by Glenn Dyer
As soon as they were alone, Thorn began to closely examine the room, pacing slowly along its perimeter.
“Checking for bugs?” Bright asked.
“Yep,” Thorn said. “Remember where we are.”
Bright nodded and sat down as Thorn continued his sweep.
“Clean . . . as far as I can tell.”
“In more ways than one, I suspect,” Bright said.
“What are you talking about?”
“That smell. It’s bleach. You use it to clean up bloodstains.”
“Huh?”
“Well, it’s not just my imagination running wild. There have been plenty of rumors in intelligence circles about this place.”
“Fill me in.”
“Rumors about torture mainly,” Bright said.
The door handle slammed downward and the door swung open. The sound of tapping heels announced a strutting, tall man with thinning, blond hair. His knee-high, black boots glistened even in the low light of the room. Another uniformed man, dark haired and equally tall but broader shouldered, followed him into the room, but his gait lacked the crispness of what was clearly his superior. He stood at ease in a darkened corner behind the booted officer.
Thorn and Bright rose from their chairs.
The boot clicker spoke first. “I am Major Dewarvin. Why have you come here?”
Thorn, realizing that a relaxed conversation among allies was out of the question, pushed his chair back under the table and remained standing. “We have a few questions for Captain Toulouse. This shouldn’t take long.”
“Questions about what?”
“About his recent visits to the film lab at Bushy Park,” Bright said. “There has been some unusual activity there of late and we—”
“What type of unusual activity?” Dewarvin asked, not once taking his eyes off Thorn.
“We’re looking into an incident that involved some materials being passed along to the wrong people,” Thorn said. “Captain Toulouse was singled out to us as a person who may have received these materials.”
“Materials? What do you mean?”
“Photos, possibly some documents,” Thorn said. He looked at Bright, seeking some signal that he had handled the question with enough care. There was no signal. Bright’s gaze was locked on the man in the corner.
Dewarvin tilted his head back and gave them an exaggerated frown. “Careless. How can we win this war if the American’s are so careless, Mr. Thorn? Ask your questions, but make this quick.” He stretched his right arm behind him and, with his index finger, motioned the man in the corner, who must have been Toulouse, forward.
As Toulouse moved toward the middle of the room, into the light, Thorn took in the look on his face: his eyes in a piercing stare, his lips pressed firmly together, his jaw jutted out—Toulouse hated them, but Thorn couldn’t have guessed at why. The captain’s arms hung at his sides, his hands resting below midthigh. Dark, dried blood marked the location of cuts and scratches on the back of his hands.
“Have you received anything from the film lab staff that wasn’t meant for the BCRA?” asked Thorn.
“No,” Toulouse said, the word choked off by a collection of phlegm in his throat.
“Speak up, Captain,” Dewarvin said.
“No, I said.”
“Where were you late Friday and early Saturday morning?” Bright asked as she took a step closer to the two French officers.
As Toulouse unraveled some farfetched story about getting drunk with his girlfriend and a press attaché from the Spanish embassy named Jorge Alba and then getting into a bar fight with some Brit sailors, Dewarvin studied Thorn intensely, as if he was trying to learn something from Thorn’s reaction to Toulouse’s story.
Bright continued with more when, where, and why questions, and Toulouse answered in short spurts. At Toulouse’s mention of the word capitulation, Dewarvin became more rigid and Toulouse feigned spitting on the floor.
“What’s your blood type, Captain?” Thorn asked.
Dewarvin reacted as if Thorn had slapped him in the face and quickly jumped in. “Do not answer that . . . insulting question. This is finished, and you will now leave.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
0700 Hours, Thursday, October 8, 1942
Regents Park, London
Stoker tapped his right foot on the gravel path, the tempo getting faster the longer he sat alone. He had waited in Queen Anne’s Garden past the arranged time for his meeting. Daybreak had not yet finished unfurling its warming rays upon the frost-covered grass, and the barrage balloon minders had begun to stir near their hut. It was now fifteen minutes past the target time. He had never had to contend with a tardy Otto before. There must have been a good reason. Maybe Otto had been followed and did not want to lead his tail to the park. This possibility alarmed Stoker. Not connecting with Otto and collecting the payment would sabotage Philby’s plans.
