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By All Means Possible

SINCE DAWN, BRIGADIER COLIN Gubbins had supervised the SOE’s move into its headquarters at 64 Baker Street on July 15, 1941.

Born in 1896, his mother had given him a strong sense of duty and a piety governed by the demands of a responsive conscience. With it came his father’s sense of justice, logic, and integrity in an orderly mind. War and action had filled Gubbins’s own military life, during which he had learned that “thinking first before applying action was essential.” His deep-set eyes and voice warned all comers not to cross him. They never lost their look of searching for information. He gave the impression that all he heard he would keep secret, unless it was an essential ingredient for the policies that guided both diplomacy and war and served the needs of the decision makers. Churchill was always the first to hear his latest secret—not something from the nonstop gossip mill in Whitehall but information that could involve a current event.

On that summer’s day Gubbins went to his office on the fifth floor and stared out of a window at the ugly scars of a city at war—gaps in a row of buildings where a bombed shop or a café had stood, streets with sandbagged guard posts, and signs with arrows pointing to the nearest air raid shelter. In the sky hung barrage balloons to intercept the Luftwaffe if the bombers made another visit to be met by the Royal Air Force (RAF) Spitfires and the antiaircraft batteries stationed along the flight paths the Germans were known to use.

It would be after dark when the bombers came. By then the army engineers had promised Gubbins they would have finished installing a switchboard and checked its two hundred lines. He calculated the building would eventually need that number of phones by the time the SOE’s training schools and other facilities had opened across Britain. Already in London twenty-five offices were staffed by men who had served under him in Poland and Norway. He had selected them with the help of Sir Hastings Ismay, the chief of staff, when unhelpful Whitehall departments had challenged their transfer into the SOE’s headquarters.

Employees entered through an entrance with a black marble plaque mounted on the wall bearing the words INTER SERVICES RESEARCH BUREAU. Each person had signed the Official Secrets Act and been told that secrecy was their first duty; the smallest breach of the Act would result in arrest, trial, and imprisonment. In the creaky elevator that took staff up to their offices was a framed reminder. It depicted a finger on lips and the words NO TALK. NO SURPRISE. It was posted in every corridor and on the walls of every office.

To reinforce the need for secrecy, Gubbins created cover names for staff to use in any of their dealings with the War Office, Admiralty, or Air Ministry. They were to say they were calling from either the Joint Technical Board, the Special Training Headquarters, or the one Gubbins most enjoyed, the MO1 (SP), which staff joked stood for “Mysterious Operations in Secret Places,” or simply MOSP. By the end of the war some people in high places in military departments had never discovered what the acronym stood for.

Winston Churchill had defined the MOSP as “tangle within tangle, plot and counter-plot, ruse and treachery, cross and double-cross, true agent, false agent, double agent.”

To them he added the words of his favorite military strategist, Sun Tzu, the Chinese expert on guerrilla war: “The enemy must not know where I intend to give battle. For if he does not know where I intend to give battle he must prepare in a great many places. And when he prepares everywhere he will be weak everywhere.” Both the MOSP and Tzu’s words became the battlecry for the SOE.

The prime minister had sent both quotations to Gubbins. On that hot, somnolent July day, when the move into Baker Street was completed, he knew special means would be essential to defeating Adolf Hitler and the million German soldiers manning fortified defenses along the French coast, which Hitler boasted was the strongest since the Great Wall of China. He called it the Atlantic Wall.

The SOE would operate beyond it to provide the French people with their liberty, the first step to lifting the Nazi yoke off the rest of Europe.

Gubbins read every MI5 vetting report on his staff. A number were nationals of occupied countries who had fled to England. Their language skills and geographical knowledge of their countries made them suitable recruits.

But Britain was increasingly gripped by spy mania. B Section, the counterespionage department of MI5 headed by Guy Liddell, a cello-playing veteran spy hunter, faced a mounting task of checking reports that the nation was riddled with German spies who were embedded to prepare for Hitler’s invasion. The fear was fuelled by spy novels, tabloid newspapers, and an obsession that the Kaiser had sent spies to England in the First World War and that these had remained. They were said to be disguised as nuns, traveling salesmen, bank managers, and “those gentlemen who are the best behaved in your town,” the Sunday Express wrote. Robert Baden-Powell, the founder of the Boy Scout movement, insisted, “You can identify a spy from the way he walks—but only from behind.”

