by Glenn Dyer
“More than helpful, Sean.” Thorn’s extended hand was engulfed by Sean’s massive grip, the pressure of which was eyebrow raising.
“Wonderful,” Sean bellowed. “I must go. God bless you both.”
Thorn and Bright headed for the front door. Thorn put his hand on the doorknob but stopped before opening it and turned to her. “Where does MI6 have files on known enemy agents?”
“The Central Registry, down on Ryder Street. What would we be looking for?”
“A file on the Brown Bishop. I have to believe that a Nazi sympathizer inside the Vatican must be on someone’s list.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
1130 Hours, Friday, October 9, 1942
No. 10 Downing Street, Westminster, London
A plainclothes guard answered the knock at the door of No. 10, and upon being recognized, Henry Longworth was immediately shown into the entrance hall. Elizabeth Nel, Churchill’s personal secretary, soon hurried down the corridor linking the entrance hall with the offices in the rear of No. 10. Nel’s condescending attitude and her intense, ruby-red lips always irritated Longworth. He stood motionless as she approached, his hands resting on the top of his brass-handled umbrella. Nel greeted Longworth with a tight smile, her blazing lips framing her teeth, some of which were stained with her lipstick.
“Mr. Longworth, what a pleasure. What can we do for you?”
Longworth took two steps toward the oncoming Nel, forcing her to stop abruptly. “Where’s Winston? I must speak with him.”
“I am afraid he’s not here at this moment,” she said.
Longworth noted her familiar patronizing tone. Before he could respond, she turned toward the sound of footsteps on the marble floor and voices bouncing off the walls in the corridor. Clementine Churchill’s personal assistant led a striking redhead holding a leather valise under her arm toward the front door. The redhead wore a wide-brimmed, white hat that set off her hair.
“Ahh, Miss Thorn, I trust your conversation with Mrs. Churchill went well?” Nel asked.
Longworth’s lips parted and his brow creased as he shot a look at the redhead then back at Nel.
“Oh, yes, Miss Nel. She was exceptionally generous with her time,” Thorn said. “I am very thankful, as is CBS. My technicians will be out of your hair quickly.”
Longworth regrettably took note of the coarse American accent. “You are . . . ?”
“Oh, forgive me, Mr. Longworth,” Nel said, grabbing Maggie’s forearm and guiding her toward Longworth. “This is Maggie Thorn, a reporter for an American radio network. Maggie, this is Henry Longworth, minister of Public Works and a member of the prime minister’s war cabinet.”
“A pleasure, Mr. Longworth,” Maggie said, extending a gloved hand.
Longworth did not move.
Maggie retracted her hand and looked at Nel.
“Are you related to Conor Thorn?” Longworth asked.
Maggie smiled. “Yes, that would be my brother. I assume you’ve had the pleasure of meeting him?”
“I’ve met him. And it was not a pleasure. He’s an impudent pest.”
Nel and Maggie exchanged wide-eyed looks.
Longworth turned to Nel and jabbed the black-and-white floor with the tip of his umbrella. “When will the prime minister return?” he snapped.
“I can’t say. I should think soon.”
“Then I’ll wait.”
Maggie reset her hat and extended her hand to Nel, who received it with both hands. “Well, I’ll be heading back to the Savoy to work on my scripts. Thanks so much for your help.”
“Oh, think nothing of it, Miss Thorn. And remember—seven o’clock Sunday night. Mrs. Churchill is so looking forward to introducing you to the cabinet wives at her table at Oddendino’s Imperial,” Nel said.
“A date with Clark Gable couldn’t keep me away. I shall be there seven o’clock sharp.” Maggie smiled broadly. As she walked past Longworth, she gave him a curt nod.
He eyed the redhead with the hard look of a hunter focused on his prey.
“Mr. Longworth, let me show you to the library. You will be more comfortable there.”
But Longworth continued to watch Maggie as she neared the front door.
“Mr. Longworth,” Nel said, raising her voice.
He turned toward Nel, who then escorted him through the inner hall and into the sun-filled library.
