by Marc Eden
A warm wind was blowing through the window, bearing creosote and salt, and she got up to sharpen her pencil. Lieutenant Carrington gathered up his own. “Here, do mine for me while you’re at it, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
And she ground them all fine, sharp as needles, like razors. Retouch pencils used in the dark stalls of the Camera Shop, they were like weapons. Carrington tested one and was impressed. “Bloody fine job,” he acknowledged, “wonder why I can’t get them that way?”
The afternoon passed and the phone rang. Carrington, at the other desk, picked it up. He nodded and spoke something in a low voice. Replacing the receiver, he reached for his hat.
Valerie looked up.
“I shall be visiting ships in the bay most of the afternoon.” He was on his way out the door. “You know how to reach me if I am needed, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“By the way, should a call come in from a Lieutenant Commander Loot, please ask him to ring me at home, will you?”
“Yes, sir. Will he be calling from MI.5, sir?” She would have to use the scrambler.
“I hope not.” Carrington grinned. “No, he will be calling from Demolitions, I would think. You will recognize him by his high-pitched voice. It sounds like a whining shell.”
How peculiar, she thought.
Carrington hadn’t been gone five minutes, when his telephone rang. She checked her pad: Loot—voice like bullet. She picked up the phone. “Lieutenant Carrington’s Office.”
“Am I speaking to Wren Sinclair?”
Loot, it wasn’t.
“This is Commander Hamilton.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, turning quickly to a clean page. She wondered how he knew her name.
“Is Lieutenant Carrington there?”
“No, sir, not at the moment.”
“I shall be arriving at Weymouth by train tomorrow at 1500 hours. Can you have Lieutenant Carrington meet me?”
“Yes, sir. I will let him know immediately.”
“Do that,” said Hamilton. “I shall be wearing a grey suit, with a white carnation in the buttonhole.” He sounded important.
“Yes, sir. I will give him that message.”
“Good show. I’ll see you then.”
“Sir?”
Lines clicked, she was holding Carrington’s phone.
Had her call been recorded?
The next day, and late in the afternoon, Lieutenant Carrington introduced David Hamilton to Valerie Sinclair. Staring into a pair of steady grey eyes, the girl from Newton Swyre was impressed by the demeanour of the tall, broad-shouldered, thirtyish-looking man in the well-tailored suit. “What do you know about Operation OVERLORD?” he asked her, watching closely as to how she answered.
It was a TOP SECRET exercise.
“Not a thing, sir,” she replied.
She blushed when she heard, “Carrington, let me congratulate you on having a very smart and efficient secretary.”
She liked him.
Carrington glanced at his watch. Hamilton said: “Well now! Perhaps we shall see you again—shall we?—before we leave.” As they walked down the hall, she peered after him.
Was he single?
That evening, on the 21st of June, having returned to Southampton, Commander Hamilton immediately rang up his Adjutant, Lieutenant Martin Seymour. It was Seymour who had trained Valerie Sinclair as a candidate for Naval Intelligence. The Commander suggested dinner at the Officers Club at 23 Greenapple Street, convenient to both, before going to the office where they could work undisturbed. Arriving early, Seymour met him in the entrance.
They entered the busy bar, and found places.
“Two whiskeys, please.”
The ice, in the bucket to Seymour’s right, was on hand for the Americans. “So then,” said Hamilton, “Loot’s drawn a course on Wren Sinclair, has he?”
“Well, sir, he certainly thinks he has.”
Hamilton fingered his drink. Loot’s attempt to purloin Carrington’s secretary was on the table before they left the bar. It was academic, really: MI.5 would have first dibs.
“Pack of Ovals, will you?” Hamilton signaled for the orderly. They found their table, ordered, and were soon eating. Glasses clinked in the background, and low conversation hummed. The entire country had tightened its belt, but not here. Seymour, taking advantage of the invitation, skipped over the fish, going straight to the chops. Hamilton, opting for the steak, attended to the meal with efficiency and dispatch: couldn’t run a war on just fish and chowder. The orderly came up. The Commander passed on the dessert. Seymour followed.
