by Glenn Dyer
She approached the officer, who, upon seeing her, straightened and leered. “Are you the messenger who dropped this note off?” Maggie asked, waving the envelope at him.
“That’s right. I’m the messenger. Warrant Officer Montgomery,” he said, not shy about giving Maggie a thorough once-over. “Are you ready?”
“First, tell me who sent this note. I can’t make out the name.”
“I’m sorry. That’s not for me to tell. He’ll tell you himself.” Montgomery put his officer’s hat on and tugged on the bottom of his tunic. “Are you ready now?”
Maggie’s unease mounted. She looked at the maître d’. “I’ll be back in a moment.” The maître d’ nodded, and she turned to exit.
Montgomery grabbed her upper arm. It was not a gentle gesture.
“Hey, bub. I can walk on my own two feet,” Maggie said, twisting her arm from his grasp. “And here I thought the English were all gentlemen.”
“Apologies, ma’am,” Montgomery said, half-heartedly offering a shallow bow. “This way.”
Outside on the sidewalk, it took Maggie several seconds for her eyes to adjust to the darkness; it was as if she were staring directly into a well of India ink. Her damp dress cooled her when it came in contact with the chilly night air, and she made out the red glow of a cigarette next to the building. She heard the scuffle of shoes on the sidewalk, and a blond woman with a wide-brimmed hat emerged from a dark alcove. She was close enough for Maggie to smell her gin-soaked breath.
“Hey, dearie, this is my turf. Don’t bring your sorry arse around here again, hear me?”
Montgomery shoved the woman backward. “Shut up, bitch. She’s no tart, so stop your worryin’.”
“Bugger off, you wanker. I wouldn’t let you near me privates with a queen’s escort.” The woman sneered as she retreated into her murky nook.
Maggie’s breathing became quick and short. One minute, she had been dining with the prime minister’s wife; the next, she was being dragged into a scene from Oliver Twist—except she wasn’t on a stage. “Now tell me where we’re going.”
“Not far, miss. Not far. The car’s just around that corner, on Air Street,” Montgomery said, pointing ahead.
Maggie quickened her pace, turned the corner, and stopped. The street was only wide enough for a single car, and where it intersected with Regent Street, it passed under an archway that protected anyone under it from being seen by passersby on Regent. She could just make out the shape of a car parked close to the archway.
“Let me get the door,” Montgomery said, lurching ahead of her. He bent forward to reach the door’s handle but then reared back.
Maggie saw his hand rushing toward her face, and she braced herself for the blow, squeezing her eyes shut. It landed on the left side of her head, and she crumpled to the ground, a blast of tiny, bright lights assaulting her vision before everything went black.
#
A bolt of pain had shot up Quinn Montgomery’s hand to his shoulder when he struck the redhead. He let the two-centimeter lead cylinder drop to the floor of the sedan, opened and closed his hand several times, then rotated his wrist. He winced, regretting hitting her so hard. He pulled the small bottle of chloroform from his tunic pocket, to ready a handkerchief should he need it, and twisted off its cap. The pain in his wrist exploded, forcing him to drop the bottle to the ground, where it burst into pieces.
“Ahh fuck!” Montgomery hissed. He opened the back door of the sedan and bent over, grabbing the woman under her armpits. He dragged her the two feet to the back door, his injured wrist searing with pain. He fought against the dead weight of her body as he shoved her onto the backseat. He leaned over and ran his hand down her face and found her mouth; it was open, and her shallow breath blew against his palm. He moved his hand down her neck, to her chest, and her breast filled his hand. His breathing accelerated, and his groin ached as he squeezed and smiled, his eyelids drifting closed.
The sound of a truck crunching its gears on Regent Street startled him, and he jerked up. After tying her hands and feet with heavy twine, he backed out of the car and closed the door. “Plenty of time for fun later, Miss Thorn.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
1000 Hours, Monday, October 12, 1942
Paddington Station, London
The sun streamed through the slits in the curved roof of the enormous rail station and poured down onto the platforms, revealing the dust particles and smoke that rose from several locomotives sitting on the tracks. After entering the station on Eastbourne Terrace, Thorn and Bright proceeded through the waiting area, toward the main concourse.
