Between Silk and Cyanide (43 page)

Aggression was their common denominator, and each of them had as much in his make-up as a saint's unconscious. They taught me (without knowing it) that I was only half doing my job. It wasn't enough to give agents safe codes and reliable security checks. These were defensive measures.

We must mount a deception scheme to convince the enemy that they confronting poem-codes, when in fact they were dealing with WOKs. LOPs would be harder to counterfeit, but could be thought about later. I christened the offensive 'Operation Gift-horse' and decided to forget it for a week to give its flaws a chance to emerge.

But Gift-horse refused to canter away, and I spent several hours jotting down the clues which would most attract the enemy.

Late that night someone knocked on the door so I knew it couldn't be Tommy.

Maurice Buckmaster apologized for disturbing me, slumped into a chair, and was silent for thirty seconds, which may well have set a record.

I expected bad news about Peter and Odette.

'I wish that damn canteen was open' he finally said.

That at least I could remedy.

Between mouthfuls of mother's sandwiches, he again apologised for disturbing me, then blurted out a name.

'Noor Inayat Khan!'

Getting no response, he explained that she was a W.T. operator who'd finished her course at Beaulieu, and was due to be dropped into France in ten days' time.

He stressed that although Beaulieu hadn't had to teach her a damn thing about operating a set as she'd previously been trained by the R.A.F. ('who were damn sorry to lose her'), the problem was that 'that bastard Spooner' (Beaulieu's C.O.) had 'taken against her', and had written a report saying that she was 'temperamentally unsuitable' to be an agent, and would be a major security risk if she were sent| to the field. 'Which is absolute balls' said Buckmaster, returning somewhat to normal. He admitted that all her Instructors agreed with Spooner's reservations.

'What else could one expect from that mob of second-raters?'

He then confided that 'that damn busybody' had sent a copy of his report to Baker Street, and the question of whether Noor would be allowed to go to France was now in the balance.

Restoring his own equilibrium with the help of mother's cake he conceded that Noor's character needed more understanding than Spooner and Co could possibly provide.

His face betraying a hint of tenderness, he described her as an 'sensitive somewhat dreamy girl' who'd spent her childhood in Paris, and thought that her bi-lingual French would be far more useful to the resistance in France than it could ever be to the R.A.F.

After a moment's pause, he said he thought I should know she'd been given a 'mystical upbringing' by her father, an Indian Prince! Despite his influence, she could be practical when necessary, and could think a damn sight more quickly than Spooner. He added with paternalistic pride that she'd even had a book published.

I asked him for its title and he thought it was 'the Tales of Jakarta', couldn't remember its publishers.
[21]

A blob of cream gave his face its only hint of colour.

Unaware of his moustache, he reminded me that she'd been given a 'stinking report' by her coding-Instructor, but had an appointment with me on June 7th for her final briefing.

He then looked at me with Gubbins-like penetration. 'I'm going ask a favour of you,' he said, an unusual approach from Maurice, even at his most exhausted.

Then I learned what the favour was I was disappointed that he considered it one. He wanted me to give Noor one of my 'extended briefings'. In his opinion, nothing less would ensure that she not only understood her code-conventions but wouldn't forget them when she arrived in France. But under no circumstances must I give her one of the new silk codes. It might thoroughly confuse her and she'd be just as likely to leave it lying around. 'I must admit,' he said, 'that Noor has a tendency to be absentminded.'

'Haven't we all?' I replied, wondering if I should tell him about cream on his nose. (He was always delighted when his rival de Gaulle had egg on his face, which was most of the time.)

He then reminded me that I'd given Roger (Cammaerts) an extended briefing, and that he'd turned out to be an excellent coder.

'And look at the rubbish they wrote about him.' he said. 'Now he's one of the best men I've got.' ('Plodder' Cammaerts, written off by Instructors, was now one of F section's most reliable organizers, though the competition was decreasing daily.)

Having vented his indignation, Maurice tried the effect of a whisper.

'Will you do the same for Noor? And can you spare the time to send me a written report on her?'

