The older man looked up in surprise, peering at Walsh from beneath unkempt, bushy eyebrows, ‘Harry, dear boy, well I never.’ Jago had an aristocratic demeanour and a clipped, cut-glass accent so akin to what an average man might expect of an upper-class gent that it just had to be fake. ‘If you say so; shall I leave you all my debts?’ He chuckled softly before noticing his glass, as if for the first time, ‘Just having a livener, a bit of a pick-me-up. Join me?’
Walsh shook his head – the answering silence somehow more disconcerting to Jago than words could ever be. Walsh towered over the older man, a menacing silhouette that blotted out the little light that was still able to reach them through the grimy windows. Jago seemed to shrink visibly into his chair. He swallowed audibly, his mouth suddenly dry.
‘So, Harry,’ forced cheerfulness, ‘what can I do for you this fine autumnal morning?’
Walsh looked about him. Everything in the bar was decrepit, including most of the clientele. Jago’s watch and pen were perhaps the only authentic items in the place.
‘You know what I want, Jago,’ he said, ‘let’s get out of here.’
15
‘Men are born to succeed, not to fail.’
Henry David Thoreau
‘Lamb and Flag’s just round the corner, Harry,’ suggested Jago struggling to keep up with the younger man’s pace, ‘or should we have a spot of lunch instead?’ he asked hopefully. ‘What do you say? How about Wiltons? Haven’t had a slap-up one at Wiltons in donkey’s years.’
‘Really? I thought Emma Stirling took you there three weeks ago.’ Walsh knew she had for he had been the one to suggest it.
‘Three weeks, was it really?’ Jago smiled nervously. ‘Well, if you say so, old boy. I mean, time flies. Emma Stirling, ah yes, feisty little thing, a real popsie that one. Thank you for sending her, Harry, brightened my day considerably I must say. What a shame she’s so…’
Walsh locked eyes with Jago.
‘It’s all right, Harry, I was going to say “unattainable”. Oh well, honey wasn’t meant for the mouth of a donkey.’ Then he chuckled. ‘Ever tempted to have a crack at her yourself?’ Walsh gave Jago a murderous look. ‘Course not, you’re married and very happily damn you. Lucky man! How is the lovely Mary? Thriving I expect.’
The walk to Wiltons left Jago with beads of sweat on his forehead. When they were finally seated, he dabbed at them with a crumpled handkerchief.
‘You’ll be wanting to see my latest bona fides,’ puffed Jago and he handed over a battered press card as fabricated as he was. It optimistically proclaimed him to be a correspondent for the Daily Herald. Walsh barely glanced at it before flicking the card back at him. Jago picked it reverently from the table and placed it carefully back into his wallet. When the wine arrived Jago watched as the waiter poured them both a generous glass and immediately took a large gulp. Seemingly rejuvenated, he completed a survey of the room, his eyes reaching into every corner. When he was satisfied he asked, ‘So what is it this time, Harry?’
‘I want information, Jago.’
‘T’was ever thus.’
‘I need you to engage that prodigious memory of yours.’
‘What will it be then? Names and addresses of cafés and safe houses on the Rue St Georges, a breakdown of the local Gestapo hierarchy in some obscure little part of the Dordogne perhaps or a quick peep into the life of the latest thug sent by Six to tweak your tail? Knowing you, Harry, it’s probably the latter, am I right?’
‘It isn’t anybody from Six.’
‘Relieved to hear it,’ and he palpably was, ‘they’re not too keen on old Jago right now. You’ll get me shot one day, you will.’
‘That’s funny,’ said Walsh without a trace of humour, ‘always thought you’d end up hanged.’
Jago forced a weak little laugh.
‘This time it’s closer to home. My boss in fact.’
‘Gubbins?’ the question came too quickly.
‘There are several layers between the CD and me and you know it.’
‘Who then?’
‘Price.’
‘Price?’ Jago rolled the name slowly over his tongue as if it were a foreign word he was attempting to translate.
‘Major Robert Price,’ confirmed Walsh, ‘formerly of the Scott’s Guards, now Deputy Head of Section “F”, Special Operations Executive.’
‘I think I vaguely know who you mean.’
