The Danger of Life

by Ken Lussey

  It was Major Miller who replied. ‘You are of course right, Madame Dubois, and I made that point to the head of MI11, and I know he made the same point to the Director of Military Intelligence, Major General Sir Peter Maitland. However, the Polish Government in Exile is in a hugely difficult position because of this and apparently decided at the highest level to ask us to close things down immediately.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Bob. ‘Let’s go and let the Soviets know they’ve been rumbled.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Monique had opted to join Major Miller and Lieutenant Dixon’s group for the raid on the office in Leith, pointing out that her knowledge of the NKVD and her fluency in Russian could be real assets. It was obvious to Bob that the major wanted to find a reason not to involve her but couldn’t think of a convincing one.

  The weather over eastern Scotland was as beautiful as it had been over Glasgow. Visibility from the Avro Anson as it flew north over Fife seemed endless, and there wasn’t a cloud in sight.

  Bob was sitting in the co-pilot’s seat, next to Flight Sergeant Clapperton. ‘I bet you didn’t get weather this good when you were training in a Canadian winter.’

  ‘No, sir. But then it’s not often this good in Scotland either.’

  Flight Lieutenant Buchan leaned over Bob’s left shoulder. ‘Sir, how do you want to play it when we arrive?’

  ‘I think we should treat this as one of your normal inspections. You and Sergeant Bennett can look at RAF Errol’s security and I’ll have a chat with Colonel Irakli Kuznetsov. You are sure he’s there?’

  ‘Yes, sir. As you know I telephoned Flying Officer Frost when the meeting ended. At that point the colonel was in his office in the hangar that has been allocated to No. 305 Ferry Training Unit.’

  ‘Are there any sensitivities at Errol?’ asked Bob. ‘Is the station commander going to be upset if I just breeze in and get nasty with the commander of a unit based there?’

  ‘The station commander is a Group Captain Robertson, sir. Flying Officer Frost tells me that the group captain gives you his full blessing but wants nothing to do with the operation personally. He apparently feels that’s the best way to maintain good working relations between him and the colonel in the future.’

  ‘That’s understandable. And it suits me perfectly,’ said Bob.

  RAF Errol was a larger base than Bob expected. The Avro Anson approached from the south, crossing the River Tay before landing on one of the runways laid out in the classic ‘A’ pattern. Bob counted five large hangars on one side of the site, and there were a significant number of smaller blister hangars dotted around the perimeter of the airfield. They followed a Miles Master training aircraft in to land, and Bob could see several more in the circuit, with others on the ground dispersed around the airfield.

  Flight Sergeant Clapperton was directed to park the Avro Anson on a concrete hardstanding close to one of the hangars. Nearby were two aircraft Bob recognised as the recently delivered Armstrong Whitworth Albemarles. Bob was struck by the large amount of glazing in the fuselage, especially in the nose, and the twin fins. The nosewheel undercarriage was also something of a novelty.

  A flying officer held open the cabin door as Bob climbed out of the aircraft. ‘Welcome to RAF Errol, sir.’

  Bob returned the salute. ‘Thank you. You are Flying Officer Frost, I presume?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ve got a car waiting.’

  ‘What we had in mind was taking the opportunity for Flight Lieutenant Buchan and Sergeant Bennett to look around. You’ve not been open for business long, have you?’

  ‘No, sir. The first unit only took up residence in August.’

  ‘Meanwhile, I want to have a private chat with Colonel Kuznetsov. As his aircraft are here, I assume his office isn’t far away?’

  ‘That’s right, sir, it’s one of the offices attached to the nearest hangar over there. Do you want me to send anyone with you?’

  ‘No, thanks, Flying Officer. I’ll keep it as informal as possible. Does No. 305 Ferry Training Unit have many staff at present?’

  ‘No, sir, it seems to be the colonel, supported by a couple of non-commissioned officers for administration, plus a major and two junior officers who apparently do the flying training and assessment, and perhaps half a dozen trainees. I think they’ve got two aircraft up on training flights now, sir, so I’m not sure how many of the colonel’s men will be present.’

