In Secret Service

by Mitch Silver

  Chapter 20

  PROVENANCE

  Looking back, that moment in late February 1935 when Lancy Smith ushered me across the threshold of Mottisfont Abbey, lately transformed into a rustic country home, was the moment Alice climbed through the looking glass. Only, I was Alice. Famous faces I had seen in the newspapers or the newsreels were smiling at me, talking with me. Bankers, journalists, ministers (both church and government), and assorted personages confided important (and, I would have thought, confidential) things. All to further my education in Wonderland.

  There was a magnificent Gothic saloon painted from top to bottom by Rex Whistler in the trompe l’oeil manner to suggest trophies on the walls, Roman urns, and a coat of arms bearing the motto Che sarà, sarà. On a long refectory table was a paperboard box that read, “World’s Largest Jigsaw Puzzle. 10,000 Pieces.” The box bore a picture of the Coronation of King George V, taken from the official photograph of the event and then handcoloured. Puzzle pieces nearly covered the mahogany. Every little while over the next two days, ad hoc groups of weekend guests, either going out or coming back from shooting, would congregate around the table, working on the puzzle as well as international politics. I was expected to sit there and absorb—neither of which are favourite activities of mine.

  Saturday night’s entertainment, after the roast squab had been reduced to bones, was to be provided by an after-dinner speaker the Lancy Smiths had laid on. A backbencher in Parliament, considered a has-been by most of the country and almost all of his own party, his was an entrance Barrymore would have envied.

  “Young Mr. Fleming! Have you a light?” Winston Churchill produced an Upmann Presidente from within his absurd black cape and spent his first few moments lighting the thing. He was even rounder and pinker than I had remembered. Someone put a glass of the Cockburn ’24 in his hand, and he imbibed. Then he ceremoniously seated himself in the wing chair positioned comfortably near the fire. Only then did he say, without looking up, “The story up till now?”

  Robert Vansittart said, “We’ve been waiting for you, Winston.”

  My godfather fixed me with a look that was all bulldog at the mouth and twinkle in the eye. He was enjoying himself immensely. “Ian, we’ve asked you to come by to see if you will do us another little service. Am I right in thinking you’ve made the acquaintance of Mrs. Simpson?”

  The penny dropped. “Yes, sir, I have. Skiing in Kitzbühel.”

  He seemed amused. “I’ve heard it called many things, but never skiing in Kitzbühel.”

  So I was there to be a laughingstock. I must have been good at it: the laughing went on for a while. The amused to my left included the severe-looking Geoffrey Dawson, editor of the Times; Canon Alan Don of Westminster, believed to speak for the Archbishop of Canterbury; and Alan Lascelles, formerly the Prince’s private secretary. Over on the right by the mantle was Conrad O’Brien-etcetera; the banker Sir Edward; a tall American I had met that morning, George Messersmith; and an older man wearing a Royal Flying Corps pin in his lapel. Several others were seated behind me, wandering in and out to refill their glasses or relight their cigars.

  “My boy,” Winston finally resumed, “our friends who have been good enough to join us tonight agree on very little politically. That our form of government is a salubrious one, certainly. That the Empire must be preserved, absolutely.” Everything he says always sounds like it’s meant to go down in history or else is a direct quote from the Oracle of Delphi. “And moreover, that I would have no standing here—as in fact I have none in the country—were I not entrusted with the moral guidance of Valentine Fleming’s son…positively.”

  There were demurrals of “No, Winston” and “Bosh!” He ignored them. The moment of humility, if that’s what it was, had passed. “In everything else, we are as chalk and cheese. So when I tell you we are of one mind tonight, you will understand the importance of the thing. And when I tell you no one else in the Government is with us on this, you will understand its secrecy.”

  I literally gulped.

  “We are faced tonight with two threats that will only grow more vexing with time. Beyond our borders, Mr. Hitler means to undo the peace of 1919 and—”

  “Winston, really.” It was Edward Peacock. “We agreed not to go into that.”

