The Best of Our Spies (30 page)

He started to pack. Everything he needed in two large suitcases and a smaller one. He would leave the house at seven — before that would feel a bit too early. It would be pushing it a bit; he needed to get down to Clapham first, but if he then took a taxi from Clapham to Victoria Station that would help. It was an old trick, if you have to resort to using a taxi, take it to a train station. No one ever thought there was anything unusual about that. He could take one large suitcase with him now, drop it off at the place in Clapham and then be in Pimlico by eight to pick Quinn up on his way to work. Back here, pick up the other cases, send one last message to Germany before he left this place, pay off Mr Fraser (‘No, no – please keep the deposit, for your troubles. You have been very accommodating. Thank you
.
’) He had learned that the word ‘accommodating’ worked wonders with the English lower middle class, which is what Mr Fraser clearly aspired to. It was what they spent their lives doing. Then he would take the other cases over to Clapham. Tonight he would have to start finding a fallback for Clapham. It was going to be a long day.

Funny thing was, he had never expected them to use the emergency code to get him to contact Berlin. Two rings on the phone. Gap of five minutes, two more rings. Another gap of five minutes, then three rings. That means contact Berlin. Urgent. Very urgent. The most intriguing part of it was that there was someone else in England who would have made the call and somehow Berlin would have been able to contact them. The British had picked up so many Abwehr agents that he had come to assume he was the only one left in the country. It was of little comfort that he wasn’t.

‘Large-scale invasion Normandy underway
.
’ Well, there’s a surprise. It was, actually. Not a surprise that the invasion was underway, they’d taken their time about that. But Normandy was a surprise.

‘Urgent you check Nero to confirm movements,’ the message had said. What else have I been doing the past few months? Pimlico to St James’s. And back. Two or three times a week. How often did Berlin want reassurance that yes –that’s where he works, yes – goes in every day, all day.

‘Clarification urgently required on first sector.’ How on earth was he to find that out? Walk up to Quinn and tap him on the shoulder ‘Excuse me ... How come you chaps aren’t on the beaches of the Pas de Calais this morning?’ Follow him into the office and ask ‘What is all this about Normandy then?’ He’d have to work on that one.

He finished his second cup of tea, decided it was going to be a busy day and poured a generous measure from the brandy bottle before packing it in a case. He had already denied himself one pleasure that morning so he was entitled to a small drink.

ooo000ooo

Edgar had been up since four in the morning. The initial reports were quite good, though the Americans seemed to be taking a bit of a hammering on the western beaches.

At six thirty he took a call from one of the MI5 duty officers.

‘Cognac had an early morning alarm call, sir. Three calls to the house phone between six o’clock and ten past six this morning. Caller hung up after just a couple of rings.’

Cognac. The man who had caused them more trouble than entire German divisions. They knew he had entered the country early in 1940 and assumed it would be a matter of time before they picked him up, like they had with all the others. He was a well-known Abwehr agent. One of their best. He’d been spotted in the West End in May 1940 by MI5 and there were other confirmed sightings in Manchester, Liverpool and Glasgow. But they were never able to lay a hand on him. He had an ability to vanish, thin air and all that.

He had assumed almost mystical qualities in MI5 circles, but along with luck on Cognac’s part and sheer incompetence from some of those following him, Edgar put Cognac’s ability to evade them down to two factors: one was his sheer ability and the second was his way with women. Edgar had sat in on one interview with one of them. A woman in her late forties whose husband was a prisoner of war in the far east. Cognac had stayed with her for a couple of months in 1941, originally moving in as a lodger. She was totally besotted with him. ‘I have never been satisfied with a man before, sir. I would have done anything he asked,’ she admitted, staring intently at a lace handkerchief she was twisting in her hands as she spoke. She had made a good stab at appearing ashamed, but it was not difficult to see the passion in her eyes as she spoke about Cognac.