He instinctively felt for the five-inch knife, its leather scabbard stitched under the overcoat lapel in a manner to give him quick access to the knife’s handle. The weight of the .32 caliber Colt against his leg comforted him—somewhat. He got up to take his leave, but he had taken no more than ten paces when a tall man who looked to be in his early sixties, a cigarette dangling from his compressed lips, approached him.
“Come back,” the tall man whispered as he passed by.
Stoker stopped in his tracks and turned to see the man sit down on the bench that Stoker had just deserted. He didn’t recognize the man, which elevated the risk in approaching him. But if he brought word of Otto, it would be worth the risk. Besides, his weapon gave him the edge over the old man.
“Pardon me. Did you say something?”
“Yes. Sit down. Please.”
Stoker surveyed the park in all directions. Nothing appeared unusual or out of place for an early morning in a public park. He took a seat on the bench again.
The stranger’s hands protruded from the sleeves of a black wool overcoat; they were large, but not in a beefy way; the palms were wide, his fingers long, and the knuckles like tight knots of twine. “I was looking to meet someone. Perhaps you know him.”
“He was called back to Moscow. I am your new handler, as well as your boss’s. My name is Shapak,” the man said, his tone clipped and words precise. His Russian accent was detectable but not distracting. Stoker could tell that his new handler had been in England for some time. But this did nothing to quell his concerns. Breaks in routines were always unwelcome, and being called back to Moscow was never a welcome development. He was aware of Stalin’s purges. But Philby drilled it into him to always focus only on matters he could control. Nevertheless, Stoker liked Otto.
“What is the reason for his callback?”
“What reason will make you comfortable?”
“He was . . . he is a loyal communist. Never did he utter a word against Premier Stalin.”
Shapak lit a cigarette and looked up at the cloud-filled sky.
“Did he go willingly?” Stoker asked.
Shapak answered with a shrug. Philby had decided long ago that they would not allow internal Soviet political matters to deter them from doing what they could to aid in communism’s fight against fascism. Stoker willingly accepted Philby’s belief that capitalism was fated to fail, leaving communism the only true safeguard against fascist world domination. That must be his only focus. But, at that moment, it was not. “I don’t understand. Why go back to certain horrible fate? Why not simply drop out of the battle and stay here?”
“It’s simple: kill him there or kill him here. What’s the difference? It is better that it happened there. In his homeland.”
Stoker lowered his head, as if in prayer, even though prayer was foreign to him. The news of Otto’s demise angered him, but he was more disappointed at Shapak’s blunt and callous way of delivering the news. He struggled to keep himself in check. He nodded, not showing his new handler any emotion. “He was a good man.”
“Meh. There are many good men . . . on ou
r side. And some . . .” Shapak trailed off with a flourish of his hand.
And with that coldhearted motion, Stoker regained his focus. He zeroed in on the women across the way who were handling the barrage balloon tethers. “Did you bring the money?”
“What have you heard from the woman?”
The nonanswer annoyed Stoker. He jerked his eyes back to Shapak. “She, or they, are ready to deal. Tonight at twenty-three hundred hours . . . in Trafalgar Square.” Stoker turned back to the barrage women. “Are we going to make the deal?”
“Your plan. I don’t see the sense of it. Giving secret documents to the fucking Germans? Whose side are you on, Stoker?”
“There are many ways to win a war. Some are not so obvious.”
Shapak laughed. “Oh, I see now. What you are saying is that I lack the intelligence to see the brilliance of your plan?”
“No. No, of course not. But maybe your briefing was not so complete as to see the full picture.”
“Ahh, bullshit.” Shapak flicked the stub of his cigarette across the path, into the grass that glistened with the melting frost.
Stoker sat silent for a moment, to allow the other man’s annoyance to dissipate.
