‘He’s been asking questions about you, Hendrie. He’s pally with a chap he was with in the army who works in Registry, and he approached him to see what he knew about you. And it turns out he has a connection with Bentley: his brother was at Balliol with him and he contrived to bump into him at his club. All he wanted to talk about was you.’
‘Perfectly normal to ask about one’s new work colleague, I’d have thought. Hardly the kind of subterfuge I imagine a Nazi spy would get up to, eh?’
‘I agree, Hendrie, but if the source is inside Rodmarton Street then everything points at Llewellyn Tindall; after all, he’s the one person who knows every detail of an agent’s journey to Denmark. But we have no evidence. We allowed you to go in with this story about leaving the Service under something of a cloud. We suspected Tindall would ask about you, and in fact when he did, what he heard was that far from you being in disgrace, you’ve actually been transferred to the Danish section on a highly sensitive mission to send in an agent.’
‘So carry on as you are,’ said Webster, ‘acting as the somewhat put-upon and unappreciated dogsbody, and let’s see what Tindall does. Be less than careful about what you leave on your desk, and maybe ask him if you can use his safe. In this file’ – he passed a thick envelope under the table – ‘is all the information you need. You’re running a fictitious agent, code name Venice. You’re to arrange for Venice to be flown out next Wednesday night from RAF Tempsford in Bedfordshire and dropped north-west of Randers on the Jutland peninsula. The non-existent Venice will be on a Halifax from 138 Squadron; they’re part of the RAF Special Duties Service. We’ll make sure one of their aircraft does take off as planned – Tindall knows Tempsford well, and he may well check whether there was such a flight.’
‘And how do we find out if he’s passed the information on?’
‘The putative drop will take place near a village called Vorning. There’s a particularly trustworthy resistance cell in that area. It’s normally quiet, not many Germans. They’ll be instructed to keep a careful watch on the drop zone. If there are Germans out there waiting for Venice, then we’ll know Tindall’s tipped them off.’
* * *
Hendrie had played his part, even impressing himself in the process. He spent most of the weekend in the office, a fact that he mentioned to Tindall when he came in on Monday morning and which Tindall later verified with the porter who’d been on duty. He affected an air of preoccupation and even worry, dropping the Venice file, swearing profusely, then concealing it under a pile of papers. When he went out for lunch, he asked Tindall whether he’d mind if he kept something in his safe.
On Wednesday morning, he ensured his rail ticket to Bedford was visible on his desk, and when he left at lunchtime and Tindall asked him where he was going, he replied, ‘King’s Cross,’ before hurrying out of the office.
He spent the night at RAF Tempsford, watching the Halifax take off at nine o’clock, and was in the control tower when it landed after its thousand-mile return trip just before two thirty. Minutes later, the station commander, Group Captain Hanson, escorted him to the crew room, where the young flight lieutenant who’d been in charge of the mission described it rather in the way he might talk about a Sunday afternoon drive in his new sports car.
‘Smooth enough flight out: kept to twelve thousand feet over the North Sea, speed averaging a decent two seventy. Bit of flak over German Bight, but I’m not sure we were the target. Crossed the Danish coast at Thyborøn, if that’s how you pronounce it, and then headed east-south-east towards the drop zone. Descended to five thousand over the lake north-west of the target zone and then followed normal protocol for dropping an agent: swift descent to six hundred feet, held that in a loop for as long as the engine could bear it, then pulled the hell out of the throttle and up to twenty thousand by the time we were over the North Sea again. Spotted a couple of German night fighters just off the Frisian Front but we soon told them to fuck off—’
‘Language, please, Green, we have a guest…’
The pilot looked towards Hendrie as if it were the first time he’d seen him. Hendrie noticed that despite the young pilot’s apparent insouciance, there was a noticeable twitch on one of his eyelids and he was constantly clasping and unclasping his hands.
‘Sorry, sir, where was I?’
‘Just off the Frisian Front, I believe – some German night fighters with whom you didn’t see eye to eye.’