“What shall I tell the prime minister the subject of your visit is when he arrives?”
“That is private, Miss Nel.”
“Very well.” Nel closed the pocket doors to the room and started back to her office. Longworth was, in fact, pleased that he had to wait, as he needed a few more moments to pull together his thoughts, which had been jolted by the revelation that Thorn had a sister who was close at hand. He strained to focus on what was most critical for him—to convince Churchill to exert his power to put an end to Bright and Thorn’s investigation.
When Churchill entered the library, Longworth was standing before the middle window on the north wall, his hands stuck in his vest pockets as he observed the blustery skies growing ever darker. “Henry, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Longworth was jerked from his reverie and turned to face Churchill. “Mr. Prime Minister, good day to you.” Longworth made no attempt to shake Churchill’s hand. “I am here to register my deepest and sincerest complaint about the treatment I received today at the hands of Emily Bright and her insolent accomplice, Thorn.”
Churchill’s brow furrowed deeply, and he tilted his head as if perplexed.
He can be so annoying, Longworth thought.
“I know nothing of this. Please go on.”
Longworth scowled. “It appears that they are looking into the security breach at General Eisenhower’s headquarters that you spoke of in Monday’s cabinet meeting.”
“Yes, I’m aware that they have been assigned to that. But what does that have to do with you?” Churchill fumbled for something in his breast pocket and appeared concerned that he couldn’t find it.
“Exactly why I am here.”
Churchill pulled a cigar from inside his suit coat and then occupied himself with finding something else in his pockets.
“I’ll wait, Prime Minister?” Longworth said.
Churchill abruptly ceased his search, his hand still in his pocket.
“My nephew, a warrant officer in the Coastal Command, has had occasion to visit the US Army film lab of late. Why, it is not clear to me, but that is beside the point.”
“And the point is, Henry?”
Longworth was annoyed by the question from a seemingly unconcerned Churchill. “The point is, Mr. Prime Minister,” Longworth said loudly and slowly, “they think somehow—brazenly, I might add—that because of my relationship with my nephew, who recently frequented the lab where this breach may have occurred, that I may be involved.”
“Really, Henry? I find that difficult to believe.”
Longworth took two quick steps toward Churchill and reclaimed his umbrella that leaned against a nearby couch. “Do you? You don’t appear to, Mr. Prime Minister. Must I remind you that I am a loyal servant of the king? I am a minister in your government. At your urging, I joined your war cabinet because of my, using your words, ‘expertise in Soviet political and military behavior.’ Your cabinet, Mr. Prime Minister. I shall not be insulted, suspected, or disrespected by anyone. I have served my king and country unfailingly, as I now serve you. I have suffered at the hands of our enemies—the IRA and most notably the communists. I have done my share.”
“Henry, while I don’t understand your indignation, I promise to look into the matter and, if called for, do what has to be done to properly address it. I hope that is satisfactory to you.”
“The vagueness in your response is not satisfactory,” Longworth said, punctuating his protest with a jab of his umbrella onto the oak floor. “You must tell Thorn and Bright to step back and cease their ridiculous and insulting probing of my nephew and myself.
”
“As I said, Henry, I will do what has to be done.” Churchill lit his cigar, and a cloud of blue smoke began to fill the space around him.
Longworth, stone-faced, was careful not to display his utter shock that he was unable to sway his longtime political associate. “That is all you will promise?”
“Yes. That is all.”
As he stared at the unyielding Churchill, Longworth’s chest began to tighten as if a clenched fist was lodged deep inside. A clamminess overcame him. He reached for his chest with his hand and struggled with his breathing. “Good day, Prime Minister,” Longworth said, his voice weak and raspy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
1330 Hours, Friday, October 9, 1942
MI6 Central Registry, No. 14 Ryder Street, London
As they walked up to the ordinary-looking entrance, Thorn saw that the brickwork and limestone window casements of the Central Registry were becoming stained with the cold rain. The lower level windows were fogged over. The cold, damp air easily penetrated Thorn’s trench coat, and he cinched its cloth belt around his waist.
