Jubilee- Spies and Raiders
Page 4
“Indeed, ever since Dunkirk, I have voiced my discontent as to the handling of the Army thus far both in training and tactics.” Montgomery removed his garrison cap and tucked it under his arm. “The squeaky wheel gets the grease, as they say.”
“Well, I must offer my congratulations, as delayed as they may be.”
“Thank you. Any idea what the usurper wants?” Montgomery’s distaste was dripping from his voice.
“With Leigh-Mallory you never know.”
“His betrayal of Air Chief Marshals Dowding and Park is something I still have trouble with. He’s a bloody politician in uniform.”
Hambro remained silent, struggling to hide the approving smirk curling up at the corners of his mouth. “What is Mountbatten up to these days?”
“The Good Idea Fairy? I can only assume he is trying to ingratiate himself with the King and PM. His failure at Crete and the sinking of his ship really besmirched his naval career. Hence, the reason he’s in Combined Operations. No one really knows what they do, including his boss.”
“Isn’t his boss the PM?”
Montgomery smiled coyly. “Yes. He’s a clever one.”
Hambro grunted as they walked into Boodles. A valet, elegantly dressed in tails, opened the door for them. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
“Good afternoon, is Lord Mountbatten here? We have a meeting.”
The valet looked distastefully at Hambro’s wardrobe but slowly bobbed his head. “Yes, sir, right this way.” He motioned for them to follow, and led them down the hallway to a thick oak door. He knocked and slowly opened it. “My Lord, General Montgomery and another gentleman to see you, sir.”
Hambro snorted in delight. Some other gentleman. Anonymity had its uses, especially as a spy. Any other day the state of his dress would have been a concern. Prior to the war, Hambro prided himself on his appearance as a banker. First appearances were an essential part of the occupation. But now, with the strange hours he was pulling and the rationing of everything from fuel to cloth, he was lucky if his shirts didn’t have sweat stains.
“Oh! Well, let them in!” Hambro heard Mountbatten exclaim from behind the door. He couldn’t help but admire the discretion of the valet, keeping the Boodles patron’s privacy even while attempting to bring the member’s guests to him. The valet swung the door open wide enough for them to enter and quickly secured it after Hambro walked in.
Hambro looked around. The room was an ornate study with rich mahogany bookcases and paneling that left the room in a dark red hue accented by a marble fireplace along the far wall. In the center of the room a decanter sat half full.
Mountbatten stood in the center of the room, arms outstretched in greeting. A toothy grin filled his narrow face. Hambro suspected his good humor was a result of the half-full glass of whiskey he held in his hand. Over Mountbatten’s shoulder, Hambro spotted Leigh-Mallory inspecting what he had thought was a napkin, but now realized was a map next to the decanter.
“Monty! Mr. Hambro, how nice to see you.”
“Hello, Dickie,” Montgomery said in amusement. “Drinking the firewater early, are we?” His words were friendly but his tone had an undercurrent of chastisement. They shook hands and Montgomery turned and took Leigh-Mallory’s.
“Can we indulge you with a glass?” Leigh-Mallory asked, motioning to the decanter.
“Thank you, no,” Montgomery said curtly. Hambro walked over and extended his hand. “Mallory.”
“Hambro.” Leigh-Mallory took his hand and quickly let go, not offering him a glass. A git just like he always is, Hambro thought as he turned to Lord Mountbatten.
“I don’t think we’ve ever officially met,” Lord Mountbatten said, extending his hand.
“Charles Hambro, SOE.”
“Louis Mountbatten. Your predecessor, Mr. Nelson, spoke very highly of you. How is he, by the way?”
Hambro’s eyes flickered slightly, softening, but returning to his usual steely gray. “Frank is getting better. The job weighed on him heavily.”
“Gentlemen, I beg your pardon, but if we could dispense with the pleasantries, I do need to return to Kent this evening. So if we could get started,” Montgomery said as he took a seat, setting the tempo for the afternoon.