“There is a class of people prone to spy mania,” Winston Churchill told Gubbins, who dismissed it as a “Fifth Column neurosis.” An ice cream vendor was poisoning his cones. A psychiatrist at a mental hospital was training patients to kill politicians. There wasn’t a day when reports of nefarious activities didn’t land on Gubbins’s desk. They became stories to lighten his morning staff meetings.

Gubbins brought Margaret Jackson and Vera Long with him to Baker Street, both of whom had been his secretaries since the outbreak of war. He told Hugh Dalton, the minister of economic war, who was responsible for SOE salaries, that he wanted them paid on the same scale as lieutenants in the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. In staff relations, as with so much else, Gubbins was ahead of his time.

In the First World War the FANYs were known as the first arrivals as they collected the wounded from the battlefields and drove them to the French coast to be brought back to England.

Gubbins decided that all female staff in the SOE would wear FANY uniforms. Those who would be sent into France would not wear them but would hold an officer’s commission and their salaries would be banked for them in London until their return. However, he knew if they were captured they would almost certainly be executed as spies.

He had the gift of inspiring confidence that amounted to devotion, and both his secretaries typed some of the most secret communications of the war. More than once he asked either Jackson or Long to summarize important decisions made at meetings. Dressed in their FANY uniforms he would take them in turn to the War Office, or another Whitehall ministry meeting, to sit beside him and take perfect shorthand notes, which would be transcribed that night before they returned to their apartments farther down Baker Street. Next morning they would be at their desks in his outer office by 6:00 AM.

His workload grew, increased by the responsibility he carried for the lives of hundreds. At times his frustration boiled over, an anger that had started when MI6 had brought General Charles de Gaulle out of France in 1940 on Churchill’s orders. Since then de Gaulle had been approaching Frenchmen living in Britain to join the Free French force he was forming.

At their first meeting, de Gaulle insisted to Gubbins his movement would become a secret army into which the SOE’s French Section—F Section—should be absorbed. He reminded Gubbins he had come to London not only to establish a government-in-exile but also to use his “connections and reputation in France to prepare organized resistance.” The Free French would be the vanguard. Gubbins replied that while the movement was welcome to work alongside the SOE, there was no possibility of F Section being absorbed under the general’s command.

Gubbins decided he would make a change of the leadership of F Section. Its section head, H. R. Marriott, had developed “a false belief in his indispensability.” Gubbins replaced him with Maurice Buckmaster.

Buckmaster was forty-one years old, a tall, thin man with a slight stoop. He had gone to Eton College, one of England’s oldest and most prestigious prep schools, and had won a scholarship to study classics at Oxford. Afterward he went to France on a cycling tour and ended up on the staff of Le Matin, a Paris newspaper, as a reporter. Other jobs followed, including working in a public relations company that handled the accounts for the Ford Motor Company in France. In 1938 he returned to England and enlisted in the British Army. His knowledge of French led to him serving as an intelligence officer in the British Expeditionary Force sent to confront the German offensive sweeping across France. He was among the last units to be shipped out of Dunkirk and back to England in June 1940. He heard that a new organization was being created that needed French speakers with a military background.

“I called the War Office. Next day, I was told to come to London for an interview. It was with Gubbins. That’s how I joined SOE on March 17, 1941. Gubbins placed me in the Belgium section. Five months later I was head of F Section,” Buckmaster recalled.

Buckmaster’s appointment resulted in the section becoming the first to send women behind enemy lines.

Gubbins spent time choosing heads of sections. Though all had undergone positive vetting by MI5, he decided selection would not be based on a candidate’s family connections or school background, as was so often the route used by the armed forces.

With the patience of a headhunter, he made discreet inquiries about the service records of those whose names he had been given by members of his own network of military contacts. He had told them he was looking for men who had some experience in guerrilla tactics. Ideally they would have been at the Special Training Centre for commandos at Lochailort in the Scottish Highlands. Others had served under him in Poland or Norway.

Fluent in French, Polish, and Dutch, Gubbins tested each applicant’s language skill, then talked about their family, military background, and any special qualities he noticed in their military records. Once satisfied, he offered a candidate a post as head of a section and told him to sign the Official Secrets Act.

