by Doug Dollard
Holding the note up to the light in front of the glass he noted a single word, SAVOY embossed on the paper. It wasn’t proof Riley had been a guest at the Savoy but it added greatly to his credibility.
Now he wondered what else Riley might have disclosed had he been given more time to draw him out. Major Chandler and his bullyboys would risk killing Riley with their heavy-handed attempts at interrogation. There were rumors of detainees dying under interrogation at the London Cage. He had wrestled with his conscience ever since Colonel Mansfield had notified him he was taking custody of the Irishman. Now he was prepared to do what only a few days ago he would have thought preposterous.
That morning, under the guise of tracking a breach in security he had gained access to all communications originating from the PWIS facility at Kensington Palace Gardens in London. If it were discovered he had done this without authorization it would end his career. But given the significance of Riley’s information it was a risk he felt it necessary to take.
He had no idea what he expected to gain from monitoring communications from the London Cage. It was a long shot at best. But he needed to know what Riley knew and more importantly he wanted to know how Riley came by this information.
Chapter 34
NEVER QUITE SO ALONE
I had no idea how long I was left alone in the darkness. Without sensory references time becomes elusive. You train for this. Knowing what to expect helps. But fear is something everyone must master individually. And there isn’t any training for that. Eventually I heard the sound of at least two men approaching, their feet scuffling against a concrete floor. Without a word the hood over my head was yanked away and a flood of intense light blinded me.
“Do you know why you are here Michael?” came the same voice I had heard at the infirmary. The accent was strange. Welsh perhaps, certainly not British. I squinted against the light’s painful glare and took deep breaths attempting to get the stench of the hood out of my nostrils.
“As you don’t know the rules yet I will explain them to you,” the voice went on. “I ask you a question and you answer it. If you do not answer or if your answer is untruthful I do something that causes you pain. It’s really very simple as I’m certain you will come to appreciate. Now, do you know why you are here?” the voice asked again.
My eyes were adjusting to the light and I could make out the broad shoulders and red hair of the man I who had come for me at the infirmary. Off to my left was another much taller man with slightly stooped shoulders. The two men had removed their coats and jackets and were dressed in white, long sleeved shirts rolled up at the elbows and dark ties they had loosed from around their necks. They each wore suspenders that substituted for belts.
I calculated the red haired one was in charge, the other man was just muscle. The room was small and lit by a single overhead bulb. The walls were papered in grey wallpaper with pictures of little red velvet birdcages. There were stains on the wallpaper that looked a lot like blood splatter.
The room smelled musty and damp, like the backroom of a bar that had hosted too many poker games. The room was very cold. I could see my breath forming translucent clouds of water vapor. In the corner was a bucket filled with what looked like water. Retrieving the bucket the big man proceeded to douse me in freezing water. The shock of frigid water took my breath and I gasped reflexively, my muscles locking so tightly I couldn’t draw a breath for some time. Instantly I began to shake violently from the cold.
I knew this was just the beginning. Things were going to get a lot worse and in my weakened condition I would not long survive this level of mistreatment. I needed to do something to change the dynamics. Despite the uncontrollable chattering of my teeth I managed to blurt out a contrived protest.
“I am here because you believe I am working for the Germans and have information that would be useful to the British Government,” I stammered, gasping for air.
“Well then,” the red haired man exclaimed, seemingly surprised at my answer. “So you admit to being a German espionage agent who has stolen military secrets from the British armed forces?” I was jerking reflexively now.
“No, that isn’t what I said,” I sputtered angrily. “I said you believe I am a German spy, I wasn’t confessing.” This seemed to cause the red haired man some confusion as he looked questioningly at the man to my left. I had given this a lot of thought the night before when I lay in bed wondering if I had lost my mind and planning what to do if I hadn’t. I intended this as my explanation for Commander Whitley, but now I had little choice but to use it to save my life.
“I am a spy, just not a German spy,” I added between gasps. “I am an operative with the Office of Strategic Services. I work for Colonel Donovan. I was on a classified mission to Germany, posing as a member of the IRA with information on the D-Day landings. I was on my way back to Ireland when my plane was shot down near Beaconsfield.”
I was shouting and out of breath but I needed to get my point across. It was the scenario I had committed to memory and I was prepared to defend it as necessary. The red haired man stared at me as if I had just admitted to being from outer space.
“You’re an operative with the OSS?” he asked incredulously.
“That’s correct asshole. Now you might want to untie me and pray I don’t come down with sepsis or pneumonia, in which case you’ll spend the rest of your career with the Red Cross serving British soldiers biscuits and tea.” I was shivering violently and my voice shook but I did my best to sound convincing.
Claiming I was an OSS operative and acting pissed seemed to be my best chance for getting these thugs to lighten up long enough to figure a way out of this. Otherwise it was likely I would be in for a very bad time of it. The red haired man continued glaring at me. I sensed he was barely in control of an unbridled rage he seldom found the need to restrain. I also sensed he was right on the cusp. It wouldn’t have taken more than a nudge for him to begin beating me senseless.
