Gubbins dialled a number from memory.
“The Guards Club. Good evening, how may I be of assistance?”
“Good evening, Squires.”
“Sir Colin, good evening. How may I help, Sir?”
“Is Sir Stewart there this evening by chance?”
“Yes, he most certainly is, Sir. I’ve just seen him pass by. Please wait, Sir.”
Squires moved as quickly as his disabled leg permitted, intercepting Menzies and bringing him to the phone.
“Menzies.”
“Colin here. My apologies for hunting you down, Stewart. I’ve just received some information that I need to share with you, and you’ll want to hear it now. Where’s convenient?”
Menzies would have liked to say the Guards Club, but it was extremely busy that evening so it simply wouldn’t do.
“Your office suit, Colin?”
“I will be waiting for you, Stewart. Come straight up. I will have the duty officer informed.”
No further words were spoken, at least not until Sir Stewart was sat in the chair recently occupied by Christine Mann, armed with a large scotch and an impatient ear.
Gubbins spoke at length without interruption.
“Damn and blast, but I hope you’re not right, Colin. I mean to say, the implications of… well, damn and blast it, man.”
“Quite.”
Menzies downed the remainder of his scotch in one.
Standing, he extended his hand to the SOE chief.
“Thank you for bringing this to me. I can do nothing tonight, not without raising suspicion. I’ll check Chivers’ report discreetly, and see what Philby’s contact report has to say about our mutual friend Vadim.”
“I’ll leave it with you, Stewart.”
“Thank you, Colin, thank you for your discretion too. I’ll keep you informed.”
They shook hands in genuine friendship, something they both appreciated and understood as a difference to the normal indifference and thinly veiled suspicion.
Fenton was part of the furniture as far as everyone who ever visited MI6 records was concerned. Rumours abounded as to his past and how he had come to be entrusted with the written history of the intelligence organization, but no one really knew anything about him, except that he was somewhat mad and also could find a specific file in the dark with a blindfold on.
Whilst his clerks could spend from five minutes to five hours locating a requested file, Fenton could just stroll down the lines of shelves, pause briefly, and return with the correct file every time, with or without the file code, originating officer, department prefix, often with nothing more than a rough date or a probable geographic location.
Black magic, some called it.
Both clerks recognized their latest caller and started to bluster.
“Calm down, I’m not here on an inspection. I just want to see this old fool.”
Fenton didn’t bother to look up from his desk.
“Just ‘cos you’re the boss now doesn’t mean that I’ve to stand for your insults, you know. I have my pride, Captain, Sir.”
The two clerks winced in anticipation of an explosion of voices, but Fenton was already rising to shake the hand of his former commanding officer.
“Lawrence, you old rogue.”
The two shook hands and patted shoulders, exchanging greetings like men who had shared extreme perils in each other’s company, as they had during the Great War.
“Right you two… hop it. Give the Captain and I the chance to catch up on tittle-tattle.”
The two needed no further invitation to escape the presence of the MI6 director.
Waiting until he was sure they had gone, former Battery Sergeant Major Lawrence Fenton was suddenly all business.
“I assume I did the right thing, because this isn’t a social call is it, Captain?”
“Correct, as ever, Sarnt-Major. Something to stay just betwixt thee and me.”
“Tea, Sir?”
“Most certainly, Sarnt-Major.”
A second cup had been consumed and still Menzies had not seen a single item of paperwork.
“Look, Lawrence, I don’t doubt your skills, but I believe that at least one report was filed on the 12th by Captain Chivers, and I know all our records were removed from Hamburg in safety, and I know they were brought here intact. It must be here.”
“Sir, respectfully, it isn’t here.”
“They cannot both have gone missing.”
“Unlikely I know, Sir, but I will know soon enough.”
Fenton strode off and disappeared out of sight.
“Early June 1945, you say, Sir?”
“Yes.”
Fenton returned with a number of leather bound books.
Menzies frowned.
“They’re not reports, they’re…”
“…logbooks. Yes, Sir, logbooks. We’ll soon know.”
Fenton ran a finger up and down the logged in documents, firstly looking at the filing officer names.
“Here you are. Chivers… 8th June… report on a communist engineer officer he interviewed… follow up on the 10th…”
Fenton looked at the details and leapt off to get the files.
“Here they are,” he announced triumphantly, holding two standard report folders in his hand.
They took a cursory look at the contents, both hoping to find that which they sought simply mis-filed.
“Right, so we know he did his paperwork diligently…”
“It must be here!”
Fenton was away again, but this time returned without the triumph.
“No, it’s not there. It’s definitely not there. Now, the ‘event’,” Menzies had not told him everything, “Took place on the 11th June as far as you know, and he fell in front of the tram on the 14th. You assumed the report was filed on the 12th earliest and you were probably spot on.”
Menzies nodded.
“One moment, Sir.”
The file master returned with another red leather bound tome.
“You’re a genius, Lawrence.”
He had the visitor log for the Hamburg section.
“Yes and no, Sir.”
Menzies understood immediately.
The page for the day in question had been removed.
“Well that in itself proves that something isn’t right here.”
“Most certainly. Right then, Lawrence, can you get me all the filed contact reports for the 12th please.”
Within eight minutes, the files were present.
“These are kept in the annexe, hence the wait.”
Fenton leafed through them.
“What are you looking for, Sir?”
“Name of filing officer.”
“Ingram… Barton… god, I remember that idiot… Bridges… Cox… and Scotford.”
“Is that it, Sarnt-Major?”
“Yes, Sir, just five that day. Nothing looks out of the ordinary, except it seems that blithering idiot Barton could actually write.”
Fenton had always suffered fools badly, but Menzies didn’t inquire further.
“And the log for contact reports?”
With barely concealed smugness, Fenton leant across to the pile of logbooks he had retrieved previously, sliding the correct log book out.
‘Black magic!’
Consulting the appropriate page, the ex-BSM announced the names.
“10:02 Ingram, 10:04 Cox, 10:09 Scotford… Barton at 10:32… 12:33 Bridges. At 12:58, we have Chivers. That is all, Sir.”
‘Oh my God!’
Menzies stood.
“I won’t leave it so long next time, Lawrence, I promise. Thank you for your help, old friend.”
“My pleasure as always, Captain, and mum’s the word.”
“Quite.”
He had asked his opposite number in SOE to pop round, in order to fill him in on the latest developments.