London Calling

by D. N. J. Greaves

  He’d been swept up by the excitement, the thought of advancement and making something out of a life that was filled with the drudgery and boredom of an eight-thirty to six existence. Joining the rank and file of the small but steadily growing British Fascists seemed the obvious choice. He’d attended all the meetings in the early thirties, listened to all the exhortations and inducements, and was convinced that his time would soon come. Promises were made that one day he would be rewarded with rank and position, when the decaying Empire was overthrown and Britain belonged to a Greater European group of nations. It was the future of a new, modern Europe that would become the dominant world power, far better than corrupt America. He pictured himself wearing the smart black uniform of the British equivalent of the SS, surely at an appropriately high rank. After all, he was one of the earliest recruits into the party ranks. He would be important- people would look up to him and respect his achievements, secretly admiring that he had the foresight and dedication to support the cause from its infancy into the overwhelming power it had become. Maybe even Hilary would come back and beg him to forgive her adulterous ways.

  But sadly as time went by, little had come his way. Despite his zeal and willingness to volunteer, it was always others who were chosen for important tasks,. His presence was appreciated, but he was never really favoured or trusted enough with the truly important tasks of running the party. Maybe his face didn’t fit in, or possibly that he was physically uninspiring and sometimes rather timid. Then one day it all changed, like a sudden bolt from the blue. He would never forget that evening. It was a year before the war started and just after his wife had left him, taking their young daughter as well. A stranger had knocked on his door. He spoke perfect English, but he could tell from his accent that the man was from central Europe, possibly Swiss or maybe even German. This tall, handsome foreigner had convinced him that the reason he had been so far overlooked in the party hierarchy was that he was being reserved for a far more important role than being a mere party functionary. He would be one of the few entrusted with the vital task of maintaining communications with Germany and the elite of the German Nazi government. War between the two countries was a distinct possibility. The British Union of Fascists was about to go underground, the newcomer had said. The authorities would soon make it illegal to be a member. All the top officials would be arrested in the next few months. The rank and file would be warned off or threatened with prison and subject to scrutiny by the Police, the Home Office and MI5. The old party was more or less finished, at least for the present and in its current form. Did he want to share the same fate? Would he help to continue to fight for the cause?

  They talked long into the night. The stranger’s silky charm and force of personality could not be denied. Eventually he had agreed. In exchange for his cooperation, he would be supplied with cash and a radio transmitter. Training at a secret location would be arranged for him and a select band of fellow sympathisers. He would not be spying for Germany, accessing British military secrets or betraying his fellow countryman. No, rather he was being held in reserve as an asset to be used for only the most important and vital of missions between the two countries.He would provide a safe house, and lie dormant until that day in the future when his help would be required. Hitler admired and respected Britain, but had little time for those who ruled the country.The Führer was convinced that an agreement between the two nations could be reached, once those selfish power-hungry British politicians were finally overthrown. And the Greater German Reich would be more than generous in its thanks to those who had helped along the way.

  Everything the stranger had promised had occurred, all the secret training and support. Everything except final victory, but he still believed that would happen. Contact with Berlin was maintained by radio, and he’d been trained in the use of ciphers and other espionage techniques. A single short, coded reply would let his masters know he was still active and listening in, without giving his location away to British counter-espionage surveillance. He also received the occasional letter sent to a post office box number, always from a foreign, neutral address, telling him he was still important and had not been forgotten. And finally the call had come, backed up by a letter that had only arrived yesterday. It was nearly six years since he was first recruited, six years since the furniture van had turned up with an extra ‘present’, the radio transmitter that was hidden in the attic of his modest, respectable terraced home.

  He still believed in a national socialist future for Britain, even if the newspapers said that the war seemed to be going against Germany. But then you couldn’t always believe in the propaganda that Fleet Street spouted out, especially as most of the papers were controlled by that odious little Jew, Max Beaverbrook. And the Germans were generally more technologically advanced than the British. They’d had plenty of time to perfect their wonder weapons. They would alter the course of the war. That’s what Lord Haw-Haw had said on the radio. Who knew how potent and deadly these weapons would be when they arrived? .

  The last few days had been the usual routine of supervising his female shop staff, trying to decipher doctors’ increasingly illegible handwriting and making up drugs for prescription. There were the usual stock checks and inevitable reams of official paperwork to plough through, all the activities associated with a normal working week. But now he couldn’t care less. Suddenly his staid, boring life had acquired a new, exciting purpose. And whoever would have guessed that the short, fat, bespectacled, balding and rather reclusive owner of Simm’s Pharmacy was secretly an agent for the Third Reich?

  Each night for the past few days he’d hurried home as soon as he could, closing the shop and insisting on locking up himself and sending his staff home early, an almost unheard of occurrence. Some of the girls at work had commented on the change in his normal routine. He’d overheard one of them saying that the boss must have acquired a new lady-friend, as unlikely as the possibility seemed to them. But what did he care? They were all feather-brained anyway. All they could talk about was the local gossip, and the trash they heard on the radio or read in the popular tabloids. They would never understand the inner belief that drove him on. One day, when all was changed, they would see him in a different, far more heroic light.

