by James R Benn
“Okay,” I said, figuring my next move. “So we’re talking about secrets. Whose?”
“His Majesty’s, of course. The deepest and darkest secrets of the war, perhaps.”
“There are a lot of dark secrets in this war, Professor,” I said. “Professor? Why do you say that? I am simply a government bureaucrat.”
“You have the look, that’s all. And most bureaucrats have a paunch by your age. You have a healthy look that doesn’t come from sitting in a government office year-round. So a professor at some swank college, where maybe you played rugby when you were a student.”
“Oxford, and mainly cricket,” he said. “Charles said you were a smart one, but hard to control. Seems like he was right on both counts.”
“Major Cosgrove? How is he?”
“Greatly weakened, I’m afraid. But resting comfortably.”
“At Saint Albans,” I said. I didn’t have to reveal I knew where Cosgrove had been taken, courtesy of Kaz and his snooping, but I needed to get an edge on this guy. His eyes widened a fraction before he resumed his pose of bemusement.
“Smart and resourceful too,” he said. “Reading your file, I am not surprised at your capabilities, Captain Boyle. But there is a streak of antagonism to authority, especially British authority, which troubles me.”
“What’s it to you?” I asked, getting impatient with this exchange. And then I realized, it was something big to him. Whatever he was leading up to, it was because he needed me. Otherwise, I’d be headed back to London between two oversized MPs right now. I didn’t know what I’d done wrong, but I’d bet it was outweighed by what he needed me for.
“That’s quite to the point,” he said. He finished his sherry and set the glass down, then sat quietly, his fingers steepled in a thoughtful pose. Maybe for a minute, but it seemed like an hour. He was deciding on me, and I let him take his time. “Let’s take a walk, Captain,” he finally said, and I followed him out of the room. Flowers handed him his overcoat, and we took the path along the canal, Morris up front, Flowers to the rear, both out of earshot.
“Are they your bodyguards?” I asked. He ignored the question.
“My name is John Masterman,” he said, glancing around to be sure there was no one nearby. The sun was right at the horizon and the wind was picking up, a chill breeze sliding along the canal. Anyone with any sense was indoors, waiting for the dark to descend. “What I am about to tell you is covered by the Official Secrets Act. You are aware of that document?”
“Sure. They had me read that my first day in England.”
“It gives us extraordinary powers to imprison you for revealing anything I say. I am certain you do not need to be reminded, given your exemplary record, but I do so to stress the seriousness of what I am about to reveal.”
“Understood, Professor Masterman,” I said, wondering what kind of rabbit hole I had fallen into.
“Even given your powers of observation, Captain Boyle, I would be surprised if you have heard of our organization. The Twenty Committee.” He spoke in a hushed voice, his head bent toward the ground. He wasn’t a man who liked giving up his secrets.
“No, I haven’t. Is Major Cosgrove a member?”
“He acts as a liaison with MI5,” Masterman said. “He was in charge of this issue, until his attack. It was he who suggested your involvement.”
“The murder of Stuart Neville, you mean.” The presence of Flowers and Morris led to that obvious but strange conclusion.
“Yes. We wanted the killing looked into, and we wanted more resources than the local constabulary offered. But we couldn’t reveal our interest in the case.” Masterman turned up his collar and checked to see if Flowers was still close behind. The sky in that direction was streaked with sunset reds and yellows. Ahead it was the dark blue of coming night.
“So I was chosen, with the cover story of being brought in because an American sergeant was in the house.”
“Correct,” Masterman said. “It was a good plan, the only drawback being you couldn’t be told the reason behind all the secrecy.”
“You mean the reason for the hands-off policy with George Miller. Is that what you were talking to Cosgrove about at Bushy Park? It looked like you were laying down the law to him.”
“Ah, the ever-observant Captain Boyle,” Masterman said. “Yes, I was telling the major that you had to be controlled. I was worried about what steps you might take, and with good reason, evidently.”
“Such as having Miller brought in for questioning?”
“That was the first thing. I sent Major Cosgrove here to make sure that did not happen again. I assume he spoke with you before he suffered the attack?”
“He did. He wasn’t happy. Are you going to tell me why?”
“Bear with me, Captain. I don’t have many opportunities these days for a stroll beside the water. It was the second breach that brought me here, by the way.”
“What breach?”
“You asked George Miller if he knew Major Cosgrove. You dressed it up quite innocently, but it told me that you were still determined to go your own way. I wanted you off the case, but Charles convinced me you could be trusted, if you knew the truth. He said it was a common American failing, this need to understand why an order was being given.”
“That sounds like him,” I said, wondering if Masterman would actually ever get around to spilling the beans. We walked a few paces in silence as I imagined him working up to telling the actual truth.
“The reason we are called the Twenty Committee,” he said, “is because the name was first written in roman numerals. Two Xs. For double cross.”
“Okay,” I said. “You’re in the double-crossing business.”
“The greatest double cross of the war,” he said, “perhaps of all time. In a nutshell, Captain, we control all German spies who have been captured since the war began. Most we have turned against the Germans, using them to radio false information back to their masters.”
“Most?” I asked.
