by Glenn Dyer
Another medical attendant emerged with a man who had his right arm draped over the attendant’s shoulder and his left hand holding a handkerchief to a wound near his ear. The injured man was guided down the stairway and loaded onto a stretcher.
Burton looked at the photo, then at the tall, gray-haired man lying on the stretcher. “That’s the bloke,” Burton mumbled. He gave Jones a sharp nod.
Jones moved alongside quickly, and as the medical attendant that brought Longworth out of the plane returned to retrieve more wounded, Jones searched a swooning Longworth.
Burton moved closer to Jones, who looked up at him and signaled with a shrug that there was no document on Longworth. Two other medical attendants came over to Longworth and began to move him into the back of one of the ambulances. Burton motioned Jones to go with him.
The ground crew, yelling at one another in Portuguese, climbed over the left wing of the aircraft, inspecting the damage caused by the attack. Two additional wounded passengers were escorted from the airliner and placed on stretchers. The rest of the passengers disembarked. Most hadn’t reclaimed their natural color.
When it became clear that there weren’t any more passengers to disembark, Burton took two steps at a time up the stairway. As he entered the cabin, he looked back out one of the windows and saw that Longworth’s ambulance was pulling away, siren blaring and emergency lights flashing. Burton was told to assume that a top-secret document wouldn’t leave his side. He needed to quickly determine if Longworth had a briefcase with him, then head off to the hospital before any Abwehr agents showed up. He raced up the aisle, checking for any valises that were left behind, deducing that one of them must have been Longworth’s.
He located a tan leather bag adorned with the initials H. L. He opened the case and sifted through its few contents. In a side pocket, Burton found a small flask inscribed with the same initials. He shook the flask to be certain it contained only liquid. Lying at the bottom of the valise was an unsealed envelope emblazoned with the Royal Coat of Arms of the United Kingdom along with the name of Henry Longworth, written in a calligraphic style. Burton pulled out a single sheet of heavy bond paper. It was a letter permitting air and train transit “for the Minister of Public Works, Henry Longworth, for the purposes of conducting business for His Majesty King George VI.” Not seeing any other document, he took a penknife from his pocket and slit the inside lining. When his efforts proved unproductive, he headed back down the aisle. But before he reached the open cabin door, he heard two gunshots in the distance. He rushed outside.
When he jumped off the stairway, he saw that the ambulance carrying Longworth had been stopped at the gates by the sedan he’d spotted trailing the DC-3 earlier. For a moment, Burton froze. Things were happening too fast. His plans were blowing up in his face.
Burton ran to his sedan to give chase, looking over the tarmac for his other agent and swearing when he didn’t see him. He had no time to look further. When he got to his sedan, he stopped dead in his tracks—all his tires had been slashed. “What is fucking going on here?” he shouted.
Burton saw an ancient airport tug used to tow planes sitting nearby. He jumped in and started it up, discovering it had only one low gear. He floored the accelerator, and the engine whine filled the air.
As he closed the distance, he saw two men transfer Longworth from the ambulance into their sedan and then jump into the vehicle. Fifty meters from the ambulance, Burton pulled his pistol from his pocket and fired four times at the swiftly retreating sedan.
When he arrived at the ambulance, he found that the driver and two medical attendants had been shot. Jones was lying facedown on the stretcher. Burton could see the exit wound in the back of his agent’s head. The round, fired at close range, had taken half his skull with it as it exited.
“Good God!” Burton moaned as he watched the sedan vanish in the distance.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
2130 Hours, Thursday, October 15, 1942
Claridge’s Hotel, Brook Street, London
When David Bruce answered Thorn’s knock, he did a poor job of hiding the look of utter astonishment at seeing Thorn and Emily standing there in their best English countryside attire. “Come in.”
Donovan was seated on his couch, an open file in his hand. When Thorn and Emily walked into the suite, Donovan, who appeared to give them a pass on their wardrobe, rose and gave Emily a hug, which caught Thorn and Emily off-guard.
