The Torch Betrayal

by Glenn Dyer

  Neither man rose to greet to greet him formally, but Philby snuffed out his cigarette and spoke. “Miles, so sorry for the urgent request for your presence.”

  “Quite all right. At your service, Kim. Apologies aren’t—”

  “This is Anthony Blunt. MI5. And this is Miles Stoker, my deputy.”

  Blunt said nothing but gave Stoker a curt nod and reached for his drink.

  Stoker dropped his raincoat and fedora on a nearby table and took an armchair across from Philby as Philby continued to speak. “Anthony has shared some . . . rather fascinating news. I believe it is worth looking into.”

  Blunt drained his drink. “I’ll leave the two of you to it. I have pressing issues of my own to deal with,” the man said, straining to push his large frame from the cushioned armchair. “Please keep me informed as to your findings, Kim.” He continued to ignore Stoker as he headed for the door.

  Stoker could detect the scent of Kings Men cologne; men who used cologne bothered him. He shook the thought out of his mind and turned back to Philby. “Your news?”

  Philby lit another cigarette. “Yes. Yes. It seems that our American friends are in a bit of trouble.”

  “Let me guess—another security leak?”

  Philby’s eyebrows shot up and Stoker guessed that he’d surprised the man with his assumption. “My, my, you do have big ears,” Philby said, placing his empty glass on the table. “Yes. This time it’s somewhat more significant than a big-mouthed American diplomat.”

  Stoker leaned forward. “What—”

  The door to the library opened and the old man moved into the room, a silver tray with one drink balanced squarely in one hand.

  “Good timing, Jenkins. I had just come up a bit dry.”

  The old man nodded his appreciation at Philby’s comment.

  “So what did the Americans—”

  Philby held up his hand to halt Stoker. “That’s all, Jenkins.” He inhaled deeply from his cigarette and waited as his man took his leave. “It seems they have lost track of a top-secret document containing the details surrounding Operation Torch.”

  “North Africa?”

  “Yes. What’s comical about the whole mess is that they lost track of it while it was being microfilmed at their film lab . . . over in Bushy Park.”

  “Always entertaining, those Americans. But why the interest?”

  “Well, think it through some, Miles. I need you to be a sharp thinker. I can’t do all the hard work after all.”

  Stoker took a deep breath. It was a popular refrain of Philby’s—one he had grown tied of. “Please, enlighten me.”

  “We both know how much our friends are displeased with plans for North Africa. They are desperate for substantive help from their allies, no matter how much of their blood would be spilled. An invasion of North Africa is not substantive help.”

  “Yes. That has been made very clear. What am I missing?”

  “What if we recovered the missing document or at least made sure it was never recovered by the Americans? What would happen then, do you suppose?”

  Stoker shrugged and paused. “I suppose that would be a sizable spanner in the works.”

  “Indeed. Enough to stop the planning. And what if the recovered document were to fall into German hands? What then?”

  “Well, putting aside the question of how that would be accomplished, I would venture to say that the invasion would have to be completely reconsidered. It would be a bloodbath to proceed.”

  “Ahh, there you go, Miles. You’re becoming a critical thinker. I like that.”

  “You have some assignment for me, I take it?”

  “Of course. Head over to Bushy Park. Talk your way in and probe. We need to know more before we notify our friends. And do it quickly.”

  “Why the haste?”

  “Well, for one, the deeper Eisenhower gets into the planning, the more difficult it will be for him to reconsider the operation.”

  “And for two?”

  “We must be consistent in feeding the beast. It craves secrets.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  1530 Hours, Monday, October 5, 1942

  OSS Headquarters, No. 70 Grosvenor Street, London

  Thorn had been waiting fifteen minutes in front of Claridge’s for the car that was to deliver him to OSS headquarters for his meeting with Colonel Donovan. He was early; he’d slept poorly the night before and woken before he normally did. While he had no appetite, his stomach churned incessantly, so he attempted to browse the London Times for wartime news from North Africa, to distract himself, but gave up when his concentration failed him.

