London Calling

by D. N. J. Greaves

  57-58 St James’ Street London 1030 9/5/1944

  It promised to be yet another predictably boring day for Micheal Reynolds. At least he’d managed to have some fun last night with his latest girlfriend, a trim brunette who worked as a secretary downstairs. She’d been suitably voracious. Her appetite for rampant and strenuous sexual activity had left him exhausted. Thank God she had to go home before it was too late and look after her aged mother, otherwise he doubted if he would have got any sleep at all last night. He grinned to himself, remembering the amazing variations her desires had demanded. There’s nothing quite like a hot woman.

  He’d finished his daily report earlier this morning and handed it into his Controller’s office as soon as he’d arrived for work. Apart from the unexpected visitor at Simms’ home, there was nothing of real note to distinguish it from all the other pieces of paper he’d generated over his time with MI5. Reynolds would shortly head out on yet another round of surveillance, and was in the process of finishing going through some routine paperwork when the door slammed open and Richardson, one of the other field agents, popped his head around the edge. He looked to be in a hurry.

  ‘Mike, I’m glad I caught you. Get yourself down to the Controller’s office. He wants to see you immediately.’

  Reynolds yawned and stretched leisurely. ‘What’s up, Frank? Don’t tell me he’s got his todger caught in his zip again?’

  ‘Very funny, ha-ha.’ Richardson made a face. ‘I wouldn’t say that when you see him. There’s a bit of a flap going on this morning. Haven’t you noticed?’

  ‘No, I didn’t realise anything unusual was happening. I’ve been stuck down here going through the daily rubbish for the last hour. I was just about to head out.’

  ‘Yes, I know’, Richardson puffed his chest up and frowned, looking self-important.

  ‘Well, he’s very excited about something. I couldn’t get anything out of him, so you’d better get your arse down there pronto.’

  ‘Yes sir, right away sir,’ Reynolds grinned and flicked Richardson a mock salute. They were both the same rank, but Richardson was very much the up and coming career man who took his job very seriously indeed. Far too seriously.Still, when the boss called…

  He left the room and strode casually down the corridor. Davies’ office was on the next floor up. He climbed the stairs, walked quietly down the carpeted corridor and knocked on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ an imperious voice barked. Reynolds entered the room. His immediate boss was sitting behind his desk facing the door, looking intently at some paperwork in front of him. A florid, slightly overweight, middle-aged man, Richard Davies had been promoted two years ago to the exalted position of Controller, and was responsible for managing the day to day activities of MI5 field agents scattered around England, and London in particular. He had a well-deserved reputation for being shrewd and careful, a quiet, clever man with a good sense of humour on the rare occasions his job let him relax. Across the desk from him sat a newcomer, an impeccably attired officer with Guards badges on his lapels, who looked at him curiously.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Reynolds.’ Davies looked up and nodded at his guest. ‘This is Major Monckton, from our cousins over at MI6. I don’t believe you’ve met?’

  ‘No sir.’ Reynolds stood to something approaching attention, and hoped his civilian attire would pass inspection. He’d heard of Monckton but had never met him or anybody else from the hallowed halls of Broadway Buildings. Crikey, I’m in the presence of royalty. I hope I haven’t fucked up somewhere.

  Monckton nodded, smiled and waved a hand languidly. ‘Nice to meet you, Reynolds. Please, have a seat.’ Reynolds managed to not quite slump down onto the indicated chair.

  ‘I read your report detailing yesterday’s activities,’ Davies raised an eyebrow and looked at him searchingly. ‘The usual routine. However, the last bit is quite interesting- this man Simms. You’ve been checking him out for some time, as part of your regular duties. What do you think of him?’

  ‘A sad little man, sir.’ Reynolds relaxed a little. ‘Quite harmless as far as I can see. He’s a former member of the BUF. I think he got scared off years ago, and there’s certainly no evidence of him being involved in any subversive activity at the moment, or at any time in the past, according to our surveillance.’

