by John Kerr
‘Yes, sir. But the fact is, she insists on having a word with you.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ said Davenport flatly. ‘Tell her I’m out on exercises. Tell her anything. But get rid of her.’
The MP shrugged and said, ‘Well, if you say so, sir.’ As he started for the door he muttered, ‘With pleasure. Bloody Yanks.’
Davenport stared at the man and said, ‘What did you say?’
The MP turned to face Davenport and said, ‘Ah, she’s an American, sir.’
‘Wait just a moment,’ said Davenport. He shot into his office and returned with his coat and hat. ‘Let’s go, Sergeant,’ he commanded. ‘If anyone should ask, Corporal, tell them . . . hell, tell them whatever the hell you like.’
He strained to see in the steady downpour as the jeep slewed through the mud. As the driver pulled up to a small, whitewashed structure, Davenport saw a dark form step out from behind the building, on the other side of the lowered gate. His heart pounding, he leapt from the vehicle. ‘Sir,’ the MP called after him, ‘you mustn’t leave the camp!’ Davenport ducked under the gate and rushed up to Mary, taking her by the shoulders and staring into her eyes. ‘Mary!’ he said, ‘I can’t believe it’s really you!’ She threw her arms around him and pressed her cheek, glistening with tears and raindrops, tightly against his.
‘Oh, Charles,’ she murmured. ‘Thank God.’
He savoured the sensation for a few seconds and then pulled away, searching her face for an explanation. ‘How did you ever find me? And how did you possibly manage to get here, with the border closed and the quarantine—’
‘Forgive me, Charles,’ she said, her words barely audible above the pouring rain, ‘but this all happened so fast. Is there somewhere we can talk?’ She was soaked to the skin, her hair in tangled, dripping tendrils.
He glanced back at the guardhouse. ‘Our only chance,’ he said, ‘is a café a few blocks down the road.’ He put his arm around her and began walking away from the roadblock. ‘Let’s just hope they leave us be.’ A half-timbered house appeared out of the murk, with a sign over the green door for The Nancy Wren. The small blackboard in the half-curtained window offered tea, crumpets, and scones. Davenport held open the door and they stepped inside. She took off her hat and shook out her hair, and they stripped off their sodden coats and hung them by the entrance. Leading Mary by the arm to a table by the grate radiating warmth from the burning lumps of coal, Charles ushered her to a chair and sat next to her. He reached for her cold, wet hand. ‘You’ve no idea how happy this makes me.’
A waitress appeared and said, ‘What can I bring you?’
‘Tea,’ said Davenport with an encouraging smile, ‘and the scones.’
Mary glanced nervously at her watch and said, ‘Oh, Charles, if only we had more time.’
It struck him that something was wrong, that she couldn’t possibly have managed to find him, evading the ban on travel from Ireland, unless it was a matter of dire necessity. ‘What is it, Mary?’ he said. ‘Please tell me what’s wrong.’
She looked into his dark eyes, thinking him even more handsome than she remembered. ‘Oh, Lord, Charles, I’m so sorry,’ she began. ‘What a fool I was. But I’m a different person now, and I’d give anything to have the time back.’
He leaned forward and gently squeezed her hand. ‘All that matter’s now,’ he said, ‘is that you’re here.’
The waitress returned with their order, and, when she was gone, Davenport poured them the tea and said, ‘How in the devil did you find me here?’
She took a bite of scone and sip of tea and then said, ‘It would be best if I get straight to the point.’ He merely nodded and sipped his tea. ‘To explain how I found you, and how I was able to travel from Ireland . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it was arranged by a German intelligence agent. . . .’
‘What?’ said Davenport. ‘You can’t be serious—’
‘. . . who got me across on a fishing boat,’ she continued, ‘and another German agent, here in England, knew where to find you.’
Davenport sat in stunned silence, holding his teacup in mid-air. Looking nervously around the empty tearoom, he said, ‘But how is that possible?’
She leaned across the table and said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to explain. There’s a man in Ireland, a friend of mine named Eamon, and, believe me, he’s a wonderful man.’
‘Eamon,’ Charles repeated softly.
