by Glenn Dyer
Longworth nodded.
“You will send a letter immediately to Heinz via the diplomatic pouch that is scheduled to leave for Rome this afternoon. It will state that you have come into possession of an intelligence windfall concerning the Allied second front, but, as a result of your intrepid spying, you have been exposed as an agent for the Abwehr.”
Longworth’s jaw muscles flexed as he ground his teeth.
“You will also say that once you are safely inside Vatican City, you will hand it over to the Abwehr.”
“What are you saying? I will hand it over? Inside the Vatican?”
“Yes, of course. You see, Thursday, you will be on a KLM flight that leaves for Lisbon.”
Longworth shook his head vigorously. “I am going nowhere, I tell you. Besides, you idiot, they would just take it from me in Lisbon. This is madness,” he said.
“Shut up and listen. In addition to the letter you send to Heinz, you will also send a letter addressed to yourself care of D’Arcy Osborne. In the envelope, you will enclose the document. In the letter to Heinz, you will demand that, in exchange for the intelligence, the Abwehr provide safe passage from Lisbon to the Vatican.”
Send it to himself? Then he realized that Osborne had been in London for the past few weeks and would not be there to wonder about the letter, but Longworth would get there and, as it was essentially sent to himself, he’d have the document in Vatican City via the diplomatic pouch.
“This should ensure that the Abwehr and Heinz will get you inside the Vatican, where you will hand over the document to the Abwehr and personally vouch for its authenticity.”
#
Thorn left Bright with the greeting party and moved down the platform, closer to the two men. He hugged the wall, obscured by a pile of luggage stacked on a cart. He could not hear what was said but could see that the man in the dark overcoat did most of the talking.
What are they jabbering about? Thorn grabbed the handle of the luggage cart, which was top-heavy and overloaded, and tilted it toward his chest. He began to move it slowly down the platform. Just then, the wheels of the cart hit a wide seam in the concrete platform, jolting it. Two battered suitcases crashed to the ground. He bent to collect them and stayed crouched, while he continued to watch Longworth’s meeting play out.
#
The sound of luggage crashing to the ground momentarily startled both men, who turned toward a luggage cart fifty feet down the platform. After a moment, they turned away from the man who was stooped over, collecting the spilled contents of one suitcase. Longworth pulled back from Higgins, his mouth open.
Higgins yanked him back toward his face. “I’m not finished.” He turned from Longworth for a moment to look at the crowd pressing toward the railcar just behind the hissing locomotive.
Without looking back at Longworth, he continued. “You have two days before the flight leaves, to pull your affairs together. When we are assured that you are in the hands of the Abwehr, I plan to deliver a report that will prove you are a traitor.”
Longworth stopped breathing. He was never going to return to England. His own actions had sealed his fate.
Higgins locked his gaze on Longworth’s. “Yes, I see you now understand. You will be leaving England—for good, leaving us for the bosom of the communist-hating Catholic Church, with the help of Bishop Heinz, of course.”
Longworth’s head snapped back, his eyes bulging. “You . . . you don’t understand. I will be—”
“Missed? Yes, of course. But, you see, the Churchill government will make up some story to explain your . . . absence, making sure that word of a traitor in the cabinet will never be uttered. Ever.”
Longworth’s shoulders slumped. He looked down the platform at the throng of greeters. He spotted Churchill, a cloud of blue smoke from his cigar gathering over his head. “There is the issue of the agents that have been investigating—”
“Oh yes. That would be Thorn and Bright. May I suggest that your goon of a nephew take care of that matter? Maybe with a little more effectiveness than the last time?” Higgins smirked. “So, are we done here, Mr. Longworth?” asked Higgins who, not waiting for an answer, retook Longworth’s elbow and led him back toward the greeting party.
“I am a dead man,” Longworth mumbled.
“That’s not how I see it. I see you as a man who stood for something and sacrificed for it. Even if it was the wrong thing.”
