PART ONE
London, December 1940
PROLOGUE
Berlin’s Potsdamer Platz and Piccadilly Circus had always reminded Dove of tarted-up whores. Even on filthy nights like this, they were ladies of the evening, scarlet women, a couple of harlots in heat. Dove hadn’t been to Berlin in quite some time, unsure even if the German locale was still in one piece. All he knew these days was that Piccadilly was as cold as ashes after Guy Fawkes, because the year was 1940, and England was at war with Germany.
It was ten o’clock when he walked the side streets and alleys, deliberately looking the other way when he passed the Roman church and all its reminders of pious benedictions. Tonight he was on his way to meet Banbury, a cruel, savage little man, and another of Berlin’s colourless liars, slipped into England by parachute four months ago. Near quarter past ten, Dove stood in a derelict building off Sackville Street, hunched in a doorway that reeked of urine and yeasty beer, watching from the safety of shadows. A chill had settled, but it was the squalor that made him shiver, not the cold.
Once tonight’s exchange was complete, he would report to Klaus Schrader, an Abwehr officer stationed in Lisbon. Abwehr stations had been set up in neutral — lenient — countries in ‘39, and Portugal counted itself amongst these. Schrader was a squat, rotund man with sparse, greasy hair, a pockmarked complexion, and bad teeth, a weak link in an otherwise strong military chain. He and Dove had met in a backstreet nightclub owned by Schrader’s friend, Bento Pereira, a Nazi sympathizer and unrelenting gambler. It hadn’t been easy for Dove to gain their trust, but in the back room of the Portuguese club and as a result of a few untruths, Schrader and Pereira had been unceremoniously duped. Now, as he listened to the low rumble of thunder, waiting for Banbury in the damp London weather, that January night seemed a lifetime ago.
A thin, black rain began to fall, and Dove waited for the next lightning flash to hold his watch at an angle to see the time. He felt restless, loitering uneasily in a climate rife with mistrust, where every Englishman was on the lookout for German spies, and MI5 not far behind. Across the street he glimpsed a slight, wiry chap ambling along with the aid of a walking stick. Then came muffled voices, a thick Irish brogue, and he stepped back into the doorway out of sight.
‘You over there!’
Banbury had attracted the attention of the police. When the lightning flashed, Dove saw the German spy freeze like an animal caught in a motor’s headlamps.
The police began to question Banbury, and Dove saw him pass some- thing to the two men, but their voices remained faint. One of them stepped into a doorway and shone a dim torch into the corner, reading whatever it was that Banbury had given him. In the bursts of light coming from the night sky he could see the other policeman glancing around, holding out the palm of his hand and looking to the sky as if to verify it was still raining. Banbury, stupidly, proceeded to argue with the police and within moments they were escorting him away.
Dove pulled a cigarette from his pocket and balanced it between quivering lips. He was unsure of his next move, but confident of Banbury’s inability to keep quiet. He shoved the cigarette back into his pocket, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and stepped out from under the doorway to follow the police. He trotted in the direction of Vigo Street, his hand sliding to the pistol resting in the pouch inside the thick lining of his coat. Up ahead he could hear the lilting Irish accent and see the police with Schrader’s little mole between them. He made his decision without hesitation and tore open the sleeve that padded his gun. He removed it and held it firmly against his side as he continued to close in, wanting only to kill Banbury. He moved as close as he dared then stepped behind a makeshift barricade where he took one quick look around by the flashes of light. In the rain he manoeuvred into position with feet set wide apart and raised the gun. At the next flash he aimed toward the first policeman’s legs and pulled the trigger. A blast shot through the night and the man screamed in pain. He could barely make out the second policeman, but swiftly aimed low and pulled the trigger once more. Only Banbury remained standing.
Dove needed more than anything to speak to him, but there were voices responding to the policemen’s cries for help. With only a fraction of a second to make the decision that would change his future, he raised the pistol and aimed with precision, curling his finger around the trigger and killing Banbury with one lethal shot. The twenty-nine-year-old actor from a village near Braunau, Hitler’s own birthplace, saw the brief glare of light before it was over. The bullet shattered his skull above the right eye, followed by the unmistakable sound of human flesh and bone spattering the ground. Banbury landed heavily on the wet pavement, where the deluge of a cloudburst began to dilute the flow of blood.