‘Well, that’s the name he went by. His real name’s Hans. He’s a German. And he was helping the IRA, at least so they thought, though in reality he was working against them, but the point is—’
‘He was spying?’ Davenport interrupted. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Listen to me!’ Mary said desperately. ‘It’s not what you think. Eamon hates Hitler and the Nazis with a passion. And he sent me here, to see you.’
Davenport shook his head and said, ‘He sent you to see me?’
‘Yes. He works for something called the Abwehr.’ Mary looked furtively around the room. ‘They’ve turned on Hitler,’ she whispered. ‘They’ve learned some terrible things about him. ’
‘Haven’t we all,’ said Davenport, looking at her with a furrowed brow.
‘No, some really terrible things,’ she insisted. ‘Unbelievable things. And they plan to kill him and bring down the whole Nazi regime.’
Charles shook his head. ‘Surely, you don’t believe . . . My God, Mary, do you seriously expect me to—’
After taking another swallow of tea, Mary said calmly, ‘These men – Eamon and his colleagues – know the invasion’s coming any day now, and they plan to act soon after that. I tell you, Charles, they’re going to kill Hitler or die trying, and then they plan to end the war.’
‘To end the war?’
‘Yes, and that’s why they’ve sent me here.’
Davenport studied her somber expression and said, ‘Go on.’
‘There’s a conspiracy,’ she said, leaning close to him. ‘Made up of some very powerful men in Germany, decent men, according to Eamon. They loathe Hitler and his gang. The Gestapo has a name for them. Here, I’ve written it down.’ She reached in her pocket for a scrap of paper and handed it to him.
‘The Schwartze Kapelle,’ he said aloud.
‘Yes, it means the Black Chapel. And their plan, once Hitler is dead, is to overthrow the Nazis, put them all under arrest, and seize power.’
‘A coup, you mean,’ said Davenport, utterly fascinated. ‘By the army, in all probability.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Mary. ‘And then they plan to sue for peace. With Britain and the United States. With the Christian nations, as Eamon put it.’
‘God, if only it were true,’ said Davenport with a frown.
‘It is true, Charles,’ said Mary. ‘I swear it. In any case, they considered it imperative to send a message to the Allies’ high command, to convey their plans, now, before the invasion. Eamon sent me with a letter,’ said Mary in the same earnest tone. ‘It’s addressed to General Morgan, but Eamon hopes it will reach Eisenhower. Or even Churchill.’
‘To General Morgan?’ said Davenport in an angry whisper. ‘I can’t believe you told a . . . a German agent about me and my job at COSSAC. My God, Mary, how could you?’
‘I only told Eamon you had a staff assignment in London and never mentioned your name, let alone General Morgan or COSSAC. I thought he was just another Irishman, who happened to share my views on the war. But . . . well, he is an intelligence agent, and he looked through your letters one day when I was out.’
‘I see,’ said Davenport. ‘And so this Eamon chap, in reality a German agent, figures I might be a back channel to General Morgan.’
‘The perfect channel,’ interrupted Mary, ‘to Morgan, and on to Eisenhower. Charles, don’t you see?’
‘Yes,
I see,’ he said. ‘And you expect me—’
‘To deliver it.’ Mary gazed intently into his eyes.
Davenport considered, about to say, This is madness, lunacy, no one would ever believe a word, but instead he said, ‘May I see the letter?’
Mary rose from the table and went to her coat, returning with a small parcel wrapped in waxed paper. After sitting, she carefully removed the envelope and handed it to him. ‘To Lieutenant General Frederick Morgan,’ Davenport read aloud. He opened the envelope and extracted a single sheet of paper. After peering at it for a moment, he said, ‘But this is written in code.’
‘Eamon said it would be,’ said Mary. ‘He said it would help to prove its, ah, authenticity.’
‘But if it can’t be read . . .’
‘He said you would know someone who could decipher it.’
With a sharp intake of breath, Davenport folded the letter in the envelope. ‘Mary,’ he said after a pause, ‘are you sure?’
She nodded. With a glance at her watch she said, ‘I’m almost out of time. Charles, what about you? Are you going to . . . to take part in the invasion?’
