by Glenn Dyer
Easy. You’re not ready. And you’ve got a mess to untangle.
Thorn rose from his seat, and the napkin on his lap fell to the floor. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming. This is my father, Jack. Dad, this is Emily Bright.”
“So nice to meet you, Mr. Thorn,” Bright said. She walked up to Jack, hand extended. Jack took her hand with both of his and gently shook it. Thorn noticed an identification bracelet dangled from her right wrist.
“Oh, please, Emily, call me Jack.” He released her hand and Bright took her seat, which had been pulled out from the table by Thorn. Unseen by Bright, Jack raised his eyebrows and, with wide eyes, shot an approving look at Thorn. “Can I order a drink for you?”
“That would be wonderful. A pink gin would check the box.”
As his father busied himself with flagging down a waiter, Thorn leaned into Bright. “You look . . . uh, look . . .”
Bright turned to Thorn and tilted her head. Several strands of her light-brown hair fell across her face, covering her left eye.
“ . . . like you have some news.” Well, that was a little clumsy.
“Really, and what look would that be?”
“Like . . . you can’t wait to tell me something.”
“Well, actually, I do have something. I did a little digging and found out that Quinn Montgomery’s mother is Henry Longworth’s only sister.”
Thorn sat back in his chair. “Hmm . . . that fills in a few blanks.”
The drinks arrived, and his father was the first to move to the toast stage. “To my son, to his friend, and to the brave British people.”
“Hear, hear,” Bright added.
Over dinner, his father told the story of an old family acquaintance. Thorn listened but was more focused on his female dinner companion.
“So . . . Hey, are you listening, Conor?”
“Yes. The Sullivans. What about them?”
“Well, it turns out that the Sullivans’ oldest son, Sean—do you remember him?”
“Dad, I think I was six when he babysat Maggie and me.”
“Maggie?” Bright asked.
“My younger sister. More on her later. Dad took the family over to Dublin for a few years when we were all fairly young. Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan did the driving and housekeeping. My dad was the US vice-consul.”
“Mostly trade and other economic matters,” Jack said. “It was an exciting time to be there, the civil war and all.” His father leaned into the table. “Conor’s mother believed otherwise. Too dangerous for her liking.” He leaned back in his chair and grabbed his drink. “So, as I was saying, Sean became a . . . priest!” he said, slapping the linen tablecloth. “And he’s right here in London, at Westminster Cathedral. I hope to get time to see him before I leave.”
“When is that, Dad?”
“Not sure. I’ll most likely stay at least until the First Lady returns to the States.”
“Yes, isn’t that exciting news? My mother hasn’t stopped talking about the visit. Will you get to meet her, Jack?”
“Already have. I went to law school with Franklin, see them both whenever I get to Washington. She is a dynamo, unmatched by most of us.”
As the waiter cleared the dinner dishes, a quiet fell over the table. Thorn stared at Bright. She was radiant; her blue eyes sparkled. When Bright turned and saw that Thorn was staring at her, he abruptly stopped, as if he were back in eighth grade, getting caught looking at Joyce Petrementi’s burgeoning breasts. When Thorn looked back at her, Bright tilted her head slightly and smiled. What woman doesn’t like a little attention? But don’t get carried away, mister.
“Oh, before I forget, Conor,” Jack said in more of a whisper. “I noticed this past Sunday that there were no flowers on Grace’s and Timothy’s graves. So I called the flower shop near the cemetery and found out there are new owners. I straightened out the confusion. They’ll start taking flowers to the cemetery every Sunday starting this week.”
Thorn didn’t want to be taken back—not to the cemetery, not to the hospital, not to the bedside of his wife. “Thanks,” he muttered. He saw Bright’s gaze was locked on him, but he did not engage her and instead took a sip of his coffee. Over the brim of the cup, he spotted his sister darting in and around the tables. A guy was at least four steps behind her, trying to keep up. Maggie’s blue dress was cinched at the waist with a bright-white belt that accented her shapely figure. Her wavy, red hair bounced on her shoulders with each step she took. She had a head of steam built up as she approached the table. Thorn was the only one who noticed her and her old boyfriend, who pulled up the rear—none other than Bobby Heugle.