“For some reason unclear to me, Moscow Center thinks your plan has a chance of altering Allied invasion plans. If that happens, maybe Premier Stalin’s skills of persuasion will convince them to invade France sooner rather than later. That is what they think. That is what you think. Apparently, it does not matter what I think.”
Stoker decided not to engage Shapak on his opinion. “Then all I need is the money. I assume you have it?”
Shapak had been staring at the group of women, who were gathered about their campsite, feeding scraps of wood into the metal drums for their morning fire.
“Pretty girls. But what a stupid thing to be asked to do—watch a fucking balloon all day.”
“The money, Shapak?”
Shapak rose slowly. Stoker heard the dry cracking of knee joints. Shapak lit another cigarette and took a deep drag; it was pinched tightly between his thumb and index finger. He took another pull from the cigarette, this one quicker.
“Shapak—”
“Quiet. After I leave, wait at least five minutes, then head down the path to a bench with a chalk mark X on the left armrest. Reach under the seat. The money you requested is there.”
“This is a great thing we are doing, Shapak.”
His new handler dropped his cigarette to the ground and twisted the sole of his shoe over it. “Get caught with that document, and you die a traitor. Like Otto.”
Stoker stared at Shapak, a man that would take some time to like. “I know what a traitor is, Shapak. And Otto was not a traitor.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
1900 Hours, Thursday, October 8, 1942
Savoy Hotel, Victoria Embankment, London
Thorn had barely started the long climb out from his hellhole that was his life when he’d last seen his father. They’d had dinner at the Old Ebbitt Grill in Washington, DC, with Thorn’s older brother, Johnny. A lieutenant in Patton’s II Corps, Johnny was on leave, spreading his wings in Washington, bedding, it seemed, anyone he wanted—and he wanted a lot. Their father, Jack, was in town visiting the Federal Communications Commission on regulatory business that impacted his Republic Broadcasting Service. It was the last night before Thorn was to begin his training at the OSS’s Camp F, formerly the Congressional Country Club. He remembered little from that evening. His brother hadn’t stayed long before he’d headed over to the Mayflower Hotel bar. His father had talked at length about the confounding actions of the FCC.
What Thorn did remember was that it had been four months after the death of his wife and son and the sinking of the Reuben James, and only one month after washing out of the navy. He had been circling the drain then.
When Thorn entered the Savoy’s Grill Room in London, it was easy to spot his father. As usual, he was center stage, encamped at a table in the middle of the room, a location that could be easily seen from anywhere in the place. Two men sat with Jack, all of them having drinks.
The Savoy Hotel was a popular choice as a base of operations for US journalists covering the war in Europe, and Thorn easily recognized both men with his father. One was Bob Trout and the other was Ed Murrow, both from CBS. Thorn assumed his father was doing one of two things—either gathering inside information about CBS management, or trying to poach them for RBS. Thorn watched his father, a drink in his right hand, tick off one item at a time with the fingers of his left hand as if in the middle of a sales pitch. Trout and Murrow were nodding politely.
It took Thorn less than a minute of weaving through the sea of white-cloth-covered tables to arrive at his father’s. In that span, Thorn’s father no longer resembled an enthusiastic pitchman but more a stunned recipient of bad news after a medical checkup. His father hadn’t noticed Thorn approaching the table. Both Murrow and Trout had though; they looked as if they appreciated his timing.
“Hey, Dad.”
Thorn’s father, rousted from his stupor, rose and gave him a bear hug. Even when it was too tough to love anyone, Thorn loved his father.
“Damn great to see you. Looking sharp as ever. You remember Ed Murrow and Bob Trout, don’t you?”
“I sure do. Gentlemen, great to see you again. So let me guess, you turned down my dad again?”
Both men laughed. “Not yet, Conor. We thought we could get a few more highballs out of him before we did,” Murrow said.
“And we’re waiting for Jack to throw in a country club membership to Burning Tree,” Trout added.
“Sit down, Conor, sit, sit,” his father urged. “Ed here was just delivering some . . . some startling news about your sister.”
