DEATH ON WINTER'S EVE

by Doug Dollard

  I knew it was human nature to strive to control ones environment. But in this instance I would have been happy just to understand it. The pain in my forehead throbbed. I could feel the swelling even through the bandages. I must look like crap I thought.

  There was a small mirror above the desk about the appropriate height for a standing man to see himself. Sitting in a wheel chair left me well below the minimum elevation. I wheeled my chair up against the desk and locked the wheels. Placing my palms on the desk I managed to lift myself up far enough to catch a glimpse of my face before my arms gave out and I crashed back down into my chair.

  It was enough. My face was swollen and bruised. A purple and black shadow covered my right cheek and eye. The bandage around my head hid much of the bruising but I guessed the cut on my forehead was the likely cause. It felt that way anyway. Even this small exertion left me weak and slightly nauseous.

  Suddenly I felt very tired. I regretted I had not taken Lieutenant Wellington’s offer to assist me back to bed. It’s the price of being a tough guy I admonished myself. I was in considerable pain. A fact I had done my best to hide from Wellington. It would have been nice to have something to take the edge off my pain but I needed a clear head to think.

  Every time I attempted to piece things together I came full circle back to the same place. Nothing made sense, not the destruction of the Tokomak facility, not Queen Anne’s, not this place, or any of the people I had so far encountered. Everything and everyone was one click out of focus.

  The conversation I had with Whitley was nothing if not bizarre. If it was their intent to destabilize my mind set they were doing a terrific job. But the attempt was far too elaborate to be staged. And there was nothing of value to be gained. Surely they must see that. Where the hell was the Agency anyway? It had been more than a week now. Time enough for them to figure out what was happening and come after me. I was beginning to sink into a malaise of self-pity and I committed to stiffing my resolve.

  * * *

  As soon as Whitley left the library he went directly to the third floor recording room where he ordered one of the clerks to transcribe the recording of his meeting with Riley while he waited. Twenty minutes later he was back in his office with a dozen typewritten sheets of transcribed dialog.

  Feverishly Whitley poured over every word, attempting to glean new meaning from them. Riley’s knowledge of Normandy and Southwick House was frightening. If the Germans had access to the same intelligence the landings at Normandy were in great peril. Riley did make one error however.

  The D-Day landings were scheduled for early May, not June. That miscalculation alone was of monumental significance. The extraordinary efforts to mislead the Germans depended on disguising two fundamental facts, the date and place of the Allied landings on the European Continent.

  Paying particular attention to Riley’s statements regarding Normandy Whitley read them over several times. This only confirmed his initial understanding. Riley had spoken in the past tense when he described the Normandy landings and General Eisenhower’s presence at Southwick House. And that was patently absurd.

  Whitley decided to order a new transcription, but he doubted it would change what he already knew. What game was Riley playing? If he were a German agent then why reveal his knowledge of the most closely held secret of the war? And why couch this knowledge in terms of past events? Perhaps the American’s head injury was more serious than anyone suspected.

  As he promised Sir James had the transcripts of Riley’s interview sent over to SIS Headquarters. He knew the science and technology section would analyze Riley’s statements to determine their scientific value. It seemed clear the SIS was concerned with the state of German weapons development.

  Whitley’s main focus now was on learning the extent of the security breach. Who besides Riley knew about Normandy and where had he obtained his information. Despite misgivings about his prisoner’s mental condition Whitley couldn’t dismiss Riley’s knowledge of such closely guarded secrets. But he would have to move quickly as there was little time before it became logistically impossible to alter the Allies’ plans.

  Chapter 30

  INTERNECINE WARFARE

  When Lieutenant Colonel Sir Harold Mansfield read the review his science section had prepared from the transcripts of Riley’s interview he was perplexed. Apparently fusion was not the methodology researchers believed would render a weapon. However, the science underlying a sustained thermonuclear reaction was not well established, and yet the transcripts postulated an advanced state of scientific development and experimentation well beyond what scientists believed was currently achievable.

