London Calling

by D. N. J. Greaves

  ‘On your feet - hands in the air.’ The voice took a few steps backward.

  He turned warily, awkwardly rising up. The man in front was vaguely familiar. Where had he seen him before?

  The stranger was smiling broadly. ‘Remember me? The Underground station at Green Park?’ The muzzle of the Browning was pointing directly at Simon’s heart. ‘I thought we’d meet again. Last time you were the winner - today it’s my turn.’ He was enjoying the taste of victory. The man continued in a conversational manner, very much like two friends discussing the choice of menu at a restaurant. ‘By the way, next time check the pantry properly, old boy. I was hidden around the corner inside. But I don’t think it would have made any difference.’

  The front door flew open, and five men crammed their way into the hall, pistols at the ready.

  ‘Ah, reinforcements.’ The MI6 man did not take his eyes off him for even a moment. ‘Cuff him, lads. I’ll cover you’. Two of them rushed up and seized Simon’s unresisting arms, forcing them roughly behind his back and pinioning them firmly until the handcuffs were locking his wrists tightly together.

  ‘Well done, George.’ Another voice boomed into the kitchen. A tall man with a moustache and thinning hair stood in front of him, looking extremely pleased with himself. ‘All’s well that ends well, as they say.’ He beamed. ‘George, you’ll get a promotion for this. I’ll see to it personally. Now go and check upstairs, see how our eminent personage is doing.’ Johnson hurried off. Shortly they could hear the thump of his footsteps as he mounted the stairs. Simon turned to face the newcomer.

  ‘I’ve waited for some time for this,’ the tall man said cheerfully, not wishing to rush and spoil things.It would be better to take one’s time, savour the moment for posterity. “My name’s Menzies. I’m very pleased to finally make your acquaintance, although regretfully I cannot shake your hand.’ His insincerity was quite charming. ‘You’re the last of an almost extinct species, an active Nazi agent in England. A rare bird, indeed. You gave us quite a few headaches, I must admit, led us quite a dance. But that, to state the obvious, is all over now. You and I are going to have some interesting chats over the next few days.’

  He turned to the rest of his team and curtly issued his orders. ‘Get him out of here- the usual place. Blindfold him in the car. Start the process tonight - I’ll be along later.’ One of the agents nodded, and Simon was roughly hustled out of the kitchen, along the hall and outside into the waiting black saloon. He was firmly wedged in the back of the car between two very determined and alert-looking men. A blindfold was slipped over his eyes. There was little he could do. His arms and back began to ache, irritated by the uncomfortable position he was in. But that was nothing compared to the disappointment in his heart. MI6 had won, and he would never see Canaris or Patricia again. The future looked very black indeed. It was all he could do not to give in to his feelings of despondency and despair.

  Room 42, Cabinet War Rooms 1905

  Menzies was feeling decidedly magnanimous in victory, but he was still careful to conceal his emotions and not give in to the temptation to gloat in public. That was something no real gentleman would ever consider. The satisfaction of a successful conclusion to the operation was immense, as was the relief at not having cocked it up, although the twists and turns of the day’s events had brought him at times to the very edge of despair. But that was hardly important now - the main thing was that he had succeeded. Nevertheless, a small voice of caution reminded him how close the difference between success and failure was. It brought to mind his military training. The old adage of no plan surviving contact with the enemy and remaining unchanged was very appropriate. Even so, the committee would doubtless be very pleased, and Nicholls would be hard pressed to find anything to be critical about. The Permanent Undersecretary did not need to know the full operational details of what had happened earlier that day, and the less he knew about it the better.

  ‘I’m pleased to tell the committee that Operation Matador was successfully concluded this afternoon. We have taken into custody the German agent, and his interrogation will begin shortly. We’ve also seized his contact. However, I think that it is best that the mole’s identity remains restricted knowledge for the moment. I would imagine that you, Richard, will need to discuss this with the PM. Who he is will almost certainly be considered highly sensitive, and will need to be withheld, perhaps on a permanent basis.’ He slid a sealed envelope across the table marked ‘TOP SECRET’ in large red stencilled print. All eyes carefully watched as Lockhart pulled it towards him.