‘Don’t be coy, Jago, it doesn’t suit you. You know exactly who I mean. He’s hardly low profile.’
‘No he’s not,’ conceded Jago, ‘not in this game at any rate. Let’s assume I do know him then, but shall we also imagine I get a little nervous when you come to me about your own commanding officer. What’s that all about? I mean if you have a question why don’t you just ask the fellow?’
‘That’s my business.’
Jago looked down at his wine then, swirling the contents of his half-empty glass, not wanting to look Walsh directly in the eye, ‘And what if I choose not to remember, just this once?’
Walsh surveyed Jago for a long moment. When he finally spoke there was a withering contempt in the quietly spoken words.
‘I walk out now and leave you to explain the bill for everything you just ordered. You are known here and I’m not and you haven’t a pot to piss in. Then of course I’ll stop sending my contacts to seek advice from the oracle. There’ll be no more nice lunches or cigarettes, no cash donations towards your retirement fund. We both know you are a pariah in the intelligence world, Jago, and Six are an unforgiving bunch. When they kicked you out they made bloody sure nobody would touch you. I don’t actually think the Herald would trust you to write the obituary page these days. Without me, you probably wouldn’t be able to pay the rent. To be honest I doubt you’d manage.’ Walsh drank his wine while Jago digested the words.
‘Harsh, Harry, harsh but fair, I’ll grant you.’
‘Clear?’ asked Walsh.
‘Abundantly, dear boy,’ Jago gave a forced smile and raised his glass in mock salutation, as if he was about to proclaim a toast in Walsh’s honour. He took another deep swig of wine before setting down the glass. ‘You’re absolutely right of course, barely had a word published since the “incident”. Years of elegant prose, diligence beyond the call of duty. It all counts for nothing when you are on the rum list. I sometimes wonder what they told the editors. What are my little peccadilloes do you suspect? Am I a Pinko, a collaborator or a nancy boy? Was I caught fiddling with some boy scouts do you think?’
For a moment Jago looked so desolate even Walsh almost felt sorry for him, until he remembered who he was dealing with. ‘All of that I should think.’
Jago snorted bitterly, ‘Yes, I shouldn’t wonder. Whatever it is Six well and truly cooked my goose, I’ll say that much. Here’s to them.’ Another mock toast and he drained his wine. Walsh did not wait for the maître d’. He refilled Jago’s glass to keep him pliant. ‘Make sure it doesn’t happen to you, Harry, that’s all I’m saying,’ and his mood became sullen. ‘Do you know: I was the last English correspondent out of Paris when it fell? Did I ever tell you that, Harry?’
‘On numerous occasions.’ Walsh needed to halt the self-pity. ‘Price,’ he said firmly.
‘What? Oh yes…’
And slowly Jago closed his eyes then fell silent. He appeared to be concentrating hard. Walsh wondered if this was a necessary trigger for his memory or merely an affectation; a cheap conjuring trick used to impress the likes of Emma Stirling, though she had seen through him right from the start.
‘I went to see your chap down the Gray’s Inn Road,’ and she had shuddered at the recollection, ‘he’s like that fellow “Mr Memory” from The Thirty Nine Steps, only a thousand times more vulgar than anything John Buchan could have created. He had on the wrong school tie for a man who supposedly went to Harrow and half of yesterday
’s dinner still down it.’
‘Did he try to pinch your behind?’
‘He tried. I told him if he did it again I’d break his fingers.’
Jago finally spoke then, snapping Walsh back from his memory of Emma. ‘Major Robert Price? Let’s see, ah yes, born Edinburgh, 1903, educated Winchester and Caius College. He won’t like you, Harry, oh no, you’re a bit common,’ he held up his hands in supplication, ‘they would be his words not mine.’
‘Tell me something I don’t already know, Jago. What makes him the man he is? Where’s Price from and where does he think he’s going?’
‘What makes him tick? There’s always a story and if I remember his, which I’m quite sure I do then he’ll be jealous of that pretty wife of yours. As a young man, Price had the misfortune to fall in love with a debutante and the way I hear it the damn fool woman felt entirely the same way. “I’m head over heels with you too young, Robert, let’s elope together and have a couple of perfect children, one of each flavour. What do you say?”’