Finally he tore his eyes from me to look questioningly at the big man standing beside me. The big man met his gaze and shrugged his giant shoulders. When the red haired looked back at me I knew I had given him pause.
“What was your mission?” he demanded, clearly skeptical yet with a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
“You know I can’t tell you that!” I asserted indignantly.
“How do I confirm your story then,” he demanded warily.
“Contact Colonel Donovan’s administrative assistant, a Major Nicholas Borland. He will verify my identity. Be careful how much you tell him. My mission has the highest level of security. If the Germans discover I’m a counterspy thousands of lives could be lost.”
I didn’t know who Colonel Donovan’s administrative assistant was or even if he had one. I knew Donovan was appointed by President Roosevelt to head the OSS as a matter of history.
My story was paper-thin and it wouldn’t fool these guys for long, but it might give them pause, at least until they heard back from Washington. I didn’t know how long that would be, a day or two at most, but it could be just hours for all I knew. They didn’t have satellite communications in World War Two. But the red haired man wasn’t going to be convinced easily.
“Is your name really Michael Riley?” he asked, buying time to think.
“No, it’s a cover name but it will be recognized when you contact Washington.”
“Why wait until now to reveal you work for the OSS?” the red haired man asked, instinctively dissatisfied with my story.
“Because none of you have the need to know and because if I were released it would undermine my credibility with the Germans. Besides, I thought by now the OSS would have claimed me.”
It was unlikely my answers were going to completely satisfy his natural skepticism, but I was counting on his instinctual need for caution. He couldn’t afford to ignore the possibility I was telling him the truth. Men like him operated on primal instinct. I was prey and he could easily kill me, but if a larger, more
ferocious predator were contesting the same prey he would just as quickly relinquish the kill. Pressing me further could create waves among the Allied Services if I proved to be an Allied agent. It wouldn’t take long to verify. I was gambling the red haired man knew this and wouldn’t risk making a mistake he couldn’t easily rectify.
“Why haven’t they come for you?” he asked pointedly, his confidence clearly eroding.
“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully, remembering how I felt about the Agency before I knew what had actually happened to me. There was a long pause while the red haired man considered my story.
“I’ll check on your story,” he finally conceded, his eyes narrowed and focused intently on me.
“But if you are sending me on a wild goose chase I’ll have your bollocks in a vise.” It knew it was only a temporary reprieve. As soon as Washington replied I’d be right back where we started.
“In the mean time get me the hell out of this shit hole and have someone look at my wounds,” I shouted angrily.
He hesitated, and for a heart stopping moment I thought I might have overplayed my hand. But then he signaled to the big man.
“Untie him but keep him here,” he ordered. And then as if it were an afterthought, “get him a medic.” With that he disappeared, ostensibly to contact Washington.
Chapter 35
TEMPORARY REPRIEVE
The big man was a brute, six foot three or four, two hundred sixty pounds of hard muscle and biceps the size of tree trunks. He’d have been a hard man to put down even if I were healthy. For as big as he was he was agile. Quickly he loosed the straps from around my arms. My hands had turned blue from the loss of circulation. I had no feeling in them at first and when blood began to flow in them again they burned as it I had placed them in boiling water. I had been so consumed with fighting the cold and regaining the feeling in my hands and arms I hadn’t noticed the big man had disappeared.
Several minutes later a thin, anemic looking man carrying a green military satchel with a Red Cross emblem on it appeared in the doorway. Dressed in civilian clothes he wore thick glasses that made his eyes appear twice their normal size. He came directly to where I was seated and knelt down beside me. Under his arm he carried a towel that he handed to me.
My fingers were so numb I couldn’t unbutton the top to my pajamas. With his assistance I was finally able to strip off my top. I was soaking wet and shivering so badly my teeth felt as if they would crack. Blood had soaked through my sodden bandages, leaving a softball sized crimson stain.
I toweled myself dry but it didn’t do much to lessen my shivering. The medic gave no sign any of this struck him as unusual. He was young, perhaps in his early twenties with dark black hair cropped short on either side in military style. He pulled down the top of my pajama bottoms enough to expose my abdomen. Carefully removing the blood soaked bandages covering my abdominal wound he inspected the sutures.
“You pulled a couple of stitches,” he said dryly. “It’s been about a week since your surgery?” he asked.
“Yes, that sounds about right,” I stammered.
“Sutures stay in for about a week to twelve days before being removed,” he stated flatly. “You could get by with what you have now if you take it easy.” He seemed to be giving it some thought, speculating on the probability of my taking it easy. “I’m going to have to suture your wound again,” he said, apparently deciding I would need the sutures. “It would be easier without anesthetic,” he stated pragmatically. I assumed he meant easier for him.
“Do what you need to do,” I told him. I was so cold I didn’t think I could feel anything. He took surgical suture from his kit along with a surgical needle, an Adson forceps and a Webster needle holder. He donned a pair of surgical gloves and bathed the wound in iodine before expertly placing five stitches where my wound had begun to suppurate.
