The Torch Betrayal

by Glenn Dyer

  Longworth was in shock and not well. His head throbbed, and his surroundings swirled about him. But he was alive. He was convinced God played a hand in that because the communists were the enemy of His church, and he was an enemy of the communists—an extremely powerful enemy.

  He held a handkerchief to his wound, sat back, and closed his eyes in an effort to tame his vertigo.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  1900 Hours, Thursday, October 15, 1942

  Whitchurch Airport, Whitchurch

  The storm that battered the region had passed through, leaving behind clear skies. Thorn maneuvered the spirited Morgan, cheerfully loaned out by Benny, up a circular drive, past a small, practically vacant parking lot, to the front entrance of the terminal building. He remembered little of the terminal and its surroundings from when he’d passed through after his arrival from Lisbon over a week ago. He did recall that his great relief at being on firm ground was quickly overwhelmed by his concerns about his reassignment meeting with Donovan. So he noticed for the first time that the façade of the building was painted a gleaming white that shone brightly despite the setting sun. He detected no interior light coming from the terminal’s windows and assumed that blackout curtains were in use.

  While nearly shouting at each other in the open-air Morgan, Thorn and Emily discussed Maggie’s reluctant agreement to keep the Longworth story under wraps. Emily doubted Maggie’s ability to sell the story of an invite from Clementine Churchill to Chartwell to cover her absence, even with Emily’s enlisting Clementine’s backing of the story. But Thorn laughed off Emily’s worries, assuring her that Maggie could sell eyeglasses to a blind man.

  He stopped abruptly, and the car’s narrow tires protested with a shriek. Emily smoothed the hair she’d fought with for the entire ten-minute drive, and as she collected herself, Thorn jumped from the car and headed into the terminal at a brisk pace.

  Inside, several small groups of people were milling about, many of the travelers looking as if they were settling in for the night in the rows of chairs that were scattered around the terminal. He scanned the line of airline counters along the back wall. All the counters were deserted except two: the British Overseas Airways Corporation counter and one with a brightly lit sign for KLM Airways. He headed down the concourse with Emily at his side.

  Thorn found the terminal quiet compared to the last airport he was in—Lisbon’s Portella. In spite of the few flights that Portella offered, it attracted throngs of people that wanted to put Lisbon in their rearview mirror. “Where is everybody? Why aren’t there more people here?” Thorn asked.

  “Since the war started, the government has restricted access to flights to diplomats, military personnel, VIPs, and anyone else with government approval. That leaves out a lot of people.” They arrived at the KLM counter and found it staffed by two women, one in her twenties and one much older, both in faded-blue uniforms.

  “Hello, ladies, do you have a minute?” Thorn asked.

  The older woman, who had gray hair and seemed to be in charge, balked and looked at her coworker.

  Thorn realized that he and Emily didn’t look official in their cobbled-together outfits. Thorn resembled a classic English farmhand, with his scratchy-wool shirt and blue gabardine pants. Emily was the spitting image of a scullery maid.

  As Gray Hair approached, the younger woman stood behind her, peering over her coworker’s shoulder.

  “What can we do for you today? I hope it’s not a flight you’re looking for. ”

  “No. No, it’s not,” Emily said.

  “Because the last flight left here a few hours ago. Civil aircraft can only fly in daylight hours. And there aren’t any more flights until tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Yes, I know. Are you Mrs. Stevenson?”

  “That would be me,” the gray-haired woman said. “And you are?”

  “I spoke to you earlier. I’m—”

  “Ahh, yes, that crazy lady from the government. Oh my, but aren’t you the pretty one?” Stevenson said, giving Thorn a sly wink.

  Emily smiled and lowered her head.

  “I suppose you’re here about flight 777. We’ve quite a mess on our hands, I fear.”

  “What type of mess?” Thorn asked.

  “We’ve been trying to reach the pilot to recall the flight ever since we got a call from some bigwig in London. But we still can’t make contact, I’m sorry to say. We’re all quite worried.”

