by Glenn Dyer
As he moved through the lobby toward the revolving doors, head down, he mulled over what steps he could take. When he emerged from the lobby of the hotel, the sound of the flags that jutted out from above the portico snapping in the crisp, spirited October air stole his attention. He leaned against the sandbags piled high near the entrance, seeking what little shelter there was from the stiff breeze. There were four cars parked in the front drive, none of which was the Buick Roadmaster Hollis and Bright had ridden in. Dressed in a thin, warm-weather suit, Thorn decided to retreat to the lobby to wait for them. No sooner had he turned to do so than he spotted Quinn Montgomery emerging from one of the cars that was parked in front of the hotel. What the hell is this guy doing here?
As Montgomery approached, Thorn could see that the man’s face was distended on one side and his left eye looked like it was sitting on a dark-purple sack of flesh.
“I have a message for you,” Montgomery said, his tone past ninety percent on the threat meter.
“Whoa. Looks like you walked into a wall, Montgomery. Or maybe someone’s fist?”
Montgomery’s jaw muscles tightened. “It’s from Mr. Henry Longworth.” Montgomery handed him a small envelope with “Mr. Thorn” scrawled across it in black ink, the letters of his name formed by a broad-tipped fountain pen guided by a shaky hand.
“So how is Uncle Henry? Still a prickly bastard?” Thorn opened the note and read its brief message. “Ahh, an invitation to a meeting today.” Thorn looked up at Montgomery. “But no reason is given. So what gives, Montgomery?”
“Just be there and don’t be late.”
“Or what?” Thorn asked, now well beyond annoyed.
Montgomery snorted and looked away. “You Yanks—all of you too big for ya boots.” He turned back to Thorn. “Just don’t keep Mr. Longworth waiting. He’s a busy man.”
Thorn gave Montgomery and exaggerated nod. “By the way, shouldn’t you be up at Coastal Command, doing your part to win the war?”
“I’m on leave.”
“Lucky boy,” Thorn said.
“Bloody wanker,” Montgomery mumbled, turning back toward his sedan. He got behind the wheel, and as he pulled away from the curb, he stared Thorn down.
Thorn walked back to the sandbags. Thoughts of meeting Longworth collided with those of his missing sister. What is Longworth up to? What does he want from me? And where the hell is Maggie?
A blaring horn jolted him from his trance. The Buick Roadmaster sat in the drive with Hollis waving her arm frantically out an open window. Thorn raised his finger to signal he saw her, then took out his notebook and jotted down Trout’s phone number and a message asking him to check Maggie’s room at the Savoy and then contact him at Colonel Donovan’s office with anything of interest. He stepped toward a waiting doorman who stood stoically near the curb, his long greatcoat flapping in the breeze.
“Hey, buddy, a favor for a friend?”
The doorman, pushing sixty, turned on his heels, exhibiting a broad smile. “My pleasure, sir. What’ll it be?”
Thorn handed him the note. “Please call this number and give this message to a Mr. Trout. Can you do that for me?”
“A message for Mr. Trout. Like the fish. No problem, sir. Consider it done.”
Thorn handed the doorman a pound note and headed for the waiting Buick. “Much appreciated.”
The doorman beamed with satisfaction. “Anything for a Yank!”
Thorn hurried over to the car to open the driver’s side door for Hollis. “I brought the newspaper for you to read.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Thorn,” Hollis said as she slipped into the backseat and settled in.
“Good morning, Conor,” Bright said, her voice wispy.
Thorn slid behind the wheel and looked over at her. His heart sank. Her eyes were puffy, and she held Nel’s handkerchief.
“How did you sleep last night?” he asked.
“Sporadically at best. Thanks for asking.” Bright quietly cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “So, what were you so deep in thought about?”
“Well, it has been an interesting morning to say the least.” Thorn shut down the idling engine and shifted in his seat to face her.
“Oh, really? Please explain,” Bright said.
“I put a call in to Bob Trout, the reporter for CBS. Just to check on Maggie. He tells me there’s been no sign of her since Monday. Not a word from her.”
