The Danger of Life

by Ken Lussey

  ‘It’s a long walk from Strathan to Mallaig carrying a weight of gold,’ said Archibald Cameron.

  ‘All the more so as it turned out that they’d found over 8,300 gold coins, not the 5,700 suggested in the records you’d seen. 8,310 to be exact.’

  Archibald Cameron sat back on the sofa. ‘Now that is fascinating. It suggests that Archibald Cameron of Locheil was able to take possession of more of the original gold, most likely from Macpherson of Cluny, before the redcoats caught up with him. What will become of the coins now?’

  ‘That’s still to be decided. Right now, they are securely under lock and key. I strongly suspect, however, that they will be claimed by the Crown.’

  Archibald Cameron laughed. ‘Now, that’s ironic, he said.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Bob. ‘I did keep this for you, though.’ Bob flicked the coin so it span in the air, just had Archibald had done the last time they had met.

  Archibald was more adept than Bob had been, however, and had no difficulty catching it. He looked at it. ‘This one is dated 1740.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bob. ‘That was one of two Louis d’or kept as souvenirs by the men who found the gold. It subsequently travelled to Achnacarry and has since been in my possession. The Crown will get the rest. It seemed to me only right that Archibald Cameron of Locheil’s descendent should have one to remember him by.’

  There were tears in the older man’s eyes. Then he laughed. ‘I wonder if that Jacobite toast we drank on your last visit had more of an effect on you than I realised at the time, Bob? I’m not supposed to have this, am I?’

  ‘No,’ said Bob, ‘but then you aren’t supposed to have the illicit whisky you kindly served on our last visit and I didn’t see that stopping you. Besides, only the four of us here know, and none of us are about to tell anyone else, are we?’

  Spean Bridge railway station was quiet as the afternoon train from Fort William to Glasgow arrived. He’d heard stories of frantic activity here as hundreds of men at a time arrived by train from Glasgow and then formed up to begin their march to Achnacarry. Today, though, it was almost possible to forget there was a war on. Bob had, with difficulty, packed the Denison smock into his overnight bag and was back in his RAF issue officer’s raincoat. The train proved to be as quiet as the station and he had no difficulty getting a first-class compartment to himself.

  Bob had heard that the railway line from Fort William to Glasgow was one of the most scenic in the world. He saw very little of it. He was awakened by the ticket inspector as the train pulled into a remarkably remote station, apparently surrounded by mountains and moorland. He had no idea where it was. The station name boards had been removed, in common with most across the railways of Britain, as a wartime measure to avoid assisting an invading enemy.

  ‘Where are we?’ asked Bob.

  ‘This is Corrour Station, sir. You’ve a way to go before we get to Glasgow.’

  ‘No, I suppose there’s no chance of confusing the two, is there?’ said Bob.

  A little later Bob woke up again, this time as the train crossed a bridge over a road in a village, before coming to a halt at another unnamed station. From his map he thought this must be Crianlarich. As he settled back down into his seat he realised that he’d barely noticed the pain in his side at all that day. He thought this was a little surprising given the jar he’d had when he’d landed heavily at the bottom of the stairs in the crew compartment of the Silver Darling the previous night.

  Monique Dubois had agreed to have Bob met at Glasgow’s Queen Street Station. He’d asked how he would know the driver, only to have Monique point out that there weren’t likely to be many group captains passing through the station at that time. The driver would find him.

  ‘Group Captain Sutherland?’ A man in a civilian overcoat and hat that had both seen better days approached him on the concourse. ‘I’m supposed to tell you that the lady from Sarclet Castle is waiting for you, sir.’

  ‘Madame Dubois?’ replied Bob, as agreed, wondering if he’d ever get used to this cloak-and-dagger stuff.

  The driver didn’t introduce himself and led Bob over to a parking area, where he held open the rear door of a saloon car.