  There was a loud knock on the front door that suddenly jolted him out of his reverie. This was not a time for chance callers, and he hadn’t entertained for ages. He slipped quickly from the kitchen into the front room, and pulled the curtains back fractionally to get a glimpse of the porch and front garden. The man standing there was of medium height, with a pale face and dark brown, slightly curly hair. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, and was casually looking back at the terraced street. Simms had never seen him before. Could this be the object of his excitement, the message from Germany? He dashed back to the kitchen, pulled up a chair and levered himself up to one of the upper kitchen cupboards. His hand fumbled about until he managed to grasp the heavy object in its brown grease paper wrapping. He slipped the PPK into his pocket and scuttled off to the front door, his heart racing all the time.

  He reached the end of the hall and opened the front door. ‘Yes?’

  The man turned around and gazed inquiringly at him. ‘Good evening. I’m sorry to disturb you.’ He looked reassuringly friendly. ‘I’ve come about the windows - are you interested in spring cleaning?’

  Simms’ heart raced - that was the code phrase in the letter. The reply was simple, pre-arranged. ‘N-N-No thank you, I’m more interested in spring awakening,’ he replied, nervously.

  The stranger smiled and leaned forward, much closer now. ‘Ah, you mean Fruhlingserwachsen’, he whispered. Maurice Simms nodded breathlessly. He quickly looked up and down the street. Nobody was in sight or paying the slightest attention, as far as he could tell. ‘You’d better come in,’ he muttered.

  14 Holly Park Terrace 1945

  It was almost time to knock off. The evening sunlight cast long shadows across the suburban street as the sun settl
ed on its westerly course. He yawned, comfortably slumped in the driver’s seat, his head just high enough to see over the edge of the windscreen. Michael Reynolds had had enough- he was tired after a long day’s unsatisfying work filled with watching the usual suspects going about their unvarying, predictable lives. It was the same routine he’d carried out over the last few days, a circuit of former British Union of Fascists members in a convoluted pattern that wove across the width and breadth of London. It sounded interesting, but in reality there was nothing of any great note to observe.

  With the onset of the war, most of the former fascists had either shut down their activities, or had been arrested and imprisoned sooner or later under the emergency regulations issued by the wartime coalition government. The vast majority of the rest were harmless, silly idiots who’d dabbled in a new political direction. A small hardcore of Nazi sympathizers remained who were devoted to the cause, still dreaming of destroying communism and forging a different future for Britain. Some of them had eventually turned out to be working for the Abwehr, or had even somehow been recruited by the SS. But by and large they were second rate, all amateurs, compared to the hardened pros at MI5. Few had shown any great ability at tradecraft. It had been comparative child’s play to neutralize and ‘turn’ them. Now their tune was controlled by the Pied Pipers at Broadway Buildings, and his own organization at Thames House.

  Even so, the Head of MI5 was determined to keep a regular watch on those who might one day suddenly change their normal daily routine and become active again. This was what had brought him here, the last location on his route. Maurice Simms was classified as a low risk threat, but the boss wanted him kept under observation, like all the others. Just in case. Reynolds had been tasked with tailing the pharmacist intermittently over the years. But Simms never appeared to be anything other than quite harmless and excruciatingly boring. If he wasn’t working at his pharmacy, then he stayed at home, hiding behind the facade of his lonely bourgeois existence. Nobody ever visited him, not since his wife and child had fled years ago, so Reynolds had discovered. He shook his head in wonder- what the hell did Simms do for kicks?How did he spend all that time on his own?It would have driven him mad to be in the same situation. He almost felt sorry for the dreary pharmacist, who looked old before his time, and acted even older.

  Reynolds was just about to sit up and turn the key in the ignition when in the rear view mirror he spotted a stranger walking down the street. It was somebody he’d never seen here before - a new resident, perhaps, or maybe someone returning home, on leave from active service or elsewhere. The man walked past where Reynolds’ car was parked on the opposite side of the street, a few houses up from number fourteen. He did not look around, but appeared to be counting the house numbers. Reynolds slid as low as he could in the seat while still maintaining surveillance, his eyes closed to mere slits, his hat tilted over to cover most of his face. The stranger walked on to where number fourteen was, opened the gate that led onto the postage stamp sized garden at the front, made his way to the door and knocked.

  The newcomer turned around, casually looking up and down the street, his gaze flicking over the parked car without registering any particular interest. Reynolds registered his appearance in his mind, concentrating on the face. The front curtains twitched behind the drawing room window, and after a short pause he saw Simms open the front door. A brief conversation, and then the stranger entered the house and disappeared from view.

  How very unusual. Simms doesn’t get a visitor for years, and now this chap turns up out of the blue. He doesn’t look like a door-to-door salesman to me. He looks more like somebody in the services, maybe someone who knows how to take care of himself. I’ll mention it in my report, see what the Chief thinks.There was little else to get excited about in another mind- numbingly dull day.