Thorn looked up and down the platform and noticed that there were several groups of children without any adult supervision. They were waiting patiently for someone, the boys dressed in dark-colored shorts and jackets with knee socks and the girls in knee-length coats and berets. Each child carried a battered suitcase and a light-colored, rectangular box draped over their shoulders.
“What’s with all the kids? And where are the parents?” Thorn asked.
Bright surveyed the throngs of children and sighed. “Many of these children were sent to the towns outside of London during the Blitz. They’ve been returning over the past several months. Unfortunately, some are returning to single parents or aunts and uncles.”
“That’s sad.” Thorn saw that, regardless of their circumstances, the kids looked carefree. “What are the kids carrying in the boxes hanging off their shoulders?”
“Those would be gas masks. Fortunately, things never got that bad,” Bright said as she reached out to muss the hair of a passing redheaded boy, who looked up at her and smiled. As the boy stepped past Bright, he dropped a cloth hat he was holding on to.
Thorn bent over and handed it to him. “Hey, don’t forget this, buddy. It’s chilly outside.”
“Thank you, mister,” the boy said.
Bright smiled warmly at the exchange, but her smile faded. “Conor, where’s your academy ring? Did you lose it?”
He stole a look at his right hand. There was a pale patch of skin on his ring finger, where the ring had been for the past four years. “No. I didn’t lose it.” You have to earn the right to wear it every day. And I haven’t done that. Running into Fellows reminded me of that. “Lost some weight, and it got a little too loose. Just took it off for safekeeping, that’s all.”
Bright nodded and let it drop.
They stood on the platform for track number one and hugged the wall between a newspaper kiosk and a tearoom. Metropolitan Police had begun to clear the platform, pushing stragglers toward the waiting area near the Pared Street end of the station. One elderly, portly officer, who looked as if he had been plucked out of retirement, approached Bright, who flashed her identity card.
“Ahh, a woman in the intelligence service. Now I’ve seen everything. Stay if you like, but don’t get too close to the important people. Understand?”
“Understood, Officer,” Bright said, putting her card back in her pocket. “Is the First Lady’s train on time?”
“How the hell do I know? They tell us nothing. We’re just the police.” The officer proceeded down the platform, taking his frustration out on four teenage girls who had most likely gathered to get a look at the king and queen. “Move along, move along. Nothing for you girls to see here.”
As travelers and onlookers were steadily pushed off the platform, members of the official greeting party replaced them, which included Churchill and his wife, along with Eisenhower and additional members of the Metropolitan Police, who lined the platform with their backs trackside. The greeting party had entered the station through the main entrance on Eastbourne Terrace and congregated on the platform adjacent, allowing for the shortest walk from the train to the waiting line of cars.
The greeting party dramatically grew in numbers as King George VI, Queen Elizabeth, and their party arrived. As soon as King George, resplendent in an olive-green army officer’s uniform, noticed General Eisenhower, he pulled him
aside and dove into a deep discussion. Churchill occupied Queen Elizabeth, who was dressed in a dark dress and matching coat, her three strings of white pearls dramatically offset by the dress. Her hat was rakishly tilted to the side, and she clutched a small purse, her hands clad in black gloves.
Churchill’s war cabinet members were spread out along the platform, among attendees that included SHAEF staff members and members of the press, their cameras and notebooks at the ready. Thorn picked out Bob Trout from CBS, but did not find his sister, Maggie.
Strange. Why would she miss this?
“I expected to see Maggie with the press, but it seems she’s not here. Give me a minute. I want to talk to Trout.”
“Sure. But she could be outside with the rest of the crowd of onlookers.”
“Yeah. Maybe,” Thorn said. When he approached Trout, the tall, thin journalist, his hair parted in the middle and slicked back, flicked his cigarette to the ground, and stamped it out under his shoe.
“Conor. How the hell are you?”
