by Alex Gerlis
‘So you’d like the skate to start?’
‘Yes please, sir.’
‘Good choice: I think I’ll go for the crab – and for main course? This place isn’t what it was before the war, but it’s still decent enough. I could weep when I look at this menu, though: before the war, their roast beef from the carving trolley was quite the best in London. Now… I think I’ll go for les pieds de boeuf: ox feet done with carrots and onions – it’s carrots with everything these days, isn’t it? And what do you fancy? The bitock de boeuf isn’t bad: fried minced beef steak served in a cream sauce.’
‘That will be fine for me, thank you, sir.’
‘No more Nazi spies?’ Tom Gilbey had waited until their starter had arrived.
The younger man laughed. ‘None who’ve made themselves known to us, sir. I think one was probably enough.’
‘When I asked earlier if you’d caught any murderers, you replied you were “afraid not”: I’m curious as to what you meant by that?’
‘Simply a figure of speech, sir.’
‘Really, Prince?’ Gilbey leaned back and watched as the sommelier topped up their wine glasses, then glanced at his dining companion trying to work out whether to believe him. ‘Because you see, Prince, if I was the cynical type, I would say that wasn’t so much a figure of speech as an expression of your true feelings.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir: you do rather sound like one of those shrinks you tried to persuade me to see last time I returned from Germany.’
‘What I mean, Prince, is that you sound bored. What kind of cases are you working on these days? Burglaries, missing tractors, behaviour likely to cause a breach of the peace – maybe a bit of black-market racketeering as a treat, that kind of thing? Nothing quite as challenging as a clandestine mission inside occupied Europe, is it?’
‘No, sir, but not quite as dangerous either. And at least these days I get to sleep peacefully in my own bed every night knowing my son’s in the next room.’
They watched as a man and woman at a nearby table got up and prepared to leave. He was considerably older than her and glanced nervously around the room.
‘He’s probably hoping no one here recognises him, eh? Don’t come to Simpson’s if you’re having an affair would be my advice.’
‘Could be his daughter, sir.’
‘Ever the detective eh? Have you ever considered you might be wasting your talents, Prince?’
Prince didn’t reply, but shot a suspicious look at Gilbey as he carried on eating.
‘You were our best agent, there’s no question about that. Between the end of 1942 and last February, you spent a total of twelve months operating in enemy territory, which is a remarkable feat. Both your missions were a considerable success and contributed significantly to what we can now safely assume is an inevitable Allied victory.’
Prince pushed a boiled potato around his plate, carefully steering it clear of the bright yellow mustard. ‘But at some considerable personal cost, sir.’
‘Of course, but look around here: everyone in this dining room would have made sacrifices during the war – all of us.’
Prince put down his cutlery, placing it across his plate as if to indicate he’d finished, even though there was still plenty of food on it. ‘Are you trying to cajole me into rejoining the Service?’
‘No, Prince – I told you, I wanted to catch up, see how you are, and also tell you that at long last we expect Turkey to join our side any day now, and thank you once again for your part in bringing that about.’
‘So this is a purely social occasion?’
Tom Gilbey signalled for the sommelier to refill their glasses, then ordered another bottle. ‘You’re a football fan, aren’t you, Prince?’
‘I am sir: Nottingham Forest.’
‘Aren’t they the oldest club in the world?’
‘I think you may be confusing them with Notts County, sir. Such a mistake would be regarded as a capital offence in Nottingham. County are the oldest professional club in the world, perhaps their only claim to fame. Have you brought me down to London for a chat about football?’
Tom Gilbey responded with a non-committal shrug.
‘I imagine if there was any news on Hanne, you’d have told me by now, sir?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid, Prince. One has to take the view that no news is good news, though I do realise that must be awfully hard to accept. We’ll keep looking for her. We have agents and contacts throughout occupied Europe, as you know. Sooner or later we’re bound to find out what the Nazis have done with her.’
