The Best of Our Spies (53 page)

‘Edgar does not know what I am about to tell you. And I was not going to tell you what I am going to tell you now. I felt that it would not serve any purpose for you to find your wife. But when you told me about your child... and then, having lost William... I think you have a right to know and I have no right to withhold it from you.

‘The SOE are a funny lot. Your wife came under F Section, which looked after France. But there is actually another section in the SOE which looks after France too. RF Section. They worked with de Gaulle’s lot over here. Never the twain could meet, I am told. Lord knows how that country is going to get sorted out once the war’s over, but that’s their business. A friend of mine works for RF Section and they got wind of the operation with your wife. Of course, they would not do anything to jeopardise it, things were not that bad.

‘Because of the connection I had with them, I was sent over to RF Section to try to patch things up, warn them off this case. They trusted me. Less confrontational than Edgar, so they said. Turns out that they had a woman in Paris who had very successfully infiltrated the Abwehr, that’s German military intelligence – the people your wife was working for. They came across a reference to Magpie, the code name that the Germans use for your wife.’

‘So do they have her real name?’

‘No. They had very little and because they weren’t aware of the operation, they weren’t able to put two and two together. But they did have something though that I think could be most helpful to you. It’s something that until now I had decided to keep to myself.’

Owen’s eyes widened as Archibald painfully leafed through the pages of the notebook.

‘Here we are. It is the name of the officer who recruited your wife and seems to have been her liaison. I wrote it down here. Take it.’

He ripped out a page from the notebook and handed it to Owen.

‘I never thought I would do anything with this information, but there we are. If you find this chap, he will most likely know Nathalie’s true identity. Whether he cares to tell you is quite another matter.’

Owen looked at the sheet of paper, which contained the name of the Abwehr officer written in large block capitals.

‘I wouldn’t bandy that piece of paper around, if I was you. Be careful with it. Destroy it once you have memorised the name. Never let on to Edgar that you got this name from me. Not that there is much he can do about it now, but still. He never really trusted me. I think he suspected that I might be disposed to helping you one day. Be careful though, Owen. Edgar will do everything he can to stop you finding your wife. He won’t know about the child, will he?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Maybe that’s as well...’ Archibald’s eyes were slowly closing as tiredness visibly crept over him.

‘Thank you, sir. I do hope you...’

‘What, get better?’ He laughed and coughed at the same time. Iris opened the door.

‘Owen is just leaving, dear.’ He beckoned him to come closer and grasped him by the wrist. The older man’s touch was cold and bony.

‘I felt bad about what we did to you. You were deceived. I know that we saved thousands of lives, no doubt about that. But you suffered. This,’ he tapped at the piece of paper in Owen’s hand ‘clears my conscience. My absolution.’

ooo000ooo

Owen was away from the isolated cottage by noon. He drove straight back to Boston, checked out of the pub and headed west along the Holland road towards the Great North Road.

He felt quite elated as he drove along, the expansive countryside to either side glistening under a cloudless sky. He had the breakthrough he needed. Coming up to Lincolnshire had been a long shot: he had no idea of whether he would find Archibald and then whether Archibald would have either the information or inclination to help him. He would pass the name onto André and then see what happens. He kept repeating the name
Georg Lange, Georg Lange, Georg Lange
out loud. Back in the pub in Boston he had decided that this was a name that he would never forget, so he had burned the piece of paper and flushed the ashes down the toilet.

Georg Lange, Georg Lange, Georg Lange.

He had slowed down now behind a tractor caked in mud, its wide plough taking up the width of the road and allowing him no space to overtake. After a mile or so, a small convoy of cars had built up behind him as the tractor slowed them all down. A mile later and the tractor turned right onto a farm track. He tried to get as much out of the little Anglia as possible. It would start getting dark soon and he needed to be on the Great North Road soon if he was going to find a petrol station open.

