Traitors' Gate (6 page)

‘Exactly. And it’s that which has given you the time to do a bit of thinkin’. Come on now. What’s the remedy?’

‘There is only the obvious one. It is to stop burying our heads in the sand. You could at least try prodding your high-up friends into facing the situation and deciding on some definite action.’

‘What sort of action?’

‘Anything which would take a bit of weight off the Russians. Keeping them in the war is the thing that matters above all else; and, apart from sending them arms, we are doing nothing. Absolutely nothing! We are just calmly waiting for 1943. By then it may be too late, whereas some audacious move now could be the premium which would insure us against an eventual stale-mate, or something far worse.’

‘Nothing short of a full-scale landing in France or Norway would force the Germans to withdraw troops from the Russian front; and I’m certain that a major operation of that kind is not possible.’

Gregory shrugged. ‘To reject it is being penny wise and pound foolish. The withdrawal of ten or twelve divisions from the Russian front this summer might change the whole course of history. I don’t think you would say that I’m normally a pessimist. But, if the Russians pack up before we can get into Europe, I don’t believe we’ll ever defeat Hitler.’

For a moment Sir Pellinore remained silent. Then he said, ‘If ten or twelve divisions would do the trick, there is one
possibility by which it might be brought about.’

‘How?’ Gregory asked, suddenly sitting forward.

‘The Nazis are stretched to the limit already; so they’d have to recall that number if one of the countries they are holding down blew up behind them.’

‘Surely there is very little chance of that. After being crushed between the German and Russian millstones, the poor old Poles can’t have much kick left in them. And, since the Czechs assassinated Heydrich in May, I gather they are liable to be shot if they so much as lift a finger.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of the occupied countries. Germany’s official allies were the birds I had in mind. Italy and Finland are no good—both too deeply involved. But there are Hungary and Rumania. They were dragged in against their wills, and such contributions as they have made to Hitler’s war have been prised out of ’em by blackmail. Hungary is the best bet. I know a lot of Hungarians. They all loathe the Germans’ guts. I’d bet a monkey to a rotten apple that they have some sort of league pledged to break away from Hitler as soon as they see a chance.’

‘Even if you are right, I can’t imagine that while things are going so well for Germany they would risk his wrath by ratting on him.’

‘I don’t know so much,’ Sir Pellinore replied thoughtfully. ‘After the last war the Allies treated Hungary pretty savagely. Under the Treaty of Trianon they gave more than half her territories away. Since then she’s got most of them back. In March ‘39, when Hitler cut Czechoslovakia into three bits, he annexed Bohemia, made Slovakia a vassal state and let the Hungarians reoccupy Ruthenia. Then, in the summer of ‘40, the Axis made the Rumanians return Transylvania. But the Hungarians must fear that if the Allies win they’ll be made to give these territories up again. For a promise that they should retain them and, perhaps, get back some of the other lands of which they were robbed in 1920, I believe they might consider ratting on the Nazis now.’

For a long moment Gregory did not reply. Then he said: ‘On every front, except in the air over Europe, the Germans and the Japs are getting the best of us. In battle after battle the Allies are being driven back. To my mind it is imperative that somehow, somewhere, we should launch a new thrust at the enemy within the next few months. If we don’t, it may be
too late, and we’ll lose the war altogether. So, if you think there is even a sporting chance that we could persuade the Hungarians to stick a knife in Hitler’s back, you had better arrange for me to go to Budapest.’

It was not often that Sir Pellinore started anything unintentionally; but he knew he had started something now, and he was far from happy about it. His only son had been killed in the First World War and it was Gregory who, as a very young subaltern, had carried him back out of the hell of Thiepval Wood after he had been mortally wounded. Since then Gregory had gradually taken the place of that son in the old man’s affections.

Although it would have been against his principles to persuade anyone of whom he was fond against risking their life for their country in time of war, he had been extremely glad when the threat of the call-up had enabled him to plant Gregory in a safe job; and he had hoped that he would come to feel that honour had been satisfied by his previous exploits. As this was no question of an urgent mission, and the whole idea was drawing a bow at a venture, Sir Pellinore decided that he was justified in trying to retrieve the situation; so he said with apparent casualness:

‘Not much good you goin’ to Budapest. You don’t speak Hungarian.’