Then a stroke of luck. In September 1943 they had been following Quinn to work, which was routine, they did it once or twice a week, as part of their monitoring of him and his wife. The man following Quinn that morning, who was especially good at his job and had the ability to follow someone from a very long way back, spotted Cognac in between him and Quinn. Instead of panicking like the rest of them had – and allowing Cognac to get away – he followed Cognac. Back to a house in Hendon, where he had a small flat. After that, it was a matter of keeping an eye on Cognac, who in turn was keeping an eye on Mr and Mrs Quinn.

Edgar assumed that the Abwehr were so pleased with what they were getting from Magpie that they had put Cognac on to them to be absolutely sure that she was where she said she was and Quinn was doing what she said he was doing. So in turn, MI5 kept an eye on Cognac, but let him get on with it. He kept them busy enough, checking out Quinn and Magpie and then hanging around the second and third division bars in the West End. He was usually lucky, Edgar noticed. He preferred to go back to their place or book a cheap hotel room where the manager was prepared to ignore the form filling for an hour in return for double the rate. It was rare for him to take one of them back to his place.

‘Yes, sir,’ said the MI5 man. ‘Those phone calls to the house were obviously a signal for Cognac to contact Berlin. Post Office have traced the calls as coming from a series of telephone boxes in and around Waverley Station in Edinburgh. Cognac contacted Berlin around six twenty. Radio boys triangulated the transmission to his road in Hendon, but Bletchley across the transmission anyway. Still working on the final version, but they reckon it’s to do with D-Day. Seems Cognac has been asked to keep a close eye on your man today. Reference to the first sector too. Bletchley working on that.’

Edgar called Archibald.

‘John. I think that you had better come over for a chat. I know that we weren’t planning to do so, but I think we are going to need to tell Quinn today.’

ooo000ooo

CHAPTER TWENTY

London
6 June 1944

Quinn remembered little of the walk back to Pimlico. He was vaguely aware of a lighter mood in the air, people slapping each other on the back, strangers exchanging smiles.

‘Good afternoon.’

‘It most certainly is, isn’t it.’

‘Not long now.’

As he walked past Westminster Abbey he noticed a steady stream of people going in. The relief that people felt as they anticipated the end of the war could not be exaggerated, although the euphoria was a long way off.

Owen Quinn could not imagine feeling more depressed. The shock that had numbed him since Edgar began talking to him in the park was beginning to wear off. It was being replaced by a boiling rage against the injustice at the way his life had been ruined. The physical effort of walking was difficult. As often happened in times of stress, his back was beginning to ache.

Once he was in Alderney Street his pace quickened. He would get out of his uniform, have a bath and, most importantly, a drink. He thought about Edgar’s plan. He would have to go along with it, there was no alternative. He would need to pack a case. At least it would get him away from the flat for a few days.

He climbed the steps into the house, holding the door open for the odd-looking civil servant who always wore a bowler hat and who lived in the flat next to him.
So he’s come home early today too.

Quinn checked the table in the hall for any post. The tall aspidistra, covered in a sheen of dust, stood sentry over the few bills and handwritten correspondence. Just one letter for him, the envelope bearing his mother’s distinctive script. Its theme would be familiar (‘... looks absolutely splendid, as does the front garden....so please Owen do make an effort to come and visit your father and I, neither of whom are getting any ...’).

Roger. That was what the neighbour was called. He had been useful enough when they first moved in, even offering the services of his own cleaner.

There had been a forgettable evening just before their first Christmas here when Roger had invited Nathalie and himself in for drinks. Roger, it turned out didn’t drink. Not alcohol, anyway. An evening of tea and barley water and some hard biscuits apparently baked by Roger’s mother. They nodded at each other. Two men and a woman were following Roger, who held the door open for them. Quinn hadn’t seen them before but he did not give it a second thought, it was a transient sort of a house anyway.

He ran up the stairs as fast as his back and legs would allow him. He decided he would have that drink before the bath as well as after it. Roger was behind him too, which was odd – he hadn’t stopped outside his own flat.

‘Owen – are you all right?’ Roger was standing immediately behind him now. He could hear more people climbing their staircase. Owen nodded.

