by Glenn Dyer
“Who, sir?”
“Emily Bright. She’s waiting for you over at MI6.”
“Wait. A woman?”
“Don’t be fooled, Conor. Before her transfer to MI6, Emily was Churchill’s right hand. She was the secretary for Joint Planning/Joint Intelligence Committee and the general staff. She practically lived in the underground Cabinet War Rooms during the Blitz. She is a selfless patriot.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Be at General Eisenhower’s headquarters tomorrow morning. Commander Butcher will brief you.” Donovan rose from the couch and started for the door, Thorn and Bruce following suit.
Thorn walked with Donovan, who again took Thorn’s elbow. “Conor, this is one of the biggest assignments the OSS has received thus far in the war.” He stopped at the door and squeezed Thorn’s elbow with a strength that surprised Thorn. Then he whispered, “Do not fuck this up.”
CHAPTER TEN
1600 Hours, Monday, October 5, 1942
No. 28 Queen Anne’s Gate, London
When Warrant Officer Quinn Montgomery emerged from the Saint James Park underground station scarcely feet away from the intersection of Broadway and Petty France, he stopped at the top of the stairs and looked up at the sky. The bright October afternoon sun was momentarily blinding. The exhaust of a double-decker bus idling nearby made Montgomery’s eyes water, making it more difficult for them to adjust. Before starting down Queen Anne’s Gate to Henry Longworth’s home, he patted his uniform’s right breast pocket to ensure his cigarette case hadn’t been nicked on his underground journey. As soon as he realized he hadn’t been a victim of London’s nefarious legions of pickpockets, he held out his left hand and found it was still trembling—a perfect match for the queasiness he’d suffered since the moment he’d awoken early that morning, which was the last time he’d lit up.
Trudging down Queen Anne’s Gate, he passed two men in dust-covered overalls working behind a line of wooden barricades, salvaging bricks and stacking them ten tall in front of a home that had been destroyed in the Blitz of ’41. The men jabbered back and forth, one man constantly shouting “rooobish” at the other.
The street, which was wide for a London street, was lined with four and five-story Georgian mansions whose porches still had boot scrapers and gas lamp snuffers. Montgomery approached the statue of Queen Anne located halfway down the street. It was inside a brick enclosure that had been built before the Blitz to protect the statue of the United Kingdom’s 1702 ruler. Montgomery hated what they’d done to the queen. It looked like a damn coffin sitting on its end. She had been bricked up so long that Montgomery’s memory of the statue’s appearance had begun to fade.
He stopped in front of it and noticed how quiet the street was. Only a couple of lone people strolling by on the far ends of the street were in sight, so he ducked into the shadow of the brick coffin and pulled his flask from his olive-green blazer. After double-checking for any curious onlookers, he pulled his silver cigarette case from his breast pocket and opened it. There were eight cigarettes inside—six were Woodbines, two were hand rolled. He took a hand-rolled cigarette out and lit it with a shaky hand, inhaling deeply and trapping the smoke in his lungs. Five seconds passed and he exhaled in a well-practiced, deliberate fashion. The mixture of Woodbine tobacco and opium produced an incense-like scent that he swatted away lest it settle in his clothes. He stared at the wall, which was so close he could see droplets of moisture running down the seams of the brickwork, and realized he couldn’t smell the dampness.
Earlier that morning, what had most concerned him was his meeting with Longworth and passing along more information about the upcoming convoy to Russia. But now, he didn’t much care about that—what concerned him most was whether Longworth would be able to help replenish his dwindling supply of opium.
Montgomery approached No. 28, Longworth’s home. It was a five-story, brick structure with a black-painted, carved wooden canopy over the front door. The keystones of the arches were carved stone, providing howling, wild-haired men in the middle of them on the ground and first floors. The heavy, varnished wood door creaked open, revealing Longworth standing in the doorway. He was dressed in a blue, double-breasted, pinstripe suit, and he twirled a pair of glasses by an earpiece.
“If you are coming in, then, damn it, get on with it,” Longworth said, his faced twisted in annoyance.