“That’s deeply troubling,” she said. “Who does she know here in London?”
“As far as I know, no one,” Thorn said. “Trout should be getting a message from me soon asking him to check her room at the Savoy for anything out of the ordinary.”
“It’s been over two days now. I think it’s time to file a missing-persons report with the Metropolitan Police. I’ll do that after we meet with Cardinal Massy.”
Thorn shook his head vigorously. “Nope. I mean, OK to the report, but we can’t meet with Massy this morning. Maybe this afternoon.”
“Why? What changed?”
Thorn gripped the steering wheel and looked in the rearview mirror. Hollis’s head was buried in the newspaper. “The other thing that made it an interesting morning. While waiting for you, I received a message from none other than Longworth delivered by his loyal nephew.”
Bright perked up and put away the handkerchief. “Go on.”
“He wants to meet with us today,” Thorn said, looking at his watch, “in a little more than an hour from now, at his home. And before you ask, no reason was given.”
Bright looked out the windshield and chewed on her lower lip. “What do you think that’s about?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. You know the man.”
“I haven’t the slightest. But it may be more informative than our planned talk with Cardinal Massy.”
Thorn began slowly drumming out a beat on the Roadmaster’s steering wheel, lost in thought.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I have an uneasy feeling about this, especially after what we saw at Paddington Station. This guy is up to his eyeballs in something bad. We shook him up, and people who have been spooked can be unpredictable.”
“I think your mind is racing too fast. He’s a cabinet member and a longtime friend and confidant of the prime minister.”
Thorn turned the engine over and put the car into gear. “Longtime friends and confidants can change their tune . . . if they’re not getting their way,” he said as he popped the clutch and shifted smoothly through the gears down Brook Street. “I need to get to Donovan right away.” He glanced at his watch. “I need some help with my backup plan.”
Bright shot Thorn a curious stare.
“I don’t trust the bastard.” And neither should you.
She put her hand on the dashboard to steady herself as the Buick darted in and out of traffic.
Ten minutes later, Thorn pulled up to 70 Grosvenor Street. He jerked the parking brake on as the sedan was still moving; the Buick lurched to a halt. Thorn was first out of the sedan, leading Bright to the front entrance. As they were about to open the door, David Bruce burst through, briefcase in one hand and struggling to put on his trench coat.
“Thorn! What are you doing here?” Bruce asked as if he had just discovered a thief in his home. “We weren’t supposed to meet today.”
“I know, Colonel. But I need to see Colonel Donovan. It’s extremely urgent.”
Bruce shook his head. “Sorry, can’t be done. He’s on his way to Casablanca.” He looked at his watch. “And I’m running late for a meeting at Broadway.”
“Then I . . . we have to brief you. It’s about Longworth.”
Bruce ran his hand through his hair and deliberated. “OK, let’s get off the sidewalk.”
Three minutes later, Thorn and Bright sat in Bruce’s office on the third floor. Thorn took note of the amount of antique furniture in the spacious room and formal paintings mounted in ornate frames that adorned the walls. It wasn’t the office of a
spy.
Bruce sat behind his desk but kept his coat on. “So, what’s so urgent?” he asked, pulling a pack of Camels from his breast pocket and shaking free a cigarette.
“I’ll get to the point. I received a message from Longworth less than an hour ago. He wants to meet with us. We don’t know why, but he has no other reason to see us than our questioning of his nephew, the one who had been seen in the film lab in the days before the diary page was reported missing.”
Bright raised her right hand to stop Bruce. “Colonel, in a briefing two days ago, Prime Minster Churchill told both of us to pursue the Longworth connection with all due haste, which is what we must do, given this development.”
“The point is, this smells like a setup,” Thorn added. “I haven’t forgotten that after we met with the nephew, we got shot at.”
“So why go? It makes no sense.”
“Why?” Thorn sat back and took a deep breath. “Because the clock is ticking on the launch of the task forces.” Thorn let that sink in. “I have a backup plan, in case this meeting is what I think it could be.”