  Especially troubling, the report noted the prisoner’s reference to thermonuclear bombs as child’s play relative to fusion energy devices. No known scientific inquiry had been made into thermonuclear weapon feasibility. Further analysis would require significantly greater detail than provided in the transcripts, the scientists cautioned. This was somewhat of a relief, ostensibly eliminating the most imminent threat of a German super weapon of terrible destructive power. However the report concluded, the airman’s purported knowledge of a technological achievement so closely allied to the development of these weapons was disquieting. An understatement if ever he had read one Mansfield opined.

  He considered leaving the airman in Whitley’s custody. After all, Whitley had secured valuable information in a surprisingly short time. His interrogation methods, whatever they were appeared quite effective. Leaving the airman with the CSDIC created a problem however. If Whitley uncovered conclusive evidence of a German breakthrough in configuring fissile material he could gain influence in Whitehall at SIS’ expense. Mansfield’s tenure at the head of SIS had garnered him as many enemies as friends. His enemies would delight in taking advantage of even the slightest perception of failure. Despite Whitley’s success Mansfield decided it prudent to bring the airman under the control of his PWIS chief, Major Chandler.

  In the early hours of January 30, Sir James Whitley reflected despairingly on his conversation with the American as he sipped from a steaming cup of earl grey tea. In times of great stress Sir James especially enjoyed the tea’s distinctive flavor and aroma derived from the addition of oil extracted from the rind of the Bergamot orange, a fragrant citrus fruit imported from Southeast Asia. It was a rare treat as German U boats had dramatically curtailed delivery of imported goods. Though the U Boat menace had been largely diminished the importation of war material had taken precedence over luxury items such as tea. In the corner of the room a gas fire sent out welcome plumes of warm air.

  The sharp jangling of his phone broke his contemplative mood.

  “Sir James?” came a voice he immediately recognized as Harold Mansfield’s.

  “Yes, Sir Harold,” he answered formally, immediately on his guard.

  “You’ll forgive me Sir James if I cut directly to the chase. I’m sending over a lorry with some of my lads to collect the prisoner Michael Riley. You will see to it he is made available. Also, please make available all relevant records and documents including transcripts associated with this prisoner.”

  “This is preposterous,” Whitley sputtered, his anger flaring. The prisoner is in my custody and under the authority and control of the Directorate of Military Intelligence. ”

  “My authority comes directly from the office of the Prime Minister and takes precedence,” Mansfield replied coolly. “You’ve had him long enough old boy,” he added in a more conciliatory tone. “It doesn’t pay to coddle these blighters. Once we have a go at him we’ll see an improvement in his cooperation.”

  “We can’t be certain he is working for the Germans,” Whitley countered though he knew arguing would be fruitless. The Security Intelligence Service would have its way and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. But he was not so naive as to believe Mansfield’s interest lay only in securing Riley’s cooperation. If anything Riley had been conspicuously, even naively forthcoming. Mansfield was playi
ng a far more nuanced game. If his plan were to turn Riley over to the authority of the Prisoner of War Intelligence Service it was likely Riley would be transported to the London Cage where he would be subject to far harsher treatment than he had so far experienced. Riley didn’t strike him as the type to crumble under torture but then neither did he seem to fit the mold of a Nazi sympathizer.

  “Then we shall seek to determine where his loyalties lie Sir James,” Mansfield quipped. Whitley’s mind was racing, searching for anything that would forestall having to turn over the American to the SIS.

  “The Americans will not be as sanguine about the harsh treatment of one of their citizens,” he offered in desperation. Mansfield hesitated. He was conscious of America’s disdain for some of the more intensive interrogation methods employed by the SIS.

  “You have confirmation Riley is an American citizen?” Mansfield inquired skeptically.

  “I am expecting confirmation from the U.S. Department of State,” Whitley deflected.

