Ring of Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  He felt uncomfortable. There was an uneasy atmosphere in the room and he wasn’t sure how to break it. He took a sip from his beer. ‘I brought you the cigarettes.’ The man behind the table nodded, his face still concealed by shadow. After a while, he noisily scraped his chair forward and his face became visible. It was unquestionably Lenny Fenton. His mugshot hadn’t done full justice to a scar that ran in an almost perfectly straight line from his nostril to his jaw, giving him a permanent sneer. The photograph hadn’t managed to capture the scar’s redness and how disfiguring it was. Fenton said nothing as he gazed at Prince, the familiar look of someone sizing him up.

  ‘They tell me you’re a deserter, George Nicholson. I want you to tell me your story.’ He hadn’t introduced himself.

  Prince started talking about the incident on guard duty in May 1941, but Fenton stopped him. ‘Start at the beginning. I want your life story. I like hearing about other people’s lives: it’s a hobby of mine.’

  Remembering to be vague about dates and places, he talked about his miserable childhood and leaving home, he mentioned the Mosley rallies (no, I’m no good with dates), how he’d been conscripted, his reluctance to be in the army and his doubts about the war, the boredom and rigour of army training, the injustices meted out to him, the nightmare year spent at the Glasshouse in Aldershot and then his desertion and the past two and a half years on the run.

  ‘I don’t understand why you didn’t go to that hearing after you were released,’ Fenton said. ‘Why turn yourself into a fugitive when they’d have thrown you out the army?’

  It was a good question and he replied with a long rant about how Jews and communists had taken over the country and he didn’t trust anyone and couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t throw him in a labour battalion, or worse still send him back to the Glasshouse, and if they did he’d have topped himself and… He was aware he’d raised his voice and was sounding angry and unsettled.

  ‘If they were gonna do that they wouldn’t have released you, would they?’

  ‘I see that now, of course, but at the time… I think the year I spent there turned my mind, to be honest: I wasn’t behaving normally.’

  ‘And since then?’

  ‘Moving around looking for work… thieving here and there. Found a woman in Norfolk whose husband was in the Far East and stayed there for a while until her neighbours became suspicious. But it was getting harder so I came down to London before Christmas: got some portering work at King’s Cross and then Euston but then lost that ’cos they said I nicked a coat, and now I’m desperate to be honest with you. Sorry, do you mind if I ask your name?’

  Fenton looked affronted and shrugged. ‘What is it you want, George?’

  ‘I’ve had enough of being a fugitive. When I met Sid and his mates on Saturday I got the impression they might be able to help. I need new papers and maybe somewhere safe to stay for a while.’

  Fenton leaned back in his chair until it was balancing on two legs. His arms were folded high on his chest and his gaze was unrelenting.

  ‘What do you make of this war?’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  Fenton sounded exasperated. ‘Now that it looks like this country’s going to win it – what do you make of that?’

  Prince drank his beer: it wouldn’t do to come across as too clever. ‘I don’t know, I’m no politician… I just wonder whether the right side’s won, if you know what I mean… Well, not so much whether the right side’s won but whether the wrong side lost.’

  It sounded far too clever.

  ‘Don’t understand.’

  ‘The fucking Russians will rule Europe now, won’t they – them and the Jews, or what’s left of them.’ Behind him he could hear Sid chuckling, but Fenton’s expression remained unchanged. Prince wondered if it was something to do with his scar.

  ‘Come with me.’

  Fenton stood up and turned round, and as he did so, a door behind him Prince hadn’t spotted in the gloom opened. On the other side of it was a fire escape, and Fenton paused for Prince to catch up. Sid was behind them. The fire escape seemed to lead down to the rear of the pub. The drizzle had now turned to heavy rain, making the metal steps quite precarious.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  There was no reply. Sid was so close to him he could feel his body pushing against him. At the foot of the fire escape was the yard behind the pub, piles of beer barrels and crates of empty bottles, a wall behind which would be the alley. As far as Prince could make out, one of the double gates in it was ajar, with the figure of a man just visible in the dark. Sid guided him by the elbow under the fire escape until they were standing by the closed back door to the pub.

  No one said a word for a while. He was aware that at least one other man had joined them in the dark. The only sounds were of the heavy rain and the pinging noise it made as it bounced off the fire escape. There was also the sound of the men breathing: heavy and maybe slightly nervous. Prince was sure they’d hear the sound of his heart beating. He caught Sid’s eye; Sid smiled, and what little light there was caught the glint of a gold tooth.

  ‘What you staring at?’

  Prince said he wasn’t staring at anything.

  ‘You Catholic?’

  He said he wasn’t.

  ‘So you won’t be needing the last rites then, will you?’ Sid gave a throaty laugh until Fenton told him to shut up.

  ‘Stand here.’ Sid had turned him round so he was facing the closed door. Fenton knocked on it. Prince heard someone open the door and Fenton said, ‘It’s me, get her.’

