Between Silk and Cyanide (37 page)

They then produced a list of six printing firms and as many photographers, but warned me that they were already 'working their balls off.' Ince, an expert photographer himself, offered to help out to a limited extent but couldn't possibly accept the entire commitment.

Nor must I count on Elder Wills, who turned down nothing which interested him but couldn't always deliver.

But these were minor problems compared to the shortage of silk. He knew of only two people in Baker Street with sufficient clout to obtain it in large quantities, and my forebodings escalated like SOE's traffic when he disclosed their names: George Courtauld and Tommy Davies, otherwise known as the 'hard men'.

He warned me that if I were to have the slightest chance of success with them, there was one obstacle I must first overcome. It would be useless to approach them for even a yard of silk unless I could satisfy them that the printing and photographic problems had already been solved. But the printers and photographers wouldn't even consider the commitment unless they were assured that the silk was available. He described it as a 'chicken and egg situation', and it was clear I was the one about to get laid.

My campaign managers agreed to arrange all my appointments and 'put in a word or two' before I arrived, but warned me that I mustn't blow SOE's cover by referring to agents. They also warned me that most commercial firms didn't consider the Inter Services Research Bureau (one of SOE's cover-names) to be much of a calling card—'so don't be disappointed if they turn you down flat'. They picked up their telephones and began mass-producing my appointments before I'd even reached the door.

Before taking off to meet my first printers I authorized a Belgian agent in training to use the Twenty-third Psalm as his poem-code - he was convinced it would bring him good luck.
[19]

I then picked up my rod and my staff (a WOK and a LOP) to comfort me, and trusting that the Lord would be my shepherd and that the agents I must not mention would not want, set out on my pilgrimage.

No one in the first five firms I visited actually said, 'Don't you know I war on?'—a non-combatant's favourite question—but they clearly indignant that anyone should consider that they weren't fully employed. None of them could undertake any further printing for at least three months, and the most I could extract from them was an invitation to try again later. I thanked them on behalf of Caxton and Gutenberg, whom they seemed to think were directors of ISRB.

The last firm on my list was in the heart of the City of London, assuming that it had one.

I was warmly received by two elderly brothers (the joint proprietors) who thought that ISRB was a liaison department with the War Office. They examined a WOK with great interest and asked several technical questions which Ince had primed me to answer. But when I told them of the quantities we'd require they turned me down flat as they'd just taken on 'a major job for another branch of the war effort'.

Seeing my disappointment, and apparently disturbed by it, they suggested I should try two other printers—'rivals of ours but excellent just the same.'—and took the trouble to give me their addresses and phone numbers. They then insisted that I had some tea.

There was something about this gentle and courteous couple which was strangely evocative, but I couldn't pinpoint it until I went through the familiar motions of replacing the WOK in my briefcase.

They'd printed several of Marks & Co.'s catalogues.

I said that my father sent his best wishes to them, told them who he was, and the premises were suddenly floodlit.

They took it in turns to ask to be remembered to him, and to Mr Cohen, and to Mr Doel, and to Mr Plummer—'such nice people to deal with and such a beautiful shop.'

After a brief conference, which they conducted in undertones, they asked if they could borrow the samples to show to their foreman. 'You needn't tell us what it's for, it's better we don't know,' said the saint with slightly more hair.

'Much better,' agreed his brother. 'You can meet our foreman if you like; he's only next door.'

I was certain that they'd prefer to talk to him alone, and handed over the WOK, which was a difficult operation as my fingers were crossed.

Alone in their office, I wished I'd told them that the printer's ink in their veins could be turned into life's blood for SOE's agents. I recited the Twenty-third Psalm, and a few other biblical quotations agents had selected, until the brothers strode back.

One look at their smiling faces and I knew we'd found a home. They gleefully informed me that six more printers would be joining them in two weeks' time, and they'd be able to do all our printing if we still wanted them to.