He was struggling with the Anglia on the greasy surface and slowed down to allow a car and a van to overtake him. One car remained behind him, seemingly in no hurry. He wound down his window and waved to indicate that it could pass. But the car stayed with him, dropping a bit further behind.

I know that it’s the mood I’m in,
he thought, but it’s unsettling me. As far as he could tell, it was a large black car, certainly one that could overtake him with ease on the empty country road. Ahead was a lay-by. Pull in there, get out to check a tyre or something, let him carry on and stop being so silly.

The black car stopped too, some way short of the lay-by. He could see at least two people in the car apart from the driver. The front seat passenger appeared to be wearing a black coat.

His heart was beating fast and his breathing heavy. This car has been following me for miles, it won’t overtake me and now it’s pulled into the lay-by behind me. Either I get out now or drive on, or...

He could feel the sweat under his shirt and his face was burning. This is no coincidence. He sat still for a moment, tapping his hands on the steering wheel as if in time to music. Maybe it’s all in my imagination, Archibald going on like that and getting me worried. Let’s give it one last try.

He pulled out without signalling and hit the accelerator as hard as possible. The little Anglia swayed a bit on the surface, but he was travelling much faster than he had done before. The black car pulled out and within seconds was close on his tail. Ahead he could see a turning to the left. He slowed down without braking and turned left without indicating. In his rear view mirror he saw the black car shoot past.

He pulled in to the verge and breathed a heavy sigh of relief, allowing his head to rest for a moment on the steering wheel. I need a break, this is all getting to me. It’s beginning to affect my judgement. Maybe a couple of drinks and a decent night’s sleep. He found himself actively looking forward to seeing his parents again. Let them look after me for a day or two. Slow down. Relax.

The interior of the car was very slightly darker when he lifted up his head. He looked to his left where a car had pulled up alongside him, so close that it was virtually touching his passenger side. The brown gloved finger of the driver was beckoning him to get out.

He scrambled out of his door and across the muddy verge. Two men were already waiting for him on the road. The long black Jaguar quietly pulled up in front of his car.

Two of the men were wearing police uniforms, the other was a civilian. One of the police officers came over and showed him his warrant card.
Police Constable Peter Sutton, Lincolnshire Constabulary.

‘Good afternoon, sir. Do you have any identification upon you?’

He found his Royal Navy identification card in his wallet.

‘Lieutenant Owen Quinn, Royal Navy,’ muttered PC Sutton, sounding both impressed and sarcastic as he handed the card to the other uniformed officer. He passed it behind him to the civilian in a black coat with an upturned collar, who had been standing a bit further away, impatient.

‘Not at sea then, sir?’ asked the man in the black coat, looking carefully at the ID card.

Quinn looked around him at the fields and the occasional tree swaying in what was now a fading light. It was going to be dark before he was on the Great North Road.

No, he wasn’t at sea — at least not in the way that they meant it.

‘Routine stop, sir,’ said PC Sutton. ‘We have had reports that a Ford Anglia with a single male passenger may be carrying black market goods. We would like to search you and the car, please, sir.’

‘What kind of black market goods might they be?’ Owen asked.

The two police officers turned round to the man in the black coat.

‘Meat and other produce,’ he said in a well-spoken and irritated-sounding voice.

‘Well, you’re welcome to search the car, but I can assure you I have nothing in it that shouldn’t be there.’

The man in the black coat walked over.

‘What have you been up to in this part of the world, sir?’

‘Few days’ leave. Thought I’d have some time in the country before going back to work in the city.’ Quinn smiled.

‘Very nice, sir. You’re lucky to be able to get hold of enough petrol coupons to get you here and back.’

‘I’ve been saving them up.’

‘Very prudent, sir. Now if you don’t mind, I just need to search you so if you could start by removing your coat and your jacket.’

‘You’re welcome to, but I can assure you that you are not going to find any meat or other produce about my person!’

The man in the black coat did not respond. He was carefully going through all the pockets and even checking the lining of the coat and the jacket. Behind him, Owen could see the two policemen thoroughly searching the car, looking under the seats, lifting the floor mats, even running their fingers along the inside of the car roof.