This could get interesting.
“Batten down the hatches, folks. There’re rough seas ahead,” Thorn muttered.
“Father. Good evening,” his sister said, announcing her surprise attack on the table. Jack choked on a swig of coffee. Bright smiled as if she were watching a family drama unfold on the stage of the Old Vic.
“Conor, you big lug, come here and give your little sister a hug. She could use one from a friendly family member.”
Jack sighed deeply.
“Mags, we just heard you were in London. And I’m sure you can imagine Dad’s surprise,” Thorn said, wrapping his arms around his green-eyed sister. She had yet to look their father directly in the eye.
Jack screwed up his face but got up to kiss his only daughter on the cheek and hug her, patting her on her back as he let her go.
“Mr. Thorn, good to see you again,” Heugle said, his hand outstretched.
“Bobby, it’s good to see . . . that you’re not in jail. What brings you to London?” Jack asked, coolly accepting Heugle’s handshake.
“Just picking up an award for exemplary service in Tangier, just like Conor here, except it’s in the form of a new assignment.” Heugle winked at Thorn before turning his attention to Bright. “Miss Bright, great to see you again. You look . . . stunning.”
“Hello, Bobby,” Bright said, clearly enjoying the scene. “Please, call me Emily.”
“So, Emily, don’t you know that London is a dangerous place? Or so my father says.” Maggie extended her hand to Bright. “Doesn’t look too dangerous to me. What do you think?”
“I’d say don’t let the lovely confines of the Savoy fool you. I’ll show you the hotel’s bomb shelters later if you like.”
The comment triggered a broad smile from Jack that Thorn did not miss. Maggie lit a cigarette in surrender, but not before she also smiled at Bright’s quick response.
“Maggie, Emily and Conor are working together,” Jack said as Thorn and Maggie took seats. Heugle scrambled and pinched a chair from a nearby table, ignoring a protest from a blue-haired older lady.
“Working together. Hmm . . . and what exactly would you two be working on together?” Maggie asked, shooting quick looks at her brother and Bright.
“Can’t really say,” Thorn said.
“You could say matters of security, Maggie,” Bright said.
“I see. I know the outfit that Conor works for, but who do you work for?”
“Military intelligence essentially.” Bright’s smile faded a bit.
“Well, I’m impressed. That’s a man’s game for sure. And it says a lot about you if you’re playing that game. If I had a drink, I’d raise my glass to you.”
“Message received,” Heugle said, signaling to a passing waiter.
“I have a question, Maggie. How do you and Mr. Heugle know each other?” Bright asked.
“We were an item—”
“For a week, no more than three, if I remember,” Jack said.
“Father, it was ten days.”
“News flash, Bobby told everyone it was at least a year,” Thorn said.
“All right, all right. I’m obviously outgunned here. But . . . never say die when it comes to true love.”
“Oh boy. You delusional man. Someone change the subject. Please,” Maggie said. “And where’s that waiter?”
&n
bsp; Jack leaned into the table. “So it had to be CBS? It couldn’t have been Life or Colliers? CBS . . . that hurts.”
Maggie rolled her eyes, then pulled a cigarette from a silver case. Thorn leaned over and lit it, shaking his head. She shot him a so what? look and blew a long stream of smoke into the air above the table.
“Father, get over it. It’s a chance to do some real reporting for a change. I’ll be interviewing Clementine Churchill tomorrow at 10 Downing Street. I already have a slot on Sunday’s World News Today broadcast.”
Jack’s eyes widen, and his mouth fell open. Thorn was sure it was the reaction Maggie was looking for. Thorn himself was never surprised by his sister’s bravado, but he was surprised that his father didn’t protest more.
“That’s quite a get, Maggie. Congratulations,” Bright said. “She’s a wonderful woman, beloved by many Britons. Please extend my greetings.”
“Oh, you know her, I take it?”
“Yes. I spent a good deal of time with her when I worked for the prime minister.”
“My, my. You are an interesting woman. We should compare notes sometime.”
Thorn noticed a uniformed man sauntering toward their table.
