by Phil Ward
“I never heard of the Order of the Garter before tonight, Jane,” Col. Randal said. “Don’t believe everything people tell you.”
“You put your troops before yourself,” Lady Jane said. “Many commanders make the claim but never follow through—you are the rare exception.”
Wanting to change the subject, Col. Randal said, “Pretty big deal R. J. letting Mandy run her own radio game.”
“Possibly what Mandy is doing is more involved than meets the eye,” Lady Jane said.
“Really?”
“We know you are not a German agent, John,” Lady Jane said. “We are fairly sure I’m not, and King has been through every security check and vetting process MI-5 has—passed with flying colors.”
“What’s that have to do with Mandy?” Col. Randal asked.
“Do you understand the difference between a secret and . . . a mystery?”
“Maybe you better explain it to me.”
“One can always discover a secret,” Lady Jane said. “A mystery is what it says it is—a mystery.”
Col. Randal said, “I’m not following you . . .”
“Who was present in the room when we developed the storyline for Mandy’s radio game?” Lady Jane asked.
“You were,” Col. Randal said. “Rocky, Mandy, King—I was there.”
“Exactly,” Lady Jane said. “Should the Y-Service radio monitoring network intercept a message emanating from the Cairo area debunking our story about helicopters flying out of the Great Sand Sea in support of Raiding Forces, then Mandy will know who sent it.”
“Rocky?”
“Very good, John,” Lady Jane rewarded him with one of her heart attack smiles. “Rikke Runborg is a mystery—in counterintelligence it never hurts to double, triple check. Even then, it’s virtually impossible to ever know for certain where anyone’s real loyalties lie.”
Col. Randal said, “I can see how that would be.”
“For example,” Lady Jane said. “Brandy told me that you believe I sleep with you on orders from MI-6.”
“True,” Col. Randal said. “That’s the story, right?”
“Only in the beginning.”
Col. Randal wondered if she were joking.
• • •
Colonel john randal said, “Jane, do YOU consider yourself one of my troops?”
“Absolutely.”
5
ILLUSIONIST
King phoned Colonel John Randal from the Raiding Forces’ Operations Room. He was laughing. Col. Randal was not sure he had ever heard the Merc laugh before.
“Ensign Hamilton, OBE,” King said. “Your new camouflage officer has arrived and is on the way up, Chief.”
“Flanigan,” Col. Randal called, hanging up the phone. “There’s an Ensign Hamilton coming to see me—send him in.”
A slim, young—very young—officer wearing silver-rimmed glasses, rank insignia Col. Randal had never seen before, the regimental badges of the Lancelot Lancers Yeomanry and parachute wings, marched in ramrod straight and saluted. Ens. Hamilton had to be the youngest officer ever to be awarded the Order of the British Empire. He looked vaguely familiar.
“Ensign Hamilton reports, sir!”
Col. Randal casually returned the salute, “What’s an ensign doing in the Lounge Lizards?”
“It’s like a third lieutenant, sir.”
“I’ve never heard of that rank.”
“For junior Lancelot Lancer officers, sir.”
“Really,” Col. Randal said. “Teddy, is that you . . . ‘The Great Teddy’?”
“Yes, sir,” Ens. Hamilton said. “Good to see you again, Colonel.”
“You’ve grown a foot and gained fifty pounds,” Col. Randal said. “What are you doing here in Egypt?”
“Thirty-five pounds, sir—traveled out over the Christmas break to observe camouflage operations at A-Force during OPERATION CRUSADER. The famous magician, Jasper Maskyline, is Colonel Clarke’s chief camoufler. He was supposed to allow me to be attached to his Magic Gang, but that failed to materialize so I went to the desert with Captain Stykes and helped him build a dummy railroad terminal.”
Col. Randal said, “CRUSADER’s over—why aren’t you back in school?
“Middle East Command has a critical shortage of camouflage officers, sir—only eleven total in theatre, so when the Germans launched their counterattack I was held over by Colonel Clarke to work with Raiding Forces,” Ens. Hamilton said.
“Be like old times, sir, back at RAF Habbaniya.”
