by Glenn Dyer
“If we did . . . provide these funds, what do you plan to do with it?”
“I . . . We . . . plan to put the document in the hands of our friend, the Abwehr agent.”
“Longworth,” Otto spat, his face pinched. “The man I said long ago we should expose to the British.”
“No. The information he was passing to the Germans about convoy activities was always intercepted and altered by our agent in the Hamburg Abwehr station, making it worthless. No, Philby’s decision to leave him alone until he could serve a greater good was the right decision.”
“And you believe that this ‘greater good,’ as you call it, is a second front on the European continent?”
“Philby does. And so do I. But, more importantly, Premier Stalin does also.”
“We shall see, comrade,” Otto said as he stood and stretched his back. He studied the women gathered around the smoking drums for a long minute. “I will report to Moscow Center to see if they agree with your plan. If they do, I will provide the necessary funds.”
“One last thing. This woman has started a clock. She gave me forty-eight hours to find the money. Will that be a problem?”
Otto snorted.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
Stoker rose from the bench and smoothed out the wrinkles in his trousers.
A thin smile formed on Otto’s face as he rubbed his chin for several moments. He pulled down his hat, covering most of his forehead as a chilly breeze swept though Queen Mary’s Gardens. After looking around to see that no one was near, he shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets. “Enjoy your walk back to MI6, Mr. Stoker.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
1330 Hours, Tuesday, October 6, 1942
RAF Coastal Command, Northwood Headquarters, Eastbury, England
Thorn and Bright waited in their staff car near the front entrance to the Quonset hut that acted as sleeping quarters for Quinn Montgomery’s Coastal Command unit. Thorn was behind the wheel, and Bright sat beside him. It had taken some serious arm-twisting to get Hollis to give up the wheel, but she now sat nervously in the rear seat. On the way to Northwood, she had protested several times that it was against regulations for her not to be driving. If she was found being driven by superiors, she could be disciplined. Thorn assured her that wouldn’t happen.
Montgomery’s superior officer had told them that Montgomery was on an assignment but would return soon. Bright studied a photo of Montgomery that had been included in the file that Butcher gave them. It showed a dark-eyed, balding man with a blank expression.
“You didn’t mention whether you learned anything from your heart-to-heart with Weddington,” he said.
“I didn’t learn anything significant. Or at least, I don’t think I did.”
“What do you mean you don’t think you did?”
“Just that her opinion was that the lab staff always took their jobs seriously. They gave the impression that they were always working on something. She said they niggled a bit about the workload. And—”
“They what?” Thorn heard Hollis giggle in the rear seat.
“Oh, sorry—they complained a bit.”
“And what else?”
“She did say that the newest member of the staff was a bit of a nuisance.”
“How so?”
“Weddington said he kept asking questions about the material she was bringing to a Lieutenant Johannson at the lab. The lieutenant told him to mind his business, but he kept at it when the lieutenant wasn’t around. She simply began ignoring him after a while.”
“Hmm . . . anything else?”
“Actually, yes. She told me that there was someone in the lab yesterday talking to Lieutenant Johannson. The lieutenant told her that he was from MI5. Went by the name Higgins.”
“What did he want?”
“He was asking about the lab break-in.”
“I wasn’t aware that anyone else was working on this. Were you?”
“No. But that’s just it. When I checked with MI5, they said they weren’t aware of any break-in at the film lab, and to top it off, they hadn’t heard of a Higgins either.”
Thorn shifted in his seat to look at Bright. “Someone with a false name . . . false identification, asking about a break-in of the lab where a top-secret document goes missing. Do we have a description of this phantom agent?”
“Weddington gave a murky description at best.” Bright lurched forward in her seat. “Look, there he is.” Bright held the photo of Montgomery up to eye level as she looked out the windshield of the staff car. As the man walked, Thorn saw that his right foot twisted to the left, forcing it to land on the edge of his shoe, producing a slight limp. “Yes, that’s him,” Bright said.
“Let’s go. Miss Hollis, we won’t be too long,” Thorn said.
Thorn and Bright intercepted Montgomery at the entrance to the Quonset hut. “Warrant Officer Quinn Montgomery?”
“That’s me. Who’s askin’?” said Montgomery, who gave each of them a good once-over.
“My name is Thorn, and this is Bright. We need to ask you a few questions.”
“About what? I haven’t done anything.”
“No one said you did, but that is an interesting response,” Thorn said calmly. “Let’s step inside and get comfortable.”
“Just who are you with?” the man asked, blinking rapidly.
“Let’s say we work for the prime minister and General Eisenhower,” Thorn said.
“Ahh, don’t we all,” Montgomery retorted, a smirk appearing on his face.
He entered the hut first. There were two rooms on either side of the entrance. Standing in the doorway, you could see a spacious room that featured rows of cots lining each wall. There was little light inside, as it was empty of personnel. The smell of disinfectant hung in the air. Montgomery opened a door to a cramped room located to the left of the main entrance. The deficient lighting in Montgomery’s quarters was at least aided somewhat by the sunlight coming from a small window cut into the hut’s corrugated metal.