  As they headed south west through a city Bob had once known very well indeed, he asked where they were heading.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’ve been told not to discuss that with you.’ Bob saw little point in pushing for an answer and sat back to enjoy the show provided by a spectacular sunset. For the second time that day he reflected on how the weather made such a difference to the way Scotland looked and felt.

  Bob’s mental map suggested they were approaching the eastern side of Paisley when the car slowed down and turned off the road, through a pair of open gates. Ahead of them was a house, built from a yellowish stone, standing in its own grounds. The sign on the gatepost had proclaimed it as ‘White Cart Lodge’. Bob looked round through the rear window to see a man closing the gates behind them.

  ‘Hello, Bob,’ said Monique, as he was shown into a comfortable sitting room. ‘As I told you on the telephone you’ve returned just in time. The simulated sabotage of the Rolls-Royce factory at Hillington takes place later tonight.’

  ‘Will Geoffrey Smith actually be taking part?’ asked Bob.

  ‘No, there’s no need for that. He’s got all the information he needs to be able to produce a watertight account of his actions for the Abwehr when he returns to Germany. He’s in the room he shares with Arthur Thompson at the back of the house here. Arthur and another minder are taking him into Glasgow later, to allow him to indulge his passion for night clubs and, perhaps, for women.’

  ‘Arthur Thompson’s job isn’t one I’d want myself,’ said Bob.

  ‘No, Geoffrey Smith is becoming increasingly hard work for all of us,’ said Monique. ‘His first response when he met me was to suggest that I’d been laid on, and I choose my words carefully, for his benefit.’

  ‘He’s not your type, then?’ asked Bob, laughing. He saw the look on Monique’s face and stopped laughing. He bit his tongue, wishing again he’d not tried quite so hard to hurt her when they’d argued.

  ‘As you know, Bob, there was a time when I didn’t really pick and choose, unless “bastards” qualifies as a type. I thought I was getting more discriminating in my old age, but I came back from Achnacarry unsure whether you were my new leaf or just more of the same.’

  ‘I know there’s no excuse, but when you showed up it was on the back of Commodore Cunningham raising questions of his own about my fitness to be running the investigation. It may not have been what he intended, but it was how it felt. Having MI5 forcing its way in seemed like just another kick in the teeth. It felt even worse because the pretext was built on something I’d told you privately.’

  ‘I know, Bob, and I am truly sorry about that. But it really didn’t seem to matter at the time. As I told you, I had as little desire to be at Achnacarry as you had for me to be there.’

  Bob sighed. ‘Have you ever wished you could wind back time a little, and have a second run at something? I do wish I could unsay some of the things I said.’

  ‘Yes, I have. For my part I regret what I said to you about your injury. It was nasty, and it was untrue. I admire the way you’ve overcome what happened and succeeded despite it.’

  There was an awkward pause.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Bob, ‘I think I changed the subject. You were saying how you’d managed to keep Geoffrey Smith occupied.’

  ‘Yes, I was. Building up the detail of the cover story has taken a fair amount of time. On Monday he was out with Arthur Thompson visiting chemists and ironmongers in the Glasgow area, looking for the chemicals he would need to manufacture explosives. There was a difficult moment when it turned out that the Abwehr handler who had taught Geoffrey how to make his own explosives had told him that the weedkiller he needed, “kalium chlorid
e” in German, translated as “calcium chloride” in English. We had a very puzzled shopkeeper wondering why Geoffrey wanted to use calcium chloride as a weedkiller. Geoffrey’s natural charm avoided awkwardness turning into nastiness and another brush with the police. We’ve yet to decide whether the Abwehr’s failure to tell him that the weedkiller he wanted was called potassium chloride in English was down to incompetence on their part; or was a trap to allow them to test the story he tells when he returns. Given I don’t think they expect or particularly want to see him again, I think it was just incompetence.’

  ‘I assume he’s not actually manufacturing explosives?’ asked Bob.

