by Glenn Dyer
“Of course. Good day, Mr. Longworth.”
Longworth grinded the Humber into gear and sped from the curb, making a sharp turn onto Francis Street.
#
Sullivan studied the car until it disappeared from view, noting that Longworth had appeared a bit jittery. When he entered the clergy house, he looked for Edith and found her in the kitchen cutting two slices of toast in half.
“Father Sean. You’re late . . . as usual.”
“So I am. Edith, tell me, what did Mr. Longworth want?”
“Nothing much. He wanted to catch the pouch before it left this morning, so he could add a couple of letters. Would you like some toast and a hot cuppa, Father?”
Sullivan leaned his broad frame against the doorjamb. “No, thank you. Tell me, is the pouch still here?”
“You just missed it. Father William stormed out of here like a whirling dervish. Said he was running late as he headed out the back door to the garage.”
“Hmmm . . . that’s unfortunate. By the way, any chance you saw who the letters were addressed to?” Sullivan asked, the memory of his conversation with Conor Thorn still fresh in his mind. The idea that a friend of Cardinal Massy might be conducting nefarious affairs that went beyond merely conversing with old friends at the Vatican troubled him.
Edith took a bite out of a slice of toast. “Oh, no,” she said with shake of her head, her mouth full of toast. “Strange though—he was quite insistent he place them in the pouch himself.”
“Hmm. As if he was hiding something?”
“Oh no, Father. He’s a good man. Just ask Cardinal Massy. He’ll tell you.”
Sullivan believed that was a good idea.
#
Maggie Thorn’s fear after coming to had shifted into a raging and riotous desire to see the psycho lying lifeless in a growing pool of his own blood. If he had meant to kill her, he would have done so after he dragged her up a staircase, which had scraped the skin from the back of her lower legs. The blood that had run down her legs and into her shoes had dried. The gag in her mouth created a pulsating pain in her jaw that had worked its way down her neck. Turning her head in any direction triggered bolts of pain that added to her nausea. The rope that bound her hands behind her back and her feet to the legs of the chair cut into her skin, killing any sensation.
He continued to lean on a dresser in the corner of the room, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. She remembered little from when she had first set eyes on him at Oddendino’s. The citywide blackout and her preoccupation with her concerns about Conor had conspired to make her captor a faceless entity.
He picked up a tray from the top of the dresser and approached her, his footsteps muffled by a tattered rug that covered most of the floor, which, given the steep slope to the ceiling, she assumed was an attic. When he was no more than six feet from her, the light from a ceiling fixture captured his face.
The man was in his thirties, with full cheeks and a high forehead. His left hand was wrapped with gauze. His smile revealed crooked, yellowed front teeth. He knelt on one knee before her and placed the tray on the floor. It held a single bowl filled with a brownish mush, a spoon, and a glass of water. He looked up at her, and his smile faded.
“Are you hungry, little lady? You’ll be here awhile, so you’ve got to keep your strength up,” he said, his eyes falling from her face to her legs. “Wouldn’t want you to faint from weakness, now, would we?”
The thought of food only stoked her nausea, but removing the gag would provide some relief. She nodded slowly at first, then faster, with wide eyes.
“Well, all right, then.” He stood and reached around her head to untie the gag. His chest was inches from her face, and the smell of cigarettes and perspiration filled her nostrils, spiking her queasiness. The gag loosened, then fell from her mouth.
She waited until he took a step away, so she could see his face. “You bastard. You fucking bastard,” she screamed. Her hair, previously held back by the gag, now fell forward and covered her cheeks. “You—”
He reared back and slapped her with such fury that the chair she was tied to nearly toppled. Before the chair finished righting itself, he had the gag back in her mouth. The left side of her face burned and throbbed.
“Now that wasn’t smart, you twat,” he said, his face flushed. “You can starve for all I care, you stupid bitch.” He walked to the dresser and stared into an oval mirror that hung above it, then fiddled with something on the top of the piece of furniture. He wiped his face with his bandaged hand and stood motionless, staring in the mirror for a long minute.
