Into Battle

by Michael Gilbert

  The truth is that if anyone requires a supply of explosives powerful enough to arm an infernal machine or machines, he is really driven to import it from some country that is laxer in its regulations than we are. Norway, Sweden, and Belgium are the most likely candidates. If your suspect, Goodison, is the importer, the explosive could easily be concealed in or among the tankage, lead piping, and brass balls that are part of his normal imports.

  If he is a regular dealer, his stuff would be allowed through without any, or any careful, examination.

  Kell paused for a moment to think about this. Certainly the possibility existed. The most suspicious customs officer would be unlikely to probe into the component parts of a lavatory. Well, that was a loophole that could be closed.

  The report concluded:

  Which brings me to the question of the type of explosive.

  Bearing in mind that it has to stand rough treatment in the course of loading and unloading, 1 think the answer is probably cordite – 58 percent nitroglycerin, 37 percent guncotton, and 5 percent mineral jelly. It is a powerful explosive, but unusually stable. In a recent test, a bullet was fired through a compacted mass of cordite without detonating it. Any other help I can give you, please let me know.

  Helpful, certainly. But not entirely conclusive.

  The second report was the one from Luke Pagan that Major Cooper-Key had referred to. The only additional items in it were the result of the watch they had been keeping on the crematorium. Nothing in it that was not normal and above board. Except—what was it?—yes, the mailman. On a second occasion, he had delivered three heavy parcels. Was that important?

  At the back of his mind, while he was reading these reports, lay the three messages that Lieutenant Burnhow had riddled out. He had no need to think about them consciously. He had read them so often that they were part of his subconscious memory.

  The third one was straightforward. It had enabled them to locate Goodison and Robb and had established the connection between the coal merchant and the crematorium. The first two were more difficult. The key to understanding them, as he was beginning to realise, was to differentiate between the “special product” and the “suitable supplies”.

  When he had first read the messages, he had assumed that they were the same thing. Now he was not sure. “Let 105 know special product on its way to you.” This meant that Robb had been worrying that regular supplies of the “special product” might not be reaching Goodison from his foreign supplier. So what was it? It seemed, from Cooper-Key’s report, that it might be cordite.

  Then Robb had started agitating again.

  He was to be told not to worry. “Suitable supplies” would reach him from Goodison in time for him to “do the necessary.” So what were the suitable supplies that Goodison was to send him? Could they be in the six large parcels that had been observed? Very possibly. But what were they?

  A further thought: if Robb was in a constant fret about the availability of special products and suitable supplies, was it possible that he was in charge of the whole enterprise? That the blame would fall on him if it failed? That he was, in fact, der Vetter? How could he have been more deeply and safely buried than by establishing him as head of a crematorium?

  Yes, it was possible. Kell turned now to the third document, which was an odd postscript to the others. It was from a Lieutenant Samuels, R.N., port control officer at Dun Laoghaire, and was a copy of a letter that had gone to Superintendent Patrick Quinn of the Special Branch. It said:

  A curious problem, which might have repercussions at your end, has recently cropped up here. As you will know, since the outbreak of war, all persons entering or leaving Ireland have been very carefully checked and noted. Two weeks ago, a Captain Marriott, R.E., left by the daily steamer from here to Holyhead. It seems that he had been spending part of his leave with friends shooting in County Wicklow and was on his way back to rejoin his unit. His papers were in order and aroused no question. But this odd point has now arisen. It appears from the routine checks we make from time to time that there is no record of his entry into Ireland. We have searched back for two months, which should be more than sufficient to cover a few weeks’ shooting leave. We are puzzled by this discrepancy and feel that Captain Marriott should be located and questioned. A copy of this letter is being sent to Customs and Excise and to MO5.

  Kell sighed. If Captain Marriott was, as Lieutenant Samuels clearly suspected, an enemy agent, landed by submarine, he would have been supplied with two or more different sets of papers and would by now be Captain – or Major – or Colonel the Lord knows who. The Special Branch, as part of its duty of guarding important visitors, was expert at picking up the trail of dangerous infiltrators. They might be lucky enough to lay him by the heels.

  It did not seem to be part of his own problem.

  Annette O’Hegarty was worried.

  When her father had got her the job as secretary, typist, and general assistant to Mr. Portlach – which he had seemed able to do without much difficulty – his instructions had been clear: she was to arrange her own desk so that she could hear anything said to, or by, the editor. If on the telephone, no problem. The line came through her. If in person, the door left open an inch or two should be good enough.

  Routine espionage. Any girl could do it.

  Until today, nothing very interesting had transpired. This morning, it was different. The two men who had arrived were oddly formidable. They had given her a card, to take in to the editor. As far as she could see from a quick glance, it contained only a set of initials in one corner.

  When she handed the card to Mr. Portlach and started to explain about the two men, he had cut her short and had come out with her into the anteroom. Both men were standing. One of them said, “Mr. Portlach?” The editor nodded. “We have something to tell you. Since it’s confidential, could you ask this young lady to remove herself to some other part of the building?”