  ‘Good God, no,’ said Monique. ‘Anyway, we decided to go one better. Arthur Thompson took him down yesterday to a large quarry at a place called Greenoakhill, on the south east side of Glasgow, to allow him to familiarise himself with the place. Geoffrey will tell the Abwehr that he stole a car, used it to steal a significant quantity of commercial explosives from the quarry, and used that to sabotage the factory. That was Geoffrey’s idea. It seems he regularly stole explosives from quarries during his safe-cracking days. He’s also been back to Hillington to work out a plausible route through the security, and to look at the inside of the building he is meant to be attacking, again so he has a convincing story to tell.’

  ‘What happens tonight?’ asked Bob.

  ‘Not so fast, Group Captain. I know you did me a favour last Thursday...’

  ‘You said when you asked me to do it that it was a “large” favour,’ said Bob.

  ‘Yes, I did. But when we spoke this morning you told me that you had something to offer in return for having a ringside seat tonight.’

  ‘That’s right, I do,’ said Bob.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘Do you trust me?’ asked Monique.

  ‘With my life, yes,’ said Bob. ‘To play fair when there’s credit to be earned for MI5? I don’t know.’

  ‘Come on, Bob. Apart from anything else, I’m curious.’

  ‘Fair enough, Monique. Think of this as an official invitation from MI11 to MI5 to take part in an operation tomorrow to shut down a Soviet spy ring in Scotland. In my absence the operation’s been approved by Commodore Cunningham and Major General Sir Peter Maitland and is seen as a means of re-establishing MI11 as an active force in the intelligence community.’

  ‘Do my people in London know about it?’

  ‘No, they don’t, Monique. But as the head of the Security Service reports to Sir Peter, I can’t imagine he will be able to complain. And you’ll be able to tell them all about it, though I’d be grateful if you could refrain from doing so until afterwards.’

  ‘I promise, Bob. What’s the background?’

  ‘I’m only partly up to speed myself,’ said Bob, ‘but I’ll make sure we are both briefed before the operation takes place. In the meantime, however, have I earned myself that ringside seat we were talking about for tonight?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Do you have a spare room here I can use after we’re finished at Hillington?’ asked Bob. ‘I’ve got a plane picking us up at RAF Renfrew in the morning to take us to Turnhouse.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Bob.’

  Bob knew that many thousands of workers were employed at Hillington. In thinking through what was proposed, he had always thought that the biggest problem would be preventing any of the workers realising that something out of the ordinary was going on.

  In the event, the ruse was carried off in a very matter of fact way. Bob and Monique were driven the short distance north from White Cart Lodge to the factory at Hillington and having entered the site were directed to a car park near the most north eastern of the major blocks making up the factory. It was a clear night, well-lit by a moon that was only four days past full.

  In the car park they found something like a dozen army lorries and some twenty men. The team responsible for the deception was led by a Royal Engineers officer who introduced himself as Major Murray. Monique also introduced Bob to Bernard Peterssen, the head of security for Rolls-Royce at the Hillington factory.

  A short time later a police car arrived, and Lieutenant Jack Callaghan walked over to join them. ‘Hello, Bob, couldn’t you keep away either?’

  ‘You know me, Jack. I always want to see the loose ends tidied up.’

  Major Murray’s men clearly knew exactly what was expected of them.

  ‘Do you mind me asking what we’re looking at, Major?’ said Bob.

  ‘Not at all, sir.’ The major pointed up, towards the roof of the factory. ‘My men are currently spreading out a very large canvas cover over the north eastern corner of this building, it will cover about a third of the roof area and have an irregular curve at its far edge. Things are complicated by the design of the roof. This is set in a series of ridges, which are angled and glazed to make the most of the sun’s light. Thankfully, blackout regulations mean that the glazing was painted over early in the war to prevent the factory drawing attention to itself at night. Otherwise anyone inside the building would see what we were doing, if not tonight, then certainly in the morning. My men are spreading and tying down this canvas, while trying not to put a foot or anything else through the glazing.

