Ring of Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  The two men then managed to have an argument standing in the drizzle outside the office. Lance King insisted they should immediately go to the address in Shepherd’s Bush; Prince felt it would be safer to wait at the hospital. By half eight, they’d reached a compromise and called Bartholomew from a telephone box, instructing him to send a team to the flat. When they called him back half an hour later, he had bad news.

  ‘He wasn’t there.’

  Prince was holding the receiver between himself and King. The two men were pressed together in the box, its windows steamed up with condensation. Outside the rain was getting heavier. King’s cigarette was just an inch from Prince’s face.

  ‘Does it look like the right address?’

  ‘You’ll need to speak up.’

  ‘I said, does it look like the right address?’

  ‘It’s certainly the right address; there’s a wage slip from the hospital on the table in his name. If he was here last night, he’s tidied the place up: bed’s made and there’s nothing dirty in the kitchen area. It’s not the kind of place I’d expect a hospital porter to have.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a very nice little flat: it has a private entrance and decent furniture and – here’s an interesting one – its own telephone. How many hospital porters have a flat like that? It’s just gone nine, sir; I reckon he’s left for work.’

  Prince and King stood in a doorway opposite the entrance to the porters’ office, unable to avoid the rain soaking them and squabbling about what to do next. Overnight they’d managed to get hold of a photograph of Private John Morton from his regimental headquarters, and they studied each man who walked past. Prince said it would be better if one of them went inside in case he used another entrance.

  ‘This is the only entrance, Prince: be patient.’

  They finally went in at a quarter past ten. No sign of Jim?

  ‘Don’t you worry, my dear, he’ll be here soon: I’ve just spoken to him, in fact.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘He telephoned.’ She patted the phone in front of her just in case they weren’t sure. ‘Said he was running late and I told him you were waiting to see him and he said it must be something to do with his identity card and he was on his way.’

  King and Prince shot furious looks at each other.

  ‘Did he say where he was?’

  ‘No, but I wouldn’t worry: Jim’s normally a good timekeeper. Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable over there? Don’t look so worried – the war’s over!’

  * * *

  Jim Maslin wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure that remaining in London had been a good idea; he wasn’t sure that being on the dark expanse behind the prison and the hospital was wise, and he wasn’t sure about Agent Byron. He was no longer sure he trusted the man: although he was older and shorter than him and walked with that limp, there was something threatening about him he didn’t like. He made him feel inferior, as if Byron had spent his life being ordered around so relished the opportunity to treat Maslin the way he had been treated by others. He felt uneasy in his company.

  He crouched down by a low wall with the hospital to his left. The longer he waited, the more his doubts increased. He’d only stayed in London because Byron had offered him money, and now he worried that he’d been too greedy. He’d had twenty pounds on him anyway – he always made sure to carry a large sum just in case – and he should have relied on that. It was almost a month’s wages. That and the eight pounds Byron had given him should have been fine. And there was something a bit too quick about the way the older man had promised to get a hundred pounds and then said it could be more. He wasn’t sure this felt right.

  He decided to leave. He’d stay overnight in the fleapit in Harlesden where he’d taken a room for the night and then leave by bus first thing in the morning.

  ‘Are you going somewhere, Jim?’

  He could barely make Byron out. It was just a voice out of the darkness.

  ‘No, I was waiting for you.’

  ‘You looked like you were leaving.’

  ‘No, no… I was just wondering where you were; it’s gone nine fifteen.’

  ‘I said to wait if I was late. I have the money. We’d better go over there Jim, we’re too near the hospital. Someone might see us from that car park.’

  Maslin hesitated. There was a nearly full moon but it was obscured by cloud. He could just make out Byron moving further away from him, deeper into the Scrubs.

  ‘Come on, let’s get this over and done with. I got you a hundred and sixty in the end; that will sort you out fine. You’ll be able to afford a new identity and have plenty left over. It’ll last you months.’

  Maslin hesitated. He reckoned he was closer to the hospital than Byron. If he ran off now, the older man would never catch him. On the other hand…

  ‘Come on, Jim: look, I’m sorry I’ve been a bit sharp. The tension gets to me too, you know. Come and take the money and then we’re done.’

  Maslin made up his mind. As soon as he had the money he’d be off. He could make out Byron walking towards him now holding a bundle of notes, and stepped forward to accept it. He couldn’t take his eyes off the thick wad of cash, and by the time he spotted the knife it was too late. He stood fixed to the spot as Byron lunged forward, thrusting the long blade into his stomach, then sank to the ground, still reaching out for the money.

  Byron was surprised at how unresisting Jim was, still silent as he used one hand to support himself on the ground, the other, held out to take the money, moving to his stomach. He moved quickly behind him, grabbing him by the hair and yanking his head back before slicing across his throat. Then he shoved him forward, using his foot to force him face down in the long damp grass.

  He crouched down and waited a while, catching his breath and watching Agent Donne’s body to check it wasn’t moving. Then he dragged it a few yards behind a large patch of bushes and wiped his shoes and hands on the wet grass.

