by James R Benn
“Alright,” he said. “I believe you. Why are you here, and how can I help?”
“I can’t say much, but there’s a chance we can get Diana out. As far as I know, the Germans don’t know she’s SOE,” I said.
“That’s our assumption as well. To them, she’s Malou, part of a Parisian resistance group,” Marks said. “How are you planning on getting her out? Is this an OSS operation?”
“It’s not OSS. But there is a plan in the works, that’s all I can tell you,” I said. Far as I knew, Bill Donovan and the Office of Strategic Services weren’t involved.
“Are you wasting my time, Captain Boyle? It’s evident you do know Diana Seaton, but I am at a loss to understand what you want of me,” Marks said. “I don’t have much time. I have a priority coding job to do.”
“Do you know Charles Cosgrove?” Big Mike asked, doing a better job of getting to the point.
“Yes. Invalided out of the service for medical reasons a while ago. Now back in the game with the Foreign Office. He looked years younger last I saw him. Why?”
“He’s been murdered,” I said. Marks sat straight up. That got his attention.
“What about Paul Densmore?” Big Mike asked.
“Of course. Lieutenant Densmore is with the German Section. He’s away on leave,” Marks said, a look of dawning shock on his face.
“Murdered. Likely by the same person who killed Cosgrove,” I said. “They were both killed at Saint Albans. You know the place?”
“Never had the pleasure, but I know it’s a sanitorium for agents and others who need a place to rest and recover. Like poor Densmore,” Marks said. “The connection to Diana Seaton?”
“Major Cosgrove was working on a plan that would get Diana out,” I said. “I want to catch the killer and make sure the plan goes off without a hitch. Cosgrove was a good man. A friend. I owe him that. I want justice and I want Diana back.”
“So do we,” Marks said, tapping the ash from his cigar as he set it in an ashtray.
“Did you know Thomas Holland?” Big Mike asked, hitting him with another victim, this one even closer to home.
“Dear God. After all he’s been through, don’t tell me he’s been killed at Saint Albans as well,” Marks said.
“He was the first,” I said. “You knew he was there?”
“Not precisely. I did know he’d come back in a catatonic state, so it stands to reason. I’d briefed him on codes before both his missions. Quite dedicated, and a courageous fellow, from what I hear. But I don’t know the details, you’ll have to talk to Vera about that.”
“Where is she?” I asked.
“Listen,” Marks said, puffing his cigar back into life. “I’m short on time. I’ll contact Vera and let you know if she wants to talk. I think I’m treading close to a violation of the Official Secrets Act, and I have no wish to spend the next twenty years or so in one of His Majesty’s dungeons. Where can I reach you?”
“Norfolk House or the Dorchester Hotel,” Big Mike said, writing out our names and the SHAEF exchange where a message could be left. “Can you make it soon?”
“Of course, I’m sure our agent won’t mind jumping without his codebooks,” Marks said, blowing smoke in our direction and pointing to the door. “The corporal will escort you out. I’d recommend no sudden moves,” he said, his pen poised over a blank sheet of paper.
“Just one quick question,” I said as I neared the door. “Who is George Markstein and where can we find him?”
“I’d advise you not to ask that question outside of this room,” Marks said. “Ever.”
Leo Marks was a young guy, almost baby faced, his visage framed by his dark curls. But at that moment, with his cigar clenched between his teeth, he looked like a gangster measuring me up for a Chicago overcoat.
“That hit a nerve,” Big Mike said, as our escort left us on the sidewalk. “Think it spooked him?”
“It tells us we’re on the right track,” I said. “But I hope it didn’t push him over the edge.”
The last thing we needed was to be cut off from Vera Atkins. She had the clout we needed to get some questions answered. Marks, I wasn’t so sure about. He might be a genius with codes, but that didn’t mean he could give orders within SOE. Except maybe to have us arrested.
“He seemed concerned enough about Diana,” Big Mike said as we got into the jeep. “That’s gotta mean something. Now let’s see what this Tiltman guy has to say.”