“I don’t know,” Col. Randal said. “Regulations say an officer can be commissioned at seventeen but can’t serve in a combat zone until he’s seventeen and a half with parental permission.
“You were only fifteen at Habbaniya . . . the numbers don’t add up, Ted.”
“I falsified my age, sir,” Ens. Hamilton said. “My sixteenth birthday came two weeks after the relief of Habbaniya. When I filled out the forms at Eton—added a year.”
“You did that . . . ?”
“No one ever checks, including Sandhurst or the Lancelot Lancers, sir—the Duke simply said, ‘Welcome to the Regiment.’”
“Well, stud,” Col. Randal said, “you were the hero of Habbaniya, but that may not cut it with Lady Jane. I’m sure she will want to hear your story.
“Why don’t you march over to the bedroom and knock on her door.”
It was not really a question.
Col. Randal took out one of Waldo’s thin cigars and stuck it between his teeth. This could prove interesting.
He was not disappointed.
Shortly, from the bedroom came the sound of Major the Lady Jane Seaborn shouting, then a crash followed by the sound of broken glass tinkling—then dead silence. Ens. Hamilton, aka “The Great Teddy”, marched out of the bedroom, looking grim.
Col. Randal said, “That as bad as it sounded?”
“Lady Seaborn threw her hair brush at me, Colonel,” Ens. Hamilton said. “Broke her mirror. I don’t think she is very happy with the plan, sir.”
“You have to look at it from her perspective, Ted,” Col. Randal said. “To Jane you’re just a lying son-of-a-bitch.”
“Under the best of circumstances, sir, I have trouble concentrating around Lady Seaborn,” Ens. Hamiltonaid. “But that message came through loud and clear—hope she does not stay angry at me forever.”
“Jane only gets mad when someone she cares about does something stupid that puts them in harm’s way—I’ve been the worst offender,” Col. Randal said. “She’ll get over it.”
Lady Jane came storming out of the bedroom. She was livid. “Flanigan, bring the car around.”
Col. Randal heard himself say, “Why don’t we talk about this?”
“All right, John,” Lady Jane said. “Let’s do.”
“So, Ted,” Col. Randal said, “how old are you, exactly—right now?”
“Sixteen and a half, sir.”
“There,” Col. Randal said. “Sixteen and a half—only six months short.”
“Are we through?” Lady Jane said.
“Ahhh . . . yeah.”
“Meet me downstairs at the car, Ensign,” Lady Jane ordered.
“Yes, ma’am.”
As soon as Ens. Hamilton cleared the door, Lady Jane’s green eyes sparkled. She giggled, “Do you know what that little illusionist had the nerve to do?
“That would be negative.”
“Frogspawned me.”
“Ted did that?”
“I was stunned.” Lady Jane broke up laughing.
“Yeah,” Col. Randal said. “I can see how you would be.”
“Dudley Clarke ordered Teddy to say ‘Frogspawn’ in the event I tried to prevent him taking the field with Desert Patrol,” Lady Jane said. “We’re off now to try to find some of the supplies he requires to accomplish Desert Patrol’s deception mission—hope to be back in time for the briefing.”
Col. Randal said, “You’re going out again tonight?”
“We ha
ve less than forty-eight hours to requisition, assemble and arrange transport for everything before you move out,” Lady Jane said. “Challenging.”
“True.”
“John, you will take care of the boy?”
“How would I do that?” Col. Randal said. “Sounds like I’m going to be working for him—has anybody ever Frogspawned you?”
“Not before tonight.”
• • •
Colonel John Randal and Rikke Runborg—friends called her “Rocky”—were sitting in the suite’s living room. He had two reasons for inviting her there. Neither one of them was quite what it seemed.
“Rocky,” Col. Randal said, “as you know, one of my assigned tasks is to be responsible for your security.”
“I feel safe,” Rocky said, “being under your protection.”
“Good,” Col. Randal said—her sexy Norwegian accent was hypnotizing. “I realized,” he lied, “you don’t have a personal weapon—which is an oversight on my part.”
