The Torch Betrayal

by Glenn Dyer

  “This isn’t over, you pig,” Maggie snarled. Montgomery, Thorn’s Colt in his hand, made a move toward Maggie.

  “Quinn, not now!” Longworth yelled.

  Thorn smiled at his sister’s penchant for standing up for herself. “Maggie, you OK?” he asked.

  Maggie, still looking intently at Montgomery, clenched her jaw, then turned her head slowly to Thorn. “Much better, but there’s room for improvement. Any chance you know what the hell is going on here?”

  Thorn shuffled his feet. Longworth didn’t see Emily inch away from Thorn. “Well, that’s quite a story, isn’t it, Longworth? Emily and I have most of it, but maybe you can fill in some details?” he said, noticing that Toulouse was making his way toward them, his pistol dangling at his side. “As for you, Maggie, I’m not sure why you’re here.”

  He said “take these” earlier. The two guns? Who has the PPK?

  “Oh, I’d be glad to tell you, Thorn. You see, it’s quite simple really. At first, I took her to merely knock you off your guard, to slow you down. But as you persisted, I decided it would be so much more satisfying to make you watch as I killed her.”

  Thorn’s entire body tensed, and his spine became rigid.

  Longworth smiled.

  You prick. Time to knock you off your guard and onto your ass. “I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am right this minute,” Thorn boasted.

  “What are you talking about?” Longworth asked. “Do you think I’m naïve enough to fall for your bravado as we prepare to kill you all?” He said it mockingly, but Thorn saw a hint of fear. The man may have been a traitor for a long time, but he looked unsure of himself. He operated in offices and cabinet meeting rooms. Snatching intelligence agents was new territory for him. He couldn’t be entirely sure that Thorn didn’t have something up his sleeve.

  Montgomery was aggressive, closing the distance on Maggie, his arms dangling in front of him, the Colt in his right hand.

  “Emily will tell you that Colonel Donovan, among others, didn’t believe me when I said that you had something to hide. ‘Oh, no. Not Henry Longworth. Longtime friend of the prime minister’s. A member of his cabinet. You’re crazy, Thorn,’ they said. Well, I can’t wait to see their faces when I get back to London and tell them all about our trip to the English countryside.”

  Longworth took several steps closer to Thorn, the Luger trained on Thorn’s chest. Toulouse, a short step behind Longworth, matched Longworth’s strides but drew closer to Emily.

  “You cocky bastard,” Longworth said. “To think that you will live past this day is a testament to your American arrogance.” But Thorn still saw the slight doubt in the man’s eyes.

  “And stupidity,” Toulouse added.

  “Oh please,” Thorn said, warming to his approach. “That the best you two morons can do? I’ve been called worse and by my own family, right, Maggie?” he said, turning to look at his sister. He winked before turning back to Longworth. “But I’m dying to know, Longworth—how is Bishop Heinz feeling these days? Someone at MI6 thinks he’s not doing so well. He is alive, isn’t he?”

  Longworth didn’t make an effort to hide his shock. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped, looked briefly at Emily, then back to Thorn. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “We found out about Heinz. So—”

  “How long have you been passing information to Heinz? To the Germans?” Emily asked though a clenched jaw, her voice low and controlled.

  Thorn could see that she was seething.

  “Shut up. You’re no different than Churchill and his other minions.” Longworth inched toward Emily, waving the Luger back and forth as he spoke, spittle shooting from his mouth. “All of you refuse to realize England’s true adversary. So myopic that you can’t fathom that Stalin and the savages that put him in power will turn on us the moment he sees the time has come—unless the Germans are allowed to continue their offensive undeterred by a second front.”

  Stalin? This guy is crazy. Fleming was right. He does want to blow up Operation Torch. Thorn threw his head back as he was hit with an epiphany. “You have the diary page,” he said slowly, stressing each word. He looked at Emily. “He has the page. Do you believe that?”

  Toulouse’s gun arm dropped. “What did you say?” He was looking at Thorn and then he suddenly grabbed Longworth’s upper left arm and spun him around, causing him to nearly lose his balance. “You have the document? It was you that bought the document from that bitch and then killed her?”

  Longworth attempted to retrain his focus on Thorn, but Toulouse’s outburst was making it difficult. Longworth looked rattled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t kill any bitch. Not yet. Now please shut up.”