“Explain.”
Thorn sensed he might have hooked Bruce. “First, I drive us to Longworth’s house, leaving our driver behind, just in case. Second, we each need a weapon. We can’t go in unarmed. I should have asked a while ago. Third and most important, I want a team of two agents to be outside the house when we go in. We’ll be early, and so should the team, so we can coordinate. If we don’t come out in, say, thirty minutes, they kick the door in. If we need more time, I’ll signal the team to stay put for another thirty minutes.”
Bruce sat silently for several moments, his elbows on the desktop, his chin resting on his clasped hands. “I’m surprised you aren’t planning on busting in as if you were Errol Flynn and swashbuckling your way through like you did in Tangier.”
Thorn glared at Bruce and said nothing.
Bruce blinked first. “OK, I can take care of the weapons. But it will take me a little time to round up a backup team. They’ll have to meet you there.” He reached for a notebook and a fountain pen. “What’s the address?”
Thorn took the message from his breast pocket and read the address to Bruce. As Bruce was writing it down, his phone rang, startling him. He picked up the handset and said, “No calls, Joan,” and hung up. He finished scribbling the address.
Thorn looked at Bright and capped a smile with a wink. Bright nodded.
“Get down to the basement armory and get outfitted with some hardware. I’ll get a couple of agents to Longworth’s home.”
#
The walls of the basement armory sweated. The building’s boiler was located in an adjacent room, and it kept the basement warm and humid. A gray-haired man with the sleeves of his dingy-white shirt rolled up to his elbows laid out two 1911 Colt .45 caliber automatic pistols for Thorn to inspect and several different types of smaller guns for Bright. The armorer stood there and wiped his oily hands on an apron.
Thorn played with the slides on each. “One of these will work. What about some mags?”
“How many are we talking about?” the man asked.
Thorn took a rag from the counter and wiped down one of the Colt’s grips. “For now, three should do it.”
Bright handed a Walther PPK to the man. “This one will do.”
“OK, I’ll get some magazines and be right back.”
As Thorn continued to play with one of the .45s, Bruce’s secretary, Joan, appeared, out of breath, her blouse untucked. “Here you are . . . My, it’s hot down here.”
“What is it?” Thorn asked as the armorer came back and laid the magazines on the counter.
“Colonel Donovan’s office received this message for you. They sent it over to me since you were meeting with Mr. Bruce.” Joan handed a folded note to Thorn, who tucked the Colt into his waistband. “I’m so glad I caught you.”
“Thanks, Joan.”
Thorn read the message as Joan left the basement. “Shit.”
“What is it?” Bright asked.
“It’s from Trout. He checked Maggie’s room at the Savoy. He found nothing unusual except an invitation to a dinner this past Monday at a place called Oddendino’s.” He crumpled up the message and tossed it in a wastebasket. “So the night before Roosevelt’s arrival, she was at a dinner thrown by Churchill’s wife. What the hell happened at that dinner?” He looked at his watch and shook his head. “We’re running out of time. We need to get to Longworth’s.”
Thorn led the way out of the basement, taking two steps at a time. Maggie, where the hell are you?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
1040 Hours, Thursday, October 15, 1942
No. 28 Queen Anne’s Gate, London
Thorn and Bright parked several doors down from No. 28. They were twenty minutes early, giving them some time to coordinate with the backup team. He was nervously looking out his side and rearview mirrors for that very team. Bright peeked at her watch for the second time.
“Well, well, would you look at that?” Thorn was the first to spot Toulouse heading down Queen Anne’s Gate toward them and No. 28. Dressed in dark-colored civilian clothes, he was walking at a brisk pace. Two steps behind him and to the side was the Asian woman from the Spanish embassy.
“Not who I expected to see,” Bright said, sliding down farther into her seat. “What’s your guess as to why he’s in the vicinity?”
“Could only be two reasons. Our drug-dealing murder suspect is here to collect from Montgomery, assuming he’s inside with Longworth, or to make a delivery. Maybe both. But, even from this distance, he doesn’t look too happy.”