‘Ah yes. Stepped on the accelerator after that, little bit of a headwind off the Norfolk coast and here we are!’
‘And I don’t suppose you saw anything on the ground?’
The flight lieutenant glanced at the group captain; both men looked surprised.
‘No, sir. We’d chosen a night with a small moon and plenty of cloud, as you know. Wouldn’t do for the Germans to have a clear view of no one jumping out of the Halifax, if you see what I mean, but by that same token, hard for us to see anything on the ground.’
Hendrie was driven straight from RAF Tempsford to MI6’s headquarters in Broadway. By the time he arrived in Gilbey’s office, he realised he’d been awake for more than twenty-four hours. He was on his third cup of coffee when Webster came in just after six, looking like a man who’d had a brush with death.
‘Are you all right, Webster?’ Gilbey sounded genuinely concerned.
‘Do you mind if I smoke, Tom? As you’re aware, I’d arranged for the message from the Randers group to be received by the Norwegian section, so no chance of Tindall getting the slightest inkling of it. I say, is there a coffee going?’
He sipped his coffee, alternating with drawing on his cigarette. As he did so, he removed a sheet of paper from his briefcase. ‘The message is from the Randers group. It was transmitted at five o’clock this morning our time, somewhat later than I’d have expected, but I think you’ll see why. Once it had been decoded, I came straight here. We’ve changed the times to UK time. It reads: “Bird appeared over nest at approximately eleven twelve last night. Descended to usual height for normal period of time. Ground-to-air visibility poor. Area teeming with German troops – possibly in excess of two hundred – including at least one SS detachment. Roadblocks throughout the area and house-to-house searches carried out in Vorning and surrounding area. Gestapo officers from Copenhagen believed to be involved. Regret unable to transmit before now for reasons of safety and security. Free Denmark!”’
Gilbey held out his hand and Webster passed the sheet to him. ‘Could anyone else in your section have known about this, Webster?’
‘Not that I’m aware of, sir. Hendrie will know better…’
‘I didn’t discuss it with anyone else, and the Venice file stayed in the office I share with Tindall. Seems a bit harsh to judge him on circumstantial evidence, though, doesn’t it?’
‘It’s more than circumstantial, Hendrie: it’s conclusive,’ said Gilbey. ‘The only person other than the three of us who knew about the fictitious agent being dropped in the Randers area last night was Llewellyn Tindall. In any case, we’ve been keeping an eye on him: I’ve had a team of watchers on him since Monday.’
‘First I’ve heard of that, Tom. Dig anything up?’
‘Nothing on Monday. He went straight to his flat in Marylebone; it’s in a mansion block on Welbeck Street. On Tuesday he went to his club and then took a cab back to his flat. Incidentally, we searched his flat on Tuesday and there was nothing suspicious there, though frankly I’d have been most surprised if there were. Last night he left his office and walked to Baker Street, then took a taxi to Piccadilly Circus. From there he walked to St Martin’s Lane, though according to Treslake, who led the watchers, he didn’t go there directly: he went down Haymarket, into Trafalgar Square, all the way round it, then up Charing Cross Road before cutting across. Treslake said he was using a fairly standard technique to avoid being followed: quite good, but obviously not good enough. He walked slowly down St Martin’s Lane and then hung around the corner with St Martin’s Court, as if he were w
aiting for someone. After about ten minutes he walked a bit further along and then into Cecil Court, where he was spotted with a young man. They stopped in a doorway, talked for a while and then Treslake said he was convinced Tindall handed the young man a slip of paper. They walked together back into Charing Cross Road, where they split up pretty quick.’
‘How many watchers were there at this stage?’ Hendrie asked.
‘Three, I think. Tindall boarded a number 53 bus and stayed on it as far as Wigmore Street, from where he walked back to his flat. Treslake and one of the other watchers managed to get onto the bus. As for the other chap, he jumped on another bus and just vanished into the night. He must be good: my watchers aren’t used to their targets disappearing into thin air. We’re not MI5, as you know full well.’