  “When would you anticipate this confirmation?” Mansfield asked, aware of Whitley’s intention to delay releasing the prisoner, but also cognizant of the difficulty he would have with the Americans should Riley prove to be citizen of the United States.

  “I would expect to have an answer within seventy-two hours.” Whitley was dubious he could convince the SIS director to delay his decision and was surprised when Mansfield conceded.

  “You have twenty-four hours Sir James,” Mansfield declared with finality. “If you do not hear from the Americans by then or if they disown him then you will be obliged to turn him over to my agents Sir James.”

  On that note of finality the SIS Director rang off leaving Whitley wondering what he could possibly accomplish in so short a period. The American had only just begun to reveal the depth of his knowledge of the Allies’ most closely held secrets. Whitley was beginning to suspect there was far more to Riley than his mysterious appearance would suggest. He was confident he could get at the truth if given adequate time. But for his tactics to be effective he needed weeks, not hours to fully employ them.

  Wilcox, Whitley’s aide de camp appeared in the doorway to his office.

  “The Italians beg an audience with you Sir James,” Wilcox stated, a wry smile crossing his face.

  “General Bocchetti?” Whitley asked. Wilcox nodded.

  “The General has asked if you might attend him in his quarters at your earliest convenience sir.

  Whitley sighed resignedly. The Italians were model prisoners, cordial, engaging and content with their status as captives of the British Crown. Having been in the custody of the British military since their capture in Tunis in May of 1943 their operational intelligence value had long since been exhausted. It was now only a matter of keeping them content until the war ended or the Allies reached a permanent peace agreement with the new Italian Government.

  “You may tell the General I shall meet with him directly,” Whitley instructed his ADC.

  General Giovanni Bocchetti was seated at his writing desk in the far corner of a spacious and well-appointed room he shared with General Cecconi when Whitley arrived. With dozens of hand written pages spread across his desk the General was absorbed in making additions to his memoires that he intended to see published at the end of the war. Immediately upon catching sight of Whitley in the hallway outside his quarters the General sprang from his chair.

  “Buongiorno. E bello rivederti comandante Whitley,” the General shouted excitedly, swiftly closing the distance between them and extending his hand in greeting.

  “General,” Whitley intoned courteously, taking the General’s outstretched hand.

  “Ma devo protestare,” the General protested passionately while backing slightly away. The General had a fair command of English but as Whitley spoke Italian fluently chose to communicate exclusively in his native language.

  “What have we done now to upset you my dear General Bocchetti,” Whitley intoned, doing his best to maintain the proper degree of gravity.

  “Le finestre,” the General exclaimed, extending his arm and shaking it accusingly at the distant set of bay windows. “E intollerabile!” Whitley was inured to the incessant demands of his Italian guests but in this instance the General’s complaint left him completely baffled. He turned to his ADC for further explanation.

  “The barbed wire sir,” Wilcox explained, pointing to the frames of grey wire secured over the outside of the windows. “It’s an impediment to the General’s view of the croquet lawn and tennis courts! He requests you have it removed.”

  “I see,” Whitley sighed. Since the Italians arrival in May of forty-three precautions had been taken to secure the White House from escape. A double row of barbed wire had been added around the perimeter along with searchlights and roaming patrols. Guard towers stood at four equal distant locations around the facility. All the windows on the first and second floors had been laid over with barbed wire as an added deterrent to escape.

  “If I have the barbed wire removed will you give me your parole General Bocchetti?” Whitley inquired.

  “Temo non Posso! Regolamente mio Re che proibiscono. Non-abbiamo dimostrato le nostre intenzioni a non-scappare? L’InghiIterra non e un’isloa? Dove saremmo fuggire il mio comandante caro?

  “Yes,” Whitley conceded the General’s point. “England is an island, and you have been most diligent in complying with our prohibition from attempting escape. Yet you are still prisoners of war, are you not?” General Bocchetti now took on the mantel of someone whose integrity had just come under suspicion.

