At least he had not gone into ‘Dickens, Templeman & Marlowe’. If Walsh had called on Clavelle that morning, he would never again be able to use the Frenchman, for this or any other operation. Somehow, he would have to get back to the bookshop without his shadow being aware of it.
Walsh slowly finished his cigarette, as the world and the people in it rolled busily by him; normal people going about their war work and domestic concerns, blissfully unaware of the secret life he was leading in their midst. He stubbed out the butt with the heel of his shoe and walked off along the Strand.
Walsh cut through Embankment and strode purposefully along the north bank of the Thames until he passed Southwark Bridge. The river teemed with activity; boats docked for loading or set out on to the water anew to deliver a cargo. Walsh was heading for a quieter spot, an indent in the riverbank where the water rolled to the left before resuming its relentless journey to the sea. Here you could leave the main road and descend, by way of a steep stone staircase, right down to the water’s edge, where no more than a dozen smaller craft were tethered together. The shouts of the boatmen behind him began to recede as he took the stairs down to the quiet towpath and completely disappeared from view.
Walsh’s tail was forced into a brisk walk. He had given his subject a good head start to avoid detection but now he would have to make up ground if he was not to lose Walsh. Careful not to break into a run, he increased his pace until he found himself at the steps that led down to the waterline. Mindful of the relative seclusion of this stretch of the river he paused, glancing suspiciously down to the water’s edge. The tethered boats were all deserted, the only sound coming from the creaking of old timbers as the boats were pushed up, down and together by the lapping water. There was no sign of Walsh and the man from MI6 frowned then scanned the narrow towpath, which ran along the river. If he followed the waterline carefully, there was a good chance he could still spot Walsh without being seen, as long as he took the first corner cautiously.
Gingerly, he descended the steps and made his way to the corner. He stopped and slowly peered around it. The path did indeed go on for some considerable way but nobody walked it that day. The subject had to have been moving fast to put such distance between them. To do that, he must have had an inkling he was being followed, or why bother to attempt it? There was another possibility that entered the man’s head a moment before all lucid thought went from it. Perhaps Walsh had not gone down the towpath at all. He slowly turned around.
A moment earlier, Walsh had stepped silently from the boat on which he had hidden himself. He was now standing less than a yard from the man as he turned. Walsh delivered a crushing blow into the midriff with his right fist. The man crumpled and dropped to the floor. Walsh had hit hard and before he could recover, he grabbed the man’s arm and twisted it behind his back.
‘Are you the best they can get these days?’ asked Walsh, ‘tell them to stop following me.’ And the man’s screams drowned out the sound of his arm snapping.
‘Count your blessings,’ Walsh told him, ‘I could have drowned you in the river.’
The man from MI6 was a pathetic sight all of a sudden, lying on the towpath trying to work out which part of his arm to clasp without causing himself further pain. Walsh surveyed the stricken figure. He seemed older and scared now; a veteran watcher past his prime. Walsh felt no pity. He couldn’t afford to. They were both professionals and violence an accepted part of their world. Six would try and stop him from doing his job any way they could; maim him, kill him, betray him to the Germans. If SIS played by those rules they couldn’t start crying when he did the same.
The watcher moaned softly to himself as Walsh walked away.
18
‘People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.’
George Orwell
‘Clavelle, I have to say it,’ Walsh glanced up from the documents laid neatly on the table in the tiny back room, ‘you are an artist.’
‘Thank you, ’Arry, I think,’ Clavelle replied doubtfully, ‘as so often with you the task was impossible,’ he pronounced it am-poss-eeb, ‘but Clavelle, he did it.’
‘You don’t have to justify your price, Clavelle,’ said Walsh, ‘it’s been agreed.’
Walsh began to assemble the documents together and Clavelle looked concerned.
‘The money, it is here?’
Walsh reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced a bulky envelope. He handed it to the Frenchman, who accepted it eagerly.
‘Count it here, Clavelle, now, in front of me.’
Walsh scooped up the passes, identity cards and permits and placed them safely in the large outside pocket of his overcoat. Clavelle opened the envelope and let his fingers dance over the notes. When the count was complete, the Frenchman nodded his assent.