Montgomery stepped inside the entrance hall; the wood-planked floor creaked under his feet. Longworth had already disappeared into his study, off to the left of the hall. As Montgomery entered the room behind Longworth, the long-case clock on a landing halfway up the stairs chimed two o’clock. He took a seat in front of Longworth’s desk, which was laden with papers, files, and books. Most of the books, Montgomery remembered from his previous visits, were about the 1917 Russian Revolution and current histories of the Catholic Church.
“So, Quinn, before I share some news, what news have you? Any movement on the next convoy to Archangel?”
“Sir, there’s a lot of confusion at Coastal Command.”
“Confusion? Explain.”
“One day PQ 19 is on; the next, it’s off. Then the next day it goes from forty merchantmen with an escort of seventeen warships and twenty B-24s as air cover to thirteen merchantmen and two warships with five B-24s.”
“Well, that makes some sense. I told you about a big offensive coming up. We’ve been told that there are only so many ships. Mounting large convoys and supporting a major offensive is too much of a strain. But whatever size is finally decided on, I need to get a sailing date. You can get that for me, right, Quinn?”
“Oh, right, sir. That shouldn’t be too difficult, as long as my duties won’t change.”
“Don’t worry on that front. I arranged for your promotion to warrant officer and had you assigned to Coastal Command for good reason, so I have a handle on that.” Longworth rose from his chair with a glass of whiskey in hand, came around the desk, and sat on a clear patch. “Speaking of duties—they still include occasional trips to the Americans’ film lab, right?”
“Right, sir. At least until the film processors at Mount Farm are fixed,” Montgomery answered, patting the flask in his breast pocket, surprised by the question.
“When was the last time you were there?”
“Friday last week. Why, sir?”
“While you were there, did you notice or hear anything unusual?”
“No, don’t think so. Just the usual.”
“The usual meaning what?”
“Oh, you know—the Yanks like to pull our chains a bit. Think their shit don’t stink, that sort of thing. Excuse the language, sir.”
“That’s all right. But no talk of something gone amiss? A crisis?”
Montgomery hated all the questions. It reminded him of his younger days when he was running wild in the West End and getting pinched for breaking into mansions in Mayfair. The coppers from Metro Police held him for two days. Question after question for two days. The bastards.
“No. No, not that I remember.” It was then that something kicked in. A message from his superior officer that he’d received Saturday. He had been dipping heavily into his fresh stash of cocaine. It had been a long day, and much of it wasn’t real clear. “But now that you mention it, there was one thing that happened.”
“Go on.” Longworth returned to his desk chair and topped off his drink.
“Warrant Officer Haldane told me that an American lieutenant came around looking for me. Said he wanted to talk to me about something that happened at the US Army film lab a day or so ago. I wasn’t around at the time. Said he’d come back.”
“What unit was the lieutenant from?”
“He told Warrant Officer Haldane that he was from the film lab.”
“Did he come back?”
“He did, but I was in the infirmary. I went there in the middle of the night with a nosebleed that wouldn’t stop. I didn’t wake Warrant Office Haldane, because it was so late.”
<
br /> “Were you going to tell me about this?”
“Never crossed my mind, sir. But now you mention it, do you think it could be about me passing along convoy information to you? Because if it is, you know I don’t—”
“No, no, no. It is not about that. They’ll never discover that, so calm down and get a grip,” Longworth said. He sat back and propped his elbows on the chair’s armrests and spun his glass in both hands. Montgomery couldn’t see his whole face. “Churchill revealed in today’s cabinet meeting startling news of a security breach concerning the next Allied offensive. The Americans are looking for some top-secret document, something the film lab had in its possession . . . until recently.” It seemed as though Longworth wasn’t speaking to Montgomery. He was talking to himself in a hushed tone.
Longworth drained his glass and slammed it on the desk, but the paperwork muffled the sound. Nonetheless, Montgomery jumped in his chair. “You need to smarten up, Quinn.” Longworth stood up behind his desk and leaned halfway across it, his hands spread far apart. “I have told you time and time again to tell me when anything out of the ordinary happens—that includes anyone from any unit, American or British, wanting to talk to you.”