‘I’m sorry; I didn’t catch your name?’ Owen asked the man in the black overcoat.

‘I’m with these two officers, sir. If you don’t mind, I’m going to empty the contents of your wallet, just need to check.’

‘What, for rashers of bacon between the pound notes?’

He said nothing, spilling the wallet onto the bonnet of the Jaguar. One of the policemen had a torch and was looking under the Anglia. When they had finished with the boot they even had a look at the engine. The black overcoat was now subjecting Owen to a very thorough body search.

By the time they had finished it was nearly dark.

‘No meat or other produce then?’ said Owen.

‘No, sir,’ said PC Sutton.

‘So I can be on my way then?’

The black overcoat stepped forward.

‘Can you tell me where you have been today?’

‘I’ve told you, seeing the country. I have been staying in Boston and driving around the area.’

‘Have you visited anyone?’

‘Today?’ asked Owen, trying to buy himself a bit of time as he attempted to judge what was behind this question.

‘Yes. Today.’

‘No.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes. I am sure.’

The man in the black overcoat looked exasperated, as if finally beaten at a long game of chess. He put his gloves back on.

‘So I can go then?’

The man in the black overcoat looked past him, well into the distance.

‘Yes. You can go now, Lieutenant-Commander Quinn.’

One of the policemen had walked back to the main road and was directing Owen as he reversed onto it. They waved at each other and he was on his way.

Probably a coincidence after all. They do stop people they think are handling black market goods. Odd how they had been following him, but he was worrying too much.

He didn’t feel quite right about the whole business, nonetheless. For the time being, he was more concerned with getting on the Great North Road and finding enough petrol to get him back to Surrey.

The feeling of elation that he had before had evaporated. He had worked out his plan. Tomorrow he’d write to André. ‘Coming over to Paris early in the New Year,’ the letter would say. ‘And maybe in the meantime, André, you would like to see if you could trace the whereabouts of a Georg Lange, formerly of the Abwehr in Paris?’
He’d wait until he was back in London before posting the letter in a post-box that was neither near where he lived or worked.
Best to be safe.

But it was hard to concentrate. Something was niggling at him about the way he had been stopped and he could not put his finger on it. Maybe it was nothing to do with being stopped, but everything that was going on and going back to work next week. It was only much later, as he was driving through Bedfordshire and the pitch black night enveloped the road and everything around it that it hit him so hard it was as if the little car had been rammed from behind. He braked hard, the car skidding to the verge of the road just as a roundabout loomed into view.

He sat still, gripping the steering wheel, his heart pounding. He could feel the familiar symptoms of fear. The cold feeling sweeping through the body, the prickling of sweat all over, the sick feeling in the stomach, the tightening of the chest, the suddenly dry mouth and the need to look nervously around. He wound down the windows, breathing in the earthy taste of the country night. The man in the black overcoat. The smug, well-spoken man in the black overcoat who never said who he was and clearly thought he was so clever.

Well, thought Owen, he was so bloody clever that he had made a bloody stupid mistake, didn’t he!

Owen’s emotions were all over the place: he was pleased with himself for spotting the mistake, but fearful now that he realised what it meant. Of course, they had not been looking for ‘meat and other produce’. Stopping him had been no coincidence. They were onto him. There was no question about it.

It was thinking about going back to work that had done it and more specifically his Royal Navy identity card, which he had shown to the policeman. The name on the card was Lieutenant Owen Quinn.
But that was the thing.
He had not yet got round to getting a new card to reflect his promotion a few months ago to Lieutenant-Commander. They had been nagging him at work to get it changed.

But what was it the man in the black coat said a few hours ago in that desolate lane in Lincolnshire?

‘You can go now, Lieutenant-Commander Quinn.’

If they weren’t looking for him, how on earth would they have known that he was really a lieutenant-commander rather than a lieutenant, as stated on his ID card?