by Bill Walker
“That sounds serious,” she said, her voice edged with concern.
“It’s always serious. I just wish I’d left thirty seconds earlier. Are you cross with me?”
“No,” she said. “Just disappointed. I wanted this evening to be special.”
“Every evening’s special with you.”
“You always know how to make it all right,” she said.
“And you’re always the trooper.”
“Oh, Michael,” she said, the disappointment in her voice becoming palpable. “Will you at least have a sandwich while you’re out?”
“I will, sweetheart. Got to go. Love you. And sorry about dinner.”
He replaced the phone in its cradle and glanced at the large clock hanging on the far wall. Half past six.
He’d have just enough time to walk it.
Returning to the ground floor, he put on his hat, grabbed his cardboard box and rushed out the door.
Outside, the sun hung just above the spires of Westminster Abbey, that venerable sepulcher of Kings and Queens, sparking off red-gold reflections that dazzled the eye and stirred the soul. Thorley shivered, feeling the cool breeze that blew in off the Thames. It was early August, and yet it still felt as if winter lurked in the shadows.
Turning up his collar, Thorley turned south on Whitehall, heading toward Parliament Square a block away.
The early evening crowds thickened as he crossed King Charles Street and passed in front of the Treasury. On his left, looking like some giant medieval toad, sat the red-bricked, turreted building that was Scotland Yard, headquarters of London’s world-famous police force.
Normally, Thorley felt a certain irrational sense of security seeing it there as he passed it day after day. Now, he found himself growing more anxious, turning the summons over in his mind as a cat would play with a dead mouse.
Reaching the square, Thorley turned west into Great George Street, fighting through a phalanx of grim-faced clerks determined to reach the tube station on the Embankment.
And everywhere he looked Thorley saw uniforms.
Army. Navy. RAF.
Proud men, vitally committed to their nation’s survival, men whose eyes gleamed with danger and purpose, their girlfriends clinging tight to their arms, breathless and heady with romance.
These men exuded a decisive power and it made Thorley self-conscious. For even though he was every bit as committed to England’s survival—a commitment that no one who knew him would ever question—he nevertheless felt inadequate, as if he were still an outsider.
Moments later, he passed into Storey’s Gate and then right into Old Queen Street. Here the crowds dwindled to the occasional passerby.
Sensing that time was growing short, he quickened his pace, turned onto a narrow carriageway that widened into Dartmouth Street, then doglegged into Broadway.
Moments later he stood in front of number 54.
It was an unprepossessing group of terraced houses in the ubiquitous Georgian style so common in the mid-to-late-eighteenth century when most of the Westminster area was built, and it was for precisely this reason, as well as its proximity to the center of power that made it the perfect choice for the Secret Intelligence Service, better known as MI6.
Organized in 1909 as the Foreign Section of the Secret Service Bureau, its main purpose was to neutralize the effectiveness of foreign agents working on British soil, primarily German agents sent in by Kaiser Wilhelm II. In those days it was run with a benevolent iron hand by Sir Mansfield Cumming, a former Captain in His Majesty’s Navy. By 1922, it had become the SIS, or Secret Intelligence Service, and operated under its own mandate to ferret out and destroy threats to British interests wherever they might be found. Cumming himself had recently retired, yet his presence remained tangible. His successor signed all documents as Cumming did: with the moniker “C”.
Glancing once more at his wristwatch, Thorley steeled his nerves and walked into number 54 through the massive glass and wrought iron door, the glass now crisscrossed by adhesive paper strips to reduce the dangers of flying glass in case of bomb blasts. It was one more reminder that life in Britain had changed for the duration.
Inside, Thorley found himself in a tiny dimly lit foyer of dark paneled wood that smelled of oil soap and furniture polish. It was devoid of any ornamentation, save for the portraits of several nameless seventeenth century nobles lining the walls, their catlike eyes gazing out of faces draped with long powdered wigs and haughty disdain.
