The Torch Betrayal

by Glenn Dyer

  As Thorn led Maggie toward a booth and eased her into the seat, Emily spread her hands wide on the bar’s surface and hung her head. Her soaked hair dripped on the bar as the three men stared at her. The barman passed his towel to her without saying a word. Thorn slipped into the booth beside his sister. Resting even for a moment lessened the throbbing in his shoulder.

  “We need a doctor…right away. Is there one nearby?” Emily asked, her voice reedy and her head still hanging low. She picked up the towel and began to pat her drenched hair.

  The barman looked at the two men, then back at Emily.

  “I said, we need a doctor,” she repeated as forcefully as she could.

  “Ahh, that’d be Dr. Mike. He’s . . . he’s just down Bishopworth’s Lane a bit. I’ll call him. What should I tell him the reason, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

  Emily raised her head. “My friend’s been shot.”

  The barman fumbled the pint glass into a sink, and it sank to the bottom of the soapy water. “Shot? Bollocks!”

  The two old men drained their pints, ducked into a dark corner of the pub, and emerged with bicycles, each with a basket attached to the handlebars. As they made their way out the door, Thorn could hear the pub’s sign swinging in the wind. It was clear they thought trouble was following the new arrivals.

  But the barman was willing to help. “I’ll ring him up straightaway, miss. And I’ll fetch some steamin’ hot tea and some biscuits.” As he retreated to the end of the bar to make the call, Emily snatched two more towels and joined Thorn and Maggie in the booth.

  Maggie turned to her brother. “Conor, I need to use that phone. I need—”

  “Maggie, we need to call in too, but first things first,” Emily said.

  “Yeah, phone calls after we figure this out,” Thorn said. He stuffed a towel under his shirt, to staunch his gunshot wound.

  “You don’t understand. I really need to get a call through to Trout. I can’t sit on this story,” Maggie said, keeping her voice low.

  Thorn and Emily shot a look at her.

  “No one will believe that a cabinet member would—”

  “Whoa, Maggie. Hold your horses. That’s exactly what you need to do—you have to sit on this, possibly for a long time,” Thorn said.

  “You’re joking, right?” Maggie was building up a head of steam. “I get kidnapped, slapped around—among other things, I might add—all because of a traitorous British cabinet member who is handing over intelligence to the Nazis, and I have to spike my story? No way. You’re asking too much . . . way too much.”

  Thorn opened his mouth to argue, but the barman returned with a tray of three steaming mugs and a plate of biscuits. His gray woolen pants were supported by a set of wide suspenders, and brown rubber boots noisily scuffed the plank floor as he approached. Maggie snagged a biscuit from the plate and tore into it.

  “Doc Mike will be here straightaway, miss. As soon as he’d done puttin’ the Wyndham kid’s leg in a cast. I will say, by the look of the lot of you,” the barman said as he gave Maggie and Emily a good once-over, “it looks as if the storm chewed you up and spit you out.” He turned to Thorn and spotted the blood-soaked shirt Thorn was trying to cover with his right hand. “And you look quite a bit worse for wear, mister.”

  “You should see the other guy,” Thorn mumbled.

  “In worse shape, I take it.” The barman turned to Emily. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “You’re so kind. What is your name?” Emily asked.

  “Benjamin. Folks around here call me Benny.”

  “Benny, where are we exactly?”

  “You’re in the village of Whitchurch, about five kilometers south of Bristol.”

  Thorn quickly put it together: Shit. Whitchurch Airport…with flights to and from Lisbon each week. He looked at Emily and saw that the gears in her head were spinning as well. “But that’s a strange question, not knowing where you are.”

  “Long story, Benny,” Emily said.

  “Oh boy, that’s an understatement. It’s a long and unbelievable story,” Maggie said, wiping crumbs from her lips.

  “Maggie, pipe down,” Thorn said. He turned to Emily and nudged her leg under the table. “You’re thinking the same as me,” he said to her quietly. “Lisbon. That’s why he came here—to get to Lisbon.”

  Emily nodded.

