D-Notice by Bill Walker (big ebook reader txt) 📗

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.