“I thought it was about something I left at the lab or some order I dropped off. Some Coastal Command requests are real doozies . . . real complicated, I mean.”
“You need to be more careful and aware.” Longworth calmed down as a quizzical look crossed his face. “How much opium are you smoking? Last time, you said that you were cutting back.”
“I have, sir. Believe me, I have,” Montgomery said with his hand over his heart, feeling the outline of his cigarette case. He realized, to his dismay, that it might be a bad time to ask for cash to replenish his supply.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
1700 Hours, Monday, October 5, 1942
MI6 Headquarters, No. 54 Broadway, London
Thorn, with Heugle in tow, followed the directions he’d received, including the instruction to ignore the brass plaque on the front of the building that announced it as the location for the Minimax Fire Extinguisher Company. After announcing his name and whom he was there to see, Thorn and Heugle waited for several minutes in the lobby for someone to tell him where to go next.
“What if this Bright is some decrepit battle-ax of a woman? You said she lived underground after all.”
“Bobby, maybe you should leave and bone up on your Portuguese.”
“Not on your life. I want to meet this ‘right hand’ of Churchill’s. I might want to drop her name while I’m in London, in case I get in a bind.”
Thorn was about to tell Heugle to leave when the elevator door opened and revealed a dark-haired young woman. Her off-white blouse was pulled tight across her ample chest. She held the doors open and leaned out of the elevator, stretching her blouse to the breaking point. “Are you Thorn?”
Heugle elbowed Thorn indiscreetly and loudly cleared his throat.
“I am. And you are?” asked Thorn.
“Never mind that. Who’s this fella? I only had one name.”
“He’s my partner . . . for now, at least. We work for the same outfit.”
“Heugle. The name’s Heugle,” he said, piping up.
“Hmmm.” She looked them both up and down. “Come with me,” she said, ducking back into the elevator.
They joined her as she poked a button marked with a faded B, and the elevator descended begrudgingly. It was marginally bigger than a phone booth, which made it possible to hear the young woman’s breathing. Thorn couldn’t help but stare at her. Her charcoal-colored skirt covered her shapely rear as snugly as her blouse, slightly straining the zipper that ran up the back of the skirt.
Heugle’s eyes were glued to her backside. He took a deep breath and exhaled loudly, which drew no reaction from the woman, probably something she had grown used to—or more likely tired of. Thorn missed being around Western women, especially those who weren’t afraid to show their curves. Maybe he had been in Tangier too long.
“You wouldn’t be Emily Bright, would you?” Thorn asked, worried that he sounded too hopeful.
“No, dear. Not me.”
“Oh . . . too bad.”
She cocked her head at him, smiled playfully, and raised one thin, dark eyebrow in his direction. With his luck, Bright would turn out to be exactly like Heugle had described. “So where are we headed?”
“You’ll soon find out, you lucky bastard,” she said, smiling when she said bastard.
“OK then.” What a shame. Working with her would have been . . . fun.
Heugle couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Will you be joining us?”
“It’s my greatest hope, sweetie. It truly is,” she said. The sarcasm was a sure sign that she’d dealt with men for far too long, Thorn thought.
The elevator door opened to reveal a dimly lit, smoky space that, to Thorn, looked remarkably similar to a bar. “So what’s this?”
“It’s a pub, silly boy.” Thorn and Heugle carefully squeezed past the woman, who made no effort to stand aside. “Have fun, boys,” the woman said as the elevator doors squeaked shut.
Thorn looked around and saw a group of men grouped along a long, dark bar that ran the length of the room. There were several tables that entertained other men, but Thorn didn’t see any women.
“I’ll be dipped in shit. Do you believe this? A bar in the basement of MI6. No wonder the Brits are losing the war,” Heugle said.
“Bobby, shut the hell up. And behave yourself, at least for the next few minutes.”
They headed to the bar and ordered drinks.
The barman cocked his head. “I don’t recognize you. Who are you with?”