  ‘Yes, that may be so,’ said Davies. ‘However, I’m more interested in this stranger who turned up at his house last night, according to your report. That’s an unusual occurrence your summary states. Describe him for us, please.’

  So that’s what this is all about. Reynolds concentrated on a mental image of the stranger he’d seen the night before, and gave as full a description as he could. ‘Wavy dark brown or black hair, pale regular facial features, athletic physique, average height, around five eleven, weight maybe thirteen to fourteen stone. Dark blue suit, white shirt, tie. No hat or luggage. Maybe a slight limp. Probably military from his bearing, but that’s just an impression.’

  ‘Have you ever seen him before?’

  ‘No, sir’, replied Reynolds. ‘As I said in the report, Simms never has guests drop in. He’s virtually a recluse. That’s what made this so unusual.’

  Davies looked across to Monckton. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Sounds rather convincing to me, from what I’ve heard,’ Monckton drawled. He reached for the table, and picked up a pair of photographs that were lying face down on the leather- bound surface. He handed one of them to Reynolds. ‘Is this the man you saw?’

  He stared at the picture. It was a little grainy, probably due to the effects of enlargement. A man was crossing a street, looking diagonally past the view of the photographer, seemingly oblivious to his presence. He wore a dark hat and carried what looked like a service kitbag on his shoulder, but it looked remarkably similar to the man he’d seen in Holly Park Terrace yesterday evening. Monckton passed him the second photo- this one was an enlargement of a face view taken at the same time. This one was very definitely grainy, much more so than the first, but there was no doubt in his mind.

  ‘That’s him, sir. I’m sure he’s the character who I saw going into Simm’s house last night, just before eight o’clock. Can you tell me how you’ve got his photograph?’

  Monckton looked calm and nonchalant, deliberately suppressing any inner excitement, and smiled regretfully. ‘I’m very sorry, but the answer’s no at present. I need to talk to your boss first, and then maybe you’ll be more involved at a later stage. But you’re quite sure about this?’

  Reynolds nodded. ‘Oh yes, this is the man I saw. Definitely.’

  ‘And did he see you?’ The blue eyes bored into him relentlessly.

  ‘No sir, not as far as I can tell’.

  ‘Alright. Thank you very much.’ Monckton glanced over at Davies and raised his eyebrows.

  The older man turned back towards Reynolds. ‘Finish your paperwork, Mike, and wait in the office for me. Forget about your normal surveillance route today. I’ll talk to you later.’

  ‘Yes sir’. Reynolds got up and left the room, glancing briefly at Monckton, who smiled pleasantly and nodded his head in farewell. As he walked back down the corridor towards his office, he couldn’t help but wonder why the devil MI6 should be interested in this newcomer.Was he an enemy agent? He found it hard to believe that Simms, of all people, was a sleeper who had just been activated again after years of dreary, normal existence. But stranger things had happened before- maybe this was the start of something big. He certainly hoped so. His day job needed a bit of spicing up.

  57-58 St James Street 1100

  ‘Thanks for your help, Dick.’ Monckton beamed. He was elated. He’d taken the chance to nip out of his office and unofficially drop in and see an old friend, and the result had been spectacularly successful. Never in his wildest dreams did he expect to pick up the trail again so quickly. Menzies had been proven right. O’Malley had needed to get to a safe house, that much was obvious. And the combined efforts of MI5 and MI6 over
the last few years had shut down or neutralised the entire Abwehr network in Britain. Almost certainly the same applied to SS counter-intelligence. It was highly unlikely that Schellenberg had any other assets, unless they were even more deeply hidden than Simms. He must have recruited this pharmacist before the war and kept him in reserve up until now. Thank God the head of MI5 had insisted on keeping tabs on any and all suspects. A laborious job, admittedly, but all that effort had undoubtedly produced results, and this was the latest dividend.