I didn't know which to thank first—the brothers, the Bible or 84. But there was a snag. They'd have enough silk to start the job, but when their reserves ran out, they'd have to ask ISRB to help them. I assured them that there'd be no problem, that Ince would immedilately confirm the commitment, and their work would be put to good use.

But they were far more concerned with the damage Hitler might to 'those beautiful books in 84.'

The next stage in the code safari was finding photographers to reproduce LOPs, but the six firms I visited proved to have one thing in common: an anxiety to get rid of me as quickly as possible. Their responses were wholly negative, and between the lot of them they couldn't have produced a passport photograph till the end of '43.

I asked Ince to suggest another source.

He avoided looking at me, a luxury which he hadn't yet allowed himself, and for the first time seemed to be holding something back. Goaded by Joan Dodd, he finally admitted that he had a 'special relationship' with an RAF photographic unit which had helped him from time to time, and which he knew had some silk in reserve. If they were asked to take on a commitment of this size it would have to go through official channels, and he wanted his name to be kept right out of it.

I promised to think up a cover-story which wouldn't involve him if he give me the details.

It took all Joan Dodd's skill to persuade him to part with them, and I wondered what she'd have to do in return.

The photographic unit was only a few spools away from the Houses of Parliment, but had a view of St James's Park as compensation. A young squadron leader rose from his cockpit in a small office, taxied towards me with outstretched hand, and said that Air Commodore Boyle's secretary 'made it sound very urgent.'

It hadn't been easy persuading Muriel to make the call.

He waited until I was seated, then asked in a confidential whisper if I knew anyone in ISRB called Ince.

After due consideration I replied that I had met a major of that name but wasn't quite sure what department he was in, which appeared to satisfy him.

His desk was bare except for a notebook and a telephone, and there was no indication that any work was done in this office—a sure sign that a great deal was.

I realized that it was time I added to it.

Dumping six LOPs on to his desk, I asked if he could photograph the whole lot on to silk within the next three days. Before he could react, I informed him that we were hoping he'd photograph far larger quantities for us on a regular basis if this first batch turned out satisfactorily.

For a moment I thought he was going to air-lift me out of the window, and St James's wasn't my favourite park. It was too full of itself to need people.

There was a precarious pause.

Is it wishful thinking on my part or is he trying to conceal a hint of amusement?

'Let's have a look-see,' he finally said.

He examined the LOPs through the private lens every skilled photographer carries in his head. He then casually asked what size we'd require them to be (a hopeful sign?) and I gave him the dimensions Ince had worked out for me.

He then stared out of the window, but his look-see was now directed within, and I knew that his decision was still in the balance.

I was certain that he realized it was codes he'd been examining, and decided to go as far as I could. 'They have to be used in rather trying circumstances. Squadron Leader.'

He turned round, and though I didn't mean to insult him I thought I detected a kindred spirit. 'I imagined they served a special purpose. And I don't suppose there are many photographers who can take this job on?'

'There aren't any.'

He looked at me as if I were an aircraft trying to limp home, then glanced at the notepad on his desk. 'We can cope with this first batch, in three days. We'd need a week from tomorrow to do the job properly.'

The limping aircraft tried to stutter its thanks.

'Now, about the rest,' he said, cutting me short. 'What quantities?'

'Two hundred a month.'

'That's a hell of a lot.' He made some rapid calculations on his notepad and frowned at the result, unaware that he'd been using a heart as his pencil.

'Now, Mr Marks…'

It didn't feel right being called 'Mr' by an officer in the RAF.

'I'd better tell you a bit about our set-up…'

'A bit' was a considerable overstatement, and he disclosed as little about his unit as I had about ISRB. But he did admit that he was allowed a fairly free hand in running it.

'However, Mr Marks… there are limits to what I can do on my own authority.' He couldn't even consider photographing 200 a month unless he had a formal request from someone high in ISRB - Commodore Boyle perhaps?