‘What has that to do with it?’ Gregory brushed the objection aside. ‘I have worked in Norway, Finland, Russia, Holland without a word of the language of those countries. Anyhow, everyone in Budapest speaks German, and that’s my second tongue.’

‘The Hungarians wouldn’t budge without a pretty strong inducement. It would mean getting the War Cabinet, and Roosevelt too, to agree that they should keep Transylvania and Ruthenia after the war, and probably be given a port on the
Adriatic into the bargain. Our top chaps might not be willing to promise that.’

‘I can’t believe it! Statesmen don’t usually boggle at giving away territory which isn’t theirs to give. And if there is a chance that, given this promise, the Hungarians will do all that a Second Front would do for us, Britain and America would be mad not to make it.’

‘True enough. But there’s no call for you to get out your automatics and buy a Tyrolean hat. This is a job for the F.O. I’ll put the idea up to someone there tomorrow morning.’

Gregory shook his head. ‘Judging by the Foreign Office form in this war so far, that wouldn’t get us anywhere. They would take a year to think it over; then go cap in hand to the wrong chap in Budapest. What’s needed is someone to go there and find out what is cooking and who is the cook.’

‘I hardly like to ask for you to be released from your job to go off in what may prove a wild goose chase.’

‘Nonsense! The whole idea of putting me into the War Room was that my leaving it at short notice would not affect its efficient running for even a day. It would be another matter if I were a Planner, or doing an “I” job in some headquarters. General Ismay told me himself that he had suggested it as the most convenient way of keeping me on ice for you, and the time has come when I want you to take me off it.’

‘All right, then,’ Sir Pellinore conceded reluctantly. ‘Have it your own way,’

‘Fine!’ Gregory grinned. In the last few minutes he seemed to have become a different man. His fretful despondency had completely disappeared and he voiced his racing thoughts. ‘Those damn maps have been getting me down. A chance to use my wits again without taking on a suicide gamble was the very thing I needed. Budapest is a lovely city, the Hungarians are charming people, and there will be none of those blond beasts in black uniforms who might claim me at the end of a pistol as an old acquaintance. This, as the R.A.F. say, is a piece of cake. When can I start?’

‘Bad policy to rush your fences. You’ll do better if I first collect all the information I can for you to work on. That will take a little time. Then there are the arrangements for your journey. Say in about ten days.’

‘Couldn’t suit me better. I’m due for some leave and I can fix up to take it at forty-eight hours’ notice. That will give me
a clear week with Erika. Naturally I shan’t tell the chaps in the War Room that I may not be coming back for a month or two. I’ll leave you to arrange that with Colonel Jacob.’

Sir Pellinore nodded. ‘I’ll suggest that, when he puts in a replacement, he should say that you’ve been injured in a car-smash, or something. Anyhow, that’s his affair. Will you go down to Gwaine Meads or have Erika up to London?’

‘I’ll speak to her on the telephone now, if I may, and see which she’d prefer.’

It was the sort of call that Erika had been dreading for some time past, as she knew her Gregory far too well to have any hope of his remaining in a safe job for the rest of the war.

After he had told her in guarded terms that he was going abroad again, she decided that she could better support the strain of his coming departure in the country than in the restaurants and night-clubs of war-worn London, which now offered so little and had become so tatty; so he told her to expect him on the coming Wednesday.

Gregory had started a spell of duty at six o’clock that evening and, in order that he might dine with Sir Pellinore, a colleague who owed him a turn had taken over from him at half-past seven; but he had promised to be back by eleven. As it was now close on that hour, he took leave of his host and, with a much more jaunty step than he had come, made his way through the black-out along the edge of the park till he found the gap in the barbed wire leading to the tall bronze doors in the basement beyond which lay his office.