When he finally turned back to Maggie, she saw that his eyes were half-closed. He came and knelt before her, his chest heaving and his mouth open. He pushed the hem of her dress up her thigh, exposing the top of her stockings and her garter straps. Maggie tensed. He lifted one garter with his finger and let it snap back onto her thigh. She jumped. His laugh fought through a phlegmy buildup in his throat.
“Hope that didn’t hurt . . . too much,” he said without looking her in the face. His hand traveled up her thigh, reached for the soft cotton fabric of her panties, and yanked it aside. Maggie’s legs struggled against the rope that bound her feet to the legs of the chair. She tilted her head back and visualized her feet landing deep in his genitals, sending him flying backward and crashing to the floor on his back. But the image was short-circuited by the movements of his fingers.
Maggie convulsed in a fit of rage. She pulled and kicked against her bindings, which only cut deeper into her skin. Her hands and feet that were once numb now tingled. The man kneeling before her laughed gleefully—but this time he was looking straight into her eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
1115 Hours, Wednesday, October 14, 1942
Embassy of Spain, Belgrave Square, London
Thorn pointed the Roadmaster northwest along Belgrave Place. The numbers of leads to follow up on were dwindling. Thorn expected little from their meeting with the press attaché, but he needed to keep Bright on the move and focused on something other than her brother.
As they crossed Eaton Place, a full block from the embassy, she pointed up ahead. “There seems to be a bit of a commotion.”
At least six cars had converged on the front of the embassy from multiple directions; several of them still had their driver’s side doors open. An olive-green ambulance, its rear doors wide-open, had backed up to the chest-high, spiked front gate. A handful of people flanked the ambulance’s rear doors. Thorn steered the Buick toward the curb on the Belgrave Square Garden side of the street, a short distance from the ruckus, and watched along with the others as two middle-aged men carried a stretcher with a fully covered corpse from behind the three-story embassy toward the waiting ambulance. Another man, much older than the stretcher-bearers, followed. The right sleeve of his coat was ironed flat, the end stuffed neatly into the pocket.
Hollis, who had been reading a book in the backseat, slid over to the driver’s side rear window. “Oh, dear. What could have happened, I wonder.”
“Well, we missed all but the last act of the main attraction,” Thorn said.
“I can see our MI5 contact standing off to the side,” Bright said.
“Let’s go see what we missed,” Thorn said, yanking on the door handle. “Hollis, you—”
“Stay in the car. Right, sir. I’ll be fine. I’ve got my Wodehouse to keep me company.” She waggled her book at him.
As Thorn and Bright crossed Belgrave Place, the windswept tree branches behind them rustled, sounding like subdued applause. A tall man, at least six and a half feet, leaned against the black-iron fence in front of the embassy. The collar on his suit coat was turned up against the blustering wind. His fedora was pulled down tightly over his head, distorting the shape of the hat.
“I think I see our contact.” Bright picked up her pace and was the first to approach him.
“Are you from MI5?”
It took a several beats before he responded. “Yes. Hightower, Trevor
Hightower,” he said without shifting his line of sight from the approaching stretcher. “And you would be?”
Bright’s jaw dropped. “Ahh, finally, the ghost appears.”
Hightower snorted. “Not like I haven’t heard that before.”
“Well, this is Conor Thorn and I’m Emily Bright. I’ve been trying to reach you for . . . quite some time. What do you have on the Army Air Forces film lab break-in?”
Another series of beats accompanied by no eye contact. “Not much. No fingerprints. Blood type O positive. Most common in the UK . . . and the US, by the way. Pretty much a dead end.” Still no eye contact. Bright, her lips pinched, shrugged at Thorn.
The bearers lowered the stretcher to the ground, the hands of one bearer covered in blood. The old man with one arm gently lowered himself beside the stretcher. He pulled back the now-crimson sheet revealing a man with wavy, dark hair and a sharply trimmed moustache. A light-blue shirt betrayed a large patch of still-wet blood just below his sternum. Trickles of now-dried blood had drained from the man’s nose, mouth, and ears. The one-armed man reached into the dead man’s breast shirt pocket and pulled out a small object, studied it, and put into a brown paper bag. Several people gathered on the embassy side of the fence. Three women stood closest to the fence. Two were weeping. Thorn noticed the third, a young Asian woman, her arms folded across her chest, was glaring at him, her face pinched in a concentrated look of anger. Thorn turned back to Hightower, waiting for him to finish. Five more seconds passed before he realized that wasn’t going to happen.
