Between Silk and Cyanide (58 page)

I was mercifully unaware of the other 'curses' which would shortly become due, one of them known as Giskes.

On the night of 15 November the White Rabbit returned to England by Lysander with a female member of the French Resistance sitting on each knee (accommodation was strictly limited).

The three of them had already become closely acquainted as they'd travelled to their pick-up point in the back of a hearse. Unaccustomed to this form of transport, Tommy had prepared for all eventualities by arming himself with a sten-gun, hand-grenades and a bottle of brandy. The hearse had been stopped several times by German soldiers, who examined the undertaker's credentials but not the state of his corpses. Their final resting-place was a farm a few minutes from their airfield, and when they reached it they found that the entire area was being guarded by members of the local Resistance, none of whom had seen an Englishman since the fall of France. Their leader told Tommy that it was an honour to be able to protect a British officer who was such a good friend to their country.

This much, plus an explicit description of the drawbacks of travelling by hearse, I learned from my old schoolmate Lieutenant (now Captain) O'Bryan-Tear (the first to become suspicious of Duke Street's clear-texts). But he'd had to break off when Tommy walked in.

The details of Tommy's Marie-Claire mission came from little Kay Moore, deputy chairman of the White Rabbit fan club.

Making sure that he was out of earshot (never easy), she began by saying that although his code-name—Shelley—had become part of the language of French Resistance, and a high price had been put on his head, the RAF still hadn't confirmed the Military Cross he'd been put up for six months ago, which Duke Street believed he'd received meant that he was still forced to wear two tunics, one displaying his Croix de Guerre, the other displaying both decorations to convince Duke Street that helping the Free French was considered worthy of recognition.

Having vented at least some of her wrath, she said that she believed was about to be offered a DSO for his part in mission Marie-Claire Although the mission was by no means over, he and his partner Brossolette had achieved some astonishing results. With Brossolette's support, he'd 'done a Gubbins' on the Resistance movement leaders, uniting them, revitalizing them and giving them his word that he, Passy and Brossolette would ensure that London sent them everything they needed for their D-Day preparations. He'd also won the confidence of the rank-and-file freedom fighters (I wondered which girl was the rank and which the file), and the Committee of Resistance had asked for either him or Brossolette to remain in France when the other returned to London.

Having no authority to agree to this, they'd done so at once, and had promised to change places with each other at two-monthly intervals, Tommy was to be the first to leave to start fulfilling his assurancances. Kay warned me that he was already on the rampage for arms and supplies but without much success, and she'd never known him in a more difficult mood.

I hoped he'd rampage in my direction and spent several nights listening for his footsteps, but it was a week before he telephoned to say that he proposed to call round for a brief talk later that evening if was likely to be there.

I replied equally formally that it would probably be convenient.

His footsteps had lost none of their thunder nor his eyes their lightning, though they reflected a backdrop I hadn't seen before. The toss of that hearse, perhaps—or some other blackness which he found impenetrable?

I greeted his return in the time-honoured way by silently proffering the Corona Corona which I'd kept for the occasion. He seemed to be debating his right to indulge in such luxuries while his friend Brossolette was still in the field, but he finally produced a match-box and lit the cigar like the expert he'd become. The contentment which followed justified Havana's existence, if anything could. But it didn't last long.

'I'm here to talk about WOKs,' he thundered.

I remembered his enthusiasm (he first time he'd seen them and awaited his verdict like an apprehensive parent whose child was in the dock.

He said that putting aside the security aspects, which he didn't question, the system was a great improvement on the poem-code as it shortened the messages and saved time and mistakes. But the silk was extremely difficult to cut without causing it to fray, and this often damaged the unused keys. He was convinced that many agents would give up trying to cut them and risk being caught with their silks intact. He then opened his briefcase and silently handed me the remains of his WOK.

The silk was as grey as he was, and was so badly frayed that severat rows of figures were impossible to read

I pointed to the WOKs on the desk. 'Pick one at random, and see if it's easier to cut.'

He chose a WOK from the middle of the pile, took a small pair of scissors from his pocket, and a few seconds later cut away the top key as if it were a fingernail. He had a similar success with the next two keys. He then chose another WOK and repeated the experiment Again, nothing frayed apart from my nerves.

I explained that this was the first batch of WOKs on specially sensitised silk, and that they would be standard issue from now on. I apologized for the delay, and hoped he'd agree that we'd finally get it right.

He nodded and, to my great disappointment, held out his hand the return of his WOK. The Tommy of old, who understood children would have known that I was longing to keep it as a memento.

'You can have this if you like.' He offered me his French match and I liked very much.

'Thanks. How about this in part-exchange?' I proudly handed the first draft of the Free French code-book, but he barely glanced it until I told him what it was.

He then examined it page by page, and asked how the system worked.

I explained that all the code-groups would be re-enciphered on letter one-time pads, and assured him that they'd be on specially sensitized silk. He was silent for longer than I'd expected, then said in little more in a whisper that the Free French 'had every reason to be grateful for an excellent job'. He seemed to have forgotten that they had him thank for it.

'You're its godfather, you stupid sod. If you hadn't made me talk to Duke Street, there'd be no code-book.'

He studied the tip of his cigar. 'If I'm in any way responsible for this' he said, 'then I've helped to send the Free French at least one thing they need!' His face was grey with the weight of his unfulfilled promises.

Seeing no arms or supplies in the office, he nodded abruptly and turned to go.

'Can you spare a minute? I need your help with an urgent problem.'

He swung round at once. What can you tell me about periods?'

It was the first time I'd seen Tommy startled. 'Comment?' he said in reflex French. 'What did you say?'

I repeated the question.

'What periods are you talking about?'