“You might be surprised at how many of these spies were quick to take us up on our offer. Cooperation and life. The few who didn’t were executed. It worked out well, after all, giving their spymasters in Berlin evidence that some of their number were captured, which they would expect.”
“But what about the ones that you didn’t catch?”
“That’s just the thing, Captain,” Masterman said, stopping to look me straight in the eyes. “We are fairly certain we have bagged them all. Each and every spy the Germans sent into Britain. Quite extraordinary, actually. We have Adolf’s best spies working for us, sending their own reports back by Morse code, as dictated by the Twenty Committee.”
“So what do you need me for?” I was still confused. This cloak-and-dagger stuff seemed right up Cosgrove’s alley, but I didn’t see how I fit in. We took a few steps along the canal, and Masterman took a deep breath.
“There is one thing we live in absolute fear of, Captain Boyle. That we could miss one enemy agent. If a German spy were to land on our shores now, as we prepare for the invasion, he could easily report back facts that do not coincide with the stories we have been feeding the enemy. Do you understand?”
“Sure,” I said, seeing the problem. “You’ve created a web of lies, and all that the Germans would need would be one loose spy to crack it all wide open.”
“Exactly,” Masterman said. “One of the dangers of counterespionage is that if the enemy determines that the information they’ve been given is false, they can draw certain conclusions about what is then actually true.”
“You’re giving them phony intelligence about the invasion site,” I said. “Or the date. And if they find out that it’s not the real McCoy-”
“Then they could deduce the real location and time, or close to it. A disaster.”
“But what do you need me for? I don’t get it.”
“Really, Captain Boyle?” Masterman turned around and began walking back to the inn. “A man of your skills? Certai
nly you can work it out.” He grinned as if coaching a backward pupil. I thought about it. Neville is killed. Cosgrove brings me in and tells me hands off George Miller. Cosgrove works with the Twenty Committee, which has corralled all the German agents who have landed in England. The Millers are German refugees.
“Jeez, of course!” I said as the pieces fell into place. “The Millers are spies. Real ones, I bet. You let them set up shop in case a new agent makes contact with them. And Neville was one of your agents, like Flowers and Morris.”
“Quite right. We discovered the truth about the Millers from two captured Germans. We let them set up their house, even helped them with resettlement funds. And then we surrounded them with watchers. You’ve seen how George Miller keeps one room always under renovation? That way he has a spot open if an agent makes contact.”
“So the Millers are not gathering information themselves?”
“No. Their role is to provide a safe house for arriving agents. They are under orders not to engage in suspicious activities themselves. So we let them be, the perfect trap for any German spy who manages to slip through. The next few months are critical, Captain. We need them in place, our unsuspecting spiders, to draw in the flies. We need to be sure there is no threat to them. We need to know who killed Neville, and why.”
“And if it was George Miller who killed him?” I wondered how big a mistake I’d made to mention Cosgrove’s name to George. I didn’t want to be taken off the case and sent to Broadmoor, so I didn’t mention it.
“I don’t believe it was. There was no indication that Miller had stumbled onto the fact Neville was anything but a quiet boarder. And Neville was a professional; he never would have let an argument or a petty squabble get out of hand. Our biggest worry is that it was a German agent, but we’ve no actual proof.”
“But if it was Miller, you’d let him get away with it,” I said.
“For now, of course. There are too many lives at stake. Justice will find the Millers for their crimes, of that you can be certain. When we are done with them.”
“The wife and children as well?”
“Oh yes, Frau Miller is a full partner in this enterprise. We aren’t sure about the children. The son Walter is kept busy on board a supply transport in the Mediterranean, and he hasn’t made any moves. Eva is perhaps too young to have been recruited. We think she is likely innocent.”
We were close to the inn, and I laid my hand on Masterman’s arm to stop him. “You know about the missing girls?”
“Yes, I’ve heard.”
“Neville had warned Eva to be careful. Now that makes more sense, given that he was a professional agent, trained to watch for anything unusual. I think he saw something that raised his suspicions, and told Eva to watch out. Maybe he was about to look into it further. Did he report anything to you?”
“Not about the girl, no. His reports went through Flowers, and he would have informed me of anything concrete. As you should do. Call this number if you have anything to report.” He handed me a card with nothing but a London telephone number-the same one Cosgrove had given us.
“What happened to Miss Gardner?” I asked, remembering her sudden departure.
“She has been transferred elsewhere. She was told not to provide you with any information, and when she did we needed to remove her. Just as we had your sergeant and the baron taken off the case. We must be sure that you, and you alone, are working on this, since you know the stakes involved. There can be no missteps.”
“What if it was George Miller who killed the girl we found in the canal?”
“As I said, justice will find him eventually. But for now, Captain Boyle, remember that many young girls are being killed in this war. We bomb cities at night and incinerate them all across Germany. French towns where there are military targets are bombed every day and many little French girls are blown apart. We are engaged in a ruthless, titanic struggle that consumes lives on a massive scale. One cannot worry about a single life without going mad. Find Neville’s killer, Captain Boyle, and all this will end one day.”
“You forgot the little girls in the extermination camps,” I said. I watched his face, saw the quick eye movement again, and then the curtain closed.