  Thorn’s lips pressed tight as he leaned against the counter on his hands, both arms extended. His shoulder protested.

  “So the storm is still an issue?” Emily asked.

  “Honestly, we don’t know. The last time we tried, instead of static that came and went, we received nothing.”

  Damn it. It’s not just the storm working against us. Thorn pushed away from the counter.

  “I’m sorry. You said ‘nothing’? I’m not sure I understand,” Emily said.

  “They’ve lost their high-frequency radio, Emily,” Thorn explained. “Lightning strike, electrical fire, equipment failure—who knows?” he said. He turned to Stevenson. “One more question: How long is the flight?”

  Stevenson turned to look at the wall clock, but the younger woman stepped forward. “Usually around four and a half hours. But bad weather would have some effect on that.”

  “Yes, Felicity is correct,” Stevenson said.

  Thorn nodded. “Hmm . . . when exactly did the flight leave?”

  “Three forty-five,” Felicity said.

  “Thank you, both. You have been very helpful,” Emily said as Thorn stepped away from the counter, but then he stepped back.

  “I have a favor to ask. May we use your phone? It won’t take long.”

  “If you’re looking to get a connection back to London, it may take some time. Patience is the key.” Stevenson moved a handset from below the counter and placed it in front of Thorn and then left them, with Felicity in tow.

  “So the flight left early, 1545 hours, and let’s say that it takes about five hours with the bad weather. That has it landing—”

  “At 2045 hours, an hour and thirty minutes from now,” Emily said.

  “Right,” Thorn said, pushing the handset toward Emily. “You need to update Section Five with the estimated arrival time. They have plenty of time to get into position.”

  Emily picked up the handset and dialed. In a minute, she’d related the new flight information and answered some questions about her location and the time of their arrival back in London. Thorn heard her say goodbye to Philby. She slapped the handset back into its cradle with a bang and turned to Thorn. “Conor, what if he gets through somehow? What if he does head to Rome? We can operate in a neutral country like Portugal, but operating in an occupied city like Rome is just not possible. We need a backup plan, one that works this time. There’s too much at stake.”

  “You’re right—we need to think about the worst-case scenario.” Thorn leaned over the counter; its thick, lacquered finish gleamed. “I need some air and a moment to think.”

  Thorn walked toward the terminal’s exit, lightly massaging his wounded shoulder as he went. Outside, he took a seat on the Morgan’s front fender; heat from the engine seeped from under the hood. He watched a flight on the last stage of its approach and craned to make out the paint scheme on its fuselage. It was a British Overseas airliner. When it disappeared behind the terminal building, Thorn began pacing.

  If Longworth somehow made it past MI6 in Lisbon and headed to Rome, into the safe hands of the Abwehr, it would be an intelligence bonanza for the Nazis. If it became necessary, could Longworth be stopped on the ground in Rome before he could do any more damage? The logistics of getting into Rome undetected confounded him. Thinking about how to get back out if they made it in practically short-circuited his brain.

  Several minutes later, a handful of people, chiefly military types, exited the terminal. Most waited for transportation, including a priest, his white collar visible in the setting su
n. Thorn stared at the priest for a good thirty seconds. “Father Sean Sullivan . . . and his associates. Yeah, that could work,” he muttered. He headed back into the terminal and found Emily, still standing at the KLM counter, engaged in a conversation with Stevenson.

  “Any luck?” she asked.

  “Think so. I have a backup plan. Or at least a half-baked one, if it comes to it.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Not now. It’s still . . . ”

  “Baking?”

  “Yeah, baking, that’s it,” Thorn said. “I need to get through to Bruce and report in. Wait in the car. I won’t be long.”

  #

  Emily sat in the Morgan, pulling her hair back and holding it there when Thorn emerged from the terminal. “Did you get through?” she asked as he settled into the cramped confines of the vehicle.

  “I did. Bruce said Colonel Donovan is back from Casablanca. Donovan and Bruce want to see us right away.”

  “Us?”