The men and women selected as agents underwent three weeks of assessment in paramilitary training and psychological tests and a further five weeks of training in Lochailort. Courses included handling a range of explosives and learning the technique of silent killing with a dagger. Ten inches long, the double-edged razor-sharp blade was designed to slice through a person’s throat in one stroke. Mannequins were used for practice. Those who showed an aptitude for Morse code were sent to a specialist training school to perfect their skills in sending encoded messages.

Field agents would be formed into small groups, known as circuits. Each would have an organizer who would recruit local resisters and be responsible for arming them and teaching them the techniques they had learned in the training school. Each circuit would have a courier to act as the link with other groups of local resisters and circuits.

“A courier will be constantly on the move, often by bicycle or train, traveling considerable distance to deliver messages. They run the risk of being caught by German patrols. A wireless operator must never operate a set for more than twenty minutes as the Germans have powerful detection vans which can detect Morse signals,” Gubbins said.

The briefing ended with the impact of his next words.

I have been given by Churchill authority for SOE to send women as couriers and wireless operators into France. Women are less likely to be bodily searched and their messages can be hidden in their underwear. Because many are trained typists they will also make better wireless operators. They will all be assigned to the French Section. The Geneva Convention of 1929 offers no protection to women combatants, let alone for the war which SOE will conduct.

He then told them how agents would be recruited.

Selwyn Jepson was forty years old when Gubbins appointed him for the delicate, serious, and individual work of choosing secret agents. With dark, wavy hair and a voice that moved conversations along at its own pace with a nod or smile, the post fit Jepson’s background. He was born in 1899 into a middle-class, respected London family. His father was a thriller writer and his mother a noted musician; his sister was a serious novelist, and a cousin, Fay Weldon, became a celebrated author. Jepson himself was a successful writer of books and screenplays.

Only Gubbins and Buckmaster knew why Jepson needed separate offices in different parts of London. One was where he interviewed men, and the other was where he selected women to be trained. None of the interviewees were ever brought to SOE headquarters in case they heard or saw something they did not need to know.

Jepson had his own office at SOE headquarters too, on the same floor as Gubbins. Within the building he became known as Captain Mosp, the SOE’s chief recruiter for mysterious operations. His books had pride of place on a shelf behind his desk in his fifth-floor office. They had titles like Puppets of Fate, The King’s Red-Haired Girl, and The Death Gong. Twenty-five of his thrillers had been published on both sides of the Atlantic. His screenplays had been turned into Hollywood movies like Kiss Me Goodbye, The Love Test, and Money Mad.

Jepson’s office allowed him to look down on Baker Street as SOE staff came in and out of the building. Some worked in offices along the corridor, and he exchanged pleasantries with them as they rode up in the elevator. The thin man with the bowlegs of a jockey; a tall figure in an RAF uniform who addressed anyone as “hullo, old cock”; a fat man with an engaging smile, which shone through discolored teeth; a fair-haired girl in a FANY uniform, one of the secretaries—Jepson had come to know them, the men by their frequently conspiratorial air, the women with warm smiles. Like him they arrived early for work and left late in the evening.

In between interviews Jepson spent the day in his office reading the latest letters the Ministry of Economic Warfare had received as a result of the BBC broadcast asking for photographs of “interesting areas” in Europe. They were sent to the Air Ministry to be assessed for possible targets. The letters with the photos included personal details of the senders who had escaped to Britain from Nazi-occupied Europe.

By the end of the day Jepson had selected who he would invite to come for an interview. Afterward, those he accepted would be sent to Orchard Court, a large, modern apartment block where Vera Atkins lived. Gubbins told Jepson that Atkins had a quality that would be of value when assessing the character of a recruit, especially women. Her apartment became an SOE base to interview every man and woman Jepson selected for a follow-up interview.

Born in Romania in 1908 to a German Jewish father and a South African Jewish mother, her real name was Vera Rosenberg. She came to England in 1936, having anglicized her mother’s name, Etkins, to Atkins, and had met Buckmaster, who had helped her naturalization and in 1941 had found her a job as a secretary in the SOE.

Gubbins appointed her as Jepson’s assistant as recruitment was fast picking up, and soon a number of potential agents would arrive at Orchard Court for Atkins’s follow-up interview.