  The admiral firmly resisted the temptation to open it. It would be poor form to flaunt his privilege in front of the others. ‘Thank you, Stuart. And the mole?’

  ‘It looks like all the excitement of today’s events was too much for him. He’s suffered a stroke. Probably occurred on the way back from the park. One of our medical experts is looking at him now, but his initial prognosis is poor. He’s in a coma - a nasty brain haemorrhage. Recovery is extremely unlikely. Our doctor thinks he’ll die in the next few days, probably from a chest infection. Pneumonia - the usual sort of complication from such an event.’

  ‘So how are you able to prove he was the mole?’

  ‘Firstly, by his association with O’Malley. Secondly, and more conclusively, he was seen to drop a newspaper that he was carrying in the park - today’s copy of the Daily Telegraph. Inside were a series of photographs of the order of battle for the invasion, complete with maps of the areas involved - priceless intelligence, especially in the wrong hands. He would have exchanged his copy of the Telegraph for the Spaniard’s. This is how the information was passed over.’

  ‘What about Ruiz?’

  ‘Safe, unharmed and back with the staff at the embassy. He was waylaid by O’Malley before the rendezvous in the park, almost certainly for some last-minute information on his English contact that helped O’Malley to identify our mole. I’m speaking with the Foreign Office tomorrow. A carefully worded letter of apology and a visit from some senior FO dignitary will soothe any ruffled feathers, I’m sure.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to this German you’ve captured?’ Brigadier Williams was leaning forward, a fascinated look on his face.

  ‘He’ll undergo the usual interrogation. We’re starting the process already.’

  ‘What, torture and other unspeakable depravities?’ Nicholls spoke for the first time. As usual, there was an element of criticism in his voice mixed with more than a hint of distaste.

  ‘No, Alan.’ The civil servant had been reading too many popular novels. ‘If you mean are we going to rips his nails out, and use similar techniques, then the answer is a resounding no. That sort of thing is for the Gestapo. There are far more effective and sophisticated ways of loosening a man’s tongue if he proves reluctant to sing to us. And they don’t involve physical torture, not the type you have in mind.’

  Nicholls persisted, a glint in his eye. ‘So are you going to shoot him when you’ve finished?’

  ‘Well, strictly speaking, according to the Geneva Convention he has no rights, not being in the uniform of his country and caught behind enemy lines, so to speak. But a firing squad is not necessarily the best solution. If we can persuade him to act for us then he might be a very valuable tool, particularly if he can be inserted back into Germany. We’re not exactly flush with agents over there at the moment, so he could be very useful to us.’

  ‘Isn’t that risky?’ Turner, the naval representative butted in.

  ‘Not if we have the right hold on him. It’s not the first time we’ve ‘turned’ enemy agents and made them useful. There are quite a few successful precedents. Naturally, I can’t give you operational details of current activities, but if you cast your mind back to Operation Mincemeat that’s one example of this process.’ Mincemeat was MI6’s code word for the deception plan in the summer of 1943 to convince Hitler that the Allies would invade Sardinia and Greece, rather than Sicily as had happened historically. It had
worked very well.

  There was no further comment. Lockhart addressed the committee.

  ‘I’m sure everyone here will join me in congratulating both Stuart and David on their highly satisfactory conclusion to Operation Matador’. There was a chorus of nodding and muttered well done’s from the other members. Menzies was quick to observe Nicholls’ absence of recognition. Lockhart’s voice took on a sterner note. ‘However, I hope I need not to have to remind any committee members that the content of this meeting is still top secret.’ He was careful to avoid looking at anyone in particular as he continued. ‘I would be most displeased if word was to be leaked out about any of the operational details we have discussed.’

  Nicholls’ face expressed a look of momentary dismay, much to Menzies’ satisfaction. That will hopefully shut up that little shit. I wonder if he’s leaked something already. He breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God Matador was successfully wrapped up. It would have looked very bad indeed if Churchill got to hear of a failed operation.