In fifteen minutes, we’d parked the jeep in a line of other military vehicles and were bounding up the steps at SHAEF HQ in Saint James’s Square. Upstairs, we made for the conference room next to Harding’s office. Harding was in the hallway shaking hands with a dapper gent in a three-piece suit, the classic image of a posh Foreign Service officer.
Harding introduced us. Tiltman had the face of an aristocrat, unblemished by sun or weather, smooth skin set taut over cheekbones, and hair graying at the temples just enough to impart a sense of maturity. As we shook hands, I felt the softness of privilege. I offered my condolences over the death of Major Cosgrove.
“A fine man,” Tiltman said. “I understand you lent a hand with the investigation, Captain.”
“Not very successfully,” I said. Tiltman wished me luck catching the killer, while Harding ushered the three of us into the room.
I almost fell over.
Vera Atkins sat at the far end of the table leafing through a file.
“I believe you know Flight Officer Vera Atkins, Captain Boyle?” Harding said. Vera rose and nodded an acknowledgement, her blue Women’s Auxiliary Air Force uniform lending a touch of color to the assembled gray pinstripes and khaki.
“I’ve had the pleasure,” I said, shooting a quick wink to Big Mike, who enveloped her hand in one of his and shook it like he was priming a pump.
“It’s been a while, Captain,” Vera said as we all took our seats. “I’m glad to see you’re well. I trust Saint Albans was restful?”
“I’ve never slept better,” I said. I didn’t know enough about Tiltman to start asking questions about Markstein in front of him, so I zipped it and settled down to see what Vera was doing here and learn what she knew.
“I have been reviewing the files Major Cosgrove left behind,” Tiltman said. “It is all extraordinary, I must say. Still, Count Bernadotte and the Swedish Red Cross believe Himmler’s offer is genuine.”
“Does your source within the Swedish government concur?” I asked. There was a hesitancy in Tiltman’s voice that I didn’t like. I wanted to be sure he was fully on board with this scheme.
“What source?” Tiltman said, raising an eyebrow. Harding frowned, and I plowed ahead.
“When he was at Saint Albans, Cosgrove told us he had a source,” I said.
“Right before he was killed,” Big Mike added for emphasis.
“We’ve all worked with Major Cosgrove in the past,” Harding said, laying his palms flat on the table, as if claiming control over the meeting. “We respected him and naturally kept everything he said confidential. Correct, gentlemen?”
“Yes, on both counts,” I said, while Big Mike nodded in agreement. “The major told us that this Swedish contact was how he got Diana Seaton’s name on the list of inmates to be released.”
“Malou Lyon,” Vera said. “To be precise. That is the name on the forged identity card we gave her. And that is how the Germans know her.”
“And most importantly, how the Swedes know her,” Harding said. “Because of Major Cosgrove’s contact within the Swedish government, the Swedish Red Cross has agreed to place her name on the list of one hundred prisoners to be repatriated in this trial run. She may be able to provide us with important information about the German rocket program.”
“Yes, I know,” Tiltman said. “But we must be careful not to press the Swedes too hard. If they think this is more of an i
ntelligence effort as opposed to a humanitarian one, they could close the project down entirely. I wonder if this agent’s importance may be overstated, which is why I asked Flight Officer Atkins to be here.”
“Malou Lyon is unique,” Vera said, tapping one finger on the tabletop. “She is our only agent to be captured without the Germans knowing she is SOE. That has saved her life so far. But she could be betrayed at any time, and that would be the end of her. So do press the Swedes upon this point, Mr. Tiltman. You are a diplomat. I assume that means you know the exact amount of pressure required and how to apply it.”
“You are aware of the rocket attack today?” Harding said.
“Yes. Two strikes here and one in Paris. The V2 supersonic rocket,” Tiltman said.
“We believe Miss Seaton may be employed in the Siemens factory outside the camp,” Harding said. “They produce components for the rocket there. Cosgrove thought she’d be able to report valuable information.”