“How’s the head wound?” he asked, noting the bandage around my forehead.
“Hurts,” I answered bluntly. He nodded.
“I’ll take a look at it when I’m done with this,” he said, indicating my abdominal wound. The sutures stung a bit and the wound area was sensitive but he was proficient at his job and quick. When he had finished he bandaged the wound and then began to unwind the gauze around my forehead. When the wound in my forehead was exposed he grimaced.
“You’ve taken a pretty hard knock to the forehead,” he observed. “Any dizziness, headaches, slurred speech, loss of memory or delusions?” he asked. I suppressed a smile. If I told him the truth he’d know for certain I had suffered traumatic brain damage.
“A little nausea from time to time,” was all I said.
“The wound’s healing though I can’t attest to any potential trauma,” he noted with clinical detachment. “If you notice you’re having trouble standing or walking let someone know,” he advised me.
“You think that would do any good?” I stammered. He shot me a look of disdain but made no comment.
“I’ll put a bandage over it to keep the wound clean but otherwise you just need to take it easy for awhile,” he said, ignoring my question. Our gaze met for an instant and then he looked away. I guess he realized the irony of what he was asking. “Anything else?” he asked.
“My knee. Just need the dressing changed.” He pulled up my pajama leg, stripped the wet dressing off and inspected my wound.
“It’s healing,” he commented dryly. “Keep your weight off it for the next several weeks and it should be fine.” He poured some antiseptic over the wound and bandaged it with gauze. When he had finished he packed his kit and departed without another word. My sodden and blood stained pajama top lay on the floor beside my feet. Unwilling to add to my misery by crawling back into a cold, wet shirt I draped the towel around my shoulders instead.
Though I hadn’t noticed before the big man had returned to stand like a Sequoia in the doorway. When he was certain I had noticed him he tossed a heavy woolen blanket to me. I caught it in mid air and immediately clutched to my chest for fear it would fall onto the wet floor. With that small gesture of compassion he left, closing and bolting the heavy metal door behind him. The light from the naked bulb above continued its harsh glare.
The wooden chair added to my misery but the floor was awash with water and hardly an improvement.
Grateful for the blanket I wrapped myself in it, holding it closed in front with my arms threaded across my chest. Generating body heat when your core temperature is low takes time. Shivering helps burn calories, generating heat. The extent of you shivering is a function of your loss of core body heat. I was shivering badly enough to chip teeth. It’s difficult to concentrate when you’re numb with cold. I didn’t have much choice if I wanted to stay alive so despite my misery I struggled to my feet and began to pace around my cell.
To take my mind off the cold I attempted to recall what I knew about the SIS internment facilities. I remembered the facility in London was ominously referred to as the London Cage. It housed mainly members of the SS and Gestapo. Prisoners continuously transitioned through the facility but there were never more than fifty or sixty inmates at any time. There had been rumors of torture but these were never confirmed, and under the British Official Secrecy Act no investigation was ever conducted and the press was prohibited from reporting it. That would have been nearly seventy years ago now. Most of these men were already long dead. A smile crept across my lips, not because I thought it funny but because my situation was too bizarre for any other reaction.
I was having difficulty processing it all. For the third time that day I wondered if this wasn’t a delusion brought about by a severe head trauma. Or maybe I was already dead and this was what happens when you die, you reappear in another dimension. Descartes not with standing, how does anyone distinguish the real from the imaginary? Maybe in the end we are all just the aggregate of neurons processing chemical and electrical impulses. I was feeling light headed. My weakened physical condition and exposure to the cold was clouding
my ability to think clearly. I wondered how long it would take before the red haired man discovered my story was a complete fiction.
* * *
Making his was up the stairs from the basement Major Chandler rushed to his communications room on the third floor of the mansion. Here he quickly drafted a coded message to the United States Department of State requesting the bona fides of one Michael Riley, ostensibly an agent with the OSS. He classified the message “SECRET” and “MOST URGENT,” hoping to have an answer within twenty-four hours.
Chandler was skeptical Riley was who he claimed to be, but he couldn’t risk proceeding with his usual interview methods until he was certain. In any case it shouldn’t take more than a day or two to secure confirmation one way or another. It would delay the process of squeezing information from him but it couldn’t be helped. In the mean time he would detain Riley, keeping him in the mansion’s sub basement beneath the officer’s mess.
If, as he suspected the Americans couldn’t verify Riley’s status the Irishman would soon enough be the focus of the Major’s full and undivided attention. In the mean time he pondered how best to inform his boss, Colonel Mansfield of the unanticipated delay. Mansfield wouldn’t be pleased to hear Riley might be an American citizen. He’d be even less pleased to learn Riley had duped him into delaying his interrogation, especially after the Colonel had cautioned him time was of the essence. Either way the Major knew he would come off as ineffectual or gullible or both.