Higgins let go of Longworth’s elbow and headed down the platform, away from the crowd.
#
Thorn stood and got Bright’s attention. He pointed to Longworth and then to Bright. She nodded as Thorn spun around and raced down the platform. The overcoat man was fifty yards ahead of him, walking rapidly alongside the First Lady’s train. Ahead of Thorn, the platform was clear except for his target. He was closing the distance, wondering where the overcoat man was going as he saw the end of the platform looming ahead.
Thorn heard the near-deafening hiss of the locomotive sitting on the track adjacent to the First Lady’s train. The shriek of metal fighting metal mixed with the sound of hissing steam, overwhelming the announcements of departing trains. Thorn had him in his reach, but as the overcoat man reached the end of the platform, he didn’t stop but dropped down onto the tracks behind the last car of Roosevelt’s train.
Thorn could hear nothing but the engine purging itself of steam as he reached for the tail of the man’s coat and yanked it. The man was no more than a foot from the nose of the locomotive when he twisted around and saw Thorn. Steam obscured Thorn’s sight, so when the man’s right arm swung at him, he was slow to react. He caught a glimmer of light off a small-bladed knife before it cut the sleeve of his trench coat. Thorn lost the grip and the man slipped across the track inches ahead of the engine. Thorn stumbled as the locomotive moved between the two men, blocking any further pursuit. He fell onto the gravel between the two rail lines, steam laced with the stench of grease blowing in his face.
#
First to exit the railcar was a porter who placed a wooden step on the platform. Eleanor Roosevelt was dressed in black shoes and a matching long coat adorned with a thick fox fur that she clutched tightly with black-gloved hands. She followed the porter and smiled broadly at the king and queen as flashbulbs popped and a smattering of polite applause rippled through the crowd of dignitaries, each of whom were introduced to the First Lady by Churchill.
Longworth stood on the perimeter of the crowd, unsure exactly what to do. He was reeling from his encounter with Higgins. His mouth was dry, and his hands became clammy. The chattering and tumult that swirled around him dissolved into a dull buzzing in his head. But a moment of clarity broke through, and he turned toward the Pared Street entrance.
“Henry, Henry, please join me.” Churchill’s command could be heard across the platform. Longworth stopped and immediately understood that to ignore the prime minister at this moment would create unwanted attention. He turned back and joined Churchill and Roosevelt.
“Eleanor Roosevelt, this is Henry Longworth, minister of Works and Planning and a member of my war cabinet and, I might add, a longtime associate.”
“First Lady, it is indeed a pleasure.” Longworth formed his words slowly, fighting through dry mouth. “Welcome to England.” Longworth’s stomach was roiling. He had to get out of there.
“Thank you so much. I haven’t slept for what seems days due to anticipation. I fully expect to be impressed by the resolve and determination of the people of Great Britain.”
“You are too generous with your praise, First Lady,” Longworth said. Higgins’s voice banged around in his head: I know who you are—you are a traitor to the British government.
“Yes, indeed. We do make a great team.”
“Eleanor, it seems that the king and queen are a bit anxious to whisk you away to the palace,” Churchill said.
“Ahh, yes. Good day, Mr. Longworth,” Roosevelt said as she took Churchill’s arm and joined the king and queen. The scrum
of photographers moved in lockstep with Churchill and Roosevelt. Longworth turned and headed for the bookstall at the end of the platform.
Slightly out of breath, he waited inside the bookstall for a group of tittering teenage schoolgirls to leave, then located the travel section. The book, The Delights of Morocco, was right where Philby had said it would be. Placed inside the book, as if bookmarking a section of beach photographs, was a brown envelope. Longworth shoved the envelope into his breast pocket and exited the station onto Pared Street. The contents of the envelope were pulling him deeper into a dark and treacherous morass.
#
When Thorn returned to where he’d last seen Bright, she was gone. He waited for her return while watching lingering dignitary staff and security people make their exits from the station. He spotted her a minute later, dodging through the exiting crowd toward him.
