by Doug Dollard
“I have knowledge of classified military operations,” I told her cryptically. “The SIS fears I might be a security risk. Commander Whitley suspects I could be an asset to current Allied efforts to defeat Germany.” Whitley was silent for a moment as if considering what I had just told her.
“And could you assist Sir James in defeating the Germans?”
“Yes,” I answered truthfully. “But it might be that my help would also trigger unexpected consequences that would make things worse for the Allies in the long run.”
“Why do you think that might happen?” It was a reasonable question. One in fact Sir James had posed early on.
“Nothing we do is accomplished in isolation. Every action has untold consequences most of which are unexpected. If Sir James convinces the Allies to act upon my advice we could just as easily have a worse result.” It was the best I could do without telling her the whole truth and putting her life at risk.
“I don’t understand you Michael. You say you can help but don’t want to because your help might make things worse. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Then I would ask you to trust me. The Allies are doing fine without my help. We are going to defeat Germany and win the war and nothing I do will make a difference in that.”
We’d been driving since early morning and were approaching London. I needed to know if Whitley was on board with my plan before turning west and heading to Wilton Park.
“Alright Michael. If you think we can trust Sir James then let’ go to Wilton Park.”
Chapter 60
THE WHITE HOUSE REDUX
A cold rain was falling and the sky was completely overcast by the time we reached our destination. A fitting commentary on my mood.
Approaching the main guard station leading into Wilton Park I pulled up to the gate and stopped as one of the soldiers cloaked in a rain slicker came up to driver’s side of the car. I told him we were there to see Commander Whitley. He instructed us to pull the Plymouth off to the side and wait while he called my request in to the commander.
Fifteen minutes later one of the soldiers approached us and ordered us both into the back seat while he slid in behind the wheel.
We drove directly to the White House without conversing with the soldier or each other. The soldier exited the vehicle and directed us both out as well. The three of us stood there in the rain outside the front steps of the White House and waited.
We had dressed for the warm weather in Cornwall and now Wellington started shivering in the cold, drizzling rain. I pulled her against me, imparting some of my body heat. This was the kind of thing that happens when you surrender to another’s authority I thought. You forfeit the dignity of making even the most basic decisions like sheltering from the rain. We were both chilled and soaked to the skin by the time one of Whitley’s men came out to order us into the mansion.
Inside four soldiers stood arrayed across the foyer. I noted each wore a side arm. One of the soldiers, a private first class handed each of us a towel and we dried ourselves as best we could. Wellington was given a blanket and ushered off to another room. She looked at me soulfully and I smiled my most reassuring smile.
The sergeant in charge of the detail order me to follow him up the winding marble staircase. I stepped in behind him while the private who had handed us the towels followed closely behind. I hadn’t confided in Wellington I had a plan. The less she knew the more likely she would not be implicated if I failed to convince Whitley he had made a mistake.
Upstairs I found Commander Whitley waiting for me in his office. The soldiers escorting me were dismissed leaving us alone except for Willie, the commander’s dog who stood beside his master, ears up and tail stiff.
“It’s alright Willie. Mister Riley is our guest,” the commander spoke soothingly to his loyal companion.
I was worried about Wellington but I couldn’t afford to let it show. Sir James would certainly use my concern for her as a means of leverage.
“You may stand by the fire if you prefer,” the commander offered, indicating the gas fireplace off to my left. It is these little nuances that set the stage for how an interview will transpire. A demonstration of courtesy, a show of respect can transform an obstinate interviewee into a cooperative one. Refusing the commander’s offer would have been churlish and a sign of insecurity on my part. I accepted his offer and moved over close to the fire, placing my back to it.
It occurred to me having Wellington and I wait outside in the rain was not a petty act of retribution after all. The wing commander was observing us, wondering how we would react. And I had done exactly as he had hoped. I had protectively moved to comfort Wellington. Any hope I had of demonstrating my indifference to her fate was already lost and with it any chance I might have had to secure leniency for her.
“I will not mince words Mister Riley, the wing commander began sternly. You have caused the security services a great deal of trouble. More than that I would gage judging from the failure of more of Major Chandler’s men to report in as scheduled.”
“I wonder if that is truly a concern of yours wing commander,” I proffered, feeling the warmth of the fire against the back of my rain soaked pants. I was uncomfortable and ill at ease in my discomfort. Exactly as the wing commander had planned. I needed to change the dynamics of our respective positions.
“Your meaning?” The wing commander inquired.
“In this affair the SIS is not operating in the best interests of the CSDIC I would surmise. As with all governmental bureaucracies there is likely a great deal of inter-agency rivalry. I suspect this is as true in the British Secret Services as it is anywhere else.” I was watching the wing commander for any sign my suppositions were hitting close to their mark, but his demeanor was intentionally impassive.