  She had seen, with astonishment, that the editor was not prepared to refuse this outrageous request. He had smiled weakly and said to her, “Perhaps you could sit for a bit in the conference room. You’ll be quite comfortable there. I don’t suppose we shall be long.” That was where she had sat for nearly half an hour, alone with her thoughts and fears, until she heard the footsteps of the two men departing.

  When Mr. Portlach came to get her she thought he looked like a man who had had a severe shock. But there was something else there as well. It was as though the shock had released a spring and restored an element of unsuspected determination. His voice was quite steady when he continued the dictation of the letters that the arrival of the strangers had interrupted.

  Then he said, “I’ve two more letters to do. I’ll be writing them myself while you are typing the others. They’ll be ready for you by the time you’ve finished. Then I’d like you to take them all straight down to the post office.”

  One of these handwritten letters was, she noted, addressed to the chairman of the Irish Citizen at his Dublin office. The other was to Mr. Portlach’s solicitor – his lawyer. She would dearly have liked to have read them and had, on more than one occasion, managed to open a badly fastened envelope to inspect the contents. But on this occasion, as she explained to her father, the envelopes were firmly fastened down and sealed with the editor’s private seal.

  Her father was more interested in the men than in the letters. He said, “What did they look like? Do you think they were policemen?”

  Not exactly policemen, she had thought. Men with some sort of authority.

  A colleague of her father’s, a squat Irishman called Nick Mansergh, said, “If you ask me, it’s plain as pie. They scared the poor bugger out of his wits and he’s quitting. And once he leaves, you won’t see him for dust.”

  “You may be right,” said O’Hegarty. “And if you are, maybe, before he goes, we ought to impress on him the virtues of silence.”

  “A short, sharp lesson to take away with him,” agreed Mansergh with a grin.


  That was on Wednesday.

  At four o’clock on Friday, Mr. Portlach informed the two members of his staff – his secretary and a cleaning lady – that the office would not be reopening on Monday. He handed each of them a month’s salary in cash, with a further month in lieu of notice and when they had departed, placed his few remaining papers in the stove. As soon as they were well alight he went out, locking the inner and outer doors of the office behind him. The keys went into an envelope, which he had prepared, addressed to his solicitor, and this he posted in the box at the end of Stag Court, together with a brief note addressed to Daryl Forbes c/o Mrs. O’Malley, Watersmeet Bungalow, Walton-on-Thames, informing him that any future contributions should be sent directly to Dublin.

  He felt a lightening of his heart as he performed these closing ceremonies.

  The shortest way to his flat on Neville Court was across Gough Square and along Pemberton Street and Harding Road. These were small and little-used byways, and he met no one until he emerged onto Great New Street. This, being a shortcut between Farringdon Street and Fetter Lane, was more used, and he was not surprised when he found a group of three men engaged in conversation and blocking the pavement ahead of him. Looking back, he saw a fourth man emerging from Harding Street. Mr. Portlach had been subconsciously aware of footsteps behind him ever since he had left the office, but he had been too busy with his own thoughts to pay much attention to them.

  The men ahead of him stopped talking as he came up, but made no move to let him pass. Two were on the pavement, one in the roadway. The only other people in sight at that moment were a man and a woman on the opposite pavement, and a small boy who was amusing himself by clattering a stick along the railings.

  Mr. Portlach stopped. He had no alternative. The way ahead was blocked. One of the men said, “Off on holiday, mister?”

  Mr. Portlach muttered “None of your business” and edged out onto the road. He had a cold feeling that he had run into something it might be difficult to get out of. He saw that the man and the woman had turned their backs and were moving off fast. Whatever was going to happen, they wanted no part of it. The small boy had stood his ground. He thought that some sort of excitement might be coming up.

  It was O’Hegarty who had spoken. He gestured to the two men, who stepped out into the roadway after Mr. Portlach. One of them put out a hand, grabbed his tie, and gave it a sharp tug. As the editor jerked forward, he kneed him in the stomach.

  “Gently,” said O’Hegarty. “Gently. We don’t want to take him to bits. This is just a reminder of the value of a man keeping his lips buttoned. And of what might happen if he opened them too wide.”

  “Like this?” suggested Nick Mansergh and slapped the editor’s face with his open hand.

  “Or this?” said the third man and kicked him on the shin so hard that he uttered an involuntary cry and folded forward onto his knees. Upon which the second man, feeling perhaps that he had not made his point sufficiently forcefully, swung his boot. The kick landed on the side of Mr. Portlach’s face.

  “Now, just you stop that,” said a new voice.

  The Irishmen had been so intent on what they were doing that they had not noticed the arrival of another character. This was a slight young man, dressed in corduroy trousers and jacket, bareheaded, and carrying a light cane. He repeated, “Just you leave him alone.”

  O’Hegarty stared at him for a moment and muttered, “Christ, what are you doing here?”

  “Seeing fair play, Pat.”

  At this moment, two men erupted from the side road. They were Kirchner and Durkin, whose job it had been to follow and protect Mr. Portlach. The reason they had got so far behind was simple and discreditable. They had run into a young lady known to both of them and had stopped to exchange compliments with her.

  Now they made up for lost time.