  ‘The canvas is painted to give the impression, when viewed from an aircraft passing over at height, that the building has been badly damaged and that you can see wrecked machinery inside. Once the canvas is secure we will winch up and fix in place some papier-mâché components that add an element of the third dimension to the illusion. The result might look a little odd to anyone passing low over the roof, but from any height at all, it will look convincing.’

  ‘With RAF Renfrew just a short distance to the north and RAF Abbotsinch not much further to the west, isn’t there a chance someone will see the roof from close range and realise what is going on?’ asked Bob.

  ‘The bigger danger is that someone will start spreading stories that the building has been damaged, which is something we want to avoid,’ said the major. ‘But that’s a chance we’ll have to take. The illusion will be in place for ten days, which we think is long enough to be sure the Luftwaffe can come and take photographs; and is just about long enough for us to have begun to repair it if it had been damaged. Then we’ll pack everything up and return it to the film studios we are based at in Shepperton.’

  ‘It’s a bit of an anti-climax, really, isn’t it?’ said Lieutenant Callaghan, quietly, when the major had left.

  Bob agreed with him but didn’t say so.

  It took no more than three hours for the major’s men to finish their work and leave the site.

  Before he left, Bob agreed to visit Jack Callaghan and his wife that coming weekend and fended off the suggestion that he might like to ‘bring a friend’. Even in the moonlight, Bob could see a glint of humour in the lieutenant’s eye that suggested he had drawn conclusions about Bob and Monique.

  It didn’t take long to drive back to White Cart Lodge.

  As they entered, Monique turned to Bob. ‘Do you fancy a brandy?’

  ‘If you like,’ said Bob. ‘Do you want to sit in the lounge?’

  ‘No, that wasn’t what I had in mind, Bob. You wait there, and I’ll grab a bottle and a couple of glasses and we can take them up to my room.’

  As Monique disappeared, Bob was left wondering whether he had heard her correctly. When she returned a few moments later she held the bottle up for inspection. ‘I know you prefer the women in your life to offer you Cognac, but I’m afraid this is all we’ve got.’

  ‘Does this mean I’m not staying in a spare room?’

  ‘Well, you can if you want to, Bob. I’ll not hold it against you if that’s what you want to do. I just wondered whether we should try to put Achnacarry behind us. I do like being with you. How would you feel about giving each other one
last chance? I’ll put you back in my “not a bastard” pile, for the moment at least.’

  Bob smiled. ‘So long as you promise that dig about Cognac is the last time you’ll ever tease me about Lady Alice Gough. I still feel bad about how upset she was to find you in my bed.’

  ‘Alright, and for your part, no more harlot references, please. Not unless I’m acting the part for your benefit.’

  ‘I promise,’ said Bob. ‘Brandy will be fine, by the way.’

  Bob half-expected Monique’s response as he turned towards her in the glow of the bedside light.

  ‘Good God, Bob, I didn’t think it would be that bad!’ Monique was looking at the purple and black bruise that still covered a large part of the left side of his chest. ‘And your arm!’

  ‘Yes, to say that parts of me are tender is an understatement. I’m not joking when I ask you to be gentle with me.’

  ‘I promise, Bob.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘Hello, Flight Sergeant. We’ve met before but I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’ It was the same man who had flown him to Renfrew the previous Thursday.

  ‘It’s Flight Sergeant Clapperton, sir. Do you want to sit up front again?’

  ‘If it’s alright with you, Flight Sergeant, Madame Dubois will sit in the co-pilot’s seat and I’ll sit just behind. There’s something we need to look at once we’ve taken off. Once we’ve done that we can leave you in peace and move back down the cabin.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  The aircraft took off into the gentle westerly wind under clear blue skies. Bob raised his voice over the sound of the engines. ‘Could we fly straight ahead until we’re at 5,000ft and then reverse course, Flight Sergeant? We want to look at the Rolls-Royce factory. And I’d be very grateful if you’d keep to yourself what you see and hear when we do that.’

  ‘No problem, sir.’