by Marc Eden
The hat rolled out the door.
“Excuse me,” said Valerie, over her shoulder, running after it. “Good luck with your cigarette!”
What a peculiar custom!
The Arab, who’d had a terrible day and who was just leaving, saw a blue pillbox hat rolling his way, being frantically pursued by his customer. In bending gallantly to retrieve it, he stabbed himself with the hat pin. The end of his finger was turning red. Valerie handed him the handkerchief with the picture of the fan on it. Gratefully, he wrapped it around his bleeding finger, just as the Manager walked up. Guests were listening; he would have to settle it. The Arab, who was holding the handkerchief up with both hands, was trying to explain what had happened. The Manager, staring in horror at the red circle in the middle, a miniature Japanese flag, grabbed the Arab by his elbow and steered him over to the front desk where he called Security. Within seconds, one of Hamilton’s Operatives showed up, taking the Arab into custody in front of some women with flowered hats, late arrivals, who were demanding to know when his boutique would open. Peering around them, and spotting the girl, the Arab threatened to kill her. Hearing this, the Operative produced his weapon, and marched the Arab into a back room at gunpoint.
“Anything I can do for you?” the Manager purred, to Valerie. The ultimate diplomat, he didn’t have a name.
“Yes,” said Valerie. “Would you be so kind as to send somebody up to my room to adjust my Casablanca fan?”
“I quite understand,” apologized the Manager, glancing at the door where they had just taken the Arab. “One never knows these days where the enemy is going to surface.” Renting floor space to collaborators, could be a serious offense. He had come so highly recommended, too!
Valerie headed for the stairwell, the Manager following. Noting this, she stopped, and pulled him close. She knew something! The girl glanced over his shoulder and he lowered his ear. “The name is Smythe.”
“Smythe?”
Sinclair nodded, she narrowed her eyes: it was a clip, from The Cat Woman.
Instantly, the Manager was back on the phone to Security. “That’s right. That Japanese collaborator you just arrested? His name is Smythe.”
“But isn’t that who—?”
Smythe!
Up the coast, Martin Seymour’s phone was ringing.
Hamilton was still on hold.
A major security effort, Whitehall had a month to blow the Waterfall to hell, or die. The exact date would come in the course of the day.
In the parlance of the back-room boys, the Three Bears were defined by their place in history, and they were all men. Mama Bear was Lord Louis Mountbatten, Chief of Combined Operations, on secret recall from Ceylon. Baby Bear was Commodore John Blackstone, Royal Navy, Bletchley, who worked for Mama Bear; and Hamilton, whom MI.5 had solemnly cryptogrammed as the Big Bad Wolf.
Papa Bear would be disclosed at the last moment.
Hamilton, who had a sure instinct for covers, took one whiff and detected cigar smoke. Though not present at the meeting, he concluded that inspiration for the atomic mission, GOLDILOCKS, had come from a writer named Winston. From long association, he knew that Churchill’s fables were invariably Grimm; and that this one, his favorite, had started two days following a chance meeting at the Royal.
To Hamilton, in charge of the nuts and bolts, was left the honor of the password, by which Operatives from MI.5 would identify their counterparts in MI.6. For this Sunday’s use, the Commander had selected SAINT IVES. There was no particular reason for it. It just seemed a good place to go. By Sunday nightfall, his itinerary would take him to others.
After leaving Valerie, who wasn’t privy to the planning, he had slept in the back seat of the Rolls that had carried him from Polperro to Southampton and up to the dockyard gates. Behind him, in the chopped waters of the harbor, iron-grey ships were riding at anchor, their stacks yawing skyward against the approaching sun.
Hamilton got out of the car and walked up to the driver. “Don’t dally too long on Liberty,” he warned the Frenchman. He held his hat against the wind. “We meet promptly at 2100 hours. The marina—you have the slip number.”
“No problem, Commander.”
Hamilton knew damn well that de Beck would be dropping off in London, saying good-bye to one of his whores, and grabbing a few hours sleep. “See to it then,” the Commander concluded. “Easy on that car, what?” The last thing he needed was flack from General LeClerc. De Beck nodded, and backed the Rolls out of the gate. The Commander, braced against the wind, headed for the door.
Lights were beaming from the comer office.