“Emily, so glad to see you again. It’s been quite a while.” Donovan extended his hand to Thorn. Thorn shook it, but not without betraying a wince of pain. “What’s wrong, Conor?”
Be careful. You don’t need to give Donovan any reason to pull you off the mission and put Emily in the hands of some dope.
“Colonel, we got roughed up a bit dealing with Longworth.” Thorn saw that Emily did her best to avoid giving away her surprise at the understatement. “But I’m fine. Getting better every hour.” I’m not lying. I almost can’t feel the pain anymore. Almost.
Donovan studied Thorn for several moments before he nodded. The french doors to a bedroom were open, and Thorn heard the raspy voice of an Englishman handling the short side of a conversation with someone. “Yes, sirs” and “I understands” could be heard every few seconds. The discussion ended with the sound of a handset dropping into its cradle. As they settled into club chairs that surrounded a glass-and-brass coffee table, a natty-looking man in a blue pinstripe, double-breasted suit emerged from the bedroom. He was in his fifties, and a large forehead signaled a retreating hairline. His sparse moustache was graying.
The blue-suited man took a seat. Introductions were not forthcoming, but as the man sat, Thorn shot a hasty quizzical look at Emily and mouthed C?
Emily responded with a bob of her head.
“Anything to share?” Donovan asked, looking at C.
C turned to Donovan. “That was the PM. I have my instructions.”
Donovan nodded slowly. “I understand.”
“Conor, you’re up,” Donovan said.
Thorn rushed through his report, starting with the foul-up with their backup team. He addressed questions from both Donovan and C regarding the involvement of Toulouse. He ended by placing great hope on MI6’s efforts to intercept Longworth.
“If he gets through, he isn’t planning on coming back . . . is he?” C asked.
Thorn smiled. “No, sir. He can’t. To follow up on that, he’s not safe in Lisbon. But in Rome, with his friends at the Vatican and inside the Abwehr, he thinks we can’t touch him.”
After a moment of silence, Donovan turned to C. “A cabinet member working hand-in-hand with the Abwehr. Whatever he hasn’t told the Abwehr, the Gestapo will sure get it out of him. That can’t happen.” The phone in the bedroom rang—a shrill double ring, pause, another shrill ring. It startled everyone except C, who slowly rose and strolled toward it.
“Hold on a minute,” said Bruce. “How the hell did he get his hands on the diary page when we couldn’t find it?”
Thorn looked down at the floor and shook his head. The sound of C raking someone over the coals forced Thorn to raise his own voice. “I don’t have the complete answer. But I have to believe that his nephew somehow got his hands on it. But what’s most important is that we know who has it now—Longworth.” The whack of the handset slamming into its cradle accentuated the mention of Longworth’s name.
The silence that followed was quickly pierced by the sound of C dialing the phone.
Donovan held up both hands to slow Thorn. “I don’t understand why he’s put himself in so much danger. Why not just communicate the directives to Heinz through the diplomatic pouch?”
Thorn appreciated that he and Donovan were on the same track. “That’s been driving me crazy. He wants Operation Torch scuttled. The only thing I can think of is that he needs to somehow prove the accuracy, the validity of the intelligence. That diary page looks authentic because it is authentic. If he can pull it off, the Nazis will move divisi
ons and squadrons to North Africa pretty damn quick. He certainly knows that the Nazis must be skeptical, since we’ve been disseminating all sorts of phony intel on the location of the second front. But frankly, I think there’s more to why he’s delivering the intel himself. I haven’t put a finger on it . . . yet.”
“Colonel, there’s another reason. A simpler one,” Emily said. “We know and he knows that he’s betrayed his country. He needs a safe haven. The Abwehr, Bishop Heinz, and the Vatican’s neutrality could be his salvation.”
C entered the room with his hands buried in his suit coat pockets and took his seat. “The report from the team on the ground in Lisbon is not good,” C said, looking at no one in particular. “Longworth was picked up by the Abwehr. It seems the flight had been attacked by the Luftwaffe, and in the commotion on the tarmac caused by the emergency and interference by what appears to be Abwehr agents, Longworth slipped through.”
