by Mark Ellis
* * *
Sonia had lit candles, which flickered in the gentle breeze filtering in from the open window behind the blackout curtain. She and Merlin normally ate in the kitchen but she’d wanted to make this dinner a special occasion. So she had opened up the antique mahogany table, which Frank had inherited from his parents and that was normally folded away in the corner of the drawing room.
Their two guests could not have been more different. On Sonia’s right sat her brother, Jan Sieczko, resplendent in his RAF pilot’s uniform and on his first visit in weeks. On her left was Bernie Goldberg, wearing a double-breasted charcoal suit and a rather loud green tie. Merlin had reluctantly given in to Sonia and put on his best suit, a blue-grey number he had last worn at Bridges’ wedding. Sonia was wearing her favourite frock, a white cocktail dress that hugged her shapely figure tightly. Goldberg was finding it difficult to keep his eyes off her.
Sieczko was darker in complexion than his sister but the resemblance was close. His hair was a similar reddish-brown to hers, he had her warm eyes and engaging smile. Merlin noticed that his moustache had become much bushier since he’d last seen him. Jan was a good-looking young man, who had taken advantage of the admiration of the RAF Northolt canteen girls to secure a large leg of mutton for Sonia to cook. She had turned the joint into a delicious stew, which had been thoroughly enjoyed by everyone. Cheese and biscuits had followed and Merlin was just polishing off a piece of Stilton when he noticed the wine glasses needed refreshing.
“More wine?” They were drinking some vintage rioja from an old case Merlin had found in his mother’s basement after she died. Sonia held a hand over her glass but the men were all ready for more. “I think Bernie would love to hear a little about your squadron, Jan.”
“I certainly would, Frank, if that’s all right with Jan.”
Sieczko waited until Merlin had refilled his glass then looked at Goldberg. “It’s called the Kosciuszko Squadron. A bit of a mouthful, I know. Tadeusz Kosciuszko was a Polish engineer and soldier, who fought with your General Washington against the British in the War of Independence. Then he fought against the Russians who, like the Germans, are always keen to deprive Poland of its independence. A great hero and so a good name for a fighter squadron.”
“And this is a squadron of Polish pilots but it’s part of the RAF?”
“Yes. I and most of my fellow officers fought against the Germans as part of the Polish Air Force at the outbreak of the war. After Poland’s defeat, we managed to make our way here and the RAF welcomed us. We have a few British officers, all very fine fellows, in the squadron. And we carry on fighting Germans.”
Sonia beamed with pride. “Jan is too modest to say himself, Bernie, but his pilots have – how do you say it? – the biggest hits in the air so far.”
Merlin twirled his wine glass in the light of the candle in front of him. The blackout curtain flapped away briefly from the window. He saw that the summer dusk had finally given way to darkness. “What Sonia is trying to say is that Jan’s squadron has so far shot down more German aircraft than any other squadron in the RAF. Isn’t that so, Jan?”
Sieczko shrugged his shoulders and grinned awkwardly. “Everyone is doing their best but all pilots are very competitive and, yes, we do keep count. So far the squadron is doing well. At the moment, of course, the skies above London are quiet so no-one is adding to their tallies here for now.”
“But I thought you were flying further afield?”
“Yes, Sonia, but we shouldn’t talk about that.”
“Oh, is it a secret? Sorry, Jan, but I don’t think Mr Goldberg is a spy.”
Sieczko shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Forgive me, Bernie. Our British officers keep warning us to be careful. ‘Careless talk costs lives’ is the phrase we hear all the time.”
“Don’t worry, Jan. Quite right too. I’ve seen the posters.” Goldberg laughed. “I like the one where an attractive broad – er, sorry, Sonia – an attractive lady is sitting surrounded by British officers with the punchline ‘Keep mum she’s not so dumb!’ But your reserve is quite understandable. Is it permissible to say how many German planes your squadron has downed so far?”
“Yes. The last number was around 170.”
“Of which your own hits were…?”