  “All right, then. Some of us here, namely me, believe Mr. Hitler means to extend Germany from the Black Sea to the Atlantic. Others of us have not yet read Mein Kampf. But we all agree the French are paralyzed, and the decision has been taken that we ourselves can do nothing until we rearm. Or at least, think of rearming. But that is partly an economic problem, and it need not concern us tonight.

  “Within our borders, though, the threat is constitutional. And more immediate. We have it on good authority—good medical authority—that the King may not last the year. And the future king—well, we believe he intends to take a personal hand in running the country. Or more exactly, he seeks to lay both hands upon it and give it to Messrs. Mussolini and Hitler.

  “So, Ian, here’s what we propose to do. You will sit there and our friends will produce the evidence that convinces us the coronation of the present Prince of Wales must never be allowed to occur.”

  Amy flipped ahead through the rest of the papers she was holding. There was a lot left to go, at least a hundred pages. One old document even looked like someone’s dental records. Where was all this going? And what did it have to do with her?

  And then the faintest of smiles crossed her lips. Ian Fleming was one unbelievably lucky man. His indictment, or whatever this was, had found its way across time and geography into the hands of a woman who had willingly, happily, counted the 180 delicate tracings that made up a 1,300-year-old Celtic letter W. A woman who could tell the difference between old ink and original ink. You got a tricky, involved case to make, Mr. Fleming? Bring it on.

  Chapter 21

  PROVENANCE

  The man with the lapel pin got up and stood next to Churchill. I found out later that Squadron Leader Frederick W. Winterbotham was head of Air Intelligence for what is now called MI6. A decorated pilot in the Great War, Winterbotham’s pin showed that he was a member of the Brotherhood of the Air. After the war, while the foot soldiers of each country formed themselves into the British Legion, the German Legion, the American Legion, and so on, the various flying aces whose sorties had known no national boundaries created an international fraternity of their own.

  Through his opposite number in Germany, Freddy Winterbotham had been granted a private interview with Herr Hitler just a fortnight before. Now he withdrew a small black notebook from his breast pocket. “I asked the Chancellor, in several different ways, to describe for me his vision of the future of Europe. He said, ‘There should be only three major powers in the world: the British Empire, the Americas, and the German Empire of the future, which will include the rest of Europe and the lands to the east. England, with one or two exceptions, will continue her role in Africa and India while Germany will take Russia. And together we can decide the policy for China and the Far East.’ ”

  Winterbotham paused for effect before looking back at his pad. “And I quote, ‘All we ask is that Britain should be content to look after her Empire and not to interfere with Germany’s plans for expansion. I place great faith in your next generation of leaders.’ ”

  Then he put his notebook away and looked right at me. “The Chancellor showed me a letter from the Prince of Wales, written less than a month ago. ‘If the Great War has shown us anything, it is that the Hun peoples of England and Germany must never again be divided by national differences.’ ”

  “Thank you, Freddy. George.” Sir Thomas Beecham never conducted at Covent Garden any more imperiously than did Winston now. “George” was the lanky Texan, George Messersmith, Roosevelt’s Ambassador to Austria and later his Coordinator of Intelligence. Earlier that afternoon I’d been terribly impressed when he completed the entire area of the puzzle around George V and the throne in about twenty minutes. It
seemed he had a talent for taking bits of information and making connections.

  He walked over to Winston and stood in the precise spot where Winterbotham had been. The prosecution was well rehearsed. “Mr. Fleming, two days after your, um, encounter with Mrs. Simpson in Kitzbühel, I happened to attend a dinner party in Vienna at the Brazilian Embassy. The Prince and Mrs. Simpson were the guests of honor. Coffee had just been served when we had an unexpected visitor, the secretary to Chancellor von Schussnigg. He handed me a message stating that a train bound for Italy from Germany had derailed in Austrian territory. Rescue workers had just discovered hundreds of German naval shells meant for Mussolini’s fleet in the southern Mediterranean. Naturally, proof that Hitler is helping rearm Il Duce is of great interest not only to the Austrians and Americans but to Great Britain as well.

  “When I returned to the table, Prince Edward pressed me pointedly as to why von Schussnigg had sent his man round. As it happens, a few people in your country and mine had been looking for an opportunity of just this sort.”

