Traitors' Gate

by Dennis Wheatley

  Gregory’s suggestion about internment had been only a last ditch argument. He knew well enough that Sir Pellinore could save her from that, and he felt himself to be playing a mean part in opposing her going to England. All along he had realised that it was the logical solution to her future, and he had only hoped against hope that she might produce some other plan for herself when they reached Turkey. That she had not threatened to provide some very nasty headaches for him when they got to London, but that was little enough to set against the fact that by getting him out of prison she had saved him from Grauber and, as a result of that had herself been driven into exile. The very least he could do was to assist her to the best of his ability to establish herself in whichever country she chose to live for the remainder of the war. As that was England he must rely on skilful handling of the situation to prevent her meeting Erika; and as Erika rarely came to London that should not prove very difficult. Old Pellinore, if put in the picture at once, could be trusted to neutralise the only real danger ground, Carlton House Terrace, by giving orders that when one of them was there he was always ‘out’ to the other.

  Seeing that he must accept a responsibility that for sometime he had regarded as almost inevitable, Gregory did so with a good grace. He told Sabine that he had given her the blackest side of the picture only because he was not one hundred per cent certain that he would be able to get a clearance for her with the Enemy Aliens Department, and did not want her to be disappointed if he could see little of her, or miserable in a London that, compared to Budapest, had been reduced by war to such dreary straits. Then he spent the last hour before he went to sleep in considering how he could best get her back to England with him.

  Next morning they woke to find the barge tied up to a wharf, and learned that she had docked near the goods yard at Haidar Pacha, on the Scutari side of the Bosphorus. As they wished to leave Turkey openly—and entering it clandestinely would have made that more difficult—having taken warm leave of the Szabós they went ashore and surrendered themselves to the Dock Police, who took them to the Immigration Officer.

  Gregory had his fake French passport as Commandant Tavenier, and Mario’s Italian passport, while Sabine had her own as a Hungarian national; but now that they were in a neutral country he had decided against using any of these. He declared himself a British subject and, in order that their cases should be dealt with as one, continued the fiction that Sabine was his wife.

  At his request he was allowed to telephone to the British Consulate, but could get no further than a minor official who proved anything but helpful, and would promise only that someone should be sent to take particulars of them some time during the day. That, since the Immigration Authorities would not release them until fully satisfied, meant that they would be held in the detention block for at least twenty-four hours, and Gregory had no intention of kicking his heels there that long.

  As he had plenty of money he was able to make the interpreter a handsome present to arrange for a long-distance call to be put through for him to the British Ambassador in Ankara. There was a considerable delay and the call was taken by a secretary; but Gregory gambled on the Ambassador’s knowing Sir Pellinore, at least by name, and said that he had a personal message from him for His Excellency. The trick worked, and Sir Hugh Knatchbull-Hugesson was brought to the line.

  To him, in guarded terms, Gregory explained his situation, and requested His Excellency to telephone the Consul General, Istanbul, ordering him to give immediate aid, including the despatch of a Most Secret cypher telegram to London.

  For the next few minutes there came over the wire a spate of questions about Sir Pellinore’s appearance, background and habits; then, when the Ambassador had assured himself that Gregory really did know the elderly baronet personally, he agreed to do as he had been asked.

  A little before midday a young man who appeared to be of Turkish extraction arrived from the British Consulate and accepted responsibility for them. When the formalities were completed he took them to a motor launch, and so across to the European side of the Bosphorus. On their way they had a lovely view of the Sultan Ahmed Mosque, Aya Sophia and the vast rambling old Palace set in the Seraglio Gardens. Then the launch turned into the Golden Horn and landed them at the steps below Pera. Half an hour later they were closeted with the Consul General.

  Having received his instructions from the Ambassador, the Consul General asked no questions; but he put in hand for both of them documents which would enable them to leave Turkey, ordered seats to be obtained for them as early as possible on a plane going to Cyprus, and enquired about the secret cypher signal that Gregory wished to send.