'Would it be a help if the request came from someone higher?'

'The higher the better.'

I explained that the person I had in mind was named Heffer, and responsible for certain policy matters I wouldn't want to waey him with.

He nodded gravely, and said that 'If, repeat if he was allowed to take on 200 a month he hoped that Mr Heffer would provide the silk.

'He will, Squadron Leader.'

Please Lord—start softening up the 'hard men'.

He softened up the squadron leader instead. 'Look here,' he announced, 'let's stop iffing-about. You said this stuff might have to used in "rather trying circumstances!"—message received! So get that letter to protect my back and one way or another we'll photograph 200 a month starting three weeks from now—good enough?'

'Thank you, Squadron Leader. Good enough.'

We shook hands on the deal.

He then signed my pass, though I was no longer the same person.

I was a civilian when I entered his office.

I was a code-group captain when I left it.

I was demoted to corporal when I gave Heffer a verbatim account of the historic conversation.

He upbraided me for taking his name in vain, but agreed to sign the request on condition that I obtained a few yards of silk for his wife. He then asked who was going to supply it.

'I'm going to talk to the hard men.'

He looked at me as if we mightn't meet again. 'God help you,' he finally said, 'if you try iffing them about.'

And God help the agents if I didn't.

SOE's special strength, and one of the few edges it had over C, came from the bankers and industrialists Sir Charles Hambro had introduced into Baker Street. They were the sanitized section of the dirty tricks brigade, and most of them drew on their experiences as City moguls to implement Churchill's concept of 'ungentlemanly warfare'.

None of them did so with greater relish than two tycoons-turned-soldiers named George Courtauld and Tommy Davies, otherwise known as the 'hard men'. Courtauld was a major, Davies a colonel, which in no way reflected their real status.

Courtauld was a director of the giant textile concern his family founded, and a shipping magnate in his spare time. He'd introduced many of his former colleagues (including Tommy Davies) into SOE, and was one of Baker Street's senior head-hunters. Davies, allegedly the softer of the 'hard men' (which meant he was made of granite), was a member of the Executive Council, head of the Research, Development and Supply directorates, and monitored the Camouflage Station in his spare time.

Such protocol as existed in SOE required Nick to arrange my appointment with them and preferably accompany me to it. But after searching questions he decided that I should 'go it alone' as he certain I'd been up to something he preferred not to know about a well-founded suspicion which didn't prevent him from assuring Courtauld and Davies that I had his full backing.

I was summoned to Courtauld's office at ten minutes' notice, but due to a combination of April showers and perspiration I arrived at the royal enclosure looking like a puddle of dubious content.

Courtauld was a gaunt, pale and exceedingly fragile-looking 'hard man' who seemed to have barely enough energy to muster a nod. But his eyes sparked more warnings than a smoker's cough.

Tommy Davies, who sat a few feet away from him, was a large florid Welshman—but not a Dylan Thomas/Emlyn Williams pit-boy Welshman. I sensed that the only pits on this boyo's mind were the ones he'd dug for his opponents.

The 'hard men' made a concerted effort to put me at their ease. 'Colonel Nicholls says you have an interesting problem for us,' said Courtauld in a resonant voice.

'Take your time,' said Davies, glancing at his watch.

They listened with the incomparable receptivity of trained minds hearing something new while I explained the importance of WOKs and LOPs, keeping the technical details to a minimum. There wasn't a problem in sight until I tried to skirt over the arrangements I'd made with the squadron leader and the brothers.

'Hold on a minute,' said Courtauld. 'You say they've agreed to use their own silk?'

'Yes, sir—but only until their stocks run out.'

'Which will be-?'

'In about three weeks' time, sir.'

He considered this carefully. 'Then what happens?'

'That's what I'm here to discuss, sir.'

'What exactly did you say to them?' asked Davies suspiciously.

'That ISRB would supply the rest of the silk, sir.'

'Did you, by God?' said Courtauld.