Each interviewee was given a time to arrive at Orchard Court. The entrance was guarded by Atkins’s doorman and butler, Andrew Park, who had worked at the Savoy Hotel before being recruited by the SOE. Dressed in a dark suit and tie, he would lead the way to the gilded elevator gates and up to the second floor to Atkins’s apartment. Using his pass key he opened its doors and led the recruit down the hallway into a bathroom that Atkins used as a waiting room. Moments later he returned and led the person into Atkins’s office. The routine never varied.

Before each interview Atkins studied the assessment report Jepson had prepared on each candidate. Some had escaped from France and had never been in England before. Others had relatives there who had helped them find work in shops and cafés. Until they had been interviewed by Jepson and signed the Official Secrets Act they had no idea they had been recruited for secret work, except that it would involve speaking French and not to discuss it with anyone. A few admitted to Jepson—“Mr. Potter” to them—they had worked on French Resistance escape lines. Some had just fled across the Channel.

Jepson’s reports enabled Atkins to judge the character of each agent within a few minutes of meeting them.

Tall, slim, and in her midthirties, Atkins would smile, proffer her hand, and lead her visitor to an office armchair, before sitting opposite in another. Lighting a cigarette she would settle her blue-gray eyes upon the new recruit and began to explain why he, or more often she, had been chosen to be trained for “special work,” adding that she would follow their progress day by day to the time she would accompany them to the airfield where they would get their final briefing for their secret mission into Nazi-occupied Europe. More than one recruit left her office excited and eager to begin work for this woman who exuded such confidence.

In the summer of 1940, the mood in President Roosevelt’s White House was uncertain. Across the Atlantic, the RAF fought the Luftwaffe for mastery of the skies over England. The city of Coventry had been destroyed, and thousands of Londoners huddled in bomb shelters and subways, while Churchill continued to promise in his BBC broadcasts that Britain would never surrender and predicted “the time will come when the New World with all its power will step forth to the rescue and liberation of the Old.”

The prime minister was too adroit a politician to say he was counting on the United States to openly support his optimism. Some of its radio networks had started to repeat BBC broadcasts from London with a new sound: the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, three dots and a dash, which created the Morse code for V—for victory. In occupied Europe the pattern was used to knock on doors, blow train whistles, and honk car horns. Churchill used two straight fingers to signal V for victory. The press attaché at the British embassy in Washington circulated a photo of the gesture to newspapers. The German embassy issued a press release: “Churchill should not think he can win the war by making a silly gesture.”

The first of thirty-two thousand British children evacuated to the United States onboard the Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth came ashore in New York singing the two new songs from back home. The fall of France had inspired “The Last Time I Saw Paris,” and the London Blitz had led to “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.”

The children found themselves welcomed into American homes equipped with appliances and consumer durables most had never seen before—refrigerators, radios, telephones, electric fans, and air conditioning. Hollywood provided 90 percent of the world’s movies they were taken to see. Those who were sent from New York to places like Kansas learned it had more cars than all of Great Britain. There were skyscrapers in the cities and passenger planes to take them to their new homes across the nation.

American youth taught British children a new language: girls spoke of boys as “smooth” and girls were “neat” or “terrific.” Their hosts took the newcomers to church on Sundays, and families would gather around the radio on Friday evenings to listen to President Roosevelt’s fireside chats.

Newspapers, with advertisements very different from the ones in England, carried daily Gallup polls; one revealed the favorite adjective of that summer was tantamount—as in every Roosevelt order was “tantamount to declaring war.” Key Pittman, the chair of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, proposed that “British people should give up their home island and retreat to Canada.”

Charles H. Lindbergh, who had become a national hero after flying solo across the Atlantic and a figure of sadness after his baby son was kidnapped and murdered, shared with the nation his views on the international situation at a New York rally in Madison Square Garden.

We are in danger of war today not because people have attempted to interfere in America, but because we American people have attempted to interfere with the internal affairs of Europe. We need not fear foreign invasion unless American people bring it through their own quarrelling and meddling with affairs abroad. We are surrounded by people who want us to go to war. These are men seizing every opportunity to push America closer to the edge and want to lead us into conflict across the Atlantic and bring it to our doorstep.

The reporters gathered below the platform scribbled furiously while Lindbergh waited for the applause to stop before he continued.