The following morning he arranged about his leave and at ten o’clock went off duty. As he was leaving the building he found himself alongside the old friend who had once been a Cadet with him in
H.M.S. Worcester
. Together they turned left and, as they passed the bottom of Clive Steps, Gregory asked:

‘What brings you out at this hour of the morning?’

‘My daily jaunt to the War Office,’ replied the other. ‘It’s part of my job to attend the meetings of the I.S.S.B.’

‘And what may that be? Or shouldn’t one ask?’

‘Oh, there’s no secret about what the initials stand for. It’s the Inter-Services Security Board. They are the boys who check up on any leakages of information, and devise all the regulations for preventing news of what we’re up to from reaching the enemy.’

A hundred yards further on they parted. The other airman crossed the Horse Guards Parade, went through the arch, over to the War Office and up to a room on the third floor, in which half-a-dozen officers were already seated round a table.

It was one of the Board’s principal functions to scrutinise all troop movements and see to it that the public knew as little as possible about them; so, soon after any new operation had been definitely decided upon, the Board was automatically informed. That morning, Operation
Torch
was one of the items on the agenda, and was to remain so for many weeks to come; for the problems entailed in covering the movement of ships, men and aircraft, in preparation for the great expedition, were innumerable.

As yet they had only the outline plan, since ‘Eps’—as the Executive Planning Staffs in the three Service Ministries were called—were still working on the nuts and bolts which would turn the plan from a broad stategic conception into a practical operation of war with the forces and supplies needed to carry it out nominated down to the last detail.

A middle-aged Major of the Royal Scots who had among his ribbons an M.C. with bar, and who was Secretary to the Board, read out particulars in clear incisive tones; the ‘Cardinal’ Colonel, who was Chairman, made some comments, then the Admiralty representative looked’ across at the airman from the War Cabinet Offices and said in a high-pitched, rather nasal, voice:

‘Now we shall see if amateurs like you and your new Colonel can really produce the goods.’

The airman was junior to the sailor so he replied with chill politeness, ‘Given a continuance of the help always so generously afforded us by I.S.S.B., sir, I think we may manage.’

The sailor was far from popular; so a large man in civilian clothes, who was Chief of counter-espionage in Britain and affectionately known to the rest of the party as ‘Himmler’, tittered.

The Major with the double M.C. gave the airman a friendly smile. ‘Unlike our naval member, this old horse feels no pain and grief that such headaches are no longer ours. But this little affair is going to be quite something; and naturally the Board will be right behind you.’

A youngish, good-looking Captain who was on the secretariat looked up from the notes he had been making with his
left hand, and added, ‘It’s going to be murder if things go wrong. The Jerries can hardly fail to spot a convoy of this size and what might happen if the U-boat packs got into it does not bear thinking about.’

‘That’s not our worst worry,’ replied the airman. ‘There would be losses, of course, but not serious enough to cripple the operation if the naval escorts do their stuff. Besides, there is at least some hope that we’ll be able to get them down to Gib. undetected. The real trouble will start as soon as they turn in to go through the Straits. Then any cover we have managed to give their initial sailing must be blown. Once in the Med. the whole of the Axis air force will be alerted; and, if the object of the operation leaks out, the Vichy French may prove hostile into the bargain. If the landings are seriously opposed it could be a massacre. I only hope to God we’ll be able to think up some way of foxing the enemy about our ultimate objectives.’

The Major nodded. ‘I’d say that your new master will produce a better rabbit than we would have got from old one-leg Dumbo; but the two of you have certainly been given one hell of an assignment. This could be worse than Tobruk. The Order of Battle will include the best of everything the Army’s got, and they’ll be two thousand miles from home. There will be no getting the remnants off in small boats as we did at Dunkirk. Well, let us know how we can help, and keep your chin up.’

Had Gregory been at this meeting he would have been equally worried about the outcome of the expedition to North Africa, but at least he would have been disabused of his idea that the British and Americans intended to do nothing in 1942 which might force the enemy to withdraw a certain number of divisions from Russia. Such knowledge, had he had it the evening before, would certainly have caused his conversation with Sir Pellinore to take an entirely different turn; so it is most unlikely that the project of his going to Budapest would ever have arisen.