“Maybe 16 or 17.”
“Wow, Jan. That’s quite something.”
“Thank you, Bernie. But enough of me, please. Come, Frank, tell us what you are up to.”
Merlin wiped his lips with a napkin. “We have an illegal abortion case where a poor young girl died, and we have the murder of the man who performed the abortion.”
“Perhaps the procurer of the abortion and the murderer of the abortionist are one and the same man?”
“That is very possible, Jan.”
“Were these people English?”
“No. The girl was Irish and the abortionist was a French Jew down on his luck.”
Sieczko nodded. “One of many.”
Sonia reached over to pat her brother’s hand. “We must count ourselves very lucky, mustn’t we, Jan? We are half Jewish, Bernie.”
“And I’m all Jewish.”
“You grew up in New York?”
“Yes. Classic Jewish immigrant upbringing. Parents escaped from Russian pogroms at the turn of the century. Got to Ellis Island, then the tenements of the Lower East Side. My father was, sorry, is a tailor. Still working hard in his 70s.”
“He prospered?”
“Did OK, Jan. He has three shops now, two of which are run by my other two brothers, and he runs the third, though my sister and her husband help him with that.”
“Are you the only one of his children who did not follow him into the business?”
“I have another sister, who is a nurse. Otherwise yes. My father still can’t get over the fact that I’m a policeman. It’s not something he thinks Jews are made for.”
Sieczko finished his glass. “Probably has bad memories of authority from the Russian days. Do you find any prejudice among your colleagues?”
Sonia rose and started collecting up the dishes. Merlin rose to help her but she pushed him back in his chair. “As well as the meat, Jan brought us some decent coffee from the base. I’ll go and make some.” She disappeared into the kitchen.
“You asked about prejudice, Jan. Yes, of course there is. But what was Poland like before the war?”
“Very bad, but compared with what is happening there now…”
“Have you any knowledge of present conditions? The country is split, right? The Germans have the west and the Russians the east?”
Sieczko sighed. “Yes, that is right, Bernie. One of our pilots is a recent recruit. He only got out of Poland six months ago. He was in Warsaw, which the Germans control. They have corralled all the Jews into a walled-off ghetto in the centre of the city. Conditions are disgusting. There is limited food. Militias rule the ghetto with much cruelty under the control of the Nazis. There are terrible, terrible stories. The old, women, children are…” Sieczko put a hand to his eyes. “I’m sorry. Please, gentlemen. Let us not ruin our lovely evening with talk of this.”
Goldberg reached out to touch the pilot’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s a stupid question. We know the Nazis are animals.”
Sonia arrived with the coffee and looked with concern at her brother. “What’s all this then?”
Sieczko looked up at her and forced a smile. “Nothing, my beautiful sister. Just a little chat about our poor homeland. I got upset for a moment but now we are changing the subject. What shall we talk about now, Frank?”
Merlin was helping Sonia set the cups out on the table. “I was wondering, Jan. Have you had any dealings with Free French pilots?”
“I have met a few. I have drunk with a man called Jean Dubois. A good fellow.”
“What does he think of his fellow Free French in London?”
“Said he didn’t have much time for the army and navy officers. Un
like him, they were not involved in military action and, as far as he could see, quite a few of them did nothing more than play politics or have a good time. He didn’t have much time either for the chap in charge, what’s his name, de Gaulle? A man with a baton up his arse. That was his description.”
“A nice turn of phrase, your French friend, I’m sure, Jan.”
Sieczko reached out to embrace his sister. “Forgive me, Sonia. I have obviously been around pilots for too long.”
“Brandy, anyone?”
The evening ended at eleven. Goldberg went off in search of a taxi, while Sieczko, declining the offer of the couch, hurried off to catch the last Tube. When Merlin and Sonia were washing up, she asked about Bridget Healy. “I’m afraid I am a little naïve about these things. How exactly did this man de Metz go about his business? The abortion, I mean.”