In the entrance hall, Thorn and Bright showed a uniformed security guard their identity cards and were pointed in the direction of the elevator. They waited five minutes for it, which then announced its arrival with a general racket that was highlighted by metal-on-metal shrieks, then a thud as it landed. Thorn struggled to push aside the elevator’s wobbly gate.
“I didn’t think there was a more primitive elevator in England than the one at Broadway, but we’ve found it. Jeez, what’s that smell?” Thorn asked, waving away the air in front of his nose.
Bright placed her hand over her mouth and giggled, which brought a smile to Thorn’s face. “That is the odor of coal. As you’ve noticed, this is a historic building. Many of the rooms are heated by small coal fires.”
“Historic? Isn’t everything in this country historic?”
“Yes, that’s true, but given the destruction wrought by the Blitz, in many places, we have become buried by our history.” The elevator announced its arrival at the fourth floor with an unsurprising cacophony that could have drawn the attention of anyone within a three-block radius—that is, if there’d been anyone around. The high-ceilinged, narrow hallway the elevator opened onto was vacant.
“So tell me about this place. What goes on here?” Thorn asked as he fought to close the elevator gate.
“It may not seem like it, but this is the heart of the Secret Intelligence Service. It’s where case histories and individual dossiers are stored. Believe it or not, most of the records are kept on cards.”
Thorn shot Bright a look of disbelief, which she returned with a shrug.
They walked down the hallway to an unmarked door. Bright pushed through, and they found themselves in a large room with row upon row of floor-to-ceiling oak shelves. Some shelves held card catalogues and some file drawers. There was an L-shaped counter inside the door that kept visitors from entering the rows of shelves. Thorn rapped his fist on the counter to attract some attention. A moment later, a squat and bespectacled middle-aged man hurriedly emerged from the shelving; remnants of his dark hair surrounded a patch of baldness on the top of his head.
“Mr. Woodfield. Excuse me, sir, but I didn’t expect you,” Bright said.
“And you shouldn’t. It’s Miss Bright, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. And this is Conor Thorn, with General Eisenhower’s headquarters.”
Woodfield eyed Thorn in the manner of a protective father taking the measure of his daughter’s suitor. “Can I see Mr. Thorn’s identification, please?”
Thorn looked at Bright but gave his identification to Woodfield.
“Conor C. Thorn. Hmmm. Very well then.” Woodfield passed the identification card back. “As I was saying, I would not be behind this counter if they would just send me the additional staff that I requested—several times now. It appears that there are many deaf ears back at Broadway.” He sighed loudly as he noticed a wire bin on the counter that was overflowing with files. He began to empty it in the loudest possible fashion. “As you can clearly see, I have much to do, so what is it you want?”
“We’re here for a dossier on a Bishop Augustus Heinz,” Thorn said as he read from his notebook.
“If one exists,” Bright added.
Woodfield looked confused. “Country?”
“Vatican City. He supposedly runs the German College,” Bright said.
“Hmmm, that’s a shame. If you can’t trust a priest, who can you trust? Well, if he’s up to no good, we undoubtedly have something. Go across the hall to office 402 and wait there. It’ll take a few minutes.”
Thorn and Bright entered the hall and could hear the sound of a BBC broadcast from a nearby office. It was a report from Washington stating that FDR had announced there would be a commission set up after the war to judge those guilty of committing atrocities and mass murder. Thorn found a door marked No. 402 and held it open for Bright. “Hmm . . . after the war. Have you even had one notion about life after the war?” Bright asked as she walked past Thorn.
“No way. There’re far too many battles to fight. What about you?”
Bright nodded. “I share your thinking. After-war planning is an indulgence that I won’t allow myself. That seems to be true for most of those I know, I’m afraid.”
The small office was sparse, furnished with a battered desk and three armless chairs. The desk was marked along its edges by cigarette burns. An empty, crumpled package of Player’s Cut cigarettes lay beside an ashtray that overflowed with spent ashes. It was cold, but Thorn welcomed the absence of a coal fire. A portrait of King George VI hung on one wall, directly opposite a portrait of Winston Churchill that was a tad cockeyed. Bright straightened it and took a seat. Thorn leaned against the wall, inches away from the brooding Churchill.