“Good evening. Sorry for barging in on you. I’m First Mate Trevor Shockley of the Merchant Navy.” The right sleeve of his officer’s jacket climbed up his arm as he stretched out his hand to Bright.
“Hello,” she said. “This is Jack Thorn; his son Conor; and daughter, Maggie; and her . . . friend Bobby.”
“A pleasure, I’m sure. I came by to tell Miss Bright that all the Merchant Navy is pulling for positive word of your brother. We served together on the Rochester Castle last year. He was . . .”—the first mate tossed his head back and momentarily frowned—“is such a good man and one of the ablest sailors I have ever seen.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Shockley,” Bright said as she nervously rotated the glass in front of her. “He is just like his father.”
Thorn looked at his dad, whose face betrayed his confusion.
“Well, I must be off. A pleasure meeting you all and seeing you again, Emily.”
As the officer retreated, Jack leaned forward and placed his hand on Bright’s forearm. “Tell me about your brother,” he said.
“Dad . . . not now,” Thorn protested, hoping to spare Bright the pain of relating her story.
“That’s all right, Conor. It’s no trouble,” she said, then took a deep breath and looked at Jack. “My brother, Richard, is an officer in the Merchant Navy. He’s been missing ever since his ship was torpedoed in the Mediterranean. The ship made it to Malta, but I don’t know if he’s alive, wounded, or . . .” Bright’s voice trailed off.
“I am so sorry to hear that,” Jack said. “You mustn’t lose hope. Promise me that.”
“I haven’t and I won’t,” she said. “And thank you—you’re very sweet.” Maggie handed Bright a handkerchief, which Bright acknowledged with pursed lips and a nod of her head.
Jack settled with the waiter and pushed away from the table. Maggie collected her cigarette case and lighter, and Heugle pulled her chair from the table. She was still watching Bright as she spoke. “Well, I’m off. I would prefer to think we could do this again, but I suppose that’s not likely.”
Jack and Thorn stood and Maggie hugged them both, lingering with her brother a moment longer.
She dug into her purse and pulled out a calling card and handed it to Bright. “Emily, call me, if you just want to talk to another girl—someone who doesn’t have a thick head like these guys.”
“Hey, I resent that,” Heugle said in a mock indignant manner.
Bright chuckled. “Maggie, I may do that. Thank you. And good luck at CBS.”
“Thanks. It’ll be interesting, I’m sure.” Maggie turned to her brother, winked, and was swallowed up by the crowd of other grill patrons who were taking their leave. Heugle was, again, several steps behind her.
“Oh, wait, Conor. I forgot to tell you,” Jack said. “I heard from Johnny. He told me that his unit has been practicing amphibious landings in Chesapeake Bay. He says the chatter is that they’re close to a deployment. All sorts of targets have been mentioned—Norway, Africa. It sounds as if he could be in the thick of it soon.”
Thorn looked at Bright, and from the startled look on her face, she understood what he was thinking. Johnny in the thick of the invasion of North Africa. Shit. “Oh, and he also wanted to make sure I told you he recently received his captain’s bars.”
Thorn stood motionless, staring at his father. He shook his head slowly.
Jack laughed as he turned to Bright. “Those two guys, always competing.”
Not quite, Dad. Johnny’s headed into a meat grinder if we don’t find that fucking document. Thorn shook hands with his father, who then surprised Bright with a soft kiss on her cheek, which, Thorn noticed, brought a warm smile to her face.
“Well, if you two want to join me later, I’ll be in the American Bar. I need a shot of war gossip. And I think those guys from CBS owe me a drink for stealing my daughter,” he said as he turned and began to wind through the maze of tables.
“Let’s take a walk,” Thorn said. The news of Johnny’s unit’s involvement in Torch did nothing but tighten and twist his guts.
“Where?”
“Somewhere. Anywhere.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
2100 Hours, Thursday, October 8, 1942
Victoria Embankment, London
With his shoulders hunched and his head slumped forward, Thorn stopped in front of the hotel, under the massive, stainless-steel Savoy sign that was topped with the medieval-style gold-clad statue of the crusader Amadeus VI, Count of Savoy. The count was holding his shield and lance and peered past Savoy Court, to the Strand; blackout curtains shrouded the windows above the statue. Bright stood by Thorn’s side, her concerned look trained on him. There were two taxis and a sedan parked along the inside curb of Savoy Court. Thorn helped Bright with her coat and waved off one of the taxis.
