The Prime Minister's Secret Agent

THERE WILL ALWAYS BE AN ENGLAND!

The graffito had been painted defiantly in blue on a brick wall in an alley off Piccadilly, near Green Park in London, during the Battle of Britain, in June 1940. Now, almost a year and a half later, it was faded, pockmarked, almost obliterated. Like London itself, like the British people, still standing alone against Hitler and bracing against imminent invasion of their island, it had seen better days.

Commander Ian Fleming walked past the scrawled sentiment with Dušan Popov, down Piccadilly to St. James’s Street, then made a sharp left onto the almost-hidden St. James’s Place. Their destination: Dukes Hotel, one of the Commander’s favorite haunts. In Fleming’s opinion, the bar at Dukes was the best place in London for a Martini, the American Bar at the Savoy notwithstanding.

Fleming was the private secretary and protégé of Rear Admiral John Godfrey, Director of Intelligence for the Royal Navy and the linchpin of all of the top-secret British intelligence agencies as well as the Prime Minister’s staff. He was a handsome man, with hooded, downward-slanted eyes, a largish nose, and full lips. He’d just returned from the United States, where he’d assisted Godfrey in writing a blueprint for a new intelligence agency for the U.S.
government, in the hope that it would help the existing ones overcome the petty infighting and withholding of information.

Fleming and Popov passed through Dukes’s elegant lobby with its graceful staircase to the dimly lit bar. “It’s not the same,” Fleming mused, shaking his head as they sat down on blue velvet chairs at a small table in the corner, where they couldn’t be overheard.

“What’s not the same?” Popov asked, beckoning to a waiter in a white coat. They were surrounded by the soft sounds of murmured conversations, punctuated by the occasional muted ring of the telephone from the front desk. “Champagne, my good man.”

Popov was known as an international playboy, a lawyer with an import–export business in Belgrade that often took him to London. He was handsome, almost louche, with a rakish self-confidence that made some of the women in the bar—as well as a few of the men—glance over with interest. His receding brown hair was brushed straight back, his complexion olive, and his eyes gunpowder gray. His hands were manicured.

“Nothing’s the same,” Fleming replied. “Dukes. London. All of Britain. It’s sad now, worn-out, disheartened. I brought you here instead of Boodle’s because I knew you’d appreciate the scenery.” The two men looked around the small bar. A fire crackled in the fireplace, but still the room was chill. Forced white hyacinths on one of the side tables drooped; they gave off the sickly sweet aroma of decay. A few older men and their lady friends sipped drinks.

Fleming lowered his voice. “But look at these women—too thin, wearing made-over gowns, their lipstick more wax than color. Last year, they would have been laughing and flirting. Now they just look tired—”

The waiter returned with a bottle of Champagne and popped the cork. He poured the pale liquid into two coupes.

Fleming lifted his to the light and inspected it. “—and even the Champagne’s flat.” During the first year of the war, Londoners had delighted in defying Hitler, making it their personal battle to drink and dance as much as they could to thumb their noses at the Nazis and their bombs, which rained down nightly. In the midst of tragedy, it had been a mark of honor to attend parties and the theater, even if evenings ended in bomb shelters. Those days were now gone. London was changed, scarred, depressed, nerves stretched to the breaking point.

“I passed by a factory the other day,” Fleming continued, taking a sip of Champagne. “There was all sorts of noise and banging hammers and singing—sawdust everywhere. And I thought,
How wonderful—life and industry go on
.” He grimaced at the wine’s taste and set the glass down. “Then I realized they were making coffins.”

Popov took a sip and, like Fleming, pushed it away. He lit a cigarette. “It’s bad in Berlin, too, if it makes you feel any better.”

“A bit,” Fleming admitted. He looked around to make sure they couldn’t be overheard. “Now, let’s hear what you have for us.” Popov was working for the British, as a double agent. He was Serbian by birth, born into an affluent Yugoslav family. And he was also a spy. First as agent “Ivan” for the Nazis, then as double agent “Tricycle” for the British.

Popov leaned in. “I’ve just returned from Lisbon,” he said in a low voice. “My Abwehr handler there wants me to set up a network of Nazi spies in the U.S. They have a number of willing recruits, but they’re so bumble-fingered that they were caught by the OSS. So Canaris wants me to go to the U.S. and do the job right. Specifically, the Germans want me to go to Hawaii.”

“Hawaii?” This surprised the usually unflappable Fleming. “That’s a bit off your usual beat, old thing.”

“My handler gave me a very interesting questionnaire, from the higher-ups at the Abwehr, who are working with the Japanese. He wants me to fill it out when I go to the United States next week.”

“Really.”

“It has to do with Pearl Harbor, to be exact. The U.S. just moved their fleet there, from San Diego. They want me to gather information to be passed to Germany, then on to the Japanese. Detailed questions about Pearl Harbor’s port facilities, fuel supply, fuel dumps, ammunition dump, ships and where they’re berthed. Detailed operational planning. Looks like the British attack on Taranto proved to be an inspiration. The Royal Air Force took out more than half the Italian fleet at one go. One can only assume that Japan wants to repeat a surprise Taranto-style raid at Pearl Harbor.”

Fleming shook his head. “Pearl’s too shallow.”

“When the RAF took out the
Regia Marina
in the harbor of Taranto they used aerial torpedoes, which took out the ships despite the shallow water.”

“Bloody hell.” Fleming took another sip of Champagne and grimaced again. “If the Japs attack Pearl Harbor—”

“—it might be just the thing to get Roosevelt and the Yanks into this war.” Popov sighed, tapping his cigarette’s ashes into a heavy crystal bowl.

“I’ll set up a meeting for you with Hoover at the FBI when you arrive in Washington.”

Popov leaned back in his chair, eyeing a new woman who’d entered the bar. “By the way, did you know that the Germans aren’t using invisible ink anymore?” he said, finally turning his attention back to Fleming.

“No?” Fleming cocked an eyebrow. “What are the Krauts using?”

“Microdots. Pages and pages of information, stored in a period
on a piece of paper. Here’s a telegram with one—have your people take a look at it.” He reached into the inside pocket of his dinner jacket and pulled out an innocuous-looking missive, laid it on the table. Then, “Speaking of the Abwehr, how is Clara Hess?”

Fleming sighed, then reached over and smoothly pocketed the envelope. “She’s been in the country for over two months now. We haven’t gotten much from her. But Churchill feels she’s worth more to us alive than dead.”

“Beautiful woman, Clara Hess.”

Fleming once again raised an eyebrow. “Her too?”

Popov shrugged. “What can I say? I have a reputation to uphold.” He smiled. “Frain says now that she’s defected, she wants to spy for Britain—become a double agent.”

“I don’t trust her.” Fleming pushed away his coupe. “However, that doesn’t mean she can’t be useful to us.” He beckoned to one of the white-jacketed waiters.

The man walked over and bowed slightly. “Is everything all right, gentlemen?”

Fleming waved a hand. “Please take away this ghastly excuse for wine—”