  “An opportunity?”

  “For some time, we’ve been having trouble with leaks. Secrets that have turned up in other hands. So I told the Prince about the naval shells, swearing him to secrecy. Later, over brandy, I noticed him speaking with the number three man in the Italian Embassy, who immediately left the dinner party. The next day, my military attaché gave me this.”

  He took a paper from his breast pocket and unfolded it before laying it in front of me. It was a decoded transcript of a message sent the night before by the Italian Ambassador, Preziosi, to his Foreign Office in Rome. It quoted the Prince as saying, “The cat is out of the bag as far as the naval shells are concerned.”

  I found it quite unbelievable. My future King in league with Fascists and Nazis? Had I not seen the message with my own eyes…

  Messersmith took the paper back, refolded it, and put it away. From the same breast pocket he withdrew a sealed envelope. It was addressed “To Mr. Ian Fleming, to be delivered by hand.” The assembled guests watched me open the letter. All except Winston, who rose and walked over to the window, puffing loudly on his cigar.

  I looked first at the signature: “F. D. Roosevelt.” The letter read, “My dear Mr. Fleming, The former naval person informs me you are a young man of trustworthy character. He has asked me to commit to paper, for your eyes only, my personal backing for your upcoming endeavor. And to assure you that you have friends on this side of the Atlantic who are prepared to assist you and your godfather in any way possible. Regards, F. D. Roosevelt.”

  I looked up from the letter. “What endeavour?” Instead of answering, Messersmith simply walked over and took the letter from me. Without a word, he dropped it in the fire.

  “A wholly honourable one.” Winston took another cigar from his pocket and offered it to me. They were such favourites of his, the company renamed them Sir Winstons after his knighthood. I declined. He gave me a you-don’t-know-what-you’re-missing look and put it away again.

  All this stage business was too much for O’Brien-ffrench. “We want you to continue your acquaintanceship with Mrs. Simpson.”

  I was trying to make sense of the thing when Canon Don spoke up from my left. “Mr. Fleming, do you know the origin of the word acquaint?”

  Before I could answer, Geoffrey Dawson of the Times put in, “Is this one of your Latin brainteasers, Canon?”

  The clergyman seemed a little put out. “It’s Old English, actually.”

  They didn’t do much Old English in the little time I spent at Sandhurst. Winston rescued me. “Then, my boy, you shall have the pleasure of looking it up. But I’ll give you a clue: it’s part of a woman’s body.”

  There were snickers from the educated regions of the room. What the hell had I gotten myself into? Initiation night at the Oxbridge Old Boys’ Club?

  Winston leaned forward and pulled on my elbow, making me look him in the eyes. “The thing is this: most people believe that in Wales’ solar system, he is the Sun and Mrs. Simpson is, let us say, an asteroid, caught in his gravitational field and destined to burn up to cinders when she gets too close. We know it to be precisely otherwise. The Prince is in her thrall and will gladly go round and round to receive a flicker of illumination from her. We need someone to be to her what she is to Edward. Someone whose magnetic force can bring her round to us.”

  I don’t think my eyes could get any wider. “And that’s me?”

  “I.” Canon Don was the kind of teacher who made grammar a living hell.

  “But sir—sirs—I just met the woman the one time. What makes you think—”

  Winston was not to be dissuaded. “She is what Clemmie would call a man-eater. And Ian, you’re the biggest hunk of meat we could come by.”

  Finally, the dawn. “You’re asking me to be a…a gigolo?”

  Winston clapped his hands together. “You see, gentlemen, I told you he was sharp!” And then back to me. “You’ve caught the spirit of the thing exactly.”

  “S’il vous plaît, Winston, proffer to him the rapier.” Claude Dansey’s right-hand man, Stephane Lefevre, was the only Frenchman in the room. I would work with Claude and his people years later during the war. In 1935, he ran something called the Z Organisation, recruiting anti-Fascist businessmen to keep their eyes and ears open for Winston.