  Bob smiled at the NCO he met in the corridor. It was a bit of a surprise to find someone in full Soviet Air Force uniform, complete with boots and riding breeches, on an airfield not all that far from Perth. ‘Hello. I’m looking for Colonel Kuznetsov’s office.’

  ‘I’m Kuznetsov. Who’s looking for me?’

  Bob hadn’t heard the office door open behind him and turned around to find himself face to face with a man of rather above average height, again in Soviet Air Force uniform, though this time of a finer quality and with more medal ribbons. His most noticeable feature was a moustache that looked just like Josef Stalin’s.

  Bob held out his hand. ‘Hello, Colonel, I’m Group Captain Sutherland. I’m attached to the War Office.’

  The colonel shook Bob’s hand. ‘I’m told that in this country “being attached to the War Office” is usually a euphemism, Group Captain. Is it in your case?’

  Bob smiled. ‘Yes, it is, Colonel.’

  The colonel sighed. ‘At least they sent a proper pilot.’ He waved towards the wings on Bob’s chest. ‘And you’ve seen action, too, judging from your medal ribbons.’

  ‘Yes, Colonel, I was a squadron commander during the Battle of Britain.’

  ‘You are a fighter pilot? How many German aircraft have you shot down?’

  Bob decided this was no time for false modesty. ‘Officially, Colonel, the number is twenty two. By my count it is twenty four.’

  ‘It is an honour to welcome you here, Group Captain. I’m not a fighter pilot, so can’t compete. Should we go through to my office? Can I offer you coffee?’

  They sat either side of the colonel’s utilitarian desk, two cups of coffee gently steaming between them.

  ‘What can I do for you, Group Captain?’ asked Colonel Kuznetsov.

  ‘I’m here to talk about Sergeant Jacek Winograd.’ said Bob.

  The colonel looked confused, but only for a moment. ‘Ah, so that was his name. I assume you are talking about the Polish pilot I knew only as “Peter”?’

  ‘I might well be,’ said Bob. ‘If you didn’t know this man’s name, how did he get on and off the base? He must have had a security pass.’

  ‘He only arrived once and left once, hidden in the back of a lorry. For three days we kept him here.’

  ‘While he was here you refreshed his skills as a pilot?’

  ‘Yes. He was quite good, if a little nervous at first.’

  ‘And you also taught him the procedures for starting up and taking off in a de Havilland Mosquito?’

  The colonel smiled. ‘I think you already know the answer to that, Group Captain.’

  ‘Where did you get your information from?’

  ‘From a set of RAF issue pilot’s notes for the aircraft. And before you ask, no, I don’t know where they came from, and neither do I have them here anymore. I returned them to the air attaché in the Soviet embassy in London, who had initially provided them to me.’

  ‘You do know that Sergeant Winograd fired at a guard when he was trying to steal that Mosquito at RAF Leuchars, don’t you, Colonel? And that he was then killed?’

  ‘Yes, Group Captain, I was told that the operation was a failure. Are you here to tell me to behave myself in future and not abuse my position as a guest in your country?’

  ‘That’s pretty much what it amounts to,’ said Bob. ‘We don’t wish to disrupt the work you are doing here, Colonel, but please be assured that if you ar
e again found behaving in a manner that compromises British interests, or the interests of our other allies, then you will be asked to leave.’

  ‘That’s another euphemism, isn’t it, Group Captain?’

  Bob couldn’t help sharing the colonel’s smile. ‘Yes, it is, Colonel.’

  ‘I understand your message, Group Captain. You understand, of course, that I will pass on to the Soviet embassy the news that you have visited, and let them know what you have said?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Colonel,’ said Bob.

  ‘Good, well, let’s put that behind us,’ said the colonel. ‘At the risk of changing the subject, how much do you know about the Armstrong Whitworth Albemarle?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Bob.

  ‘Well, I’ve had the dubious pleasure of flying one of them three times in the past two days, and please believe me when I tell you that it is what I believe our mutual American allies would call “a crock of shit”. I have no idea what possessed our beloved leaders to sign up to take on 200 of these aircraft, but I can very easily see why you British are pleased to be rid of them. Look, come outside with me.’