“I lost him. I’m so sorry, Conor,” Bright said, her face reddening as she glared back toward the Pared Street exit. “Bloody hell. I saw him head for the Pared Street exit, but I couldn’t get through a swarm of photographers fast enough to keep up with him.”
“That’s OK. Let’s follow the swarm.”
“What happened to man he was talking to?”
“Lost him too. He definitely didn’t want to talk to me, and I still didn’t get a good look at him.” They set out through the Eastbourne Terrace doors. At the top of the concrete steps that dropped down to Eastbourne Terrace, they surveyed the crowd. The mass of people that flanked the steps on both sides, held back by wooden barricades bolstered by a glut of Metropolitan Police, cheered as the king, queen, and First Lady took their time loading into a gleaming, black Rolls Royce that sat at the bottom of the steps, its doors wide-open. Two motorcycle escorts boxed the limousine in, front and back.
“Are you still looking for him?” Bright asked.
Thorn knew that seeing Longworth and his friend together was significant. But he couldn’t put his finger on why. “Don’t need to. We know where to find Longworth.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
0800 Hours, Tuesday, October 13, 1942
No. 28 Queen Anne’s Gate, London
Longworth smelled. Slumped in his chair, he rubbed his eyes with his uninjured hand and stroked the stubble of two days’ beard growth. He hadn’t left his study since the afternoon before. The air in the room was foul. He needed to sleep, but it had eluded him.
A knock at his front door roused him. Looking out the study’s window, Longworth saw a young boy, one of Westminster Cathedral’s altar boys. He finally left his study and opened the front door a crack, peering though the narrow opening.
“What is it, boy?”
“Father Sullivan told me to give this letter to you. He told me to say it arrived yesterday afternoon from Rome.”
Without uttering a word of thanks, Longworth took the oversized envelope from the boy and shut the door. When Longworth entered his study, he locked the doors and closed the heavy drapes. He poured himself a finger of single-malt whisky and dropped into his chair. After he threw back the drink and poured another, he opened the large envelope.
Inside were two smaller envelopes. One envelope—addressed to “Mr. Henry Longworth, Minister of Public Works and Planning, London, England”—was in the familiar hand of Bishop Heinz. He opened the envelope, picked up his drink, and began to read.
My friend Henry:
I shall not be long-winded. It is due to the level of my concern that I feel compelled to tell you that, over the past several months, our close mutual friend has experienced a drastic change in demeanor and has suffered a demise in his spirits. I believe the enclosed letter from him goes into great detail as to the reasons for his emotional and mental setback. I sincerely hope that you can suggest a strong remedy to his troubles, as I am at a loss. Given his current state, a timely response from you is of utmost importance.
Yours in Christ,
Bishop Heinz
Longworth tossed the ambiguously written letter on his desk. He knew who the “close mutual friend” was, and to hear that he was distressed filled him with dread. He finished his drink, poured another, then picked up the second envelope. It was addressed simply to “H. Longworth.” He slit it open and found bold handwriting that filled each page; the edges of each stroke of the pen became jagged as the soft, porous paper absorbed the black ink.
Longworth:
I am at my wit’s end, and I turn to you for guidance. Alas, I am damn tired every time misery and apathy comfortably nestle inside the empty heart of any nation that . . .
Longworth quickly surveyed the rest of the letter. It contained a dreary account of an excursion across Rome to take in historic religious sites. A series of examples of access being denied or drastically limited due to Italian and German security concerns ended with news of a relative being detained by the Italian secret police, OVRA, under suspicion of antifascist activities. Longworth snorted at the backhanded cleverness of the letter’s creator, Abwehr Major Kappler, whose last line begging for Longworth’s help in freeing the relative incensed Longworth. Kappler was playing with him—Longworth knew it. Thankfully, their communication was infrequent.