“Tell me that the press attaché is inside and not on that stretcher.”
Hightower turned to Thorn. “You’re here to see Alba?”
“Yes. Jorge Alba. Know him?”
Hightower turned back to the stretcher. “Never met the man, Yank. But there he is, in all his gory glory. Jorge Alba, the late press attaché for the Embassy of Spain. The press shall miss him, I’m sure.”
“What in God’s name happened?” Bright asked.
“All I can tell you is that our man inside the embassy saw Alba meet a French captain, a Remy Toulouse, in the reception area of the embassy yesterday morning.” Hightower wouldn’t look at Bright, but anchored his gaze on Thorn. “Our man didn’t see Alba the rest of the day and neither did anybody else. About an hour ago, a secretary looking out a back window saw our Mr. Alba draped over this iron fence like wet laundry.”
“That’s it? How did Alba know Toulouse?” Bright asked, her voice rising with each question.
Hightower finally turned to Bright. “Toulouse has been a regular visitor. At least every two weeks. We haven’t made a connection beyond that yet.” Hightower pointed at the gathering at the rear of the ambulance. “Go ask him. Detective Chief Inspector Archibald Lawton. Fresh from the ranks of the retired Metropolitan Police detective corps. The Met’s finest. Maybe he can do better, Bright.” Hightower pivoted on his heels; Thorn and Bright watched him disappear into Belgrave Square accompanied by a low rumble of thunder.
“Well, that didn’t end well,” Thorn said. “I think he needs a nap, don’t you?”
“Sorry about that, Conor. A bit embarrassing that.”
“Ahh, forget it. Let’s go talk to the detective chief inspector. Maybe he can brighten our day.”
Thorn and Bright approached the ambulance as Clark strained to get to his feet.
“DCI Lawton, I’m Emily Bright. This is Conor Thorn. We’re with . . . Allied intelligence,” Bright said.
Lawton dusted off his knees and straightened his jacket. “That so? Well then, you can show me some identification to that fact, I’m sure.”
Thorn and Bright flashed their identification to Lawton’s begrudging satisfaction.
“I guess that will do. And what brings you here to this grisly scene?” Lawton’s large, roundish eyes were supported by half-moon puffs of skin that complemented his sagging jowls. Thorn detected the strong scent of pipe tobacco.
“We came here hoping to talk with your victim,” Thorn said.
“About what, may I ask?”
“Someone he was seen with recently,” Bright said.
“And that would be?”
Bright looked at Thorn, who returned her look with a shrug.
“A French captain named Toulouse. Heard of him by chance?” asked Thorn while he stared at the body. The chest wound was still weeping blood.
“No. Not sure why I would. I don’t even know this sorry bloke,” Lawton said with a head toss toward Alba’s body.
“Right. Well, can you share what you do know?” Thorn asked.
“You’re an American. Knew some from my service in the Great War. Good chaps. Lost my best friend at the Somme. My right arm, I mean.” Lawton motioned to the stretcher-bearers who began to load the body into the ambulance.
“DCI Lawton?” Bright prompted.
“Right. Our man here, he’s been dead twelve to twenty-four hours. I’m not the expert on that. Have to get him back to the city morgue and have the doc look him over.”
“How did he die?” Thorn asked.
“Bloke was impaled on the rear fence. Facedown.”
“Pushed from the roof?” Thorn asked.
Lawton glanced at Thorn. “Mister . . . Thorn, was it? Pushed or . . . possibly thrown. The fence is too high for anyone to lift the body.”
“You’re saying he didn’t jump?” Bright asked.
“It looks like he had help, meaning he was pushed or thrown. Probably a bit of both, as the fence is at least twenty meters from the base of the building.”
“And nobody heard him scream or yell?” asked Thorn.