Toulouse stopped suddenly and turned around as the Asian woman caught up to him. He flicked a cigarette into the street. Thorn saw the woman’s mouth move rapidly. She reached out and shoved him backward. Toulouse responded with a backhanded slap to her face. The force of it caused her to stumble.
“Good God,” Bright said. “He’s such a brute. Should we do—”
“Nothing. Not now.”
The woman regained her composure and dabbed at the corner of her mouth with the tips of her fingers. She examined her fingers, then, without looking at him, turned and walked away from Toulouse and No. 28.
“There’s more to that lover’s spat than we know,” Thorn said.
An indifferent-looking Toulouse turned and headed toward No. 28. Reaching the front door, he ignored the brass doorknocker and banged on the door with a fist. The door opened slowly, creating a narrow opening of several inches. Toulouse shouldered the door open and went in.
Thorn looked at his watch. “Eight minutes to the hour. That team should be here by now.” He pounded the steering wheel with his fist, which made Bright flinch. “Jesus, Bruce had one job—to get the backup team here early so we could brief them.” He pulled out his 1911A1. He pulled back the slide and released it, letting it click back into place. Seconds later, a single gunshot rang out.
“Son . . . of . . . a . . . bitch,” Thorn said. “Damn it! We can’t wait any longer. We’ve got to get in there.”
“Conor, let’s leave. There’s no backup team in sight—this just doesn’t feel right.”
“No, we can’t. Not now. Listen, the task forces sail ten days from today. If I’m wrong and this Longworth lead points to nothing but a drug ring, then we’re back to square one. And if that happens, we need as much time as possible to regroup.” Thorn’s adrenaline was pumping. He grabbed her forearm. “You OK?”
“I . . . Yes, I believe so.” Her voice trembled.
“Then let’s go.” Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you. Thorn released his hold on her arm.
#
The heavy pounding on the front door startled Longworth. He looked at his watch. It was too early for Thorn and Bright.
“Quinn, get rid of whoever that is. Thorn and Bright will be here any minute.”
Quinn rose and went into the foyer, followed by Longworth. He opened the door slowly and only a few inch
es. His jaw dropped, but before words could form, the door flew open and crashed into the wall. The man slammed the door shut while grabbing Quinn by the throat and pinning him against the wall. Longworth retreated several steps back into the study.
“Hello there, Quinn.” Toulouse’s eyes bugged. “Such a surprise to see you here. But you look terrible. Like you’ve been in a fight—on the wrong end of it.”
Quinn began to struggle, prompting the man to draw a gun and fire it into the plaster wall just inches from Quinn’s left ear, ceasing Quinn’s efforts to free himself. The gunshot echoed.
Longworth stood in the doorway to the study. “Take your hands off him. Don’t you know who I am?”
“Pfft. Of course. I’m with the Free French Intelligence. I know all I need to know about you, Henry Longworth.” Toulouse released his grip on Montgomery, who immediately crumpled to the floor, his hand cupping his ear. “You’re a cabinet minister and a man with some wealth, no doubt.”
“Who are you and what is it you want?”
“I am Toulouse. Your nephew here owes me three hundred thirty quid, which I have been waiting too long for, so I’ve come to his banker. Believe me when I say that I’m not leaving without my money. Now where is it?”
Longworth looked at his watch. Five minutes to the hour. The lout before him was fixated on money—a fixation he would use to co-op his services. “That much money . . . I don’t have it. Not here.”
“That’s . . . unfortunate. It seems that I—”
“I will double what Quinn owes you.”
Quinn’s mouth opened, forming a perfect circle.
Toulouse registered no reaction.
“I will pay you seven hundred pounds. That’s over—”
“I’m not stupid, old man.” Longworth stole a glance at his watch. “When do I get it?”
“After you help me with a personal matter.”
“Go on.”
Longworth needed to quickly reel in his catch, one that would make dealing with Thorn and Bright that much easier. “Two people will be arriving here in a matter of minutes. They . . . have created much trouble for me, and they must be . . . I must put a stop to it.”