Three full handwritten pages of single-spaced dribble would take Longworth at least two hours to decipher. The painstaking task of composing his own ciphers regarding the logistics of northbound Allied convoys always drained Longworth. The task of breaking down Kappler’s acrostic code, in which the first letter of every other word from every other sentence would reveal Kappler’s true demands was equally laborious.
The clock chimed half past the hour of ten when Longworth raised his head from Kappler’s letter. It took another twenty minutes for him to break up the string of letters into words. As he unmasked each successive word, he began to pant; his breath was hot and dry. He slumped in his seat when he read the complete message.
I demand that we receive by 25 October definitive, unassailable intelligence as to Allied plans for second front. Your position as member of Churchill’s cabinet puts you in position to accomplish this and more. It is disappointing that we find it necessary to write a letter that expresses our deep disappointment in the quality of intelligence that we have received from you since your arrival in England. The single focus of your information—northbound convoys—leaves us underwhelmed.
Our disappointment will force us to take action with photographs that we have concerning the murder of your mistress.
The clock ticks toward one of two events: our smashing of the Allied second front or the end of your career and, quite possibly, your life.
We await your response.
He sat motionless; his head fell to his chest, his right hand gripping the letter. Had he received this letter the day before his meeting with Higgins, he would have been able to clearly see his demise. But he now had the “unassailable intelligence” his keepers wanted. It would keep them at bay for a while. A forgiving God was watching out for him.
His thoughts drifted back to the night in Rome, the last night with Maria, his lustful, daring, and beautiful mistress. Her dreams of someday leaving her disappointment of a husband and following Longworth back to England, of having his child, kept her alive. Her dismissiveness of anyone who would oppose her dreams, including the Italian military police, had emboldened Longworth. But the last night, Maria had pushed him—pushed him to take their lovemaking to ever-greater heights of ferocity, and Longworth, in one moment, saw Maria struggling in ecstasy, then plunging the next moment into a breathless silence—a moment that changed both their lives forever.
As Longworth sat staring at Kappler’s flamboyant signature, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his hand. When he looked down, he saw he was clutching the blade of his letter opener so tightly he’d drawn blood. He dropped the letter opener and wrapped his hand in his handkerchief and then snatched a lighter off his desk. After setting the letters afire, he dropped them into a wastebasket. The ashes turned from a searing, angry red to a gray black and then cru
mbled.
Yes, Kappler would soon be satisfied—but then there were Higgins and the blasted Thorn and Bright.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
0900 Hours, Tuesday, October 13, 1942
Underground War Rooms, No. 2 Storeys Gate Building, London
Thorn was confused as to where they were to meet with Churchill, but his confusion took a backseat to the distraction of Bright’s shapely legs. She was wearing a dress that was a bit shorter than she typically wore, and it settled a few inches above her knees as she sat across from Thorn. She wore a bit more makeup than usual as well and had decided to wear nylon stockings for their meeting with Churchill. The result thrilled and distracted Thorn.
As to his confusion, they weren’t anywhere near 10 Downing Street. Instead, following Bright’s directions, he had taken a left turn onto Horse Guards Road, placing Saint James Park on his left. “Hey, where the hell are we going? Is this the long way to number ten?”
“We’re headed to the Cabinet War Rooms, ‘the hole in the ground,’ as we used to call it.”
Thorn gave Bright a confused look.
“The short of it is, during the late 1930s, war seemed so assured that the British government believed it would be prudent to establish an underground haven for the prime minister, his cabinet, and the chiefs of staff. I’ve spent many a day and night in the hole, and I cannot say I miss it.”
They entered a nondescript government building and were met immediately by a dark-haired woman with blazing-red lips.
“Emily, so good to see you. We miss you so,” the woman said, her voice warm and sincere.
“Elizabeth, what a pleasure. This is Conor Thorn. Conor, this is Elizabeth Nel, the prime minister’s saving grace.”