It was not the time for small talk.
“Carrington reports that Lieutenant Commander Loot, the D.E.M.S. officer in charge, has already filed the requisition for her transfer.”
Hamilton put his cup down, and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “Suffering a labor shortage, is he?”
“Yes, sir.” Hamilton lit Seymour’s cigarette. “He as much as told Carrington to make sure that Sinclair cleaned her desk out by the weekend, and to inform him the moment she was ready.”
“He did, did he?” The Commander eyed the Gainsborough on the wall. “Yes, well,” he said: “Scratch an Englishman and youll find a German.”
Seymour grinned. That was Loot, all right.
“Did he bother to tell the girl?”
“The girl? No, sir. He just told Carrington.”
“I see,” quipped Hamilton. “Trying to get his hands on our spy, is he?”
“Well, no. It’s more than that, of course. His own secretary is perfectly competent. It’s just that the second Mrs. Loot—she’s a friend of Kay Summersby, you know—is still going with the French Major, and has taken up with one of the Eisenhower chaps. Poor Loot has run aground again with his first wife as well.”
“Come come, Seymour, have you no sense of decency?”
“Not really.”
“Hmmm. I remember...sordid affair. Last year, wasn’t it?”
Seymour said that it was.
“Loot’s requisition—copy to Bletchley?”
“No, sir.” Seymour was still reading the desserts. “I took the liberty of intercepting it this morning—”
“Very good, Seymour.”
“We caught it just before it went in.”
“Close one, that,” noted Hamilton. He was embarrassed to think a ’chaser like Loot could have upset his plans. “See the new orders for Loot are sent over to Parker, will you?” Lieutenant Conrad Parker was Martin Seymour’s counterpart. At Bletchley Park, home of the ULTRA secrets, the German-speaking Parker, recruited from the London School of Economics, served as Adjutant to Commodore John Blackstone. One of two at theTop in the Royal Navy, the other being Lord Louis Mountbatten, Blackstone’s clout was one notch above an Admiral and just below God: an ultimate rank obviously reserved for Churchill, Lord of the Admiralty before he became Prime Minister. Hamilton, mere mortal wedged between the two Commodores, and choosing the one closer to his advantage, had thrown his allegiance to Mountbatten. Blackstone, the Keeper of the Files, theoretically Hamilton’s boss, was not unaware of this. Touchy about Mountbatten, who enjoyed more prestige, and determined to keep Hamilton in line, Blackstone had appointed Conrad Parker as Keeper of the Codes. Filed under P for PRICK by the Southampton office, Parker, no match for Seymour, was of the old school, an institution not attended by these two enjoying their dinner.
“Loot, sir. New orders?”
It was as good as done. Invergorden, in North Scotland, was too far. Dover, or Hell-Fire Corner, where the barrage of the big guns at Calais had not left a windowpane standing, was too close.
“Special Assignment in Manchester sound about right?”
“Yes, sir!” Ratio of sailors to women: fifty to one.
“You see, old boy, we just can’t have the likes of Loot running off with our candidates, and still call ourselves a company.”
Seymour picked his teeth.
“Jolly
good then!” Hamilton eyed the desserts. “Finished?” Seymour threw the menu on the table. The Commander called for the orderly and settled the bill. “We had best get on to the office.”
Pushing his way through the bar, Seymour grabbed some ice.
Holding against the wind, they crossed over.
...With the doors unlocked, the curtains pulled, and the lights on, the Lieutenant came up with her files. Hamilton had loosened his tie, and pulled a chair. “So then, how did our Wren Sinclair stack up as a candidate?”
At the moment, no other question mattered.
The Lieutenant grinned and made a circle with his forefinger and thumb. “Better than expected on the cross-country, sir. Since she has the appearance of a girl men would want to protect, it’s unlikely that anyone suspected her of being an agent.”
Hamilton made a note, it was why they’d selected her.
In the cross-country, starting out from New Forest in Hampshire, candidates for Intelligence traveled hundreds of miles across Britain: without money, and with the police looking for them, as though they were actual criminals.
