“Okay, we can handle that in a bit,” Jamison said. He nodded at the doors. “Let’s get out of this rain, go see how close we are to getting your show on the road.”
Lieutenant Colonel Ed Stevens, First Lieutenant Robert Jamison, First Lieutenant Charity Hoche, Major David Niven, Commander Ian Fleming, and Lieutenant Commander Ewen Montagu had spent most of the morning pulling together the last of the pieces of the puzzle that had become known as Major William Martin, Royal Marines.
The six-foot-six metal container containing the major’s frozen body had been brought out of the cellar and up to the well-lit workshop near the rear service entrance. Still closed, the container rested on the stone floor, next to a wooden worktable.
On the table was a somewhat-scuffed, nearly new British-government-issue courier’s briefcase. It had a metal handle, a special metal hoop for the secure attachment of a handcuff, and two heavy metal combination locks. The locks were open, the lid raised. Next to the briefcase was a six-foot length of stainless steel cable with small loops at either end. And, next to that, the pair of handcuffs.
Ewen Montagu, his back leaning against the wooden worktable, held various papers in his left hand. In his right there was a single sheet, which he was admiring.
Ed Stevens stood next to the opened briefcase, watching Montagu.
“This is very well done,” Montagu said, moving the paper back and forth as he held it to the light. “Nice patina and well-worn creases. Excellent forgery.”
“The guys who do our documents are the best,” Jamison said.
Stevens put in, “Just don’t ask where we get the talent.”
“Where?” Montagu said.
“I told you not to ask,” Stevens said, smiling.
“Prison,” Niven said. “I heard they’re felons serving time for the outrage against the government of having printed their own spending money and you pulled them out for your own, devious purposes.”
“Our own, devious purposes,” Stevens said evenly, still smiling.
“Personally, I find it a brilliant use of talent that otherwise would be wasted,” Niven said and looked at Fleming. “Much like Ian’s contributions with Major Martin here.”
There were chuckles.
“I am ignoring you, Niven,” Fleming said drily.
Montagu took another sheet and began examining it. This one was a jeweler’s invoice—marked UNPAID—to Major Martin, for a single-diamond engagement ring.
“Well done,” he said, then looked at another sheet, adding: “I think we were wise to go this route with Martin’s ID.”
Niven reached out, asking to see it.
Montagu passed it to him and said, “Ian and I made the executive decision that at this point it’d have been a genuine pain in the posterior to come up with a permanent Combined Operations HQ identification card. For starters, it would have been difficult making it look appropriately aged.”
He produced his own ID, which was well worn, its plastic edges beginning to separate and its face cloudy with scratches.
“And so we chose to use a temporary replacement ID,” he added.
“Besides,” Fleming added, “being the forgetful type, it would be within reason that our dear major could have lost the permanent ID.”
“Looks quite official,” Niven said, then suddenly added: “Dear God! They put the bloody date on this as March thirty-first!”
Montagu smiled. “Precisely.”
“It means he didn’t renew,” Niven pressed.
“Give the major a break,” Fleming said, grinning. “He’s in love!”
“But the ID is expired!” Niven said, looking at them as if they had gone mad.
“Precisely,” Montagu repeated. “Poor chap is absentminded.”
After a long moment, there was a slow look of understanding on Niven’s face. He sighed.
“Of course,” he then said. “Well done.”
Charity Hoche pointed to the table. Martin’s dog tags—what the Brits called “identity discs on braces”—were next to some jewelry.
“The Saint Christopher and the silver crucifix there,” she said. “They’re nice touches. Any reason why both?”
Montagu nodded. “I believe both really quote makes unquote Martin a Roman Catholic. And with those Spaniards being the devout believers they are, the fact that Martin is anointed could very well be what keeps them from performing an autopsy. Why abuse the sacred holy body of the deceased when it’s clear the poor chap simply drowned?”
Charity nodded.
“And the snapshot of the lovely ‘Pam,’” Jamison said. “Where did it come from?”
“The Duchess,” Charity said. “It’s some third cousin of Liz, twice or thrice removed. She offered it.”
Montagu began putting the items in the briefcase.
There was a blank sheet of bond on the table next to the briefcase, and as every item was added to Major Martin, Montagu added it to an itemized inventory list.
When he finished, he had written:
* * *
MOST SECRET
NOT FOR DUPLICATION
PERSONAL EFFECTS OF:
MARTIN, WILLIAM, MAJOR, ROYAL MARINES
1. Identity discs (2) “Major W. MARTIN, R.M., R/C” attached to braces
2. Silver cross on silver chain around neck
3. Watch, wrist
4. Briefcase, containing:a. Photograph of fiancée
b. Letters from fiancée (2)
c. Letter top, torn
d. Letter from Father
e. Letter from Father to McKenna & Co.
f. Letter from McKenna & Co.
g. Letter from Lloyds Bank.
h. Bill from Naval and Military Club, receipted
i. Bill from engagement ring
j. Book of stamps (2 used)
k. St. Christopher plaque
l. Invitation to Cabaret Club
m. C.C.O. pass
n. Admiralty ID card
o. Key ring with keys (3) to flat
p.£5 note (#227C45827)
q.£1 notes (#X34D527008, #W21D029293, #X66D443119)
r. 1 half-crown, 2 shillings, 2 sixpences
* * *
“And,” Montagu said, looking up, “as he will have everything of value in the secure briefcase—which, of course, will be attached bodily to him by way of the cable and cuffs—it would be logical to include some cash.”