Jago was afflicted with the storyteller’s need for elaboration and the desire to act it all out. ‘“Well I’d like that very much indeed, my dear,” says he, “trouble is I’ve no money, not a red cent, and your daddy will never permit the union but have no fear for I have a plan. I’m off to India to make my fortune. It’ll only take a couple of years and after all we’re still so young. When I return we’ll marry in fine style!” “Agreed!” says she, “I will wait for you, my darling, forever and a day!” So off he trots to the subcontinent to make his way in the world.
‘You can guess what happens next. Just like time, “Debs” wait for no man. Gone less than a year when she writes him. She has met another and it seems her love for young Robert is not nearly as enduring as he’d hoped. “By the time you return we’ll be married” she writes, or some such tosh. Poor jilted Price is devastated, and you would be! Put her on a pedestal you see; should never do it, Harry, at that height no woman can ever resist the temptation to kick you firmly in the teeth.
‘Of course Price returns tout suite but all’s in vain. She’s married and away on the honeymoon. All he’s left with is a broken heart and tortured images of his one true love rolling around in another man’s bed. Cue much wailing and gnashing of teeth.
‘Year later he marries a plain Jane, some stout old maid with broad thighs and an even broader bank balance. Not the prettiest girl in Christendom but her daddy is grateful she’s landed a Cambridge man and that’s enough for Price, for now. The lady dutifully provides an heir and a spare but it’s not a match made in heaven. Now she stays in the country and he lives up town. It’s one of those marriages, not that I’m an expert you understand, never had the misfortune, no offence intended.
‘Price seeks solace in an army career. He was expecting great things but turned out to be not all that good, as I suspect you may have noticed. Struggled to reach his current rank, despite the social connections of his marriage, then Six wouldn’t have him, which is how I first got to hear all about the fellow. He was eventually packed off to SOE by his underwhelmed superiors.’ Jago got a little gleam in his eye then, ‘Happened to a lot of regular army men, so I hear.’ Walsh did not react to Jago’s jibe. ‘In short he’s a passed-over major with a chip on his shoulder and they’re the worst kind if you ask me, Harry.’
To Jago’s surprise Walsh seemed unusually satisfied by his performance, ‘Thank you, Jago, that was illuminating.’
Jago was a natural spy who remembered every piece of gossip he heard. Heaven help the nation, thought Walsh, if the Nazis ever worked out how cheap it would be to buy the man and his memory.
When they finally left Wiltons, Jago, buoyed by the meal and his more-than-half share of the wine, said ‘Tell me, Harry, I’ve always wanted to know. Did you really take those diamonds that were meant to be… argh!’
Walsh span Jago round, slammed his cheek hard against the wall and pulled his arm behind him, twisting it upwards. ‘Of course not… nnnh… only joking, Harry… I didn’t mean anything by it honestly… gnnnhhh you’re hurting… just repeating what I heard… please…’
‘You’ve gone sloppy, Jago, you’ve forgotten yourself,’ hissed Walsh venomously, ‘or did you just forget what I can do to you? Want me to remind you, “dear boy”? Eh? Should I break your arm? Will that help you to remember?’
‘No, Harry, please no, Jago’s sorry,’ he almost sobbed it and reluctantly Walsh let him go. Jago was breathless and in pain, the skin of his cheek scraped raw from its intimate contact with the brickwork. ‘No need to get tough with me, Harry, not with old Jago. Just no need, you hear; not cut out for the rough stuff,’ and he sloped sulkily away rubbing his injured arm. Damn the man, thought Walsh. Trust Jago to ruin my mood.
Walsh walked sullenly across Piccadilly Circus where gaudy posters cajoled him to ‘Lend a hand with War Savings – they are vital to Victory!’ then reminded him ‘More Salvage is wanted!’
‘Eros’ could no longer be seen here now thanks to the bombing, the god of love having been unceremoniously boarded up for the duration.
16
‘Snobbery is the pride of those who are not sure of their position.’
Berton Braley
There was a faintly discernible spring in Bill Martin’s step that afternoon. What a stroke of luck to bump into old ‘Dobber’ Price the day before. How thankful he was now that he’d not been quite as beastly to the boorish little man as their fellow undergraduates at Caius.