  He had already thought it out very carefully, so wrote it down without hesitation. It was addressed to Sir Pellinore, care of the Foreign Office, and ran:

  Mission one hundred per cent successful Stop Proceeding Cyprus immediately accompanied by representative carrying full terms Stop Please expedite air passage Cyprus-London for self and bearer of Hungarian Passport No. 476010 as matter of urgency Stop

  In that way he avoided having to give any lengthy explanation about Sabine, yet ensured that on the production of her own passport the Military authorities in Cyprus would make no difficulties about her accompanying him to London.

  After changing some money with the Consul and thanking him for his assistance, they took a taxi to the Pera Palace, arriving at the famous hotel just in time for a late lunch. Although it was a Saturday afternoon, as the Mahomedan Sabbath is on a Friday all the shops were open; so after they had unpacked their few belongings they were able to go on a shopping expedition down the Gran’ Rue and buy themselves some more suitable clothes. In the evening the Consul General’s secretary telephoned to say that seats had been booked for them in a Turkish air liner that was leaving for Cyprus on Monday morning.

  There had been no wireless on the barge and during the time they were in her such news as they had received of the war had been garbled and scanty; the only reliable item of interest was that two nights after they left Budapest the Hungarian capital had suffered its first air raid, although only a light one, from a few Soviet bombers. Having reached neutral territory, where unprejudiced accounts were available, Gregory had naturally taken the earliest opportunity to find out what had been going on, and during the day he had brought himself up to date.

  The best news was that early in the month Rommel had launched an all-out attempt to penetrate to the Nile Delta, and that he had been repulsed with heavy losses by the new commander of the Eighth Army, General Sir Bernard Montgomery. But the British were still very much on the defensive, the Mediterranean was now an. Axis lake, and the half-starved garrison of Malta continued, under almost non-stop bombing, to hold out only by the skin of its teeth.

  The Japs had launched a powerful offensive in New Guinea, but the Australians there were showing their great fighting qualities and General Blamey had declared himself confident that they would be able to hold Port Moresby.

  In Madagascar there had been indications that the Vichy French intended to sell out to the Japs, just as they had done in Indo-China; so, in order to ensure against the great island’s becoming an Axis base, empire troops had recently landed there and taken over the whole of it.

  During the first seventeen days of the month the R.A.F. had carried out no less than nine heavy raids on Germany, inflicting terrible damage on Bremen, Saarbrucken, Frankfurt, Dusseldorf and Essen, reducing the centres of all of them to flaming ruins.

  Stalingrad still miraculously held out. Over a fortnight before, Von Bock had reached the Volga to the north of the city and during the past few days he had been making desperate efforts to reach it to the south. The Russians claimed that the Germans had already lost a million men in their endeavours to take the city, but their assault showed no signs of slackening. Yet the Russian defence was equally determined and it looked now as if there were a chance that they might be able to hold on until winter brought the German offensive to a standstill.

>   Gregory knew that it was now too late in the year to undertake the Anglo-American landing on the Continent for which the Hungarians had stipulated; but in another month or so the first snow would be falling in Russia. If Stalingrad could be held till then the Army defending it would get a respite until the late spring. That gave six months in which to conclude a secret treaty with the Hungarians and prepare a cross-Channel assault. It could be launched before conditions in Russia permitted the Germans to resume their offensive, Hungary brought over to the Allies and the whole position saved. The thought that, after all, his mission might lead to such magnificent results made him suddenly eager to get home.

  Sunday they spent sightseeing, and went to bed wishing that they could spend more time in the fascinating city of the Sultans which, as Constantinople, and earlier Byzantium, had played so great a part in history. On Monday they flew down across Asiatic Turkey, landing in Cyprus in the late afternoon; but to Gregory’s annoyance he learned that the Office of the Director of Transport had received no instructions about them.