  “Your boss will be there too. Something’s up. Bruce sounded rattled. He almost couldn’t get a full sentence out.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  1930 Hours, Thursday, October 15, 1942

  German Embassy, Rome

  When Bishop Heinz looked at Hitler, the führer’s eyes returned his gaze with overpowering intensity—the intensity expected from the leader of National Socialism. The portrait of Hitler was more or less as large as the fireplace it adorned and depicted an imperious Hitler from the waist up, his left hand resting on his hip while his right hand gripped the back of a chair. A red armband emblazoned with a black swastika was wrapped around his upper left arm. His face showed an unhealthy, pale pallor, which placed it in stark contrast to the dark, brooding skies that were featured behind it.

  “You are late, Bishop. I expected you over five minutes ago. You think it wise to keep me waiting? Would you keep the führer waiting?” Major Kappler asked, motioning to the portrait of Hitler.

  “Certainly not, Major. Please accept my apologies.” Heinz watched as Kappler paced in front of his massive desk, which was completely bare except for two phones and a lone dossier that sat open.

  “Sit down.” The uniformed Kappler maneuvered around the desk, its bleached wood complemented by ornately styled gold trim, then stopped. He stood stiffly beside an enormous desk chair. Everything in the office sparkled, including Kappler’s knee-high black boots—their spit-shine reflected the room’s main lighting, which flooded from an enormous crystal chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling. “Have you received word from Longworth?”

  Heinz, wearing a black cape with an intensely red lining, removed his wire-rimmed spectacles and cleaned them with a cloth that he’d pulled from inside his sleeve. His trepidation over delivering a mixture of welcome and unwelcome news produced a queasiness in the pit of his stomach.

  “Well, answer me. Have you heard from Longworth? Admiral Canaris is growing impatient. As am I.”

  Heinz placed his glasses on his nose and wrapped the wire temples around each ear. “I have, indeed, heard from him. In fact, I have received two letters, one yesterday afternoon and yet another late this afternoon. Which is highly . . . irregular.”

  “Go on.”

  “In the letter I received yesterday, he includes nonspecific information regarding the second front,” Heinz reported with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “Meaning?”

  Heinz withdrew a letter from a pocket inside his cassock and cleared his throat. “The information in his letter that I just received took me three hours to decipher, as it was much longer than most of his previous letters. It was the reason I was somewhat late.”

  “Yes, yes, stop wasting time. Get on with it.”

  Heinz cleared his throat, not once, but twice.

  Kappler tilted his head back and shook it.

  “Bishop!”

  “I am pleased to report that Longworth is, as we speak, on his way to Lisbon. He reports that he has high-level Allied intelligence that will greatly satisfy the admiral and you, Major.” Kappler’s look of surprise and satisfaction pleased Heinz. Heinz cleared his throat again. “But it seems that risks taken to obtain the intelligence, which he does not share in this letter, have led to him being exposed as an agent of the Abwehr. That’s the reason he gives for asking that the Abwehr make arrangements for his safe travel to Vatican City, for his safety and so that he can hand off the intelligence personally, ensuring, he states, that it be taken seriously.” Heinz held up the letter as if it were an encyclical from Pope Pius XII.

  Kappler’s satisfied demeanor vanished. “Let me see that.”

  Heinz rose and slid the letter across the desk. Kappler studied the decrypt, his lips moving as he read. Finished, he sat back in his chair, still tightly grasping it. “He’s on the run,” Kappler said as he looked up at the brooding Hitler. “But what happened in the span of two days to explain this second letter?”

  “Might Churchill have finally taken the cabinet into his confidence?”

  “Yes, that is possible.” Kappler sat silently thinking. He began to wave the decrypt slowly back and forth. “Don’t misunderstand me, Bishop. I am gratified at the mention of new intelligence, but news of the loss of an asset so deep in the Churchill government is news that will not please Admiral Canaris.”

  Heinz deliberately repositioned his glasses on his nose. “I am sure, Major, there is much to be gained by welcoming Longworth to Rome. He must know a great deal that he has not . . . shared. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Possibly . . . possibly,” Kappler said, sitting back in his chair. “When is he expected to arrive?”