  They stood in the rain, the mesh cover of the fire escape giving the effect of standing in a shower. Since entering the pub there’d been an air of menace and hostility, but now he realised how dangerous his predicament was.

  He heard footsteps approaching the door from inside the pub, and as they came closer, Sid took out a torch and shone a powerful light in his face. He could hardly keep his eyes open.

  ‘Stand still, don’t move.’

  The door opened and he was aware of two or three more people in front of him but couldn’t make out any features. Fenton was holding him tightly by the shoulder and at least one other man had moved behind him, his body pressing against his.

  ‘Is this the man calling himself George Nicholson?’

  ‘I think so, but I’ll need to hear him say something.’ It was a woman’s voice and there was something very familiar about it.

  Fenton tightened his grip on his shoulder. ‘Go on, speak; say who you are and what you’re doing here… Go on.’

  The light moved closer to his face and he could feel its warmth. ‘George… George Nicholson and I’m here at the pub…’

  ‘Keep going.’

  ‘Well it’s a Tuesday night and it’s raining and I’m really not sure what the hell this is all about all…’

  ‘It’s him.’

  ‘You certain?’

  ‘Of course I’m certain: that’s definitely the same George Nicholson from the other day – the one who said he was Arthur’s friend.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Fenton harshly. ‘In you go now.’

  Sid moved slightly, enough for the beam of the torch to leave Prince’s face for a couple of seconds, and in that time he caught a glimpse of the woman, lit by the light from inside the pub.

  He knew who she was now.

  And he knew he was in trouble.

  * * *

  Four men surrounded him: Fenton and Sid, another who’d appeared behind them and had pinned his hands behind him, and one of the men who’d come out of the pub. He’d been shoved from under the fire escape so that now he was in the open yard, where there was more light. He could see the group exchanging glances, as if unsure what to do next. They appeared to defer to Len Fenton, who said nothing, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched and watching Prince like a fighter.

  ‘Look,’ said Prince, his voice shaking, ‘I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but
you don’t seem to believe me and I promise you I’m just someone who came to you for help. I mean, who was that woman? I only need—’

  ‘Shut up!’ Fenton growled. ‘I hate people like you… scum, traitors to their people.’ He nodded at Sid, who removed something from a pocket and held it close to Prince’s face. As he did so, there was a clicking sound and the blade of his flick knife flew open.

  Fenton had moved closer, the red scar on his face pulsating.

  ‘By the time we’ve finished with you, we’ll have found out who the hell you are. You told Sid here you wanted a job in the docks, eh? Well I tell you what, George Nicholson or whoever the hell you are, you’re certainly going to get your wish and end up in the docks.’

  For the first time, Fenton smiled.

  Prince’s first thought was that he’d managed to escape from the Gestapo in Berlin so he ought to be able to do the same with some overweight thugs in the East End, but as he looked around, it was clear he was trapped. The yard at the rear of the pub had a high wall and the gate was now shut. Sid was waving the flick knife in front of his face, allowing its cold tip to touch him just under the eye. He could smell the wet metal as the blade moved down the bridge of his nose.

  ‘I honestly don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I think you’ve mixed me up with someone else: my name is George Nicholson and I’m a deserter from the army; check it out if you want.’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘Well there we are then – so what’s this all about?’

  ‘Oh yes, we found out a man called George Nicholson was in the Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire Regiment and was jailed in 1941 and released from the Glasshouse in 1942 and then deserted. But we don’t think you’re really George Nicholson.’

  ‘I’m telling you—’

  One of them punched him hard in the stomach, and as he doubled up, the man behind him grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back.

  ‘No, I’m telling you – just you listen. I don’t give a fuck whatever clever identity Special Branch or MI5 or the Jews have thought up for you… I don’t buy it. All I know is that you turned up at a house in Gerrards Cross last Friday and were asking questions about an associate of mine. The lady who identified you just now, she found you there, didn’t she? Like a fool, you used the same name and spun her some nonsense about being an old friend who’d come to renew your acquaintance after all these years. Of course I heard all about it and couldn’t believe my luck when you came down to my manor using the same name. I reckon you were after me too.’

  ‘I don’t even know who you are.’

  ‘You know full well I’m Lenny Fenton.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of you… I promise you I—’

  Another punch, this one to his groin and much harder, and as he sank to his knees he felt a knee jammed hard into his kidneys. He thought he was about to pass out. It appeared they thought so too, because they allowed him to stay on his knees as he struggled to regain his breath. Between two of the men’s legs he could just make out a stack of boxes against one of the side walls. It was perhaps his best chance, though a slim one. He was hauled to his feet once more.

  ‘I want you to tell me everything: your real name, who you’re working for, what your mission is and what you know about me and the person you were looking for in Gerrards Cross. If you mess me around, I promise you you’ll suffer – we know which parts of you to cut off first.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Fenton looked genuinely puzzled, as if this was the reaction he was least expecting. He himself threw a punch that connected hard with Prince’s jaw, then at least two of the others laid into him. They only stopped when Prince writhed on the ground in agony. He knew he had just seconds to act. He groaned and made sure his breathing sounded pained.

