With each step up those winding stairs, Thorley’s frayed nerves tightened an invisible band around his chest, making him more and more anxious. His throat had a dry coppery taste, as if he’d been running for miles and his head throbbed with every heartbeat.
Reaching the fourth floor, Thorley noted it was much the same as the other three, only here the old portraits alternated with framed prints of foxhunting scenes and brass sconces that sprouted from the walls every few feet, casting a weak amber light that did nothing to dispel the gloom. As for the Lieutenant’s warning, he needn’t have bothered. There was no one about, the only noise being the incessant chatter of a lone Teletype somewhere nearby.
The Director’s office lay at the very end of the hall, the door leading into it resembling something out of a medieval castle: stout, secretive, impregnable. All it said was: Private.
Typical MI6.
No secrets would ever escape from behind a door like that, and once more Thorley had to fight an irrational impulse to turn and flee, as if he instinctively knew, somehow, there would be no turning back once he crossed that threshold.
He raised his hand and knocked. It was answered almost immediately by a callow-faced youth dressed in a somber pinstriped suit. The young man’s lips creased into a chilly smile. “Come right in, Mr. Thorley,” he said, with the proper air of condescension. “They’re waiting.”
“Thank you.”
Thorley walked past the young man and into the room. Spacious by anyone’s standard and paneled in the same dark wood as the foyer and the hallway, it boasted floor to ceiling bookshelves rimming the entire room. The only parts of the room excepted were the bank of sash windows facing out onto Broadway, its heavy blackout curtains pulled back to let in the last rays of the dying sun, and the ornate mantled and grated fireplace. A fire blazed there now, casting its saffron glow onto the mahogany desk that dominated the room. The fire was wholly inappropriate, at least for Thorley, who’d begun to sweat.
Aside from the young man who’d answered the door, three other men occupied the office. Thorley recognized his superior, Sir Basil Ravenhurst standing by the mantel examining a petite Ming vase with all the intensity of an entomologist about to spear a prized specimen with a pin. Tall and razor thin, he boasted a full head of shocking white hair and a handlebar mustache to match under a sharp aquiline nose. Smoke swirled about his head emanating from his trademark Meerschaum, and he was dressed—as always—in crisply pressed trousers and navy-blue cardigan. He turned to face Thorley.
“Ahh, Thorley, good show. On time, as always. Please, sit down.” He indicated a leather wingback chair. It was entirely too close to the fire, but Thorley took it, feeling the soft leather molding to his form with a whispered groan. He had to make an effort not to appear that he was slouching, adding to the litany of his discomforts.
Sir Basil turned to the two men sitting next to each other on the matching leather divan. “Allow me to introduce William Atwater, Director of MI6, and Peter MacIlvey of SOE.”
Atwater, a florid faced man with sand-colored hair and a nervous twitch in his left eye, smiled and nodded. “Pleased I’m sure.”
MacIlvey only nodded, his gray eyes boring holes through Thorley’s head. Bald and pasty complexioned, and dressed in a dark blue double-breasted suit, he seemed more like a funeral director than an intelligence operative.
“Michael,” Sir Basil continued, “we invited you here because we have a problem of a very delicate nature—”
“Sir, I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?”
Sir Basil looked puzzled for a moment. “Good Lord, no! Why on earth would you think that?”
Thorley felt foolish. “Your note, it didn’t really say anything. I— I assumed that one of my translations was faulty in some way....”
“Nonsense, old boy,” Sir Basil said, “Your work is exemplary, absolutely top-notch.”
“What Sir Basil is trying to say,” Atwater interrupted, “is that we need your help.”
“I’m still not convinced he’s the man for the job,” MacIlvey cut in, his dour expression deepening. “He’s got no bloody field experience at all. Nothing.”
Thorley glanced around the room. “Field experience?”
Sir Basil threw MacIlvey a dark glare and then turned to Thorley, his expression softening. “Michael, we’ve recently had a communication from the German forces in Finland. They’re requesting that we send in an agent, someone who speaks fluent German. Apparently, they want no misunderstandings.”
Thorley sat up straighter in his chair and leaned forward. “Are you telling me that you want to send me behind enemy lines? To Finland? Me?”
Atwater nodded. “That’s exactly correct, Mr. Thorley.”
“I don’t like it,” MacIlvey spat.
This man’s sour attitude and his obvious antagonism made Thorley angry, enough to overcome his natural reticence in front of superiors. “And who are you, sir, if I may ask? I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of SOE.”
MacIlvey glared back at Thorley. “That’s none of your business.”
“You men asked me here, I believe it is.”
Sir Basil chuckled and clapped MacIlvey on the knee. “Easy now, Pete. Thorley’s right. The least we can do is tell him the truth.” He turned to Michael. “SOE stands for Special Operations Executive and is charged with training and sending agents behind enemy lines, the purposes of which are manifold. The mission we wish you to undertake falls under Pete’s jurisdiction, and he has the final authority on whomever we choose.”