“Hey, Bob,” Thorn said, taking Trout’s extended hand in a firm handshake. “Any chance you’ve seen Maggie around here? I expected this would be an all-hands-on-deck event for CBS.”
“Well, you’d be right,” Trout said, stroking his neatly trimmed moustache. “She’s supposed to be here, but we haven’t seen her.”
“Really?” Is there any chance she could have already been pulled into the SOE? Nah.
“She was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago. And she’s not.”
Thorn shook his head. “Bob, she always seems to operate on her own clock. But she’ll show. This is too big of a deal.”
“Well, she’s cutting it a bit too close, if you ask me.”
Thorn spotted Longworth, a newspaper folded under his arm, standing off to the side of the platform in front of a refreshment cart loaded down with pastries, an urn of hot tea, and small drink bottles. “Right. I’m sure she’ll pop up sometime. I have to go,” Thorn said, patting Trout on the shoulder.
Thorn rejoined Bright, who wrapped up a conversation with a plainclothes member of the king’s security team.
“Look who joined the party,” Thorn said, tilting his head toward Longworth, who stood fifteen yards away. When Longworth turned away from the refreshment cart, Bright saw him clearly, the sight of him evoking a heavy sigh.
Don’t worry. Donovan told me hands off. For now.
Thorn watched as Longworth unfolded the newspaper and skimmed its pages. A moment later, another man, this one wearing a dark overcoat and a large, brimmed hat, emerged from the Eastbourne Terrace entrance and walked toward Longworth, his back to Thorn and Bright. Longworth lowered the newspaper and acknowledged the man, who brusquely took Longworth’s elbow and escorted him farther down the platform, past the refreshment cart and away from the thickening throng of people. Several minutes passed, then Longworth and the other man returned. Thorn couldn’t see enough of the other man’s face to be able to recognize him.
“Can you make out who Longworth is talking to?” Thorn asked.
“No. Not clearly.”
Thorn turned to face Bright, whose eyes were locked on Longworth and his companion. “Well, it’s someone with a high clearance level to get this close to the Frist Lady’s train.”
#
The bleary-eyed Longworth was already preoccupied with his vexing dilemmas and didn’t need some low-level MI5 operative bending his ear about who knows what. “Higgins, whatever you are rambling on and on about, I can’t fathom. I suggest that if you have something to say, then get to the point, man. And what are you doing here anyway? This was to be for top-level members of the government and the king and queen.”
“Yes, perhaps I haven’t been direct enough. Your—how shall I put it?—dangerous habit of communicating with a known Nazi informant attached to the Vatican has not gone unnoticed. Is that pointed enough, Longworth?”
The blood drained from Longworth’s face. He began to turn from the much younger Higgins, but a firm grip on his elbow stopped him. If MI5 was going to pull him in for questioning, they wouldn’t do it in a public place with members of the press swarming about the station, and this middling agent wouldn’t dare make that move on his own. It would happen at his home, in the dead of night, with the streets deep in darkness and clear of traffic.
“I will dignify your comment only by saying, yes, I do stay in touch with old friends at the Vatican. Why should I not? I was stationed there for many years. But I know of no Nazi informants, and if I did, I would have turned that information over to British intelligence immediately.” Longworth yanked his elbow from Higgins’s grasp. “And must I remind you that I am a trusted member of the war cabinet?” he asked in a harsh tone. “Are you here at the direction of your superiors, or are you acting on your own? Which is it? Could you possibly be an agent of the Germans yourself?” Longworth pressed, looking to set Higgins back on his heels.
“Oh, please, Longworth. Stop with the stupid accusations. And no need for the reminders. We know who you are. Perhaps better than anyone in London.” Higgins took Longworth by the elbow again, this time with more force, and directed him into a shadowy area close to the brick wall of the platform. “You’re a bloody anticommunist who has been feeding convoy logistics to the Germans for months. You would applaud a dead communist with more gusto than a dead Nazi. And that disgusts me. And as for my superiors . . . they know what I tell them.”
Longworth again twisted his elbow from Higgins’s grip. “You impertinent bastard. Who are you to level these outrageous claims against me?”
