by Jan Needle
Still Carrington could think of nothing sensible to say. He was aware of the clattering of shipboard work, the chatter and clang of steam cranes. They had been working night and day since his arrival in Bordeaux.
‘The Broompark sails tomorrow morning,’ said Frank Foley. ‘France will go under in the next few days. I’d ask you to stay with me but we might not survive together. I’ll talk to you in London.’
Carrington was shaken.
‘You’re not coming? Why?’
‘It’s what I’m paid for. Curiosity. To see what’s what. There’s no one left in France, you know. Not at present. We’ll have to build from scratch. A network.’
Carrington picked his words.
‘And is there one in Scandinavia? Is there actually a Swedish connection?’
Foley said nothing for a good few seconds. Then, suddenly, he yawned. He covered his mouth with his hand, and seemed to swell with the oxygen he drew in.
When he had finished, he said ‘Edward, does the name Carruthers mean anything to you? I have another one: Hannele.’ Edward flinched, then reddened. Even after eight months the nerve was there. Foley turned, and dragged the white steel door open.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We have something growing there. We’ll talk again in London. Edward?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘We have hope.’
Twelve
From Desmond Morton’s point of view, Edward struck gold the first time he had a proper conversation with Frank Foley. It happened a month after the Broompark had rolled and wheezed her way out of Bordeaux to face the U-boats and the bombers, and it happened in a Soho pub. Edward’s trouble was that the tell-tales he was looking for, the subtle marks of treachery, were the main – and open – subject of the conversation. If Foley were a traitor, he did not care who knew it, it would seem. He also had a rank contempt for Desmond Morton.
Edward turned up late for their rendezvous, and found Foley standing at the bar with a much younger man who had a long, intelligent face and a quiet manner, whom he introduced as Harold Philby, known as Kim.
‘He’s with the opposition,’ he said, jocularly. ‘Section D. I’m afraid “C” wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole. Cambridge. He’s just off, though.’
Indeed, Philby was at the bottom of a pint of mild. He shook hands with Edward, tapped his pipe out at the bar, nodded, and left. When the door had closed behind him, Foley said, ‘Funny lad. He doesn’t speak a lot because he stutters. Useful. You can understand “C”’s point in a way. There’s a group of them, all intellectuals, all educated to infinity and beyond in poetry and stuff. Look at Harold. Calls himself Kim, I ask you, because he always wanted to be a spy! Bloody Kipling. It’s a dream. I doubt if any of them’s ever seen real blood, except maybe in the Carlton Club. What will you take?’
‘Pale ale, please. They certainly look a different breed, the ones I’ve met. I can’t imagine him being taken for anything other than an Englishman abroad. Why the Carlton Club? Blood? Is that some sort of joke?’
Foley’s eyes darkened, momentarily.
‘No. There’s a cellar there, I’m afraid. Some of these young men ask questions. They don’t actually get abroad a lot, in theory, although they don’t always stick too closely to their brief. Which of us does?’
‘Questions? Do you mean—’
Foley interrupted him.
‘I mean they have a job. Results to get, like everybody else. I’m involved in some of their work, now. Hence the meeting. They’ve pitched me into Section Five.’
‘Am I allowed to ask? Or should I congratulate?’
‘Margaret thinks it’s demotion. You remember Margaret? She thinks we should be abroad, where the real work is. Katherine’s delighted. Wife.’ He paused, drank beer, sighed. ‘On balance, I agree with Margaret, although Section Five’s important. We’re looking for the foreign boys wherever they turn up. Counter-espionage. My feeling is the job should be strengthened in the field, especially Norway and Sweden, which is why I want to talk to you. If there is anything in this Duke of Windsor nonsense, the peace at any price brigade, that’s where it’ll come from, you can count on it.’
Edward almost coughed into his beer. It sounded like an echo of words he had heard before. Foley had a light of humour in his eyes.
‘I thought I’d strike a chord,’ he said. ‘Just what do you know about all this?’
Edward thought fast, achieving little. He swallowed a mouthful of pale ale.