  The meeting concluded. As he exited the front door of the building that led onto King Charles Street, Petrie waylaid him. ‘Fancy a beer before you get back to work, Stuart?’

  The two of them ended up being chauffeured to the Bell Inn on Herrick Street, a watering hole favoured by many in the intelligence services. They managed to find a quiet corner to discuss the day’s events over a beer.

  ‘Looks like I owe you some money, Stuart. By the way, congratulations on what happened today. You managed to save your bacon. Ours too, for that matter.’

  ‘Thanks, David. I must admit that for a few minutes the whole thing looked like it was going up in smoke. But we had a few lucky breaks. Cheers!’ Menzies raised his glass and drank deeply. ‘Your lads came in very handy. The Ministry of Transport found us a name and address surprisingly quickly, and with your mobile resources we tailed them back to Lord Epsley’s house. We got there just in time. The rest was straightforward enough.’

  Petrie raised his glass to return the toast. ‘Who would have believed it? John Rothermere Epsley, Lord, a brigadier to boot, leaking invasion plans to the enemy. I’m still stunned by it all. After all, he comes from a very distinguished military family that has been loyal to the Crown for years. His ancestors fought with Marlborough at Blenheim, and with Wellington in Spain. What is he - thirty seventh in line to the throne?’

  ‘Something like that’, Menzies admitted.

  Petrie shook his head in wonder. ‘What could have motivated him to do it? And how could he have managed to steal the information on the invasion? Those plans must be highly restricted.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Menzies looked pensive. ‘He won’t tell us now, not with the condition he’s in - I doubt Epsley will be ever able to speak again, from what the doctors think. I’ll tell you this, though - I’m going to have some fun when I visit SHAEF HQ tomorrow.’ Menzies winked.‘It will be interesting to see how Eisenhower and Strong are going to take this. I think there’ll be quite a few headless chickens running around in panic when they realise just how close we’ve all come to disaster.’

  ‘Aye. I’d love to be a fly on the wall at that meeting.’ Petrie grinned. Despite all their previous difficulties, Menzies seemed decent enough to work with on an equal basis, now that they were no longer treading on each other’s toes. Of course, Menzies’ victory had made him easier to deal with, less prickly and irritable. In addition, he had not been insufferably proud of his success. There was nothing worse than a pompous, gloating rival- a most ungentlemanly way to behave. He pulled out a ten- pound note from his pocket. ‘Here - this is yours’.

  ‘It’s alright, David. Keep it.’ Menzies was still feeling generous. ‘You can pay for the drinks tonight, and the next few times we meet for a drink. Deal?’

  ‘Deal. Maybe this is the start of a better relationship between us.’

  Menzies acknowledged this with a smile. “I’ll drink to that’.

  Hermitage House, near Newbury 1945 27/5/1944

  The bright light burned his eyes, a harsh, unrelenting assault on his visual senses. It was much worse than the ache across his shoulders, neck and back. The guards had pinioned his wrists to the arms of his chair, and additional straps across his chest and head held him upright. This extra security was responsible for the unnaturally erect position he was sitting in, hence the problem with his shoulders and back. In addition his legs were strapped down, virtually guaranteeing complete immobility. But that was nothing compared to the overwhelming tiredness he felt. The thought of sleep, and resting his tired eyes, was virtually overpowering in its intensity. But he knew this was all part of the game. There was no chance that they would let him drift into unconsciousness.

