The Best of Our Spies (18 page)

‘Goes by the code name of Magpie. And he is a she.’

‘Oh!’ It was a long, high-pitched and slightly surprised ‘oh’. Before the war, Clarence Leigh had inhabited a world where women were little more than bit-part players and it still came as a surprise to him that they were involved at all in the world of espionage.

ooo000ooo

It was a bitter November night. Autumn had finally surrendered to winter and a thick, yellow-stained fog had draped itself across the city, tightening its grip with every laboured breath. Owen would have happily stayed in the warmth of the office or gone straight home, but he had arranged to meet Nathalie at the hospital so that he could walk her to their flat. When he left Duke Street, it had been not much more than a heavy mist, but with each footstep it became increasingly dense so that by the time he reached Victoria Embankment he could barely see a yard ahead. It reminded him of being at sea: the speed at which a mist would roll in before visibility was no more than a few yards and all eyes on the bridge would be on him as they sailed into the unknown. His pace slowed down to little more than a crawl as he felt his way along the wall, its surface clammy. Below him, Quinn could hear the river, the water lapping hard against the bank and the bridge ahead. The sound of the river was muffled by the thick fog and had an unfamiliar echo.

To all intents and purposes, it felt as if he was the last person left in London. No other soul was about until a policeman in his dark cape briefly came into view and then disappeared, his torch doing no more than emphasising the thick swirl of the smog. Ahead of him, he could hear the sentries outside the Palace of Westminster marching up and down, their hobnail boots scraping on the pavement, but they remained invisible. The bitter, sulphuric taste of the smog crept down his throat and he began to feel nauseous. His eyes were stinging. The air was filled with menace. The cold stone of the wall gave way and he realised that he had reached the north side of Westminster Bridge. By holding the luminous dial of his watch close to his face he could see that it was twenty past eight. He had promised to meet Nathalie outside the hospital at eight o’clock and he knew that she’d be concerned, even allowing for the fog. She was prone to impatience. Although St Thomas’s was just on the south side of the bridge, it would take him another ten minutes at least to get there. He hoped she would understand, but feared that her impatience might get the better of her.

He felt a surge of optimism. He always felt like that when he knew he was about to see his wife. He’d been married for a few months before he realised what was happening, before he recognised that when he wasn’t with her he was bereft and when he was with her he was whole, complete.

Owen hesitated. For some reason, he was fearful of crossing the bridge, his progress inhibited by trepidation. And he sensed that it was not the fog. From his time at sea he was well used to moving in the dark, trusting his sense of navigation. He hesitated for a good five minutes, during which time the fog very slightly lifted, but as it did so there was a sharp drop in temperature. He pulled the brim of his Navy cap low over his face and turning up the collar of his coat, set out into the void. Progress was noticeably easier. Visibility was now as much as three or even four yards. As he approached what he took to be the middle of the bridge a woman came into view, walking on the other side of it and in the opposite direction to him. Her hands were thrust deep into her coat pockets and her head, around which was a tightly wrapped scarf, was looking down at the ground ahead of her. Owen paused. He could not take his eyes off her: a stranger, yet achingly familiar. As she came abreast of him he moved into the road so as to get a better view and as he did so, he realised that it could be Nathalie.

But there was something so unfamiliar about her that he hesitated in calling her name, settling instead for an uncertain ‘Hello?’

She looked up and in the very brief moment before she recognised her husband beneath his cap and raised collar, he saw her as he had never seen her before. Her face appeared different: softer, more relaxed and, above all, unguarded. If time had stood still at that exact moment and he had been forced to use one word to describe how she looked different, it would have been that one. Unguarded. Then, as she realised it was him, her face instantly arranged itself into a more familiar look. The face hardened very slightly and then she smiled and almost skipped over to him before pecking him on the cheek and then moving her warm mouth to his.

‘Why are you so late, Owen? I thought you weren’t coming. I decided to make my own way home.’

‘Haven’t you noticed the fog, darling?’