Thorn lowered his head, his chin resting on his chest. God damn it! The son of a bitch made it.
“Is the prime minister aware of this development?” Donovan asked.
“He is all too aware, I’m afraid,” C said. “This morning it was my task to inform the prime minister that I received a report that directly implicates Longworth in a long-term conspiracy with the Abwehr, indicating he had been passing along logistical information regarding northbound convoys. Apparently, the information was passed along to Longworth by his nephew.”
Emily’s faced knotted in confusion. “Sir, who reported this to you?” she asked.
“Philby. Section Five. Why?”
Emily lips parted. “Philby? Why would the report come from the head of counterintelligence in the Iberian Peninsula? What or who was his source?”
“Frankly, Bright, it’s none of your concern,” C said, then turned to Donovan, a clear signal that he was done discussing it.
“So, do we all agree that he’s on his way to Rome?” Donovan asked.
Thorn looked at the four people before him and waited. Again, no one spoke up.
Donovan finally dove back in. “All right then. How would he get there?”
“My bet is he’ll use his contact at the Vatican, Heinz, to make arrangements with the Abwehr. But, if I may, sir—what’s our next move?” Thorn asked.
Donovan folded his arms and looked at C.
“News of Longworth’s defection would be a disaster for the government,” C said. “That is the PM’s belief and one I share. With the news of our failure in Lisbon, there is no question that Longworth must be eliminated at all costs.”
Thorn suppressed a smirk. Eliminated. Gotta love the English. He looked around the room. “And how—”
“Bright and you—with Colonel Donovan’s permission, of course—will catch a flight to Lisbon immediately. The PM has made his personal plane available to you. It will leave from Tempsford. As far as travel to Rome is concerned—”
“We’ll handle that and your cover story,” Donovan said, looking at Bruce.
C nodded.
“Colonel, if we’re headed to Rome, I have a suggestion,” Thorn said.
“I’m listening.”
“Rome, and the Vatican, for that matter, could just as well be on another planet. Once we get there, we’ll need someone to be our guide. Someone who knows his way around the place and could provide us some . . . cover,” Thorn said.
Emily’s face lit up with understanding. “Sean Sullivan. Father Sean Sullivan,” she said.
“That’s right.” Thorn nodded. “He’s an old family friend assigned to Westminster Cathedral, working for Cardinal Massy. He spent time at the Vatican working for Cardinal Massy as well. His own cover could be as a courier of the diplomatic pouch. I’m sure we could pull a few strings and get Sean assigned to fill in. We only need to figure out the transportation.”
Donovan ran his hands through his thinning, gray hair before speaking. “Hmm, I could see that would be helpful. I’ll reach out to Cardinal Massey, Catholic to Catholic, and do a little arm-twisting. I’m sure he’ll give me an earful about the Vatican’s neutrality. If he does, I’ll have to bring up the fact that Longworth was using the diplomatic pouch.” Donovan turned to C. “If I could drop the name of the prime minister, that would be helpful.”
C gave a quick nod, which Donovan returned.
“And as far as how we get around in Rome or the Vatican, I’ve been chewing on an idea,” Thorn said.
“Go ahead, Conor. You’re on a roll,” Donovan said.
“I’m a long-suffering Catholic. I set the record for serving Masses and funerals at Saint Catherine’s. My mother had a dream that one of her boys would become a priest. Maybe now’s the time—with a little help from Sean.”
Donovan snorted, and Bruce exhaled deeply, while C actually smiled.
It seems the audience is pleased.
“And Emily? Let me guess. Your companion is Sister Emily Bright?” Donovan asked.
“Colonel, great men think alike.”
Donovan rolled his eyes and turned again to C.
“Bright, are you up to it?” C asked. “If not, just say—”
Emily nearly jumped from her chair. “Sir, I am not without my own experience with the good sisters. I’m sure I can pull it off.”