  He folded the paper under his arm and began spinning his wedding ring around his finger as he stared out into the traffic on Brook Street. The seven flags representing the governments in exile, plus the flags of Great Britain and the United States that hung above the portico, snapped sharply in the crisp October wind. Among the small black London taxicabs that choked the service drive in front of the hotel, Thorn singled out a black Buick Roadmaster making its way toward the front entrance. The Buick pulled to the curb and a young woman jumped out, ran for the back door, opened it, and snapped her head toward Thorn. “Mr. Conor Thorn?”

  “Yes. That’s me.”

  “I’m Anne Hollis, Colonel Donovan’s driver. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

  “No, not at all. Just enjoying all the commotion.”

  “Wonderful. Shall we get on to headquarters?” said the willowy young woman dressed in an army-green wool skirt and matching waist-length jacket.

  “Mind if I ride up front?”

  Hollis, still holding the rear door open, looked surprised. “Wouldn’t you prefer to ride in the back?”

  “No, never been comfortable in any backseat,” Thorn said, making his way to the front passenger door.

  “Have it your way, sir,” Hollis said as she closed the rear door and slipped behind the wheel.

  Thorn settled in for the ride and was quickly impressed with how Hollis handled the powerful sedan in and around the double-decker buses and numerous military vehicles. “I commend you on your driving skills, Miss Hollis.”

  “Thank you. I do take pride in my drivin’.”

  Hollis pulled up to a multistoried brick building that was not of ordinary red brick. Its facade had a soft, cashmere-brown hue to it, but otherwise, the building was nondescript.

  Thorn got out of the Buick and turned toward the entrance, the American sedan emitting a deep growl as it pulled away. He entered the building and discovered two armed guards flanking the elevator. Standing between them was a grinning Bobby Heugle, raincoat over his arm and hat in hand. Thorn announced himself and one of the guards called for the elevator. Once both were inside, the guard punched the button for the third floor. Thorn looked at Heugle, who looked like he had just been asked on a date by Hedy Lamarr.

  “How’d you sleep?” Thorn asked.

  “Like a baby. You?”

  “Caught a few minutes here and there. You look pretty chipper for a guy that may get assigned to Iceland.”

  “Hey, don’t joke like that. Cold weather and I don’t get along. It’s like the army versus the navy, the Yankees and the Red Sox. Like—”

  “Stop. Stop. I get it. Jeez. I was joking.” The elevator door opened. “Sort of,” Thorn said as he stepped off the elevator.

  The guard rapped twice on the door of suite 323 and, without waiting for a response, pushed through into an art deco–style living area with lights ablaze despite the time of day and cigarette smoke fully choking the air. Two men seated in the living room looked up as they entered, but only one sprang to attention and moved in his direction.

  “Conor, Bobby, good to see you.” Donovan approached with a warm smile and shook hands with both men. “Rested after the long trip, I assume.”

  “Great to see you again, Colonel Donovan. I’m fine, but it is a long trip from Tangier,” Thorn replied.

  “Yes, it is. And not your favorite
mode of transportation, we know. And you, Bobby? You left Tangier in good shape?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m fit as a fiddle and ready for my next assignment.”

  “I actually meant Tangier itself,” he said smiling, “but enough of that. Let’s get going, shall we?”

  Donovan led Thorn by the elbow into the living area, and Heugle followed. “Let me introduce you both. Shake hands with David Bruce—he heads up our London office.”

  Thorn and Heugle stepped forward to shake the hand of the lanky Bruce.

  “Mr. Thorn. An uneventful trip, I hope?”

  “Yes, sir. It was. Not a German hostile in sight the whole way.”

  Bruce looked him over for a moment. “That so?”

  Donovan sat on the couch next to Bruce. Thorn and Heugle settled into club chairs across from the two men. “Bobby, let’s start with you. There’s been a change in plans. We found a better fit for our liaison with the navy. You need to be on the Friday flight to Lisbon.”

  Heugle’s jaw dropped. “Well I’ll be SOL.”