  “I believe he should be arriving in Lisbon in an hour’s time. I am sure with the assistance of the Abwehr, Longworth will have no difficulties making his way safely to us.”

  “That does not worry me.”

  “Major, I must point out one word that he used to describe the intelligence that did strike me.”

  “What is that?”

  “Authenticated.”

  “Yes, I saw that—authenticated,” Kappler said, drawing out the word. A moment later, he reached for his phone and barked into the handset. “First, connect me with the Abwehr station in Lisbon. I must talk to Muller. Then, connect me to Admiral Canaris. Ring me back as soon as Muller is on the line.” Kappler hung up the phone. “You know the man personally. Do you trust him?”

  Heinz rose from his chair and pulled his cape tightly around his torso. “Major, I place my trust only in God.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  2045 Hours, Thursday, October 15, 1942

  Portella Airport, Lisbon

  “What the hell is going on?” asked James Burton, the MI6 Section Five agent in charge of the detail to identify and bring in Henry Longworth. Emergency vehicles, all with their lights flashing and most with their sirens blaring, had been speeding toward the main runway ever since the KLM airliner first started circling the skies around Portella Airport with a steady stream of black smoke trailing from its starboard engine. Ground and maintenance crews darted frantically across the tarmac in front of the main terminal. What started out as a quick identify-and-snatch operation was now a completely fouled-up mess. “Jones, what is going on here?” Burton asked again of one of the two other men in his detail. All three had donned KLM ground-staff overalls to pull off their infiltration of the airline’s service personnel.

  “I just heard one of the baggage guys say that the tower can’t establish radio contact. But it does look like they’re in some sort of trouble.”

  “How did this get so cocked up? There are too many people running around out here. It’s mass confusion. And I don’t have enough men,” Burton hissed under his breath. He looked around and could see at least twenty men in various emergency garb, along with a number of fire department vehicles, two ambulances, and airport security, in addition to KLM staff. If he could wrangle the KLM overalls, so could German agents.

  “Jones, we need to b
e prepared in case there are any injured passengers. Slip one of these medical staff workers fifty escudos for a white medic’s jacket and blend in with the medical teams. Remember, if you get close to Longworth, make sure you search him. I don’t care what anybody tells you. You hear me?” Burton asked.

  Jones nodded. “Loud and clear. But…ah, who’s going to search his luggage?”

  “No worries there. KLM told Broadway he didn’t have any luggage. But they didn’t mention anything about a briefcase, so I’ll check for that,” Burton said.

  He leaned against his sedan and watched the landing lights of the DC-3 grow larger and brighter as it slowly approached the terminal, emergency vehicles trailing closely behind. The starboard engine, still smoking badly, had been cut. He noticed a Mercedes sedan following the DC-3 in from the runway; it slowed to a stop on the far side of the airliner, which gradually came to a full stop in front of the terminal. The damage to the plane’s portside fuselage was now clearly visible.

  The moment the pilot cut the DC-3’s portside engine, the sirens ceased and the ground crew sprang into action, placing chocks around the plane’s wheels while another crew doused the starboard engine. Three additional ground crew rushed to open the rear door of the plane and drop the stairs into place. Two men in dark suits carrying black bags were the first to enter the aircraft, followed by a medical attendant.

  As they went to attend to the passengers inside, other white-jacketed members of the medical team, including Burton’s man Jones, moved their stretchers onto the tarmac, close to the plane’s stairway, ready to receive the wounded. Burton held a photograph of Longworth, ready to survey the passengers as they disembarked.

  The first to emerge was the Royal Navy commodore, who was able to walk down the stairs with minimal assistance from a medical attendant. Next was a stretcher that carried a body draped with a white sheet that was quickly absorbing blood from the victim. Burton caught Jones’s eye and nodded to the stretcher. Jones scurried over to the stretcher, which now lay toward the aircraft’s tail section. While the stretcher-bearers ran back to the plane’s stairs, Jones bent over and lifted the sheet. He rose and made his way back to the stairs, shaking his head.