Thorley saw MacIlvey studying him with newfound interest and nodded. “Why me? Like Mr. MacIlvey said, I have no field experience. Why not use one of your own agents? Surely some of them can speak German as well as I.”
“Quite so, Michael,” Atwater replied. “The truth is the Germans specifically asked for someone who was, as they put it, clean, someone outside of our network. And as far as we’re concerned, anyone we send will have his cover blown, anyway. His field career will be over.”
“So, you might as well send in someone who’s never had one to begin with.”
“Exactly.
“Why should we trust them? They’re the enemy!”
“Because, Mr. Thorley,” MacIlvey interjected, “it is in our best interest in this case to honor their request.”
“Still doesn’t answer my question. Why me?”
Atwater rose to his feet and began to pace the length of the room. “Because you went to school in Germany, Michael. You know the culture. You know how they act—how they think. And because you speak the language without an accent, you’ll be able to pass as a German if the need arises.”
Thorley’s eyes flicked over to Sir Basil, who watched him now as intently as MacIlvey. “If they know I’m British, why would I need to pass for German?”
“That’s not important right now, Michael,” Sir Basil said, relighting his Meerschaum. “What is important is that we have a man whom we can trust, a man who can see past any attempt to lie to us. Can you understand that?”
Thorley nodded.
“Of course,” MacIlvey said, “you’ll have to be commissioned as a formality. None of my operatives are civilians.”
“You’ll become a Major in the Royal Guards with a significant increase in your current pay. Is that agreeable?” Atwater smiled, his face taking on a paternal glow.
“Before I say anything one way or the other,” Thorley replied, leveling his gaze at the others, “I want to know what you’re holding back.”
The three older men glanced at one another, their expressions guarded, then Sir Basil nodded, his sober countenance softening with a smile. “I knew you were the right man,” he said, “even if old Pete here still has his doubts. You’ve always looked beyond the obvious. “Unfortunately, we can’t tell you anything more. We don’t know what it is they want to show us, and they won’t say. All they will say is that it’s a matter of the utmost importance. That the entire course of the war will be affected by it.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “A surrender, perhaps.”
“We thought of that, and we aren’t ruling it out, but this doesn’t have the same ring to it as their entreaties in the past. It’s something else, something altogether bad, I’m afraid.” The older man approached Thorley and laid a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “Michael, I’ve known for some time that you’ve been dissatisfied with your job. I would have to be a doddering old fool not to have seen it. And while your work has always been impeccable, even a doddering old fool can see that sitting out this war’s killing you from the inside out.”
Thorley glanced up at Sir Basil, noting the older man’s impassioned gaze.
“I know it’s risky,” Sir Basil continued, “but we need to find out what’s behind all this. If what they’re saying is true, we might shorten this bloody war. I think we all want that.”
“Yes, sir,” Michael said.
“The Germans have assured us that you’ll be protected at all times. And you won’t be alone; the Swiss will be there, as well.” He paused again, his emotions welling. “I don’t want to see you consume yourself, Michael. You’re too bloody valuable to waste. That’s why we’re giving you this chance. And I hope you’ll take it, but if you don’t, I’ll certainly understand.”
Thorley found his mind a raging torrent of conflicting emotions. Here was the chance to take a stand, to really contribute to the war in a way that no one could ever dispute. On the other hand, it was very likely a contribution he would never be able to talk about, and worse, one from which he might never return. Still, there were thousands of men taking the same risks every day, and dying. What right did he have to refuse?
And then there was Sir Basil. That the old man had thought highly enough of him to trust him with this mission touched him deeply. He only hoped he could live up to the other man’s image of him.
Thorley let out a breath, feeling the tensions of the day leave him in a rush. “All right then,” he said finally, “I’ll do it, if you’ll have me.”
Sir Basil nodded, his proud expression turning serious. “There’s just one other thing,” he added, returning to his place beside the hearth. “You must leave tonight, now in fact.”
Thorley’s eyes widened. “Now? But my wife, I’ll need to tell her.”
MacIlvey was shaking his head vigorously. “Not possible. You accept the assignment—it must be on our terms.”
They had him. They’d played him like a prized fiddle, as the Americans were so fond of saying—knew exactly what it would take to win him over. The odd thing was, he didn’t even mind so much.
Thorley went to the window and gazed onto the London skyline. In years past, the lights would have made the city glow like a magical place, a place of myriad possibilities. Now, the grand old town was dark, a place of shadows and furtive machinations. Now, he was being asked to be a part of those machinations.
Looking southeast past the houses of Parliament, he imagined he could see all the way to Brixton, to his house on Benedict Road with its fenced-in yard and the cast iron bird bath adjacent to the narrow flagstone walk.
I’m sorry, sweetheart, but it’s something that I need to do. I hope you’ll understand.
He turned from the window and faced the three older men. “All right, then, let’s have it.”
Then they told him.
As he listened to them quietly and calmly outlining the mission, he wondered if perhaps he wasn’t making the biggest mistake of his life.