The sommelier brought the new bottle to the table, complimenting Gilbey once more on his impeccable taste and pouring some for him to try before decanting the rest into the carafe. The whole process took twice as long as it should have done.
‘This Château Haut-Brion is wonderful, don’t you agree?’ Gilbey said when the man had gone. ‘Despite my family’s now sadly distant connection with the gin trade, I still regard wine as a more… interesting drink. They manage to keep a decent cellar here even if they’ve had to convert half of it into an air-raid shelter.’
‘Do pardon my confusion, sir, but am I here to talk about wine or football?’
Gilbey studied his glass carefully, holding it up and slowly turning it to catch the light.
‘As I understand it, football players are transferred from one club to another, and money is involved, which seems rather mercenary. Do you care for some more potatoes, Prince?’
They watched the waiter nervously spoon potatoes onto their plates.
‘I suppose selling a player from one club to another makes things rather commercial, but at least it’s clear-cut, eh? Club A wants a player and club B agrees to sell him. I mention this, Prince, as a way of telling you that another organisation is interested in your services.’
Prince finished chewing his beef and sipped from his wine. ‘And they’re prepared to pay a fee for me?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Gilbey, relieved that his companion’s initial reaction hadn’t been one of outright hostility. ‘Not cash, at any rate. But certainly I’d expect something in return.’
‘And is this as a secret agent?’
‘A little quieter, if you please, Prince. No, not as such – well, at least not in the way you’ve worked as an agent for us. This won’t involve operating in enemy territory or even going overseas. It will entail you working on a mission within this country and the role will be something between that of a police detective and a secret agent.’
‘Is that as much as you can tell me, sir? Not even the organisation?’
‘It’s as much as I can tell you until I know you’re amenable to the idea. You’ll still be required to work clandestinely, and there’ll inevitably be an element of danger.’
In spite of himself, Prince couldn’t avoid looking interested. It was apparent to anyone watching the pair: the younger man now appeared more relaxed, with the trace of a smile on his face, unbuttoning his jacket and raising his glass to his companion as he drank from it.
‘And you say all within this country, sir?’
Gilbey nodded. ‘It sounds as if you’re not averse to the idea.’
‘I hope you understand that it’s not as if I’m unwilling to serve. When we last met, back in September I think it was, you said that I’d always regard myself as a secret agent, that it would always be the most fulfilling and absorbing thing I’d ever done. I may have been rather dismissive of that at the time, but I have to acknowledge you were correct, sir. Not a day goes by when I don’t compare the rather routine nature of what I do now with the… well, excitement, there’s no other word for it, of operating in enemy territory. I’d go on another mission for you at the drop of a hat, sir, but you understand about my son. I’m all he has now and I owe it to him not to put myself in such danger again, so I had rather reconciled myself to investigating burglaries and the like. But if this job is in this country, then I’d certainly like to find out more.’
Tom Gilbey didn’t reply, but leaned to his right, looking beyond Prince to get someone’s attention, beckoning them over with his hand. Within moments a well-built man appeared by their table.
‘Ah, Hugh… why don’t you pull up that chair and join us? I take it you’ve eaten?’
The other man nodded, smiling at Prince briefly, not taking his eyes off him as he sat down.
‘Have a glass of wine. Have I ever mentioned their Château Haut-Brion?’
‘Frequently, Tom.’
‘Hugh, this is Richard Prince, whom we discussed. Prince, this is my colleague Hugh Harper. Indeed, the Honourable Hugh Harper.’
‘Please, Tom, really…’
‘Hugh and I were at school together. In fact we were in the same year—’
‘I doubt Mr Prince is interested in our schooldays.’
‘Hugh, I mentioned to Richard the possibility of him coming to work for you, and he expressed some interest.’
Hugh Harper shifted his chair closer to the table and leaned towards Prince, patting him on the forearm.