  Maggie’s wrinkled brow betrayed her confusion. “Lisbon? What are you talking about?”

  “That’s right, mister,” the barman interjected. “That Dutch airline, KLM, operates flights to Lisbon, and British Overseas—”

  “Thanks, Benny. Can we use your phone?” Thorn asked.

  “Sure. Help yourself.” An explosion of shattering glass from a room behind the bar sent Benny scurrying, mumbling under his breath about a ditsy bird in the kitchen.

  Thorn leaned into the edge of the table. “Emily, get a call in to KLM and find out about flights to Lisbon and ask if anyone that fits Longworth’s description showed up in the last couple of hours. If that bastard made a flight, we have to get them to recall it.”

  Emily started to slide out of the booth, clutching the towel she’d been using to dry off. “Right. And we can meet it when it lands back in Whitchurch.”

  “Right after we reach out to MI6 Section Five and Donovan,” Thorn shouted at Emily as she darted behind the bar. He took a slug of tea and closed his eyes, lost in the warm sensation of the hot liquid as it traveled down his throat into his chest. His head started to slowly bend forward.

  “I stink,” Maggie said.

  “Hmm,” he grunted, not surprised by Maggie’s confession. “You sure do, but you’re in good company. How’s the ankle, Mags?”

  “Sore as hell and, if you want to know, throbbing at the moment.”

  “I’ll go ask Benny for some ice,” Thorn said. As he turned to get out of the booth, he saw Emily headed toward him, the panic clear on her face. “What’s wrong?”

  Emily dropped back into her seat and buried her face in the bar towel. “Longworth made the flight. It left close to three hours ago.”

  “They’re sure it was Longworth?”

  “Yes, yes, they’re sure.” She lifted her head. “He had no space reserved, so he had to use his special travel permit allowing ministers priority if traveling on government business. And he fit the description,” she explained. Her face was drawn; only her bloodshot eyes showed any sign of color. “The flight left forty-five minutes early. The pilot wanted to get ahead of a fast-moving storm that was headed east into the Bay of Biscay.” Emily leaned back and shook her head slowly. “And that’s not the worst of it.”

  “What—”

  “KLM has been trying to reach the flight by radio, but there was too much interference.”

  “They must be in the middle of the storm then. Shit,” Thorn said, trailing off into a mutter. “Electrical interference.” That marathon hike out of the woods cost us.

  “They told me the flight is just over two hours out from Lisbon.”

  Thorn’s shoulders slumped. “Damn it. This is getting worse by the minute.” They couldn’t put it off any longer. “Emily, time to call MI6.”

  “OK. Right after you call Donovan.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  1800 Hours, Thursday, October 15, 1942

  Regents Park, London

  Philby should have left his friend Tomás Harris’s home earlier. But the wine flowed too freely, and the home hummed more than normal with the sound of the empire’s best spies guardedly sharing stories but typically extracting dated intelligence from one another. Philby arrived at Queen Anne’s Gardens five minutes late, his head buzzing from the excellent Syrah that came from Harris’s impressive cellar.

  He took a seat on a bench and wrapped his long, green overcoat with red-fox-fur lining around his legs to combat the blustery wind. The barrage balloon support team was nowhere in sight. The balloon tugged at its mooring cables and bounced about in the rambunctious airstream. Shapak
walked up to Philby’s bench and plopped down in a heavily bundled heap. He made no move to speak.

  “Good evening,” Philby said, breaking the ice.

  “Where is Stoker?”

  “Ahh, yes. Stoker. It was decided that given the aftermath of his meeting with Longworth, it would be advisable to”—Philby shrugged—“shall we say, assume a lower profile. I sent him up to Saint Alban’s to conduct some training. Away from prying eyes.”

  “He got sloppy. Maybe he should stay there for quite some time as long as he’s training MI6 agents to be sloppy. That we can accept.”

  “Yes. But that’s not why we’re here. Is it?”

  Shapak remained quiet for three more beats before he spoke again. “The two agents assigned to follow Longworth have finally reported back.” Shapak rearranged his neck scarf.

  “And?”

