Call to Duty (27 page)

“Can SOE set up a new circuit?” Menzies asked. “Obviously, Mistral has been penetrated and we need to effect a bypass.”

“That will take resources we don’t really have,” Willi told him.

“Can you make them available? It is important, you know.”

Willi knew the area must have taken on added importance for Menzies to make such a request. She tried to think of what was going on around the Pas de Calais to make the creation of another underground network so critical. “The invasion?” she asked.

“Obviously,” he said.

“I’ll see what we can do.”

“There’s another matter that needs tending. Can you and Combined Operations do something about those confounded E-boats operating out of Dunkirk?”

“I’ll talk to Commander Bertram and see what we can arrange.”

“Barmy mentioned that Roger was back in hospital.”

Willi frowned. Menzies and his cronies seemed to have un
limited sources of information and gossiped about everything. “He should be out today. He had a nasty fall.”

“From a horse in a polo match, I hear. Who was the American?”

Where did he learn that? she wondered. “I don’t recall his name. He’s in the RAF.”

“Ah, I see,” Menzies said. “Let me know about the new circuit and those E-boats.” She stood up and left, fully aware that Menzies was mentally undressing her as she walked out.

When Willi entered the Combined Operations Headquarters Building in Richmond Terrace, she was wearing the dark blue uniform of an officer in the Wrens, the Women’s Royal Naval Service. The well-tailored uniform caused more than one male to turn and watch her walk purposefully down the hall to the operations section, where she sought out the chief of current operations, Commander Roger Bertram.

Roger looked up from his crowded desk and eyed her approvingly. “Smashing,” he said. “You should wear that one more often.”

“It does seem to be the perfect cover for over here,” she allowed. “It fits right in.” In addition to the FANY and Wren uniforms, Willi would occasionally wear a WAAF, Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, uniform. The proper uniform simplified matters as she went about her duties.

“Please.” Roger smiled at her. “No interservice rivalries are allowed in Combined Operations. Mountbatten would have my liver if I was the least bit partisan towards the Senior Service. But you do give us an advantage.”

“Roger, I’m not here to discuss internal politics.”

Bertram adopted a serious face and waited. Like most of his colleagues, Bertram considered the Baker Street Irregulars and the SOE not quite “top form” and condescendingly discounted their work. But considering the personal relationship he wanted to keep on track, he did have to humor the beautiful and headstrong girl. “C called me in this morning,” she told him. “He wants to do something about the E-boats out of Dunkirk.”

“Now why should they concern him?” Roger wondered. He pushed his chair back and stood up. Willi could tell that he was still moving carefully and favoring his right side. She
followed him into the next room where navy yeomen constantly updated the latest changes in the disposition of German forces on large maps that covered every wall. “Peterson,” he called to one of the yeomen, “what’s been brewing in the Pas de Calais sector?”

The short and pudgy former schoolteacher scurried over to them. “Interesting force dispositions,” he told them. “Whenever we turn up our level of attention, a slight increase in bombing raids, or more aggressive air patrols, the Boche respond with increased defenses. They take anything we do there very seriously. The night intruder missions by Mosquitoes appear to be most effective in eliciting a response. The Germans have their own name for Mosquito ops now
—Moskitopanik
.”

“That will be all, Peterson,” Bertram said, dismissing him. Like most of his social class, Bertram instantly cast the lower ranks into a special limbo where they were expected to wait until needed. It was a totally natural order to Willi and she thought nothing of it. Peterson waddled away, but stayed within earshot in case they called.

“I think it’s very clear,” Bertram said. “This is the area where the invasion can be expected. We need to soften their defenses.”

“Obviously,” Willi parroted, imitating C’s reaction. “But we don’t have the resources to do anything about those E-boats. Can you do it?”

“Difficult,” he said. “After the raid on Dieppe, we avoid well-defended areas like Dunkirk. No,” he decided, coming to a conclusion, “it’s just not on for us. Perhaps those Mosquitoes”—his voice had a condescending tone—“can do something.”

“I’ll let C know and speak to the RAF,” Willi said.

Roger gave her his most charming look now that business was taken care of. “Tonight?”

