by Jake Arnott
4 / THE RUSSIAN TEA ROOMS
They had met in the Russian Tea Rooms in Kensington. Joan Miller had got there first and was glad to find the place crowded. With its polished wooden furniture, panelled walls and open fireplace, it was the sort of café a woman could visit unescorted without drawing attention, or raising questions about her reputation. But Joan had felt awkward and uncomfortable as she waited for her contact from Political. Shifting in her seat, she pondered what seemed a foolish plan: to revisit the haunts of the fascist network she had helped to expose last summer.
It had been easy to spot Marius Trevelyan when he arrived. A bookish type in a tweed jacket, with a mop of straw-coloured hair and heavy horn-rimmed spectacles. In his early twenties, Joan had estimated, though he could almost pass as a schoolboy. There was something not quite fully formed about him.
He had ordered vodka and potato piroshki in flawless Russian. He had studied modern languages at Cambridge, he explained.
When the bill arrived he turned it over and discreetly showed her the address that had been scribbled on the back. The Tea Rooms were run by White Russian émigrés, known to have connections with fascist sympathisers.
‘That’s where the party’s being held,’ he said with an awkward wink.
He paid up and they left together, making their way along Harrington Gardens.
‘Look, Trevelyan.’ Joan came to the point now that they could talk openly. ‘I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to be doing here.’
‘Didn’t M brief you?’
‘He just said that Political wanted me along.’
‘Oh no. It was his idea that you become part of this operation.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. He was quite insistent.’
‘But—’
She thought better of what she had been about to say.
‘Did he tell you why?’ she asked instead.
‘Not really. You know M. Likes to play things his own way. Said you made a plausible fascist.’ Trevelyan laughed. ‘Think he meant that as a compliment.’
‘But you know I was at the trial last year. Someone might recognise me.’
‘Don’t worry. We’ve got them under control.’
‘Control?’
‘Oh yes. Political’s been running a little group. Saving them up for a rainy day. Look, we’re nearly there. We should get into character.’
He told her that they would be pretending to be a Mr and Mrs Fairburn from Tufnell Park, with Blackshirt connections, who had been members of the Anglo-German Fellowship in 1938.
‘I expect you can remember the patter you learnt last June,’ he added. ‘Oh, and you’d better take one of these.’
He took two silver buttons from his jacket pocket and handed her one.
‘Got them from Special Branch evidence store.’
It was a badge depicting an eagle swooping on a viper, with the letters PJ embossed below.
‘Under the lapel, I suppose,’ said Trevelyan. ‘By the way, what does the PJ stand for?’
‘It means “Perish Judah”,’ she replied.
‘Oh, I say.’
The meeting was in the basement of a terraced house in Earl’s Court. Twelve people, Joan counted, crowded into a candlelit room. A short man in a three-piece suit and watch-chain stood before them. He raised his hand and began to speak.
‘I want to talk to you tonight about peace,’ he announced.
The flickering light gave a mesmeric ambience to the assembly. The speaker’s voice began in a soft drone like an incantation. Peace was coming, he assured them solemnly. He had heard it from the highest authorities. So many well-placed people in the Establishment were now determined that this futile and unnecessary war must end. If it continues we will lose the Empire, we will lose everything. We will become a pauper nation forever in debt to the Americans. The people do not want this war. They know in their hearts that as Anglo-Saxons we share so much with our German brothers. Soon it will come, he went on. The white races will unite against the true barbarism that inhabits this earth. We will rise up against the traitors in our midst. Soon it will come, he promised. Peace.
For a moment the word sounded soothing and plausible. Joan suddenly realised how tired she felt. How exhausted everybody was by the endless bombings and privations. Then the man’s voice began to rise to a higher pitch.
Churchill will be deposed. Yes, he insisted, this is certain. People that I know of in government are ready and waiting. People like us who share our feelings are waiting in the wings. Germany is willing to make terms, we know that. An honourable peace that will leave us our Empire while they bring order to the Continent. Only one group of people want this war, and we know who they are, don’t we?
There were murmurs of agreement and a shiver of agitation in the room. She felt someone prod her in the back and she shuffled forward. The speaker started an extended harangue against the Jews. They will be made to pay for all of this, he promised. The audience gleefully hissed its agreement. A woman called out: hang them from the lamp-posts! Joan felt a quickening within her as the anger began to rise in the basement. The suburban voices that found such relish in hatred and horror were familiar and English.
Later, as she and Trevelyan walked back from the meeting, she still felt shocked that these ordinary-seeming people could be so virulent. She remembered that this was what had disturbed her so much when she had spied on the Right Club for M the previous summer.
‘Recognise anyone?’ Trevelyan asked her.
‘No,’ she replied.
‘And what did you think of our speaker tonight?’
‘A thoroughly ghastly little man.’
‘Convincing, wasn’t he?’
‘You mean—’
‘Yes. One of ours.’
‘Good God.’
‘Yes. It’s been quite a project for Political. I trust you’ll give a glowing report to M. Come to think of it, I’m having a drink with Commander Fleming at the Dorchester later. Maybe you should come along. I sure he’d be interested in your impressions of our little nest of vipers. Would it be terribly churlish to leave you here? If I’m lucky I can get a bus back to my digs from around the corner.’