  Maybe I’d be better off turning myself in… if I cooperate…

  It was odd, he reflected, how readily people could condemn themselves. When he stood up, his leg was aching; the shrapnel tended to do that when the weather was wet and he’d been exerting himself. It wasn’t yet half nine; if he hurried, he could catch the last train into central London from East Acton. He decided against it. They’d almost certainly find the body the following day, and he didn’t want some nosy parker at the station remembering the man with the limp passing through the previous night.

  He’d head north across the open land until he came to Scrubs Lane.

  If his memory served him right, the 626 bus would take him all the way to Chelsea.

  Chapter 31

  England, May 1945

  ‘So on balance we can say the body is that of John Morton: do you agree, Prince?’

  Prince breathed in as he prepared to answer Hugh Harper’s question for the third time. For some reason, Harper was being obtuse. They couldn’t prove the body found on Wormwood Scrubs was that of John Morton, but Prince reckoned they’d come close enough to doing so. Franz Rauter had identified it and they had the photograph of Morton supplied by his regiment. And the blood group was the same as Morton’s according to his army records.

  ‘And remember, we can prove the body is that of the man calling himself Jim Maslin, sir: we have his fingerprints all over the apartment.’

  Harper finally conceded that the body was indeed that of John Morton.

  ‘And the results of the second post-mortem Prince?’

  ‘Same as the first one, sir – that he died as a result of significant trauma caused by a bladed instrument to both his stomach and his throat, the latter being the primary and fatal wound.’

  ‘And time of death?’

  ‘Both pathologists agree he was killed sometime on the evening before his body was discovered, which would be the Thursday night. The body was found at ten o’clock on Friday morning and by then full rigor mortis had set in, so
it’s hard to be specific about the time of death.’

  ‘And enquiries are taking place throughout the area?’

  ‘Naturally, sir, though they haven’t turned up anything thus far.’

  ‘And Franz Rauter… how’s he getting on, Lance?’

  ‘Rather enjoying being the lord of the manor. The guards say he’s no trouble at all; spends his time in the library or the gardens. Tells anyone who’ll listen that he’s always been an Anglophile, and certainly acts like one.’

  ‘If I were in his position I’d say the same too: an English country house is preferable to a Red Army prison. But can we be sure he’s telling us the truth? Let’s not forget, this chap’s been a professional intelligence officer for twelve or thirteen years, as I’m forever being reminded. We know he’s run at least one very successful agent against us, and if we believe what he tells us – that he was no Nazi – then he’s been extraordinarily clever to have survived for so long, especially when the Abwehr was pretty much dismantled last year.’

  Harper leaned back in his chair surveying the room and angrily pushed a file to the other side of his desk. ‘So if we agree he’s telling the truth, we have a spy ring that comprises three traitors. One has disappeared into thin air, another is dead, and Byron continues to be a man of mystery – even Rauter says he doesn’t know his true identity. We need to redouble our efforts to find Palmer, but if we find Byron, that may well lead us to Milton.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I don’t agree that we have no clue who Byron is.’

  ‘Go on, Prince.’

  ‘Rauter confirmed that he’s British and lives – or lived – in Chelsea. He wasn’t to know we already suspected Byron had a Chelsea connection, what with the radio trackers and the taxi driver who was given the letter by Agent Dryden and obligingly posted it to—’

  ‘An address in Chelsea, yes, I don’t need reminding. Hardly narrows it down, though, does it?’

  Prince flicked through his notebook, appearing distracted. He said nothing as Harper closed the meeting and ordered King and Prince to come up with a plan to find Milton.

  A few minutes later, Prince knocked on Hugh Harper’s door. Could he have a private word?

  ‘I’m anticipating you’re about to say that your job is done and you wish to return to Lincolnshire – am I correct, Prince?’

  ‘Actually, no, sir, my job is far from done: it’s about Byron, actually.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Apologies if this is a bit off track, sir, but when we were talking before about Byron and Chelsea, a thought occurred to me and I checked my notebook, where I often jot down seemingly inconsequential snatches of conversation only marginally related to a case: sometimes trivia like that helps jog the memory.’

  ‘This is to do with Byron, is it, Prince?’

  ‘It is indeed, sir. Here’s the list of the attendees from the meeting at the Abbey Hotel in Pimlico back in 1939.’

  He handed over a sheet of paper.

  ‘Of course we know all about Chapman-Collins and Fenton…’ Harper nodded. ‘But we didn’t get anywhere with the other names on the list – Bannister, Spencer, Davies, Philips, Cummings, Carver, Kemp. We wondered if Milton was one of them.’

  ‘Came to a dead end, I recall.’

  ‘I accept this is speculation, sir, but I think one of these is Agent Byron.’

  ‘Which one?’ Harper frowned as he studied the list.

  ‘When you recruited me back in January, you may recall we talked about Byron and his possible Chelsea connection, and you took me for a drive there. When Rauter told us he believed Byron lived in Chelsea, there was something at the back of my mind that was bothering me, though I couldn’t be sure what it was, so I looked back over the notes I made that day. I’d written down how you’d parked the car and we went for a stroll and bumped into a chap with a slight limp. You greeted each other and later you told me he was a steward at your club.’

  Harper said nothing, but he was gripping the sheet of paper, his eyes wide.