C, his lips pursed and back straight, nodded sharply at Donovan. A mere ten seconds later, C was closing the door to the suite behind him.
Donovan rose and moved toward his desk. “When you get to Lisbon, Conor, ask for your old friend Heugle. He’ll tell you how you’re getting to Rome, and he’ll fill out the rest of your cover story.”
Donovan opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a pistol that sat snuggly in a tan leather holster. “Are you armed?
“I am, but I could use some magazines,” Thorn said.
Donovan reached into the drawer again. “Here’re five extra magazines. Emily?”
“Colonel, I could use a PPK and some ammunition.”
“OK. I’ll get it to you before you leave the hotel. Go downstairs and talk to the hotel manager, Albert Gilles. Tell him you need food and some clothes right away.” Donovan looked at Bruce. “David, let’s go make some calls. You place a call to the State Department. I’ll tackle Cardinal Massy. Let’s see if we can sneak these two into Rome.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
0130 Hours, Friday, October 16, 1942
On Board B-24 Liberator MkII to Lisbon
As soon as the wheels of Churchill’s Commando lifted off the runway, the lights outlining the runway below them were doused. As the B-24 Liberator, which was painted black to hide it from Nazi fighters during its night flights, swiftly gained altitude, Thorn craned to see out a small portside Plexiglas window and noticed that the area around Tempsford appeared to have been swallowed up by blackness. In the plane, the bomb racks had been removed, allowing for modified accommodations that provided some degree of comfort for fifteen passengers. Insulation had been added to mitigate the airframe-shaking roar of the four powerful Pratt & Whitney engines, but not enough had been done to effectively mask the smell of aviation fuel and hydraulic fluids.
Thorn sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. He focused on short, shallow breaths to help tame his mounting anxiety. Easy, Conor. You’ll be in Lisbon soon, and a fear of flying will be the least of your troubles.
Sean Sullivan sat across the aisle from Emily, his large frame filling every inch of the seat, smoking what must have been his fifth cigarette since they’d boarded. The Vatican diplomatic pouch was shackled to his left wrist and tucked tightly between the seat’s armrest and his left thigh. Sean snuffed out the cigarette stub in the tiny ashtray embedded in the tip of the armrest. He immediately pulled another cigarette from the pack and lit up. “Conor, why were they painting over the British insignias on the sides of the plane?” Sean asked.
Thorn leaned forward to look past Emily, who was seated next to him. “That struck me as odd too. The pilot told me that a military aircraft can’t land in a neutral count
ry. It’s against international law. He thinks that painting over the insignias will buy us a little time on the ground in Lisbon before the Portuguese get curious.”
“I see.” Sean put out the cigarette and stroked his lips a few times.
“Father, are you feeling well? You look a little under the weather,” Emily said.
Sean tugged at his collar with his index finger. “I’m not surprised. Flying and I are not the best of friends.”
“Ahh, I understand,” Emily said. She began digging into a canvas musette bag, plucked out a vial of pills, and handed it to Sean.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“They’re capsules filled with ginger. They’re supposed to help manage airsickness.”
“You are prepared, I’ll say that,” Thorn said.
Emily huffed and shook her head. “I must admit that I harbor self-serving motives.”
“How’s that?”
“I simply want to endure this flight without having to witness anyone soiling their shoes and possibly some other priestly garments.”
Sean popped two capsules into his mouth and grabbed one of the thermoses that had been brought aboard. “So,” he said after he swallowed, “tell me just what the hell am I doing here.” He made the sign of the cross as he waited for Thorn to reply. “Cardinal Massy received a call from someone, and here I am, on my way back to Rome with an old family friend who has only told me that he and his associate work for the American and British governments.”
Thorn looked at Emily, but before he could answer, the pilot, Captain William Vanderkloot, entered the cabin. He was a tall man and was forced to move about the aircraft in a stoop. “Everything shipshape back here?” he asked.