  Toulouse stood down, but Thorn was as confused by his reaction as Longworth was. The missing diary page was a valuable commodity. In the hands of someone who hated the Brits and the Americans, it could go far in helping them seek a measure of revenge, not to mention putting some money in someone’s pocket. Time to plow that field and see what sprouts up.

  “So, Toulouse, Longworth’s left you in the dark. Not fully a part of his plan possibly. Maybe you won’t make it out of the woods either.” Thorn turned back to Longworth. “How the hell you pulled off getting your hands on it is a mystery. But another thing I can’t figure out, at least for now, is what the hell you’re going to do with it…or maybe you’ve already sent it to Heinz through the cathedral’s diplomatic pouch.”

  Longworth couldn’t suppress a smirk, which told Thorn he was headed in the right direction.

  “No, Thorn. I still have it. And when I put it directly into the hands of the Abwehr, Operation Torch, its element of surprise destroyed, will have to be canceled; otherwise, it would be doomed to be a bloody failure,” Longworth said, his voice growing louder as he spoke. He continued to bounce the Luger around like a metronome.

  “So you’re just going to hand it over, a gift for Hitler.” It wasn’t a question the way Thorn said it.

  “Yes, that’s right. With no second front to be concerned with, the Germans can continue their valiant struggle against Stalin, against the spread of communism.” Longworth was becoming red-faced; a vein in his neck bulged. He stepped within a foot of Thorn just as Toulouse sprang toward the man.

  “Don’t!” yelled Montgomery.

  Longworth turned in time to block Toulouse’s attempt to pistol-whip him. Toulouse, denied his revenge on Longworth, backed away a step.

  “You’re just going to give it to the Germans? Don’t you know what it’s worth to them? What it’s worth to—”

  Longworth’s hand shook, but the short distance between him and Toulouse made it easy to place a round in Toulouse’s gut. The Frenchman fell back, landing in the fire pit, his arms and legs spread wide, making an X in the dirt. The pungent smell of discharged gunpowder drifted on the wind, mixing with the billowing ashes.

  “Then there were two,” Thorn said.

  “He served a purpose.”

  “So where were we? Oh yes, the Germans and their valiant struggle, Stalin the bad guy. Do go on,” Thorn said.

  Longworth reclaimed his position within inches of Thorn’s face. “You are too smug for your own good. You have no idea that one day, all of Britain, America, and Europe will thank me for saving them from the clutches of that savage.” Longworth’s spittle hit Thorn’s face. “Have you ever been tortured, Thorn?”

  One more step, Longworth. Just one.

  “What do you know about torture, you pampered traitor?” Thorn said, firmly setting the hook.

  Longworth took one more step. “You bloody, miserable bugger. At the hands of communists, I—”

  It took less than a second for Thorn’s head butt to land on the bridge of Longworth’s nose. Longworth grunted in pain as his cartilage snapped. Blood gushed from his disfigured face, and the Luger fell to the ground. Longworth’s head slumped forward, his hands cradling his nose as his knees buckled. Thorn’s raised knee me
t Longworth’s face on the way to the ground.

  Thorn, adrenaline pumping, lunged at the slow-reacting Montgomery, landing a cross-body block on his midsection, knocking the wind from the man’s lungs and sending him to the ground. Montgomery landed on his back, gasping for air. The Colt flew from his hand, landing in nearby low brush. Maggie saw her chance and planted another swift kick in the man’s groin but lost her balance, tumbling to the ground into a pile of leaves.

  Montgomery, holding his groin with both hands, rolled over to his side. Thorn grunted as he snapped the partially slashed rope binding his hands, grabbed a shovel, and, with a home run swing, drove the side of the shovel’s blade hard and fast into Montgomery’s neck. The shovel sliced deep, and blood spurted in rhythm with his heartbeat. Montgomery pawed at the wound with his hand for a fleeting moment before his body went limp.

  Shovel still in hand, Thorn spun around; Longworth thrashed about in the dirt, holding his face in blood-soaked hands as Thorn rushed past him. His gun couldn’t have been far away, but Thorn couldn’t see it. Ash from the fire pit was still floating thickly in the air, and Thorn heard nothing but the sound of a moaning Longworth as Emily emerged through the floating ash, her face and clothes coated in gray-black soot. In her still-bound hands, she held a rock.