“You may just have crossed the line however, when you falsified documents to free me from the London Cage.” It was a supposition on my part given the nervousness of the commander’s men who were waiting outside the London Cage to transport me to the RAF base. But judging from the sharp uptick of the commander’s eyebrows I had struck very near the target.
“A bit of clandestine communications was all that was required,” Whitley confessed.
“And your exposure?” I asked.
“Impossible to trace. I’m afraid the major will find no trail leading back to the CSDIC.”
“But he suspects you were behind it?”
“The SIS is by its nature an organization that feeds on suspicion. But without proof they are powerless to act. And now that I have confirmed what you already have surmised why don’t we get down to the reason for your visit.” The heat from the commander’s gas fire had so warmed the backs of my legs I was forced to take a few steps away. Willie eyed me warily, a low growl warning me to keep my distance emanating from his throat.
“I am seeking an accommodation Sir James.”
“And the nature of this accommodation?”
“You have certain requirements I suspect. I can assist you with these.”
The commander had been standing in front of his desk, leaning on his cane with Willie close by his feet keeping guard. He moved now around his desk and sat behind it, Willie still holding his ground between us. The wing commander was expressing his superior bargaining position by physically distancing himself, demonstrating his tepid response to my proposal.
“And what would you expect in return for your assistance?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” The commander repeated, visibly surprised by my response. “You’re not going to request leniency for Lieutenant Wellington’s treasonous behavior?”
“We both know the lieutenant was acting under your orders commander. You assigned an untrained and inexperienced young nurse to a dangerous and what turned out to be life threatening covert operation. You abandoned her without protection, support or direction. She was fortunate to have survived the experience. A court marshal would in all likelihood find her actions heroic rather tha
n treasonous. Your actions in this affair conversely would likely be found derelict and negligent.” I thought I detected a wry smile cross the commander’s lips though from this distance I could not be certain.
“Very well Mister Riley. We will dispense with filing charges against Lieutenant Wellington. But I am curious. Why are you so vested in the fate of a woman who betrayed you?”
If the commander was expecting me to play out this charade I was about to disappoint him.
“I think you know the reason Sir James,” I said in earnest.
The wing commander sat up in his chair, his expression turning serious, the playful twinkle gone from his eyes.
“Right you are,” he said firmly. “I will see to it the lieutenant is returned to duty if she so desires. No record of this affair will appear in her personnel file. It will be as if it never happened. Is that acceptable?”
“She will require a stipend,” I demanded.
“A stipend! For god’s sake man, why would she need a stipend?”
I just stared off into the distance, not knowing quite how to answer the commander’s question. The commander stared back for quite some time before reason dawned.
“Quite right. A stipend it is. Shall we say one hundred sterling per month until the lieutenant returns to duty?”
I nodded my agreement and the commander made a notation on his official stationary.
“And now we have the serious business of determining the value of your contribution Mister Riley.”
“Where would you like to start wing commander?”
“I think in more comfortable accommodations,” Whitley replied, signaling we would retreat from his office to somewhere more appropriate to the nature of our discussion.
“And we should see you into some dry clothes I think,” he added, recognizing my current set of clothes were still quite damp despite the drying effect of the gas fire. The commander ordered a set of dry clothes be brought to his anteroom where I changed out of my sodden shirt and pants into a clean pair of civilian trousers and a light blue cotton shirt. I recognized this as another gesture of dominance and control but it was good to be dry again none the less.
Chapter 61
REDEMPTION
When I was finished dressing the commander’s aide de camp led me downstairs to the library where I had first spoken in earnest to the wing commander.
The setting was much the same as I remembered it. Couches and overstuffed chairs arrayed about the room, a large circular table near the center and floor to ceiling bookshelves lining three of the four walls. A small gas heater burned quietly in the fireplace. The weather in early May had steadily deteriorated, plagued by storms originating out of the northwest. By now the Allies had officially delayed the D-Day landings indefinitely until the weather cleared. I wondered what Commander Whitley had in mind for our grand bargain.
When the commander entered the room he appeared tired, his limp accentuated and clearly causing him significant pain. Willie had not accompanied him.
“Shall we sit,” the wing commander indicated two large chairs facing each other near the gas fireplace. When we were seated Whitley sat quietly for more than a minute, eyeing me with tempered speculation.
“I don’t know quite what to make of you Mister Riley,” he began wistfully. “Clearly you seem to know things beyond the bounds of espionage. In your absence I have come to accept this without speculating on its rationality. I have even come to terms with your fears such knowledge, should it ever be employed might adversely influence the natural evolution of events.” He paused then as if his he were carefully organizing his thoughts.