  Bob followed the colonel out onto the tarmac, and they walked together over to the nearest of the two Albemarles.

  ‘Look at it,’ said the colonel. ‘It was designed as a medium bomber, but production has been so badly delayed that it has yet to enter squadron service with the RAF, and during the two years or more since it first flew, you have had much better bombers come into service. We are also told it’s suitable for troop transport and parachute drops, but if you look inside, the cabin is very cramped. And yet we want 200 of them. Words sometimes fail me.’

  The two men walked around the parked aircraft. ‘Have you flown the Mosquito, Group Captain?’ asked Kuznetsov.

  ‘Yes, I have,’ said Bob.

  ‘That’s the aeroplane we should be taking delivery of. You can’t really blame us for trying to get hold of one, can you?’

  ‘It’s my job to do exactly that,’ said Bob.

  ‘Of course, Group Captain. But if you ever feel like adding an Order of the Red Banner to your collection of medals, I know that Moscow would be very grateful indeed if they could get their hands on a Mosquito.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer, Colonel, but I don’t think I’d be very suited to life in the Soviet Union.’

  Kuznetsov smiled. ‘I understand, Group Captain, but it was worth a try. Hello, what’s that?’ The colonel pointed upwards.

  Bob looked up. High in the clear blue sky, far above, a condensation trail could be seen making its way south west. Bob had a feeling he knew what was making it but saw no reason to let the colonel in on the secret. ‘It might be a photo reconnaissance Mosquito returning from Norway,’ he said.

  ‘It would never still be at such a height, if it was returning home,’ said Kuznetsov. ‘I think that’s a Luftwaffe aircraft, though it really is at extreme altitude. It looks to me as if it’s heading towards Glasgow.’

  Epilogue

  Bob missed Monique on his return from RAF Errol. Lieutenant Dixon told him that after the operation in Leith was over, she had asked him to take her back to RAF Turnhouse. Once there she’d used Bob’s influence to commandeer a flight to RAF Renfrew.

  Bob smiled at the thought.

  ‘She also asked me to pass on her best wishes, sir.’

  ‘I knew she had to get back to Glasgow to tidy up after the Hillington operation,’ said Bob. ‘I just didn’t realise that she meant today.’

  Bob kicked himself. He’d thought he would have time to talk to Monique before she returned south. At least they’d agreed that morning that they should meet when he was next in London. He knew that this time he would telephone her. That was something to look forward to, he thought.

  The following day, Friday, Bob flew in a borrowed Hawker Hurricane MkIIc single seat fighter from RAF Turnhouse to Eastleigh, near Southampton. He attended the low-key funeral service that Captain Bell’s parents had arranged in the church in the eautiful Hampshire village where the captain had grown up; and his burial in the adjacent churchyard. Sergeant Potter spoke at the service and stayed on after the burial to attend the family gathering in the village pub, which seemed to Bob to be only right since he’d known and worked with the captain. Bob simply offered his condolences to the captain’s parents, then got back in the naval staff car he’d borrowed, drove back to the naval air station at Eastleigh and flew back to Edinburgh.

  The weather over the weekend and the start of the following week was miserable. Edinburgh had always tended to do ‘windy’ with remarkable enthusiasm, but it really specialised in ‘dreich’, a lovely Scots word that carried with it the essence of mist, drizzle and bone-chilling cold. The weekend was truly dreich, and even a trip on Saturday to stay the night with Jack and Flora Callaghan in Renfrew and drink Jack’s whisky did little to brighten Bob’s mood.

  But Wednesday the 4th of November 1942 dawned bright and clear. Bob climbed aboard a Hurricane at RAF Turnhouse with a lot more enthusiasm than he had the previous Friday. When he’d taken the job with MI11, Bob had been aware that he would quickly become very familiar with the journey from Edinburgh to London and back. It was a simple fact of life. He worked in Edinburgh and his boss and his boss’s boss both worked in London. After takeoff, Bob turned the aircraft’s nose south east.

