Letters for a Spy (3 page)

Though, even whilst thinking about it right now, it occurred to me that perhaps I was being naïve. Wasn’t clumsiness—or at least spontaneity—precisely the kind of impression they would have been aiming to convey, if this were indeed a subterfuge? An impression of such spontaneity that it amounted almost to sloppiness?

Yes, maybe it was.

No, how stupid of me! ‘Maybe’? Quite certainly it was! If this were indeed a subterfuge.

If
… But what did I mean,
if
? Again, wasn’t I the man who had been detailed to assume duplicity? The man handpicked for the job by Admiral Canaris; handpicked to be a Doubting Thomas, a devil’s advocate, a private eye? Detailed to assume that this was quite definitely a trick, and to go back at once to asking questions about the major’s post-mortem and about the plane crash and about all other such related issues—no matter how irrelevant or incidental these might for the moment seem?

Not necessarily to be asking them of my section head, but most certainly to be asking them of myself.

4

In the briefcase there had been a second short letter from Lord Mountbatten, this time to General Eisenhower … also, of course, care of the Allied Forces HQ in Algiers. It enclosed the proofs of—and photographs to be used in—a booklet describing the activities of the Commandos. What had been wanted from Eisenhower was a brief foreword so that the book would ‘be given every chance to bring its message of co-operation to our two people’.

“I am sending the proofs by hand of my Staff Officer, Major W. Martin of the Royal Marines, who will be leaving London on April 24
^th
… I fully realize what a lot is being asked of you at a time when you are so fully occupied with infinitely more important matters … You may speak freely to Major Martin in this as well as any other matters since he has my entire confidence.”

And although this third letter was actually of no value to us we were plainly lucky that they had decided to send it with the major: the two normal-sized envelopes could easily have gone inside a jacket pocket, but this one, with its bulky enclosure, had clearly necessitated the carrying of the briefcase. It would have been irksome if our agent in Huelva—or maybe one of his employees—hadn’t had something so very official and obvious to attract the attention; the body itself mightn’t have been thought sufficiently interesting to merit the complications of a search and the plausible delaying of its progress towards the British vice-consul.

Lucky? Irksome? Good God, it must have been contagious! The
English
were the ones who were commonly supposed to employ understatement.

Actually, in his jacket pockets the major had carried still more letters. But all of these had been personal. One, for instance, was from the head office of Lloyds Bank in London, EC3. Another was from his father, enclosing a copy of something he’d written on his son’s behalf to a firm of solicitors. There was even a communication from that same firm of solicitors, dealing with another matter and dispatched directly to the son.

Additionally, there were three receipts: one from the Naval & Military Club covering the two nights prior to April 24
^th
; one from Messrs Gieves Ltd, a gentlemen’s outfitters in Piccadilly; and one for a diamond ring—Major Martin had recently become engaged: a fact that compounded this tragedy of war still further. If such a thing were possible.

Also, there had been a packet of Player’s … with only seven cigarettes remaining out of twenty—I found it faintly surprising a number could still be determined upon. A box of matches, a bunch of keys and a pencil stub. Two ticket counterfoils for the Prince of Wales Theatre, dated April 22
^nd
. Two bus tickets. A half-crown, florin, three shillings, a sixpence, threepenny bit and five coppers. A five-pound note, twice folded, which had now, of course, completely lost its crispness. A couple of pound notes—one with a tear across its top right-hand corner.

These last had been in his wallet, naturally … along with a snapshot of his fiancée (incidentally, a photograph far better preserved, just by reason of its being inside the wallet, than those intended for General Eisenhower) and two letters that had come from her, likewise better safeguarded than the remainder of his mail. The wallet had further contained a book of stamps—of which three had been used—an invitation to something called the Cabaret Club; his CCO pass and Admiralty Identity Card (these two kept together in a little cellophane folder); and a St Christopher medal … which clearly hadn’t done him an awful lot of good.

Major Martin was evidently a magpie. His uniform, even supposing it hadn’t been in the water for six days, could hardly have retained its original immaculate appearance.

Otherwise about his person the dead man wore a wristwatch, and a silver cross upon a silver neckchain. He also carried two identity discs. These were attached to his braces. ‘Major W. Martin, RM, R/C.’