‘Don’t worry about me. I can walk to my flat.’
They shook hands clumsily and Trevelyan wandered off. Joan started to walk home through the blackout. The streets looked empty but she had the uneasy feeling that she was being watched. Everything seemed confused in her mind. All the double games that were being played. The evil little rabble-rouser was an agent provocateur, on their side. Yet he had talked so persuasively of peace. The word now appeared as a taunt to her. Soon the sirens would come, and a sleepless night lay ahead. M had given her some pills but they didn’t do much good.
All at once, the only certainty she felt was that someone was indeed following her. Even from her cursory training in fieldcraft she knew that it wasn’t a very professional tail-job. Perhaps it was someone trying to pick her up. If nothing else the blackout had increased the sense of sexual opportunism, as M had pointed out with those two men the other day. She had once been pursued by a man who, it turned out, she vaguely knew from the War Office, who had told her: ‘When I saw you in the street I told myself that if you were a tart I’d take you to bed, and if you were a lady I’d take you to dinner. Will you come?’ he had added with a playful chuckle. ‘I mean to dinner, of course.’ It was a remark that would have been almost unthinkable from someone of her class before the war. The constant danger of the Blitz had made people more relaxed: as death became casual, so did life. Tonight, though, Joan was in no mood for fun and games. She stopped and turned, waiting for her follower to catch up so that she could confront him.
She peered along the pavement. The footsteps behind had ceased but she could not make anybody out through the gloom. She started walking again, at first determined to go slowly. But she found her pace picking up. She tried to stay calm but she could not. By the time she had reached her doorstep
she was quite out of breath. As she went to close the door behind her, she took a moment to look out into the night. No one was there, she decided. She had imagined it. But as she hung up her coat she noticed that someone had marked a cross in chalk on her back.
5 / THE MAGICIAN
An old man with a childlike gait, thought Fleming, as the Magician shuffled through the hallway to greet him. Two tufts of hair sprouted on either side of an otherwise bald head like impish horns, and a mischievous smile lit up haggard features. The eyes were sharp and vigilant, though. The whites showed all around the irises, giving him an alert and forceful gaze.
Shown through to the study, Fleming found himself drawn to a picture resting on an easel at the far end of the room. A brightly painted panel of about ten by twelve inches depicted an androgynous figure in a green robe decorated with bees and serpents, flanked by a white lion and a red eagle. Encircling this tableau was an inscription in red on a golden arc.
‘Visita Interiora Terrae Rectificando Invenies Occultum Lapidem.’ Fleming read the words out loud. The Magician smiled.
‘How’s your cryptology?’ he asked.
‘Well, my Latin’s a bit shaky. Let me see.’ He studied the motto once more. ‘Visit the interior of the earth, rectifying or by rectification… um… you find, no, you will find. You will find occultum lapidem. The hidden stone. Is that the philosopher’s stone?’
‘Yes!’ replied the Magician with a delighted clap. Fleming noted that his hands were quite yellow and curiously small.
‘An alchemical formula?’
‘It is indeed. But I’m afraid you haven’t quite cracked it.’
‘I’m afraid code-breaking’s not my department, Mr Crowley.’
‘My dear boy,’ his host retorted, ‘I can assure you that this one is not beyond your obvious talents. Go on, have another go.’
For a second Fleming bristled at being so obviously teased. Then he smiled. He looked across the room at this extraordinary man whose playful eyes danced in a wizened skull. He had not known what to expect from the Magician after all the incredible stories that had been told about him, the strange details in his dossier. He had expected to find him disagreeable, yet he found that he liked the man almost at once. He was not quite sure why. Perhaps it was the perverse candour that he displayed, in his speech, in his very appearance. Crowley was in his sixties, his lined and jaundiced flesh bearing witness to the countless sufferings of pleasure. But there was a corporeal honesty about him. His own body had been his greatest luxury, Fleming thought with an odd sense of admiration. The Magician had not squandered his life by trying to conserve it. He had used up his time. Fleming turned back to the picture and swiftly considered the simplest cypher that came to mind.
‘V,’ he began, counting off the first letter of each word. ‘V, I, T, R, I, O, L. Vitriol. That’s sulphuric acid, isn’t it?’
‘Yes indeed. The solution, if you like. The universal solvent. Vitriol here actually refers to the principal alchemical elements of sulphur, salt and mercury. A magical interpretation that only initiates of the ninth degree can comprehend. Anyway,’ he pointed at the picture, ‘it’s the fourteenth trump card of the Tarot. I’m redesigning the whole pack. It’s the Book of Thoth, you know.’
‘Thoth?’
‘The Egyptian god of language. Lady Frieda Harris is doing the artwork for this new set and I am writing the commentary. Her husband is Liberal Member of Parliament for Market Harborough. Rather a dull politician, I’m afraid. Known as the “Housemaid” due to his ability to empty the Chamber whenever he makes a speech. His wife has quite a talent, though, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Well, this one’s been causing her a lot of bother. It’s commonly known as Temperance. “Temperance is a kettle of fish,” she told me in a note. I’ve decided to rename it. I’m calling it Art. What do you think?’
