by Lee Jackson
“Sit, sit,” the great man fussed, rising and pulling a large cigar from between his lips while gesturing Paul to a chair. “Thank you for coming on short notice.” He peered at Paul. “What did you think of my speech in Parliament?”
“That was my hon—”
Churchill waved the comment away. “Director Menzies gave you his highest recommendation against several other candidates. He said you were sharp—you figure things out. We need more people with that ability.”
Dazed at the representation of Menzies’ opinion of him, Paul took the seat indicated. Only then did he notice another man sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the door. Given the low lights, his features were difficult to discern, but Paul could make out that he was a small man who carried himself like a large one, much in the way that a Jack Russell Terrier met and interacted with larger dogs, although with distinct reserve. The man said nothing. He only nodded and remained seated, observing the exchanges between the lieutenant and the prime minister.
“I won’t take a lot of your time,” Churchill said. “I propose to send you on a king’s mission. Should you accept, it will be for the duration of the war. You will travel to New York and be stationed there with this man, whom for the moment you will know by his codename, Intrepid. I’ll give the two of you a few minutes to size each other up in another room, and then should you accept, and unless Mr. Intrepid has objections, you will depart within a few days. Do you have any questions of me now?”
“Just one, sir,” Paul replied slowly while shifting his eyes between Intrepid and the prime minister. “You said a king’s mission?”
“Ah. Good question. It’s a peculiarity of the British system of managing intelligence. The king is the final authority for any intelligence matter. Ordinarily, he leaves the running of such issues to the government, and for most missions, I leave them to the discretion of the intelligence agency. However, a project such as we propose requires royal approval. Therefore, it is the king’s mission.” He peered at Paul. “Does that answer your question?”
Paul responded respectfully that it did.
“Good. The only two questions now are, will you proceed, and will Intrepid take you?” He chuckled while gesturing with his cigar toward the man. “I gave him that codename myself.”
“I have the full dossier on you and your family,” Intrepid said when he and Paul were alone together in another room. “From my perspective, you’re a good match for the task. The only remaining question is, will you do it?”
Paul stared at him, dazed. Finally, he stammered, “Can you tell me anything about the job or who you are?”
“My name is William Stephenson, a Canadian, and I’m usually a businessman. I flew for Britain in the last war. The RAF hung a medal on me, and now this government thinks I can help out with intelligence. The job is in New York, and I can’t tell you more until you accept, but let me point out that your prime minister requested that you take it. He wouldn’t ask just anyone, and he wouldn’t have asked at all if the task were not crucial. Any other questions?”
“Are you aware that I’m prohibited from leaving the country? Brigadier Menzies put that constraint on me because—” He stopped himself.
Stephenson dismissed the matter. “I know the whole story. I know about Bletchley too, and I travel all over. I have to take extra precautions, and you will as well. The PM will override Menzies’ prohibition.”
Paul dropped his head and let out a long breath. Looking up again into Intrepid’s eyes, he felt old and tired, like the decision was too big for him to make, yet he was the only one who could. “I’ll have to trust you and Mr. Churchill. I’ll do it.”
“Splendid. Now let me advise you that if you change your mind at any point, the constraints on you will be much greater than just being prohibited from leaving Great Britain while the war is on. Not to make too much of a point regarding the need for secrecy, but right now, at this very moment, this is the only chance you’ll have to back out and return to your life as it was before this morning. Do you understand that?”
Paul’s mind spun. He could conceive of no situation any more sober than the war as he knew it, yet this short Canadian in a gray suit operating with the blessing of not only Winston Churchill but also King George VI implied a threat greater than the German military and a secret more closely held than Bletchley Park. “Sir, is this mission critical to the survival of Great Britain?”
Stephenson shrugged and spread his hands. “No one is indispensable, but yes, the function—what we intend to do—must be accomplished by someone, and its import goes beyond the shores of England.”
Paul nodded slowly. “You’re scaring me a bit. The gravity you assert tells me that someone more senior should fill the role.”
“The PM and I discussed that exact point, but unfortunately, given the situation, our senior people are assigned to vital roles. You’ll have to do; but don’t think we made a choice easily. Particularly coming out of the junior ranks, we had to screen carefully. Your analysis, recommendation, and action that led to the Boulier mission tipped the selection in your favor. That, and the work you did on the report you delivered to Director Menzies.”
How many more surprises today? “I’m startled that my report reached this level.”
Stephenson smiled in his enigmatic way but made no comment.
Looking somewhat flummoxed, Paul asked, “What are your instructions?”
Stephenson crossed the floor and shook Paul’s hand. “Take a day to square away personal matters, say goodbyes, etcetera. That should be enough time, eh? Then we’re off to New York. We leave tomorrow evening for a meeting in Washington.”
Paul closed his eyes and rocked his head back and forth, relaxing his shoulders. Then, taking a deep breath, he said, “This is all coming quickly. Is there anything you can tell me now about the job?”