‘Nothing, I suppose. Not really. They never let the right hand know what the left one’s doing, do they? I was asked to keep an eye on some people, is all. People they suspect of being … over-zealous in the search for peace.’
‘Including me,’ said Foley. ‘Which means, in one guess, Desmond Morton. The trouble with this service in a nutshell. Anyone can stick an oar in. It’s a mare’s nest. Anyway, the man’s a fool.’
Despite the calmness of his voice, Edward realized he was angry. The avuncular face was set. So bang went any chance he might have had of hearing things he did not know. In that, though, he was wrong.
‘What infuriates me,’ said Foley, ‘is the cynicism of these people. The assumptions that they make. I’m certain there are people in Germany who want peace. Powerful people. I’m certain that there are people here who feel the same. The question is, is it treachery, or is it sense? The nub of the matter, the heart of it, is what the terms are. Good God, Edward, if you had the power to end this war, wouldn’t you seize it with both hands?’
Impossible question. He did not know. But it did not take him long to sort out what was wrong with it. It was not a question for the likes of him, or even Foley. It was a question for the top, for the Cabinet, for Winston Churchill. Realizing that Foley was studying his face, he flushed. He sipped more beer.
‘I’m sorry, son,’ said Foley. ‘I must sound soft. I’m not. When Hitler offered peace after Norway I agreed with Churchill, it was meaningless. But Hitler is a hated man in Germany, I know that first-hand. There are movements afoot at every hour of every day, there are men and women risking their lives. Every time something stirs, every time someone makes a contact, we should cherish it, examine it, and hope. Not crush it underfoot and talk of treachery. I’m sorry, I’ve put you in an invidious position. If you’re being run by Morton, he’ll want to hear all this. It won’t do any harm, but I’d rather not give him food for thought, because I consider him an idiot and I don’t think he’s capable of interpreting it correctly. The service is in ferment at the moment, the knives are out. I’d rather carry on in my own sweet way, and I’d rather be in Stockholm. Failing that, I’d like to see you there.’
The directness of the man, the quiet honesty of his face and manner, confused Edward more by the moment. He thought the unthinkable, it seemed, and spoke the unspeakable.
‘But why? What have I done that… No, first, aren’t you worried by what Morton might do? That I might report all this to him?’
‘No. There are still wiser men. And more powerful, thank God. Morton’s an irritant, he has many of his master’s vices without the virtues, but I can deal with that. I have friends, too. I was tipped off about you when you came to France, remember? I’ll fare all right. As to the other, I heard about you from the other side as well, didn’t I? Carruthers, a name to conjure with! I heard enough to make me think it worth my while to talk it over. There is an organization, the Norwegians laid the bones of it even before Oslo fell. It’s well-advanced now, based in Stockholm, working into Germany. Hannele, the other name, one of the brave. I’d like to see you there.’
There was a long silence between them. The pub was noisy, but neither of them noticed.
Edward said ‘I’d better not mention it to Morton, then, had I? I’d like to get to Stockholm. But will they let me?’
Foley was lighting a new pipe. He indicated the tobacco pouch on the table with a finger. Edward shook his head. The short man blew the match out.
‘I think they will,’ he said
. ‘I think you ought to tell Morton I’ve taken you into my confidence. Tell him I’ve hinted that there are high Germans trying to make contact, and we need a conduit. If he wants anybody to lead him to the so-called English plotters, it’s the very best possible way to go about it. In the meantime, I’ll talk to “C” and set you up from my end. I won’t mention Morton because he hates his guts. They all hate each other’s guts. It’s a peculiar way to carry on a war, isn’t it? If I didn’t know the Germans were exactly as bad, I’d say it was a very British thing. We’re remarkably similar to the Germans in some ways.’
‘And have you taken me into your confidence? Are there high Germans trying to get through? Am I working for you, or am I working for Desmond Morton? Will you trust me when I tell you anything?’
Foley’s turnip head was wreathed in smoke and smiles.
‘I like you, son,’ he said. ‘But don’t get silly, will you? I’ll trust everything you tell me on the evidence and on my instinct. You’ll have to do the same with me. You can trust me in this, though: I’m not a traitor, whatever any fool might tell you. We are fighting a barbarian, and we must beat him. Personally, I will refuse to be barbaric in the process.’