  Donovan and Bruce glanced at each other, and Donovan cracked a smile.

  “Lisbon is a whole lot better than Tangier, Mr. Heugle,” Bruce said.

  “Yes, sir. It’s just I had my sights set on spending some time here. Can I ask the specifics of the posting?”

  “Things are heating up in Lisbon. You’ve got every country in this conflict staffing up their embassies. And we’re running behind. Check in with Larry Hopkins when you get to the embassy. He’ll give you the specifics you’re looking for,” Donovan said.

  “Head down the hall to my office,” Bruce said. “My assistant, Joan, has your transit papers and some traveling money. She’s made arrangements for transportation for you back to Whitchurch Airport. You’ve got three days to get yourself . . . organized.”

  Donovan stood and shook Heugle’s hand. “Good luck, Bobby. Don’t let anyone get the upper hand on you. And stay out of the bars. They’re even trickier than the ones in Tangier.”

  “Ahh . . . yes, sir. I’ll do that. I’m not a real bar guy anyway.”

  Thorn snorted and slapped Heugle on the back. “Wait for me downstairs.”

  “Keep your head down, Bobby,” Donovan said.

  “And your ears open,” Bruce added.

  Heugle, looking like he’d missed the last train home, nodded and headed for the door.

  Donovan cleared his throat loudly and rubbed his hands together. “OK, let’s get on with it. As you know, we brought you to London for a new assignment. But, before we get to that, I wanted to get into the reason—or reasons—things didn’t work out in Tangier.”

  “I understand. Where do you want to start?”

  “Why don’t you start with the night you very nearly got a valuable informant killed by the Gestapo,” Bruce said, confirming to Thorn who was taking the lead for the prosecution.

  “OK. Well, as I told Colonel Eddy, our mission was to get Tassels, the informant, back to Colonel Eddy’s villa for a critical broadcast that Tassels was to make to other Berber tribal leaders in the Riff mountain region.” Thorn received no verbal or visual reaction from either man. “Colonel, I realize that there is something big about to happen in North Africa, given the type of intel we’ve been gathering and sending back to London and Washington. And the attitude of many Frenchmen toward the English and now we Americans, because we’ve joined the Brits, isn’t heartwarming. We need as many friends in that part of Africa as we can get, including the fighters from the Berber tribes. That’s why it was important for Tassels to make that broadcast.”

  Donovan nodded. Bruce, who had been leaning forward in his chair, sat back, waiting for more.

  “Once I recognized the two Gestapo goons following us, I knew we couldn’t make a clean and safe rendezvous at the villa. I had to take them out of the picture.”

  “You realized they had guns?” Donovan asked.

  “I assumed they did. But I confirmed it when I stuck my head in their car.”

  “So tell me: Why did you do that? I’m not clear on that,” Bruce said as he leaned forward again, grabbing a lighter off the coffee table and lighting a cigarette.

  “First, I wanted to get a clear ID on them. Second, I wanted to see if I could detect weapons.”

  “Did you?” Bruce pressed.

  “I saw a bulge under the driver’s jacket. I assumed at the time that it was a gun.”

  “Then?”

  “I . . . We had two choices if we were going to make it to the villa. I had to either lose them in the quarter or disable their car.”

  “According to Colonel Eddy’s report, you cut their spark plug cables.”

  “That’s about it.” Thorn could see Donovan work hard at suppressing a smile. Bruce noticed also and shot Donovan a you’re not helping look. Donovan shrugged and looked at Thorn.

  “So you saw that at least one certainly had a gun. Since you didn’t have one, was your action wise?”

  “Colonel, I’m glad you brought that up. Colonel Eddy, with all due respect to him, is making a mistake not wanting us to carry guns. I know he doesn’t want any of us to get deported by the Spanish police if we get caught with them, but, Jesus, we’re not playing tennis with the Germans.”

  “You may have a point there, Thorn. It might be worth the risk. What do you say, David?”

