by Alex Gerlis
‘I am in a bit of a hurry, Mr Bird, sir.’
He heard the chain move and the door opened fully.
‘I must say, I’m very impressed. I told the landlord about the cupboard door only yesterday morning and he said he’d get someone round to fix it. Normally that will take at the very least a week, and now you turn up the next day!’ He was a well-spoken man, almost the nervous type, but Donne wasn’t in a mood to get to know him too well.
‘Yes, sir: he wants me to fix the cupboard and then check the electricity. You know there’ve been some problems.’
‘You don’t need to tell me.’
‘Let’s have a look at that cupboard first, shall we?’
The door of the kitchen cupboard had come off its hinges and he assured Mr Bird it would be no problem. In fact, if he’d be so good as to stand in front of it and hold it in place – just like that, thank you, sir – then it would be fixed in no time.
He removed the knife from his pocket and the man half turned as the blade flicked open. ‘Keep facing the cupboard, please, sir, otherwise it will be wonky, and we don’t want that, do we?’
Bird was still chuckling when Donne plunged the knife into the base of his neck. He struck him once more before the man staggered back making what was now a choking noise. He was still on his feet, his hand desperately reaching out for the back of his neck. Donne thrust the knife deep into his side, and only now did he collapse to the ground. He pushed him onto his back and knelt on top of him. The man was mouthing something: eyes that had hitherto been unremarkable and even lifeless blazed now that his life was ebbing away. Donne plunged the knife deep into where he thought his heart was and twisted it. The man choked for a bit longer and a stream of dark blood poured from his mouth. He waited a minute or so, catching his own breath as the man gasped his last one. He noticed Bird was wearing an expensive-looking wristwatch, the dial now speckled with blood. It wasn’t yet 9.30.
He thought about taking the wristwatch but realised it could be a bit too distinctive, but he did open the man’s wallet and remove a few notes from it: apart from anything else, robbery would be seen as an innocent motive. The thought made him smile. Maybe he should take the wristwatch after all. He cleaned himself up as best he could. There was blood on the work coat, but that could go straight into the laundry at the hospital. His black shoes had blood on them too, but he wiped it off with a wet towel. He looked round: he was as certain as he could be that he’d not left his fingerprints anywhere other than on the wallet, so he wiped that too, and then all the door handles just in case. Then he went into the bathroom and washed his hands and face, and used the man’s comb to tidy his hair. Back in the kitchen, he leaned on the side to compose himself. He was now quite peckish and helped himself to some digestive biscuits, eating them as he looked down at the body.
He was pleased: it had gone very well and he’d even quite enjoyed it. Not for the first time, he reflected on how fulfilling his new life was. The way things had turned out was quite unexpected, but all for the better.
He was tempted to stay in the man’s apartment for a while longer: it felt cosy with the morning light streaming in and he was worried that if he left now he’d arrive too early at the hospital. Then he noticed the man’s face: it had turned an odd blue-grey colour and his tongue appeared to be swollen and sticking out, as if he wanted to say something. Perhaps it would be best to leave now. He’d treat himself to a fry-up at the café in Praed Street before going in to work.
* * *
Agent Donne was in Grosvenor Place by a quarter to ten and a 36 bus was waiting at the stop as if he’d ordered it. The day really had gone very well. He sat in the front seat on the top deck and enjoyed his journey to Paddington, a slightly smug grin settled on his face.
Had he remained in the attic apartment for even another ten minutes it would have been a close call. Had he remained there until ten o’clock, he would have been in danger of being caught red-handed.
Lance King had called Prince and Bartholomew into his office after his telephone call with Hugh Harper. Get as many men as you can and cars to take us to Catherine Place.
By five to ten, they were questioning a confused and frightened-looking landlord in the doorway of his basement flat under the Palace Arms. He was barefoot, with a stained dressing gown wrapped around him.