  He’d known Richard Davies for the past four years. The two of them got on remarkably well, despite being in different intelligence agencies that were sometimes at odds with each other. But that was more a reflection on the occasionally prickly personalities at the top rather than the rank and file. It was always useful to have a friendly conduit to help, or to pass on information without necessarily having to go through official channels and endless paperwork. And besides, he wasn’t doing anything underhand in approaching one of the senior men in MI5- Menzies would be coming over later today to discuss a proposed joint operation. A little bit of advance warning on either side never went amiss.

  ‘Not at all, Charlie. It’s just sheer coincidence that I was looking through Reynolds’ report just before you arrived. We’ve had nothing of any real interest over the last few weeks, and his sighting yesterday was the only thing that looked a bit odd, a bit out of character, so to speak.’ Davies shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m still amazed that Reynolds was in the right place at the right time. A million to one odds, maybe, but every now and then you get a lucky break.’

  ‘Do I take it he’s not one of your most enthusiastic field agents, then?’

  ‘He’s alright, but I think he likes the ladies rather more than the job. And a few beers, too.’ He laughed. ‘Can’t say I blame him really, but then he’s had a rather boring routine to adhere to.’

  Monckton nodded. The public had a false idea of the nature of intelligence work. Little did they realise that the vast majority of the work involved in counter-espionage, surveillance and intelligence gathering was in many ways mind-numbingly boring, a steady routine of mundane and unvarying activity. It was a far cry from images of dashing heroes using fancy new weapons to defeat the enemy, or suavely working undercover in a dinner jacket, frequenting the high society parties, casinos and night clubs of, say, the Côte D’Azur or skiing on the slopes of Gstaad. Too many films and books gave a misleading impression of just what it was really all about.

  ‘I think we’re going to be seeing a bit more of each other. My Chief is coming over this afternoon to have a meeting with your boss, and doubtless he’ll go through all the operational details and history behind this. Even I can’t say any more than what I‘ve told you so far, so keep it mum. This thing is probably the biggest single event so far over the last five years, and we can’t afford to drop the ball on this one.’

  ‘Okay Charlie. I read you loud and clear. Fancy a drink later on?’

  ‘At least several, but that depends on our masters, and what they cook up.’ Monckton got up. ‘I’ll speak to you later. You can keep these photos, too. I think you’re going to need them’.

  14 Holly Park Terrace 1700 10/5/1944

  It had been another fine day, one more in a series of blue skies, fluffy white clouds and gentle winds that characterised the lovely May weather. It started off early over breakfast, with Simms giving him an idea of where to shop to get a change of clothes. The task was simple enough, although the choice was severely limited due to the restrictions of the wartime economy. He’d managed to get some white shirts and changes of underwear, enough to manage with in the meantime, but getting a new suit would take much longer. Getting measured at a local tailor was not a problem, but cloth was rationed, he was told, and the armed services took first priority. His order would take several weeks, more if he was unlucky. Simms had promised to bring back a razor and other essential toiletry items from his shop. He’d also provided a street map of London, a useful back up just in case Simon needed to get his bearings.

  But the trip into the centre of London was the thing that dominated his thoughts. Today was the second Thursday of the month, a day when the mole might make contact with his Spanish counterpart. Schellenberg had provided him with a description of the embassy official, and the time and approximate location of the tryst. The plan was for Simon to retrace his route from yesterday, and arrive at the embassy just before one o’clock. He would then be able to follow him up to Hyde Park. It was only a short walk, according to the map, and he doubted there would be that many suspects leaving the embassy and answering to Ruiz’s description to choose from.

  The journey was almost exactly the opposite of the adventures he’d had the day before. No one took any particular interest in him, as far as he could tell. He made some routine checks, but he recognized nobody, and his sixth sense did not alert him this time. He timed his route to arrive in Belgrave Place a few minutes early, and spent some time wandering up and down until he found a vantage point from where he could observe the steps leading up to the embassy’s front door. Simon pulled out a copy of the Times purchased during his travels, and pretended to be absorbed in the front page while keeping an eye out on the entrance.