The smile had faded.
‘Otherwise, I really can’t see the point, can you?’
Having rolled up Western Europe like a carpet, Hitler sued for peace. To everyone’s surprise his requirements were not punitive, not even the return of territories Germany had lost after Versailles. As Erica remarked to Edward, he seemed, underneath the rhetoric, to ‘want to be friends’. The rhetoric, however, was inevitably warlike. The hour of Britain’s total defeat was at hand, and Winston Churchill would soon abandon England to preside over the ruins from the safety of his Canadian dominion. Although the gossip was that Churchill had been tempted, given the mighty scale of Germany’s achievements in so short a time, the iron returned to his soul and he furiously steamrollered through his doubting Cabinet. It had been left to Halifax, surely not by accident, to broadcast a rejection on the radio. Hitler had talked of an offer ‘in the name of reason’, and Halifax threw it back at him as a ‘summons to capitulate to his will’. Erica and Edward had their usual disagreement, and Edward announced that he was leaving next day on more unspecified scientific business. To his surprise, Erica offered to sleep with him, to prove that they could argue without falling out. To her surprise, he declined – and they laughed about it. He had Hannele in mind and, he hoped, almost in his grasp. The ‘scientific business’ was his flight to Sweden.
Getting there, despite his expectations, was extraordinarily easy, and by leaving Britain, Edward missed the Day of the Long Knives. One of Churchill’s reactions to the fall of France was to put into effect his long-brewed plan to vent his anger and frustration on his secret services. The day Halifax spurned Hitler, the War Cabinet approved a memorandum setting up the Special Operations Executive. Large chunks of MI6 fell to it, and the infighting between departments grew distinctly worse. The idea was classically Churchillian, to ‘set Europe ablaze’, to send saboteurs and subversives to create a reign of terror and make the lives of the occupiers ‘an intense torment’. The torment, to begin with, was all at home. Somebody had to run the show, and everybody wanted to. The War Office and the Foreign Office lost, and the Ministry of Economic Warfare, run by Dr Hugh Dalton, a non-military man and a socialist, triumphed. Edward was well out of it.
He flew from Leuchars on a fast, unarmed courier flight, and he flew as a Swedish businessman called Lansen. The sensation of sharing airspace with a murderous enemy – although in fact he saw no other aircraft – was disconcerting, as was the coming to terms with the idea that not all the world was locked in war, but only parts of it. In Stockholm he was met by two men, and driven to a quiet house in the suburbs. His companions took extreme precautions against being followed: the place, they said, was alive with Abwehr and Gestapo men. To get four miles they covered twenty, and they took nearly two hours. Edward was sweating lightly when they walked into the house.
Perhaps he had hoped that Hannele would be there, miraculously. She was not. For the first five days she was not mentioned, and Edward was treated with polite caution. First, they wanted to see if he could pass himself off as Swedish, or if there was anybody working for the enemy who might have an inkling of his presence or identity. When they were sure of him they eased up, and the introductions became more frequent and less formal. One man he had assumed was Swedish revealed himself as Jim Taylor, despite his name a Welshman, and he was taken to meet the SIS chief of station Cyril Cheshire at the passport offices in Birger Jarlsgatan. His most important contact was Brynulf Ottar, the head of the Norwegian secret operation in Stockholm, whose HQ was at Skeppargatan.
Although Stockholm was the base for spies of every warring nation, the Scandinavian connection that Foley had talked about was run by Norway, whose government-in-exile had set up in the neutral city. Brynulf Ottar told him the organization, known as XU, involved a secret network based in Oslo, a courier line to Stockholm, and Swedes, Germans and Norwegians in Germany to provide the information from source. Johanne Malling was a student at the Technische Hochschule in Dresden, near where her family had engineering interests. The Norwegian military attaché, Alfred Roscher Lund, had graduated there in ’37, and considered it the perfect cover and a fine recruiting ground. Fröken Malling worked with a new entrant, a Norwegian who had taken advantage of the Germans’ relatively relaxed attitude to the Scandinavian students there. He was only twenty, although according to Ottar was a Nordic giant, more than six feet tall, blonde and handsome. His bent was technical, while Malling concentrated on the politics.
