Franco's Map

by Walter Ellis

  “So everyone keeps telling me.”

  “Well, they’re right. Just because things are quiet now doesn’t mean the threat isn’t there.” Bramall merely nodded by way of reply. He’d had a long day and was obviously exhausted. MacLeish finished his scotch and called to the mess sergeant to fetch his bill. “You must be shattered,” he said. “Away and get your head down. In the morning, we’ll talk about where we go from here.”

  It was when he got outside, into the open air, that Bramall realised he was slightly drunk, and it may have been this fact that explained why he didn’t hear the drone of aircraft approaching. The first he knew that Gibraltar was under attack was when the sirens sounded and anti-aircraft guns began to fire from every possible location, including the various ships at anchor.

  The noise was deafening. He began to run back towards the relative safety of the former Convent building, but, realising that the attack, whatever it was, was almost certainly directed against the fleet, changed his mind and made his way down a side street leading to the harbour. Ahead of him, as he reached the perimeter wall, he could see a couple of destroyers opening up, and then the heavy cruiser. None of the Ark Royal’s aircraft was in the take-off position, so far as he could see, and there was no indication that any ground-based fighters had been scrambled. So much for being prepared.

  But how the hell did the Germans get down this far? Their nearest airfields would be somewhere round Biarritz, 800 miles or so North. The distance was too great. Besides, the aircraft were coming in from the South. Germany had no bases in Africa. And then it hit him. Bloody Vichy! The Navy had destroyed the French fleet at Mers; this would be their attempt at revenge. He edged closer to the water’s edge. The anti-aircraft fire had by now reached an ear-splitting peak of intensity, but there was still no sign of the enemy. Then he saw them, skimming the waves – a trio of twin-engine torpedo planes powering in from the direction of Algeciras. They would have to be crazy, he thought, to maintain such a course through this volume of flack, and sure enough, while they were still a thousand metres or more from the outermost of the concrete moles that guarded the harbour, they released their payload, banked sharply and turned for home. He watched, appalled, as the torpedoes sliced through the water in the direction of the Ark Royal and its escorts. Oh, my God! One of them was sure to get through. He waited for the explosion. Nothing happened. There was to be no triumph of French arms. Two of the torpedoes exploded harmlessly against the stone defences of the outer harbour; the third went completely off course and sank in the deep water off the southern approach.

  Thirty seconds later, as the light began to fail, the ack-ack guns trailed off. The French aircraft were no more than smudges in the evening sky. Bramall stood up and took in the scene. Shouldn’t there have been pursuit aircraft up there as soon as the alarm sounded? Shouldn’t the warning have come five or even ten minutes earlier in any case? Was there no one up there on the Peak keeping an eye out? It was unbelievable. How am I expected to stop Franco teaming up with Hitler, he asked himself, when this lot can’t even stop three French mavericks drunk on Pastis winging in from Africa? War footing, my arse!

  Chapter 7

  Gibraltar: Government House, July 6

  The clock in the entrance hall of the old Convent building struck eight o’clock as Bramall strode into the building. It was still striking as he made his way into the breakfast room, where Braithwaite was waiting for him at a table by the window studying a copy of the previous day’s Daily Telegraph.

  The Yorkshireman looked up, his face greyer than Bramall remembered. “Ah,” he said. “There you are. Right on time. That’s something at any rate.” He folded his paper, which was opened, Bramall noticed, at the Court and Social page, and placed it on the floor next to him. “Take a pew. I’ve ordered for both of us, so I hope eggs and bacon meet with your approval.”

  “Absolutely.” Bramall sat down, to find himself being stared at through the window by an enormous seagull. It looked as if it disapproved of him, which did not surprise him in the least. Everyone seemed to find him lacking these days. He was not looking forward to the next hour.

  “MacLeish was here when I came in,” Braithwaite said, interrupting Bramall’s train of thought. “He’ll join us in a while. Tells me you caused a bit of rumpus last night with Sir George.”

