The Best of Our Spies (33 page)

A train was about to depart from platform three: a cloud of pure white steam travelled more or less horizontally into the station concourse. The guard’s shrill whistle and a cry of ‘
come on now
’ and a sudden rush to the gate as it swung shut. A Canadian soldier put down his bag and tenderly stroked the face of the girl he had been hugging next to Quinn, before picking up his bag and vaulting over the gate. Three sailors hurried past, saluting him as they did so. On a small bench a woman was bent double, her face covered. A young boy, no more than ten, stood next to her. He looked confused; his hand uncertainly placed on her heaving shoulder.

It was going to be hard for Cognac to keep tabs on him in this chaos, Quinn realised. He walked slowly over to the newspaper kiosk, to join a long and disorderly queue. People were keen to read whatever they could of D-Day and that had led to a run on the papers.

‘As I have just told the gentleman in front of you, sir, we have no copies remaining of either the
Daily Herald
or the
Daily Mail
.
Daily Telegraph
, very good, sir. Yes, sir?’

Quinn bought one of the last copies of
The Times
. He was careful not to look around. ‘Avoid the temptation. You won’t spot Cognac, of course, but he may well spot you looking around. Just act normally.’

As instructed, he waited until a small queue had formed by the first-class window in the ticket office and went to join it.

‘First class single to Dover, please.’ Again following instructions, he spoke softly.

‘Where to?’ the ticket clerk asked.

‘Dover, please. I understand I may need to go via Maidstone East. Is that correct?’ Quinn repeated, a bit louder this time for the benefit of the clerk.

‘It will have to be Dover Priory, sir. No trains to Dover Marine today or the rest of this week. Security. You’ll understand. Head for Maidstone East. Next train due to depart ten o’clock. Probably another delay on top of that. Platform four, sir.’

An hour later he was wedged into his first class compartment as the elderly locomotive pulled the eight-coach train out of the station. He had boarded the train as soon as it was announced as the one for Maidstone East, but even so he was lucky to have found a seat in the rush. There were even three people standing in his six-seat compartment. He had noticed a man bearing a distinct similarity to Roger, but wearing a trilby hat that was far too big. The man pushed his way through the crowded corridor, briefly glancing in to his compartment. Owen opened his newspaper. He noticed that it was just eight pages today. It was rare these days for it to be more than that. By the time pulled out of Victoria Station he had already answered six of the clues in
The Times
crossword.

‘He’ll be following you,’ Edgar had told him in the park the day before. ‘What the Germans will want to know now is whether Normandy is a feint. Will there still be a main invasion through the Pas de Calais? That’s what preoccupying them. So we’ve decided to send you to the seaside’.

Edgar and Roger had both explained his role in some detail. The Germans believed that Quinn was involved in planning the Pas de Calais invasion, so they would now be looking at his behaviour after D-Day to see if it was consistent with that. The Germans had also been relying on intelligence that a massive Allied army was gathering in the south east of England. This would be the army that would invade through the Pas de Calais.

‘FUSAG,’ Edgar told him. ‘Stands for First US Army Group. It’s the US Fourteenth Army and the British Fourth Army, at least that is what the Germans think it is. Commanded by General Patton. Totally fictional, of course, apart from Patton though as I understand it, quite a few of the top brass wish he was fictional. Tricky chap, apparently. We have every reason to believe that the Germans have bought it. Some of their agents – now working for us, of course – have spent quite a while in the south east, spotting the formations, tanks, landing craft. The whole place has been buzzing with radio traffic. Based around the Kent ports, short hop over to the Pas de Calais.

‘So it makes perfect sense for you to get down there today. They’ll think that the main invasion is imminent, so you moving down to Dover will fit in with what they expect. Cognac will be able to follow you to the Castle and watch you go in. Won’t be able to go any further, but that doesn’t matter. Our guess is that he’ll then head back to London and let Berlin know that one of the Pas de Calais planners has moved down to FUSAG.’