  It would have been even better if he’d been able to arrange to see Monique in London, but the meeting he was attending had only been set up the previous evening. There was always the next time, he thought.

  If the weather had still been poor, Bob would have had to concentrate more on choosing and following his route. When he had learned to fly, the better part of a decade earlier, it was the norm to navigate across country by following linear features on the ground. There were more sophisticated ways of doing things these days, but Bob worked by the maxim of ‘if it’s not broke, don’t fix it’. The obvious linear feature linking Edinburgh and London was the London and North Eastern Railway line between the two.

  But when the weather was this good, it was possible to have more fun.

  Bob thoroughly enjoyed a very low-level trip roughly down the line of the A68 main road, a route he knew had Roman origins. He then picked up the railway near Darlington and followed it south at an altitude more suited to someone of his age and rank. As he flew, Bob made sure he kept to the right-hand side of the line of the tracks. That way, if he met another lazy navigator following the same line but heading in the opposite direction, the two would pass one another with a safe distance between them.

  ‘Hello, Bob. You’ve had a busy first couple of weeks.’ Bob had met Major General Sir Peter Maitland, the Director of Military Intelligence, when he had been offered the job, but this was the first time he’d been in Sir Peter’s office, located in one of the more anonymous buildings along Whitehall. It was quite modest in scale and almost austere in décor.

  It nonetheless came with a set of four large leather chairs set around a low table at one end of the room. Sir Peter waved towards the seats. ‘Make yourself at home.’

  There was a knock on the door and Bob’s immediate boss, the head of Military Intelligence, Section 11, Commodore Maurice Cunningham, entered and walked over to join him and Sir Peter.

  ‘How are you, Bob? I was worried to hear about the shooting.’

  ‘I’m fine, sir,’ said Bob. ‘The bruising is fading fast and I don’t need a bandage on my arm any longer.’

  Tea was brought into the room and served. Then Sir Peter sat back in his chair. ‘Bob, there are a few reasons why we asked you down here today. The first is to discuss what to do about a complaint that Major Miller has made about you.’

  ‘Could I ask what the major has complained about?’ asked Bob.

  It was Commodore Cunningham who replied. ‘He has touched on a number of matters, but his central complaint is that although la
st Thursday’s operation was not intended to include anyone from the Security Service, you chose to invite Madame Dubois to take part.’

  Bob laughed. ‘Yes, I did, sir. She was in Scotland, has knowledge of the Soviet intelligence scene, and is a fluent Russian speaker. She was willing to take part and I felt she would be an asset. This may be a slightly iconoclastic view, sir, but I don’t think that we will achieve good results in MI11 by playing petty politics or empire building in competition with MI5, MI6, Special Branch, the Intelligence Corps or anyone else for that matter. Besides, as I understand it, Madame Dubois saved Major Miller’s life in Leith.’

  Sir Peter Maitland coughed, perhaps to cover a laugh, Bob thought. ‘Yes, that does make his complaint seem a touch ungrateful. Apparently, it didn’t cross the major’s mind that Sergei Avdonin might pull a gun, still less that he might take a shot at him.’

  ‘How is Mr Avdonin?’ asked Bob.

  ‘As you know, he was flown to London that afternoon, and I am told he will make a full recovery,’ said Sir Peter. ‘I understand that Madame Dubois said she was only shooting to wound, and she succeeded. Avdonin did us a favour, really. If he’d come quietly we’d have had to release him within hours, but by opening fire at one of my officers he made it much more difficult for the Soviets to play the usual “diplomatic immunity” card.’

  Commodore Cunningham said, ‘The views you have just expressed are certainly iconoclastic, Bob. But you were asked to take up your post in MI11 partly because we thought you’d work against the entrenched interests that have done so much to fragment the military intelligence community in recent times.’

  Sir Peter said, ‘What that means in practice, Bob, is that we have formally considered Major Miller’s complaint against you and dismissed it as unjustified.’ He paused for a moment. ‘How do you feel about him continuing as your deputy?’