  “I wouldn’t say that exactly.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “No. We had a difference of view, that’s all, and he didn’t seem that put out about it – once he got used to the idea, that is.”

  Braithwaite took a sip of orange juice. It was a pleasure he had not experienced for the best part of a year. “Hmm,” he said, running an appreciative tongue around the bottom of his moustache. “Problem is, up to last night the idea he was getting used to, like a lot of his colleagues in Westminster, was that England is fighting on, no matter what. Now you’ve gone and put the wind up him with talk of a new Spanish front. Not very clever, was it?”

  Bramall sniffed. “Well, if it gees things up a bit in Downing Street it’ll have done no harm.”

  “Oh dear.” The sigh that accompanied Braithwaite’s somewhat prim response seemed to have originated deep in his chest. “I hadn’t realised you were that much of a troublemaker, Mr Bramall.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Braithwaite fixed him with a gimlet eye, reminding him this time of his old Latin master in the third form. They shared the same world-weary mannerisms. “Do I really have to spell it out? You’ve made a play for the daughter of one of your top contacts – a young lady engaged to be married to a good friend of the operational commander of the SS – and, within minutes of meeting him, had a go in public at a senior MP sent over to Gib on a fact-finding mission for the PM. I mean, what have you got lined up for week three?”

  Bramall felt his jaw tighten. “I suppose if you put it like that.” He paused. “At least you can’t blame me for last night’s air raid.”

  “No,” said Braithwaite, making a moon face while waving his empty glass at the breakfast waiter. “That were a bit of a bugger, weren’t it?”

  “That’s putting it mildly. What if it had been a proper raid, by a squadron of Stukas?”

  “From where, exactly?”

  “How should I know? But I was down at the harbour. I saw the whole thing. Do you know, they didn’t scramble a single fighter.”

  “Hardly surprising,” said Braithwaite.

  “Eh?”

  “There aren’t any. Oh, there’s plans. They’ve a couple of fighter squadrons earmarked – if Hitler gives us a breathing space. But until the facilities are ready, anti-aircraft guns are all we’ve got.”

  “I stand amazed.”

  “Something else you might have noticed: there aren’t that many squaddies about either. Governor tells me he’s got three battalions so far, shortly to be augmented by your friends, the Black Watch. Not exactly an Army – but all we’ve got room for.” The waiter shuffled across to refill his glass of orange juice. “Still, who’d have thought the French would have had a go like that?”

  Bramall drew in his chair closer in to the table across the tiled floor, sending a high-pitched squeak echoing across the dining room. “Admiral Darlan, for a start,” he said. “But there must have been talk … I mean, it wasn’t just their ships we sank, it was their pride. Who took account of that?”

  Braithwaite looked away from Bramall to the seagull, still perched on the windowsill outside. This was not a discussion he wished to get into. “We’re working on it,” he said. “Not my department.”

  “Yes, well I would advise whosoever’s department it is to assume that Darlan isn’t exactly overjoyed about seeing his fleet destroyed by – what is it? – Force H. Can you imagine what it’s like being French just now? Especially if you’re in uniform. Three months ago, they believed they could beat Ger
many on their own. Now their country’s sliced in two, half of it occupied, their remaining forces harassed and humiliated by us.”

  At this point, the waiter brought their eggs and bacon. He made a point of never eavesdropping on conversations. Habits like that only got you into trouble. “Tea, is it, gents?” he inquired.

  “Coffee for me,” Braithwaite replied. He turned back to Bramall. “Haven’t had a proper coffee in months. Apart from last night, of course. I don’t know what the stuff is they offer us now back home. Hickory or something. Comes out of a bloody bottle.”

  Bramall dabbed some margarine on a slice of toast and slid it beneath one of the eggs on his plate. He wasn’t going to say to Braithwaite, but he, too, had been looking forward to a “proper” breakfast. “So what do you think?” he said.

  “About what?” Braithwaite was busy with the salt.

  “About France.”