Actually, Major the Lady Jane Seaborn had pointed that fact out to him a while back—he had made a practice of giving pistols to the women associated with Raiding Forces for their personal protection—highly embellished pistols so they would carry them. At the time Rocky showed up, Col. Randal was not in a hurry to arm a former—and possibly current—German agent.
Now, Jane’s idea was to treat Rocky the same as the other women in the Raiding Forces entourage. He was not exactly sure why.
“Carry this handgun in your purse at all times,” Col. Randal said, handing her a profusely engraved Saur Model 13 pocket pistol with beautiful pearl stocks.
The little gun was a plain vanilla private purchase piece that, while never adopted by the German military, was popular with Nazi plainclothes police and agents of the Abwehr, which made it a fitting choice for Rocky. Lady Jane had taken it to an engraver who did his magic and arranged to have the grips added so it would be on a par with the other women’s weapons—all captured from high-ranking enemy officers.
“Thank you, John,” Rocky said, admiring the weapon, handling it like a professional. Clearly, she had extensive training on small, concealable handguns. “Does this mean you trust me enough now to allow me to go armed?”
“Yes, it does,” Col. Randal said, not wanting to veer off onto the slippery slope of trust—he did not exactly trust Rocky. What he, or more accurately Lady Jane, desired was for her to feel like a full-fledged member of the Raiding Forces team.
“This is the perfect concealed weapon for you, Rocky—Swiss engineering, precision built,” Col. Randal said. “Saur managed to cram a .32 round into a .25 caliber frame. Don’t leave home without it.”
“An exquisite gift,” Rocky said. “I shall sleep with it under my pillow.”
“Lucky pistol,” Col. Randal said.
Rocky laughed. Big teeth. Golden tan. Hair the color of ice—very likeable.
“On another subject,” Col. Randal said, “and we are not having this conversation, Rocky—would you clear up a few details about what happened the night Raiding Forces rescued you and Jane’s husband, Mallory, from the Vichy French police?”
“Is this for your personal information,” Rocky asked, “or has someone made inquiries?”
“I like things to make sense,” Col Randal said. “Some events that night don’t.”
“Nor to me,” Rocky said. “What are your questions, John?”
“When our patrol arrived in town, the first thing we did was rescue Mallory from the post office where he was a prisoner,” Col. Randal said. “The Commander immediately tried to break away to race to where you were being held. He was a wild man—Sergeant Major Mikkalis had to subdue, handcuff and gag Mallory to restrain him.
“My question to you, Rocky,” Col. Randal said, “is, were you and Mallory so close that he was willing to charge a house full of heavily-armed bad guys without a weapon to effect your rescue?”
“No,” Rocky said.
“Why’d he do it?”
“While Mallory is beautiful to admire—like a Greek statue,” Rocky said, “I was never emotionally involved with him. He does not know how to have a true relationship with a woman, even though he is excellent in bed.
“The man loves only himself.”
“So,” Col. Randal asked, “why were you with him then?”
“My relationship with Mallory was based on two things only. I was in great danger in Norway because of my involvement with the Nazis—the Resistance had issued orders to liquidate me. And, Mallory agreed to take me to England.
“I never revealed my true feelings to him or about my plan to contact the British Secret Service as soon as we arrived. Naturally, Mallory believed I worshiped him.”
“I see,” Col. Randal said. Which meant that he did not.
“My life has been complicated, John,” Rocky said. “I never sought a career in intelligence. All I ever wanted was to be a ballet dancer and later operate my school of dance. . . .”
“Nothing I’ve heard about Mallory suggests he’s a particularly brave individual,” Col. Randal said. “His navy career is under a cloud of suspicion for showing cowardice in the face of the enemy.
“Why was he willing to risk his life to attempt your rescue?”
“Mallory may not have been trying to save me—his motive may have been to silence me. Possibly, once Raiding Forces arrived,” Rocky said, “he feared I had learned something about his past he did not wish to be made public.”
“Did you?”
“No. Mallory was found by fishermen, adrift at sea in a lifeboat,” Rocky said. “I met him when he was in the hospital—claiming amnesia.”
