‘So you want me to come back to London? You realise I’ve only been home twelve hours.’
Phillips’s deep laughter rumbled down the line. ‘No, Tom, I don’t want you to come back to London. I want you to go to Scotland.’
*
Wilde let his boss’s laughter subside; he didn’t find Phillips’s proposition at all amusing. No, proposition was the wrong word. Phillips hadn’t made a suggestion, he’d given an order – one that came directly from the President of the United States. One that had to be acted on, whatever Wilde’s misgivings.
The mission was nigh-on impossible, of course. He couldn’t just turn up unannounced in a remote corner of the country and ask questions. There was a war on, for God’s sake. People who pried into matters which didn’t seem to concern them were likely to end up in an internment camp on the Isle of Man. Or worse, shot out of hand.
Bill Phillips was already ahead of him, anticipating and answering his objections. ‘We have arranged accreditation for you.’
‘How the hell did you manage that?’
‘The embassy talked to 10 Downing Street. Papers will be biked up to you this afternoon and you will take the overnight to Oban. From there you will be flown to Invergordon. Apparently, that’s the same journey the Duke took.’
‘And Invergordon – that’s a naval base, right?’
‘Royal Navy and Royal Air Force. The Duke’s flying boat left from RAF Invergordon. Instructions to cooperate have been phoned through to them. That doesn’t mean the guys up there will like it or be friendly, but they’re not in a position to say no. You will be met in Scotland by a civil servant and will be given every assistance.’
‘Is that necessary? I’d rather do this alone.’
‘That part of the coast is very sensitive – seen as exceptionally vulnerable to enemy attack, so there are a lot of military installations in the region. Anyone nosing around will immediately be suspect. So you’ll be chaperoned as closely as a virgin debutante.’
‘What excuse did the embassy give for my journey? They couldn’t say that the President doesn’t trust the British.’
‘Of course not. You will be there as a mark of respect, to pay tribute and say a prayer at the site of the crash and to do anything you can to assist the army and the local people. You will be expected to talk to nearby residents and, on behalf of the President and people of the United States, to thank them for their efforts in doing all they could for our good friend the Duke and all the others on the plane.’
As a cover story, it was solid enough, he supposed, particularly as it had been concocted at speed by Phillips. All his experience as a diplomat, including his most recent role as ambassador to Italy, must have come into play for the smooth but hard-as-nails OSS chief.
‘Then I don’t really have an option, do I?’
‘I’m afraid you don’t. You know, Tom, in my month here in London I have been wined and dined and treated like royalty by the British secret services. But they don’t fool me for a moment – and I tell you this, I will not allow the London office of the OSS to be walked over by the British intelligence services. They will try to foist their version of events on to you, but you won’t let them. Good luck – and keep in touch.’ The line went dead.
Wilde put down the phone and caught Lydia’s withering look. He shrugged dismally.
‘You’ve only just arrived and now you’re going away,’ she said.
‘You heard all that?’
‘Your face told me everything.’
‘I’m sorry. Hopefully it will be just a couple of days. I’m not going to find anything, am I? And then I’ll come home, my duty done.’
Lydia raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘How many years have I known you, Tom? Too many to fall for that line. You won’t rest until you’ve discovered the truth. Now, come on, I’ve made you some lunch.’
‘Thank you.’ He wandered to the window and looked out on the street, trying to collect his thoughts. It was a pleasant summer day, little wind, cotton clouds in a blue sky. There were times he loved this town, other times he wondered what he was doing here. Across the road, near the postbox, a little man stood with his hands deep in his jacket pockets.
Wilde peered closer, trying to see the face half-shrouded by the brim of a hat. He seemed familiar. And then he realised: it was the bow-legged young man from Cambridge station, the one who had disappeared hurriedly when the police sergeant approached. The one who looked like he should be riding racehorses on Newmarket Heath. Wilde opened the door. The man was still there.
‘Mr Mortimer, isn’t it? Are you looking for me?’ he called as he crossed the road.