“Let’s go down to the river. I need to clear my head,” Thorn said, turning up his trench coat’s collar against the chilled, damp nighttime air.
“All right, let’s do that,” Bright replied.
Thorn took the lead and headed down Savoy Court toward the Strand. They passed the second taxi, its driver fast asleep, and then the sedan, a dark-gray Rover with a dark figure slumped behind the wheel—maybe asleep, maybe not.
As they neared the Strand, Thorn heard the Rover’s engine turn over. He stopped and turned toward it, listening as the driver revved the engine. They continued down the narrow, sloping Carting Lane, which dropped them in the darkened Victoria Embankment Gardens. Thorn continued his swift and silent march with Bright a short step behind. Once on the Thames side of the gardens, he took a right turn onto Victoria Embankment, avoiding a walk along the riverside and its accompanying brisk wind that rolled off the river. The full moon created thousands of tiny, glistening sequins on the river’s surface, heightened by the gusting wind.
“Conor, who are Grace and Timothy?”
Thorn looked at the river, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets. “Grace was my wife. Timothy . . . our first child.” Thorn heard Bright’s soft gasp. Here it comes.
“I can’t express how sorry I am. I . . . I really don’t know what else to say.”
“That’s OK. I’ve heard all the expressions of sympathy I want to hear.”
Bright crossed her arms against the chill wind. “Will you tell me what happened?”
Thorn could recall every argument he and Grace had ever had over having kids. “Doctors told her she shouldn’t have children due to a serious bout of rheumatic fever as a teenager. It severely weakened her heart. But she wouldn’t listen. Damn stubborn woman. I was at her bedside when she died.” He paused. The wind swirled around them. Every time he told the story, he hoped the ending would be different—could be different. “The baby just didn’t have a chance. He was too premature. B
ut, in a strange way, it may have saved my life.” Saved. Again.
“How do you mean?”
Thorn turned toward Bright. “I . . . don’t . . . know. Maybe that was a stupid thing to say. We’ll talk about it later. Enough sharing for tonight.”
They resumed their walk, abreast and slower this time, each entertaining their own thoughts. They headed toward the Hungerford Rail Bridge, and it was several minutes before Thorn broke the silence. “Before the dinner developed into a family drama, I couldn’t stop thinking about your news that Quinn Montgomery’s mother is related to Longworth. What does that mean?” Thorn asked.
“Maybe nothing. Could just be a coincidence.”
“No, there has to be more to it. It’s too big of a coincidence.”
“So you’re trying to connect the missing diary page to the film lab, then to Quinn Montgomery, then to Henry Longworth, a member of the prime minister’s war cabinet and a friend of Winston Churchill’s for virtually thirty years?” Bright stopped and grabbed Thorn’s arm. “You can’t be serious, Conor.”
“Well, I am. And if it can be connected, we have to follow it up. We can’t ignore anything just because it may involve a cabinet member. Don’t you agree?”
She freed his arm. “Must I remind you that time is of the essence? And any time spent ‘following up,’ as you call it, on a member of the war cabinet is a damned waste of time.” Bright stormed off.
“It’s not as if we have a lot of other directions to go in at this point,” he called to Bright as she continued walking.
The Victoria Embankment hosted sparse pedestrian and vehicular traffic as the nine o’clock hour ticked on. What little traffic there was moved slowly. Thorn couldn’t help but notice a delivery truck coming toward them, the driver leaning on his horn as he stared straight ahead. Thorn looked over his shoulder and spotted a sedan in the wrong lane—speeding toward him and Bright. The sedan’s right-side tires scrapped against the curb. Its three outsized headlamps formed the shape of a triangle, emitting a faint amount of light through lamp covers that featured horizontal slits.
It wasn’t until the sedan had pulled closer that Thorn noticed that the front driver’s side window was lowered. He could clearly see the driver had his right arm outstretched. The blare from the truck’s horn grew louder.