  14 Holly Park Terrace 2000

  Simon had already decided that his host was more than a little unusual. Maurice Simms came across as a strange mixture of almost school-boyish excitement, disbelief and feminine fussiness. The little man was eager to help in any way, but Simon sensed a degree of obsession in everything he did, and where anything was placed around the fastidiously clean and tidy house. There was little evidence of any female influence whatsoever on the décor or apparel in the house, something he found quite logical, really- after all, what woman in her right mind would want to settle down with this odd gnome of a man? Maybe he was being a little unfair. But Simms appeared to be extraordinarily reclusive in his private existence here, almost a hermit. Except when he went to work, of course. There were no pictures of family or friends to be seen anywhere. But all that could be to his advantage. The last thing Simon wanted was for a safe house to be thronged with unexpected visitors and guests. He’d already been the subject of unwelcome attention today, and that was quite enough. He was tired- it was the end of a long and eventful twenty four hours. Better lay down some ground rules at the start, make sure there were no misunderstandings.

  He introduced himself. ‘My name’s Peter O’Malley. That’s all you need to know. You should have received details by post of my arrival’.

  ‘Yes’, Simms said excitedly. ‘I got a letter yesterday. I used my code pad to decipher the details. How long will you be here for?’

  ‘Hopefully no more than a few weeks. Is the transmitter working satisfactorily?’

  ‘Yes’, Simms beamed. ‘Do you want to see it now?’

  ‘No, let’s wait until it’s your transmission check-in time. Which is..?’

  ‘1145 tonight. Can you tell me what you’re here for? It must be something of great importance for our two countries.’ Simms was bubbling with suppressed excitement, trembling with anticipation like a child eager for an unexpected present. ‘Oh, you don’t know how long I’ve waited for a day such as this! Nearly six years and nothing but routine contact. I so very much want to help. I-‘

  ‘Look’, Simon interrupted firmly, ‘there are some things you must accept without question. As a matter of security, for both you and me, you must understand that whatever I do here is top secret. I can tell you very little, the less the better as anything more would compromise the mission’.

  Simon could sense there might be trouble if he came down too hard on the man, but he needed to make his position clear. He would try his best to be polite and amiable. Besides, there was no point in antagonising Simms at this stage of the operation.

  ‘The best thing you can do is provide the shelter of this house, and the use of your transmitter. I presume it’s hidden in the loft?’ Simms nodded. ‘Good. I won’t disturb you. All I’ll need is a bedroom, the use of a bathroom and food. Does anybody ever visit here? Friends, girlfriends, busybodies, anything of that sort?’ He had to ask.

  ‘No. Nobody. There was a wife, but she’s gone.’ Simms suddenly looked as if he was about to burst into tears. Better not go there.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Simon quickly apologized. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude or intrusive. You’re doing an absolutely wonderful job here, and my boss is extremely grateful. He won’t forget it, either. You’re one of his most important assets.’ It was true. Schellenberg regarded this funny little man as his last remaining ace-in-the- hole card in England, someone he was sure was unknown to MI6. Despite Simms’ oddity, he could still be extremely useful. ‘That’s all I can tell you for now. I’ll be as quiet as a church mouse, so quiet you won’t know that I’m here. By the way, I’ve lost my luggage, so I’ll need to go shopping for clothes and so on. I’ll need details of local shops, and the sort of things I can buy. I also need a spare key for both front and back doors. Is my accent OK?’

  Simms looked a little happier. ‘Yes, it sounds fine. No trace of an accent that I can tell. I’ll give you details of local shops in the morning, before I go to work. You’ll need to be aware that some things are simply unavailable in wartime. It could be dangerous for you ask for them.’

  ‘Thanks, that’s really very helpful’ Simon smiled, laying it on as thick a
s he could.

  ‘Tell me about yourself. I’ll need to know your work routine, what time you go to work, when you get home, any official duties or visits, that sort of thing. You can show me around your house. Also, when it gets dark, you can give me a brief tour outside. I need to know all possible exits, back-alley routes, local short-cuts. Just in case. You never know.’

  ‘Do you think you were followed here?’ Simms looked alarmed and anxious. ‘I’ve never seen any police watching me. Not since before the war, I mean.’

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ Simon lied. ‘The journey was all rather straightforward.’ It would be pointless to unduly worry the man. If he told Simms about his escapades across central London, it might create additional anxiety, maybe enough to alter Simms’ normal behaviour pattern and attract comment and possibly unwelcome attention.‘Look, I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Tell you what- how about you cooking me some dinner, and in exchange, I’ll give you what information I can, and then we can talk about your importance to the future of fascism and the great things happening in Germany. Is that a deal?’

  ‘Yes’. Simms agreed, impressed by this stranger’s air of authority. This man was naturally used to giving out orders, forming a plan and acting decisively, so it seemed. A real man, someone to look up to, someone whom you would follow regardless of the risk. Simms very much hoped he would be able to fulfil his role and impress O’Malley, or whatever his real name was. And he was quite handsome, too. And there was no wedding ring to be seen, either. Interesting.