  “I don’t know if I’d call it a rapier, Stephane. Ammunition, rather. Ian, when President Roosevelt referred to friends who were ready to assist you…well, some of them are, shall we say, well-placed at the Western Union company. They have been good enough to keep an eye out for any correspondence coming from or going to Mrs. Simpson. I happen to have one such to hand…” Here he rummaged around in his pockets before extracting the case for his reading glasses. A telegram was neatly folded inside.

  “As you can see, Mrs. Simpson sent it a week ago to her aunt, a Mrs. Bessie Merryman.” He handed it over to me. I read it. “Auntie, I’ve been laughing so hard on the inside I just had to share it with someone. The P of W is absolutely bonkers for me. He follows me around like a puppy dog. Were I in love, it would be magical, instead of merely comical. He’s invited you over to cruise with us…NEXT WEEK! I need your reply urgently. Say yes…it’s such a big boat. W.”

  “They’re on that cruise now.” Robert Bruce Lockhart got up and Messersmith sat down in the perfect synchronicity of one of those German town clocks with the moving figures. “They embarked from Trieste yesterday, bound for the Greek Islands and Istanbul. The Prince gave the Fascist salute to the crowd as the boat pulled away.”

  “So, Ian.” Here it comes, Winston the salesman asking for the order. “We want you to meet the royal party on the island of Rhodes. Bruce and Conrad have prepared a little narrative for you—”

  Lockhart appeared to be the logistics officer of the enterprise. “We’ll go over it together later. You’re an English businessman on holiday, whose transportation has been commandeered by the Caliph of—”

  “You did say later, Bruce, did you not?” Winston can be so bossy. “All we need, Ian, is the nod from you. You must insinuate yourself into Mrs. Simpson’s affections and await further instructions. Will you do it…for England?”

  What did they say to the virgin on her wedding night? “But my job at the bank—”

  Lancy Smith put a hand on my shoulder. “For the time being, this is your job. We’ve passed the hat to cover any extra expenses.”

  “Well then, gentlemen—” My actual acceptance was drowned out by the hear, hears and a raggedly heartfelt chorus of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” All in all, I was being sent off to consort with a married woman like a battleship being christened. They even had the champagne.

  Chapter 22

  The pages in her hand were shaking so much, Amy thought they’d hit a pocket of turbulence. And then she realized, she was the turbulence.

  She had a bad case of the shakes. They’d been coming on for a while. Whatever the big secret was—and whoever wanted it kept
a secret—what chance did one 120-pound assistant professor of art history have? A thinker of thoughts. An observer of things. She was no heroine. She’d never had to take any real action in her whole life. Look at Katie, holed up halfway around the world on Ayres Rock for weeks at a time and loving it. Amy had always stayed on the sidelines, following the path of least resistance—living in the same place where she grew up; doing the same thing her grandfather did. No, that wasn’t quite true. Chief had been in the war. Chief had become “Chief” in the war, thanks to the men in his unit. He’d carried a gun. He’d shot people, or at least he’d shot at them.

  Amy hadn’t felt this alone since the day he’d died. Mima and Chief had always been, well, there for her. After Mima died, he became her whole family. Now he was gone and Scott was thousands of miles away and she was on her own. If it were a battle of wits, that would be one thing, but—

  Amy looked up. She could see that two flight attendants were working a food trolley down the aisle, about eight rows away. Behind them, momentarily blocked, appeared the hulking form of Harvey Kaltenbrunner.

  He was methodically scanning the rows of passengers left and right. And then his eyes locked onto hers. All of a sudden, sitting in the back of the plane seemed like a really stupid idea. She could see him coming, all right. But she was trapped back here in row 39. Once the trolley rolled to the next row, there was an empty aisle seat where he’d be able to get by.

  All Amy could think of was to pull the call button over her seat. A pinging sound started and a light went on. The two attendants stopped serving and turned toward the sound. But before Amy could say anything, Kaltenbrunner used the moment to step on the arm of a seat and jump around the trolley and its two attendants.

  The woman working on Amy’s side of the cart was holding a plate of chicken. “We’ll be right there, miss.”