“We have all heard Mr. Churchill’s promise that Britain will go on to the end. That it will fight on the seas and oceans and in the air. That is fine for Britain. But we do not need it here.”

Brushing aside questions, Lindbergh walked off the platform and was driven away. The next day, he resigned his commission as an Air Corps colonel. The speech was heavily criticized as being anti-Semitic. In response, Lindbergh insisted again he was not anti-Semitic, but he did not back away from his statement. Another Gallup poll reported that 90 percent of Americans would fight if America was invaded but only 10 percent would do so if America was not invaded.

In Jeanette, Pennsylvania, a gun club started to practice marksmanship so that its members would be ready to pick off descending Nazi parachutists. A hamburger chain changed the word hamburger to liberty steak. Time magazine quoted a new word—blitzkrieg. It was soon attached to every story from the war front in London. The House of Lords, adjacent to Parliament and Big Ben, had been hit by a bomb; Buckingham Palace had been struck by five bombs.

The thirty-second president of the United States knew that the United Kingdom was taking terrible punishment and the pound Sterling was falling on Wall Street. Roosevelt brooded about all this while convalescing from a severe sinus attack in the Caribbean sun aboard the cruiser Tuscaloos when a navy seaplane landed alongside to deliver a letter from Winston Churchill. It had been hand couriered by a Queen’s messenger across the Atlantic and delivered onboard by the British ambassador, Lord Lothian. He would remember how Roosevelt carefully opened it with a knife, read it slowly, and then retreated to a sun chair on the deck.

“He sat there alone and read and reread the letter for two days. He took his meals in his cabin. When he did appear on deck to enjoy the sun he had the look of a man coming to an important decision,” the ambassador recalled.

Churchill’s letter asked if the president “working within the American Constitution could prevent Britain being stripped to the bone.”

The answer to Churchill’s appeal became known worldwide as the Lend-Lease Act. It was fortuitously numbered H. R. 1776 and was titled “A Bill Further to Promote the Defense of the United States, and for Other Purposes.” It set out in the opening preamble “to provide aid to any country whose defense the President deems vital to the defense of the United States.” It gave Roosevelt powers no other president had ever requested.

Before the bill became law, Roosevelt, his sinus condition cured, was back in the White House. As 1940 came to an end, he once more sent for William Joseph Donovan. Since 1936, the Wall Street lawyer had acted as the president’s fact finder after Hitler came to power. Roosevelt told no one why he summoned Donovan.

A woman who was to become a key agent in the coming war was already on the MI6, the Secret Intelligence Service, payroll, and this after gaining her hunger for espionage during the Spanish Civil War.

Betty Pack was tall, slim, and beautiful, with bright auburn hair and deep green eyes. Born into a life of privilege in Minneapolis, Minnesota, on November 22, 1910, she had been christened Amy Elizabeth Thorpe, but everyone called her Betty. Her father, George, was a decorated officer in the US Marines, and her mother, Cora, had been educated at a number of top universities, including the Sorbonne in Paris. Throughout Betty’s childhood the family moved around a great deal, settling first in Cuba and then Hawaii, where George was given command of marines at Pearl Harbor.

In 1922 George Thorpe retired, and the family, which by now included two younger siblings for Betty, moved to Washington. With time on his hands, George and his wife planned a grand tour of Europe. Arriving in France in the spring of 1923, the family traveled to Monte Carlo and then Rome, Naples, and eventually Germany. Betty then spent three months studying French at a boarding school for young women on the shores of Lake Geneva. Her trip gave her an excellent understanding of the French language and a love of Europe.

Back in Washington, she socialized with the city’s elite, got to know Italian and Spanish diplomats, and was presented to Washington society in November 1929, a day before her nineteenth birthday. A few days earlier Betty, who had already had more than one sexual relationship, seduced Arthur Joseph Pack, a commercial secretary at the British embassy. Betty and Arthur had been guests at a weekend house party when he found her waiting for him naked in his bed. Arthur was thirty-eight and a veteran of the Great War, but he was no match for Betty. He was smitten, and by February 1930 they were engaged to be married. By then Betty was pregnant. The wedding was brought forward, and they were married at the end of April 1930. The couple then traveled to Britain. A son, Tony, was born on October 2, 1930. Some have speculated, perhaps unkindly, that Tony may not have been Arthur’s son, and Arthur certainly acted coldly toward the baby, but this may have been due to his embarrassment over the obvious fact that the child had been conceived out of wedlock. Arthur advertised for a foster-mother, and Tony was taken away to be raised by a couple in Shropshire, England.