  ‘Leave him a minute. We still need him to tell us who he is and who he works for. Let him come round.’

  Prince remained as still as he could and thought of his unarmed combat training in a cold barn in Derbyshire, the trainer impressing on him how to take advantage of someone standing over you.

  They’ll be off balance.

  Use gravity.

  Pull them down.

  Sid bent down to pick him up, and as he did so, Prince sat up, barging his shoulder into the other man’s knees, causing him to fall over. He leapt to his feet, knowing any advantage he had would last no more than two or three seconds, and sprinted towards the side wall, grabbing an empty bottle from a crate then pushing the box into the path of those following him. Fenton was closest, and Prince spun round, swinging the empty beer bottle into his face. Fenton screamed and staggered back but the other two were closing in on him and Prince realised there was a searing pain down his left-hand side. He clambered onto the pile of boxes, his hands managing to grasp the top of the wall, and was about to pull himself over it when he felt his ankles being grabbed and heard the ominous sound of a revolver being cocked.

  He managed to kick away the hand holding one ankle, but at that moment he heard a shot and the noise of a bullet thudding into the wall next to him, shards of brick spitting out. They had hold of both of his ankles again and were pulling him down. He was dragged along the ground and ended up sprawled next to Fenton, who was kneeling, blood streaming from his face.

  ‘You had to use a fucking gun and alert the whole of fucking London, didn’t you? Finish the bastard off and let’s get the fuck out of here. Quick…’

  Prince looked up to see a gun inches from his face. The man holding it was using two hands to keep it steady, a look of keen concentration on his face, his tongue poking out of his mouth. And then came the bullet.

  He was surprised to feel nothing at first, and then there was an enormous weight on him, as if he was being forced through the wet concrete deep into the earth. Darkness enveloped him, and as he drifted slowly away, the only feeling he had was that at least he wasn’t in too much pain. The last thing he was aware of was the sound of more bullets, which struck him as excessive.

  Chapter 18

  London, January 1945

  ‘Are you a religious man, George?’

  The room he was in was so bright it took a while for him to focus. The comfortable bed with crisp white sheets, the equipment around him and the presence of a nurse smiling sweetly at him from the end of the bed suggested he was in a hospital. The person repeated the question and he realised it was Lance King. A man in a raincoat stood next to him. He looked like a travelling salesman.

  ‘I asked if you’re religious?’

  Prince said he wasn’t, not really, and tried to sit up, but there was a sharp pain in his left side and the nurse patted his foot and told him to keep still, they were going to give him some medicine in a minute.

  ‘Will it make him drowsy, Nurse?’

  ‘For a couple of hours certainly.’

  ‘Perhaps you could leave it for a while? I’ll call you back in when we’re finished and then you can do what you need with him.’ He winked at Prince.

  ‘This is Bartholomew,’ King said when the nurse left the room. He slapped the travelling salesman on the back. ‘He works for us. I arranged for him to have a team at the Tower Tavern tonight; last thing I wanted was for the local police to get involved. I thought if Fenton did show up you might end up in a bit of a scrape. Good job he was there. That’s why I asked if you’re religious.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘If I remember correctly from Sunday school, the original Bartholomew was associated with miracles. Our modern-day Bartholomew certainly performed a miracle tonight.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Bartholomew undid his raincoat and pulled up a chair. ‘I put in a team of four, including myself. Two watching outside, two of us inside: ideally I’d have had another two and been able to cover more of the perimeter, but we’re a bit stretched at the moment. I was concerned when you went upstairs so thought I’d give it ten minutes and then go and have a look. When I saw you weren’t there,
we went round to the back of the pub and got there just in time to see a man standing over you with a gun. We shot him and then piled in. One of my chaps threw himself on top of you. There was a bit of a scuffle and Fenton was shot.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Afraid so, yes, along with the chap who was about to shoot you.’

  ‘Obviously Bartholomew and his men did a first-class job.’ There was a slightly disappointed look on Lance King’s face. ‘Ideally we would have wanted Fenton alive, but there we are. On balance, better he’s dead than you are, eh?’

  Prince said he agreed and wondered how long it would be before he was allowed to have the pain relief he’d been promised.

  ‘Soon, very soon. The two we have in custody are Sid McConnell and another thug called Carter. They’re not talking, but I’d be surprised if they know anything. The one we really needed was Fenton. You’d better tell us what happened.’

  Prince did his best to recount the events of the evening: being taken to the upstairs room, the search, the questions from Fenton and then going outside and the woman.

  ‘What woman?’

  ‘It was the woman who caught me at Chapman-Collins’s house in Gerrards Cross last week. They’d brought her along to identify me. Once I realised it was her, I knew the game was up. It was a bad mistake to have the same identity – using George Nicholson in both places. Did you catch her?’

  ‘It’s the first we’ve heard about her: you’re sure it was the same woman?’

  ‘Absolutely certain – no question about it.’

  ‘Did you get her name when you met her last week?’