The Irishman called out profanities in between loud groans of pain, but Dove had already left with the pistol tucked safely back in its pouch. He made a hasty departure toward Regent Street, twisting his ankle as he scuttled debris, stumbling over mounds of rubble left over from the recent raids. He took cover in what remained of a blasted building, under a sheet of corrugated iron that sent streams of rain dripping down its length. Soon he would make his way back to his room at the Arbuckle Hotel, where he would contact Klaus Schrader and inform him of Banbury’s demise.
It was just before midnight when Dove locked himself in his room at the Arbuckle. A once elegant establishment, it was now a place used mainly by prostitutes and their pimps. Hotelier Meshenberg would rent rooms by the hour—a generous offer, considering the deed might only take ten minutes. To ensure Meshenberg’s discretion, Dove would slip him an extra ten shillings each week. In Berlin he knew Jews like Ezra Meshenberg were being rounded up and deported out of Germany, but it wasn’t the Jews’ plight that was London’s foremost concern, but rather the looming threat of Hitler’s occupation of Britain.
Dove had once met Hitler on the snowy streets of Munich years ago. The Nazi was dressed in a black coat and heavy boots, and his hands looked ridiculously large in oversized gloves. He stood on a raised platform, arms waving, hands pointing, agitating the crowd. The hecklers shouted back, and it was so bitterly cold that their breath glinted a pale blue, crystallizing in the frozen air. Hitler championed his political beliefs to anyone who would listen—and there were many who listened. The war was proof of that.
Now the Abwehr was slipping its agents into England, but they were inexperienced and careless, and caught almost immediately. The ones who remained kept their wits about them and survived, blending in with the locals with apparent ease, sleeping for weeks, perhaps months, until instructed by their runners with a task to complete. All in all, Canaris and the Abwehr didn’t do a half-bad job, Dove decided, considering the questionable calibre of a number of their operatives.
Tomorrow would be a new day. Dove would beg a fag from Ezra Meshenberg, catch the Tube and cross to the Embankment. He would walk past the Bull & Cross, a pub that reeked of a vile mixture of rancid tobacco and dog excrement, and without compunction effortlessly blend in with the rest of the city’s commoners. His only smile of the day would come from a sign outside the pub that read, ‘Our windows are gone, but our spirits are excellent’. Long after he’d risen from the depths of the Underground, newspaper rolled deftly under his arm, he would spot the dome of St. Paul’s stalwart under the morning sky, a reminder of his duplicity, his acts of betrayal, and in an all too fleeting moment of absurdity, he would imagine himself a good candidate for the solemnity of the Cathedral’s Whispering Gallery. It was the same routine each week, the seamless way it had always been done.
It was, he mused, treason perfected.
CHAPTER 1
Morley Quinn folded the morning newspaper and ran his index finger slowly over the inky, black headlines. He closed his eyes and silently contemplated whether, at his age, he could survive or even stomach another world war.
A woman’s voice. ‘Sir?’
Quinn looked up. Elizabeth Farley, at the age of fifty-nine, had devoted the better part of her adult life to serving him.
‘I needn’t remind you, Mrs Farley…’
‘Of course, Mr Quinn,’ she said, knowing to what he referred. ‘Utmost discretion.’
In a rare moment of reflection, he watched her carefully close his office door and walk toward him.
‘You are a faithful woman,’ he remarked in earnest.
‘Amongst other things.’
‘How many years has it been, Elizabeth?’
‘Far too many in my opinion.’
‘I’m too old for this, you realize.’
‘My sentiments exactly, sir.’
Quinn sat behind his desk and glanced at the expansive file she placed before him.
‘I’ll leave the keys with you then,’ she said, dropping them near the old man’s hand. ‘I’ve made certain that all three dossiers are under double lock and key in the private vault.’
His eyes never left the dossier. On its cover the peculiar name ‘GAMAINE’ was printed in thick black letters.