  How long had he been here for- two or three days, or was it more? It was getting harder to concentrate. He knew what they were doing- weakening his will by denying him sleep, relying on the disorientating effect of his surroundings and minimising his ability to focus on external influences, to subdue any resistance and erode his will power. Outside the sphere of light, the rest of his surroundings were in deepest gloom.All he was aware of was the shapeless form of floor and walls at the edge of vision. He knew that somewhere, somehow they were observing him from a hidden vantage point. Every time he attempted to close his eyes, a loud buzzer would go off and somebody would slam into the room, slap him awake, or drench him in cold water. This, and the infrequent times they entered to help him use a chemical toilet, and the even rarer times when he was given food and drink, was the only human contact he had so far experienced since being brought here. The food was disgusting, but he had learned quickly to overcome his reluctance as the ravening pangs of hunger forced him into eating. But not only was it unpalatable, there was also very little of it. They must be calculating on keeping him awake by using hunger as an additional weapon to break him.

  Not a word had been said, ever since he had been blindfolded in the back of the car. So that was the picture- sleep deprivation, spatial disorientation, hunger and minimal external stimulation. He couldn’t remember if Schubert had mentioned this. Probably not. The Gestapo tended to go for a quicker, more physical approach. Success was generally far more immediate as a result. Perhaps they were less patient than the British, less sophisticated. Possibly MI6 had time to spare and were in no hurry. After all, his mission had failed. Their secrets were safe, and his future looked distinctly uncertain.

  However, he had not abandoned hope entirely. Never give in to despair- nil desperandum, as somebody had once told him. Perhaps he could strike a deal with the British to extricate him from the mess he was in, however unlikely that seemed. After all, there was not much in the way of alternatives - it was either a reprieve for his cooperation, or a firing squad. The thought of the latter did not worry him unduly - he had been close enough to death on too many previous occasions. And it had been a pretty good life - too many of his friends and comrades had paid the ultimate price far too early in their lives. He tried to put thoughts about Patricia out of his mind. He would only allow that luxury if by some miracle he found himself at liberty again and able to decide his own fate.

  And as for sleep deprivation, he was better able than most in coping with its disorientation. He’d had plenty of practice on the Russian front, where sleep was often a rare commodity in times of heavy fighting. Still, it was becoming more and more difficult to stay awake, and he knew he was struggling to maintain his concentration. It would probably not be that all that long before he started hallucinating, making it impossible for him to judge what was real and what was the product of a disordered imagination. His eyes began to grow heavy again. It could only be a matter of time before his unseen watcher would storm in, but he was almost beyond caring. Let them do what they wanted to do. He drifted off…

  Somewhere behind him a door slammed open. He was dimly aware of footsteps approaching.The straps across his head and chest were eased off, and suddenly his arms, then legs were freed. Strong arms lifted him into an upright positio
n and dragged him off the chair.

  ‘Clean him up,’ a curt, unfamiliar voice ordered. ‘Then get him upstairs.’

  An indefinite time later, he found himself sitting in a slightly more comfortable chair. His hands were secured to the arms of the chair as before, but this time his legs were free. A harsh light still shone on him, making him blink, and hiding a figure sitting in shadow behind it. As far as he could tell he was in a bare room, the only furniture a desk on which the light source stood.

  ‘Good evening. I apologize for the way you’ve been treated, but we’ll soon rectify that - as long as you prove cooperative, that is. If you don’t, then I’m sure that an intelligent man like yourself can imagine a number of alternative endings to your stay in England. That would be a shame, as I’m hoping we’ll get along well enough to avoid any more unpleasantness.’

  That voice was definitely familiar. It sounded very much like the man who had caught him at Epsley House. It was the same easy, relaxed manner - confident, reasonable, utterly in control.

  ‘In that case, may I have a drink?’ He managed to croak the words out, his throat dry and raw. His interrogator complied with the request. Soon he felt less parched and better able to converse. The desire to fall asleep was thrust aside for the moment.

  ‘Thanks. I would also appreciate something to wear.’ He was naked apart from some underpants.

  ‘Sorry about that.’ The voice was casual, the apology patently insincere. ‘We needed your clothes. It’s all part of the identification process, Mr O’Malley. If indeed that is your name, which I very much doubt. Nor is it Richard Hollingsworth. We found those papers in your jacket, along with a few other things of interest. Good forgeries, I must say. There’s still someone over there in Berlin who knows how to do a good job.’