Lieutenant Seymour was sorting through his mail: bills; a letter from a girl he’d danced with, drunk, scribbling out an address; and a postcard from Delhi, via Trincomalee. The cover showed a pale pink flamingo, card filched from Key West; message reading, “Mother eating porridge.” It was signed, “Sister.”
Bridley—wearing pith helmet and white suit, and whose mysterious trip had revealed itself in the stamp, post-forwarded—had been covering for Lord Louis and would accompany him to England.
Hamilton handed Seymour the cable. It had Parker written all over it. Seymour stuck with the card. “Lord Louis is back!” he announced. “Ceylon, is it, or—?”
“I know,” the Commander said, opening and slamming drawers. “Where did you hide the sugar?” The teapot was already singing. Seymour walked over to the gun drawer, reached under the irons, and produced a box of American cubes. Intended for Conrad Parker from Captain Bernstein, Legal Department of Ike, and relevant to the release of data in Kay Summersby’s file, the consignment had been intercepted by Bridley. Parlaying his heist, the Boffin had sent the sugar to Martin Seymour for his birthday. Bernstein, who had called Seymour several days ago from Southwick, an off-hand query seeking Bridley’s whereabouts, was delighted to hear that his payoff to Parker had landed in Commander Hamilton’s cup.
Connected to Mountbatten, wasn’t he?
Bernstein, fishing for the code name, had pumped Seymour about their latest mission. The Lieutenant had covered: Bridley must have let it slip. But no, seems Bridley was being sought elsewhere as a material witness in a divorce matter. Mrs. Loot? Lieutenant Seymour and Captain Bernstein had talked before; they got along all right. Seymour, while bragging on their latest girl, hadn’t told him anything of course; but had thanked him for the sugar. Which reminded him: he had promised it to Farvillant. A personal matter, Seymour thought it best not to enter it on his Blackmail List. Called to Hamilton’s attention, the Commander had confronted his Lieutenant with a what-did-you-expect? Bridley was forever getting them into something. Two boxes, Hamilton noted.
“Include candles, did he?”
“No, sir. Just burning them at both ends.”
By breakfast, consisting of yesterday’s crumpets, Hamilton in his shirt sleeves, collar open and tie loose, was having an exceedingly busy day. This activity was flowing into Bletchley Park, where the otherwise calm of Sunday was being interrupted by the ringing of many phones. Part of this was caused by the O.S.G., the Overseas Security Group, Operatives who were coordinating GOLDILOCKS from the township of Truro. This group of men, assigned by Lord Louis, were responsible for the nationwide clamp on this most secretive of operations. Like minnows among the trout, they could operate with greater secrecy in the backwaters of Britain.
Their source to and from Mama Bear was a mild-mannered man with steel-rimmed glasses named Grimes, soon to be Hamilton’s new Security Adjutant—as yet unknown to most of his superiors. On this strange morning, Grimes was quartered at Beaulieu Abbey, secret headquarters of Lord Louis Mountbatten. To secure this choice spot, Hamilton had petitioned Lord Louis himself. Grimes, then, Hamilton’s spy-in-residence, was so placed as to function as catalyst between Lord Louis, the crew at Truro, and Baby Bear, who was connected to the other part of Grimes’ line—where Hamilton could listen. By such an arrangement, it was Hamilton then, and not Commodore Blackstone, who had first access to th
e total flow of information.
Blackstone, an old hand, knew immediately that he was being tapped. From Parker, and an obscure folder, he got the name: Grimes, Arnold E., Royal Marines: Captain, Communications. Transferred to Southampton office 23 June, 1944, by special order Chief of Combined Operations...
Mountbatten!
Hamilton had used Mountbatten!
From Blackstone’s point-of-view, this act was an unspeakable breach of military form. It was also damned bloody bold and he knew it. By placing Grimes in the middle, a ploy that would be perceived by Whitehall as removing weight from Mountbatten’s shoulders, Hamilton had removed himself...leaving Blackstone with the credit, and looking good.
“—that damned elusive Pimpernel!”
Sinclair was not alone in catching the resemblance.
Blackstone’s phone rang. It was Mountbatten, from Beaulieu. The conversation, via Grimes, was about two items of concern: Hamilton’s choice of the woman, and the weather.
The forecast, first.
Weather Command was now firmly in British hands. Churchill, partnered to SOE, and observing from the sidelines, was there to catch the ball should it sail out of the American court, not considered a problem: as of yesterday, gone to Normandy, Ike was out of the country.