Beyond the portraits and the sumptuous Persian throw rug that covered the walkway sat a plain utilitarian desk that belied the old-world look of the building, as did the straitlaced naval officer perched behind it. The boy, for that is what he appeared to be in his tidy Lieutenant’s uniform, had the well-scrubbed look that one saw so often on the children of the privileged. Thorley approached, and was about to speak when the young officer opened a fat ledger bound in red Morocco leather and pushed it toward him. He then handed Thorley a heavy Monte Blanc fountain pen.
“Please sign in, sir.”
Thorley scrawled his name on the next empty line and handed back the pen, noting that his name lay directly under that of Sir Basil’s. The officer glanced at the ledger and nodded. Thorley could almost hear the boy’s mind counting off a mental checklist.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Thorley. You’re expected.”
He motioned to a Military Policeman Thorley hadn’t noticed before. The man moved forward and took a position that placed him squarely between Thorley and the stairs. He watched Thorley with a flat beady-eyed stare that betrayed not the slightest emotion. It made Thorley even more nervous.
“The Director’s office is on the fourth floor on the Broadway side,” the Lieutenant said, breaking into Thorley’s thoughts, “Sergeant Hutchins will escort you. Please do not venture onto any of the other floors, and do not speak to anyone you may meet in passing. Is that clear?”
Thorley noticed a tiny smirk on the Lieutenant’s face. Was it mockery, contempt? He couldn’t be sure, but it was enough to make him forget his fear for the moment.
“Quite clear,” Thorley said, his voice tight with annoyance.
“You may proceed. And please be so good as to hang your hat and gas mask over there.” He pointed to a coat stand by the stairs.
Keeping his face neutral, Thorley mumbled his thanks and moved toward the stairs, placing his things on the coat stand as he passed. The military policeman dogged his heels. He knew the lieutenant was still watching him, could feel his eyes probing; and he realized that even though the boy had been the essence of courtesy, his eyes had been the same as those he’d seen in the ancient portraits: cold...suspicious...dead....
Grabbing the carved oak railing, Thorley mounted the stairs, his mind turning uneasy somersaults.
Chapter Three
Lillian tried very hard not to cry. It was a losing battle. The tears came, lapping out of her eyes like too much tea poured into a cup too small. They ran down her face and soaked into the bodice of her special dress, the one she’d purchased just for this evening. It was silk and would probably be ruined.
She had it all planned: the dinner of tinned beef prepared as Beef Wellington, along with the few fresh vegetables she’d managed to coax out of their meager garden, a pat of precious butter, candles, wine, the lace tablecloth. The perfect atmosphere for letting Michael know that he was to be a father. But instead of feeling joy, all she felt was dread, and the bitter taste of bile in her mouth.
She’d known about the baby for several weeks. And at first, Lillian wanted to die. Swearing the doctor to secrecy, she went home and said nothing to Michael, planning to go to a discreet doctor that Paul knew. Michael noticed something, of course, the dear man would, but she put it all down to a lack of sleep and a persistent case of anemia. But as the days turned into weeks, Lillian realized she wanted the child very much, could feel it growing day by day, along with her love for this unborn being. She resolved to tell Michael at the first opportunity.
But she didn’t want to just spring it on him, he deserved better than that. Thus, she had concocted this special meal, telling him that it was just something she wanted to do. And she loved him all the more for not questioning her further.
And that left Paul.
They’d been lovers before she’d met Michael, and she’d kept the affair going even after it was clear that Michael meant far more to her. Yet, she couldn’t break away from Paul. Could not cut ties that bound her to him body and soul, for if it were not for Paul her life would be far different and far darker.
Crying anew, she went to the phone with the intention of telling Paul the truth, that she wanted her life back and that it was Michael’s child, not his, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
God might forgive her for loving two men, but she could never bring herself to kill her child. She’d sooner kill herself along with it. It would amount to the same thing.