“You’re to be my aide, my shadow, Paul. An observer. I carry the responsibility. You’ll go where I go, hear what I hear, and know what I know. Part of our mission is to protect the viability of British intelligence in the event Germany’s invasion is successful. If something happens to me, we need someone in the organization to remember the details of what we do. That’s you.
“I’ll tell you more later, but that should give you enough to chew on for a while.” He looked at his watch. “That didn’t take long. I’ll let the PM know you’re on board. Settle your affairs and I’ll see you here tomorrow before afternoon tea-time.”
His mind still swimming, Paul coughed out a dry, “Yes, sir.”
Stephenson started to shake his hand again, but as an afterthought, reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a small packet. “By the way, you’re elevated to captain, effective immediately. Sorry you’re not being properly promoted by a military officer in a formal ceremony. We don’t have time, but here are your epaulets.” He reached out to hand them to Paul, who stood stock-still, stunned.
“Ah! This is a lot to take in,” Stephenson said. “Here, I’ll help you put them on.”
When they were about to bid their farewells, Paul said, “I had accepted the Air Marshal’s invite to observe in the control room at Fighter Command the day after tomorrow by way of rounding out my rep—”
“Yes, yes. Do that. It will add to your understanding of the overall system. And then, make haste to New York. I’ll meet you there. You can write up your addendum on the plane. We’ll send it back by diplomatic pouch.”
45
September 14, 1940
London, England
“Do you think you might tell me some of what I’m getting into?” Paul inquired when he met again with Stephenson. “That was a hellacious air battle yesterday—the worst yet. Losses on our side were light compared to what we did to Germany but not insignificant. My brother might have been in it, but regardless, if the weather breaks again, he’s likely to be up there tomorrow. I feel like I’m deserting my country at its worst time.”
Stephenson smiled, a quiet gesture that
bespoke gentleness and confidence. “You’re certainly not doing that,” he said. “You’ve been patient, and you should know what’s going on before you trek over to the good ol’ US of A.” They sat in a small conference room in the War Office. Tea servings and biscuits were laid out on a silver tray on the table between them. “I’ll depart for there in a few hours. I’ll need you there on the 17th.”
He curled his fingers on the conference table while gathering his thoughts. “Everyone has secrets,” he said. “Churchill believes that in times like these, truth must be guarded by a shield of lies and half-truths. He might be right, but the basic premise is that there is truth, and further, that it must be protected.”
Paul gazed at him in surprise.
“What is it?” Stephenson asked. “What have I said that has you dazed? Speak up.”
“You sound like you are about to expound on the mysteries of life.”
Stephenson smiled again, a practiced, slow elongation of his mouth that listeners might miss if they did not pay rapt attention. “Humor me. I’d like to believe that what I have to say is something you need to know.”
“I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” Paul’s cheeks flushed.
Stephenson ignored the comment. “First, let’s talk about you and your family. Your mother is the Dame of Sark, and your father is her senior co-ruler by right-of-wife under feudal law.” He chuckled, a barely audible sound. “Irony of ironies. An American ruling a British island in wartime, occupied by Germans, in a feudal system, no less.
“Let’s see,” he continued. “One of your brothers, Jeremy, escaped Dunkirk, saved a little boy, became a national hero, and went back to France twice on covert missions; one of those times occurred because you and your sister took liberties with national secrets. Do I have that right?”
Paul’s cheeks flamed red. “Do I have to defend that, sir?”
“No, you don’t. I know the story, and your justification. I’m not sure I agree with it, but youth is allowed errors, so long as they are not repeated. I’m being subtle. Are you catching my meaning?”
“I should not go outside my bounds without your permission. Is that it?”
“That must be the protocol. No exceptions. You’ll soon understand why.” He paused. “Before we leave that subject, let me say that the initiative and the precautions you exercised to contain the secret while moving it up channels is partly why you’re here instead of someone else. I also read the report you did for Director Menzies. That exercise was part of our vetting process.”
Paul’s head jerked up in surprise.
“We had to know that you could perform competently and in the stratosphere of senior people,” Stephenson said on seeing the reaction. “Moving on.” He poured two cups of tea while he spoke. “Your brother, Jeremy, flies Spitfires in the Battle of Britain, but you’ve been disallowed from doing so. Do you understand why that is?”
“He doesn’t know what goes on at Bletchley Park, and I do.”
“Exactly. Even under torture, Jeremy could never divulge the secret because he doesn’t know it. Your capture would be even more unacceptable because of what I’m about to tell you. Therefore”—he reached into his pocket and retrieved a tiny box—“you’ll carry this at all times and be prepared to use its contents at a moment’s notice without hesitation.”
Paul’s anxiety shot above any he had ever known. Opening the box, Stephenson showed him two small capsules.
“I know what those are,” Paul said. “Lethal pills. Cyanide. I was present when Jeremy was issued a set.”
“He was motivated by a strong feeling for a young lady, right?”
Paul smiled briefly. “I believe that is partly correct, although at the time he would not admit it. He also wanted to do his bit for king and country.”
“My point is that he had a compelling reason to go on the mission and to agree readily to take those pills in the event of his capture. He did not want to give away his Amélie or her family, the Bouliers, is that correct?”