“Jack, listen, I’m sorry. I assumed you knew. I didn’t mean to—”
“Ed, Ed. Relax. While I didn’t know, I’m sure not surprised,” Jack said before he polished off his drink.
“Hey, let me in on this big news,” Thorn said. “Did Mags find some guy in a uniform to finally make an honest woman out of her?”
“Tell him, Ed,” Jack said, searching for a waiter.
“Maggie landed in London yesterday. She’s supposed to meet Bob and me here tonight.”
“What? I thought she was working back in the DC bureau for RBS. Is she on assignment?”
“It looks like it, but not for RBS.”
“She’s working for CBS, Conor,” Trout said. “We thought your father was aware.”
Thorn, with raised eyebrows, looked at his father and shook his head.
“I was in the bureau two weeks ago, and she cornered me again and asked—no, she demanded to be assigned to London to cover the war. I, for the tenth time, said no. I told her I had enough of my children in harm’s way.”
“And?” Thorn asked, not surprised by his sister’s heavy-handed tactics.
“She quit. On the spot. And just stormed out of the office. As her mother would have done. I haven’t heard from her since.”
Thorn choked down a laugh. “So Bill Paley finally pulled one over on you. How ’bout that?” Thorn said. Both Murrow and Trout sprouted smirks while Jack shook his head.
“Jack, we’ll leave you to your son here and catch up with you later. Maybe in the American Bar, upstairs. Who knows? We might run into Hedy Lamarr. I saw her in the lobby on my way here,” Trout said.
“Bob, she’s not your type. I’ll see you later, gentlemen,” Jack said, slumping back in his chair. Neither spoke for several moments as other patrons passed by, going to and from their tables. A five-man ensemble had appeared and began to play Lena Horne’s “Mad About the Boy.” It had been his wife Grace’s favorite song. He hadn’t heard it in a long time. Thorn was glad no one was there to sing the lyrics. It would have been too much.
“Son, it’s damn good to see you. How long has it been?”
“At least . . . six months—you, me, and Johnny in DC.”
“Yes, that’s right. It’
s been too long. But I get it—the war and everything.”
“How’s Uncle Mick doing? Life getting any easier for him?”
“Not a chance. In fact, after the Madison Square Garden case, the higher-ups in the NYPD seem to have it in for him. I call him every week. But it’s always a bit of a one-sided conversation.”
It pained Thorn that his uncle couldn’t catch a break even if it had been gift wrapped and dropped into his pocket. The other detectives on the NYPD called him an odd duck right to his face. But Uncle Mick never lost his cool—a trait Thorn was still working on. Jack looked across the bustling room and then turned back to Thorn. “So how are you doing?”
Thorn realized his dad wasn’t merely making conversation. He was digging for information, as Thorn assumed he had been doing earlier with the CBS guys. “Fine . . . I think.” He took the napkin and dropped it into his lap.
Jack, looking intently at him, nodded slowly and appeared satisfied.
“So, what brings you to war-torn London, Dad?”
“Ahh, well, the main reason is the First Lady’s trip here. Eleanor is due in a few days. It’s a big deal for the people back home.”
The band struck up “When the Lights Go On Again”; this time the bandleader covered the vocals with a sad, soft voice. The room grew still; the waiters, normally buzzing full-tilt about the room, stopped and listened briefly. As the room sprang back to life, Thorn looked at his watch.
“You expecting someone?”
“Actually, yes, someone who works for the British government. She said that she’d meet me here. Do you mind?”
“She? Absolutely not. It would be nice to have the company of a woman for a change. What are the two of you working on?”
“Can’t say much. Something that both governments want . . . taken care of.”
His father listened but looked above and beyond Thorn, and then stood.
Thorn turned around and saw Bright standing behind him wearing a snug-fitting, red-and-white, long-sleeved dress with a coat draped over her arm. Her face was glowing. She had taken the time to put on a modest amount of makeup, and he detected the scent of lavender following her to the table. She was simply striking.