‘You must be a very important man, ’Arry. Not many can get their hands on such treasure these days.’
Walsh put a firm hand on Clavelle’s shoulder in warning, ‘Then you had better spend it discreetly. Don’t want anybody wondering where you got it from, do we?’
Clavelle made a point of looking round the room, ‘As you see, my needs are very simple.’
Both men stood and Walsh made to leave. Then he fixed Clavelle with a look.
‘What is it?’ asked the Frenchman quizzically.
‘I’m waiting for you to tell me.’
‘Tell you what, ’Arry?’
‘Who has been calling on you?’
‘Calling? Nobody calls on Clavelle.’ He began to wilt visibly under the merciless gaze.
‘You know what I mean; curious people, people with questions; about me, about you.’
‘Police?’ Clavelle was alarmed at the very prospect.
‘Police, perhaps. Not all policemen wear uniforms these days,’ Walsh shrugged, ‘you tell me. You would tell me, wouldn’t you, Clavelle?’
‘Oh no, nobody like that, ’Arry, no, I give you my word,’ then he remembered the crux of Walsh’s question, ‘of course I’d tell you, ’Arry, of course. Police make me nervous. Everybody makes Clavelle nervous, except the fool with too much money who buys books. Nobody else comes here, ’Arry, honestly.’ He was almost pleading now.
‘Not sure I believe you, Clavelle,’ and Walsh took a pace towards him, ‘you’re sweating.’ Clavelle was terrified.
‘’Arry, no, please, there was nobody. I’d tell you. If police came here I’d be gone, away, some place else,’ then he added hurriedly, ‘but not before I told you. You are my friend. Like my brother, ’Arry, please.’
‘Maybe I believe you, then again maybe I don’t, but if you are lying to me, Clavelle, these papers are worthless and so is your life. Last chance to tell me who’s been calling on you; very last chance.’
Clavelle was wide-eyed with terror, ‘Nobody honestly, ’Arry, just customers, they come in, they buy books, they go, they don’t ask Clavelle questions, why would they?’ His voice was a high-pitched terrified whimper, ‘Please…’
Like Jago, Clavelle had the habit of referring to himself in the third person, as if the crooked personas they both inhabited were merely a disguise, something they adopted for a few hours for professional reasons then put aside at the end of the day. Walsh surveyed Clavelle closely. He reached out his hand, causing the Frenchman to flinch away. Then he patted Clavelle on the cheek. ‘Good lad,’ he said and left the shop without another word. Clavelle slumped back against the cold stove, putting a shaky hand against it to steady himself.
As Walsh walked off towards Leicester Square he privately regretted having to put the fear of God into Clavelle but it was the only way to ensure the shop, the forger, and Walsh’s papers had not all been compromised by Six. Walsh had to be even more on his guard now he knew he was being followed. The injured watcher would of course report back to his superiors. Even if Wal
sh had managed to attack his pursuer from behind, there would have been no disguising his involvement. Better to be upfront about it then and remind Six who they were dealing with. Though Walsh very much doubted anything official would be done about it, both sides now knew where they stood. The surveillance would be stepped up. From now on Walsh would be followed everywhere. At least it was good practice for France.
There was one other thing he had learned from the day and it brought reassurance. Walsh was still capable of instilling terror and in his line of work that was a very useful talent indeed.
19
‘Underneath the arches, we dream our dreams away Underneath the arches, on cobblestones I lay.’
Flanagan & Allen
Flanagan and Allen were waiting for Walsh as he left 64 Baker Street They made no attempt to hide their presence, following him at an even pace, one on either side of the road. Allen was level with Walsh, staring at his subject quite openly, and with undisguised hostility. Flanagan kept a course directly behind Walsh, hanging back a few yards.
Walsh had given all of his watchers names. Flanagan and Allen did not physically resemble the music hall comedians but were alike in one sense. This pair were definitely a double act; you never saw one without the other. If the well-built Allen waited on a street corner as you walked towards it, you could be sure Flanagan, the wiry one, was right behind you, silently following your every footstep.