‘So when Tindall comes into the office, we take him aside and ask him a few questions, eh, Tom? Seems like he has quite a lot to answer.’
‘I don’t think we have the luxury of waiting for him to turn up to work. About an hour after he entered his block of flats, Treslake was about to call me to see whether they should stay there when they spotted the same young chap Tindall had met off St Martin’s Lane. He appeared out of nowhere and hurried into the block. Treslake called in reinforcements and they’ve been able to watch the building very carefully: as far as we know, he’s still there.’
Gilbey walked over to a cupboard behind his desk. He unlocked it and took out a pistol. ‘We’d better get a move on. A car’s waiting for us.’
* * *
Given the speed at which everything happened, Hendrie was surprised how clearly he was later to recall the events of the following hour.
They arrived in Welbeck Street to find that Treslake had a team of six watchers and four armed police officers.
‘Tindall’s flat is on the third floor, sir. I’ve placed two men on the landing above and one on the landing below. The rear of the flat opens onto a deep courtyard between this block and the one behind it. I’ve got one man in there. There’s no question both men are in the flat. We can either wait until they come out, or go in: it’s your decision, sir, obviously.’
‘Obviously, Treslake. We’ll go in now; we could even catch them transmitting. Webster, you wait here; Treslake, keep your watchers where they are, and you and the police come with me – you too, Hendrie.’
It was clear to Hendrie that seven men climbing the stairs and moving along the small corridor outside Tindall’s flat were bound to make a noise, however much they endeavoured to avoid it. Treslake rang the doorbell and it was a full minute before Tindall’s muffled voice could be heard from inside the flat.
‘Who is it?’
Treslake explained that he had a parcel, but there was no response. One of the policemen pointed to a spyglass set high in the door and off centre. It was obviously not meant to be seen. Gilbey nodded and Treslake barged at the door.
‘It’s solid, sir, reinforced. We’ll need the hammer.’
It was another minute before they managed to break in. Hendrie was the last to enter, and as he did so, he spotted an open window in the lounge and heard the sound of shouting below it.
‘Stay where you are – don’t move.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Tindall, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Treslake, you need to do something…’
‘Llewellyn, perhaps this can be…’
Llewellyn Tindall was standing in the bedroom with his back to a large mirror, the bed in a state of disarray next to him, facing the open doorway. His dressing gown was only loosely done up and he was naked underneath. In his hand, which was shaking violently, was a Webley service pistol, its barrel bouncing around like a conductor’s baton. At first he pointed it at the ceiling, then held it down as if he were about to drop it; then he wedged it under his jaw before lifting it up and holding it against his temple.
‘Come on, Tindall,’ said Gilbey, adopting an almost avuncular tone. ‘You’re not in any kind of trouble.’
Tindall stared at him in utter confusion: there was no doubt he was in all kinds of trouble. Then, before anyone could move, he pulled the trigger.
He was trembling so much it seemed at first he might have fired at the ceiling after all, but as they all rushed forward, he collapsed in a heap on what was clearly an expensive rug from somewhere exotic. The bullet had blown a large hole just by his ear, and blood was pouring onto the rug.
Hendrie knelt down beside him, and Tindall’s eyes swivelled towards him, apparently in recognition.
‘Who did you tell, Tindall – who are you working for?’ Gilbey sounded nervous now; he kept repeating the question.
Hendrie held Tindall’s wrist, feeling for a pulse. ‘He’s gone, sir. We shall never know.’
* * *
Two nights later, a drinks reception was held in Whitehall for some American Gilbey had never heard of but who was deemed important enough for a three-line whip: all invitees will attend, with the Prime Minister’s name used as bait.
These Whitehall receptions were like poisoned chalices in more ways than one, a reminder of how hard it was to know who to trust and an often tiresome exercise in who to avoid.
Tonight was a case in point: Gilbey had found an agreeably dark corner where he had a good view of the gathering and which was also on the route the waiters took from the bar back into the room. He’d seen off some American general with more stars on his shoulder than he imagined was legal when Lord Swalcliffe appeared in front of him.