‘No one else, Elizabeth, must ever…’
‘No. No one else, sir.’
CHAPTER 2
It sounded like any other cliché she had ever heard. She was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it was that reasoning (the more palatable explanation) that in the end she foolishly chose to believe. It was the truth that ultimately forced her to admit fault, when she allowed the events of the evening to unfold as they did, badly, on a wet December night, the very night she was drawn back into a world of wartime deception.
‘Eve!’
Eve Trelawney heard Morley Quinn calling to her from across the smoky barroom. At seventy-two, the founder of the firm—looked upon as a man to be feared, not deified, by his employees—had been her late father’s closest friend.
She turned to see the old man ambling towards her, winding his way through the crowded room, men and women stepping aside to allow him passage. From a distance she saw the familiar ruddy face, the shock of white hair in need of a barber’s scissors, and the gleaming gold watch and chain attached to the pinstriped fabric of his waistcoat. Despite Aquascutum’s valiant efforts at 100 Regent Street, Quinn had never been one to fuss unnecessarily over his appearance. As he came closer she could see the delicate sherry glass he held by its stem and the remains of a glowing cigarette that threatened to burn his thick, stubby fingers. Following behind was an officer of the Royal Navy, significantly taller than the stocky Quinn.
‘Here’s a face from the past, Eve. You remember Captain Briscoe?’
She recognized Bevan Briscoe immediately. ‘Yes, of course. How nice to see you, Bevan.’
He was still striking and noticeably fit in his dark blue uniform: a tall, well-built man, with a barrel chest and sturdy features. His hair, speckled grey, was combed neatly into place and he held his naval cap under his arm.
‘Eve, it’s a pleasure to see you again,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘It’s been some time. How is David?’
‘He’s very well, thank you. And Gwen?’
‘Splendid. She’ll be thrilled to hear I ran into you.’
Staggering, she thought, that a man like Briscoe could be attracted to such a bore.
‘Morley tells me you and David have moved to the country.’
‘A village called Marsham Priory. David practises there—at the cottage hospital. The countryside is a lovely change.’
A lovely change! She could still dispense lies with the best of them.
With an arm that hung loosely at the captain’s back, Quinn interjected with a toothy smile. ‘If the pleasantries are over, I shall leave you to it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to catch Cedric before he leaves.’
Eve watched as the old man walked away, running his hand over brilliantined hair and quickly straightening his tie as if it might improve his appearance.
She turned to Briscoe who, despite his rank, seemed suddenly apprehensive. ‘I thought most captains of the Royal Navy were at sea these days.’
‘I sail the day after tomorrow.’ He changed the subject with disinterest. ‘Tell me, do you miss London?’
Hesitating, she was desperate to admit the truth. ‘Oh, no, not at all, it’s a lovely change for us,’ but realized at once she had already uttered the same unconvincing lie just moments ago. If he didn’t believe her, he didn’t let on.
‘It surprised me when I learned you had left London. After all, it was always your city, wasn’t it?’
‘It might have been my city but I don’t think it was ever David’s. He wanted a quieter life.’
‘I suppose the war must have spoiled his plans.’
Eve was about to retaliate when Briscoe added, ‘I apologize, that sounded churlish. I didn’t mean to imply…’
‘You’re implying all sorts. What is it, exactly, that you are trying to say?’
He circled the rim of his glass with his finger. ‘I think you ought to reconsider Quinn’s offer.’
She had reluctantly refused Morley’s recent offer to return to work, knowing David would never agree.
‘And there I was thinking my meetings with Morley were confidential.’
‘Perhaps…’
‘I’m not discussing my personal affairs with you or anyone else.’
‘I’m simply urging you to reconsider.’
She glanced at her wristwatch. ‘I have to be on my way soon. If you’d like to join me for a drink before I leave, I’d love to hear about Gwen and Jack, but this conversation ends.’
He tilted his head back and drained the last of his ale. ‘All right. Here, let me take that glass for you.’ He led her to a private table near a heavily curtained window, set the glasses down before them and held her chair. He quickly motioned for a waiter. ‘Another sherry please, and I’ll have a gin and tonic.’