  “Emily, good God, are you all—”

  Emily’s face froze in fear. She awkwardly raised the rock above her right shoulder and, with both hands, heaved it at Thorn. He dropped into a defensive crouch and twisted his body to track the rock. Its trajectory took it as far as the feet of Longworth, who now stood, Luger back in his hand, staring at Thorn.

  His heart hammering in his chest, Thorn dove at Longworth, swinging the shovel. Longworth fell backward. The gun fired. A bullet smacked Thorn’s shoulder, and he cried out. Pain seared hot and deep through his body, and he dropped to his knees, his vision blurring, sweat stinging his eyes. Then, all went black.

  #

  Maggie and Emily watched Conor collapse to the ground; the sound of the shot echoed in the gully. Screaming, Maggie began to crawl to her brother’s body.

  Longworth, his hands slick with his own blood, rose from the ground and turned to Emily, leveling the gun at her chest. Her eyes widened in horror as she lunged at a nearby shovel. She snatched it from the ground, wheeled around, and swung it wildly at Longworth, missing him as he squeezed the trigger twice; metal clicks filled the air, but there was no discharge.

  Hope raced through Maggie’s veins as Emily sprang at Longworth; Emily swung the shovel again, this time at the Luger, but Longworth stepped back to avoid it, clenching the gun’s grip with one hand as he worked the action with the other. He squeezed the trigger again.

  Still jammed, the gun was tossed to the ground as Longworth turned toward the path. Emily tossed the shovel and slid feet first toward the escaping Longworth, who easily avoided the attempt to trip him. A moment later, he was gone.

  The breeze died down, plunging the gorge into a quiet that was interrupted only by the call of a lone crow. A coppery odor filled Maggie’s nostrils as Emily stood and stumbled over to Conor, joining Maggie. Emily bent down and grabbed Conor’s shoulders, rolled him over, then shook him.

  “Is he breathing?” Maggie asked. “Tell me he’s breathing, please. Please!”

  “Conor!” Emily shouted.

  Conor’s eyes fluttered briefly, then stopped.

  Emily began to cry. “Conor! Talk to me Conor, please . . . please, just talk to me.”

  Conor began to stir. His eyes opened slowly as he groaned.

  Emily caressed his face with her bound hands and squeezed his cheeks. Something seemingly occurred to her as she quickly released his face and turned to Maggie.

  “Maggie, untie me . . . quickly,” Emily said.

  The woman tugged at the knot that bound Emily’s hands but couldn’t loosen it.

  “Maggie, please . . . hurry.”

  Again, she tried, but when nothing happened, Maggie placed the knot between her teeth and pulled. It began to loosen. A few more tugs with her fingers, and Emily’s hands were free. She lifted Conor’s blood-soaked shirt to see the extent of his wounds and tore at the hem of her dress, ripping off a swathe of cloth, which she used to dab at the shoulder wound. “Maggie, lift his shoulder . . . gently.”

  Maggie placed her hands under Conor’s shoulder and lifted. Emily reached back, below his shoulder, but it took a moment before she smiled. Then she pulled her hand from under Conor’s shoulder and lowered him to the ground.

  “What? Tell me,” Maggie said.

  “It went through.” Emily lowered her face to Conor’s. “Oh thank God. Thank God. I thought I lost you!” she practically yelled.

  “You don’t have to shout, Emily. I can hear you,” Thorn said quietly.

  Emily sat back up and laughed.

  “Where’s Maggie?” Thorn asked.

  “Right here, you . . . you dope. Someone had to save your butt. And thank God Emily was here.” Maggie looked at Emily, and both women collapsed in laughter. Emily wiped away tears of both relief and joy with the back of her hands.

  Thorn moved onto his side to get up, winced, and grabbed his shoulder. “What the hell happened? I thought it was all over when he shot me.”

  The tears streamed down Emily’s face now. She wiped her nose and grinned. “Stupid luck, just stupid luck. His gun jammed and . . . and . . . he ran off. I don’t understand. He could have killed me with a shovel or a rock, but he simply took off.”

  Emily buried her face in her bloodstained hands and began to sob, her shoulders heaving. Conor drew her to him and stroked her blood-caked hair.