“But surely if the Germans have her working on V2 components, they’d never let her go,” Tiltman said. “And by putting her on the list, we may be revealing she is an intelligence asset after all.”
“To the Germans, she’s simply working on unidentifiable machine parts. She may not know what they are for, but once we have her back and put her knowledge together with our other sources, it may help us find a way to combat these things,” Harding said, without mentioning Skory and his planeload of salvaged parts.
“I’m not aware of other sources, nor do I wish to be,” Tiltman said, then fixed his eyes on Vera. “Do you believe Diana Seaton is capable of intelligence gathering, even as a slave laborer? The conditions must be horrible.”
“If she breathes, yes. Malou will do her job,” Vera said.
“Very well, but I can make no promises,” Tiltman said. “Count Bernadotte is almost ready to present the list to Himmler’s representative. Obviously, we must maintain the highest level of secrecy if we don’t want a disaster for all concerned.”
“The one hundred prisoners, you mean?” Big Mike asked.
“Of course,” Tiltman answered much too quickly. He couldn’t hide the fact that it was a diplomatic disaster he was most worried about. “But it would also be a disaster for the Swedes if it looked like they were being used as a tool of British intelligence. It could harm postwar relations in Scandinavia.”
“One war at a time,” I said, seeing where this was going. Careers could be harmed as well. “There’s one more name I’d like to ask you to add. Angelika Kazimierz.”
“Who is this person?” Tiltman asked. Vera looked confused, and Harding looked ready to boil over.
“An intelligence operative, but not for SOE,” I said. “She’s with the Polish Home Army and was picked up in a sweep. The Germans rounded up young women, all city girls with thin, delicate fingers. Perfect for assembling small machine parts. She’s in Ravensbrück as well.”
“Absolutely not,” Tiltman said, rising from his seat. “One name may be possible. Two could endanger the entire project. When would it stop? Colonel Harding, I will be in touch. Good day to you all.”
“You had no authorization to make that request, Captain,” Harding said through gritted teeth as soon as Tiltman cleared the door. “From this point forward, keep your trap shut or I’ll send you back to Saint Albans for another long nap.” Harding stormed out of the room, probably to mollify Tiltman.
“I assume Angelika is some relation of Lieutenant Kazimierz,” Vera said, assembling her papers as she stood to leave.
“His sister,” I said. “His only living relative. She’s as likely to be working in that V2 factory as Diana. It would be important to get her out.”
“No doubt,” Vera said. “But to be blunt, my priority is getting one of my girls out. Don’t get in the way of that, Captain.”
“I don’t think Tiltman even gave it a moment’s thought,” I said. “By the way, I wanted to ask you about a guy I met in Saint Albans, an agent by the name of Thomas Holland. Know him?”
“I do. He was one of our agents,” Vera said. “A brave man. I was sad to hear he’d committed suicide.”
“He was murdered,” I said.
“Along with Charles Cosgrove and Paul Densmore,” Big Mike added.
“I had no idea. I mean about murder. I’d heard Charles had died, but I assumed it was his heart,” Vera said. She sat down, a look of confusion spreading across her face. “Paul Densmore too?”
“Yes. Colonel Blackford didn’t say anything about it?”
“No. When I saw him earlier today, he didn’t mention it. Who is responsible?”
“That’s what we want to know. Does the name George Markstein mean anything to you? He originally went by Georg. A German Jew,” I said.
“No,” Vera said. But a sudden flash in her eyes told me otherwise.
“He was friends with Holland. From before the war. They did their SOE training together,” I said, taking out the photograph of the two smiling young men and sliding it across the table to her.
“I said no,” Vera repeated, pushing the photograph back in my direction without much of a look at it.
“Somebody killed Holland and tried to make it look like an accident or suicide,” I said. “Then stabbed Cosgrove and broke Densmore’s neck. Holland had wanted to volunteer for duty with the German Section, but he had been turned down. But they took Markstein. He’s the only link,” I said.