‘Do you recognise this man?’ King thrust the photograph of Arthur Chapman-Collins under the landlord’s face, which quickly turned pale.
‘I’m not sure.’ He looked terrified.
It was the most unconvincing ‘I’m not sure’ Prince had heard in his career, and placing his hand on the man’s shoulder, he more or less pushed him into his basement. King followed. ‘You either recognise him or you don’t, but if we find out this man has anything to do with this place and you have been less than totally cooperative, then losing your licence will be the least of your problems: understand?’
The man said he understood perfectly well, and perhaps if he could have another look at the photograph…? He nodded. ‘It’s much clearer in this light. Of course, it’s Mr Bird – he rents the attic flat. I don’t see him from one week to the next, keeps himself to himself.’
Ten minutes later, it was a scene of utter chaos in the small attic apartment. The body was sprawled across the kitchen floor on a surface of sticky blood, and the landlord was propped against the doorway, the front of his dressing gown stained with vomit. He was refusing to come any closer to identify the victim and Lance King was losing his patience.
‘Unless you have a proper look at the body and tell us whether this is the man you knew as Mr Bird, then we will have to arrest you.’
‘It looks like him from here.’
‘You can’t see his face from here.’ Prince took the landlord by the elbow and guided him over to the body. The man clasped his hand over his mouth and confirmed in a muffled voice that it was indeed Rodney Bird.
* * *
The following Tuesday, they gathered in Hugh Harper’s office in an uneasy silence, nervous coughs only adding to the tension. Richard Prince couldn’t recall a grimmer atmosphere at work, with no one making an effort to appear upbeat or look on the bright side.
Harper had been summoned to Downing Street and had instructed the other four to be waiting for him on his return. As well as Prince, Lance King was there, together with Audrey and Bartholomew. When Harper arrived back, he was accompanied by an army officer, which gave the fleeting impression he was under arrest. The two sat down next to each other.
‘I think it fair to say I’ve never seen Sir Roland in such a foul and unforgiving mood.’ Harper slammed his hands down on the table and kept them there, palms down and pressing on the surface as if to keep it still. ‘And I can hardly say I blame him. Needless to say, news of this traitor Milton and our failure to find him reached Winston. It also appears that according to protocol we ought to have involved the Metropolitan Police before we entered Chapman-Collins’s place above the Palace Arms, though I have to say, knowing what those chaps are like, I think you were quite justified going in when you did, Lance. Thankfully Sir Roland took the heat from Winston and assured him he’d sort it – an honour he’s now passed on to me.’
He glanced round the table but none of the others looked back at him. ‘I am sorry, I should have introduced Lieutenant General Cunningham…’
‘Cunnington.’
‘Apologies. Lieutenant General Cunnington is from the army General Staff and he shares with me the honour of sorting this mess out. General, perhaps you…’
‘I’m sure I don’t need to convey to you the very serious concern of the General Staff at the fact that a traitor apparently has access to key intelligence relating to our operations in western Europe. The fact that this also affects the United States only exacerbates matters.’ He spoke with a Northern Irish accent and smiled as he mentioned the United States. ‘I understand the US embassy believes this intelligence is coming from one of thirty-eight offices in London �
�� and how many people was it you said had access to it, Hugh?’
‘We believe possibly in the region of five hundred.’
The general shook his head, appalled at the number. ‘I can quite see why it is unfeasible that every one of those is investigated. I understand you had hoped to identify this Milton through another angle…’
‘Which I’ll come on to in a moment, General.’
‘Very well, Hugh. But I wanted to let you know where the General Staff stands on this. Having seen off the enemy’s Ardennes offensive, the last remaining obstacle between our forces and the invasion of Germany itself is the River Rhine. Crossing the Rhine is a matter of urgency, but we can’t afford to launch the operation if our plans and deployments are known by the Germans thanks to some traitor here in London.’
Lance King began to say something but the general stopped him.