Her kiss was moist against the side of his mouth. ‘I’m pleased you came, Owen. You’re so ...’ She hesitated, struggling to find the right word ‘… dependable.’

And with that, arm in arm, they walked back to Pimlico. Well before they arrived back at the flat, he had allowed the confused image on the bridge to fade from his memory. In years to come he would often recall that encounter on the bridge and wonder about exactly what he had seen in her expression. If he had thought about it for longer at the time, with the memory of exactly what had happened and of just what he had seen still fresh in his mind, then he would have come to the conclusion that she looked as if she was wearing a mask. But what he could not tell was whether she was wearing that mask before she saw him, or after.

ooo000ooo

Portman Square was a brief walk from the SOE headquarters in Baker Street and it was in a mews house just behind the square that F Section of the SOE was based. F Section looked after SOE operations in France and its primary role was to work with the French resistance.

Major Edgar had to admit that while he was not quite sure what he was expecting, it was certainly something a bit more substantial and imposing than a pleasant mews house occupied by fewer than ten people. A woman in her mid-thirties with a vague central European accent that he could not place led him up a series of narrow staircases to the top floor. They moved along an uneven corridor into what he assumed was a section of the adjoining house. They were now in a room converted out of the attic. A large skylight ensured that despite the November gloom, the room was bathed in light.

Behind a small desk a man in civilian clothes was on the phone.

‘
Oui, Philippe. Bien sûr, bien sûr. Je comprends. D’accord. A bientôt
.’

He put the phone down and came over to greet Edgar. The woman had closed the door, remaining in the room.

‘Good to meet you, Edgar. Newby. Tony Newby. Major Newby if you’re interested in that kind of thing. Everyone seems to be a major these days, eh?

‘Hope you were impressed by the French. Pretty much the extent of it, I’m afraid. Rely on the likes of Nicole here. I’ve learned that if you keep saying
d’accord
, folks think you know what you are talking about, eh?’

Very quickly, Edgar realised that although this bonhomie was in welcome contrast to Leigh’s petulance, it almost certainly masked a strong character. Edgar could see Newby’s eyes summing him up and his brain playing with him. This was a man who had already sent more than three hundred agents into occupied France and was now being asked to send one more. A German spy.

‘Dr Leigh has told me what you chaps are after, but how about if I hear it from the horse’s mouth, eh?
Bouche de cheval
– is that correct, Nicole?’

‘To an extent, sir. I would try
on
l’appris de source sûre
.’

‘Thank you,’ said Edgar. ‘I do realise that this is somewhat ...  irregular, but I hope you will understand that the circumstances are extenuating ones.

‘In 1941 we identified a previously undetected Nazi agent. She had entered the country in 1940, after Dunkirk, but kept her nose clean for the best part of a year. She came into our sights thanks to a Belgian whom we’d been watching ever since he came into the country. We turned him, which led to her. As you’ve no doubt been told, her code name is Magpie. Magpie is a French nurse and by all accounts a very good one. I ought to add that she is also a most beautiful woman.’

Newby indicated his approval with one long, slow nod.

‘Magpie was working at a hospital in central London when we came across her. By a sheer stroke of luck, it so happened that she had recently applied for a transfer to a military hospital, which made some sense. Plenty of decent intelligence to be picked up in that kind environment if you think about it. Morale, where people have been based, where they are being sent, casualties, what equipment works, what doesn’t ... all useful stuff to the Germans.

‘We decided to keep her where she was for the time being. Keep an eye on her, but have her up our sleeves. Sure enough, it all worked out like a treat. We thought that if we were clever and lucky, we could put her much closer to Allied intelligence than either she or the Germans could have hoped. Plan was fairly simple: send her to a hospital for recovering Navy officers, ensure that one of the patients she just happens to be looking after is due to be moved into Naval Intelligence when he is discharged from hospital. So we ensure that she has access to the files and that one of the files has a note that a particular officer is indeed due to be transferred to Naval Intelligence when he is released. Lots of references to top secret et cetera – you get the picture. Perfect opportunity for her. As we hoped, she starts to get particularly friendly with this young officer. He, of course, thinks she is the most wonderful woman he has ever seen – no young chap in his right mind and his position wouldn’t think that. We move the young man into his own room, pretty much put the two of them into bed with each other. He’s then told no, you are not going back to sea, not up to it. Important job for you in Naval Intelligence. Oh and by the way, we know what is going on with you and the nurse so if you want to make a decent woman of her ... not exactly a whirlwind romance, Major, but works a treat.’