'The monthly awkwards. Didn't the girls at Molyneux have them when you were managing director?'

The Rabbit leaned forward, sniffing the air in the immediate vicinity.

'Either you've been drinking or you've got some girl into trouble. Or am I being unfair to you and it's both?'

I told him it was neither, and that I was the one getting into trouble.

It took me five minutes to explain the forty-eight mistakes which had led me to research periods, and another five to admit that I had no idea what to do with the results.

Glancing up to ensure he hadn't left, I noticed that at least one of his eyes held a glint of amusement, and that a Corona Corona didn't fit fortably between twitching lips. He then sat at my desk like Tommy of old, and helped himself to one of Mother's black-market finest.

A crumb fell on his Croix de Guerre, which was as much official recognition as mother was likely to get.

Removing the intruder, he quietly explained that he didn't think he was the right person to advise me, as he wasn't an authority on the 'monthly awkwards', as I'd so delicately described them.

I replied that I couldn't think of a better person: his long experience of Molyneux mannequins could surely help me use the information I'd discovered without embarrassing the girls.

He sighed with relief. 'I thought you were asking me for a medical diagnosis. If you want advice on man-management, that's quite a different matter…'

Recalling his days at Molyneux as if they were part of his childhood, he said that mannequins were more than capable of looking after themselves, and that the only signs he'd seen of the 'monthly awkwards' had come from the male dress designers. In any case, didn't I realize that his mannequins and mine worked under slightly different 'circumstances'? Or did I make the coders change costumes several times a day and parade round the code room holding up their indecipherables?

At this point I gave up hope of being taken seriously, but should have known that he never ignored an SOS from anyone in SOE.

'… your safest course, if there is such a thing, would be to ask a woman you can trust to talk to the supervisors in confidence without letting them know you've put her up to it. But you'd have to choose her carefully.' He then listed her qualifications.

She must be considerably older than they were. She must be in charge of girls doing comparable work. She must be in a position to give the supervisor a guarantee of confidentiality, and be prepared to keep it. Above all, she must have the discipline to stick to her brief, which was to convince them that she was there to ask advice and not to give it.

At that moment there was a knock on the door, and the woman he might have been talking about came in to say goodnight.

Miss Saunders knew Tommy was the White Rabbit but never expected to meet him, and when I formally introduced her she blushed like the scarlet woman I hoped to turn her into.

He chatted to her with the wide-eyed innocence reserved for those who didn't know him, and then said that he'd been away from London for a bit, and would she mind if he asked her which department she worked for?

She replied that she looked after some of Mr Marks's girls.

'But not Mr Marks himself?'

'Oh no, Wing Commander. I know my limitations.'

'In that case, Miss Saunders, you're unique in SOE, and I hope Mr Marks realizes it.' It was his way of telling me that I need look no further.

He shook hands with both of us, and I felt the remnants of his WOK pressed into my palm. 'For your bottom drawer.' he said.

I caught a glimpse of his Barbara-face as he hurried away.

'What an extraordinary man,' Audrey whispered.

'I suppose he is. Now, Miss Unique in SOE, I've a delicate job for you.'

She listened in silence while I explained what was required of her, and to my astonishment she not only accepted the mission without hesitation but appeared to understand it.

Miss Unique left for the stations early the next morning, and turned forty-eight hours later apparently intact. Seated at my desk with a large notebook in front of her, she announced that the 'problem in question' certainly existed, though I'd greatly exaggerated the scale of it, and that 'various steps' were being introduced which would help to alleviate it. However, since they were none of my business she wasn't prepared to discuss them.

I respected her attitude but pointed out that the balance of our teams was at stake, and I badly needed to know the 'dates' of four key coders to ensure that they weren't on duty together.

A long debate ensued, but Mary Baker Eddy must have been on my side because Audrey finally relented and consulted her notebook. Thirty seconds later I knew the relevant dates and enciphered them using one-time pad the moment she'd left. In the interests of security and out of gratitude to Tommy I code-named the four girls Marie Claire, White and Rabbit.

Eight hours later Nick summoned me to his office to discuss 'a critical development concerning Holland'. He added that if I had any of Mother's coffee left he'd be glad if I'd bring it with me. I laced it with Father's brandy, and set out to hear the worst.

Nick was alone in his office except for the shadow of Giskes, and didn't look up as I hurried towards him (at one in the morning he couldn't be blamed for it).

He was studying a Top Secret folder, which he suddenly put face downwards on the desk as if tempted to join it. My Dutch reports were in front of him, and one of them was open, though I couldn't see at which page, I put the black coffee beside them.

Finally glancing up at me, he wasted no time on preliminaries.

'According to a report just in from Switzerland, the greater part of the Dutch Resistance is in enemy hands.'

Clearing his throat as if his career were lodged there, he instructed me not to interrupt him till he'd finished giving me the details. He then disclosed that Sprout (Pieter Dourlein) and Chive (Ben Ubbinck) had escaped from Haaren prison on 30 August, and had arrived in Switzerland two days ago. They'd at once reported to the Dutch military attache, and informed him, and subsequently the British consul, that the Germans had been waiting to arrest them when they landed in Holland (Chive in November '42; Sprout in March '43). They'd then supplied details of the dozens of other SOE agents in Haaren prison.

Pausing to comment that the coffee was even better than he remembered it, he proceeded to disclose the consequences of their arrival in Switzerland,

The head of C's Berne Station at once sent a message to his London HQ stating that the Germans knew all about SOE's codes, procedures and passwords, and were regularly exchanging traffic with London over dozens of captured sets.

C's controllers in London then transmitted a warning to their chief agents in Holland, which Nick quoted verbatim from his Top Secret folder, a sure sign that it was well past his bedtime: