Abwehr’s been dropping spies on parachutes and landing them from U-boats all over the place this year. But they’re in a rush — none of the agents are well trained, and some of them can’t even speak proper English from what I’ve heard. MI5 catches up with them all in a few days, and I believe they’ve even turned one or two, so I can’t imagine this one’s going to be any different.’
‘Except that most of them don’t have radios,’ said Thorn. ‘Can I see that?’ he asked, leaning forward to take the piece of paper that the small man had just read from.
‘Well, thank you, Hargreaves,’ said C after a moment, with a glance of slight irritation at his deputy, who was continuing to turn the paper over in his hand. ‘Like I said, I’m sure MI5 will deal with the problem. Now, let’s get to work. Alec, you stay behind. I need to pick your brains for a moment.’
C stared ahead with a fixed smile as the people around him got up from their chairs, gathered their papers together, and headed for the door. Once it was closed and the sound of voices had disappeared down the corridor, C turned to Thorn.
‘This has got to stop, Alec, you hear me? You and Seaforth have got to work together-’
‘Not together,’ interrupted Thorn angrily. ‘He works
‘All right, he works for you. But he also works for me and for the PM and for the good of this dangerously imperilled country, and his agent in Berlin is producing intelligence product of a quality that we haven’t seen out of Nazi Germany in years. And just when we need it the most …’
‘Exactly,’ said Thorn, banging his fist on the table. ‘Doesn’t that make you suspicious?’
‘No,’ said C. ‘Because it’s corroborated by other reports. And by what happens after Seaforth receives the intelligence. His agent says they aren’t going to invade in the next two weeks and they don’t. He says they’re about to station heavy artillery across the strait from Dover and that’s exactly what they do. Yes, treating what we get with caution is healthy, but refusing to use it is stupid. Yes, stupid, Alec,’ said C, holding up his hand to ward off Thorn’s protest. ‘You know how Whitehall used to treat us before Winston took over — like the last man on the bloody totem pole. And now we’re given everything we want. More money; more agents; more access. You’ve seen the change in attitude yourself when you go and see the old man.’
‘It’s not me he wants to see any more; it’s Seaforth,’ Thorn said irritably. ‘I sat at the back of the room three days ago saying sweet Fanny Adams while Churchill practically ate out of the little runt’s hand. You should have seen it.’
‘And you’ll just have to bloody well put up with it. Of course the boy’s ambitious — he probably wants your job. But that’s not a bad thing. We need youth and energy if we’re going to win this war. Most of those RAF pilots who’ve saved our necks up to now are barely out of school, and it doesn’t matter what school they went to, either, or whether their parents are in trade if they can shoot down Junkers and Heinkels before they drop their bombs,’ he added with a sharp look at his deputy.
‘Well, it’s easy for you to say,’ said Thorn sourly. ‘You’re the one in charge.’
‘And I know what you’re thinking — you’re the one who should be sitting where I am now,’ C shot back. ‘Well, perhaps you should. You were the crown prince, weren’t you? Albert’s heir anointed, with more years of service under your belt than anyone in the building except old Jarvis? But then when it came to it, Whitehall didn’t agree, did they? They chose me instead of you. I wonder why. Do you think it was maybe because they’d had enough of Albert Morrison’s non-stop navel-gazing? You and he were so obsessed with searching for your elusive mole inside the Service that you ended up doing nothing else. Morale was at rock bottom, intelligence production was down every year — we were in danger of being shut down. And look at us now, riding the crest of the wave. And that’s thanks in good part to young Seaforth. So get off his back, Alec, you hear me? I won’t stand for any more trouble from you where he’s involved.’
C got up from his chair without waiting for an answer and headed for the door. Left alone, Thorn glanced down at the decoded radio message that he’d taken from Hargreaves during the meeting: ‘Provide detailed written report. What are the chances of success? C.’ Asking for a written report implied that the agent had a means of sending a document back to Germany. But how? There was something about the decode that bothered Thorn, some scrap of memory tickling at the back of his mind that he couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe it was nothing, but he needed to be sure. Carefully, Thorn folded the paper and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He’d go and ask Albert about it. That’s what he’d do. Albert was no fool, whatever C liked to say. It was bloody stupid the way he’d been put out to grass since his retirement with all he knew about the Nazis. Thorn rubbed his hands, pleased with his decision. It was a long time since he’d seen his old chief and even longer since he’d seen Ava. A visit was overdue.
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
Albert stood waiting at the bus stop for a full half-hour before he gave up. He’d have taken a taxi if he’d had the chance, but the only ones that passed were already taken. He cursed the driver that had brought him over from Battersea and refused to wait — a stupid little man who’d gone the longer way deliberately just so he could charge a higher fare. The only choice now was the Underground. It was getting late and Albert knew he should have bitten the bullet and taken the Tube earlier, but he had delayed because he hated it below ground. He always had. It was why he made his daughter so angry, refusing to go down in the basement with the rest of his neighbours at Gloucester Mansions during air raids until she’d started coming round and forcing him. Ever since the last war, he’d had nightmares about being buried alive. He didn’t want it to happen even after he was dead, and he’d left strict instructions in his will that he was to be cremated. He’d even made Bertram swear an oath to carry out his wishes, and Bertie, not Ava, was his executor. Albert was no fool. He knew that his son-in-law was never going to set the world on fire, but he’d do what he was told. Not like his daughter, Ava, who always thought she knew best. She’d abandoned him just when he’d needed her most — after her mother died and he’d been forced out of HQ and his world had come tumbling down on him like an avalanche of broken rocks.
Buried alive … Albert was claustrophobic, chronically claustrophobic, and now he had no choice but to confront his fears. He couldn’t stay where he was, waiting for darkness and the German bombers to appear overhead, and besides, he was convinced he was being watched. He was a sitting duck out here in the open; he’d be much better off below among the crowds sheltering on the platforms and the stairs, even though his hands shook and his heart thumped at the prospect of being pursued through the subterranean passages under the flickering lights, stepping over the shelterers, tripping on their possessions until at last he fell.
Unless his imagination was playing tricks on him, of course, and there was no one observing him from across the street or around the corner, waiting for the chance to strike. God knows it was possible. The sensation that he was being watched was just that, a sixth sense, nothing more. He hadn’t actually seen anything suspicious since he got out of the taxi. Once upon a time, he would have known how to secure his position; how to find out for sure if anyone was there. Thirty years earlier, in another lifetime, he had been an agent himself, out in the field in Austria-Hungary and the Kaiser’s Germany, with a mission to scent out war plans and assess military intentions in the years before Sarajevo, before the old order crumbled and fell to the ground. His language skills had qualified him — he was fluent in German — and as a young man he had been quick on his feet and clever with people. He’d known how to look after himself in a hostile environment — how to check for telltale shapes in the shadows, how to tell innocent from purposeful footsteps, how to double back on himself at the critical moment of a pursuit. But it was all too long ago: he’d spent too many years since then sitting behind a desk reading the reports of other agents to know how to survive as one himself, so he would just have to trust to luck and hope that his anxiety was the product of an old man’s overactive imagination. After all, wasn’t that what Ava said when he worried too much about his health?
Reluctantly, he crossed the road and joined the straggling queue of people who were heading down the