‘And he ... is totally unaware ...?’ Major Newby had started to speak.

‘Not the foggiest idea. Can’t stress this strongly enough, Newby. He has no idea whatsoever who she is. He is unaware of what is going on. Thinks this beautiful Frenchwoman who is two years older than him has fallen in love with him. He is like the cat that has found the cream, gallons of the stuff, in fact. Still is, actually.

‘By the end of June ’42 we’ve got them happily married and settled into a little flat we found for them in Pimlico. Put one of our chaps next door just in case. His bedroom is behind theirs and apparently he does not get a lot of sleep. Our man is ensconced in an office of Naval Intelligence that we have especially set up round the corner from St James’s Square. We keep it all very lovey-dovey for best part of a year. We know that she is picking up bits and pieces from his work and is passing all this back to Paris. All useful stuff to them, but fairly low level. They like what they get, but tell her to play a waiting game. Quinn’s telling her a bit more than he strictly should be doing, but by and large he is being a bit more of a good boy than we had hoped he would be, to be frank.

‘In June this year we move things up a gear. COSSAC, as you know, is planning the invasion of Europe and we in the London Controlling Section are supposed to be coming up with a really watertight deception plan. We’ve got two or three double agents in place already and the message we are trying to get across to the Germans is that the invasion will be in the Pas de Calais. Absolutely essential that the Germans get a consistent message from different sources. They must all complement each other. Needs to come together like a jigsaw.

‘We move things up a gear with Quinn. Until then, he had not been working on terribly high profile stuff; idea was to ease him in. Now we let him into world of invasion planning. The Allied landings, he is told, are going to be in the Pas de Calais and that is what he is going to be working on. Oh – and we upgrade her security clearance, so that he is able to take some stuff home, that kind of thing. Intended to get him to drop his guard a bit and it works a treat. He starts taking home maps, charts, the whole bloody lot, if you’ll excuse my language. She’s sending it all back to Paris, Abwehr lapping it up, pleading for more.’

Edgar paused and stared up through the skylight, through which the sky had already turned a shade of grey. He was coming to the difficult part.

‘The deception is absolutely vital if Operation Overlord is to succeed. We are talking about landing tens of thousands of men, tanks, armour, equipment and supplies on the beaches of Normandy. It would be tricky enough in friendly conditions. But with the beaches being mined and defended, with all the hazards of the long sea crossing and the extended lines of supply – it is a very risky operation, to say the least. So if we can convince the Germans that the invasion is going to be much further to the east, then at least that will tie up some of their defences.

‘From what the boys at Bletchley are telling us they are picking up from Ultra, the Abwehr are totally buying what Magpie is telling them. Alongside everything else we are doing on the deception front, they are convinced that the Second Front will come through the Pas de Calais.

‘But there is another part of this deception operation. We don’t just want the Germans to think before D-Day that it is the Pas de Calais. We don’t want them to realise on D-Day that they’ve been tricked and then shift everything into Normandy. If that is the case, then this whole operation would have only have bought us a day or two’s grace and to be honest, that may not be enough. We need to persuade them even on D-Day — and for as long as possible after it – that Normandy is a feint, that the real invasion will take still place a couple of weeks later in the Pas de Calais. That way, we tie up the Fifteenth Army and all of its Panzer divisions hundreds of miles from where they can hurt us.

‘Which is where you come in, Newby. We think that the best way to persuade the Germans not only that the Pas de Calais is the target but also that Normandy will be a feint is to send Magpie over there as one of your agents. In other words, actually have her there in the Pas de Calais.’