  “The lead agent reports that late this morning, Longworth was first visited by an RAF officer, his nephew, and then just minutes later by a French captain. We also know him—he’s with the BCRA. We do not know why he was there. Several minutes later, two people that match your descriptions of Thorn and Bright entered the house,” Shapak said, choosing not to look directly at Philby. “They never saw Thorn or Bright leave the house. But he did see Longworth’s car with a driver and two passengers leave from the rear of his flat.”

  Philby needed an extra moment to process Shapak’s report. He lit a Woodbine. “Did they follow the car?”

  “The lead agent did. He left the other agent behind to see if Thorn and Bright ever left. The lead agent lost the car about three kilometers south of Whitchurch Airport. He thinks they must have pulled off somewhere, but he doesn’t know where.”

  “But Thorn and Bright—did they ever leave the house?”

  “No. The agent waited another hour.”

  Philby sat silently for several minutes, smoking the Woodbine down to a nub.

  Shapak stamped his feet and blew into his cupped hands. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  Philby waited a beat and flicked the cigarette into the grass. “Well, first, Longworth either has Thorn and Bright with him, or they’re back at his home tied up or possibly dead. Second, I think Longworth is following our instructions. He’s tying up loose ends before he heads to Lisbon to link up with the Abwehr. And third, and this is most critical, our plan is on track.”

  “What of the Frenchman?”

  “That’s a complete mystery. One I’ll look into further.”

  Shapak grunted, then abruptly turned to face Philby. “Your conclusion regarding your plan . . . how do you come to that?”

  “I am assuming that Longworth has harmed in some way—kidnapped or killed—Thorn and Bright. If so, he has played his last hand. That and the fact that flights leave from Whitchurch Airport to Lisbon on a regular basis. The last act of the Longworth saga has now begun,” Philby said. His last few words rolled off his tongue slowly, like he was the narrator of an Elizabethan drama.

  “Fucking crazy Englishman.”

  Philby pulled the last Woodbine from his pack. He lit it, crushed the pack, then tossed it over his shoulder. “Maybe not so crazy. He must have known that Thorn and Bright were getting close to figuring out what he was doing. Longworth didn’t have many options.”

  “Speaking of crazy, your plan for this document—will it still work?”

  “I think it can.” Philby tapped an ash that curled off the tip of his cigarette and took a long drag. “Here is what I am going to ask that you do. First, get into the house. If you find Thorn or Bright, get back to me. Then, when Longworth lands in Lisbon, make sure that he is . . . undisturbed by MI6 or American agents. Assist him in his efforts to contact the Abwehr. Can you do that?”

  Shapak blew warm breath in his cupped, chilled hands. “Of course. But tell me—when does word get out of this traitor Longworth?”

  “Maybe never. Churchill has too much to lose. He will ask for a cover story at some point. The truth would be disastrous. No, Longworth will die in his sleep one night and be buried in a private ceremony.”

  Shapak breathed into his clasped hands again and shook his head. “This plan of yours—a lot can go wrong. Especially in a place like Lisbon. ”

  Philby tossed the spent cigarette across the path. “I’m feeling lucky, comrade. Let’s roll the dice on this one, shall we?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  1830 Hours, Thursday, October 15, 1942

  On Board KLM Flight 777 to Lisbon

  Longworth would have killed for an aspirin. Resetting his broken nose in the loo at the airport had given him a dull, throbbing headache. He sat quietly and stole glimpses at his watch every two minutes or so. The KLM Royal Dutch Airline owned DC-3 flew at an altitude of twenty-four thousand feet. Its unpainted sheet metal was stamped with the Dutch flag on its tail and the letters KLM on either side of the nose, along with the name Ibis, after the long-legged wading bird. Longworth sat in the second row of the cabin, beside the rectangular window. The fully occupied cabin was quiet except for the drone of the plane’s two radial engines. The Royal Navy commodore that sat to his right now slept soundly, after Longworth had rebuffed his attempts to engage in a conversation.