  “Oh, that. Well, I’m sorry for them, of course. A right bloody mess. But this is no time for sentiment. If we’re not ruthless now, it’ll be too late after.” He looked up, a slice of bacon speared on the end of his fork. “Which brings us to the business in hand. How are you getting on? What’s your assessment? Are you making progress or are you just pissing about?”

  “Didn’t you get my cable?”

  Braithwaite scratched his eyebrow and grimaced “Oh,” he said – “that.”

  “Yes, that. I thought you might have mentioned it.”

  “Aye, well let me see, what did it contain? Something about Serrano writing a letter to Ciano, wasn’t it? Asking Italy to support Spanish claims in North Africa. And then something about Serrano and his top brass going to meet the German Ambassador.”

  Bramall was aghast at the veteran spymaster’s studied indifference to his efforts. “Are you telling me that neither of those small nuggets was of any interest to you?”

  Braithwaite spread his elbows on the table and clasped his hands in front of him. His mouth opened and then closed again. It was as if he couldn’t the words to frame the thoughts that were in his head. After a second, he picked up the copy of the Daily Telegraph he had brought with him from England. “Do you see this newspaper? It’s full of things that interest me. Most of them are new to me. But they don’t change what lies ahead. Your cable was a bit like that. If you want to know what I did with it, I mentioned it in a memo I sent to Lord Halifax. It was a couple of lines on page two. I should imagine he nodded as he read it, then turned the page.”

  Bramall felt utterly deflated, but Braithwaite, rather like Croft in Lisbon, wasn’t done. “Let me explain. What you have to do with pieces of information like that is follow up on them. On their own, they’re indicators, not evidence. I wouldn’t expect you to race off to Rome to take a look at Count Ciano’s Olivetti, but I would expect you to do your best to find out what happens at that meeting between Serrano and his colleagues and the German Ambassador. Now that’s what’s really interesting. If you could bring me a transcript of that conversation, then we’d be getting somewhere.”

  “And how in hell am I supposed to do that?”

  “That’s for you to work out, lad. It’s why you’re there. No one ever said it would be easy.”

  Bramall sat back in his chair, feeling as if the stuffing had been knocked out of him.

  It was Braithwaite’s turn to frown. Perhaps, he thought, he had overplayed his hand. “Look,” he said, “don’t take it personally. Let’s be positive for a moment. You’ve made a start. You’re on your way. You’ve added another small piece to the jigsaw and, with luck, the big picture will soon start forming in your head.”

  Bramall wasn’t convinced. “You really believe that?”

  “Why not? So cheer up and tell me about the Duke. You must be glad to be shot of him.”

  “Too bloody right. I’m just glad the Bahamas business worked out. Hoare seemed a bit sceptical about the idea, I thought. But I must have picked him up wrong.”

  A look of puzzlement crept across Braithwaite’s ruddy features. You’ve lost me. Are you saying that was your idea? Sending him to Timbuktu, I mean?”

  “Well, yes – for what it’s worth.”

  “I see.” Braithwaite looked almost impressed. “Well now, there’s a thing. I’d no idea.”

  “I was going to include it in my cable, but after the event, there didn’t seem much point.”

  “Crafty old bugger.”

  “Who?”

  “Hoare. Never said. Claimed all the credit for himself. I’m glad you told me that. Well done.”

  An unaccustomed warmth coursed through Bramall. It was as if he had just drunk a large restorative brandy. “Thanks,” he said. “I realise the Duke established my cover, and I’ll not pretend that wasn’t useful – not least with Serrano. But what a pain in the neck.”

  “No argument here,” said Braithwaite, chewing contentedly. “If I’d had my way, he’d have been put on the Army List and sent straight to Front Line.”

  A blob of egg yolk dropped from Bramall’s raised fork onto his plate. “Which is where exactly?” he asked. It didn’t take him long to bounce back from disappointment.