The young man shrank back momentarily, but then held his ground, his eyes sullen and defiant. Wilde was almost upon him now. ‘Who are you?’ Wilde kept his hands in his trouser pockets. The boxer in him was always ready for a fight, but he wanted to look casual so he could talk to this young man, not scare him off.
‘What happened to him?’ Mortimer demanded flatly.
‘You’re answering questions with questions again, young man. I’ve already told you my name – and I told you Peter Cazerove died on the train. Now, what’s your business in all this?’
The young man seemed to think for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Did you kill Cazerove? I need to know how he died.’
‘No, I didn’t hurt him. There will be an inquest soon enough – so go along to that. Now, Mortimer, what was he to you? I’m very happy to talk to you, but you really will have to tell me who you are. I imagine you were there to pick him up – but why?’
‘You had a visitor this morning. One-armed man. Who was it?’
Wilde had had enough. ‘You’ve obviously been spying on me. Come on, I think the police would like a little chat with you.’ Wilde reached out to grasp the young man’s arm, but he stepped back again, out of reach.
‘Don’t touch me, mister, or I’ll do for you. I’m going nowhere near any police. What I want to know from you is what happened on the train. What did he say to you?’
‘Come into my house then. Have a cup of tea and we can talk about all this.’
The young man hesitated, then made a noise like a growl. His left hand inched up from his jacket pocket and Wilde caught a glint of metal.
‘If that’s a knife . . .’
The hand slid down again and the glint was gone. ‘Sod you, mister. You’ll be hearing from us.’ He backed away, his face rat-like and glowering, then he scurried away, just as he had done at the railway station.
Chapter 5
A few hundred feet below him, sunlight reflected off the dark, still waters of the Cromarty Firth. As the plane descended in a great arc, Wilde watched the formless grey specks on the surface grow into the menacing, yet comforting, shapes of warships and flying boats, dispersed across the length and breadth of the inlet.
The journey here had been long, first by train with two changes, then from Oban on the west coast across to the east aboard this Sunderland flying boat. The plane wasn’t built for comfort. Hard, jagged edges enveloped him as he gazed back down the dark, conical crawlway of the fuselage to the bright core at the rear – the turret where a gunner nursed four .303 Browning machine guns. On take-off the craft had rattled and juddered as though it were in its death throes, but in the air it was smooth and sweet, if a little lumbering in its attempts to gain height.
The pilot had invited him to the cockpit, where the discomfort and the thunderous roar of the four 1,200 horsepower engines were alleviated by glorious views of Ben Nevis, the Great Glen, Loch Ness and the Black Isle.
‘We call these planes flying porcupines,’ said the pilot, who had introduced himself as Flight Lieutenant Duncan.
‘Why so?’
‘Spiky guns sticking out fore, aft and midships. Perhaps “hedgehog” might be more apt for a British beast, but it’s pretty effective both in attack and defence.’
‘Prince George died in one of these, didn’t he?’
‘So I’m led to
believe, sir. A great sadness to us all. As was the loss of our own Wingco Moseley.’
‘Your wing commander?’
‘Yes sir, he was Officer Commanding 228 Squadron, Oban.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it. Please accept my condolences.’
‘That’s war, Mr Wilde.’
They were silent a few moments. At last Wilde had judged it appropriate to pose a question. ‘What’s your theory, flight lieutenant?’
‘Cause of the Duke’s crash? I believe there was fog along the Caithness coast. Much thicker than forecast.’
‘Then why didn’t they just stay over the sea until they had enough altitude?’
‘It saves fuel if you can cut off the far north of Scotland, but I suppose they had some sort of problem. Anyway, not for me to speculate. It’ll all come out in the inquiry, of course. Just another sad accident, I imagine. We’ve lost plenty over Scaraben and those treacherous little mountains. The place is littered with bits of aircraft.’
‘The Duke came up the same route as me, I believe. Was it you that flew him over from Oban to Invergordon?’