The inventory Madrid had sent us appeared to be exhaustive; the photographs supporting it, a bonus. My eye was drawn back time after time to those two ticket-stubs. I couldn’t forget that only forty-eight hours before his plane crash—maybe even fewer—the poor fellow had been sitting in a theatre in London’s West End: a district still quite glamorous, probably, despite the blackout.

I assumed that he had been with his fiancée.

I could only hope their evening had been a very special one. In every way. A fitting culmination.

5

Her name was Sybella.

(This resonated. My mother’s name was Penny, but up to the last moment she might well have been christened Sybil.)

“And I should strongly suggest,” recommended Mannheim, resuming the briefing after we had stopped for coffee and, in his own case, for a couple of chain-smoked cigarettes, “I should strongly suggest that your investigations begin with her.
Cherchez la femme
, as Monsieur Dumas—Monsieur Dumas père—once famously advised.”

I wouldn’t have known the source.

“Or, indeed, to quote him more accurately,
cherchons la femme. Cherchons, cherchons
.”

That was unfortunate. It immediately set up a rhythm in my head as insistent as train wheels and it made me think of Walt Disney. ‘
Chechens … coercions
… it’s off to work we’ve gone! We work all day and get no pay,
coercions … coercions, coercions, coercions
…’ I was aware it wasn’t appropriate. I picked up the facsimile of the young woman’s snapshot. She looked nice. Not just pretty; wide-smiled—warm-eyed—
nice
. The sympathy I’d felt towards her fiancé extended now towards her. The song subsided.

“For it’s perfectly possible,” Mannheim continued, “that if this whole business
is
a hoax then Major Martin could have been a party to it. ‘I think you will find Martin the man you want.’ ‘You may speak freely to Major Martin in this as well as any other matters.’ And if he
did
know what was going on, if he
did
know the nature of the letters he was going to be entrusted with, I also consider it perfectly possible that in a particularly unguarded moment or during a particularly … intimate one, let us say … well, that he might unwittingly have revealed something secret to the woman he loved. I mean simply the odd word or so, but maybe that odd word or so could prove to be illuminating.”

He dropped onto the desk the two letters he had quoted from, having briefly looked at each for perhaps the twentieth time that afternoon.

“And, of course, it’s more than probable,” he added, “that she wouldn’t even have understood their significance. Still doesn’t, in fact.”

When he tested me like this I found it hard to conceal my impatience.

“But it could scarcely be a hoax,” I said, momentarily forgetting my role as devil’s advocate. “If that air crash hadn’t happened, how on earth would they have got all this information through to us?” I indicated the desktop.

“Yes, exactly,” he agreed.

It seemed I had supplied the answer he wanted. But I felt less gratified at my success than offended by his implication of possible failure.

We were silent for a moment. Then he shook his head.

“In fact, Anders, do you know what I think? That in sending you to England we’re wasting your time. Wasting
our
time, too.
And
all the manpower involved in getting you out there and getting you back … to say nothing of our other highly valuable resources!”

Well, privately I agreed—although I would have refused absolutely to admit this. (Apart from all the rest of it, I
wanted
to go to England.) But even in spite of what I had recently admitted to, I tried to view the matter with complete distrust. Yes, it
was
a hoax. Of course it was. It was the most arrant form of deception imaginable. How it had been brought about—or
would
have been brought about—was basically beside the point.

“For, Anders, can we really believe the British would sabotage one of their own planes, and sacrifice one of their ablest men, purely on the off-chance of these papers eventually finding their way home to us? End justifying means? Can we really believe the British would ever stoop so low as that, even in the interests of the greater good?”

A Freudian slip, maybe. I imagined he meant only the greater good so far as the
British
saw it.

“Yet isn’t it conceivable,” I said, “that the operation simply went awry? That there may have been some sad—no, totally unspeakable—error of judgment?”

“In what way?”

“The major may have made his jump before he was supposed to. Much too far from land.”

Mannheim thought about this. “And what became of his parachute?”

“Well, naturally he didn’t die at once. He had time in which to sink it.” I added: “For all the point there would then have been to
that
.”