“In the early 1930’s the Russians appeared to have gained far to keen an insight into our covert efforts to thwart Hitler’s rise to power and the resurgence of a militarized Germany. Some in the British intelligence services suspected we had a mole embedded in our midst. But this supposition was soundly rejected at the highest levels of our government and those holding this view either recanted or were forced out of the service altogether. Now that we are allied with the Russians such speculation finds no purchase within the intelligence services.”
“Yet you believe rumors of a mole in the British Secret Services are credible,” I stated the obvious.
“More specifically I believe there is a mole ensconced within MI6.”
“Why MI6?” I was curious to know the commander’s reasoning for this though I had the advantage of knowing he was correct.
“The Russians have repeatedly deployed their forces in the exact tactical formations necessary to thwart German offensive strikes. Time and again the Germans have faltered, breaking against superior Russian defenses that were organized only subsequent to our interception of German operational battle plans.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing,” I observed quietly. The commander flashed me a look of disdain and I wisely decided to withhold further comment until he had finished.
“Our ability to intercept and decipher the German High Command operational orders to its field commanders has proven crucial to our military successes. Only a handful of our people know such capability even exists. No action on this intelligence has ever been taken without the express written permission of the Prime Minister and then only when an alternate cover story could be proffered. MI6 is the only organization outside the code breakers themselves to have access to these decrypted communications.”
“So when the Russians take advantage of this information they jeopardize the resource,” I concluded.
“Exactly! The Germans have been highly suspicious their communications have been compromised for some time now. If they were to alter their code or elect an alternate means of communication it could extend the war by six months to a year and would certainly cost thousands of unnecessary casualties.”
I knew the commander was referring to the German Enigma coding machines and their work product dubbed Ultra. The British had secured the German rotary coding machines from the Polish Army just before Warsaw fell to the Germans in 1939. Thereafter they had set to work intercepting and deciphering thousands of German operational orders. If the Russians were receiving deciphered German operational orders from a mole inside MI6 they would be in an immensely superior position to defeat the German Whermacht on the battlefield.
The problem with this was that eventually the Germans would figure out their codes had been compromised and change their method of communicating with their field commanders.
Making use of the Enigma product had been a tricky proposition for the British from the beginning. Their use had been so sparing the Germans, suspecting their code might have been compromised never-the less never acted to change it, and the British were able to win great victories in north Africa and in Europe because of it. Now the mole in MI6 threatened to expose this most closely held secret to the Germans.
“I understand your dilemma Sir James but I don’t see how I can be of any assistance.”
Sir James leaned forward in his chair, shifting his injured leg to a more comfortable position.
“I want you to find the mole for me,” he said firmly.
At first I imagined I had misunderstood the wing commander. But his expression was deadly serious and his cool blue eyes were focused intently upon mine.
“I have no experience with this sort of thing,” I protested. “I wouldn’t have the slightest idea where to start. Why me? Surely you must have others within the service whom you could rely upon.”
The wing commander must have anticipated my objection because he seemed completely nonplussed.
“Despite the brilliance of many talented officers within the intelligence services their leaders are grossly incompetent in their own internal security policies. The special privileges the intellectual and social hierarchy bring to these agencies mitigates any desire for introspection. They are incapable of suspecting one of their own and would deign do nothing to impugn the character of one of their own.”
“And just how do you sup
pose I would fit in?”
Whitley smiled and eased back into his chair.
“You, Mister Riley would be ideal. You are an anomaly. You would be an object of interest. Your humble origins and your American mannerisms make you the perfect mole hunter.”
“How so,” I asked, uncertain if I should be flattered or insulted.
“You need not take offense as I intended none. These men you will confront come from a privileged class of wealthy, titled aristocrats. Though highly intelligent they are arrogant and supercilious. They will not credit you with the intellectual capacity to ferret them out.
They might even expose their duplicitous actions to scrutiny just to prove their intellectual superiority. They won’t believe they can be caught and that is their principal weakness.”
“You say they, wing commander. Do you think there are others?”
The wing commander considered my question before replying.
“Yes, I believe there are several, but only one will have access to this information. The others you must ignore.”
I was aware the wing commander, without realizing it was referring the Cambridge Five. The sons of British aristocrats recruited by the Russians while attending Cambridge University. Their naïve belief in Communism was the vehicle by which they were lured into betraying their king and country. They held positions in various government agencies, providing highly classified information to the Russians for decades before being exposed.
Four of the five were identified in the 1960’s. But the fifth, the Russian’s source for Enigma was never exposed.
“What are you proposing Sir James?” It was time we got down to our respective expectations.
“I want you to identify the mole in MI6 leaking information to the Russians. In return Lieutenant Wellington will be placed on medical leave and allowed to return home until such time as she feels competent to return to her duties. You will be assigned to MI6 as America’s OSS liaison to Bletchley Park. I assume you are aware of what transpires there?”