‘Well that’s splendid news. Let me tell you a bit about our outfit. Whereas Tom’s lot look after our intelligence activities beyond these shores, my organisation – some know it best as MI5 – fulfils a counter-intelligence role within the United Kingdom. In a nutshell, and in the context of the war, we have primary responsibility for catching Nazi spies. You could say…’ he leaned back and glanced at Gilbey, ‘that the operation you assisted with so ably in 1942 should have been under the aegis of my organisation. There are occasions when my colleagues in MI6 take a very generous view of their brief and extend their activities well beyond their remit, but one is prepared to regard that as all water under the bridge, eh? Tom has been most decent in recommending you for this particular role.’
* * *
After their lunch, the three men walked along the Strand until they came to a taxi rank close to the Savoy. Gilbey and Harper waved Prince off as he headed back to King’s Cross. They looked like parents putting on a show of good cheer as they saw their offspring off for another term at boarding school. Once the tail lights had faded in the gathering afternoon dusk, the two men continued along the Strand in the direction of Trafalgar Square.
‘He seems like a good sort, Tom. I actually rather liked him.’
‘You sound surprised, Hugh.’
‘Only because you described him as chippy: “typical grammar school”, you said. “Only just middle class” was another phrase you used. I found him perfectly likeable.’
‘You’ve always had the habit of being rather selective in remembering what one has said. I may well have described Prince thus, but I also said he’s one of the most resourceful and courageous agents we’ve used. He’s been in and out of Nazi Germany three times in total, and operated in Denmark, Czechoslovakia and Turkey. On his first mission he escaped from Denmark to Sweden and back here, and on the last one he managed to get from Turkey into Czechoslovakia and then from Prague to Munich before catching a flight to Switzerland, would you believe. Both of his missions were considerable successes in terms of the intelligence he gathered.’
‘So you keep telling me, Tom, but then it is out of character for you to recommend him to us, unless of course you think you owe us.’
‘If it was up to me, Hugh, I’d have sent him on another mission long ago. But there’s his son, you remember I told you?’
‘Wife died, you said.’
‘His wife and daughter were killed in a road accident in 1940. His son, Henry, was just a year old; he was at home at the time. There was a disaster when Prince was on his mission to Denmark. Young Henry was being cared for by Prince’s sister-in-law, who brought him down to London with her to stay with a friend for a few days. Henry was the only one who survived an air raid and was taken to hospital unable to say who he was. To cut a rather long and terribly unfortunate story short, the matron at the hospital quite improperly allowed him to be adopted, and we completely lost track of the poor little chap. Prince was devastated, of course, when he got back here. We pretty much turned the country upside down looking for the boy. We still hadn’t found him by the time Prince returned from his Turkish mission, but then he took matters into his own hands. To this day I’ve no idea how he tracked the child down, but I’ve no doubt he broke a few laws in the process. Hence his reluctance to leave this country for the time being, and one can hardly blame him.’
‘And I thought it was a case of you doing the right thing by passing him on to us.’
‘Perish the thought.’
They’d passed Northumberland Avenue and Gilbey was guiding Harper across Whitehall.
‘I say, why are we heading this way?’
‘Meeting with an old school chum of ours, Hugh.’
‘Hang on, Tom: please promise me we’re not meeting Roly. I beg of you… The last time I crossed swords with him, I thought he was going to put me in detention. Remember that sickening sense one had at school when we were sent to the prefects’ room?’
‘Come on, Hugh, it will be like a school reunion.’
‘Exactly – and just as ghastly. You seem to have set me up.’
* * *
The prime minister’s intelligence adviser seemed to fill most of his office deep inside Downing Street, leaning back in his chair and smiling with just a modicum of grace as Gilbey and Harper entered. His hands were intertwined high up on his chest and he appeared to be impervious to the high temperature in the room. The window overlooking an internal courtyard was shut fast, a dirty net curtain not quite covering it. Two chairs had been arranged in front of his desk and he indicated that they should sit.