‘I wouldn’t know. Haven’t had much luck with cards myself recently.’
Crowley laughed.
‘My dear boy, the Major Arcana is not some game of chance. The twenty-two trump cards compose a complete system of hieroglyphics representing the total energies of the universe.’
‘Quite,’ Fleming rejoined with an arch smile.
‘Now I see that I’m boring you. That will never do. Come.’ He indicated two armchairs by a table in the middle of the study. ‘Let’s sit down. I’ve been waiting for Naval Intelligence to make contact. I take it you’ve seen my file?’
Fleming nodded as he walked over. The Magician sighed and lowered himself slowly into his seat. A chessboard was set out on the table between them.
‘Yes,’ Crowley went on. ‘I’ve done the state some service. You know that there’s a long tradition of those with occult powers being employed in espionage. Doctor Dee, Queen Elizabeth’s court magician, was also one of her best spies, you know. She called them her “eyes”, with two circles indicating this and then a number. Dee was the seventh of her “eyes”, so his code sign was double-O-seven.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes. I suppose I’m secret agent 666.’
‘Actually your code name in the department is the Magician.’
‘Quite,’ said Crowley, slightly out of breath. He began to wheeze and pulled out a Benzedrine inhaler from his pocket, taking a sharp snort in each nostril. A tear lingered in the corner of one eye. ‘Sorry, it’s my wretched asthma,’ he explained. ‘Now look, my dear boy, since you’ve had a good look at my file you know that what I did for your department in the last war cost me dearly. Disinformation and all that, I know. Disseminating absurd German propaganda to discredit the enemy. Worked a treat. But rather cast me as the villain. Don’t think I can go through all that again.’
‘Don’t worry on that account. We’ve other plans for you.’
‘Good. All the scandal, my great notoriety, it’s ruined me. It’s not easy being the wickedest man in the world, you know.’
‘I don’t suppose it is.’
‘I’m an undischarged bankrupt. Like our own great realm, I’m now dependent on American support for my survival. Oh yes, my own Land-Lease scheme. The Agape Lodge in California is providing some funds. Just had a charming letter from a new member in Pasadena. A very promising young rocket scientist, would you believe. Rather dashing, too, it seems. You see, my Order is already grooming my successor. I don’t have much time, I know that. The mind’s still sharp but the body, well.’ He made a plaintive gesture to the picture on the easel. ‘I want to finish this. Sorry if I sound pompous about it but it really could be my magnum opus.’
‘A pack of cards?’
‘Yes. A fitting epitaph some would say. To my sinful life.’
He bared his discoloured teeth in a rueful grin. There was sadness in his expression, but little remorse. Holding Fleming’s gaze with an unfocused stare, he started to address him in a direct and intimate manner, his voice soft and hypnotic.
‘You know, of course, that there was an eighth deadly sin, don’t you? Oh yes, the worst of the lot. The early Christians called it accidie, the sorrow of the world, a deadly lethargy and torpor of the spirit that was known to engulf whole villages in the Middle Ages. The most frightful devil of all is this noonday demon of melancholy. Boredom, my dear boy, a terrible vice, and the only one I have been truly determined to resist.’
Fleming suddenly felt as if the Magician was peering into his own soul, that he saw how disappointed he felt in life. All of its empty pleasures and futile plans of action had left him cold. He might be flippant and withdraw into a pose of detached superiority but he was endlessly taunted by the noonday demon, a sinful weariness of the heart. It was this that forced him to seek refuge in a solitary world where he plotted out his secret stories. That other life of obscure substance: the autobiography of his daydreams.
As he began to outline Crowley’s designated role in Operation Mistletoe, he found himself becoming far more expansive in his briefing than was usual. He had hitherto develope
d a method in the handling of agents where they would be carefully kept in the dark as to the overall nature of their assignment and fed information only when it was strictly required. But with the Magician he felt that he could tell him everything. All the details of this fantastical project that had been conjured out of unofficial and increasingly bewildering interdepartmental strategies of disinformation, counter-intelligence and black propaganda. It struck him that this supremely arcane intellect alone could truly comprehend the complex absurdity of such a scheme. And no one would believe him if he ever told the tale. Crowley was himself a cypher, a hidden stone, a key to all the foolish mysteries and rumours in the world.
As Fleming spoke he watched Crowley closely, instinctively gathering intelligence for his own internal memorandum. Another brief appraisal: a version of the man’s character that he could use. Crowley no longer wanted to be cast as the villain in real life, but in fiction, yes, he would make the perfect malefactor. An extravagant counterpoint to the empty hero of Fleming’s private narrative.
‘My dear boy,’ the Magician announced when the briefing had finished. ‘This is marvellous stuff! Preposterous!’ He broke into a laugh that soon turned into a gasping huff. He took another double hit of his inhaler and caught his breath. ‘It’s…’ he panted. ‘It’s completely implausible. That’s the genius of it.’