‘Hold on, please… We have discussed this matter in some detail and I told Sir Roland Pearson exactly where we stand. We are asking for all maps and intelligence reports relating to our current and future operations in western Europe to be withdrawn from the circulation list of people and departments that currently receive them.’
‘Won’t that be—’
‘What – inconvenient? Absolutely, no question about that: it will cause resentment and confusion. But we feel it is the only way to minimise, if not eliminate, the possibility of our plans ending up in enemy hands.’
There was a long silence as his words sunk in.
‘In the meantime, we carry on looking for Agent Milton.’ Hugh Harper looked embarrassed at the failure of his operation being laid bare for the army to pick over. ‘Perhaps if we—’
‘I hope you don’t mind if I make a suggestion, sir?’
All heads turned to face Richard Prince.
‘What if we were to doctor the maps – produce thirty-eight maps that to all intents and purposes are identical, but with each having something unique on it, something that would become apparent if the enemy were to react specifically to it?’
Harper leaned over to the general and muttered something along the lines of this being the chap from the police he was telling him about.
‘For example, if one map was doctored to show we were planning to cross the Rhine at a point say ten miles to the north of Cologne and we saw that German forces were moved there to defend the area, then we’d have good reason to suspect that was the source of the German intelligence. It would narrow the search down considerably.’
The general nodded approvingly. ‘There is some merit in what you say, but I doubt we have the time. It’s the thirteenth of February today: we need to cross the Rhine in the next two or three weeks. All our operations are working towards that. In any case, I doubt we’d be distributing a map with an X marking the exact point at which we plan to cross the Rhine. We’re likely to cross at a number of places more or less simultaneously and the location of those places will depend on how the operation goes. The maps tend to show deployments – very useful for the enemy to have nonetheless. Do try and organise some kind of alert, though: we need to know if anyone pushes for maps relating to the Rhine crossing. Maybe put out something along the lines of wanting all such requests in writing.’
Harper thanked the general and asked King to show him out. When he returned, he looked tense.
‘Anything from Chapman-Collins’s flat?’
‘Nothing, sir: no incriminating paperwork, no fingerprints, no clue as to who might have killed him. We’re still going through everything.’
‘For what it’s worth, sir, I think there is a promising aspect to this.’ It was Prince again.
‘Please tell us: we could do with some cheering up.’
‘I think you said, sir, that you thought the list of attendees at the hotel in Pimlico could provide the answer. I believe the murder of Chapman-Collins shows you’re right, especially now we’ve established the involvement of Fenton. I think we need to concentrate on that list. I realise the names remaining on it are fairly common, but if we cross-reference them with those on MI5 and police files, we may find something.’
Harper said he agreed. They had little choice but to get on with it. As the others left the room, he called Prince back.
‘How are you getting on, Prince?’
‘Pretty down about the whole thing actually, sir. I feel as if the failure to catch Milton is my fault. I wonder if working as an agent in this country means I’m just not as sharp as I had to be when I was on the Continent. I feel I made an error the way I went to Gerrards Cross without getting my story straight, and then using the George Nicholson name again… I’m sorry, sir.’
‘That’s the nature of counter-espionage, Prince. It’s a long game compared to spying. I always say we’re playing a cricket test match whereas MI6 are playing rugger. Events happen more quickly with espionage, it’s much more black and white: you either succeed or you fail. This is a much more gradual business. You need patience, though God knows that’s hard at times and it can certainly grind you down. I understand you went home to see your boy at the weekend. I hope that cheered you up?’
‘It was splendid, thank you, sir, cheered me up no end – and him too.’
* * *
Agent Milton knew nothing of the fate of Arthur Chapman-Collins. Agent Byron was determined he should remain oblivious to it; he was concerned that if he found out he might panic, or at least lose focus on the task in hand. Every transmission from Germany was pushing him on the need for details of the Allied plans to cross the Rhine.