Mountbatten was waving him good-bye.
“Yes, I quite agree,” purred Blackstone, “a bloody fine job.” He nestled his receiver, and looked up. The blinds in his windows were swelling in Sunday’s cloudy air, as if to the winds of another time. Recalling Saturday’s curious intrusion, the Commodore cocked his head.
He was listening.
“The gale should be in full force by then,” Lord Louis was saying. The storm was tacking in north, from the Channel. “You feel the craft sturdy enough, do you?”
John Blackstone, from Bletchley, informed him that Hamilton himself had selected the launch for the rendezvous. He’d be damned if he’d be blamed, if it sank!
“Yes, well, it’s his mission, isn’t it?” Lord Louis had still not cast his vote. “You’re personally satisfied, are you?”
Blackstone said that he was. He waited for Lord Louis to ask his opinion of the girl: he didn’t. Employing intuition, the Commodore decided not to press it. “Marchaud,” Blackstone told him. “Yes, that’s right. We did her up as a child, at Elstree...yesterday, yes. How’s that?”
There was something on the line: an unearthly, high-pitched vibration...that damned bloody Grimes! “Yes...I’m sorry, Louis, I didn’t catch that.” The two Commodores had to wait until the phones cleared. “Hello? Yes, I can hear you now. He’s to what—?”
“—to contact Papa Bear himself. You’ll be a good fellow and let him know about it, won’t you?”
Blackstone assured him that he would.
“If they throw it back to me, I’ll decide.” In his offices at Beaulieu, an orderly had entered with late breakfast. “Thank you. On the table, please. Well then, Commodore, should it prove a go, we’ll make sure our sub is where it’s supposed to be. In that eventuality, see that David and his GOLDILOCKS team are on time. I believe he’s on my call today...yes.” Mountbatten, phone to his chin, spread marmalade on his muffin. “Understand there’s been an outside surveillance, hmmm?” The Spy could be anywhere, Blackstone couldn’t say he didn’t know, “—after the girl, yes.” Could be hiding in his files. “Civilian, apparently.” He stirred his tea. “Yes, I would think so, too. Hamilton filled you in then, did he?”
Bletchley was working on it.
Mountbatten made a note. Blackstone might be dancing to a different tune. Could it be the song of The Spy? The tune of men without faces? Multi-lingual? Reports had it that he could be Egyptian. Spanish? Or had he dreamt that? No, the girl was the key! “You’ve met the lady, have you?”
Blackstone hemmed and hawed.
“—yes, well, she sounds like a charming girl.” To Blackstone’s ear, the voices of Hamilton and Mountbatten sounded alarmingly alike. “Give her my best, will you—?”
Blackstone stared hard at the picture of his wife: he was without a wise saying. “Yes, sir. I most certainly will...yes sir, thank you.” He hung up and dialed Hamilton. From his basement at Beaulieu, Grimes lit another cigarette—three ashtrays were overflowing—and picked up his earphones.
“Southampton. Lieutenant Seymour here.”
“This is SAINT IVES, Bletchley. Hamilton there, is he?”
The Lieutenant recognized the Commodore’s voice. He put his hand over the receiver as Hamilton looked up. “Blackstone?” Seymour nodded. “I’ll take it,” Hamilton said. He waited a moment, then snapped in the line.
“Commodore?”
“Hamilton! I’ve just finished speaking with Beaulieu.”
“The Three Bears matter, sir?”
“Quite so, David. Mama Bear wishes the very best for this SAINT IVES thing.” He’d be damned if he’d acknowledge that woman!
“Very good,” Hamilton said. “What do you hear from Truro?” Truro, in the county of Cornwall. Grimes punched a button.
“They’re right on top of it,” the Commodore replied, “waiting for Papa Bear to come downstairs.” The mission then was still pending. Hamilton frowned. His information wasn’t good enough: Grimes should have let him know.
“Things clear at Beaulieu, sir? They’re keeping in touch with you, are they?”
“ ‘In touch,’ old boy?” Blackstone’s voice had dropped to the level of an offended father. “Is that how you choose to put it, David?”
Hamilton placed his hand over the receiver. “He’s found out about Grimes,” he said, softly. Seymour’s eyes implored heaven.