“Oh, I’d love that.” She gave him a smile that reached out and captured the nearby Peterson. “Are you up to it so soon?” she asked.

“Perhaps we can make medical history.”

Peterson watched them walk out of his room. “They bloody well deserve each other,” he muttered to himself, hating them for what they were, living examples of the British
upper class. George Peterson was a loyal British subject and a dedicated communist.

The sixth floor of the Broadway Buildings had settled down into its usual midafternoon routine and Willi had the office to herself. She used the privacy to change into her WAAF uniform for a visit to her RAF contact in Whitehall. If Special Operations couldn’t handle the E-boat problem at Dunkirk, the RAF would. A slipped word about Combined Operations declining the mission would whet their appetite. She calculated that Menzies would owe SOE a favor if they solved whatever problem he was having with the E-boats. She chalked it all up to the conflict of interest SIS was having with SOE. Menzies had never been happy when the covert action arm of intelligence had been split off from his SIS and given to the Baker Street Irregulars. But it made sense to her; the Special Operations Executive tended to make loud noises when they went to work and many of their agents were captured. Those were two conditions that the gatherers of intelligence like the SIS should avoid.

“Willi,” one of her office mates called when she entered, “good news. There might be an agent available. You need to get right on to Anna, otherwise you may be too late. Establish your claim now.” Willi thanked the woman for helping with Menzies’s request for a new network and then asked her if she would approach the RAF about striking at the E-boats. “That means Reggie, doesn’t it?” Willi nodded. Reggie was the RAF officer who handled special requests from the SOE. “He’ll ask me to sleep with him, you know.”

“Well,” Willi replied, “there might be a bottle of champers in it.”

“Lovely,” the girl said, rushing out of the office. She did like champagne. Willi watched her go and decided not to waste time changing uniforms. If Willi wanted to break free an agent and the resources to set up a new network, Anna would be a hard nut to crack. But Menzies was right, Mistral was being rolled up and if the Pas de Calais was the site of the invasion, they would need a healthy circuit in place.

Anna Fredericks was the power that guided the SOE’s operations in France. Her title indicated that she was a mere administrative assistant but, in reality, her recommendations
drove any decision. Only twice had the higher echelons disregarded her advice, and twice the results had been an instantaneous disaster. Never one to bite her tongue, Fredericks had promptly told her superiors, “I believe I had raised that possibility.” But there had been no joy or self-satisfaction in the telling. Agents had died with each failure. When Willi walked into her office, Fredericks came right to the point. “C is interfering in our operations again.”

“He interferes in everyone’s,” Willi replied.

“Why the insistence on throwing resources away in the Pas de Calais?” Fredericks wondered. “Surely the Germans are not so stupid as to believe it’s the invasion site.”

“Perhaps,” Willi speculated, “by our showing a continued interest in the Pas de Calais, the Germans cannot discount it.”

Fredericks said, “I see your point. We continue to sacrifice agents and the Germans must ask why. The only logical answer being that it is the site of the expected invasion. At the very least, it causes them to split their forces.” Fredericks stared at her hands. “But what a damnable price to pay.”

“Yes, it is,” Willi said. “You know Mistral has lost its third pianist in two months.”

“Yes, I heard,” Fredericks said. “I hope she still was her L pill.” The L pill was the suicide capsule all agents were issued. “Well then, perhaps you had better see what’s available.” She pushed a thin folder across her desk to Willi. “I would be willing to set up another circuit in the area operating independently of Mistral. But I want you in charge, controlling the operation.” Willi lifted an eyebrow at this. “Bletchley Park is saturated and you would have to set up a new station,” Fredericks continued. “Why don’t you take a look at Manston. It does offer some possibilities.”

“Humm,” Willi said, as she read through the document. “Her cover could prove a bit dicey.”

“It’s not a cover. She is a doctor.”

“Yes, she would do nicely,” Willi allowed. “Any problems?”

“A few. She’s been dark for a time and only recently resurfaced. Her circuit was rolled up three months ago and she was reportedly picked up—we don’t know by whom. Since we have no photos, we’re not sure if she’s the same person.
She could be a plant. Also, she might have been turned while in captivity. Lastly, she is reported to be absolutely stunning.”