Hambro gave an amused smirk, which he could have sworn was returned for a split second by Montgomery.
“Of course, of course,” Mountbatten said as he recharged his glass and sat down. He crossed his legs and gently tapped his signet ring against his whiskey glass while Leigh-Mallory took a seat across from him. The smug looks on their faces reminded Hambro of the cavalier, self-entitled nobles he attended Eton with all those years ago and whom he had dealt with for years while working in his family’s bank.
Montgomery gave Mountbatten an annoyed look, and the tapping on the glass ceased.
“Well?”
Mountbatten grinned mischievously, leaned forward in his chair and in a conspiratorial tone began, “Our American cousins want a timeline for when we will invade the continent.”
“We aren’t ready,” General Montgomery said simply, providing no further explanation.
“Indeed, that is what Winston told Franklin,” Mountbatten said matter-of-factly. “I assume you all are familiar with Operation Sledgehammer?”
“The draft plan to invade the continent?” Hambro asked. “It’s a template. It’ll take months of planning to finish, and we don’t have the manpower to execute it.”
Mountbatten gave an icy glare, not used to being interrupted or dismissed. “Gentlemen, like you, I am aware of the plan’s shortfalls, and you’ll be happy to hear that the other day I was at a meeting where that plan was scrapped in favor of an American-led invasion plan for next year.”
“I suspect even by 1943 we won’t be able to invade either.”
“Well, we can cross that bridge when we get to it,” Mountbatten said with an arrogant smile as he sat back in his chair, crossed his legs again, and smiled in delighted anticipation of what he was about to say. “In the meantime, my chaps in Combined Operations headquarters may have a solution to scoring a few points on the Continent.”
“Well, don’t keep us waiting, Dickie, I haven’t got all day,” Montgomery growled in impatience.
“Of course,” Mountbatten said, annoyance at being interrupted breaking through his amicable facade. “The Russians risk brokering a peace treaty with the Nazis if we don’t start attacking the mainland. We need to begin opening this war on a second front and Combined Operations is going to do it.”
“How?”
“We are going to raid Normandy.”
“What?”
“Dieppe to be precise.”
“Not with my men.”
Mountbatten looked at the general in surprise. “What do you mean, Monty? Southern Command’s support is vital to pulling this off.”
“They aren’t ready,” Montgomery said simply. “The Canadians aren’t fighting fit, and I have concerns about our own troops.”
“This is our first chance of bloodying Jerry’s nose on the Continent and you immediately say no?” Leigh-Mallory fumed. He had been silent the entire time, listening to his co-conspirator lay out the plot. Montgomery’s refusal clearly was not part of the plan.
“Trafford, your Big Wings may not take as long as I do to form my forces, but when I strike, I ensure it is swift and vicious. With my forces in their present state, I cannot do so.”
“Monty, Winston wants this.”
“Well, if Prime Minister Churchill wants Southern Command to support a raid he need only tell the Joint Chief of the Army and I will do so.” Montgomery looked at Hambro as he said, “If that will be all, I really must get going. Mr. Hambro, may I offer you a lift?”
Hambro, realizing this was his chance to escape, stood up. “Thank you, General, that would be much appreciated.”
&nbs
p; “Trafford, Dickie, if there is anything Southern Command can do to help, please let me know. We will support training any way we can.”
“Yes,” Mountbatten said softly, his voice betraying nothing. “A pleasure, Monty. Be seeing you.” His icy blue eyes penetrated Hambro and Montgomery as they quickly departed the study.
“Bloody fools,” Montgomery muttered when they were outside Boodles. “Who drinks in a meeting? No discipline.” He shook his head in disgust and spun around and shoved a finger in Hambro’s chest. “He has no business running Combined Operations. None.” He turned and continued walking. “The man has held command on three separate occasions while in the Navy. On three separate occasions his ships were sunk. He has no clue how to win a battle.”
“What will you do if he goes to Churchill to order your assistance?”