Twenty-four hours ago, all had appeared to be well in his world. Then it collapsed. Now, like this train being led along on the tracks, he was being led along, with little control of his destination.

ooo000ooo

Cognac prided himself on his composure. He had always considered that to be a secret agent’s most important asset. Staying calm, making careful judgements, avoiding silly mistakes. His composure had been fully tested this morning.

The previous day had been hard enough. After the early morning excitement he had taken the tube down to the bedsit in Clapham where he had deposited his large suitcase and then taken a taxi to Victoria. Short walk so as to be near Quinn’s place for eight o’clock and, of course, it was a full three hours before he emerges. Follow him to Duke Street, watch him go in, wait five minutes which was as long as he could risk and then a taxi back to the house in Hendon for the last time. Final transmission to Berlin, letting them know that Quinn in work as normal, then pack up his remaining bags.

Settle rent with Mr Fraser. The stooped figure of his landlord had opened his door before Cognac had finished knocking on it, no doubt having been peering through the spy-hole as was his habit whenever the front door of the house opened. Mr Fraser’s slightly hunched back made him appear shorter than he was. His accent had the very slightest trace of Scotland from where he had moved many years ago. As ever, he had a cold and was constantly dabbing at his nose with a crumpled handkerchief that may once have been white. Whatever his landlord’s intentions had been, they soon changed. Not only did Cognac tell him to keep the deposit (‘I am sure there will be the odd scratch and chipped saucer’) but he also pressed a five pound note into his grateful hands (‘Just in case any of my lady friends or their fathers come looking for me! If you could tell them as little as possible. I am a married man myself, you’ll understand
.
’) Knowing nod from Mr Fraser, who would very much have liked to be a married man himself, but flattered that the gentleman thought he would understand. He left Mr Fraser a fictitious forwarding address and then embarked on a series of criss-crossing bus journeys to Clapham. They confused him and hopefully would have the same effect on anyone following him. As the day wore on he had the occasional pang of regret: Stephanie, which he was now sure was her name, had been an enthusiastic lover — far more responsive that most women he’d come across in this country. It was a shame, he could have had a few more days’ fun.

Later that night he cycled up to Pimlico, a journey vindicated by seeing Quinn’s distinctive profile by the window.

Back there eight o’clock the next morning. Good job that the warren of roads afforded plenty of discreet places to wait. Street corners were always good, a couple of small blocks that he could walk round, sure in the knowledge that if Quinn left his flat he would not have gone very far by the time he came back round the block.

The round little civil servant with the red face with the funny hat had come out as usual. Quinn left at a quarter to nine, but today was carrying a suitcase — and not a small one either. This was interesting. He turned left rather than going right or straight on as he normally did. Cognac was not altogether surprised to find themselves heading in the direction of Victoria Station.

The crowds in the station were helpful. Plenty of cover. Of course, he had to work that much harder keeping an eye on Quinn, but that was not too difficult – his quarry was tall and his Royal Navy peaked cap distinctive enough to be very helpful.

He stood in the queue alongside Quinn. The best way of following someone, he had been taught all those years ago, was by not being behind them all the time. People take too much notice of what’s behind them. You would never be expected to be followed by someone in front of you. Bit of a risk, if he reaches the ticket window before Quinn, but he is a Dutch refugee today and English his poor, so his failure to understand the clerk could delay matters long enough until he hears Quinn’s destination.

Dover. He had never been there, though in the past few months he had had to make a few trips to Kent to see what he could find about all the Allied forces gathering there for the invasion. ‘Lots of them’ had been the essence of his subsequent reports. ‘All over the bloody place,’ as the English would say. Lots of security though. You needed to be careful down there. He was pleased he had chosen his Dutchman today, it was his most robust identity.

The journey ought to have taken just under two and a half hours, but by the time they changed at Maidstone East and then Faversham, it had taken them the best part of four hours. He had nearly lost his man at Maidstone East, the platforms were so crowded. On the final train, from Faversham to Dover, he had ended up sitting in the compartment next to a young Navy officer. He chose a seat right by the door so he could keep a check on his movements.