“Why didn’t you identify yourself as an Abwehr agent,” Col. Randal asked, “when the police stripped you, tied you in a chair and broke out the burning cigarettes?”
“I tried,” Rocky said. “Those swine planned to have their way with me—verify my credentials later. The policemen could always claim to not have believed my story. Spies are not issued identification cards to produce in the event they find themselves in a predicament like mine—being violated by your own side.”
Col. Randal said, “That could be a problem.”
He had not learned a thing.
• • •
“R. J. called, Chief,” King said from the door as Rikke Runborg left the suite. “En route to RFHQ about fifteen minutes out. The Brigadier requests a private meeting with you, Lady Seaborn, Brandy, ‘Legs’ Parker and Mandy.”
“We’ll hold it in here,” Colonel John Randal said. “Notify the ladies.”
Lieutenant Mandy Paige arrived first. When she came through the door, she immediately leapt on Col. Randal and started kissing him like a happy puppy.
“Mandy, what the hell?”
“I wanted to thank you for my OBE,” Lt. Mandy said, kissing him again. “But you have been in meetings ever since I arrived back here from the ceremony—unbelievable, John, love you.”
“You earned your medal,” Col. Randal said. “Don’t scare me like that—have you been drinking?”
“I heard Teddy was here,” Lt. Mandy said.
“Not anymore,” Col. Randal said. “He’s gone shopping with Jane.”
“At this time of night?” Lt. Mandy asked. “In Cairo?”
“Roger that—crazy, huh?”
Brandy and Captain Penelope “Legs” Honeycutt-Parker arrived.
Brigadier Raymond J. Maunsell, who liked to be called R. J., walked in right after them. He said, “Congratulations are in order, ladies. Brandy—George Cross, George Medal for you, Parker, and the Order of the British Empire for Mandy . . . impressive, to say the least.
“Is Lady Jane available to sit in?”
“Negative,” Col. Randal said. “She’s gone shopping with our new camouflage officer.”
“In that case,” R. J. said, “time is short and I understand Desert Patrol has been alerted for a mission. Expect me to be brief.
“During our initial post-CRUSADER b
attle assessment,” R. J. said as they all took a seat in the living room of the suite, “a fatal defect in the way our forces operate was uncovered—we have to fix it.
“No one not in this room now, with the exceptions of Lady Jane and Jim—who has already been read in on the topic—have a need to know what we discuss tonight unless I sign off on them first. Clear?”
Everyone answered, “Clear!”
R. J. said, “There are two types of intelligence—human and signals. Are you up to speed on the difference, Colonel?
“Mandy explained it to me,” Col. Randal said.
Brig. Maunsell commanded SIME (Security Intelligence Middle East). No one knew exactly what SIME did and R. J. was not telling, but it was a cross between MI-6 (British Secret Intelligence Service) and MI-5 (Counterintelligence) with close ties to A-Force (Deception). The chief of SIME was one of the most powerful and mysterious officers in Middle East Command.
Everyone in the room liked R. J.
Lately, the Brigadier had been mentoring Lt. Mandy in the art of counterintelligence. He had always taken an interest in Raiding Forces operations. While R. J. was not an empire builder, he did have his finger in a lot of pies.
“Then you will be aware that human intelligence is practically worthless,” R. J. said. “You only have the informant’s word for its authenticity.
“Human intelligence can be dangerous because your spy could be a double agent, or the intelligence product he delivers might be misinformation intentionally designed to mislead. Nevertheless, we have to keep mining human intelligence sources because every now and again we come up with a whisper that turns out to be a jewel.”
R. J. said, “Signals intelligence is what catches enemy spies and wins battles.”
“That’s what Mandy said,” Col. Randal lit a Player’s cigarette with his old battered Zippo.
“All right then, now that we have that laid down, to the main point—what we learned during our analysis of the battle,” R. J. said. “Eighth Army radio security is abysmal—practically nonexistent. Commonwealth troops simply do not understand the meaning of operational security.
“MEHQ simply cannot convince our field commanders to refrain from sending messages in the clear,” R. J. said.