‘No, sir. I had met him on occasion, but I didn’t see him on this trip. We all liked him, you know – one of us, he was. Proper flying man, and a fair pilot himself, from all accounts. He’ll be sorely missed by everyone in the service.’
‘You’d think the pilot would have taken extra care with such an important passenger.’
Flight Lieutenant Duncan bristled. ‘Pilots take great care whoever they’re flying. It’s their lives on the line, too, you know.’
‘Of course.’
‘But we’re only human. And so mistakes are made.’
‘Human error is a possibility, you think?’
‘Or mechanical failure. I really couldn’t say. You’ll probably learn more from the chaps at RAF Invergordon.’
‘There is another alternative, of course – enemy action. A lone German fighter, or a bomb on board, perhaps?’
‘I suppose stranger things have happened.’
‘So there has been no messroom gossip at RAF Oban? No word has come down from the crash site?’
‘Not to me, sir.’
Wilde realised he was getting nowhere. The pilot was affable enough, but he either knew nothing or was simply well trained to keep shtum.
And now the brief flight was over. They touched water, effortlessly, and the huge aircraft slowed and skimmed to a halt, rocking gently with the current and the light breeze. Wilde knew from his briefing that they were between the towns of Invergordon and its neighbour Alness, both turned into RAF and Royal Navy bases for the duration.
A small marine tender arrived to take him ashore while the crew and engineers unloaded and refuelled the aircraft. The sky was cloudless and the landscape was spectacular. Gulls wheeled and cried beneath a canopy of barrage balloons, held aloft to deter enemy bombers. On land, two anti-aircraft installations poked their long guns towards the heavens.
At the jetty, a solitary man was waiting for him. He was a shade over six feet but didn’t look as tall, for he held his shoulders hunched like a bird. He wore civilian clothes – a grey suit, narrow tie and black shoes, but no hat – and the light wind was whipping his steel-grey hair.
Wilde climbed out of the boat and mounted the steps. The stranger smiled as he approached. ‘Mr Wilde, you’re here at last. I am Walter Quayle.’
The name meant nothing to Wilde, but he shook the man’s hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Quayle.’ Somewhat irreverently, he found himself wanting to brush the snowfall of dandruff from the man’s shoulders. ‘Would you like to see my letter of accreditation?’
‘Oh, don’t bother with that. It’s quite clear who you are. Anyway, you’re probably wondering who I am. Let me explain, professor. I was sent up here late on Tuesday to coordinate matters concerning the Duke’s death.’
‘Sent by whom?’
‘By Number 10 – I’m a civil servant, adviser to the Prime Minister on royal matters, among other things. I knew Georgie – the Duke of Kent – very well. We had been friends for many years.’
‘Then I am sorry to hear of your loss.’
‘I’ll be honest with you, I’m devastated. You know Georgie was only thirty-nine. Poor Marina – the Duchess – won’t get over it. Left with three small children, including a babe in arms.’ He shook his head as though to clear his thoughts. ‘But for the moment, we must all put our grief aside and play the professionals. Now then, I know you are here representing Mr Roosevelt and the American people, and it would be an honour to assist you in your mission.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But most of all, thank God you’re here. I need a drinking companion. Come on, I hear the whisky’s not too bad in this part of the world.’
‘I think I need some food, too.’
‘Local inn’s the place. Easy walk from here and they do a pretty fair steak and kidney pud.’
*
They stood in the bar nursing double whiskies while they waited for their food to be served. ‘Ah, that goes down well,’ Quayle said. ‘Nothing like a drop of good Scotch on its home territory.’
Wilde nodded in agreement, trying to gauge the man. At first glance he was remarkably well-dressed and rather elegant, silky enough to be a ministry man. But the dandruff, the yellow teeth and the soup-stained tie told a different story. Something didn’t quite add up. He was a little taller than Wilde, save for the stoop, slender, about thirty years of age but prematurely grey. He had a ready smile and an open manner, but still Wilde wasn’t convinced.