But the journey itself had been most useful. Tanks parked in fields in the distance, hundreds of them, literally. Around five miles outside of Dover he noticed heavy guns mounted on rail wagons parked in some sidings. They were covered in camouflage and would have been hard to spot from the air. He counted five of them in total. He memorised all the details. Large troop camps just outside the town and when the train pulled in to Dover Priory the station master’s announcement:

‘This train terminates here. All change please. There are no services to Dover Marine.’

Even if he lost Quinn now – and there was a chance he would have a car waiting for him – he would still have plenty to report back tonight.

He made sure he went through the ticket barrier ahead of Quinn and then paused to light a cigarette. The station appeared to have been bombed quite heavily. The end of one platform was fenced off and one of the buildings had been reduced to a pile of rubble. Quinn waited outside the station, looked around, glanced at his watch, looked up at the skies and then set off.

The station was at the top of a hill. Quinn walked down the hill into the town centre, stopped to ask directions of a policeman and then carried on, this time up another hill. Around half an hour after leaving the station he arrived in front of Dover Castle. The security was very high. Cognac knew he had reached the end of his own journey. In the reflection of tea-shop window, he saw Quinn pass through the security barrier in the road outside the Castle and then through the heavily guarded main entrance, being saluted as he did so. He would have to go into the tea-shop and have a cup of disgusting English tea, in case anyone wanted to know the purpose of his walk up the hill. Then it would be back to London.

Cognac was weary by the time he arrived back at Dover Priory Station. It was four o’clock and the station was quiet. Three policemen were on duty outside the station, taking care to check everyone as they entered it. This was going to be too risky. Cognac had taken care to remove his coat and hat, but he still needed to be careful. It would be difficult to have to explain to a policeman why he had come to Dover for less than two hours to purchase a cup of tea (‘Don’t they sell tea in London then, sir?’).

He decided to go cross country. They taught you to do that, of course, but it was notable how tempting it was to disregard it. If you are in Manchester and need to get to London, it is very easy to take the direct route. But if you are being followed — and you must always assume that you are – then you are making it so easy for whoever is following you that you may as well have a sign on your back saying that you work for the Abwehr. Cognac had once left Manchester at seven in the morning and not arrived in London until nine o’clock that night. Four trains and six buses. Three department stores visited in between buses and trains. Hard to beat a good department store for losing someone in, with their lifts, back-stairs and gloomy corridors.

There was a small bus station across the road and he headed there. One of the three buses that displayed any sign of going anywhere that day showed ‘Deal’ on its destination board and the driver had just started the engine. That would have to do. It was the opposite direction from where he was heading, but that was not a bad thing in itself. He knew the map of Britain better than his own country now.

He paid the fare and slumped in a seat at the back. A mother and two noisy girls were occupying most of the back row and Cognac chose to sit in front of them.

They arrived in Deal just after five. There was another bus waiting as they pulled in showing Ramsgate as its destination. That would still be heading away from London, but he could catch a train from there. Ideally he’d have tried to spend an hour or so in Deal, just in case he was being followed, but it was beginning to get late so he got on the bus.

The journey was another long hour. The bus stopped in Sandwich for a while where it filled up with people and then wound its way to Ramsgate. He went straight to the train station. The restricted service on the south coast routes that had been so evident this morning had not improved. His best chance, the man at the ticket office told him, was to go to Chatham. From there he ought to get a direct train back to Victoria.

The journey back was punctuated by a series of delays. Not long after the train left Chatham it pulled into a siding to allow three trains laden with troops and equipment to pass. He carefully counted the number of carriages on each train and even managed to spot some serial numbers on tanks. He closed his eyes as he tried to memorise the numbers, fighting sleep as he did so.

It was about nine thirty by the time he walked out of a now quiet Victoria Station, buying a copy of the
Evening News
on the way. It was still light, although night was not too far away. He noticed four taxis waiting at the rank, but knew he must resist the temptation. He’d pushed his luck with taxis the previous day. Two bus journeys would be four times longer, but safer.