“Well, I’m supposed to meet someone.”
“Ahh, a Yank are ya. So who’d that be?”
“Bright, Emily Bright.”
“Oh, Miss Bright. Lovely woman. She’d be over there,” said the barman, pointing to a table that was partially blocked by the three men who flanked it. A moment later, one of the men stepped away, revealing a woman holding court alongside a naval officer. Her light-brown shoulder-length hair contrasted somewhat with her fair skin, which glowed. Her cheeks were highlighted by a light-red hue. Hedy Lamarr had nothing on Emily Bright.
Easy, boy. You’ve got your chance to prove yourself. Don’t let a pretty face cloud your vision.
“Well, so much for working with a battle-ax, you lucky dog.”
Thorn backhanded Heugle in the arm and made a move to the table. As he got closer, he heard Bright laugh. It was a full laugh—one that, by the look on her face, she never apologized for. Getting closer, he could now see that her blue eyes, even through the haze of cigarette smoke, had a sparkle to them that set off her warm smile.
“Hello, everyone,” Thorn said. “I’m Conor Thorn. Excuse the interruption. You must be Emily Bright.” He leaned over the table and extended his hand.
“I am. Hello, Conor. Welcome to MI6 and the Broadway Club,” Bright said as she accepted the handshake. Her hand was warm and her grip firm.
Thorn held on to it a little too long, and he was pretty sure everyone at the table took note. When he finally let go, he took a seat.
Heugle cleared his throat. “And I’m Bobby Heugle. Just protecting my friend’s flank. Nice to meet you, Miss Bright.”
“A pleasure, Bobby. Please, join us.”
“No, no, thank you. You two have business to discuss. I, on the other hand, need to track down our tour guide. She’s about five foot three and—”
“That would be Prudence, Mr. Heugle. And don’t let her name throw you off.” The three men standing around the table all laughed. Bright shook her head.
“Try the third floor,” said the only man seated at the table, who also happened to be the only uniformed man at the table.
“Thanks . . . ”
“Fleming. Ian Fleming.”
“I’ll be off, then. Thanks, Fleming. Keep your head down, Conor.” Heugle headed for the elevator,
high hopes written across his face.
Bright introduced the three men who were standing at the table, who then all drifted off. “And, as you heard, this is my dear friend Ian Fleming,” she said, nodding to the man seated with them.
“That’s Lieutenant Commander Fleming, Miss Bright,” Fleming said with mock sincerity. “A pleasure to meet you, Conor.” Fleming was sitting with his legs crossed, his chair angled toward Bright. He had a cigarette holder in his right hand and was in the process of inserting another cigarette into it.
“Lieutenant Commander Fleming works at the Naval Intelligence Division, although he seems to spend quite a bit of time here at Broadway,” Bright said, turning toward Fleming.
“Only so I can feast my eyes on you, my dear,” Fleming said in the exaggerated tone of someone who was flirting.
It was obvious to Thorn they enjoyed each other’s company, which made him feel like a third wheel. “I take it you know why I’m here?” he asked.
“I do. The prime minister has given me a bit of a briefing. I imagine we’ll get a full picture once we meet with Commander Butcher tomorrow morning.”
“Just what are the two of you up to? Some dangerous undercover assignment for Winston? Let me guess—you are going to be dropped deep in German-held territory in France to whip the French Underground into fighting shape.”
“Oui. But you must tell no one. Do you hear?” said Thorn.
Bright smiled broadly, and Fleming chuckled as he lit his cigarette.
“So tell me, is it just me, or is it strange to you that there is a bar in the basement of MI6?” Thorn asked.
“Actually, it makes great sense,” Fleming said as he pocketed his gold lighter, which was emblazoned with the crown-and-anchor symbol for the Royal Navy. The two columns of brass buttons on his double-breasted royal-navy-colored jacket sparkled in spite of the dim light of the bar. “Intelligence agents are going to drink and gossip no matter what, so let them drink where they can discuss matters of critical importance to the Crown with complete freedom. I think it’s brilliant, don’t you?”