  He put his head back, rested his eyes, and listened intently to the drone of the engines. Concern as to how much of a lead he had on his remaining pursuer, Bright, gnawed away at what little focus his weary mind could generate. Knowing he had put a bullet into Thorn provided some relief, but he had many miles yet to travel.

  His breathing slowed, and he finally became restful. Then, unexpectedly, the plane banked sharply to the left, and his body was pushed deep into the cushioned seat. Several passengers awoke and began shouting questions. The DC-3 banked hard to the right, then downward, sending hats, umbrellas, and newspapers scurrying throughout the cabin.

  Just as the plane began to level out, engine sounds unlike the sound of the DC-3 engines began to fill the cabin. Longworth peered out the window on his left and made out the silhouette of a smaller two-engine plane on a perpendicular course to collide with the airliner.

  He bolted upright in his seat and gripped the armrests, awaiting the attack. Shouts of panic erupted behind him. Longworth tracked the flight of tracer rounds coming from below the attacker’s cockpit as they lit up the night sky for brief, violent moments.

  The DC-3 shuddered as it absorbed rounds from the fighter. The staccato sound of bullets as they ripped apart the DC-3 were deafening. Flying bits of metal zipped and popped in the cabin, sending tufts of seat cushions and bits of baggage through the air. The airliner began an aggressive descent, sending personal belongings streaming down the main aisle and under the seats, to the front of the cabin. A chorus of screams erupted from the passengers each time the airliner made a sudden move.

  Once more, the attacker made an approach on the same side as before but from a higher altitude, the roar of its engines growing louder with each passing second. Longworth saw the plane’s nose guns light up again, its rounds directed at the fuselage of the slow-moving DC-3.

  Several more rounds pierced the DC-3’s outer skin, filling the cabin with the smell of cordite, which acted like head-clearing smelling salts. The singular, distinct realization that he was seconds away from death shattered all his worry about not completing his mission. A trickle of warm liquid ran down behind his ear, and he reached up and dragged his fingertips through a patch of sticky blood. He could tell that the wound was not deep, but the attack was not over.

  The airliner went into another steep dive. The screams of passengers and the piercing pitch of the radial engines as they descended were deafening.

  Longworth looked at the inside of the cabin above and around his seat and could see where the rounds had pierced the fuselage. The Royal Navy officer that sat beside him clutched his left bicep, blood seeping through his fingers. A stewardess with a small first-aid kit rushed to attend the officer, stumbling over the dislodged personal belongings that covered the DC-3’s floor
and struggling against the aircraft’s steep descent.

  The roar of the attacker’s engine grew again, trailed by the sound of its guns. Longworth shut his eyes tight, held his breath, and readied himself for what could be his last moments. The sound smothered the screams of the passengers. A round blasted through the fuselage, followed instantly by the roar of the attacking plane as it passed overhead. The shrieks and screams from the passengers crested.

  Longworth opened his eyes and quickly surveyed his body for other wounds. Nothing. The stewardess was collapsed against the bulkhead, her uniform blotted with her rapidly escaping blood. She looked pleadingly at Longworth, her arm extended, and mouthed something to him in a language he didn’t understand. He closed his eyes for several moments and opened them again. The stewardess lay motionless, her white blouse now a crimson red.

  Longworth looked down to see a stream of blood running below him to the front of the aircraft. The sound of air entering the cabin through the holes made it difficult to hear anything except for the DC-3’s own engines as they continued to carry the plane to a lower altitude.

  The aircraft leveled off, and there was no sign of the attacker. The cabin quieted except for the whimpering of the passengers and a man praying loudly in Spanish. The pilot came on the intercom, breathing heavily. Longworth could hear the panicked voice of the copilot in the background. The copilot didn’t stop yelling until the pilot, still on the intercom, shouted at him to shut up. The praying man in the cabin ceased his appeals.

  The pilot spoke for less than ten seconds, his words clipped and harried. He reported that the single German fighter had broken off its attack, which had caused damage to the radio and the starboard engine, but he expected a safe landing in Lisbon. He asked all to remain calm. But few in the cabin listened to his request, as the praying man resumed his conversation with God and many others shouted questions, not waiting for answers.