Arthur’s career as a diplomat developed, and the couple moved to Santiago, Chile, where he accepted a post. They lived well and again mixed with high society, and on New Year’s Eve 1934, Betty gave birth to a daughter, Denise. Betty learned Spanish, but still only twenty-one, she quickly grew bored with the much older embassy wives. To make life more bearable she took up horseback riding and joined the Santiago polo club, where she began an affair with a wealthy industrialist.

In 1935 Arthur Pack was transferred to the British embassy in Madrid. Life in Spain began well, with bridge nights and picnics in the Sierra de Guadarrama, but once again Betty grew bored. She and Arthur befriended a couple named Carlos and Carmencita Sartorious, who introduced them to the “authentic” Spain of bullfights and shooting. Betty and Carlos, an officer in the Spanish air force, began an affair, meeting in a borrowed penthouse apartment to make love. These liaisons went on for about a year while around them the country slipped toward civil war.

Just days before it broke out, on the orders of the British ambassador, Sir Henry Chilton, Arthur, Betty, and their daughter Denise left Madrid and traveled across the border to Biarritz in southern France. Together with Denise’s nurse and her own child, they set up home in a rented villa. But as the fighting intensified, Arthur quickly became concerned for his embassy colleagues in the “summer embassy” in the northern Spanish city at San Sebastián, and on July 21, he set out on a four-hour journey to check on them. Two days later he had not returned, and Betty got her chauffeur to take her on a mission to find him. She was stopped in the border town of Irún and imprisoned by the Republicans. After an uncomfortable time in a basement jail, she managed to persuade her captors that she was not one of Franco’s spies, and she and her chauffeur were escorted back across the border into France.

Betty was not to be dissuaded from trying again and set out on the same journey two days later. This time she met a more agreeable border guard who granted her a one-day pass and an escort of two militiamen. Betty reached San Sebastián and found her husband and the other embassy staff safe.

Arthur was angry that Betty had put herself in danger; but she reveled in it and even managed to smuggle five Franco supporters out of the city with her. She was back in Biarritz by late evening. It had been a wild and dangerous mission, bringing with it the same rush of adrenaline she had experienced from a love affair.

Her husband helped with the evacuation by ship of a number of Britons trapped by the war, then set up a temporary embassy in the border town of Hendaye. From there, Betty, whose personal loyalties were with the Catholic Church and Franco’s forces, watched Irún burn. She mourned for Spain but also feared for her lover, Carlos, about whom she had heard nothing since they had fled Madrid. When a Spanish aristocrat friend suggested they visit Spain while Arthur was away on business in England, she eagerly accepted his invitation. In Burgos, Betty met the head of the Spanish branch of the International Red Cross and volunteered to smuggle in much-needed medical supplies.

Over the next few weeks she made two trips into Burgos with medicines. She also carried a letter addressed to Ambassador Sir Henry Chilton from Franco’s foreign minister, Vizconde de Santa Clara Avedillo. It was an appeal to the British government to recognize Franco. Sir Henry reacted angrily to the letter, as the British government’s sympathies were turning against Franco. He told Betty she was putting her husband’s career in peril. She brushed off the criticism, but when she returned to Burgos with more medical supplies she found she had been denounced to Franco’s military headquarters as a Republican spy.

Within the space of a few days Betty was accused of being a spy for the Republicans and for Franco. She vehemently denied the accusation of being a spy for anybody and managed to persuade the Nationalist officer sent to arrest her that the person who had denounced her was a wronged woman, and she escaped back over the border to the sanctuary of the British embassy.

Only Commander Don Gomez-Beare, who would become Britain’s naval attaché in Madrid during World War II, knew that Betty, on visits to Burgos, was being “used as a useful informant . . . to British Naval Intelligence.” She was reporting to Admiralty intelligence on conditions inside Nationalist-held Spain and on her conversations with the many high-ranking Nationalists in her social circles.

Betty Pack had become a spy. Within months, she would become an official recruit to the Secret Intelligence Service and a secret agent for MI6—a stepping stone to becoming an SOE and OSS spy.