  From Cyprus the only means of proceeding to England was by R.A.F. aircraft, and places were so limited that many officers who had only a low priority had been waiting there for passages for several weeks. As Gregory had no official status he could not even get their names on the list; so he decided to see the Director in the morning and ask for another Most Secret cypher telegram to be sent. To his relief that proved unnecessary. During the night a signal came through from the Air Ministry giving them a sufficiently high priority to get them on an aircraft leaving on the 23rd.

  Their flight over the Mediterranean was both dangerous and extremely uncomfortable. They were packed like sardines into the bomb bay of the aircraft, unable to see anything and scarcely able to move. For the greater part of the way the plane flew very high to avoid the attention of the enemy in those Axis dominated skies. That necessitated using oxygen masks and the discomfort seemed only a little less endurable than the violent acrobatics of the aircraft to escape attack when she came down at Malta to refuel.

  As there was not half a loaf to be spared in the besieged island they had brought food with them, and while they ate it they watched an air battle almost above their heads. When the Luftwaffe squadron had been driven off they resumed their journey and after further hours of torture reached Gibraltar. There they got six hours of desperately needed sleep; then they were on their way again, still a prey to cramp and claustrophobia, as the aircraft carried them far over the Atlantic before curving in across south-western England to land them at Hurn in Hampshire.

  Stiff and bleary-eyed they staggered from their prison to find that it was nine o’clock in the morning and that a Mr. Davis had been sent down overnight to meet them. Taking Gregory aside he explained that he was an official of M.I.5, and that as an enemy alien was being brought into England he had been instructed to attend to all formalities, then take them up to London.

  A wash and breakfast revived them a little, then they set off with Mr. Davis in his car. For most of the way they slept, and the worst effects of their nightmare journey had passed off when, shortly before one o’clock, their escort put them down outside Sir Pellinore’s mansion in Carlton House Terrace.

  The door was answered by an elderly parlourmaid whom Gregory had not seen before; but she said that Sir Pellinore was expecting him and took them straight up to the library. The white-haired Baronet was seated behind his big desk. As Sabine walked into the room his bright blue eyes opened wide with surprise. Coming quickly to his feet, he smiled over her head at Gregory, and boomed;

  ‘Delighted to see you back, dear boy. Delighted. But I er—I thought you were bringin’ with you an Hungarian gentleman.’

  ‘Surely you remember me?’ Sabine smiled up at him.

  ‘Why, bless my soul!’ He stretched out a leg-of-mutton hand to her. ‘You’re my old friend Szenty’s gel. Got mixed up with that scoundrel Gavin Fortescue in 1936, and Gregory, here, pulled you out. Of course I remember you.’

  ‘I’m afraid I deceived you in my wire,’ Gregory intervened quickly, with the object of tipping Sir Pellinore off that he did not wish to discuss his mission in front of Sabine. ‘My reason for bringing Sabine with me was not the one that I gave. It’s quite another story. Incidentally she has been married since you last met her, and is now the Baroness Tuzolto.’

  ‘Well, well! No matter! I’m delighted to see you both. We’ll have a glass of wine then you must tell me all about it.’ Turning, Sir Pellinore took a stride towards the table on which drinks were always kept, but halted and added with a frown, ‘Drat that new parlourwoman! As soon as Davis telephoned me to say that you were on your way I told her to have a magnum on the ice in here by half-past twelve. Suppose she is gettin’ it now; but I’d best ring for her in case she’s forgotten altogether.’

  Returning to his desk, he pressed a bell on it, then resumed his seat and waved them to two elbow chairs facing him.

  ‘Please sit down.’ He smiled appreciatively at Sabine, and with a gallant gesture swept up one side of his fine cavalry moustache. ‘So you’re married, eh? Well, your husband’s a mighty lucky feller. At least, he would be if he were here. Slipped by me for the moment that now you are in England you won’t be able to get back to him until the war is over. And I fear that won’t be for a year or two yet.’

