood there, short of breath. “Ahh, good morning to you, Mr. Longworth. Sorry to keep you waiting. Not movin’ so well this morning. It’s me joints that be botherin’ me. You’re here to see the cardinal? He—”
“No, no, Edith. Not today. I only wanted to drop a couple of letters int
o the pouch before it left this morning. The pouch hasn’t left yet, has it?” Longworth asked as he pushed past the housekeeper into the foyer.
“No, no. Father William hasn’t come downstairs yet—running late as usual. I believe he was packin’ a few things for the trip. The pouch is right there in the office.” Edith pointed down the far end of the foyer. “You was here Monday with a letter, wasn’t you? A lot to talk about, right, Mr. Longworth?”
“Yes, indeed. I’ll just drop them in if you don’t mind.”
“I’d be happy to do that for you, Mr. Longworth.” Edith extended her hand.
“No need, Edith. I’ll do it myself.” Longworth bolted for the far end of the foyer. He found the office door open and the pouch sitting on a chair beside the desk. The black valise had a gold-colored chain attached to a stout buckle on one end and a handcuff on the other. It sat open, filled with numerous letters of various sizes. He slipped his letters into the pouch, making sure they made it to the bottom.
He turned to exit the office, then stopped in the doorway. He suddenly became aware that with his letters now in the pouch, he had set something quite momentous in motion, the outcome of which would not be completely in his control. This notion unsettled him.
“Thank you so much, Edith. Tell the cardinal that I’ll stop by soon to catch up,” Longworth said as he passed the housekeeper, who stood by the still-open front door.
“I will, Mr. Longworth.”
He headed down the stone steps, toward the Humber. Thirty feet from the car, Father Sean Sullivan approached, his windswept, black cassock trailing behind him as he briskly walked toward the clergy house. Priest or not, the ever-smirking Irishman was not someone Longworth was fond of.
“Good morning, Mr. Longworth. Missed you at Mass today. Everything is well, I hope?”
“Yes, Father, all is well. But I must be going. Cabinet business, you see.” Longworth opened the door and eased himself behind the wheel.