  Both carried short sticks with heavy heads. Kirchner, without pausing for an instant, hit Nick Mansergh hard on the head. As he went down, O’Hegarty shouted from the pavement, “Run for it!” and belted off. The two men in the road paused for only a second before following him.

  The small boy looked upset. The felling of one man and the arrival of two others had levelled the odds at three-all. Just right, he thought, for vigorous action. He felt short-changed.

  The young man now came to help Durkin, who had an arm around Mr. Portlach and was trying to get him back onto his feet.

  “Got one of them anyway,” said Kirchner, prodding the prostrate Mansergh with his toe.

  “If you’re interested in the others,” said the young man, “I can give you their full names and their addresses. I fancy that’s a policeman just turning the corner. Let’s hand over this fallen warrior – his name’s Mansergh, by the way – and give the police particulars on the others.”

  Mr. Portlach was swaying on his feet, the blood running down his face.

  “Aggravated assault, or some such charge.”

  When Captain Lewin, formerly Marriott, approached the Abbey Wood Tutorial Service on Fendike Road, he did so quite openly. His arrival attracted no attention. Before the war, many army officers had been pupils there. Most of them were now busy elsewhere.

  The maid who admitted him said that Mr. Mills had received his telephone message and was expecting him. The captain smiled gratefully. An officer and a gentleman, as she told her friends afterward.

  As soon as the study door was shut behind him, the captain marched up to Mr. Mills, who had scrambled to his feet, bent his head forward, and said, very quietly, “I take it that this room is soundproof.”

  “Certainly. Even if there was anyone interested in eavesdropping. I see no reason why there should be.”

  “Good,” said Erich Krieger, pulling up a chair and seating himself. He had made no move to shake hands, and his manner was that of a senior officer addressing a subordinate. “I am paying you this personal visit because Operation Asgard is nearing its climax and there are one or two points to be settled before the whistle is blown. First, as to the disposition of Tyr and Vulcan.”

  Mr. Mills, who was a careful user of language, thought that the word “disposition” accurately expressed what was in Krieger’s mind. He thought of Robb and Goodison as parcels to be forwarded somewhere.

  He said, “Yes. They have done good work. They will have to be looked after.”

  “Very well, then. Here is an envelope for each of them. They will find in them identity papers, including a passport, money, and instructions as to where to go when they reach Ireland. Now, as to you—”

  “I see no reason to run. Safer to sit still. Movement attracts attention.”

  “A sound army principle,” agreed Krieger, “with one proviso: that there is no single scrap of paper, in the coal shop or the crematorium, that connects you with them.”

  “There could be nothing with Goodison. He knows nothing about me. Robb is different. He has been my sole contact with the rest of the group. All messages have gone out and come back through him. It is quite possible that he has papers that mention my name. However, I assure you that he will see that every scrap of paper is collected and destroyed before he leaves.”

  “Together with the spy who has gotten so close to you?”

  Mills stared at him.

  “You were not aware, then, that a young man who has connections with British Intelligence has inserted himself into your school?”

  “You are talking about the chemist, Ben Lefroy?”

  “I am.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Am I sure that he has connections with British Intelligence? Yes. I saw him recently in conversation with one of their operatives. But whether he joined your school to spy on you or simply to learn German – of that I am not sure. But it is a matter on which we cannot afford to take chances. Youngsters have sharp ears. He may have picked up some suspicion of your connection with Asgard. If he has, a further vital question poses itself: has he passed on these suspicions? If he has not done so, then once
he and every incriminating scrap of paper have disappeared, you will be as safe as you were before. If he has passed on his suspicions, you will be in danger. Extreme danger. Had you not better change your mind? I have papers for you. You could vanish with the other two.”

  Mills said, “No.” He said it with the firmness of a man who had thought it through, had made his mind up, and was not to be shifted. “I cannot desert my post. Not at this moment. You know, of course, of the action that is planned in Ireland.”

  “I not only know about it. We have been affording it all the help in our power. Arms, ammunition, explosives. And the service of a helper who has been organising volunteers in our prisoner-of-war camps.”

  “If I stay here, I, too, may be able to help them. Help them in their work of pulling down the British bullies who have been treading on our necks for six centuries. I would count personal risk as nothing compared with the chance of playing the smallest part in that crusade.”

  “A fanatic,” thought Krieger. There was no room in his cold mind for fanaticism, but he could recognise it and use it when he met it. He said, “Very well. I respect your decision. One final matter: when does Lefroy next come to you?”

  “On Thursday afternoon. From four to six.”

  “Excellent timing. On this occasion, could you offer him a little extra instruction? Say, until eight o’clock?”

  “I could. But why?”

  “Because by that time it will be getting dark.”

  He saw, from the look on Mr. Mills’s face, that he understood what was meant.

  “Consider,” he said, “the work that you and your two associates are engaged in.” He was still speaking softly, but the steel edge was showing now. “If it is successful, it may mean the difference between winning and losing the battle that is now impending on the Western Front. Even if we win, the numbers of our young men who will die will be counted in thousands. If we lose, in tens of thousands. How heavy does one life weigh on such a scale?”