There was an awkward silence, then Fleming said lightly, “You’re the movie star, Niven. Out with it!”
Niven glared at him, then said, “Very well. But as I am an unemployed actor, I expect to be reimbursed.”
He dug into his pant pocket and came out with some British currency: paper bills folded inside a monogrammed silver money clip and an assortment of coins.
“As he will be traveling on the government’s shilling,” Niven said reasonably, removing the clip from the notes, “he won’t have need for a great deal of cash.”
He peeled off three bills and handed them to Montagu with the coins. Then he returned the clip on the folded bills that remained in his hand and put that back in his pant pocket.
Montagu took the money to the sheet, and wrote at the bottom:
“What else can we add?” Montagu then said. “Anything?”
Stevens felt compelled to look in his wallet, and removed it from the inside pocket of his coat.
“All I have are these four tickets to the Prince of Wales Theatre,” he said, holding them fanned out.
“For which date?” Montagu asked.
“April fifteenth.”
Montagu thought that over.
“That would work,” he said. “Martin would still be in London and could very well have taken Pam.”
As Stevens considered that possibility, it was clear by his expression that he was not too keen on contributing what were perfectly good, not to mention rather expensive, tickets.
“What the hell,” Stevens said finally, and, as he handed the tickets to Montagu, added no
bly: “Such are one’s sacrifices for a higher cause.”
Montagu looked closely at the tickets and saw that they were numbered seats: AA22, AA23, AA24, AA25.
He took the tickets for seats 23 and 24 and tore them in half. He put the stubs he tore off in the briefcase and returned the rest to Stevens.
Everyone had a curious look.
“I suspect if you were to take all that to the theater manager and, with your creative mind, convince him that the tickets were torn in error, the manager would honor the stubs.”
Stevens nodded and smiled. “After all, no one else will be using the seats.”
“Precisely,” Montau said. “And our German friends, should they go so far as to somehow try and confirm the tickets were used, and are successful, will learn that indeed someone sat in those seats on that night.” He paused. “But I really doubt they could be that thorough. The stubs themselves will say plenty.”
Niven removed a pack of Cambridge cigarettes from his shirt pocket. As he took out a cigarette and lit it, he noticed he was being watched by Montagu and Fleming, who then exchanged knowing glances.
“What?” Niven said. “I put in the bloody money!”
Fleming made a Let’s have it gesture with his hand.
“This I must say,” Niven went on dramatically, “is a supreme sacrifice on my part.” He began to hand over the pack, then said: “Wait!”
He took back the pack and shook out most of its cigarettes. Then he carefully crumpled the packaging over those that were left.
“Who’s to say he had a nearly full pack?” Niven argued. “Probably burned through the new pack, what with being nervous about stepping off the abyss called marriage. A couple smokes is all he needs.”
Fleming took the pack and said, “Matches, too, please.”
Niven raised an eyebrow but handed them over also.
Fleming tossed both cigarettes and matches in the briefcase and Montagu added them to the inventory list.
“Let it not be said that I did not contribute to this worthy endeavor,” Fleming said.
He dug into a pocket and pulled out a short pencil—a very short pencil—and tossed it in the briefcase.
“What in hell is that?” Niven said, indignant.
“Every man must have something to write with,” Fleming said, “and so that is my contribution.”
He smiled smugly.
“And that, Fair Lady and Gentlemen,” Montagu said, grinning, “should suffice.” He paused, and added: “Should more than suffice.”
“There is one thing that’s missing,” Charity spoke up.
Everyone looked at her.
“And what might that be?” Montagu said.
“Something religious,” she said softly. “A passage from scripture. Something. The man is about to be married—and maybe killed on a highly secret mission.”
“Yes,” Montagu said agreeably. “Very good.”
“Do you have anything particular in mind?” Niven said. “Maybe the Twenty-third Psalm: ‘…Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…’”
“Maybe,” Charity said. “But not quite what I had in mind. What I’m thinking of is more along the lines of”—she paused—“I need to get a Bible and look.”
Fleming said, “I have one in my room, a King James Version. I can go get it.”
“Thank you,” Charity said, “but I’ve got one in my room, too. I can use it.”
Charity then saw First Lieutenant Bob Jamison reach into his pocket. He pulled out a three-by-five-inch book bound in blue leather that was well worn, its page edges gilded. He held it out to her.
“You’re welcome to this,” Jamison said, “if it’s anything you’re looking for.”
Charity took the book and recognized it without having to read what was embossed in gold lettering on the binding: THE BOOK OF COMMON PRAYER, 1928. On the cover was a simple cross formed from two thin gold lines, and, under that, in block lettering across the bottom: ROBERT JAMISON.