Montgomery sat on his cot after he tossed his hat onto an undersized, six-drawer dresser. His right foot turned in and rested on its side. The stink of chemical cleaners became stronger, so Thorn shut the door. Bright stood in the corner, near the dresser, while Thorn stood by the door.
“So tell us what you do here at Costal Command.”
Montgomery’s eyes narrowed. “I work at headquarters. The command provides air cover for convoys coming from the States and for convoys headed to Russia.”
“But what do you do?”
“What do you think? I’m a warrant officer.” Montgomery snickered. “I do whatever they tell me.”
“That include visiting the US Army Air Forces film lab at Camp Griffiss?” Thorn asked.
Bright was moving about the room, looking at pictures pinned to a corkboard on the wall above the dresser. Her movements distracted Montgomery, who watched Bright bend over to retrieve something from the floor on the other side of the dresser.
He refocused his attention on Thorn. “Yeah, a couple of times. Our own lab had been down for a few days. So what of it?” Thorn noticed Montgomery’s right eye twitching. He had lost what little color his face had.
“You all right, Montgomery? You look as if you saw a ghost or something.”
“Yeah, I’m all right. Get on with it.” Montgomery nervously folded his arms, then unfolded them.
“The film lab. You ever walk out with anything that didn’t belong to you?”
“What? Like what?” Montgomery took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes.
“Like anything you weren’t ordered to pick up. Like someone else’s recon photos or any type of paperwork.”
“No, nothing like that. I picked up what I dropped off for developin’.”
“You said Costal Command’s lab had been down. Is the lab back up yet?”
“Yeah, just yesterday.”
“We were told that someone came here to ask you some questions on Sunday,
but you weren’t around. Where were you?” Bright asked as she took a photo off the corkboard and looked at it intently.
Montgomery fixed his eyes on her. “I was in the infirmary.”
“How come your superior officer didn’t know where you were?” Thorn asked.
“I had a bad nosebleed real late on Saturday night. I left on me own. Didn’t want to wake him.”
Thorn stared at the man. “Ever hear of leaving a note?”
“Warrant Officer, is this you in this snap?” Bright asked, interrupting the questioning as she handed the black-and-white photo to Montgomery.
“Yeah, that’s me. Why you askin?”
“Is the man in the middle Henry Longworth?”
“It would be. Why you lookin’ at me things?”
“How do you know him?”
Montgomery shifted into defense mode. Bright seemed taken aback for a moment, and Thorn made a mental note to find out why. A moment later, Montgomery began blinking rapidly.
“He’s . . . he’s . . . a family friend. That’s all.” There was a knock at the door, and an RAF flight lieutenant stuck his head in. Montgomery rose to his feet.
“Montgomery, is this about finished?” The lieutenant turned to Thorn. “He’s not in trouble, is he?”
“These people were askin’ some questions about the film lab at Griffiss Park, sir.”
“Just trying to track down some information on suspicious activity, Flight Lieutenant. Just routine, really,” Bright said.
“Well, are you ’bout done?” the flight lieutenant asked.
“Yes, I believe we are. Right, Mr. Thorn?” Bright asked, buttoning up her coat.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Montgomery, get over to headquarters. It looks as if PQ 19 is on again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thorn and Bright walked out of the hut, and Thorn saw Hollis in the driver’s seat. He gave her a what the hell are you doing shrug, and she got out of the car, slipped into the backseat, and slammed the door.
“Did you see what he was doing with his eyes?” Thorn asked Bright.
“I did. A classic nervous tic. There was something about the photo that got under his skin for sure.”
“So what’s the significance of it?”
“Montgomery is standing next to Henry Longworth. He’s a member of the war cabinet.” Bright directed her gaze toward the gravel-covered ground and shook her head. “It was something I didn’t expect to see, I guess. I don’t think it necessarily means anything.”
“If you ask me, Montgomery doesn’t seem the type to be hanging around high society.”
“Yes, that is odd. The family friend response has me thinking a bit. But there was something else.”
“What?”
“This.” Bright pulled a small square of brown wax paper, folded over several times. Inside was a single black ball, smaller than a marble. “It was on the floor, wedged behind a leg of the dresser. I’m not sure what it is.” Bright raised the contents to her nose. “It smells kind of like incense and looks like tar. I can only guess.”
“Well, go ahead.”
“Opium. But here’s a potential problem—I think Montgomery saw me take it.”
“If it’s what you think it is, isn’t it a problem for Montgomery? And maybe Longworth?”
Bright paused for a moment. “Montgomery? Yes. But Henry Longworth? That’s too outrageous to think about.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
1530 Hours, Tuesday, October 6, 1942
No. 28 Queen Anne’s Gate, London
The more Longworth read, the quicker his pulse raced. His disgust rising like poisonous phlegm in his throat, he tossed the week-old edition of the Soviet newspaper Pravda across the study, its pages floating to the floor after it hit the wall below the portrait of Pope Pius XII. It was the news that Soviet forces had beaten back the Germans from the ancient burial grounds of Mamayev Kurgan overlooking Stalingrad, if it could all be believed, that had done it. It was Pravda after all. But he chose to believe the news that the Soviet government had stopped distribution of the antireligious publications from the League of the Militant Godless, but not because of the reported reason—a shortage of paper.