Wiping her tears, Lillian blew out the candles and finished rinsing the dishes. Afterward, she sat by the fire and tried to read the latest Agatha Christie, finding that she was reading the same words over and over. She glanced at the clock and saw that it was a quarter past seven. Michael would be at his meeting, now, she thought. And might not be home for hours.
Almost as if someone threw a switch inside her body, images of Paul began to flood her mind. Her heart pounded and a warmth spread through her loins that made her gasp, as Paul’s strong arms seemed to grip her in one of his all-encompassing embraces.
“God help me,” she pleaded.
Lillian marched toward the phone, feeling much like a condemned man on his way to the gallows, picked up the receiver and dialed. She listened to it ring several times, praying that he would be out, yet hoping that he would answer. A moment later he did.
“I knew it would be you,” he said, his mellifluous accent making his rich baritone sound all the more exotic and thrilling.
HANG UP! her mind screamed.
“P—Paul, I—”
“Ssssh, quiet, my love. Everything will be all right. Now tell me what’s wrong.”
“Michael’s been called to a late meeting, and I guess I was feeling lonely.”
“Will he be long?”
“Yes, he said he would.”
“Come to me, then. I want to see you.”
“You know I can’t—”
“You must come.”
It was useless to argue with him. In the end she would succumb, as she always had.
“Where?” she said, resigned.
“I’ll send my car. Wear something nice.”
“I already am,” she said, choking back the tears again.
“That’s my Ninot—my girl. I can’t wait to see you.”
They hung up and Lillian went into the bedroom to freshen up her makeup. Unfortunately, nothing she could do with her dwindling supply of Max Factor could hide the guilt and self-loathing etched into the planes of her aristocratic face. Later, she stood watching out the front window until the long black Daimler with its CD plate pulled up in front of the house. With one last look at the table with its lace tablecloth, she walked out into the night and into the arms of a man to whom she was inextricably bound, a bond that would only end when one of them was dead.
Chapter Four
With each step up those winding stairs, Thorley’s frayed nerves tightened an invisible band around his chest, making him more and more anxious. His throat had a dry coppery taste, as if he’d been running for miles and his head throbbed with every heartbeat.
Reaching the fourth floor, Thorley noted it was much the same as the other three, only here the old portraits alternated with framed prints of foxhunting scenes and brass sconces that sprouted from the walls every few feet, casting a weak amber light that did nothing to dispel the gloom. As for the Lieutenant’s warning, he needn’t have bothered. There was no one about, the only noise being the incessant chatter of a lone Teletype somewhere nearby.
The Director’s office lay at the very end of the hall, the door leading into it resembling something out of a medieval castle: stout, secretive, impregnable. All it said was: Private.
Typical MI6.
No secrets would ever escape from behind a door like that, and once more Thorley had to fight an irrational impulse to turn and flee, as if he instinctively knew, somehow, there would be no turning back once he crossed that threshold.
He raised his hand and knocked. It was answered almost immediately by a callow-faced youth dressed in a somber pinstriped suit. The young man’s lips creased into a chilly smile. “Come right in, Mr. Thorley,” he said, with the proper air of condescension. “They’re waiting.”
“Thank you.”
Thorley walked past the young man and into the room. Spacious by anyone’s standard and paneled in the same dark wood as the foyer and the hallway, it boasted floor to ceiling bookshelves rimming the entire room. The only parts of the room excepted were the bank of sash windows facing out onto Broadway, its heavy blackout curtains pulled back to let in the last rays of the dying sun, and the ornate mantled and grated fireplace. A fire blazed there now, casting its saffron glow onto the mahogany desk that dominated the room. The fire was wholly inappropriate, at least for Thorley, who’d begun to sweat.
Aside from the young man who’d answered the door, three other men occupied the office. Thorley recognized his superior, Sir Basil Ravenhurst standing by the mantel examining a petite Ming vase with all the intensity of an entomologist about to spear a prized specimen with a pin. Tall and razor thin, he boasted a full head of shocking white hair and a handlebar mustache to match under a sharp aquiline nose. Smoke swirled about his head emanating from his trademark Meerschaum, and he was dressed—as always—in crisply pressed trousers and navy-blue cardigan. He turned to face Thorley.