Charity knew that when she opened it, she would find an inscription on one of the first few pages. It would congratulate Jamison on his having successfully completed his church’s confirmation class and received the sacrament that officially made him a full member of the church. The page most likely would be signed by Jamison’s mother and father—and, quite possibly, also by his godparents and his grandparents.
Charity had a very similar copy, one with her name embossed in gold on the cover. It had been presented to MISS CHARITY HOCHE when she was fourteen and had completed her confirmation at St. Edmund’s Episcopal Church near Philly. The bishop who had performed the Order of Confirmation had also signed her book.
As she began flipping pages, she found what she expected, and her throat muscles involuntarily constricted.
Charity Hoche looked Bob Jamison in the eyes and she fought back the urge to cry.
“Thank you, Bob,” she said, softly, finding her voice. “This is exactly what I was looking for.”
Fleming nodded knowingly. He, too, recognized the book. It was the standard worship for various Anglican and Episcopal churches around the world, as well as the Church of England. The language was virtually identical to that of the Catholic Church.
“I think it would be appropriate to include some reference to the marriage ceremony in his writings,” Charity said. “Maybe even have him with a handwritten passage.”
“That’s credible,” Fleming put in. “If I recall correctly, the section for the marriage ceremony runs only a few pages—half the length of the section for the burial of the dead.” He paused, then added: “You can see which we Anglicans put the most faith in.”
There was light laughter.
“Just a short piece,” Charity said, scanning the pages. “Here. This: ‘I, William, take thee, Pamela, to my wedded Wife, to have and to hold….’”
She looked at Jamison. “It should be in a man’s handwriting.”
He nodded.
When Jamison was finished, and the page added to the briefcase and to the inventory list, Charity reached out for the Book of Common Prayer.
She flipped to a page.
“Before we close, would there be any objection to me reading a short passage?”
“Please do,” Montagu said.
She looked to the pages, flipped quickly, then said, “This is from the Order for the Burial of the Dead.” She read:
“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.
“Amen,” Charity then said, and all repeated it almost in unison.
Charity sniffed, then heard David Niven struggle to clear his throat.
When she looked at him, and then at the others, she saw there wasn’t a dry eye in the room.
Jamison returned to the workshop with Ustinov just as the two Motor Transport Corps men were about to lower the top shell of the case over the bottom shell that contained Major Martin.
Ustinov noticed that everyone in the room appeared somber. Charity’s eyes were red, as though she had been crying or was on the verge of crying, and he wondered what might have triggered that.
He looked at the major in the case, resplendent in his Royal Marines uniform. The briefcase was in the case with him. The stainless steel cable had been looped around his waist, then handcuffed to the briefcase.
“And there you have it,” Ustinov said, trying to lighten the mood. “The ultimate double agent.”
“How do you figure that?” Niven said.
“He’s going to be doubled by the Spaniards,” Ustinov went on, undeterred.
“How the hell do you double a dead man?”
“You don’t! That’s what makes him the perfect one!”
“Oh, good God,” Niven said in disgust.
The others chuckled, and Ustinov’s eyes twinkled in delight.
More dry ice was added to the case. Then the Motor T
ransport Corps men secured the lid. A set of ten nuts and bolts was evenly distributed around the lip of the lid and then tightened using the two socket wrenches tethered to the lid by lengths of stainless steel cable.
Charity followed Jamison, Ustinov, and the Motor Transport Corps men as they carried the case containing Major Martin out to the ambulance. Jamison and Ustinov had begun talking about the logistics of the drive to the submarine and Charity looked at the ground.
Leave it to men to move right to the discussion of automobiles, she thought.
“So,” Jamison was saying, “you’re supposed to arrive at the dock at Greenock on April eighteenth?”
“That’s right,” Ustinov said.
“And that’s up past Glasgow, right?”
Ustinov nodded.
“That’s some trip.”
“Indeed. Eight hundred–plus kilometers. I figure we can cover about three hundred kilometers on one tank of petrol. But we’re being very conservative, allowing for any number of problems that might arise, and hoping to average at most two hundred a day. That gives us a five-, six-day margin of error.”
“Better to be early than late?”
“Your Dr. Ben Franklin said, ‘Never leave that till tomorrow which you can do today.’ That doctorate was given to him by our Oxford University, by the way.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Try as I may, I cannot help but overhear this, Charity thought.
She looked ahead and saw that the rear doors to the ambulance were closed.
Charity quickly worked her way around the men to get to the ambulance. She swung open its doors, and, with some effort, they slid the steel case into the ambulance.
“We get ferried by the HMS Forth the final five kilometers from Greenock to Holy Loch, where the Seraph is berthed, preparing to shove off. It had been in for repairs.”
“Get there soon, maybe the sub can set sail earlier,” Jamison said. “Who knows?”
“Just so long as we don’t run the bloody hell into those Motor Transport bastards in Great Glen again,” the brawny man in the Motor Transport Corps uniform said.
The Double Agents Page 29