“Did you get through to that guy Hightower yet?” Thorn asked.
“No, unfortunately. But MI5 warned me that he’s notorious for being a bit of a ghost.”
“Meaning?”
“He’s never at his desk. Always out somewhere. He’s a bit of a problem they—”
Before she could finish, Woodfield came into the room with a dour look.
“Well, the good news is that I found your man Heinz.” Woodfield dropped a file marked SIS—Secret—Not to Leave Central Registry. “I don’t know if this is good news or bad news, Miss Bright, but your man . . . the bishop, is dead.”
“What? That can’t be,” Thorn said as he flipped open the file that revealed a large, white index card with a grainy, black-and-white photo stapled to the top left corner. There were several fields on the card containing information concerning physical description, background, suspected activity, and a list of German National Socialist organizations that Heinz had ties to. Stamped boldly in red across the card on a diagonal was the word DECEASED with the date of September 1942 written in by hand beneath the stamp. “Long—” Thorn caught himself. “He was writing letters to a dead man? That makes no sense.”
“Could Father Sullivan have it wrong somehow?” Bright asked as she reached across the table to slide the file toward her.
“I don’t know. But I doubt it. He seemed pretty sure of himself.”
“Look here.” Bright had turned the card over and began to read from it. “According to sources inside the Vatican, Bishop Heinz is suspected of being an informer for German intelligence organizations—the Abwehr and possibly the German SS. It should be noted that Heinz is the author of a book published in 1937 titled The Foundations of National Socialism.”
“It seems the name ‘Brown Bishop’ suits him. But if he’s dead, who’s receiving the letters?” Thorn turned to Woodfield, who was standing next to Bright, stroking his chin. “Can you tell me who last looked at this file?”
“I can. It’s right on the back of the file. Let’s see . . .” Woodfield turned the file over. “Well, isn’t that a curiosity? It was last seen by Reggie Bullard a week ago yesterday. Look here, M
iss Bright.” He showed the back of the file to Bright.
“Bullard, Reginald, Section Five. What makes that odd?”
“Well, first off, Bullard is also dead. A train killed him three days ago. A sad coincidence for sure.”
Thorn looked at Bright, doubting the existence of coincidences in the world they lived in, sad or otherwise.
“And before Bullard, when was the file last checked out?” Thorn asked.
“Ah, it hadn’t been checked out for some time . . . January 1941.”
The room fell quiet except for Woodfield’s raspy breathing. Thorn turned his gaze to the picture of Churchill, which he noticed had again become lopsided. He slapped his hand on the table; the ashtray bounced, spilling ashes onto the file. “Let’s go. Mr. Woodfield, thank you. We may be back to see you again soon.”
Out in the hallway, the burning-coal stink was more evident than before, but it didn’t seem to affect the few people that now roamed the hall. As they neared the elevator, Thorn stopped abruptly and turned, nearly pinning the reeling Bright to the wall. His face was mere inches away from hers, and he felt her warm breath on his face. He heard her breathing quicken. Her blue eyes were open wide, as if in anticipation of an advance. Several seconds passed.
“Section Five—isn’t that where Philby works?”
“Conor, don’t go there,” Bright said as she waved a finger in his face, practically touching his nose.
“Well, isn’t it?”
Bright shook her head, pushed him away, and kept on toward the elevator. But she stopped and turned back. “Yes, it is, but there’s something you must understand,” she said softly but firmly, looking over her shoulder. “Philby is one of MI6’s golden boys. He has risen up the ranks quickly, and he has many supporters, not the least of which is my boss, C.”
Bright’s tone made it clear she was losing patience with him. It seems the Brits don’t like to point fingers at their own. “Here’s what I think—there are a lot of moving parts to British intelligence—MI5, MI6, SOE, naval intelligence. And if it’s anything similar to the relationship between our military and intelligence services, no one trusts one another. So it makes sense to me that a bad apple might not be seen for what it really is.”