‘Yes,’ he said, squaring his shoulders. ‘Yes, Mary, I’m afraid that I am.’
‘I understand,’ she said softly. ‘Please tell me you’ll be all right. You know I’ll be waiting for you. If you still want me, that is.’
He looked in her eyes and said, ‘Of course I still want you. And if I get through it, I’ll do everything in my power . . .’ With an anguished look, he let the sentence die.
She stood up abruptly and said, ‘I have to go. They – the men who brought me – are waiting.’ Davenport rose and put his arms around her. ‘Oh, Charles,’ she cried, as she flung her arms around his neck. ‘I love you so much. More than you can ever know. Please, please, come back to me.’
He held her tight, wanting to remember every detail, unwilling to let her go. ‘Mary,’ he murmured, ‘no matter what happens, you must believe me. I will never love anyone but you.’
She pulled away and said, ‘I’m afraid it’s time.’ Wordlessly he helped her into her coat and watched as she tied the belt and put on her hat. Staring into her bright blue eyes, he leaned down for a final kiss. ‘Goodbye, Charles,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll be waiting.’ She turned and let herself out, starting off in the pouring rain. Davenport leaned against the window, watching her go through the rain-streaked glass.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Davenport weighed his options. He would have considered the letter a hoax if anyone other than Mary had delivered it. It was unthinkable that she could have been taken in by some Irish impostor, or that she would have risked crossing the Irish Sea at night in a gale for anything less than what she claimed. By the time he climbed out of the jeep, he had made up his mind. He hurried past the young corporal to his desk to search in the middle drawer for the scrap of paper he was looking for. He found it, a telephone number and the notation: ‘Station X, Hut 6.’ With a glance at his watch, Davenport dialled the number. ‘Hullo,’ answered a young woman. ‘May I help you?’
‘Is this Station X?’ asked Davenport.
After a pause, the operator said, ‘With whom do you wish to speak?’
‘Captain Evan Hockaday, in Hut 6.’ Davenport bit his lip.
‘Major Hockaday is unavailable,’ said the operator firmly. ‘Do you wish to leave a message?’
Davenport ran a hand through his hair. ‘Listen, Operator,’ he said, ‘this is urgent. Can you give him a message to call Lieutenant Colonel Charles Davenport?’
‘Very well,’ she said, followed by a click. Davenport leaned back in his chair, tapping the letter Mary had entrusted to him on his palm, and waited. After twenty minutes that seemed like an hour, the phone rang. He reached for the receiver and said, ‘Evan?’
‘Yes, Charles. I understand this is urgent.’
‘It is. I need to see you.’
‘Were you thinking of the weekend, as I’ve made other plans?’
‘No. I was thinking of tonight.’
‘Tonight? Surely, you’re not serious.’
‘I’m absolutely serious, but my problem is I need a pass. Can you get someone to send a telegram to the CO of Third Division requesting my immediate assistance for a twelve-hour leave?’
‘It’s highly irregular,’ said Evan. ‘Can you give me some idea what this is about?’
‘I’d rather not, on the phone that is.’
‘Well, I’ll see what I can do. I’ll ring you back shortly.’ Within a half-hour, following a second brief conversation with Evan, Davenport received a summons to the division HQ, where he was given the requested pass from the CO’s highly sceptical adjutant. As all traffic on or off the base was forbidden, Davenport was able to commandeer a staff car with a full tank of petrol and by nine o’clock was speeding along the virtually empty roads. Stopping at intervals to consult a map, he passed through Reigate, swinging west to Windsor and then north into Buckinghamshire. As he entered the outskirts of Bletchley, the luminous dial of his watch showed a quarter past midnight. After passing through the darkened streets into the forested countryside, he arrived at the entrance to a country estate with a sign for Bletchley Park. As he turned into the drive, he considered the fact that Evan had been promoted, and the operator’s tone suggested that he must have a position of some importance. Davenport came to a stop at a guardhouse with a uniformed sentry.