“The pilot having just gone off and left him?”

“But what else
could
he have done?”

That was true—I didn’t see what other choice the pilot might have had—and I may even have sounded fairly calm whilst allowing it. But I was still a long way from feeling calm. The idea of Martin struggling to stay alive, then finally realizing he hadn’t got a chance, that even the plan he was about to die for would probably prove abortive, the briefcase entirely lost … all this made me practically as angry, inwardly as angry, as if the scene I was envisaging had been an actuality, not merely a hypothesis.

Strangely, it was Mannheim who now employed that word. Albeit in German.

“Interesting hypothesis,” he said. “Although I would suggest not really a practicable one. You’re forgetting something. If the jump you propound had been successful, how would our sympathizers ever have got hold of that briefcase … with a live major most tenaciously attached?”

“The live major could easily have feigned unconsciousness. Could have come to, maybe, only after they had got him into hospital.”

“Having given them enough time to duplicate documents, write out inventories, take photographs, reseal envelopes and get the briefcase comfortably back into his possession before he
did
come to? Hmm. I don’t know why but perhaps that does strike me as a
shade
optimistic.”

“Yes, sir—in all honesty—it does me, too.” It also struck me just how little I really knew my section head. His response had been pleasant … humorous … not in the least judgmental.

“Though I admire your inventiveness. So does the Admiral, plainly.” In fact, it was well known that Canaris and Mannheim were friends.

“Thank you, sir.”

“But only think of it!” He absently reached for his cigarettes; then presumably remembered that smoking on duty was officially discouraged. “My God! Only think of it! If what
appears
to be the case actually turns out to
be
the case…”

“That’s why I can’t accept it, sir. That’s why I
won’t
accept it.” I felt almost guilty. I had never seen him so expansive.

“Explain,” he said.

“Well, it’s simply too good to be true.”

“And aren’t things ever allowed to happen that seem simply too good to be true? Is there some ordinance, or law of nature, which categorically forbids it?”

All expansiveness now shrivelling up—
fast
.

“But anyhow, Anders, I feel this is hardly the moment to be comparing our philosophies.”

We set aside those philosophies.

Set them aside in favour of a brisk and exceedingly businesslike summation.

“So, then, Sicily or Sardinia? Sardinia or Sicily? That’s the crux of it. And I can’t say this to you too often. Sheer speed is henceforth of the essence. For it’s unquestionably a complex, a
colossal
operation—the work of the very devil—to stop concentrating on one place, start concentrating on another. Making plans, laying minefields, setting demolitions, building defences—moving armies—none of this can be accomplished, you understand, in the odd free hour or so. Moreover, the enemy won’t just be standing still all the while, even if he
does
think that he’s caught us with our pants down!”

He said this as if my agreement, or disagreement, might radically alter the circumstances.

“Well, then,” he went on, abruptly—no doubt to illustrate that time was truly of the essence. “What further questions do you have?”

I felt I should have had a hundred further questions, all of them probing and insightful. Instead, the relatively few I could muster appeared more or less inept and had mainly to do with practicalities.

So it was little more than a half-hour later when he shook my hand—wished me Godspeed—and solemnly acknowledged my salute.

6

I left Berlin that night. A lone passenger in a Fiesler Storch. We flew over Belgium and France, avoiding the English Channel and avoiding, equally, any English fighters. The trip was uncomfortable but passed without incident—not even any turbulence to speak of. I was deposited in Dublin in the small hours; then slept fitfully until about six on a wooden bench in a garden of remembrance—mercifully, a garden both unlocked and empty. Afterwards, a little bleary-eyed, I sailed on the first crossing to Holyhead. In Holyhead I was conscious of committing a transgression. (“You need to concentrate on the essentials, Anders! And the essentials are plain.”) For it would never have occurred to me to visit Mold if one of my fellow passengers on the crossing hadn’t mentioned that she’d been born there. She now lived near Holyhead but still saw her parents every fortnight, catching a train to Chester at 7.30a.m., and—barring holdups—making a first-rate connection: Mold at two minutes past eleven. Prior to this I had been planning to travel straight to London.