It was getting dark when the RAF Comet took off from Tempelhof airport, Berlin, with its three passengers. Halfway back and sitting in an aisle seat Harry still felt bewildered. Two hours earlier he had been called to the Brigade commander’s office at HQ under the shadow of the old Nazi Olympic stadium, and instructed he was going to London on urgent military business. He was told he wouldn’t need to go home to get his bag, that was being done, and no, it would not be suitable for him to phone home at this moment, but it would be explained to his wife that he had been called away in a hurry.
Three and a half hours later the plane landed at Northolt and then taxied two hundred yards beyond the main reception area to an unmarked square of tarmac where a solitary set of steps and a civilian Morris 1800 were waiting.
For a captain in transport it was a very remarkable set of circumstances.
Chapter 3
Harry was awake at first light.
He was in a large room, painted soft pastel yellow with fine hard moulding round the ceiling. A study of a Victorian matron with a basket of apples and pears faced him from across the room. An empty bookcase against the same wall, a basin, small Ministry-issue thin towel hanging underneath it. There was a chair and table, both with his uniform draped over them. At the foot of the bed he could see the suitcase they said they’d packed for him, with no baggage labels attached to it.
They’d avoided all checks at Northolt, and Harry hadn’t been asked to produce his passport or any travel documents. As soon as he was inside the car the two military policemen who had travelled with him had peeled away from his side and moved back into the shadows. He’d heard the boot bang shut to notify that his suitcase was aboard. Then the car had moved off.
‘My name’s Davidson.’ The man in the front passenger seat was talking. ‘Hope you had a good flight. We’ve got a bit of a drive now. Perhaps you’d like to sleep a bit.’
Harry had nodded, accepted the situation with what grace his position allowed, and dozed off.
The car had gone fast out of London, the driver taking them on to the A3, then turning off down to Leatherhead, south to Dorking and then into the narrow winding side roads under Leith Hill. Davidson was beside the driver and Harry had the back seat to himself, and it was only when the night sky was blotted out by the arch of trees over the sunken road that he woke. The car had driven on some miles, with evident care, before it swept through the wrought-iron gates of one of those great houses buried deep amongst their own woods that lie hidden in the slopes. The drive was rough and in need of repair. Abruptly the rhododendrons gave way to lawns and the car pulled up at a huge porticoed front door.
‘Bit formidable, isn’t it? The Ministry maintains it’s all they could get. Delusions of grandeur. A convent school went broke. Kids all died of exposure, more likely. Come on in.’
Davidson, who had opened the door for him, was speaking. Harry was aware of several other men hovering in the background. The bag was collected, and Davidson went in, followed by Harry.
‘We’ve a long day tomorrow. Lots of talking to do. Let’s call it quits, have a good night, and breakfast at seven. OK?’
Sandwiches and a vacuum flask of coffee were waiting in Harry’s room.
The plate and dirtied cup were on the rug by his bed. He put his feet down gingerly and moved to his case. His shaving bag was on top of his neatly folded clothes. He wondered what on earth Mary was making of all this. If they’d sent that dreadful adjutant down to tell her he was called away on urgent business it would be enough to get him a divorce — better be someone with a little experience in the world of untruths.
No-one he’d seen last night had been in uniform. After shaving he put on a checked shirt, Transport Corps tie and his grey suit. He folded away his uniform in the wardrobe and dispersed his other clothes to the various drawers and cupboards. He sat by the window waiting for someone to come to tell him breakfast was served. From his room on the second floor he could see he was at the back of the house. Overgrown tennis courts. A vegetable garden. A great line of trees before the ridge of Surrey hills.
Harry was not naïve and had realized he was to be briefed for an intelligence mission. That didn’t bother him, he’d decided. It was a little flattering, and was welcome after brigade transport. Perhaps the remarks about nervous collapse had been rather overstressed on his post-Aden reports. Anyway, little had come his way that had stretched him to the degree he thought he was capable of. If they’d brought him from Germany then the hard assumption would be that they were going to use him for something in Berlin. This pleased him, as he prided himself that he had taken the trouble to learn passable German, have a near taxi-driver knowledge of the city and keep himself discreetly abreast of the trade techniques. His thoughts were full of the Reichstag, watchtowers, walls and clumps of flowers by the little crosses when the sharp knock came and the door opened.
It began in earnest in what must once have been the drawing room, now furnished in the fashion of the Defence Ministry. Heavy tables, sofas with big pink flowers all over them and deep armchairs with cloth squares at the back to prevent greased hair marking the covers.
Davidson was there, and three others.
Harry was given the armchair to the right of the fireplace, dominated by an oil painting of the Retreat from Kabul in the snows of the Afghanistan passes. One man sat behind him by the window; another, not ostentatiously, close to the door. The third sat at a central table, his files spread out on the drapes that covered the polished oak surface. One was of stiff blue cardboard, its top crossed with red tape. ‘secret’ had been written across the front in large letters, and underneath were the words: ‘brown, harry james, capt.’ Four sheets of closely-typed paper were inside — Harry’s life history and the assessments of his performance by each of his commanding officers. The first page carried the information they had sought when they had begun the search for the officer they wanted.
Name: Brown Harry James
Current rank: Captain
Age: 34 years
Born: Portadown, NI, November 1940
Distinguishing marks and description: 5'11" height, medium build, brown hair, blue eyes, no distinguishing marks, no operation scars
Service UK: Catterick, Plymouth, Tidworth, Ministry of Defence
Service Overseas: Cyprus (2nd Lt), Borneo (2nd Lt), Aden (1st Lt), Berlin (Capt)
Decorations: Cyprus — Mentioned in Despatches, Aden — Military Cross
In the last quarter of the page was the passage that ensured that Harry came into the operation.
Aden citation: For three months this officer lived as a native in the Arab quarter of Sheik Othman, moving inside the community there and supplying most valuable intelligence concerning terrorist operations. As a result of his work many important arrests were made. It should be stressed that this work was extremely dangerous to the officer, and there was a constant risk that if discovered he would face certain torture and death.