‘Your papers, please,’ said the sentry. After briefly reviewing the documents, the sentry pointed to a large Victorian structure in the distance and said, ‘The main building is on the left, sir.’ Unlike the rest of the English countryside, lights were burning in virtually every window of the elaborate building and the car-park was full. After parking, Davenport slipped on his hat and jacket and hurried up to the entrance. He entered the high-ceilinged lobby where a young woman in uniform was seated at a reception desk. She looked at him pleasantly, notwithstanding the late hour.
‘I’m here to see Major Hockaday,’ said Davenport.
‘You must be Colonel Davenport,’ she said with a smile. She handed him a clipboard and said, ‘Please sign in, and I’ll let the major know you’re here.’
Davenport would have guessed he was in the lounge of a rather dowdy hotel in the countryside, with its worn floral carpets, overstuffed sofas, and potted ferns. After a few minutes a young soldier wheeled in Evan Hockaday, looking fresh and sharp in full uniform. The soldier gave Davenport a quick salute and excused himself. Davenport shook Evan’s hand warmly and said, ‘Evan, thanks so much for seeing me.’
‘I presume you’ve had a long journey – from somewhere near the Channel.’
‘Yes, from our camp in Sussex.’
After Davenport was seated on the sofa next to Hockaday’s wheelchair, Evan looked at him expectantly and said, ‘What’s this all about?’
‘Is there somewhere we can talk privately?’
‘I’m afraid this is as private as it gets,’ said Evan. ‘The rest of this place is strictly off limits. But at this hour we should have the room to ourselves.’
‘Well,’ Davenport began, ‘you remember Mary?’ Evan nodded. ‘She appeared out of the blue at the entrance to our camp late this afternoon, insisting on seeing me.’
‘How could she possibly have known where to find you?’
Davenport lowered his voice and said, ‘Not only that, but she managed to get across from Ireland.’ Evan knitted his brow and scratched his chin. ‘Seems she had the assistance of the IRA,’ Davenport continued, ‘and, more importantly, of the Abwehr.’
‘The Abwehr?’ said Evan incredulously.
‘Yes, and to get to the heart of it, Mary says she was sent by a German agent, operating in Ireland, for the purpose of delivering a letter to me.’
Evan frowned and said, ‘You’ve driven here in the middle of the night to tell me
that your friend from America managed to cross over from Ireland, assisted by an Abwehr agent, notwithstanding the border closure and the quarantine? Really, Charles, isn’t that a bit—’
‘It’s all true,’ interrupted Davenport.
‘This letter,’ said Evan after a few seconds. ‘Do you have it?’
‘Yes, right here.’ Davenport withdrew the envelope from his breast pocket. ‘It’s why I had to see you.’ He leaned closer to Evan and said, ‘Mary insists there’s a plot within the Abwehr and the Wehrmacht to assassinate Hitler and overthrow the government. This Abwehr agent apparently befriended Mary and told her he’s a part of it. And he sent her with this.’ Davenport handed Evan the letter.
‘Addressed to General Morgan,’ said Evan. ‘Your old boss.’
‘Yes,’ said Davenport. ‘This fellow can’t have known that I transferred from COSSAC.’
Hockaday looked up from the envelope and said, ‘If there’s any truth to this tale, it would make eminent good sense to send such a letter to Morgan.’ He extracted the single sheet of paper and scanned it. ‘Charles,’ he said with great solemnity, ‘do you have any idea what this is?’
‘Well, obviously,’ said Davenport, ‘it’s written in code. And this chap, the German, told Mary that I would know someone who could decipher it.’
Evan’s gaze narrowed. ‘Did you ever tell Mary about me?’ he asked quietly. ‘About my work, here at Bletchley?’
‘Of course not.’
Evan looked into the distance. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘the Abwehr may know more about things than we’ve given them credit for. Charles, this letter was encoded on a German Enigma machine. I’m sure of it. And there are prefixes that originate only with the OKW in Berlin. It will be easy enough to determine if they’re present to authenticate its origin. I can have this deciphered in half an hour. But what was her explanation? Why the letter?’
Davenport took a deep breath. ‘According to Mary,’ he said, ‘the men behind this conspiracy are high up in the government and the army. They plan to act shortly after the invasion. And if they’re successful, they intend to sue for peace with Britain and the US. Hence the letter to Morgan. An overture of some kind.’