“Come on, my lovelies. We don’t want to get under the Director’s feet, today of all days.
Wills was known as the director because of his work as a film art director and his excellent movie connections, connections that he had exploited to attract over half the men who worked at the Barn, using their stage art skills to good effect for the war effort.
Lucinda, the plainest of the group, exercised her female curiosity.
“Why not today of all days, Jasper?”
“Top dog from another organisation has come to nose around. Can’t have him exposed to you horrible lot, can we? What would he think of us if he saw you raggedy bunch, eh?”
Jasper received four playful taps from the girls, but they moved away all the same, but not fast enough to avoid seeing the pair arrive to view the selection of hollow false tree trunk storage containers.
Jasper quickly leant around Christine, pushing the door shut.
“Come on now, girl. Quit gawking and let’s get down to the canteen for an early lunch.”
Lunch was a humorous and noisy affair, so much so that the three women and one man laughing loudly and making the noise failed to notice that one of their number was not fully joining in.
She was racking her brain, trying to put a name to a face.
Christine Mann stepped into the office in response to the gruff invitation.
“Ah, Sergeant Mann, isn’t it? Do sit down now.”
The occupant’s hands appeared from behind a desk that, whilst unquestionably organized with military precision, was full to overflowing with paperwork, ushering her to a large chair that had undoubtedly seen better days.
“I hear you’re doing rather well. A natural, so the gossip says, what?”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“So, what brings you into my den at this unearthly hour?”
Gubbins stood dramatically.
“Where are my manners? My abject apologies, Sergeant Mann. May I offer you tea?” he gestured towards the fine bone china teapot.
“No, thank you, sir.”
Topping up his own cup, the head of SOE returned to his seat, carefully sliding two sets of files to one side to permit him a better view of the woman in front of him.
“Fire away then, Sergeant.”
“Sir, it may be nothing, but I think that it is quite important.”
Sir Colin Gubbins occasionally pursed his lips, steepled his fingers, or sipped his tea, but generally remained silent as ‘Christine Mann’ went through the story of a chance encounter in Wandsbeck, Hamburg, during June 1945. She had been walking with one of the MI6 officers, prepared to act as interpreter for a clandestine meeting with a German ‘businessman’, when the Captain had spotted something strange going on between another member of MI6 and a known Soviet NKVD officer.
She described how the Intelligence Officer had quickly moved into the shadows, dragging her with him.
They had both observed an animated verbal exchange between the two, during which the Russian had appeared to take the lead, almost, as her British companion stated at the time, like a man giving orders to a subordinate.
The NKVD officer had the last word and left abruptly, leaving the other man to walk away, passing the place where Christine and her companion had hidden.
She emphasized to a curious Gubbins how she had had the clearest view of the man’s face.
His curiosity grew when she identified the man as the same one she had seen in the ‘Thatched Barn’ during her recent visit there.
“And this was reported at the time, of course.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Captain Chivers did write a report. He didn’t include me in it as my presence might have brought on some… err… awkward questions for him… it was not an official meeting we attended, you see.”
“I understand fully, Sergeant. Who was the MI6 officer you saw today…err… and in Hamburg?”
“A man called Philby, Sir.”
Alarm bells went off inside Gubbins’ head.
“Please, do go on.”
“Captain Chivers died two days later.”
Gubbins’ eyes narrowed.
“Who was the NKVD officer?”
“I can’t remember the name I’m afraid, but Herbert, sorry, Captain Chivers, was very agitated and he recognized him immediately.”
Gubbins left it at that for now.
“Please continue.”
“Pleske, the businessman, was never seen again, Sir.”
“Obviously, the report would have named the NKVD man, but did the report name this Pleske, do you know?”
The head of SOE’s interest had been greatly aroused.
“No, Sir, Chivers told me he’d just said something like a local Wandsbeck black-marketeer… but Pleske was not the only such ‘businessman’ to disappear at that time. In fact, the Military Police were running around for weeks afterwards, as bodies turned up all over Hamburg, all of them Wandsbeck men with a reputation as ‘suppliers’.”
Mann waited for a response from across the desk.
“So, let me see what it is that you think. Chivers’ report was seen by someone, who then took steps to protect something of value, which would seem to be either the NKVD officer or Philby. Chivers and anyone who fitted the description of ‘black-marketeer’ was quietly done away with… how did Chivers die?”
“Fell under a Hamburg tram in front of a hundred witnesses, Sir.”
“Fell.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Fell?”
He knew she had something more to say on the matter.
“Chivers was extremely fit, very sure on his feet. I didn’t think about it at the time… I was upset… he was a lovely man, married with three strong boys… but now, my mind wonders, Sir.”
“Quite.”
Gubbins checked the clock and found the result agreeable, moving quickly to the decanter and pouring two modest whiskies.
Mann accepted hers with the nod of her head.
“The thing is, if, let’s just say if… if the NKVD were prepared to purge Wandsbeck of all the black-marketeers, that is no small matter, and would only be done to protect something extremely valuable.
“Yes, Sir.”
“The NKVD officer possibly…”
“Chicky…Chacky…”
His brain analysed her attempts to summon the name and immediately married them to a name indelibly engraved on his own.
“Ivan?”
“Yes, Sir… Ivan Chicky…”
“Ivan Chichayev?”
“That’s the name, Sir.”
“Colonel Ivan Andreyevich Chichayev… also known as Vadim…”
He downed the whisky in one and stood, offering Mann his hand.
“You were absolutely right to bring this to me, Mann. Now, I must ask you not to speak of this again. I’ll investigate this as a matter of urgency, and I will discuss what I find with you. But I think the very fact that you know these things places your life at risk.”
Gubbins opened a small notebook, made a swift entry and ripped out the page.
“Gather a few things and go to that address now. When you get there, ask to see Mr Campbell Stuart. Use my name as you see fit. When you see him, tell him that I said ‘cloche’. Clear, Sergeant?”
“Sir.”
“Mr Stuart will look after you and keep you safe. You will respond to no instructions or orders that do not contain the code word… err… Herbert. Is that clear, Sergeant Mann?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Closing the door as quickly as he could, Gubbins strode purposefully to his desk.
The phone was instantly in his hands.
“Ah, Turner, get me the director of MI6 please.”
Sir Stewart was not in his office and the duty officer was not prepared to divulge the present location of his boss to someone who not might be what he said he was.