‘What’s this I hear, Gilbey?’
No greeting, no pleasantries, no small talk from Churchill’s scientific adviser. A boxer throwing an uppercut straight from the bell: typical Swalcliffe.
‘I have absolutely no idea, Lord Swalcliffe.’ He noticed Swalcliffe didn’t have a drink in his hand, which wasn’t promising.
‘I hear…’ Swalcliffe paused, looked round and moved closer – far too close for Gilbey’s liking. ‘I hear you’ve been asking questions about rockets: German ones.’
‘I ask questions about lots of matters, Lord Swalcliffe. It’s part of my job.’ Gilbey could have kicked himself. It was a poor response, feeble and defensive.
‘Not in this case it isn’t. Forget rockets. Good evening.’
Chapter 3
England, October–November 1942
Tom Gilbey was furious, his shouting echoing along the corridor and possibly on the floors above and below his office. In his opinion it was bad enough – even inconsiderate – that Llewellyn Tindall had killed himself before they could interrogate him. But far worse was the other man in the flat – the one Tindall had been seen talking to off St Martin’s Lane – somehow managing to escape. That was inexcusable.
Also in the office in Broadway was Webster from the Danish section of SOE, looking even closer to death than he had earlier in the morning. Hendrie was there too, with his section head, Roland Bentley. But the object of Gilbey’s immediate wrath was Treslake, the leader of the team of watchers. The fact that they’d managed to follow Tindall around London and spot the young man entering the flat was not mentioned. Such success no longer counted. Their failure to catch him was all that mattered.
‘Remind me how many men you had on your team, Treslake?’
‘Ten, sir, including myself and the four police officers.’
‘All armed?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And I was there too, plus Hendrie, so twelve people, yet somehow this young chap managed to climb out of a third-floor window and disappear!’ He struck the desk, causing a teacup to dislodge from its saucer. Hendrie noticed Bentley take a step backwards, strategically placing himself behind Webster. His section head had a career-enhancing knack of stepping out of the line of fire.
‘He was incredibly agile, sir, and it was a narrow window; my men had to struggle to fit through it. He managed to climb up a further two floors and then disappeared over the rooftops.’
‘But you had a man in the courtyard. What the hell was he doing? Didn’t h
e have a gun?’
‘He did, sir, but I’m afraid it jammed.’
‘Jesus,’ said Gilbey menacingly, his fingers drumming heavily on his desk.
‘There is one thing, though, sir, if it’s of any help…’
‘Go on, Treslake.’
‘This has only come to light in the past half hour. You remember I told you how the younger chap had jumped on a number 24 bus heading north on the Charing Cross Road, and how he was so quick my watcher wasn’t able to get on it? Well, he was at least able to take the registration number of the bus, and we’ve now been able to speak to its conductor. He recognised the description of the young man and distinctly remembers him asking if the bus was going in the direction of Marylebone. He told him it wasn’t and that he’d need to change on Tottenham Court Road. He also says the man spoke with what he describes as a Continental accent.’
Gilbey looked up, his fingers still drumming.
‘I don’t suppose he was able to be more specific as to which part of the bloody Continent?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. He just said he was foreign, with a Continental accent – and that he looked nervous.’
* * *
Later that morning, Gilbey had calmed down somewhat, though he looked no less angry as he paced the office with the pent-up energy of an aggrieved animal. Treslake and Webster had left, and now he was alone with Bentley and Hendrie.
‘What do you think, Roland?’
‘About what, sir?’ Roland Bentley looked wary; he was always nervous when asked to commit himself to an opinion.
‘You’ve heard everything; you know what’s going on. I need to get Richard Prince into Denmark. I was worried about using the SOE due to our fears they’d been infiltrated, hence my putting Hendrie in there. Now that it is clear Llewellyn Tindall was the informer, do you think we are safe to send Prince in using the good offices of the SOE?’
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