His drinking was interesting. Wilde liked a whisky as much as the next man, perhaps more so, but this fellow Quayle was in a different class. The double Scotch descended his gullet and then the order came in for the next, and the next.
‘Do you smoke, Wilde?’
‘No.’
‘Nor me. I like to keep one vice in reserve. I think it was Marlowe who said “all they that love not tobacco and boys are fools”. Well, I’ll pass on the baccy.’
‘I think it might have been said about Marlowe, actually – by one of Walsingham’s spies.’
‘Well, you’d know. Your period, I hear.’
Wilde nodded. It seemed Quayle had been given information about him. ‘What else do you know about me?’
‘That you’re half-American and half-Irish. Is that right? I suppose that means you’re half in, half out of the war . . .’
Wilde didn’t pretend to be amused. He was more interested in finding out a little about Quayle in return, but for the moment, he had more pressing matters to concern him. ‘I want to get up to Caithness as soon as possible,’ he said. See the crash site before it’s cleared up, he thought.
‘Of course. And you’ll want to meet the survivor – but I’m afraid it’ll be a while before he’s in any fit state to talk.’
Wilde was bewildered. ‘Survivor? I thought everyone died.’
‘Ah, so you haven’t heard? Well, yes, not surprising if you’ve been travelling non-stop since yesterday. The rear gunner’s alive. His name’s Andy Jack. They didn’t find him at first. He was quite badly injured – got disorientated and lost, wandered the mountainside all afternoon and evening until he bedded down and slept in the bracken. Poor bastard had lost half his clothes. He was barefoot and burnt. Yesterday he finally found his way to civilisation, knocked on the door of a local croft, collapsed – and now he’s in hospital.’
‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘I tried to, but the fellow’s mighty confused and sedated. He’s suffering burns and various other injuries. I’ll try again though, and you can come with me if you like. First things first, however – we should get you up to the crash site and show you around. It’s two or three hours by road, so we’ll drive up in the morning.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘This inn has rooms, so here seems the best bet. Rather more comfortable than quarters at the RAF base.’
‘My instinct is to keep on tra
velling north tonight. I take it you have a car?’
‘Wilde, old man, the roads are atrocious. Let’s wait until daylight. You don’t want to end up dead in a Scottish ditch like the Duke.’
‘Talking of whom, where are the bodies?’
‘Well, Georgie’s already on his way south by train. Your paths might have crossed. Anyway, one thing I did want to mention was that the people up in these parts are close-knit and a little suspicious of outsiders. They might well be wary of your accent because they might not recognise it as American. There is a lot of military activity in this area, you see, so they are continually being cautioned to beware of talking to strangers. As a consequence, they’re ultra-sensitive and very protective. Quite rightly so. They are likely to think you’re a spy even when you’ve shown them your papers.’
Wilde downed his whisky. ‘In the meantime, if we’re staying the night here, I want to call in on the RAF and hear what they have to say.’
‘Good idea. They’re a fine bunch. I’m sure they’ll tell you everything you want to know.’
*
The commanding officer, a group captain, was away so they were received by a stand-in named Wing Commander Geoffrey Frayne, who might have been anything from twenty-five to thirty-five. They had been shown into his office in a rather luxurious manor house, which had been requisitioned as headquarters for the air base. The man was taut and wary, as though he wasn’t at all pleased to see them. But he was savvy enough to realise he had no option, given the interest of the President of the United States and the stamp of approval from Downing Street.
‘We’d like to go to the mess, talk to some of the men,’ Wilde said after their introduction.
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ the wing commander said, brushing his wide, luxuriant moustache with the back of his hand. ‘The men have lost some very good friends.’
‘I understand that.’ Wilde saw the hollowness in the officer’s eyes; he was clearly shredded after three years of war. ‘I would, of course, be extremely sensitive, bring my condolences from the President and thank them on his behalf for their efforts.’
‘No, I really don’t think so. If there’s anything you want to know, I’ll do my best to give you answers.’
A Prince and a Spy Page 4