Despite a somewhat aloof and fussy manner and the appearance of a well-fed but nonetheless put-upon bank manager, Sir Roland Pearson was not to be underestimated. He knew everyone who mattered in the various intelligence agencies, and his network of contacts ensured he was one of the few people with a broad appreciation of what was going on: an ‘overview’ was the word the Americans used. He was the gatekeeper – another word the Americans used – between Churchill and his intelligence agencies, and he also had the ability to distil and edit intelligence exactly as the prime minister wanted it. ‘Roly,’ people would observe, in a resigned but resentful way, ‘has Winston’s ear.’
Sir Roland had been at school with both Gilbey and Harper, though a few years above them. Despite this, his manner was that of a schoolmaster rather than a former fellow pupil.
‘Family well, Hugh?’
Hugh replied that they were, thank you very much.
‘And your brother… Charles?’
‘I think you may mean Christopher. He was in your year.’
‘Of course he was. Mentioned in dispatches in Normandy, I see.’
‘Yes, thank you, Roly. Chris is now the hero of the family.’
‘Good show. No doubt they’ll put his name on that board at school, eh? Those names of former pupils who fought in the Great War, they used to move me to tears – when no one was watching, of course.’
‘He’s not dead, Roly, not yet at any rate.’
‘You heard Osbourne was killed at Arromanches? Legs blown off apparently. Poor chap used to get terribly homesick at school. Christ knows how he must have felt.’
The three of them nodded gravely and shook their heads in unison, a silence following.
‘I understand you met Tom’s protégé Prince today, eh?’
‘I did.’
‘And you liked him, did you? Think he can be of assistance to you on this operation?’
‘I very much hope so, Roly. I thought I was there to say yes or no to him. Didn’t realise this needed your approval.’
‘Everything needs my approval. When I heard about your little problem, it was me who suggested to Tom that Prince would be just the man to sort it out for you.’
‘I’m terribly grateful, Roly.’
‘Normally an agent of Prince’s calibre would be operating inside enemy terri
tory, but I recognise the urgency of this case. He comes at a price, though, I need you to understand that.’
‘I wondered if there’d be a catch.’
‘I want to make it very clear that Prince needs to know everything. You’re to hold nothing back from him.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean by everything, Roly. Surely not everything?’
‘The word does not have multiple definitions, Hugh.’
‘I mean, it could be taken to include the Ultra intercepts!’ Hugh Harper laughed at the very notion that Prince could be privy to Ultra.
‘Actually, it does.’
‘Come off it, Roly: Ultra is called Ultra for a very good reason, because it’s even more secret than “Most Secret”. Do you realise how restricted the list is of people who have access to it? There are generals and admirals who aren’t on the list. It’s strictly need-to-know, and even then—’
‘I really don’t need a tutorial on who has access to Ultra!’ Sir Roland Pearson was clearly angry; his face coloured and he banged his desktop. ‘I have oversight of that list and I want Prince on it if he undertakes this mission!’
Gilbey leaned forward, his manner more conciliatory. ‘Perhaps I can reassure you, Hugh, how utterly trustworthy Prince is. He was arrested by the Gestapo in Copenhagen and didn’t utter a word, then went to Berlin in December ’42 and came out with first-class intelligence. He returned the following month and produced more first-class material from inside the Nazi rocket factory before he was arrested and sent to a concentration camp, and still he managed to maintain his cover. Then he escaped back to Denmark, where despite being ill with typhus he managed to contact our most secret source in Copenhagen and with his help get over to Sweden. I can tell you one thing: had there been any question mark over Prince, that source in Copenhagen would have been betrayed, there’s no question about that. Both his missions have produced intelligence that has already been of considerable help to us.’
‘So,’ said Sir Roland, looming across his desk in the manner of a headmaster disciplining a pupil, ‘you give him everything, even Ultra. Understand?’