“Had she been caught,” said Hamilton, “she knew the password. The local authorities, of course, would have taken care of it, but she would have been disqualified.”
In a class of six, Sinclair had been the first to arrive at the rendezvous in Cornwall. The police, put on high alert, arrested four of them right off; Sinclair had beaten her remaining competition, a trained male agent, hands down. Cycling furiously ahead of her, he had been run off the road by a speeding car, an antique Lea Francis.
Stolen from two R.A.F. pilots who had picked her up when she stopped to adjust her stocking, she had used the car to get to Bournemouth Central Station, where she had conned a member of the Home Guard out of lunch before catching the Express to Penzance while avoiding the ticket inspector. The runner-up, lucky to be alive, had escaped by diving head-foremost into a ditch.
Hamilton appeared pleased. “I’ve often thought that this is one of the most useful and rewarding exercises. After all, if candidates cannot cope on their home ground, how can we expect them to fare in occupied territory?”
Seymour agreed.
“Right-o. Well then, her family matters in order, are they?” Her background was already known to them. In any event, Hamilton would go over it personally with her if he decided to send her.
Seymour said, “As you know, sir, her parents have taken charge of her son—name’s Brian. I’d say it’s relieved her mind. Her husband was killed in action and she is still hoping he was picked up in the North Sea. You remember his destroyer, The Glowworm?”
Hamilton nodded. “It took on a cruiser, then rammed the battleship Hipper and sank straightaway. Blackstone wrote up the report himself, said it reminded him of the days of Drake and Frobisher.”
The Commodore, a banker who was not in favor of female agents, had spent the day doing battle with the Free French until—bending them to his will while at the same time giving them what they wanted—several names from the Dieppe Professionals, survivors of that disaster, had been rigorously pursued. In Bletchley Park, behind steel-trapped doors that contained the brain cells of British Intelligence; specifically, in Blackstone’s office, the lights were out and negotiations were over for the day.
“Bring that lamp over here, will you Seymour? That’s it. Can’t do business in a bloody blackout.”
The mission clock was ticking. It was time to work.
The Lieutenant’s job, aside from training the agents, was to double-check the double-checking, making sure that the parts fit. Standing at his desk, he showed Hamilton the Clearances, they went over them together.
“Bridley in, is he?”
“Bridley?”
One of the Boffins, or “back-room boys,” the civilian arm of counterespionage, Bridley and his signature were necessary links in the chain-of-command spy business, enabling MI. 5 to get on with it. Flamboyant deal-maker and a friend to Noel Coward—in war-restrictive England where homosexuality was practically a State crime—James Bridley flowed in and out of the citadels of power as smoothly as silk. Civilian assigned to Blackstone, he had just been borrowed by Seymour. The Lieutenant, who kept him on his personal Blackmail List, said that he hadn’t signed yet, but that he would.
“Very good! Well, Seymour, I couldn’t be more pleased.”
“About her commission, sir?” Special Operations Executive, SOE, was a joint venture between the British and the Free French. Employing Egalité—a political military principle of exact equality—the French would supply their own combat officer as Sinclair’s partner for the mission, providing the British assured them an officer of equal rank. John Blackstone, in his deal with General LeClerc, would be expected to rubber-stamp it. LeClerc, heading up the Free French, represented De Gaulle. “The Prime Minister will issue the Crown License then—is that right? I’ll have to file it by tomorrow, midnight.”
“Relax, Seymour.” Hamilton had it figured. “We have already waived her examination. Prior to the honor, the Admiralty will bounce her to Third Officer via the War Office.”
What part of the War Office? Seymour wondered.
Hamilton said: “Normally, a commission like this would be escrowed until she returned from the mission, presuming she’s selected, of course.” Churchill himself would code-name the mission. Her uniform was already being issued.
A bold play. “Two rings, is that right, sir?” Female Lieutenant, line officer—it was unprecedented. Commander Hamilton would certainly get a King’s Medal for this one.
“Good show, sir.”