  His patience was rewarded two minutes after one o’clock. A dark skinned, stout man in a coat, fawn suit and identical hat walked purposefully out of the building, down the steps and turned left, heading in the direction of the park. He was carrying a bulky newspaper rolled up in his right hand. Simon guessed that he probably had his packed lunch inside. The man looked neither left nor right, and was easy to follow. Simon kept his distance from across the other side of the street to thirty meters, and was pleased to note that Ruiz took no precautions to check whether he was being tailed. A few minutes later, the Spaniard crossed into the park and went straight to a comparatively secluded area that lay a few hundred meters away from the Serpentine. And there he sat for the next hour, munching his sandwiches and reading the newspaper that had carried his lunch while Simon observed discreetly from a distant park bench. But nobody turned up, and just before two o’clock Ruiz got up, looked carefully around and departed back the way he had come. Simon trailed him at a distance back to the embassy. Then he returned to the park. He had plenty of time to perform a thorough but unobtrusive reconnaissance of the area and familiarise himself with all the paths leading to the place where Ruiz had sat.

  In a way, he felt quite disappointed. At least he’d made contact, even if the main object of scrutiny had declined to attend. He was as sure as he could be that he had identified Ruiz. Nobody else had left the embassy that approximated to his description, and the location in the park matched the profile that Schellenberg had given him. So that left him two weeks to kill until the fourth Thursday, if the supplied information was correct. What would he do in the meantime? And if there was going to be another meeting, it might not be until well into June.Staying in that house would drive him mad, but it would be better than roaming around and risking a chance exposure. How could he entertain himself to pass the time? Simms was hardly the most entertaining of hosts. As he travelled back to Hanwell he let his mind drift.

  He wondered how Rossler, Hofheinz and the rest of the boys were getting on, hidden somewhere in the beautiful French countryside not far from Paris. The change from the miserable, flat and muddy landscape of Russia could hardly be greater. Of course, there would be an awful lot of work to do- new equipment to field test and break in, forty or so new Tigers straight from the Kassel factory to shake down and work up to combat readiness, and a batch of newcomers to welcome into the unit, train up and fill the gaps in the rank structure. He could just picture them now, holed up in a wood performing maintenance and weapons drills, well out of sight of Allied reconnaissance flights. They would only practice unit formation manoeuvres if the coast was clear and if enemy aircraft were far away. But it would be interesting, and maybe there’d be some fun, too - day passes to the French capital, or if you
were really lucky a weekend pass that would give you a chance to forget the war and sample the exquisite delights and pleasures of one of the most exciting and enticing cities in the world.

  Thinking about them made him miss their company, and if he was being honest with himself, at times more than a little annoyed and frustrated. What would his men say if they could see him now, a pawn in Schellenberg’s subtle machinations? Hofheinz would doubtless have some very appropriate and suitably droll comments to make. The importance of his mission was undeniable, but sometimes he wished that Schellenberg had picked on someone else.

  The bus dropped him off near Holly Park Terrace. Another routine check as he crossed the main road before turning right onto his final destination, but again nothing out of the ordinary. He turned into his street, and walked down towards number fourteen. A casual glance took in the cars parked on the other side of the street. In one of them he could see a body slumped in the driver’s seat, his hat pulled down over his face, apparently asleep. Hadn’t he noticed something similar yesterday evening when he first arrived? It looked like the same car. He kept watching it out of the corner of his eye as he drew level and passed by. As he turned into the front garden he thought he saw the twitch of a curtain from an upper window two houses further down from where he was, on the opposite side of the street.He stopped to fish the keys out of his trouser pocket, and at the same time the front door to number twelve opened, and a slim middle-aged woman emerged.

  ‘Afternoon,’ he smiled, nodding towards her. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, hello. Yes it is. You must be Mr Simms’ new lodger. I’m Harriet Maplin, from next door, obviously.’ She giggled and blushed, trying to hide her awkwardness.