“Your insights are amazing.”
“You have no similar incentive, so why should I believe that you would take your own life to protect state secrets?”
Paul stared into Stephenson’s inscrutable eyes. “I don’t know where I thought this conversation would go, but honestly, this is not it.”
“Please answer the question.”
Paul stretched while he gathered his thoughts. “Telling you that I will definitely take those pills would be a lie. That said, if I were convinced that important state secrets entrusted to me were in danger of falling into enemy hands, and the only way to protect them was for me to bite those bloody pills, I would do my duty.”
Stephenson pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing under arched brows. “So, you accept that the secret of Bletchley’s function is one worth protecting with your life?”
Paul squirmed. “The intel coming from there might have saved my brothers and all our chaps at Dunkirk.”
“Not to mention the country. We rescued our capacity to fight back.”
Paul agreed with a nod.
Stephenson extended his hand containing the box of pills. “Then, Captain Littlefield, on that basis, take this and keep it with you always.”
As Paul accepted them, Stephenson said, “I suppose you’d like to know about our king’s mission.” He glanced out a window with a blank expression. “That sounds so pompous.”
“The mission is the reason I’m here. I’d like to know what it is.”
“You’re entitled.” Stephenson regarded him directly. “What do you think would happen if Germany were to win the war?”
Paul shrugged. “Britain would be occupied. Hitler would turn his enlarged military on the Bolsheviks, as he calls them. After disposing of Stalin, unless he decides to turn on Japan, a good guess is that those two countries together, Germany and Japan, would carve up the United States and the rest of the Americas between them.”
“You’ve sliced and diced the situation quite well. What gives us a fighting chance in the Battle of Britain right now?”
“I’d have to say Dowding’s radar screen and his system for controlling the deployment of our fighter squadrons, as well as the fighters and pilots themselves.”
“Great answer. You’ve done good homework, but what’s at the heart of that defensive system?”
Puzzled, Paul shook his head. “I don’t know what answer you’re looking for.”
“Think, man. Think! You know the answer. It was contained in your last response.” Seeing Paul’s blank face, Stephenson said, “Here’s a hint. What does radar do?”
Paul hesitated. “It tells us where our planes and the enemy planes are?”
“Exactly, it gives us tactical information. As a result, Dowding has no fighters rotating around the skies wasting resources. He can control the squadrons from Fighter Command at Bentley Priory and mass the fighters where they’ll have the greatest effect.”
“That was the nub of my report.”
“You’re getting there, Paul. Shifting gears slightly, what does Bletchley provide?”
At last, Paul saw a glimmer of where Stephenson was taking the discussion. “Tactical and even strategic knowledge of enemy plans and actions.”
“Exactly. And what composes knowledge?”
“Information.”
“You’ve got it. Germany doesn’t have an equivalent Bletchley, and they don’t know about ours. They discounted radar almost completely. They’re getting an object lesson in its value now, but the time is late for them. So, is it fair to say that Britain’s chance of defeating this overwhelming power might result from an edge in intelligence gathering?”
“That’s reasonable.”
“And superior information must be secured by whatever means?”
“That’s an easy leap after the discussion we’ve just had.”
“Then, regarding the king’s mission, remember that he has the last word in matters of intelligence. The aerial attack on Great Britai
n is Hitler’s prelude. He’s ordered up preliminary plans for an invasion, Operation Sea Lion. Since early last month, we’ve had a new asset in northern France, codenamed Swan, embedded in Field Marshal Reichenau’s planning staff for the operation. We’ve retrieved quite detailed information from there, so we know the idea of an invasion is not someone’s passing fancy. But—and this is a main point.” He leaned forward as if for emphasis, and Paul held his searching gaze.
Stephenson continued. “If he succeeds with the air battle and the invasion, our intelligence capability must remain intact. To that end, the king chartered me to run British intelligence from an office in Manhattan under the innocuous name of British Security Coordination. As my aide you’ll have no authority unless I specifically delegate it to you.” He laughed softly. “But you’ll know where all the skeletons are buried.”
The blood drained from Paul’s face. He breathed deeply while staring at Stephenson.
“Take your time, Captain. We covered a lot of ground.”
Paul’s heartbeat settled into a rhythm well above normal. “Do the Americans know we’re doing this?”
“Only one American. Mr. Roosevelt. Certainly not the State Department. The current secretary of state could never keep this secret. I briefed the president last year in his office. He is in full support.”
“W-why? Why would he allow a foreign intelligence agency to operate on American soil, and why would he keep that to himself?”
“Now we get to the heart of the matter. That was a bargain we struck with him, but first I’ll answer why he would keep it to himself. Secrets have a nasty habit of getting out. The ones I am about to tell you cannot be divulged anywhere without prior consent of the PM and the president.” Stephenson took a breath. “I hate to inform you of an even more formidable secret than what you know, but I must. I won’t put you through paces again, but I need to refresh your memory. As I recall from your dossier, you studied physics in school.”