“Charles Cosgrove never was part of the German Section,” Vera said. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“He served on the selection committee that rejected Holland and took Markstein. That was enough to get him killed,” I said. I pocketed the photograph since she was working so hard not to look at it. I held up the postcard instead. “Recognize this?”
“Where did you get that?” Vera said. Her face flushed red.
“It was left on Cosgrove’s body,” I said. “A message of some sort. The image of this same red horse was painted in Densmore’s blood on his bedroom window. What’s going on, Vera? What does the red horse mean?”
“Asking such questions will endanger Diana. You should know that, Captain,” she said, getting up and walking to the door. “As well as yourselves. Be careful. Or as your Colonel Harding so elegantly put it, keep your trap shut.”
“We know about Operation Periwig,” I said, trying to sound like I knew more than the name. It stopped her cold.
“You are a reckless man, Captain Boyle,” Vera said. “No one outside of SOE should know that name, much less bandy it about. Perhaps Scotland Yard needs to pay you a call. I’m fairly certain you’ve violated our Official Secrets Act, if not your own Espionage Act. I doubt even your famous uncle would intervene if the British government complained about your interference.”
“I’m reckless? You’re ignoring a murder spree aimed at SOE’s German Section, and you call me reckless? Give me a break,” I said, as I felt Big Mike clap a hand on my shoulder and, not for the first time today, pull me back.
“Be careful,” she said. “Consider that a friendly warning. The next time it won’t be friendly, and it will be much worse than a warning.”
“It’s Blackford who should be careful,” I said. “He’s the next logical victim.”
“Well, you’ll be the first suspect, I imagine. Unless they’ve let anyone else out of Saint Albans today. Goodbye.”
“Always nice to make new friends,” Big Mike said as Vera stalked out and slammed the door shut.
“Let’s get out of here before Harding comes back,” I said. “I need a drink.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
We got to the bar at the Dorchester before the off-duty crowd started to filter in, ordered our Burton Ales, and sat back to consider our next move.
I wasn’t sure we had one.
“We can hope Inspector Scutt comes up with a fingerprint match,”
Big Mike said, with little enthusiasm.
“That could take days, or even weeks,” I said. “He could show up to arrest us before he’s done if Vera wakes up cranky tomorrow morning. Maybe Kaz can make some sense out of Griffin’s notebook. Before they put us in the Tower of London.”
“Vera was right about Ike, you know. He wouldn’t side with his favorite nephew if it endangered Allied unity,” Big Mike said, taking a healthy swig of ale. The Brits would frame it as an American junior officer interfering with SOE secret operations. No way Uncle Ike could take sides.
“Yeah. Feels like we’re boxed in,” I said. “You’d think Cosgrove’s friends, if Vera Atkins and this Tiltman guy were his pals, would want justice for him. But nobody cares.”
“We do,” Big Mike said, polishing off his pint and signaling for the barman to pull another. “We’ll get him, Billy. Even if it takes a while.”
“Excuse me, Captain,” Walter said, suddenly materializing at my side. “This was delivered moments ago.” He handed me an envelope.
“Walter, there’s no name on this,” I said, looking at the blank creamy white paper.
“Yes. The gentleman said it was to be delivered to you posthaste,” Walter said.
“What gentleman?” I said to Walter’s retreating back. I shrugged and tore open the envelope.
Pick me up at the Marble Arch. 9:00 p.m. sharp. Bring this note.
12.13.
“What?” Big Mike said. “Pick who up?”
“I dunno,” I said, studying the paper. “Maybe it’s the killer setting a trap. Or maybe Vera wants to apologize.”
“But what’s with the twelve, thirteen?” Big Mike said. “A signature?”
“I don’t get it,” I admitted, finishing the last of my ale as I turned the heavy paper stock over. I caught a faint smoky odor. I put it up to my nose and sniffed. Then I counted on my fingers.
“It’s a code,” I said. “A simple code, but that’s the point. It tells us who sent it.”
“Leo Marks?” Big Mike asked, his brow wrinkled as he scanned the note. “Oh yeah! It’s his initials.”