I didn't answer him immediately because of what he'd withheld. I knew that Spooner had sent adverse reports on her to the controller of the French, Belgian and Dutch directorates (Robin Brook) and to SOE's liaison officer with the Chiefs of Staff (Brigadier Mockler-Ferryman), hoping that the latter would refer the dispute to Gubbins, with whom Maurice was temporarily out of favour.

I also knew that an attempt had been made to drop Noor in May but her plane had had to turn back as there was no reception committee waiting. (I hadn't given her a final code-briefing because F section had failed to notify us she was leaving.)

Nor had Maurice admitted that because of recent losses in the field he was desperate to send another WT operator to France, and that Noor was the only one available.

It was tempting to tell him that the Signals directorate picked up more gossip than the country sections did agents, and that he shouldn't try to involve us in high-level battles without a proper briefing. 'I'll spend as long with her as it takes,' I said.

'And send me a written report afterwards?' He was obviously counting on it being favourable. He might also be afraid that Noor had forgotten how to code.

'Certainly, Maurice.'

He said something in French which I took to be thanks, shook my hand, and de Gaulled out of the office.

I looked up 7 June in my diary. Muriel had pencilled in an hour-long appointment with Noor Inayat Khan. I extended it to three. Any longer than that and I might emerge as an Indian mystic.

On the morning of the 6th I contacted Noor's publishers, introduced myself as the son of 84, and asked if they had a copy of The Jakarta Tales.

Astonished to be asked for one, the manager agreed to make it available at once, and allowed me a trade discount. I sent a WOK-maker to pick it up, and re-read Noor's 'stinking report'.

Her instructor, a virile young lieutenant, had summarized her coding as 'completely unpredictable' but may have had something his mind as he'd spelt it 'unpredicktable'. My suspicions were confirmed when he was happy to spend his lunch-hour discussing her on the telephone.

According to young virile, the 'potty princess' had caused more dissension than any pupil in the history of Beaulieu. No two instructors could agree on quite how bad an agent she'd be. Yet none of them could deny that she was an excellent WT operator, though she tended to stay on the air as if she were part of it. They were also unanimous that her 'crackpot father' was responsible for her 'eccentric behaviour'.

I pressed him for details of Daddy and a formidable picture emerged.

The 'crackpot' was head of a mystical sect (the Sufi), and had founded the 'House of Blessing' in Paris, where Noor had spent her childhood. He'd also founded Sufi lodges in most European capitals in order to spread the doctrine of love and forgiveness, but his 'Houses of Blessing' were a curse to Beaulieu.

'Do you know what the bastards taught her? That the worst sin you could commit was to lie about anything.'

The result of this disastrous programming, she was unable to observe even the most elementary precautions. He was happy to provide a few examples.

Beaulieu had sent her on a WT exercise, and she was cycling towards her 'safe-house' to practise transmitting when a policeman and asked her and asked what she was doing.

'I'm training to be an agent,' she said, 'here's my radio—want me to show it to you?' She then removed it from its hiding place and invited him to try it.

Like all Beaulieu trainees, she was given a mock interrogation by the Bristol police, after which the superintendent in charge told Spooner not to waste his time with her 'because if this girl's an agent then I'm Winston Churchill'.

She'd been so startled by an unexpected pistol shot that she'd gone Sufi-like trance for several hours, and finally emerged from it to consult a Bible.

H hoped this would be a help to me, and rang off to have his lunch.

I'd lost my appetite for food, crackpots and extended briefings.

•       •       •

On the morning of the 7th (the ordeal was at noon), I received a call from tiny Kay Moore to thank me for Valois's prefixes, and to solicit twenty more. As a contra-account, she gave me the latest news of Tommy.

Our mutual friend was in nearly as much trouble as he caused. On 19 May he'd been awarded the Croix de Guerre (with palm) for his services to France (which made him the first Englishman to be decorated by de Gaulle, other than with acid), but the Air Ministry refused to allow him to wear it on the grounds that no British officer can accept foreign decorations without official permission. Nor did the Air Ministry accept that de Gaulle had the right to bestow it, and it had taken several onslaughts by Hutchison to persuade 'the cretins' to allow Tommy to wear his Croix de Guerre. But this was only the start of his problems.