“Ahh, Thorley, good show. On time, as always. Please, sit down.” He indicated a leather wingback chair. It was entirely too close to the fire, but Thorley took it, feeling the soft leather molding to his form with a whispered groan. He had to make an effort not to appear that he was slouching, adding to the litany of his discomforts.
Sir Basil turned to the two men sitting next to each other on the matching leather divan. “Allow me to introduce William Atwater, Director of MI6, and Peter MacIlvey of SOE.”
Atwater, a florid faced man with sand-colored hair and a nervous twitch in his left eye, smiled and nodded. “Pleased I’m sure.”
MacIlvey only nodded, his gray eyes boring holes through Thorley’s head. Bald and pasty complexioned, and dressed in a dark blue double-breasted suit, he seemed more like a funeral director than an intelligence operative.
“Michael,” Sir Basil continued, “we invited you here because we have a problem of a very delicate nature—”
“Sir, I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?”
Sir Basil looked puzzled for a moment. “Good Lord, no! Why on earth would you think that?”
Thorley felt foolish. “Your note, it didn’t really say anything. I— I assumed that one of my translations was faulty in some way....”
“Nonsense, old boy,” Sir Basil said, “Your work is exemplary, absolutely top-notch.”
“What Sir Basil is trying to say,” Atwater interrupted, “is that we need your help.”
“I’m still not convinced he’s the man for the job,” MacIlvey cut in, his dour expression deepening. “He’s got no bloody field experience at all. Nothing.”
Thorley glanced around the room. “Field experience?”
Sir Basil threw MacIlvey a dark glare and then turned to Thorley, his expression softening. “Michael, we’ve recently had a communication from the German forces in Finland. They’re requesting that we send in an agent, someone who speaks fluent German. Apparently, they want no misunderstandings.”
Thorley sat up straighter in his chair and leaned forward. “Are you telling me that you want to send me behind enemy lines? To Finland? Me?”
Atwater nodded. “That’s exactly correct, Mr.
Thorley.”
“I don’t like it,” MacIlvey spat.
This man’s sour attitude and his obvious antagonism made Thorley angry, enough to overcome his natural reticence in front of superiors. “And who are you, sir, if I may ask? I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of SOE.”
MacIlvey glared back at Thorley. “That’s none of your business.”
“You men asked me here, I believe it is.”
Sir Basil chuckled and clapped MacIlvey on the knee. “Easy now, Pete. Thorley’s right. The least we can do is tell him the truth.” He turned to Michael. “SOE stands for Special Operations Executive and is charged with training and sending agents behind enemy lines, the purposes of which are manifold. The mission we wish you to undertake falls under Pete’s jurisdiction, and he has the final authority on whomever we choose.”
Thorley saw MacIlvey studying him with newfound interest and nodded. “Why me? Like Mr. MacIlvey said, I have no field experience. Why not use one of your own agents? Surely some of them can speak German as well as I.”
“Quite so, Michael,” Atwater replied. “The truth is the Germans specifically asked for someone who was, as they put it, clean, someone outside of our network. And as far as we’re concerned, anyone we send will have his cover blown, anyway. His field career will be over.”
“So, you might as well send in someone who’s never had one to begin with.”
“Exactly.
“Why should we trust them? They’re the enemy!”
“Because, Mr. Thorley,” MacIlvey interjected, “it is in our best interest in this case to honor their request.”
“Still doesn’t answer my question. Why me?”
Atwater rose to his feet and began to pace the length of the room. “Because you went to school in Germany, Michael. You know the culture. You know how they act—how they think. And because you speak the language without an accent, you’ll be able to pass as a German if the need arises.”
Thorley’s eyes flicked over to Sir Basil, who watched him now as intently as MacIlvey. “If they know I’m British, why would I need to pass for German?”