“Not possible.”
“Why?” Thorn asked. So this is what pulling teeth is like.
Lawton stretched for the paper bag that sat in the rear of the ambulance and handed it to Bright. “Hold this, please, miss.” Bright complied and Lawton reached in and pulled out a kerchief and what looked like a dark-colored sock. “Nobody heard anything because he had this stuffed in his mouth and his hands were tied.”
Bright’s jaw dropped.
Thorn shook his head. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.
“As I said . . . grisly.”
“What did you find in his shirt pocket?” Thorn asked.
“Ahh, yes. Something I hadn’t seen in a while.” Lawton reached into the bag again and retrieved a small wax-paper packet. Bright’s eyes lit up. “Opium if I’m not mistaken.”
Bright took the packet and opened it, then nodded. “You’re correct, DCI Lawton—it’s opium, in black-tar form. Just like we found before.” The sky rumbled more loudly and a light rain began to fall. She closed the packet and returned it to the evidence bag.
“Well, thank you for confirming. Helpful, that is,” Lawton said, taking the bag back.
Thorn looked up at the dark sky. Low clouds moved quickly northward. The rainfall became heavier. What the fuck are we doing? Wasting our time chasing a drug dealer?
#
When Elizabeth Nel showed a dejected-looking Winston Churchill into the ground-floor dining room, General Eisenhower was already seated at the table. A butler stood quietly alongside a serving cart holding two large dishes topped with silver cloches. Eisenhower stood as Churchill approached the table.
“Nel, a whisky, please. And bring the bottle.” Churchill shook Eisenhower’s hand and took his seat. He signaled the butler to begin service, then waited for the man to leave before he continued. “General, I come from the underground Cabinet War Rooms. There, I experienced an enormously pleasant conversation with your president. He was absolutely thrilled to hear about the first day of Eleanor’s visit to England.”
Nel returned with a tray that held a glass, an ice bucket, and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red. As soon as she placed it on the table, Churchill filled his glass. He swirled the whisky as Nel closed the door behind her.
“But I also experienced a somewhat disturbing briefing given by Emily Bright and your Conor Thorn. It seems the
y have uncovered some significantly damning information concerning the activities of a member of my cabinet.”
“Your cabinet? Don’t tell me. This isn’t about Henry Longworth, is it?”
“I’m afraid so, Ike.” Churchill polished off the whisky and placed the glass on the table, but he didn’t let it go. “It appears that we may have been too quick in chastising them for . . . questioning Henry.”
“What exactly has Thorn briefed you on that has you so concerned?”
Churchill informed Eisenhower of the latest developments, including the use of the Vatican’s diplomatic pouch.
“Do we have any idea what he has been passing along to this Heinz?”
“No. But members of the war cabinet are privy to a sizable amount of classified intelligence. Any of which, if communicated to this suspected informant, could be devastating on many levels.” Churchill shakily refilled his glass, spilling some of the whisky onto the white linen tablecloth. “If the worst-case scenario concerning Longworth is true, the revelation that a selection of mine, to my own war cabinet, was consorting with a German informant would . . . It would most assuredly shake my government to its core.” Churchill’s face flushed. “The king would be compelled to ask that the ruling party form another government. And that would put Allied efforts to finally and aggressively confront the Nazis behind schedule at least a year.”
“Another government? Now? Is that possible?”
“Yes, General. As much as it sickens me, another government would need to be formed. On the eve of Operation Torch.” Churchill buried his face in his hands. “After I tendered my resignation,” he muttered, his voice beleaguered and weary.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
0900 Hours, Thursday, October 15, 1942
Claridge’s Hotel, Brook Street, London
How did Trout put it? It wasn’t like her to just head out on her own. She was headstrong, but she played by the rules. Yeah, that’s Maggie—headstrong.
Thorn stood next to a waist-high side table, his hand still resting on the handset of the hotel lobby phone, recalling the few details of his conversation with Bob Trout about Maggie’s disappearance. The anxiety Thorn detected in Trout’s voice rattled him and made him think that he had underreacted when he’d first learned of her absence. He needed to take action.