“I suppose I’ll have to make my own plan.” Montgomery mused, as his lorry pulled up to the curb and they clambered in.
“I thought you wanted nothing to do with this?”
Montgomery sighed, his fingers plucked at his mustache as he weighed his answer. “I won’t deny the idea of raiding Normandy has merit, but the idea of Mountbatten planning and orchestrating it leaves me anxious about risking my men’s lives for some half-cocked plan. The only person I trust to do this right is myself.”
“Perhaps SOE could be of some assistance?” Hambro offered, as the lorry shot off down the street.
Montgomery shot Hambro a suspicious look. “Why would SOE offer to help?”
Hambro took his horn-rimmed glasses off, ran a cloth over them and readjusted them on his nose. “I don’t trust Mountbatten. I’ve lost enough spies to the Gestapo. I’d like to avoid losing more. One way or another, SOE will have to assist with this raid. If I can pick who plans it I’d pick you.”
Montgomery smirked. “Your faith in me is flattering. What can you get me?”
“No promises, but I’ll see what I can build. When would you try to conduct the raid?”
“Spring would be best.”
“Christ, that’s ambitious. I’ll see what I can do. Where are you looking?”
Montgomery shrugged. “Dieppe, I suppose. Dickie may not be a tactical genius, but I’m sure his staff is. They picked Dieppe for a reason. Let’s see what reconnaissance we can gather.”
Hambro stayed silent, his mind whirring as he started to think through how he would get a man to Dieppe. “I’ll start looking at viable landing sites. If your man can drop me off here.” He pointed up at the corner of the upcoming intersection. The lorry slowed and pulled up next to the curb.
“I’ll see what I can find for you and will let you know in two weeks.”
“Thank you, Charles. Have a good evening.”
“You as well, General.” Hambro closed the door to the car and took off down the street. He strolled past the Thames as the sun started to set, casting a shimmer along the water. Hambro absently watched as a riverboat slowly glided up the gray river. He decided to duck into a nearby pub. Dieppe, he thought. After Dunkirk and the Blitz he wanted just as much as anyone else to hit the Nazis on their own turf, but was it worth the risk? Mountbatten was a paper tiger as was Leigh-Mallory. For all their bluster, Hambro doubted they had the objectivity needed for such a high-risk operation. But what about Montgomery? Hambro thought, as he sat down at the bar. He was aggressive, orderly, and disciplined, but did Hambro just align himself with a similar cat with just a different coat? Time will tell.
“Bartender! A brown ale please.”
In the meantime it made sense for him to send someone into Normandy to nose around. Worst case, he could recall the agent if things didn’t pan out. But whomever he sent into Normandy needed to be smart, experienced, and reliable most of all. Hambro sipped his ale and smirked. He had someone in mind.
CHAPTER 3
JEKYLL & HYDE
London, England
Arthur Cutter grimaced; the beer was flat. He beckoned to the bartender to come over and placed the beer in front of him.
“There a problem?”
“My beer is flat. I’d like a new one.”
The bartender gave him a hard look. “Are you even old enough to drink?”
“My good man, I’ll have you know that beneath this Celtic collegiate exterior is the heart and soul of a connoisseur of fine spirits.”
“What’s a connoisseur?”
“It’s French for professional drinker. I learned it at Oxford,” Cutter said solemnly.
The bartender scratched his beefy neck and shrugged. “Ehh, sounds like a tosspot of an education.” He poured Cutter another glass and handed it to him.
“You most likely are correct.” Cutter took a sip of the beer and nodded his head in satisfaction.
“Oi, why aren’t you in uniform?” asked a patron at the other end of the bar.
“Too small, War Office was afraid that if the Germans took one look at my small freckled face we’d lose the war.”
The bartender snorted in amusement. “They aren’t wrong. If Jerry thought we all looked like you, we’d have already lost the war.”
“Steady on, my good man, no need to kick me when I’m down!”
“You oughta be in uniform!” The bar patron declared, not satisfied with Cutter’s excuse.