Merlin dropped his tea towel in surprise. “I can’t answer that, Sonia. If you really want to know you’ll have to ask one of your girlfriends. Suffice to say it is cruel and disgusting.”
“Sorry, Frank. I have just been feeling sorry for that girl. I was just hoping what happened to her wouldn’t have been too painful.”
“I can’t say, darling. With luck the drugs he gave her would…”
“All right, Frank. Let’s get to bed. I just… to have the chance of producing a beautiful baby and then to kill it. I just can’t understand.”
Merlin leaned over to kiss her on the forehead. “It was a lovely dinner party, darling. Thank you.”
CHAPTER 9
Friday 13 June
London
Pulos rose from his bed at seven. Although it was still the middle of the night in Argentina, he managed to get through to his secretary and some senior executives to hear their latest reports. An outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease had hit a farm neighbouring one of the company’s largest cattle ranches in the south of the country. A planned railwaymen’s strike was about to get under way in Córdoba and an accident at one of the company’s copper mines had killed a couple of workers. All matters of concern but very much routine problems for a big company such as Enterprisas Simal.
Just after eight-thirty, as he was enjoying his breakfast of poached egg on toast, there was a knock at the door. “Get that will you, Marco?”
Andreas Koutrakos appeared in the doorway.
“Andreas, my friend. Come in. Kalimera. How are you?”
Koutrakos’s lips parted into a thin smile as he sat down at the table.
“A piece of toast, Andreas? A spot of coffee? No? Very well then. I presume this is not purely a friendly visit. What do you have for me?”
Koutrakos fidgeted nervously. “I heard something yesterday.”
“Yesterday? And it has taken you this long to come and see me?”
Koutrakos smoothed his hair with a shaking hand. “The call was yesterday afternoon and I was on duty until midnight. I came at the first opportunity.”
“If the information is of interest, I wouldn’t have minded being woken up but no matter. What did you hear?”
“Fleming received a call from a Mr Tomlinson. A Mr Reggie Tomlinson.”
“Yes, yes, I know him. What did they discuss?”
Koutrakos told Pulos about the conversation that had passed between the two men. When he’d finished, he couldn’t help but cast a longing look at the jug of orange juice on the breakfast table.
“Help yourself, Andreas. Go on. You could do with the vitamin C.”
Koutrakos poured himself a glass and gulped it down.
“You have done well, my friend. What was that address again – 44 Rossetti Garden Mansions, wasn’t it? In Flood Street. A nice part of town as I recall. Very well. Marco! Money please.” Marco produced Pulos’s wallet. Pulos took out a note and waved it in front of Koutrakos. “There you are – £5. Don’t spend it all at once. Off you go then and, if you hear anything else…”
Koutrakos wiped his orange-stained lips, nodded and hurried out of the room.
Pulos’s coffee had gone cold but he finished it anyway. He looked thoughtfully out of the window then called out. “Come here, Marco. I think I have a job for you.”
* * *
“Mind if I trouble you for a second, Colonel?”
Colonel Aubertin was at his desk, sipping a morning coffee and reading a letter from his wife when Gordon Vane-Stewart appeared at the door.
“Not at all, Major. Please come in.”
The major sat down. His manner was mild and self-effacing. The real man, as the colonel well knew, was quite different. Gordon Vane-Stewart was a man of ambition, courage and an iron will. He was one of the driving forces behind the Special Operations Executive. The SOE had been formed almost a year before at Winston Churchill’s initiative. The organisation had resulted from the amalgamation of separate departments operated by the Foreign Office, MI6 and the War Office. Its brief was to conduct espionage, sabotage and reconnaissance in occupied Europe and to assist local resistance operations.
Aubertin and his colleagues had often laughed about the British predilection for nicknames. In the case of the SOE, two nicknames were already current – the Baker Street Irregulars (referencing the location of its headquarters) and Churchill’s Toyshop, reflecting the keen interest the prime minister took in its activities. The exact hierarchy of the SOE had never been made clear to Aubertin but he knew that Vane-Stewart was very senior. More to the point, he was his principal liaison with the organisation. A section of the SOE had a part-time office in Dorset Square and Vane-Stewart was in charge of this section.