Willi stiffened at Fredericks’s last comment. It was the reason she had been rejected as an agent. She had wanted to go inside occupied France and had even gone through the first phase of training. Although her French was perfect and she had lived in France for a number of years, her instructors had disqualified her because she was too pretty. German officers would have been instantly attracted to her, destroying the anonymity an agent needed to move freely about. Instead, the SOE had sidetracked her into coordination duties and kept her available in case they needed someone with her special qualifications. Willi shifted her attention to the file again and finished reading it. A name near the end caught her attention. “Why don’t we bring her in for training and vet her?”

“It would be worthwhile if we had someone who could verify she is the legitimate article,” Fredericks said.

“We might have. There’s a reference in her file to a Pontowski.”

“I saw that. It would be the very devil to find an American with that name.” Fredericks paused, thinking. “I suppose we could, given time.”

“My grandfather,” Willi said, “knows a Flying Officer Pontowski. He’s an American flying with the RAF. It’s possible that he might be the same Pontowski.”

Later that evening, Willi had changed back into her Wrens uniform and met Roger Bertram at his office in Richmond Terrace. As they left for dinner at a nearby Navy officers mess, they passed George Peterson, the intelligence yeoman who worked in Combined Operations. They didn’t even see him. Peterson accepted his invisibility. “Bloody aristocrats,” he muttered.

Peterson left work early that night just after nine
P.M.
, the time he calculated Bertram would be undressing Willi. He was wrong because that event would not occur for another two hours. He made his way to a small apartment in Soho. A tall and slender man let him in and offered him a cup of tea. While the tea brewed, Peterson related all that had transpired in his office over the last few days. The man listened quietly and noted two items of importance; the reference to the Pas
de Calais as the invasion site and the interest in the Dunkirk E-boats. “Then you think the RAF will go after the E-boats?”

Peterson nodded. “With Mosquitoes.” When he had finished his tea, Peterson left.

The man carefully composed a detailed message for his control. He would deposit it that night in a dead drop for dispatch, not to Germany but to Moscow. Both he and Peterson were dedicated to their cause and would have gladly sacrificed themselves in the fight against German fascism. Because of that fanatical hatred, the message was safe from the Germans and it reached Moscow late the next evening. There it was decoded by a short rotund woman who worked for the NKVD. But she had another employer, the German Abwehr that had recruited her years before. Thirty-six hours later, the contents of the message had reached Berlin. There, two things happened; the Luftwaffe and the military commander of Dunkirk were alerted to expect an attack by Mosquitoes on the E-boats and the German high command received one more item that pointed to the Pas de Calais as the landing site for the invasion.

The intelligence officer was waiting for Zack and Ruffy when they entered the room of the big manor house at Church Fenton that 25 Squadron had turned into its operations briefing room. The other pilot and navigator who would fly on their wing for the mission were right behind them. “Ah, yes,” the Intelligence officer said when he saw Zack and Ruffy, “I’m told you’re slated for Intruders.” Intruder missions were single-ship night missions for which a Mosquito crew was assigned a specific area to patrol at night with the express purpose of disrupting German flying operations. “Very good progress for such a young crew,” he said. “Normally, crews are much more experienced before being assigned to night ops.”

“Well,” Ruffy told him, “we were on night ops in Beaus. I think we have an idea of what’s out there.”

“Ah, yes, I see,” he said. They could hear skepticism in his voice. “Well, to matters at hand. Your target is the airdrome at Soesterberg in the Netherlands. Quite heavily defended and their JU-Eighty-eight night fighters have been a concern to our bombers on their way to Germany. Please see what you
can do about them.” The Intel officer spent some time going over the local defenses and what they could expect on their way in and out of the target area. He ended with “Operation Starkey is in full swing and the Eighth Air Force is throwing as many B-Seventeens as it can against German fortifications and supply lines in the Pas de Calais region. They shouldn’t be a factor, but if you see any stray B-Seventeen in need of help, please lend a hand. While the weather is proving most cooperative, even for August, it is also making it most easy for the Germans to find the bombers. The ‘boys from Abbeville’ are extracting their pound of flesh.”