“My dear fellow, I wish I could be, but the War Office said no.”
The patron’s eyes narrowed and he pointed a bony finger at Cutter. “I want to see your papers. You could be a deserter.”
Cutter set his beer down and looked at the patron. As if on command, his eyes changed from a pale friendly blue to a glazed icy gray. When he spoke, his voice was hard. “Sir, I really think you should let this line of questions lie.”
The bartender shifted uneasily behind the bar and looked at the patron. The patron held his gaze for a moment longer but blinked under Cutter’s unyielding glare. The patron mumbled an apology and sheepishly moved further down the bar.
Cutter nodded and turned back to the bartender, his eyes friendly and jocular again. “Happens all the time,” he explained and took another sip of his beer.
The bartender grunted, “I think Jerry would have second thoughts facing you.” A phone rang from behind the bar and the bartender went to answer it.
Cutter took a heavy draft from his glass, the memory of Victor saying something similar washing over him like an unwelcome rain.
“Damn.” After three weeks he still hadn’t told anyone about Victor. The guilt was nearly unbearable. He had conducted numerous missions behind enemy lines over the past two years, and this was the first time he had ever killed someone with his own hands. The fact that he had been forced to kill a contact and friend had only made the pain of his actions worse.
It was him or me. Cutter took another sip from his beer and tried to control the swirling emotions that were ricocheting around in his head. As he did so, he watched as the bartender set the phone down and looked at him. Cutter had a hunch that SOE was on the phone.
“You Arch?”
“Depends who’s asking?”
“Your uncle, he wants to talk to you.”
Cutter bobbed his head and walked over to the other side of the bar and reached for the phone. “Uncle?”
“Christ, where the hell have you been? I’ve called every single bar within four blocks of your flat.” Cutter recognized the voice on the other end as his control officer, Frederick Atkinson.
“Calm down, no need to be such a mother hen.”
“Control wants to see you in the morning.”
“What about?”
“Can’t say, this channel isn’t secure. Be at HQ by 8:00 a.m.”
Cutter nodded absently. “I shall be there. Care to join me for a pint?”
“Afraid I can’t; I have an early dinner with Lucy this evening.”
“Your loss, old boy. I’ll see you
in the morrow.” Cutter hung up and walked back over to the bar and sat back down.
The bartender eyed him in mild curiosity. “Everything alright?”
“Who knows? There is a war on after all.” Cutter picked up his pint and finished it.
“Care for another? The environment just got a bit prettier.” The bartender inclined his head towards a gaggle of girls who had sat down in the corner while Cutter was on the phone.
Cutter looked over at them. They were his age he thought, and by the looks of them had gone to university, maybe even classmates of his at Oxford. He debated introducing himself but thought better of it. “You can just close me out. Women prefer a bloke in uniform, not some git in tweed.”
Cutter walked out of the bar and meandered back to his flat. The next morning he woke up early and left for Baker Street before sunrise. Cutter liked walking the streets at this hour. The pale glow of the sun as it burned through the early morning fog gave London an ethereal feel, and for a moment it made Cutter forget that there was a war on. He ambled down the street in no rush, taking his time and grabbing a copy of the Daily Mirror along the way to see the latest news. As he perused the paper a cartoon stood out to him: a man clinging to a piece of debris in the ocean, holding on for dear life. The caption below read: THE PRICE OF PETROL HAS BEEN INCREASED BY ONE PENNY—OFFICIAL.
Cutter chuckled at the cartoon and stuck the paper under his arm, saving it for later. The thought of antagonizing Freddy with unpatriotic propaganda delighted him. He turned down Baker Street and surveyed the road. The street was empty save for three men dressed in street clothes and overcoats and a fourth on the roof of 64 Baker Street, the SOE headquarters. Cutter strolled down the street, paying the four heavily armed guards no mind.
“Morning, Jimmy,” Cutter said as he passed one of the guards.
“Arch. Haven’t seen you in a minute.”
“You kill anybody this week?”