pre-war meeting with the Englishman and knew exactly who he was.
Arrange immediately for Wing Commander Lindsay to fly direct to Wolfsschanze in the afternoon. Will interview him several hours after my return.
The Fuhrer was already airborne, flying, back from Smolensk.
Chapter Seven
13 March 1943. During most of 1943, Section V (counter-espionage) of the SIS occupied two country houses – Prae Wood and Glenalmond – outside St Albans. Twenty-nine-year-old Tim Whelby was stationed at Prae Wood.
Whelby always seemed older than his years, a quiet, generally popular man with his colleagues. They found his company relaxing, which encouraged tense men to talk to him, especially after a few drinks at the local village pub in the evenings. His dress was as casual as his manner – flannels and an old tweed jacket with elbow patches. He smoked a pipe, which seemed to add to his reputation for reliability.
On the evening of the 13th he was leaving the country house on his way to the pub when a Morris Minor pulled up in the drive with a jarring clash of gears. Behind the wheel sat Maurice Telford, a leanfaced man of forty. Whelby approached the vehicle and saw by the faint light from the dashboard that Telford looked positively haggard. He had also noted the gear clash. Normally Telford was a first-rate driver.
'Back from a trip, old chap?' Whelby enquired. 'Haven't seen you around for days..
'You can say that again! I'm bloody all in..'
'Join me for a drink at the local? Do you good before you get to bed.'
'That's all I want – to flop into bed.' Telford hesitated. He was strung-up after the long flight back from Algiers. Tim Whelby waited patiently, pipe stuck out of the corner of his mouth. He never pushed .
'Yes, I could do with a noggin. And some blotting paper. You wouldn't believe when I last ate..'
'Good man.' Whelby climbed into the front passenger seat and sagged. 'I could do with a bit of company…'
Telford was left with the impression he was conferring a favour on Whelby by agreeing to accompany him. There was no further conversation between the two men until Whelby led the way inside the deserted bar of The Stag's Head and gestured towards a seat in an oak-beamed corner.
`I'll get the drinks – the inglenook looks comfortable.'
Telford settled himself on the banquette. He stared when Whelby placed a glass before him. 'What's that?' he asked.
'Double Scotch – no point in doing things by halves. And eat up those sandwiches – they only had cheese. Here's to no more trips abroad. Cheers!'
'Who said anything about my going abroad?' asked Telford and then swallowed half the contents of the glass.
'Someone did. Can't remember who. Does it matter?'
'I suppose not.' Reeling with fatigue, Telford drank the rest of his Scotch. Its warming glow relaxed him. 'All the way to North Africa in a freezing bloody Liberator bomber – no seats, nothing except the floor and a sleeping- bag. I'm bruised all over. And all to nanny that lunatic Wing Commander, Ian Lindsay, now en route to meet the Fuhrer, for Christ's sake.'
'Sounds a bit stupid – couldn't he make it out there under his own steam?'
Whelby's manner was offhand as though making polite small talk. He summoned the barman and ordered another couple of rounds. Telford protested. 'My round, this one..'
'Then you shall pay, old chap. We'll both end up drunk – what else is there to do in this benighted neck of the woods?'
'I wasn't really his escort,' Telford explained. 'AFHQ had a secret report which they wanted delivered door- to-door. When I got back earlier this- evening I dropped it off at Ryder Street before driving out here. I was cover for Lindsay – two people landing at Algiers attract less attention than an individual..
He sipped cautiously at his Scotch, swallowing more with care. Whelby stood up to divest himself of his overcoat, took out his pipe and sucked at the stem without lighting it. They sat in silence for several minutes, soaking up the warmth from the crackling log fire. Telford had devoured his sandwiches. What with the food, the drink and the comfort he was nearly falling asleep.
'You're jo-jo-joking, of course,' Whelby said eventually. 'About this RAF type flying to see HitHit-Hitler?'
He had an unfortunate habit of stuttering. Muddled though he was with alcohol and fatigue, Telford remembered that people who stuttered were often caught by their affliction in moments of tension. The fact seemed important – significant…' Seconds later he found he couldn't recall what fact was – or might be – important. Then he remembered what Whelby had just said and he felt indignant. He spoke with great deliberation.
'Wing Commander Ian Lindsay of the RAF flew on to Malta for the express purpose of flying on alone to Germany to see the Fuhrer. And don't ask me why – because I don't know! '
'Anyway-you're just damned glad to be back home so let's have one for the road. My treat. Double Scotch for both of us..'
Telford waited for the barman to bring the fresh drinks and go away. He had experienced one of those rare and brief flashes of clear insight which can break through an alcoholic haze. People were coming into the bar so he lowered his voice. Whelby bent his head to catch what he was saying.
'I shouldn't really have told you any of this, Tim. I trust you, but one word and I'm out – maybe something even worse..
'Official Secrets Act, old chap,' Whelby confided with a lack of tact which startled Telford. 'We both. signed it,' Whelby continued, 'so we're both locked into the same gallows. Neither of us remembers a word and no one puts a noose round our necks..'
'Ghoulish, aren't we? Let's go home…'
Whelby went over to the bar to pay while Telford made a careful way. to the door and the waiting car outside. The landlord noticed Whelby seemed remarkably sober – he counted out the coins exactly.
Two days later Tim Whelby went on a forty-eight-hour visit to Ryder Street in London to discuss with his chief a problem of an overseas agent he suspected was feeding them with rubbish to justify his existence. At ten o'clock at night he was strolling down Jermyn Street alone.
The advantage of Jermyn Street is that it runs straight from end to end. This makes it difficult to follow a man secretly, especially at ten o'clock at night in wartime when there are few people about. Earlier Whelby had made a brief call from a telephone kiosk in Piccadilly underground station.
He paused to light his pipe, pretending to peer inside a shop window while he checked the street behind him. The shadowed canyon was deserted.
He resumed his stroll, drew alongside an entrance setback to another shop. With a swift sideways movement he stepped inside. One moment he was on the street; the next moment he vanished. Josef Savitsky, a short, heavy-set man wearing a dark overcoat and a soft hat spoke first.
'These emergency meetings are dangerous. I do hope what you have brought justifies this risk..
'Calm down. Either you have confidence in me or you don't..'
'Well, I am here…'
'So listen!' Whelby's normally diffident manner had changed. He stood more erect and there was an authoritative air about him as he spoke crisply and without a stutter. 'On 10 March a Wing Commander Ian Lindsay was flown to Allied Headquarters in Algiers. From there he was flying on alone to Germany to meet the Fuhrer
'You are certain of this?' There was an appalled note in the stocky man's voice as he spoke English with an accent. Whelby became even more abrupt.
'I'm not in the habit of giving reports I'm uncertain about. And don't ask me my source – which is totally reliable.'
'It is a peace mission, is it not?' the small, pudgy- faced man stated rather than queried.
'Don't play those tricks on me.' Whelby's tone became even sharper as he checked again the illuminated second hand of his watch. 'I have no idea why Lindsay has been sent. Better add to your report that he is the