Flanagan was the dogged little ferret who never tired of the game, happily trailing Walsh all over London for hours, before melting away so somebody else could take a turn.
Allen was very obviously the muscle; exceedingly well built, trained to a peak by the look of him, with narrow eyes and a slight, seemingly permanent smirk on his face, as if he knew something others did not and the knowledge amused him. Allen probably relished the physical side of his work and looked as if he was well practised at it but there was something else. Walsh could see the restlessness, the suppressed impatience, as if all of this walking around behind his target was an unnecessary prelude to the real thing. He was like a big dog tugging at a short chain; too much training and not enough action. When he first spotted Allen, the man had given Walsh a deliberately defiant look, as if to say ‘let’s see you try and break my arm then’.
Don’t doubt I could, if I chose to, thought Walsh.
Walsh was becoming almost used to the continual presence of somebody from MI6 by now. It had been Harold Lloyd’s turn to follow him from the doorstep of his home that morning. Walsh’s choice of nickname was more apt this time, for the fellow had the same round spectacles, pasty face and nervous countenance as the silent comedian. He also kept a discreet distance behind his subject. Presumably he had heard about the watcher with the broken arm.
Harold Lloyd’s shift continued as they both boarded the train, the latter waiting till the very last moment before joining Walsh on the London service, in case he made a dash for it back on to the platform as it pulled away. On arrival in London, he melted away as he always did, to be replaced by a fresh set of watchers from Six; all of whom Walsh took a bitter pleasure in naming. There was ‘Clement Attlee’ because of his bald head; ‘Sweeney Todd’, who resembled the kind of East End villain that might carry a cut-throat razor in his boot; and ‘Ginger Rogers’, who was not a woman but rather a thin little man who followed Walsh with such a light tread he seemed almost to glide as he walked. Others came and went: ‘Errol Flynn’ with his fussily manicured moustache; and ‘The Doctor’ because he carried a battered Gladstone bag. Walsh never did learn whether this was part of his cover or if it merely contained his lunch. More often than not though, it was Flanagan and Allen who would be waiting for him in Baker Street, and today was no exception.
It had been this way ever since the confrontation on the towpath. This wasn’t covert surveillance of the type MI5 might conduct against suspected foreign spies. These agents were easy to spot. Six were sending Walsh a message. We know you and will follow you till we find out what you are up to and you won’t be able to lose us.
Walsh decided the best way to tackle the constant scrutiny was to ignore it, outwardly at least. He would pretend to treat the days leading up to his departure as recreation, while simultaneously working out a way to dump his shadows before the plane to France. The problem was how to successfully lose a whole roster of professionals. It was a task that occupied his mind and eventually a plan came to him.
He had not told Gubbins about his unwanted shadows, in case the senior man was tempted to remove him from the operation. Instead he visited the Baker Street office of Maurice Buckmaster but this time it was not the Colonel he had come to see.
The woman occupying the desk outside Buckmaster’s office could still reasonably be described as attractive, if you were not discouraged by a slight hint of the school ma’am. Her gaze was solid and unwavering, her black hair brushed tightly back out of her eyes and pinned firmly in place, as if she despised its impracticality. Vera Atkins was bright, articulate, loyal and famously formidable; best of all she was good at keeping secrets, both for and from her employer, Colonel Buckmaster. Walsh had known Atkins long enough to be used to her lack of preamble.
‘Shakespeare again?’
‘Why not?’ he said.
‘Which verse? A bit of Henry V perhaps: “Once more unto the breach”, and all that?’
Walsh shook his head, ‘Too obvious; how about a spot of Hamlet: “Oh that this too, too solid flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew. Or that the everlasting had not fixed his canon ’gainst self-slaughter”.’
‘Use that and they will think you have a death wish, as well you know, Harry.’
‘You have a point. All right then, what about… “Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; our bruised arms hung up for monuments, our stern alarums changed to merry meetings”? Musings on a time of peace after war. That cheerful enough for you?’