  “I don’t know. If one of our agents gets the boot for possession of a gun, it’s not as if we have other agents waiting around to take his place. That office in Tangier is understaffed as it is. Colonel Eddy has been requesting additional men for several months. But I get that we’re fighting with one arm tied behind our backs.”

  Donovan nodded and took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Conor, tell me, and be candid, what has been your frame of mind lately?”

  You knew this was coming at some point. But are you ready for it?

  “Fine, Colonel.”

  “The first anniversary of the loss of your wife and son is coming up, and—and I apologize for bring this up right now, but I have to—the anniversary of the sinking of the Reuben James is also weeks away.”

  “Yes, sir. I am all too aware.”

  Both men stared intently at him.

  What do they want me to say? That it’s no big deal? It’s all in the past? That losing Grace and my son and the Reuben James hasn’t had an effect on me? Shit, it fucked up my head so much it got me drilled out of the navy.

  “Colonel, Mr. Bruce, it’s true—it has been a struggle these past few weeks. But I’ll get through it. Just like I got through it when it all came down on my head a year ago. I know I screwed up my naval career due to the way I acted after the shit hit the fan, which I deeply regret. And I know you pretty much saved my butt. But I can tell you that I did what I had to do to complete a critical mission. As far as the . . . dustup at Dean’s is concerned, that Gestapo agent was off his reservation, looking for trouble. And he found it. But I’m not running from any Nazi goon. Never.”

  Bruce rose from the couch. “Sounds as if you have something to prove, Thorn.”

  Thorn turned abruptly to Bruce and nodded. “Yes. Maybe I do, sir.”

  “What’s that?” Bruce asked.

  Involuntarily, his hands balled into fists. “I need to prove that there’s a good reason I’m still alive and not on the bottom of the North Atlantic with most of the crew of the Reuben James.”

  Silence filled the room. Donovan spoke first. “Sit down, David.” Bruce, his eyes locked on Thorn, hesitated, before moving back to the couch.

  “I need to assign someone to be a liaison between the OSS and the commander of a task force, Admiral Burrough. This task force will be a part of a major Allied operation called Torch—the invasion of North Africa.”

  Thorn’s mouth fell open. “Ahh, of course. Now it all makes sense,” he said, slowly nodding. “What will my role be?”

  “Well, you’re about as qualified a person I have, given your naval background. Essentially, you would listen to the
admiral as he readies his task force and help him iron out any disagreements or issues that he may have with the US Navy and Army.”

  A glorified referee. Caught between big egos. A peacekeeper. Shit. He leaned toward Donovan. “Colonel, I received extensive training at the Farm, but I’m not a good peacemaker or politician. Can I request another field assignment?”

  “Let me finish.” Donovan’s response drew a quick look from Bruce. “I have received an assignment directly from General Eisenhower.”

  “Bill?” Bruce interjected.

  Donovan held up his hand, stopping further comment.

  Bruce settled back and rested his head on the back of the couch.

  “I’ll get to the point. A top-secret document that outlines key directives of Operation Torch has gone missing. That missing document puts the security of Torch at stake, as well as the lives of thousands, if it is not found. I’m giving you the assignment to find that document before task forces sail from the States and England.”

  Thorn stole a quick look at Bruce, then looked back at Donovan before he leaned back in his chair again. “When do the task forces set sail?”

  Donovan paused and looked away. “The eastern and center task forces set sail on the twenty-second of this month; the western task force sails from the States on the twenty-third. At the outside, you have sixteen days. Don’t use them all,” Donovan said.

  Bruce was quiet as he slowly shook his head.

  “You will have whatever you need,” Donovan continued. “Stay in communication with me and David.”

  “Wow,” Thorn muttered under his breath.

  “Indeed.” Donovan leaned toward Thorn. “Find it.”

  “Yes, sir. Are there suspicions that it has been stolen or passed on to—”

  “That isn’t clear. That’s for you to discover. And one last item: you will not be working alone. General Eisenhower told me this morning that the prime minister has insisted that you work alongside an MI6 agent he has great confidence in, as do I, by the way. Someone to help you deal with the maze that the British military and intelligence community has become.”