“Why do you think I spent half the bloody morning on the ringer to Beaulieu?” Blackstone was at his acerbic best. “I shall speak to you about this matter privately, David.” Grimes lit another cigarette, followed by static on the line.
“How’s that, sir? We seem to have a bad connection.” Hamilton clicked his shutoff several times, to make the point.
“Dammit, David! Are you there! Hello?”
“Yes, sir. I’m here, sir.”
“See here, David...oh, rot! Never mind.”
“Sir?”
“—privately, David. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Hamilton understood.
The Commodore had caught him. For the moment, that was moment enough. “So tell me, David. How do things look? How do we stand with the storm?”
Hamilton glanced at his watch: he had appointments.
“I expect it will be on time, sir.”
“Um, yes. One would certainly think so. Mama Bear holds that view. All our people, of course, are in touch with Weather Division.” Blackstone, redefining blackmail, had taken advantage of the widening gulf between Ike and Monty. Propelling GOLDILOCKS through the middle, obliterating motives, he had clouded their waters like a giant squid. When the ink cleared, the mission papers on her would be missing.
“Weather Reports look good—”
“Can’t hear you, sir!”
Again, there were background noises on the line, as if from invisible men swimming. It was a transmission problem, originating from Truro: Grimes corrected it. “—how’s the weather there in Southampton? And what’s that bloody racket—?”
Hamilton glanced out the window. Southampton was normal-dreary, but normal. “About right for a Sunday, sir.”
“And Polperro?”
“Bad weather for bears, sir.”
“Excellent! Will you be at Beaulieu this afternoon, David?”
Hamilton thought that he would.
“Well then, that’s your ticket, old boy. Incidentally, I’ve a message for you to deliver. You can take care of it there—can you? That’s a good chap...” Hamilton waited. Blackstone, a Master at Bridge, thoroughly enjoyed taking the final Rubber. “Give my ‘best’ to this Grimes fellow you ran in on me.”
Hamilton winced.
Southampton had just been added to Conrad Parker’s Blackmail List. “Oh
yes, one more thing. Papa Bear is waiting to hear from you. And David—?”
“Sir?”
“Best of luck today...at Beaulieu.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Baby Bear out.”
Hamilton hung up. His emotions were mixed. “Lieutenant, get me His Nibs.”
Seymour opened the secret compartment in his desk, and glanced at a taped card. At the same time, he picked up the special phone residing there. “SAINT IVES calling Papa Bear.” A Colonel, voice known to Seymour, came on the line.
“Come in SAINT IVES. Who’s your animal?”
“This is Big Bad Wolf,” Lieutenant Seymour said.
“Right-o, Wolf. This is Bear Country. Hold, please.”
Seymour punched in a sequence on the decoder and nodded to Hamilton. The Commander picked up his phone.
“Oh, David. There you are at last.” It was the Prime Minister. “So good of you to call.”
“Yes, well...”
“Be patient, dear man. I know how you feel. Our sea voyage tonight is still on hold...there’s good reason for it.”
Hamilton put it flat on the line. “Sir, is there a mission tonight—or is there not?”
“I see no reason to give you bad news. You certainly have my blessing. I think you know that.”
“Sir, what I need to know is—”
“It’s because of this Commando thing of last week, David.” Seymour lit a cigarette. “No one is saying that the party is not on”—Captain Bernstein loomed, an uninvited guest—“as you may know, the entire decision now is with Mountbatten. He is Chief of Combined Operations, Supreme Commander, Asia—”
Why the sop? Hamilton knew all that. He would have to go to Beaulieu.
“I don’t understand,” the Commander said, simply. “Is there some fault with the concept, some reason that—?”
“Of course not, David. It’s a very bold and courageous idea...very bold.” The knowledge of the awesome threat to England hung in the still air of Sunday. Churchill was glad to have the Mission-Commander on the line. It should come from the Top. Hamilton would need to review the Code Override. Lord Louis had enough to do out at Beaulieu. They were both thinking of the Waterfall. “Hold on, David...” The Prime Minister, with a flick of his freckled hand, motioned to an Aide to illuminate the large wall calendar, where his protruding look zeroed in on August. “If they launch, it will be by August 6th. You have that? Yes, August 6th.” In Holland, German physicists were working feverishly, they didn’t want to disappoint him. “How’s that? Yes. That’s her maximal time. You get that information for us, Commander, and we shall hurl a rod of steel down their throats!”