  ‘Good Lord – Spencer!’

  * * *

  Christopher Spencer’s world collapsed in such a dramatic manner on Tuesday 22 May that he wondered whether his attempt to kill himself had succeeded after all and he was now in some deserved version of hell.

  Hugh Harper had taken some persuading at first. After his initial expression of shock, he’d looked for reasons why Spencer might not be Byron: Spencer’s a common enough name… Maybe not that unusual for him to live in Chelsea… Tens of thousands of people live there… He’s a decent chap, injured in the Great War, always obliging… ‘The case against him is circumstantial at best, Prince.’

  ‘True, but then that’s the way so many cases start. We have a suspect based on what may be just circumstantial evidence but then we look for firm evidence to build up a case against them. We have someone here we can link with the area and who has the same name as one of the attendees at the hotel.’

  ‘What do you think, Lance?’

  ‘I know Prince and I don’t always see eye to eye, but there may well be something in this. There’s no harm in investigating him, is there?’

  Harper agreed, though with a degree of reluctance. It would, he said bitterly, be a terrible thing for the club if it turned out one of their stewards was a German spy: he’d feel personally responsible. The committee would take a dim view of the matter: they’d blame him. He’d have to resign from the membership committee.

  It turned out Spencer was on duty at the club that day and wasn’t due to finish until much later in the evening. Three of Bartholomew’s men were sent to watch the place in case he left early.

  Prince then started digging. Christopher Spencer’s name didn’t crop up in any files held by MI5 or Special Branch: he appeared to be beyond reproach. He’d been born in Surrey in 1891 and joined up in 1914 only to suffer appalling injuries at the Battle of the Somme in July 1916, as a result of which he was invalided out of the army. He was twenty-five and left with a limp and no job, eventually becoming a steward at Harper’s club, where he’d been since 1923.

  ‘If we could go in and have a look at his flat while he’s at work, sir, then maybe we can find some evidence – after all, the chances are that’s where he transmitted from.’

  ‘We’ll need something more to justify that, Lance.’

  ‘I thought MI5 didn’t need an excuse, sir?’

  ‘Only if we clear it with the director general, and I don’t want to involve him yet. Get something more concrete and I’ll allow it.’

  ‘I think we ought to be careful, sir.’

  ‘Why’s that, Prince?’

  ‘It’s possible Spencer has someone watching the flat, someone who could alert him. I think it would be risky to go in now.’

  Prince spent the next few hours poring over the files, but with no luck, until he decided on a different approach – concentrating his search instead on anything connected with Spencer’s address. It was three in the morning when Harper was summoned back to his office. Bartholomew and King were already waiting with Prince.

  ‘I searched using Spencer’s address and came up with a reference to a Gerald Andrews living at that address. Between 1932 and 1935, Gerald Andrews was involved in a fascist organisation called the Imperial Fascist League, which I gather was a virulently anti-Semitic and pro-Nazi outfit. There is no record of him being involved with them after that period. Andrews is shown as residing at Flat 7, 18 Ascot Terrace, SW3 – the home address of Christopher Spencer, full name Christopher Gerald Andrew Spencer. According to the National Registration records at Chelsea police station, Spencer is the only person living at that address and the electoral roll shows he moved there in 1931.’

  Harper nodded, apparently satisfied.

  ‘I took the liberty of going to have a look at the address earlier this evening, just in case we needed to go in,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It’s an attic flat with direct access to the rooftop. It would be a perfect place to transmit from – he could ere
ct an aerial hidden in the high chimney stacks and then take it down when he’d finished. There’s a communal entrance to the building but I think Spencer could escape across the rooftops. I’d be very surprised if he’d not planned that. My advice would be to go in now, sir. We don’t want to make the mistake we made with Agent Donne, do we?’

  * * *

  Christopher Spencer was such a light sleeper, he always assumed he’d hear anyone well before they reached the front door of his flat. A combination of nerves and the constant pain in his leg ensured he was awake more often than not.

  But he was woken by the noise, and it came not from his front door but from the lounge. It sounded as if the door to the roof had opened, but that was followed by silence. He reached for the pistol he kept by the side of the bed and sat up. The next moment his world fell apart: the sound of the front door crashing back, shouting outside his bedroom door as it burst open, and the glare of a powerful light trained on his face.

  He remembered holding the pistol towards his head and pulling the trigger as someone launched themselves at him, and after that it was a confused sequence of senses: excruciating pain, a deafening noise that wouldn’t abate, and the smell and taste of blood as he was hauled from his bed before he sank into a dark void.

  His next memory was of waking shackled to a hospital bed, with a thick bandage round his head and an argument going on between a doctor and someone else saying they weren’t leaving the room.

  Now it was sometime on the Wednesday – or so he’d been told – and he was handcuffed to an uncomfortable chair in a large, low-ceilinged basement, the bright light shining into his face making it difficult for him to make out the three men behind the table in front of him.

  One of them was asking why he’d tried to shoot himself if he was innocent as he insisted he was. He realised he’d made a mistake saying he was innocent when they’d not directly accused him of anything yet. He told them he had a headache and couldn’t think properly, but they ignored him.