He'd also been awarded the Military Cross by the British, and his delighted French friends had given a party in his honour at Duke Street. He was then informed (without any reason being given) that the Air Ministry had refused to sanction his MC and that he must stop wearing it at once. This time even the combined wrath of Hutchison, CD and Gubbins couldn't persuade the Air Ministry to reverse its decision.

It was one insult too many for Tommy. Angry at having to find excuses to explain to his friends at Duke Street why it had taken him so long to wear his Croix de Guerre (his usual pretext was that it was on his other uniform), he was determined not to let them know that he was having even greater problems with his MC. His solution was vintage Tommy.

Whenever he was in Dorset Square he wore a tunic with only the Croix de Guerre on it. Whenever he visited Duke Street (which was several times a day) he changed into a spare tunic, on which Barbara had sewn both decorations. It was a delicate operation because if Hutchison caught him in flagrante delicto, he would have no alternative but to order him to remove the MC.

Tommy had repeatedly told Kay that he couldn't wait to return to the peace and quiet of occupied France.
[22]

I thanked Kay for her contra-account, and was reading the last few pages of The Jakarta Tales in a desperate attempt to become Noor-minded when I heard my favourite footsteps. Tommy hurried in wearing a tunic with the Croix de Guerre on it. He was carrying a briefcase and a parcel.

Stripping off his authorized tunic, he removed his Duke Street version from the parcel and quickly put it on. 'Malpractice makes perfect,' he muttered, followed by a string of French imprecations. He said that his normal changing room, the bog in Dorset Square, was occupied, probably by Hutch to judge from the noises, and that the next best safe-house was my office. Could he leave his tunic with me for the next few hours?

I promised not to use it as an ashtray, except in emergencies.

Blancing at my desk, which was fortunately devoid of de Gaulle's secret messages, he said he was delighted to learn from Kay that I'd stopped playing silly buggers with Valois. He then demanded to be know what I had against the Free French using their own code for their political messages.

I hesitated, always a mistake with Tommy, and he looked at me sharply. 'They send us the clear-texts so what's all the fuss about?' Although it was more distasteful to prevaricate with Tommy than with anyone else in Baker Street, including myself, I hastily explained that I had no idea what code the Free French were using.

'I should bloody well hope not. A deal's a deal.' he softened slightly. 'What's worrying you? Perhaps I can help.'

I almost told him the truth, but MCs and Croix de Guerre are not 'won by almosts, and I was no candidate for either. I said that having to memorize two coding systems was clearly overloading the agents' because they sent so many indecipherables in their secret code. They've not sent a single one since I've been back. And, now I come to think of it, I don't remember any for the last six months.'

The 'now I come to think of it' worried me.

It was essential to change the subject before he put two and two together and came up with a Marks.

I was curious about his latest code-name, and asked how he'd come to be called the White Rabbit. 'I work for a fucking mad hatter's tea party' he said. 'Can you think of a better reason?'

Without waiting for a reply, he pointed to a pile of WOKs on the desk. 'I'll be needing one of those before much longer. Why not give it to me now so I can get used to carrying it?'

He hurried off, suitably attired, to his appointment in Duke Street. I sensed an anger in him which had nothing to do with his decorations and was worried by his impatience to return to France.

My intercom buzzed twice, a warning from Muriel that it was perilously close to Noor-time.

Even in SOE it simply wasn't done to keep a princess waiting.

The Jakarta Tales contained twenty stories of Buddha's former birth. I read each story twice, and knew one of them by heart. It concerned a monkey who ruled over 80,000 other monkeys, and so loved them so much that he allowed them to use his body as a bridge so that they could cross it safely to avoid being shot by wicked King Brahmadatta, who coveted their mangoes. But one of the monkeys jumped on him too heavily and broke his back, and as he lay dying wicked King Brahmadatta stood beside him.