“Calm down.” Higgins adjusted the brim of his hat. “The German Abwehr is filled with Russian agents. For months, they’ve been monitoring your efforts to ‘stay in touch,’ as you so inanely call it. And yes, we know of your use of the Vatican’s diplomatic pouch. Clever. Certainly not the first misuse of the pouch system.” Higgins grabbed the lapel of Longworth’s suit coat and pulled him closer. “Let’s talk in simple terms, shall we? Longworth, you have betrayed the British government.”
Longworth stood motionless and peered down the track. He bit his bottom lip. Higgins’s last words echoed in his head. His only recourse was to continue to deny—strongly. And to threaten even more forcibly. A locomotive made slow progress toward the platform, the lantern mounted on the nose of the massive engine undulating from side to side as if shaking its head.
Longworth turned abruptly to face Higgins. “Rubbish. You talk of complete nonsense. I will not stand for this.”
“Oh really? Nonsense, you say? I don’t think so. Not in the least. Bishop Heinz has a dossier at Central Registry. And your old boss, D’Arcy Osborne, has been keeping an eye on him for many months. He has done a splendid job of providing a wealth of information on the Brown Bishop.”
Longworth’s heart raced faster at the mention of Heinz’s moniker. Denials and threats would not suffice.
The sound of the slow-moving locomotive on its approach echoed about the semicircular steel trusses of the station’s ceiling. Higgins leaned in toward Longworth. The smell of coffee filled the little space between them. “I’ll get to the point. It is clear to us that you have strong feelings about Operation Torch—feelings about the need to have it canceled or postponed.”
The mention of Operation Torch confused him. What did Higgins want from him besides a confession? Was he looking to make a deal? “I have expressed those feelings. What of it?”
Higgins looked at him as if confused. “What did you say?” He turned his head slightly, directing his left ear toward Longworth, obviously struggling with the mounting sound of the approaching train.
Longworth repeated himself.
“There are some in Moscow who also believe that Operation Torch should be . . . rethought. Rethought, that is, in favor of an invasion of the Continent, directly on the coast of France. Preferably this year.”
“Impossible.” Longworth noticed Higgins focused on his lips as he spoke.
“
Oh no, that’s not true. The American military has believed for some time that it would be possible. But they chose to be manipulated by their British ally.”
“What do you want? And who the bloody hell are you working for?”
The locomotive discharged a blast of steam, forcing Higgins to pause before replying. “The latter is simple—I work for the defeat of fascism. As to what I want, I want you to get a document, a very important document, to your . . . friends in Rome,” Higgins said as he pulled the collar up on his overcoat.
“What document?”
Higgins blew into his folded hands. “It is the missing document from General Eisenhower’s diary that contains the directives of Operation Torch.” He studied Longworth.
Longworth swallowed past the knot in his throat. It was the unassailable intelligence that Kappler was demanding. “My God. Where . . . where did you get it?”
“Unimportant. What is important is that if you follow my instructions, you will get what you want—a canceled second front. And our allies the Russians, in the aftermath of the canceled Torch, will have a renewed opportunity to push for what they want—a second front where it was promised it would be: France. Maybe not this year, but certainly by spring of next year.”
Longworth processed all this—it sounded unfathomable. He stood silently as the massive locomotive and its load of passenger cars crept past. The platform rumbled under his feet, vibrating up through his legs.
“And if I comply with your”—Higgins cupped his left ear as Longworth spoke—“outrageous demand, what then?”
“Ahh, we seem to be getting somewhere.” Higgins motioned Longworth closer and spoke directly into his ear. “Listen carefully. At the end of this platform, near the Pared Street entrance, you will see a bookstall. Go to the travel section. On the bottom shelf, there is a book titled The Delights of Morocco hidden behind the other books. Inside the book, you will find an envelope with the document in question. I’d suggest you retrieve it after the king, queen, and Roosevelt have left for the palace.” Higgins looked at a passenger car that was now stopped abreast of the two men. The engine let off a last gasp of steam that rose to the steel girders above and dissipated quickly. “The Delights of Morocco. Do you understand?”