  “It’s OK, Em. We made it through. It wasn’t our turn. And we know exactly where we stand. No more guessing. We know who our man is. We just don’t know where he is or where he’s going.”

  Conor continued to stroke her hair, and her weeping slowed. She hugged, then kissed him.

  “Don’t let me go,” she said. “Not yet.”

  “Not a chance.”

  Maggie rose, her eyes on the embracing couple. She smiled warmly at them before going over to Montgomery’s body and kicking him in the groin one last time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  1715 Hours, Thursday, October 15, 1942

  The Shield & Sword, Whitchurch

  When they arrived back at the area where they had been off-loaded from Longworth’s car, Thorn noticed shallow ruts and spewed gravel that indicated tires were spinning when Longworth pulled away.

  Their trek from deep in the woods had been painfully slow. Maggie had twisted her ankle twenty minutes into what was now approaching a two-hour hike. Even with Thorn helping her, the ordeal had left Maggie drained, and Thorn and Emily close to it.

  Trudging along a path due west from the gorge, Thorn strained to bring his focus back to his pressing goal—chasing down Longworth. His emotional encounter with Emily made his head swirl with feelings of guilt and passion that crashed into one another and almost squeezed out thoughts of his shoulder wound. Images of his past life with Grace, her warm smile and sparkling eyes, flickered in his head and then faded—Thorn didn’t know if it was sad or if it was simply time to let those memories go. He wondered what Emily was feeling. She hadn’t said a word the entire journey from the gorge. What images flickered in her mind?

  During their hike, the wind had kicked into a high gear and the skies had darkened rapidly. The rain had fallen lightly at first and then built in intensity. Thorn, his reclaimed Colt tucked in his waistband, cradled his right forearm as if it were in a sling. It throbbed with each step. Their clothes, already covered in dirt, quickly became caked with mud. They stood on the gravel road, looking for any activity. Thorn spotted someone on a bicycle at least a mile down the road. Too distant to get the biker’s attention.

  “Do you have any idea where we are? Or how long we were in Longworth’s trunk?” Thorn shouted above the storm.

  Emily, massaging her wrists and leaning into Thorn, finall
y broke her silence. “No, no idea where we are.”

  “Let’s head down the road and see what we find. A road this wide should have some traffic at some point. That biker has to be headed somewhere with shelter in this storm,” Thorn said. They headed down the road, Maggie gingerly walking on her swollen ankle, and for a few moments, the rain lightened.

  “How’s the shoulder?” Maggie asked.

  “It’s stiff. Like the rest of my body.”

  “Is it still bleeding?” Emily asked.

  How lucky am I? Not one but two nursemaids.

  “I don’t think so.” Thorn realized it had been a long time since someone actually cared about how he was feeling—or at least a long time since he’d recognized it. He stopped suddenly and turned to Emily. “How are you . . . how are you feeling?”

  She turned to Thorn and smiled before replying. “Actually, considering what just happened, quite good except for a splitting headache. But I must be a sight.”

  “That you are, and I mean that in a good way,” Thorn said, eliciting a laugh from her.

  The wind abruptly increased, whipping the rain into a frenzy.

  “I see a light up ahead,” Maggie shouted.

  “Ahh, civilization,” Thorn yelled. Between blasts of the wind, he heard the intermittent sound of an engine—an airplane engine. It grew louder until it sounded directly overhead. Thorn looked up but could see nothing but low, dark clouds. “I don’t know who’s luckier—that bastard, because he’s sitting in a dry cockpit, or us, with our feet on the ground.”

  “Look, Conor. That sign up ahead—looks like a pub.” Emily pointed.

  Thorn made out the sign that was nestled beneath the overhang of a peaked roof —The Sword & Shield. It swung in the stiff wind, generating high-pitched squeals that grew louder as they stumbled closer to the pub’s bright-red door.

  Emily was the first one in. Thorn turned sideways to pass through the narrow doorway with Maggie’s arm still clamped on his good shoulder and his left arm wrapped securely around her waist. They entered a cramped, low-ceilinged room with a blazing fireplace that filled the small space with a golden glow. Two windows flanked the doorway but were shuttered on the inside. Emily approached the bar, where a short, heavyset man was drying a pint glass with a dish towel. Two older men in overalls topped with tweed jackets leaned on the bar. The barman’s jaw dropped when he glimpsed his new customers.