‘Richard the Third,’ she pronounced without hesitation, ‘he was an evil bugger too. “I find thee apt” as Hamlet’s dad once said.’
‘Thank you.’ Walsh had the impression she enjoyed their little tussles over the line or two of verse to be used as a code poem. Some went to the cryptographer, Leo Marks, for their poetry. Others, like Walsh, chose a bit of Shakespeare or Keats, Byron or Longfellow as their cipher.
‘And the code name this time?’ he asked.
‘Daisy.’
‘What?’
‘Daisy, like the flower.’
‘Daisy.’ There was a long pause as Walsh pondered the code name he had been allocated. He was never one for false machismo; other men might insist on code names like ‘Lionheart’, ‘Eagle’ or ‘Fist’. Such posturing left him cold but ‘Daisy’? There could be only one explanation.
‘Price pick that?’
‘As a matter of fact…’
‘Thought as much; his puny idea of a joke. I’m surprised he didn’t plump for ‘Pansy’. Well, not wishing to spoil your day, Vera, but I refuse to go to my probable death with the code name “Daisy”. So, either the code name is changed or you find yourself another “Daisy”.’
‘You really mean that, don’t you; you’d actually pull out of a vital operation because of a mildly effeminate code name?’
‘It’s my final word on the matter.’
Vera Atkins raised her eyebrows. What was the point of arguing with Harry Walsh when he was in this sort of mood? Might as well try and trap lightning in a box.
‘I don’t know who is more infantile, you or Major Price. What do you suggest then?’
‘I don’t know,’ he thought for a moment, ‘how about “Gloucester”?’
‘As in “Old Spot”, as in “Pig”?’
‘No, as in “Duke of”; like Richard before he became “the Third”. A much-maligned figure, Richard. Just because he bumped off a couple of infant princes.’
‘Gloucester. Fine. Is that all?’ And with a stroke of her pen it was done.
‘Not quite,’ he told her, ‘can you get a message to Sam Cooper and Christophe Valvert for me at the finishing school?’
‘What message?’ she asked, picking up a pencil.
‘Tell them we’re going early,’ he said and she waited for an explanation she might pass on to them. When none was offered she didn’t press him. ‘I’ll give you a time and an RV point. That’s all they need to know.’
‘All right,’ she said, ‘in that case I’d better alert the CD too.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, Walsh, he wants to see you before you leave.’
Walsh slid gingerly out from under the covers, gently lowering them back into place. His wife’s face contorted slightly and he held his breath but she did not wake. Instead she rolled over and her breathing became more regular as Walsh slipped quietly from the room.
Walsh pulled on his clothes and left the house through its back door. He doubted Six were watching him twenty-four hours a day. He simply wasn’t worth it. Their surveillance was designed to harass and provoke him into making an error and one day it just might, so it was time to go but he had to do this right. When Walsh was ready to disappear it would need to be as if he had stepped off the world.
Walsh padded across the garden in his bare feet, not daring to use a light. There was no moon and Walsh could not see the outhouse but knew it was ahead of him. He kept a straight course towards it, counting his steps till he reached the door. Walsh reached out into the blackness and pressed his palm against the wood then moved it lower till he found the latch. He took almost a minute to ease the outhouse door open, knowing its customary creak could be loud enough to wake the dead on a windless night like this. He cursed himself for failing to oil the door. Finally there was enough of a gap for Walsh to slip inside.
Reaching down, Walsh felt the edge of the toilet seat in front of him and he climbed on to it. With a foot resting unevenly either side of the bowl, he raised an arm, spanning his fingers, and pressed a hand against the ceiling for balance. With his free hand, Walsh reached into his pocket for the screwdriver. He gripped it in his mouth while he ran his fingertips over the smooth wooden ceiling until he eventually found the indent of two screws. Walsh spent uncomfortable minutes gently easing each screw free until he could finally lower the wood they held in place. He then stood on his toes and stretched his arm deep into the recess he had gained access to. His hand dragged over the dusty wooden boards there and found nothing.
Ungentlemanly Warfare Page 11