The Commander reached for a cigarette. “Seymour, you may consider this mission as good as signed, sealed, and delivered—just as soon as we clear it with His Nibs.” Winston Churchill, expected to approve the final commission, would do so quietly.
“Commodore Blackstone, sir? Any special instructions that...?”
“I wouldn’t think so, Seymour. I have absolute confidence in your abilities. Still, one never knows when the higher-ups may decide to pull a fast one.” Blackstone, he meant. “If it should come to that, you have Grimes’ number.” Hamilton was considering Grimes, of the Royal Marines, for special security. A petard that might blow away Parker, and divert Blackstone should they muck about in his business at the wrong moment, Mountbatten could help him there: Grimes worked for him. Hamilton wouldn’t care for Blackstone to get wind of it.
Blackstone, who was probably tapping his phone...
“I’ll take care of Bletchley Park, sir.”
“Yes, well, you know where the bodies are buried.”
Seymour didn’t, but nodded. “Speaking of bodies, sir.” It was about Valerie Sinclair’s husband, left unattended. “Could the poor devil still be alive? She seems to think—”
“Don’t they all, Seymour? No. He wasn’t picked up with the known survivors. It would be a miracle if anyone survived for more than a few minutes in that icy water.”
Seymour closed the file. He dropped it in the drawer.
“So much for the husband,” Hamilton concluded. “Let’s get on with the widow.”
“Yes, sir.” Seymour read: “Two years ago, sir. The Royal Hotel. That report from Duncan—?”
“Ah yes.” The Prime Minister, enthralled, had been quick to see the possibilities, routinely channeling it to Blackstone. Hamilton had discovered it through Bridley.
“You pretty well know the rest, sir. We sent her up north... to the Ferry Pool. Her superior was Captain Gilbert. Her husband came from that area.”
Hamilton got up. He walked over, and glanced through the blackout curtains. A light rain was falling. The dockyard cranes loomed dreary in the distance.
Seymour waited.
Hamilton returned to the desk. Tray go ahead, Seymour.”
“Yes, sir. Captain Gilbert spoke highly of her. Says it seems to come natural to her to be discreet. He’s of the opinion that she is absolutely trustworthy.”
“Gilbert?” Hami
lton laughed. “Wonder what he’s hiding?”
“Well, a little personal item I found: Geoffrey de Haviland was very much attracted to her—”
“Surely, not Sir Geoffrey!”
“Of course not, sir, his son. They hold the same name.”
“Yes...so they do.”
“She accepted his invitation to dinner. You remember, before he left...the Lord Beaverbrook matter?” Hamilton nodded, he squashed out his cigarette. “When Gilbert told her what a hero young Geoffrey was, she fell all over herself to go out with him, relaxing her code, as it were.”
Hamilton grinned. “Impressed by that sort of thing, is she?”
“Yes, sir. Though a number of pilots tried to date her, it appears that none of them had what it takes. If I may say so, sir, she left all of them waiting for Matilda—on the runway of broken hearts.”
“How very poetic of you, Seymour. Is that how you wrote it up in the report?”
“No, sir.” His cheeks were turning pink. “I just thought I would...throw it in.”
“I see. Well, throw it out. What else?”
“She tries very hard to excel. She seems to have a great deal of endurance, sir.”
“Essential,” said Hamilton. “Tell me, how did she do in the self-defense and offensive action?”
“A bit shy, sir.” Seymour ticked off the negatives. “Hasn’t made up her mind yet whether or not she wants to kill. I think she would, sir, but—well, she’s a bit of a rum one, if you know what I mean.”
“Unpredictable, Seymour?”
“Yes, sir.” On an impulse, Seymour had asked her to load his revolver. Within seconds, he had sensed she could use it: she was pointing it at him....
“Go on, Lieutenant.”
“Well, sir, under actual conditions, Wren Sinclair could stand up to the best of them. In that case, we made it absolutely clear to her that one chance is all she might get.”
“Quite right,” murmured Hamilton, who loved nothing better than a victory. He would need one, in France. “What about her French?”