  With a wicked twinkle in her dark eyes, Sabine returned his smile. ‘I lost my husband two years ago. For a time that made me very sad; but I decided it was just as well when Gregory turned up in Budapest again. As you know, we were in love with one another before the war. When we met again it was as though we had never parted. That was just as well too; as pretending to be married made it much easier for us to get away, and we had a lovely honeymoon on a barge all the way down the Danube.’

  She had only just begun to speak when Gregory heard a faint noise behind them. A half-glance over his shoulder showed him that it was the parlourmaid coming in as quietly as a well-trained servant should, carrying the magnum of champagne in an ice bucket. Not having heard her, Sabine was continuing her gay revelation; and, as Gregory could hardly stop her, he could only hope that the woman would not take in the full significance of what she was saying.

  Next moment he saw Sir Pellinore’s face suddenly become frozen. For a second he thought that he, too, was concerned about the maid’s overhearing this wanton admission. The old man coughed loudly in a vain endeavour to drown Sabine’s last sentence, then he half rose to his feet, his face a picture of consternation.

  Swinging round, Gregory took in a tableau that made him gasp with dismay. The maid had her back turned. She had just set the heavy ice-bucket down on the table. Owing to its weight she had needed both hands to carry it, so had left the door open behind her. Framed in the doorway stood Erika. Her face showed that she had heard all that Sabine had said.

  21

  Hell on the Home Front

  Erika, white to the lips, remained standing in the doorway, as rigid as if she had suddenly been turned to stone. Gregory, his eyes wide and his mouth a little open, sat staring at her, his mind temporarily paralysed. Sabine looked from one to the other, guessed with a woman’s swift intuition that she had unexpectedly been confronted with a rival, then riveted on Gregory a gaze in which surprise was mingled with anger. Sir Pellinore was the first to recover and he stepped into the breach.

  With the bluff jovial manner that had tided over many an awkward situation, he boomed at Erika, ‘Come in, my dear, come in. Done your shopping, eh? Here’s Gregory, just back from Hungary; and the Baroness Tuposo. Daughter of a very old friend of mine. Baroness, allow me to introduce you to the Countess von Osterberg. Erika, we were just about to have a glass of wine. Glad you’re in time to join us.’

  In a hard voice that Gregory scarcely recognised, Erika replied, ‘Thank you, but I’d rather not. I … I came up only to let you know that I shall not be in for lunch.’ Then she turned on her heel and walked swiftly away. The parlourmaid, sensing that so
mething was wrong, hurried out in her wake, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Well, that’s too bad! But a bigger share in the magnum for each of us, eh?’ Sir Pellinore’s determination to ride out the storm never faltered. Striding over to the table, he vented on the big bottle the intense annoyance he was concealing, by seizing it in a strangler’s grip and wrenching out the cork in a single movement. As he poured the wine, Gregory joined him and took the first half-full silver tankard over to Sabine.

  When the Baronet had filled his own tankard he lifted it and cried, ‘Bottoms up! Come on, first round straight down the hatch! Just what you both need after your tiring journey!’

  Automatically they obeyed him, and swallowing the long draught of fine wine almost immediately relaxed the tension they were feeling. Having refilled their tankards he again sat down at his desk and said, ‘Now then; let’s hear all about your adventures.’

  Suppressing all mention of his secret negotiations, Gregory, aided from time to time by Sabine, gave an account of their meeting in Budapest, and all that had followed as a result of his running into Grauber. Lunch was announced when barely a third of the story had been told and they were sitting over coffee and liqueurs by the time it was finished. When they had done, Sir Pellinore looked across at Sabine, and said:

  ‘Gregory owes his life to you. Not a doubt about that! And as I’m fool enough to be fond of the feller, I’m grateful. Shocking luck your being kicked out, though. No remedy for it, either. Now you’re goin’ to be stuck here in England for the duration have you formed any views yet of what you’d like to do with yourself?’

  ‘I gathered from Gregory that there was some danger of my being interned,’ she replied with a little grimace.