“No, I haven’t forgotten them,” he said, and turned in the direction of the inn. “There are those who see them as a political problem that might be best solved for us by the Nazis. Your Miss Seaton has taken it upon herself to convince one of those men otherwise.”
“You are well informed,” I said, following Masterman.
“I soak up what information I can,” he said. “I discard most, manipulate the rest, and send it on its way to create discord among our enemies. But this matter bothers me, I must say, and I wish Miss Seaton well.” He sighed, and his pace slackened.
“But you doubt she’ll succeed,” I said.
“I know she won’t,” Masterman said. “She will receive orders in the morning to report to an SOE training camp. Exile in remote Scotland for a troublesome agent.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. Masterman only smiled. “Can you do anything?” I was relieved at exile. Better than a parachute drop into occupied France.
“Not my department, Captain. It’s the Foreign Office that decides these things, and it has been decided at the highest levels that too many Jews making their way to Palestine after the war will not be good for relations with the Arabs. Fellows like Victor Cavendish-Bentinck and Roger Allen have convinced Anthony Eden not to raise the war cry over the camps. They claim it would harm the war effort if the British public thought we were fighting for the Jews of Europe.”
“Eden is who Diana is dining with tonight,” I said. Eden was head of the Foreign Office, and Diana had told me her father had arranged the meeting.
“Yes, and she will be welcomed cordially, as a gesture of friendship to Lord Seaton. But the die is cast. Eden will listen, offer wine and promises to look into the matter, and promptly forget about it. I’m sorry to bring you such poor news, Captain. I wish it were otherwise. Now, get some rest and find this killer.” Masterman extended his hand, and we shook. He walked away, Flowers and Morris on either side.
I was alone on the path, the faintest of lights lingering on the western horizon. To the east, the heavens were pitch black.
CHAPTER THIRTY — ONE
I ate, hardly noticing what was on my plate. My pint glass was empty and I didn’t remember drinking a drop of the ale. People and conversation flowed around me but I didn’t hear a thing.
I had been told one of the greatest secrets of the war, and it was too enormous to even think about. Now I understood all of Cosgrove’s cautions and warnings, and the worry he must have felt, with me nosing around and asking all the wrong questions. Tomorrow I’d visit Inspector Payne and get back on track, asking the right questions, the ones that didn’t implicate the Millers.
And if Masterman’s secret wasn’t enough, I had Diana to worry about. From what he told me, her punishment for speaking out was benign, at least. But Diana wouldn’t see it that way. She wasn’t one to sit things out in a training camp. Would her superiors dress it up as an honor, or would she be told why she was being sent away? The former, I figured. The kind of Brits behind this weren’t big on the honest truth when an artful lie would do.
One secret protected lives, and perhaps hastened the day when the Allies would liberate the extermination camps. The other kept the true face of the killings in those camps quiet. The news was full of Nazi atrocities, which was good for morale and the war effort. But now that I thought about it, the papers and the BBC would routinely mention the suffering of Poles, Danes, Czechs, and others under the ruthless German occupation, but never Jews as a group, even as they were being herded into gas chambers in ever-increasing numbers.
Politics. The British Empire keeping their own occupied peoples from revolt. There were millions of Arabs for them to govern, and damn few Jews in the Mideast. Why rock the boat? Especially with the Suez Canal and vast oil fi
elds to worry about. I knew I’d take Masterman’s secret to the grave, but Roger Allen’s machinations were not worth the honor of secrecy.
I got another pint, took it back to my seat and wondered how Diana was doing at her dinner with Anthony Eden of the Foreign Office. Perhaps they were having soup, discussing mass murder intently, Eden nodding, seeming to agree with everything Diana said as he savored the hot broth. It didn’t bear thinking, so I took a drink, remembering to taste it this time, and began to leaf through the scrapbook Rosemary Adams had given me. I’d barely remembered to take it from the jeep after my encounter with Masterman. The first few pages were from early in Sam Eastman’s career: old, yellowed newspaper clippings and the occasional memo on police stationery. A childish hand soon grew into a graceful cursive, Rosemary’s penmanship a marked improvement on that of her brother Tom, who was more given to underlines and exclamation points.
“May I join you, Billy?” I nearly jumped as Kaz dropped his bag on the floor and set his whiskey down, a grin of obvious pleasure lighting his face.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, surprised and happy as he slid in next to me.
“Ignoring a ridiculous order,” he said, downing a healthy slug of whiskey. “Those MPs were foolish enough to think that simply putting me on a train in Newbury would stop me from getting off at the next station and taking the return train here. It serves them right.”
“Glad you’re back, Kaz,” I said, raising my glass to him. “But remember it’s not just those MPs you have to worry about. It’s MI5. Cosgrove’s bosses obviously want this handled their way.”
“Which MI5 boss gave you that message?” Kaz asked.
“The guy we saw at Bushy Park,” I said. “He laid down the law, pretty much the same story Cosgrove gave us. My guess is he wasn’t sure if the major had given us the message before he had his attack.”
“The fact that he came to be sure the message was delivered is interesting,” Kaz said. “Did he have a name?”