Stalin was no fool. He needed to curry favor among his new allies and garner the support of the religious people who occupied the newly annexed territories of Eastern Poland, the Baltic states, and part of Finland. Longworth’s thoughts drifted back to his days as a midlevel Foreign Office diplomat in Moscow in 1925, when he saw firsthand the religious oppression Stalin meted out. Longworth failed to keep from thinking about his arrest and abuse at the hands of communist thugs when he’d been paying a visit to the archdiocese of Mohilev.
He rubbed the four-inch reminder that ran across his chest above his heart; the jagged scar tissue was still firm to his touch. Longworth was ripped away from his dark recollections by the booming of the front door opening and quickly slamming shut.
Montgomery stood in the study’s doorway with his coat collar pulled up tightly around his neck and sweat dripping into his eyes.
“Damn it, man! What’s gotten into you? You look as if you’ve been fighting the devil himself,” Longworth shouted.
Montgomery flopped into a chair in front of Longworth’s desk and took a few moments to reclaim his breath.
“Well, come on, man—get a grip.” Longworth grabbed a letter opener made to look like a Royal Scots Fusilier sword and began to fiddle with it as he watched Montgomery wipe the sweat from his eyes.
“Some investigators questioned me today. They came to Coastal Command headquarters. They were waiting for me. I couldn’t get—”
“Slow down, man! Tell me who they were, these investigators.”
“One was called Thorn, and the other, the woman, her name was Bright.”
At the sound of Bright’s name, Longworth dropped the letter opener, the hilt of the miniature sword clanging loudly against the oak floor, and bolted upright in his chair.
“Bright? Emily Bright?”
“She didn’t say her first name, just Bright.”
“The Bright I know is now with MI6. What did she look like?”
“I don’t know . . . between five and six feet, brown hair . . . I think. Maybe in her late twenties.”
“Close enough,” Longworth mumbled. He rose from his chair and picked up the letter opener. He walked over to a large map of Europe on the wall adjacent to his desk and stared at it for several moments, then placed the tip of the letter opener directly on Moscow. “What did they want?” Longworth asked, still staring at the map.
“They asked what I did at Coastal Command. And they wanted to know about me going to the Americans’ film lab. They’re snooping around, lookin’ for something about me gettin’ you convoy information—it’s got to be. They were—”
“No, no, no. They have other problems. And this Thorn, he didn’t say who he was with?” Longworth turned around and tossed the letter opener onto his desk.
“Just that he worked for General Eisenhower. And he was the one who asked the questions, or most of them.” Montgomery slumped forward and rested his head in his hands.
“What did Bright want to know?”
“She was the one who asked about a photograph of me and you. I had it pinned to the wall in my quarters.”
Longworth’s eyes widened as he strode over to Montgomery and shoved him into the back of his chair. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“That photo of you and me and my mum at her birthday party last year. It’s a photo my dad took.”
“Damn it!” Longworth said, returning to his desk chair. “What did you tell them?”
“That you were a family friend, that’s all. Nothing more.” Montgomery was fidgety; his right leg began bouncing.
Longworth closed a book on his desk and shoved it out of his way. He sat back and stared up at the ceiling. “So they’ve made a connection . . . a weak connection between you and me. So what?” he said softly
, as if Montgomery weren’t in the room. “As long as they don’t inquire further about your activity on my behalf at Coastal Command, all should blow over. As I said, they have other problems.”
Montgomery’s rapid blinking only served to further confirm the young man’s rattled state. “There’s one thing, sir,” he managed. “At the end, I saw the woman, Bright, pick up something off the floor. She slipped it into her pocket.”
“What of it?”
“I think it was an old packet of opium.”
Longworth slammed both hands on the desk, sending several sheets of paper to the floor and making Montgomery cower. “Goddamn it, man. Now they have a link from you to me, and they can link you to illegal narcotic use. That will invite ever more scrutiny. Don’t you see? If they can pin that on you, there will be no way for me to keep you assigned to Coastal Command. I couldn’t get involved.”
Montgomery again buried his face in his hands, and Longworth reached for a decanter and poured himself a drink, then downed it in one smooth motion.
“Go back to Coastal Command. Tell them you need a few days’ leave for a family emergency. Then come back here.” He poured another drink and looked at the younger man, whose face still resting in his hands.
“Look at me!” Longworth shouted.
Montgomery jerked his head up, still blinking fast.
“Get ahold of yourself. And heed my words—if your carelessness goes unchecked, it will lead to my ruin.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
1600 Hours, Wednesday, October 7, 1942
Bureau Central de Renseignements et d’Action (BCRA), No. 10 Duke Street, London
After requesting to see Toulouse and presenting their identification at the front entrance of the BCRA headquarters, Thorn and Bright were immediately escorted by a silent French lieutenant to a windowless room located at the rear of the ground floor. The room, which reeked of bleach, contained four chairs around a small table that sported several deep gouge marks and a dozen or more burn marks lining its edges. It was dimly lit by a frosted-glass, domed ceiling fixture. Insect carcasses littered the bottom of the dome.