Exactly one week after the murder of Chapman-Collins, Milton met with Agent Donne, who made it clear: it was urgent. It sounded like a threat.
He waited until the Monday, 19 February, and wandered into the MI4 map room. He allowed Holt to talk to him at length about the stamps of South America, which he was currently showing a keen interest in. He waited until Holt had finished before asking for two or three maps unrelated to the Rhine.
‘Anything else, sir?’
Milton said a packet of ten Woodbine would be splendid and Holt laughed.
‘Oh yes… just one more thing: the latest map on the Rhine deployments. Shouldn’t there have been a new one issued by now?’
Holt stopped laughing and looked more businesslike. ‘The Rhine, you say, sir? Apparently those maps are now on special request only. Would you believe, you have to make a request in writing to get hold of one, setting out why you need it, et cetera. Once you let me have that, then I can get you the map. Seems odd for them to go to such lengths, especially at this stage of the war, but there we are.’
‘Is that the case with all maps?’
‘The Rhine ones only as I understand it, sir.’
‘Any idea why?’
Holt lowered his voice and took a step closer. ‘Between you and me, sir, I understand it’s something to do with a security flap.’
Milton felt his stomach churn and his heart race. He’d never heard of such a thing before and he knew it wasn’t right. For restrictions like this to be imposed now suggested that someone suspected something. He regretted having used so many maps. If he was questioned, Holt was bound to say he was one of his best customers. He told Holt not to bother; it was only an afterthought – really not important at all.
He found it hard to concentrate all day, and when he returned to his apartment in St John’s Wood that evening, he didn’t bother with a meal, instead spending the evening pacing around the flat and smoking, finally thinking about a subject he’d long known he’d have to address sooner or later but had avoided until now.
He’d always known that one day the net would begin to close in on him. He’d also known that he’d realise that had begun possibly before the authorities were on to him. This was, he decided, a warning he’d be foolish not to heed. He just hoped it wasn’t too late.
He needed to make plans.
Chapter 21
Germany, March 1945
Lieutenant Nate Markham from Minneapolis remembered li
ttle from officer training school: it had been a necessarily rushed course and felt too academic – too much about the theory of war, nothing to prepare you for being face down in a filthy ditch in sub-zero temperatures with your radio barely working, or explaining to your men why they’d run out of ammunition, or worst of all, holding the hand of a dying comrade, unable to assure him that all would be fine.
But one thing he did remember was a talk from a visiting general, who’d thought for a while before replying to a question about what battles were really like. ‘Plan for everything, plan for nothing,’ he’d eventually said, and from the moment the 9th Armored Division had landed in Normandy the previous September, Nate Markham had realised how true that was.
The Phantom Division, as the 9th was known, had fought hard in the Ardennes offensive and had been at the forefront of the Allied advance to the western banks of the Rhine. Now the river stretched before them as if daring them to even think about it. They knew the Germans had already destroyed more than forty bridges and had rigged the few that remained intact with enough explosive to ensure the noise would be heard back in Michigan.
It reminded Markham of summers in Iowa when he and his twin brother had stayed with their grandparents and played for hours in the nearby woods, walking along the bank of the stream until they could find a point narrow enough for them to leap across. But he and every other man of the 9th Armored knew that the only way across the Rhine would be by boat and pontoon bridges. It would be a long and bloody battle: the river would run with blood and the end of the war was still a long way off.
On the morning of Wednesday 7 March, Lieutenant Nate Markham was part of a force heading for Remagen, a small town on the west bank of the Rhine. The force was a mixture of units, mostly from the 27th Armored Infantry Battalion, plus three tank companies and a platoon from the 9th Armored Engineer Battalion. Relying as ever on the principle of planning for everything and planning for nothing, Markham had no idea what to expect. This was such a fast-moving battle that intelligence tended to become out of date very quickly. It was possible the town of around five thousand residents would be heavily defended, and equally possible that they could enter it unopposed.