‘Mind if I come in, Owen?’ Before Owen had time to say that actually, yes – he did mind, Roger had pushed past him in his tiny entrance hall and had walked into the lounge. Owen stood in the hall. The two men and one woman who had followed them into the house were now standing in the entrance to Owen’s flat, waiting for the hall to clear so that they could enter too.

‘Come through, Owen. Let me explain.’

Roger had sat himself down in one of the large armchairs. It was the one Owen usually sat in. It was the one he had been sitting in less than seven hours previously when he had listened to the news. Owen sat in the other armchair. No one had sat in it since Nathalie had left. He heard his front door shut and voices in the hall.

Roger was a small, rotund man, florid of complexion and given to perspiring extensively. He had obviously been walking faster than normal because he was struggling to catch his breath. His neck bulged against his tight collar, the knot of his tie concealed by the excesses of his neck. He wiped his damp face with a large handkerchief.

‘Can I ask what on earth is going on, you barging into here?’

Eventually, Roger caught his breath enough to attempt conversation, though it was punctuated by frequent pauses.

‘Owen. It is not simply a happy coincidence that I am your next door neighbour. I am a colleague of your friend Major Edgar, as are my three colleagues currently squashed together in your hall. I moved in just before you did. My brief was to keep an eye on you and your lady wife. Make sure nothing odd happens. I think that Major Edgar has explained your plans for the next few days?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I have two tasks now. The first is to ensure that when you set off tomorrow, our new friend goes with you. It is vital that he sees where you are going. His code name by the way is Cognac. He has a taste for it so I am told. Can’t see the attraction of it myself, foul stuff actually, but then most foreign drinks are. Where were we? Ah yes. Tomorrow. The streets around here will be well covered. We anticipate that Cognac will come by here tonight just to check that you are in. Our guess is that in the morning he will also be watching out for you too. We’re rather counting on that, actually. As soon as we are sure he is there, you will leave. You don’t need to worry, I will be here to tell you when and where to go. Is that clear?’

‘So far.’

‘Splendid.’

‘But ...’

‘Hang on, Quinn. My next task is altogether somewhat less pleasant. We need to thoroughly search the flat and I am afraid that my orders are to ensure that any trace of your wife is removed from this flat. For reasons of security I am told. I think that Major Edgar has explained her new … security status? Well, it rather follows that he needs to go through all of her possessions, don’t you agree? Everything I’m afraid. Apparently even the tiniest or most inconsequential looking item could be crucial, so there we are. Not my field as it happens, but I’m told they can find almost anything these days, eh! I know that this is not nice, but I am told that after a time some of it could be returned to you. If you want it, that is. My colleagues in the hall will take care of this. Did your wife have any valuables here?’

‘Some jewellery – not much. Earrings, necklaces, that kind of thing. Trinkets, really, but I wouldn’t ...’

‘Very well. I am sure that eventually anything of value will be returned. Now, if you don’t mind.’

Owen spent the next hour slumped in the armchair as all trace of his wife was carefully removed from around him. A large whisky had been pressed into his hand and refilled as the two men and the woman methodically worked their way through the flat. He was never introduced to any of them. Roger fussed around the flat, annoying the other three who seemed to know what they were doing, and being unctuously attentive of Owen. (‘Another whisky? Tea? Biscuit? Put your feet up old chap
...
’).

Drawers were emptied and every item gone through. Anything to do with Nathalie or his work was put straight into a case. Other items were checked with Owen. All paperwork went into the case too. Even the bills.

As his world was efficiently dismantled around him, Owen sat slumped in the armchair, creased in defeat and resignation. The glass of whisky was refilled yet again and he was beginning to feel very tired.

By the time they were done, Owen was fighting an urge to curl up and sleep. He heard Roger telling the other three to put the cases in his flat next door. ‘We can remove them tomorrow when the coast is clear.’

Roger explained the plan for the evening. The two men would stay with him (‘Don’t worry, Owen, they will be fine in the armchairs!’) ‘to make sure everything is in order’. To guard me, you mean, thought Owen. He would stay next door with the woman (‘She will have my bed! I’m on the settee’).