Vane-Stewart noticed the letter that Aubertin was putting away bore a Gibraltar stamp. “All well, Colonel?”
“Yes, Major. A letter from Jeanette, my wife. It somehow got through to me via north Africa and Gibraltar. She is at our house in the Auvergne – or was when she wrote it four weeks ago.”
“I spent some happy times in France before the war. Mostly in the south. We used to rent a house in a place called Grimaud.”
“I know it well. We also used to holiday around there.”
“How does your wife fare in the current difficult circumstances?”
“It is hard to tell as, by necessity, the letter is bland and guarded. One has to assume that the post is not secure in Vichy. She is not well so, naturally, I worry but she says nothing of her health.”
“Difficult for you. Have you tried to get her out?”
“Before things got really bad, yes. But she wanted to stay to protect the house. It has been in her family for several generations. We have no children and…”
“The house is her child? Say no more, Colonel. I understand. We have a family seat in Sussex going back to James I. We would no doubt have similar issues.” The major drew his chair closer to the desk. “I’m afraid I have some rather unpleasant news.”
The colonel straightened in his seat. “Oh?”
“We appear to have lost an agent.”
“I’m sorry.” The colonel removed his reading glasses.
“Reliable sources have informed us that the French agent John Webster, real name François Bouchard, has been arrested by the Germans and is being interrogated at the SS headquarters in Paris.”
“Where was he arrested?”
“It appears the Germans were waiting for him when he landed. They also caught the waiting Resistance reception party, who are no doubt also in custody. Presuming they are not already dead.” Vane-Stewart stroked the sandy-coloured moustache that nestled under his formidable nose.
“So they knew he was coming and they knew where and when.”
The major cleared his throat. “It is hard to believe they stumbled upon him by accident in the middle of a very isolated part of rural northern France. I suppose they might somehow have been able to track the aircraft.”
“Perhaps.”
“More likely they got the information from London.”
“A leak.”
“The word leak implies the information might have got out b
y chance. Unwise gossip or the like. I’m afraid we need another word here, Colonel, a stronger word.”
“And what word would that be?”
“Treachery. Someone here – and by here I mean either in this building, in our office in Baker Street or in your other offices in London – has intentionally passed this information to the Germans directly or via the Vichy French and a brave man has been lost.” The major leaned back and stretched out the gammy leg he had acquired at Dunkirk. “The question is, Colonel, what are we going to do about it?”
* * *
The telephone rang as Merlin came into his office with Bridges and Robinson. “Chief Inspector Merlin?” a drawling voice enquired.
“This is Merlin.”
“I am Mr White. I spoke recently to your Constable Robinson.”
Merlin’s eyebrows rose. “Oh. Yes.”
“We’d like to have a little chat. I gather you know one of my colleagues. I won’t mention his name on the line. Let’s call him Mr Black. I’ve arranged for you to meet him for lunch today at the Reform Club. Be there at one o’clock sharp.”
Merlin was allowed no time for reply. He put down the receiver. “Your friend Mr White from MI5 has finally got back to us, Constable.”
“Is he going to meet you, sir?”
“Not him. Someone else. I think I know who.” If it were that person, Merlin was cheered to think he would at least get a straight story. “I’m lunching with him.” He turned to Bridges, who was opening a window. “So, Sergeant, Constable. How did you get on yesterday? I’m sorry, by the way, that I wasn’t here on your return yesterday afternoon. The AC dragged me off to a tedious meeting at the Home Office about police liaison with the Home Guard, which I could have done without.”
Bridges ran over what Peter Wilson had told them. When he’d finished, Merlin leaned back and swung a leg up on the desk. “So the fellow was friends with Bridget Healy but denies anything stronger than friendship. Confirms there was someone seeing her, someone who could afford to take her to nice places, but has no idea who. Did you get any sense at all that he might not be telling the truth?”