Martin had been forced to hide his disappointment as Price bounded up to greet him outside Fortnum & Mason. It had been some time since he last had the dubious pleasure of a tête-à-tête with Price it but didn’t seem so long.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ was what he wanted to say when Price accosted him on the pavement. Instead Martin replied, ‘Robert, my dear fellow, how the devil are you?’
‘Well, I’ve been better as a matter of fact but it’s nothing a large snifter won’t rectify, which is why I am so glad I bumped into you. Come on, the FO can spare you at this hour surely. I’m buying!’ and he said the last part as if it would make a blind bit of difference to a man of Martin’s not insubstantial means.
Price’s choice of venue left a good deal to be desired. A private ‘Gentleman’s Club’ on the unfashionable fringes of Soho. The sort of dimly lit den of iniquity, with its red velvet drapes and gilt candelabras, that reeked of new money. Martin could easily imagine its back rooms used by good-time girls to blackmail married minor aristocrats into parting with a slice of their family fortunes. Women who were just one step up from the ‘Piccadilly Commandos’ who whored their way round the Circus during the night. In short, the place had neither class nor discretion, so it was entirely in keeping with Price. Martin prayed nobody from the Foreign Office had seen him enter the place and took solace from the certain knowledge that none would ever voluntarily darken its doors.
It wasn’t long before Price’s rose-tinted college reminiscences were replaced by the far-too-frank admission that all was not well in either his private life or career. Martin managed to offer sympathetic musings on the limitations of marriage and he listened patiently as Price waffled on about the lack of common ground with his wife. Martin was waiting.
Price, who seemed genuinely delighted to have bumped into his old college ‘friend’, had another Gimlet, then another. That was all it took for him to surrender all discretion. Entirely unsolicited by Martin, Price began to share the latest snub delivered by his superior, the blunt and vulgar Gubbins of the Special Operations Executive. Martin fanned the flames with more than one ‘poor you’ and a well-timed ‘really? My dear fellow, that’s beyond the pale’. He then hinted that he might be in a position to have a word with a chap he knew, who knew another chap who actually worked with the Secret Intelligence Service. They were always on the lookout for a good sort with the right background. Martin allowed the intimation, that P
rice could be just the ‘good sort’ MI6 were looking for, to hang tantalisingly in the air and that was enough to ensnare him. Price spilled it all.
At one point the idiot even said, ‘So nice to have someone to talk to that I can trust entirely. I mean it’s not as if you could be working for the Germans, Bill,’ and Price had giggled drunkenly at the very thought. Not working for the Germans no, thought Martin, but on the books of MI6 for nearly twenty years and still you think I just ‘work for the Foreign Office’. What a bloody fool, no wonder they were so pitilessly cruel to you at Cambridge.
Martin’s superiors would be very interested in SOE’s plans to send someone called Harry Walsh into France. Of course, they did that sort of thing all the time, dispatching maverick agents to stir up a hornet’s nest, usually where it was least needed. These sledgehammer-subtle operations could undermine months, sometimes even years of patient intelligence gathering. But this mission was different. Walsh’s own controller had been pushed out of the loop. Even the Deputy Section Head, was not allowed to know its aims.
Martin was hardly surprised Price had been cut out of the inner circle, merely disappointed, for the whole op could have been blown before it started for the price of a few watered-down Gimlets. But Price had given him a name, which was a start. Six would want to take a close look at Captain Walsh.
From now on Harry Walsh wouldn’t be able to make a move without them knowing about it and it was all thanks to good old ‘Dobber’ Price. What a complete dullard. The very notion of Robert Price occupying a position of responsibility in MI6 left Martin chuckling to himself on his way to the train.
Walsh left the railway station behind him and followed the gently sloping hill down to the high street. He was presented with a tranquil English scene as far removed from war as one could imagine. A week of rain had softened the common land until its grass was now the dark green of a billiard table but above him the sun was peering cautiously out from behind a large downy cloud, as if unsure whether it wished to make an appearance this late in the day.
Ungentlemanly Warfare Page 9