‘We may be out of gin, sir, would you care for—’
Out of character, Briscoe snapped, ‘Then I suggest you find some.’
He fell heavily into the chair and unfastened his jacket with its double row of brass buttons. His long legs were spread in a wide V underneath the table, his black shoes polished to a military gleam. Every minor detail of his deportment radiated confidence and the painstaking precision and meticulous care for which he was known.
He rubbed his face and she noticed the roughness of his hands, so unlike David’s. His were the hands of a surgeon, milky white with clipped, clean fingernails. Her husband took fastidious care of his hands, wearing thick gloves when he tended his prize-winning rhododendrons and his ‘Dig for Victory’ vegetable plot in the back garden. He even received the rubber stamp of approval when, each summer, the judges at village fairs acknowledged him with ribbons and awards for his dedication to local horticultural efforts. Eve recalled how he basked in their admiration and it made her sick. Ever the dutiful wife, she tolerated it and stood beside her husband, counting the minutes until she could get away from them all. Silently, she found David’s obsession with horticulture and the fawning of the local, matronly women to be inexorably mind-numbing.
She wanted desperately to work again.
‘Tell me about your son, Bevan. Jack must be attending university now.’
‘You’re needed in London, Eve. Morley explained as much as he could this afternoon, and you’re going to have to take his word that circumstances are grim.’
She caught sight of Quinn. He stood with the three times divorced Cedric Beale, a mousy, pallid little man with sparse ginger-coloured hair, who kept to himself and hardly looked the type to have taken three wives. Now huddled in deep conversation near the bar, Quinn stole glances in their direction and when she met his gaze by willpower alone he deliberately turned his back.
‘I’ve been set up,’ she said, motioning with a quick nod of her head. ‘Foolishly, I thought Morley and I had concluded the matter earlier. What I fail to understand is why he felt it necessary to have you speak with me.’
Briscoe hesitated. ‘Then I should confess: It wasn’t all his doing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He didn’t think he had much luck convincing you so I offered to speak with you myself, to see if it might help.’
‘What on earth makes you think I’d discuss this with you? You have absolutely no business—’
‘Perhaps not, but the war is escalating and Morley insists he needs you back. These are good enough reasons for me.’
‘Surely, there must be plenty of others equally qualified….’
‘There are two at Bletchley but the others—not that there are many—are either in France or are about to be dropped into France. Margaret is seeing to that.’
Margaret worked at SOE, the Special Operations Executive. She was Harry Macklin’s assistant. Macklin was in charge of a new intelligence department over on Baker Street.
Irritated, Eve remarked, ‘And you’re privy to all this, are you?’
‘Not all, just certain issues.’
She studied him. ‘Why do I feel there’s something you’re not telling me?’
He glanced in Quinn’s direction. ‘Because I don’t think the old man is telling me everything there is to know about the matter. It’s just a hunch, of course, but he left me with the feeling you’d know what this is all about.’
She took another sip of her drink. ‘And how long have you been working with him?’
‘Since the convoys were targeted with great success. I can’t get into it, but you know we go back a long time.’
Briscoe collected a box of matches from the table and opened and closed it repeatedly. She watched him, remembering another time, years before the war, when she and David, and Bevan and Gwen occasionally met for dinner and a night at the theatre.
‘If I agree to this…’ she began.
He leaned forward. ‘I know it’s not an easy decision to make, but we have little choice. I can’t explain the gravity of the situation until you give your full agreement. You understand, of course.’
‘Yes, of course,’ she replied callously.
‘Eve, please… Try to see…’
She sensed the drink was filing down his sharp military edges, but only an uncomfortable silence ensued.
‘It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?’ he asked softly, more a statement than a question. He placed his hand on hers and said, ‘You look wonderful.’
For the first time that evening he allowed his eyes to linger on her face. But it was not to last. He put his hand to his mouth and coughed, perhaps realizing he had overstepped the bounds of acceptable conduct.
‘I ought to be on my way,’ she said quietly, and quickly collected her raincoat and handbag. ‘You’ll have my decision soon enough.’