Edward, hating himself for it, acknowledged the expected stab of pain. There was no doubt in his mind what collaboration would mean to Hannele. He acknowledged, too, that it was crazy. It had been eleven months since they had parted, and there had been no letters. He pulled his attention back to Brynulf Ottar, who was explaining the way information was telephoned from Dresden, via Berlin, to Stockholm through newspaper and business intermediaries. It was done in code, naturally, and sometimes people had to meet, for handovers or to relay difficult intelligence. Johanne Malling would be coming soon, he said, with something enormous, dangerous, and vital. Would he, Edward Carrington, be prepared to meet her?
The bland Norwegian dropped it in so casually that Edward made something of an idiot of himself. He jumped, then had to cough to cover the noise that rasped unbidden from his throat. Ottar waited patiently, enjoying the reaction he had caused.
‘If you agree,’ he said, ‘the meeting will take place in Stettin, on a ship. I know Frank Foley wished you to help us extend our network here, but this is a task I think potentially more important. You will not need to go into Germany, it is largely a question of detailed talk with Fröken Malling. She has information which must go back to England urgently, to be considered in depth. There is a question of a leader having second thoughts about the war. A very important man indeed. The Deputy Führer, in fact. Rudolf Hess. Well?’
‘What can I say? Beyond good God? This is extraordinary.’
‘I meant,’ smiled Ottar, ‘do you agree? To go?’
‘Of course! Of course! I’m sorry.’
‘Good. On Tuesday, then. In two days time. Good.’
‘I’d like a drink,’ said Edward Carrington.
Thirteen
The freighter was Swedish, and the Baltic Sea, to all intents and purposes, was Germany’s. Edward had been advised to keep himself as private as was possible, as one never knew who might be paid by the Abwehr, and neutrality as a concept was very fraught. He was a Swede, in iron ore, and he kept himself firmly to himself. The captain, who had done this sort of thing before, did not discuss it and discouraged any of his officers and men from doing so. So Edward watched the sea for the first two hours, enchanted by the Scandinavian night, then went to sleep. When he awoke, he would be in a German harbour.
When they did arrive in Stettin, the
y were immediately boarded by port officials, carrying guns and deep suspicions of supernumeraries. Lansen’s papers were in order, however, and his story watertight. Neutrality again. Germany needed high-grade iron ore to feed the Ruhr, and Lansen was an important link in the chain providing it. He was left alone to think and wait.
Hannele arrived two hours later. Edward was lying on his bunk, fully clothed, and he told himself afterwards that he had known she was outside his cabin before she touched the handle. Certainly he heard the knob turn, which considering the battering of cranes and donkey-engines as the ship was emptied of her cargo was phenomenon enough. As the door opened he swung his feet from off the bunk and stood. Hannele closed the door behind her and pressed her back against it. Her eyes were large and bright, her breath uneven.
‘Edward. I am so pleased to see you.’
They moved forward slowly, as if both terrified. Edward was hollow with love and fear, shaking at how fierce and fresh all the sensations were. Before they even touched he knew it had been wrong to come, he knew he had reopened a wound that would never heal and could never be soothed by consummation, unless the war should end soon and they should both survive. Hopeless even then. He watched her eyes fire with the old, familiar irony, and it hurt him like a blade.
‘Carruthers. Won’t you hold me? I’ve thought of you so often.’
Silently they hugged each other, with Edward trembling for both of them. Hannele was thin beneath her sober business dress, thinner than he remembered her. He looked into her eyes and they were different now. The mockery was gone, and the skin around them was lined. Her face had lost its flesh, she had aged. Her hair was scraped back in a bun.
‘Don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I will recover, when the war ends. This is not a happy country, Edward. I prefer to look like a hungry governess, it keeps me safe from questioners. Today I am a shipping secretary, a clerk. Tomorrow I will be a student again, but no better fed. How’s the food in England holding out? How is England?’