  “Marshal Badoglio ha firmato un armistizio non e vero?” The General stated indignantly.

  Again, Whitley found himself conceding the General’s point. Despite Mussolini’s continued resistance in the north, Marshal Badoglio, Italy’s new Prime Minister had signed an armistice in September of the previous year. The Italians in southern Italy were no longer considered combatants. Deciding the General and his fellow officers posed little threat Whitley relented.

  After some further negotiations an informal modus Vivendi was amicably reached and Whitley agreed to have the barbed wire removed from around the windows on all the second story rooms.

  The General, pleased to have reached an accord with his host offered the commander a glass of Gia Opera Pia Piemonte from the fields of Marchesi di Barolo. General Bocchetti had arrived at Wilton Park the previous year accompanied by several trunks filled with personal items including cigars, liqueurs, several cases of fine Italian wines from prewar Italy and two thousand pounds in English currency. The chests were impounded but weekly allowances were permitted on condition of the General’s adherence to the rules.

  Whitley acceded to the General’s offer and toasted the occasion in the belief it would serve to enhance the value of their agreement. Returned to the good graces of the Italians Whitley took his leave and headed down the wide marble steps, uncertain of what he would do with the brief respite Sir Harold had given him, but painfully aware he had very little time.

  There were armed guards at either end of the hallway and they snapped to attention as Whitley came into view. He set them at ease and continued down the corridor toward the American’s room.

  Chapter 31

  THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING

  Despite Lieutenant Wellington’s care I was having bouts of dizziness, cold chills and muscle cramps. I was fighting fatigue and a constant pounding had begun in my head. Wellington had departed some time ago to return to her duties at Queen Anne’s, so when I heard someone knocking on my door I thought it strange I was at once a prisoner and yet treated with a degree of civility reserved for guests.

  “Come in,” I said loudly enough to be heard through the heavy wooden door. I expected to see one of the guards with a tray of food. When the door opened I was surprised to see Wing Commander Whitley standing there, an expression of concern clouding his face.

  I was still in my wheel chair. After nearly a week’s confinement in bed I f
elt the need to be upright even if the best I could do was to remain seated.

  “I hope you find your accommodations adequate Mister Riley,” the wing commander inquired politely.

  “Thank you, yes,” I answered sincerely.

  “Would you care to accompany me back to the library for a spot of lunch Mister Riley? I will have our food brought into us and we can continue our conversation if you are up to it.”

  At the mention of food my stomach began to rebel. I was feeling weak and a little queasy. But in the military a superior officer’s request is always considered an order. I suspected it was no less true in the Royal Air Force. In any case I had nothing more pressing to do and I thought a change of environment might help with my nausea.

  Back in the library in our respective places in front of the fire things were much the same as before except the Wing Commander appeared distracted as if he were struggling with some thorny issue. Perhaps it was this change in Whitley’s demeanor or Lieutenant Wellington’s cryptic warning or some sixth sense that alerted me. Whatever the wing commander’s intentions it was time to change the dynamics.

  “I am curious Mister Riley,” Sir James began. “You are a man of obvious intelligence. You have, by your own admission served in your country’s military. You present yourself as an innocent bystander caught up in circumstances not of your own making. Under different circumstances I would be prone to take you at your word. But I can verify nothing you have told me. So we appear at an impasse. What am I to make of you?”

  The wing commander’s words struck me as sincere and I was loath to disappoint him. But revealing my affiliation with the CIA would in no way enhance his investigation or add substance to what he already knew. Given my circumstances however, I was about to relent and explain the true reasons for my visit to London when an orderly entered the room with a tray of hot food and a pot of steaming tea. Setting the tray on the table between us the orderly poured two cups of tea, handing one to Sir James before laying the tray containing my dinner across the arms of my wheelchair. On my plate were boiled vegetables, something that appeared to be beef stew and some cooked beets. I should have been hungry but instead my stomach began to rebel against even the thought of food. There was a dull ringing in my ears and I felt light headed.