  Braithwaite offered a wry smile, acknowledging the joke. Britain was at war, but apart from the occasional dogfight over the Channel, there hadn’t been any fighting for weeks. “Well,” he said, “according to what we saw last night, it’s right here in Gibraltar.”

  “Except that the enemy turns out to be French.”

  “True. Funny old world, isn’t it?” The MI6 chief reached once more for the salt. “I had word from Croft the other day.”

  This sounded dangerous. “Oh yes?”

  “Yes. Sent me a cable. A lot of it was about you.” The statement hung in the air for a moment before resuming with a request for the pot of marmalade on the table next to them.

  Bramall pulled his chair back and stretched across to fetch the marmalade. Once again, a piercing screech rang through the room.”

  “And do you mind not doing that? said Braithwaite. “It sets my teeth on edge.”

  “Sorry. But you were saying …”

  “Aye. He says you’ve made one or two rather daft errors of judgement, but it’s your first mission and I should give you another chance.”

  “Well, that’s very white of him.”

  “Said I should put you straight.”

  “Which you’re now about to do, I take it.”

  Braithwaite heaped a spoonful of marmalade onto a slice of toast. “Cards on the table,” he said in his thick, slightly theatrical northern tones. “The business with the Duke aside, I’m just a little bit disappointed with your performance thus far. I won’t pretend otherwise. But early days. And every story has two sides to it – so what’s yours?”

  Bramall took a deep breath. He was glad he’d never had to serve under Braithwaite in the Army. “Well,” he began, “looks like I’ve made an impression on Serrano. That has to count for something. He’s still in two minds about joining the war and I think my talk with him convinced him not to rush into anything he might regret.”

  “Trusts you, does he?”

  “I’d say so. So far as I can tell, just about everybody in Spain thinks I’m batting for Hitler – or at least for Fascism.”

  “I told you we’d get the word out. What about Beigbeder?”

  “I had lunch with him last week – along with the Duke and Duchess. Seemed friendly enough. Well disposed, even. But there’s talk he might not last the distance.”

  Croft had mentioned something similar over the phone and Braithwaite was disappointed to have the rumour confirmed. The foreign Minister, after all, was on Hoare’s payroll. “Who would replace him?” he asked.

  “Who do you think?”

  “Serrano?”

  “That’d be my bet. With an
y luck, I’d be well in with the man holding both of the two top positions in Spain – apart from Franco, of course. Not bad for a beginner.”

  Braithwaite digested Bramall’s latest piece of conceit along with a slice of egg. “And since you’re a betting man, what odds do you put on Sir George’s nightmare coming true?”

  “That,” said Bramall, “depends on Hitler. If Germany comes through with food and fuel – and plenty of both – and promises to back Madrid on North Africa as well as Gibraltar, then it’s Plan B for us, I’m afraid. It all could hang on what assurances Canaris can give to Franco. But if we get in first with material assistance and make it clear we’re ready to fight to the end, with America behind us, I still think we’re in with a shout.”

  “So what are you doing to convince Serrano that England means business?”

  Bramall’s brow furrowed. “That’s the problem,” he said at last. “If there was only something I could use, some leverage I could apply, before Hitler commits himself to Spain, it might just tip the balance – always providing Downing Street and Hoare come up with the goods their end. Right now, though, I haven’t got anything.”

  Braithwaite nodded and stabbed at a piece of bacon. “What else?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Anything you haven’t told me?”

  “Well … “

  “What?”

  Bramall let out a sigh. “There’s this girl … “

  Braithwaite was immediately suspicious. “Go on.”

  “Daughter of Serrano’s principle aide, engaged to an Argentinean Nazi I met a couple of times in Buenos Aires who seems to be something of a go-between for the Germans in their dealings with Spain.”

  “Really?” Now Braithwaite actually looked interested. “And where precisely do you fit into her plans?”

  Bramall stared hard at the wall opposite. “Hard to say. But she came to see me at my hotel the other night and made it clear that she would do whatever she could to keep her country out of the war.”