Jake Arnott: The House of Rumour

M was standing by his office window when his private secretary entered, and seemed to be sternly surveying the grey Thames below. To the west a dismal mist crept around the bend in the river at Chelsea Reach. She could tell by his imperious frown that he had spotted something human. He gave her a brief nod of acknowledgement as she approached, then pointed the stem of his pipe at his quarry below.

‘See?’ he demanded.

She followed the trajectory of his gaze. A young man in a cheap raincoat was walking slowly along the Embankment with little attempt to conceal the apparent aimlessness of his movements. M sighed and shook his head.

‘It’s the utter lack of discretion that galls one,’ the spymaster commented bitterly to his assistant.

She said nothing, knowing that it was best not to provoke him when he was in this kind of mood.

‘Well, what is it?’ he asked her finally.

‘It’s 17F here to see you, sir.’

M broke from his gloomy reverie and turned to her with a smile.

‘Excellent. Send him in.’

When she went through into the adjoining reception room she found 17F sitting on the edge of her desk. The handsome commander attached to Naval Intelligence stood up and smiled as he saw her. They had met twice before and had developed a sort of competitive flirtatiousness. He was pleasingly tall and slim, if a little too narcissistic for her taste. A broken nose softened his aquiline features. He flicked at the stray comma of hair above his right eyebrow.

‘Miss Miller,’ he murmured playfully.

‘Commander Fleming,’ she replied, with an edge to her voice.

She felt determined to see him as her equal, her sense of self-regard reflecting his. She was proud of her good looks, charisma and ambition. Besides, they held similar positions. They were both personal assistants: Fleming to the head of Naval Intelligence and herself to Maxwell Knight, known to everyone in the Service as M, the boss of B5(b), a clandestine subsection of Counter-Espionage. But his being a man meant that he held a military rank while she remained a drab civilian.

‘You can come through now, Commander,’ she told him.

‘I was just asking Bill,’ Fleming nodded towards M’s Chief of Staff, whose desk was opposite hers, ‘if this is really a good moment to catch the old man.’

Only the merest of smiles played upon her lips as her bright eyes held him in cold appraisal.

‘Oh, he’ll be pleased enough to see you,’ she said, perhaps a little too knowingly.

M was sitting at his desk, refilling his pipe, when Fleming entered.

‘May I, sir?’ Fleming asked, taking out his cigarette case.

‘Certainly. How was Lisbon?’

‘Very busy, sir.’

‘Quite. I’m led to believe by your report that we may have hooked ourselves a bigger fish.’

Fleming tapped a cigarette out on the flat silver lid. A letter had been intercepted from an academic working for German Foreign Intelligence addressed to a British aristocrat, suggesting some sort of clandestine peace meeting. A reply had been forged in the manner of a lure. Now it seemed a member of the Nazi inner circle was ready to put his head in the noose.

‘Perhaps.’ Fleming lit his cigarette. ‘A couple of factors need to be in place before Operation Mistletoe can proceed.’

‘A couple of factors?’

‘Well, yes. The first involves persuading the other side to believe that the Link is still active.’

‘Surely it’s not hard to give the enemy the impression that there remains a strong pro-peace element in the country? Good Lord, the way the war’s been going half the Cabinet seem ready to make terms.’

‘Yes, sir, but to convince them there is still this Link organisation, that’s pro-German, even pro-Nazi — there needs to be some evidence.’

‘Well, the idea was that we put it out that it had gone to ground since the round-ups last year. Can’t someone from the Double-Cross Committee file a bogus report or something?’

‘I’m afraid it has to be something stronger than that, sir.’

‘What then?’ M demanded impatiently.

‘Something, well, demonstrative, sir.’

‘Demonstrative?’

‘Yes, sir. Some significant act that would make it seem that there is an effective Fifth Column in operation in the country.’

‘Hmm, well, I could put my assistant on to it.’

‘Miss Miller?’

‘Oh yes. A very effective field officer. She uncovered a whole nest of them last year.’

‘Of course. I read the Special Branch report. But won’t she be vulnerable if there are any real quislings left?’

‘Hmm, well, let me deal with that. What was the other thing?’

‘I’m sorry, sir?’

‘The other factor you mentioned.’

Fleming shrugged as if slightly embarrassed.

‘The, er, paranormal aspect of the operation, sir.’

M laughed out loud.

‘Goodness me, Fleming, there’s no need to be sheepish about it. It might all seem a bit far-fetched but isn’t that the whole point of counter-intelligence?’

‘The whole point, sir?’

‘A story should sound improbable. If it is too logical it’s liable to appear contrived. And, of course, there are powers that we do not completely understand. Greater forms of disinformation, if you like.’

‘You mean, you give credence to some of this stuff, sir?’

It was known that M held some obscure beliefs and Fleming himself had begun to notice strange coincidences ever since he had been involved in Operation Mistletoe.

‘That’s neither here nor there,’ M replied. ‘We have to understand what the enemy is using. Goebbels had some of the prophecies of Nostradamus printed in a leaflet and dropped during the invasion of France. There are all sorts of rumours that Hitler takes astrological advice. The important thing now is that the subject of Operation Mistletoe actually believes in it. I like to keep an open mind. Haven’t you ever experienced an event that has been foretold?’

Yes, he had, Fleming thought. He just didn’t know how he might explain it to M.

‘Well, something has been bothering me about the whole plan, sir. Something I read in a book.’

‘Not that silly comedy your brother wrote.’

A Flying Visit by Peter Fleming had been published the previous spring, before the fall of France. It was an imagined story of Hitler flying to England, a playful satire with cartoons by Low, that now in the heat of the Blitz seemed woefully outdated, even in poor taste.

‘No, not that,’ Fleming replied. ‘Something else, sir.’

‘What?’

Fleming was about to speak then stopped. He would have to think it through first.

‘Oh, it’s nothing, sir.’

‘Look, Fleming, you’re right about the paranormal stuff. What we need is a real expert. You know, the man I told you about. The Magician. He’s ideal for our purposes. Have a look at his file when you get back to Naval Intelligence. He worked for your bunch in the last show. Did a lot of what the Political Warfare Executive are calling “black propaganda”. Go and see him and I’ll sort out that other business with the Link.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And remember, this is a cross-departmental operation, but it goes without saying that the fewer people who know about it the better. I’m briefing someone from Political to run liaison. It’s far-fetched, yes, but it could be our biggest coup of the war. Read up on the Magician and make contact with him.’

‘Yes, sir.’

As Fleming got up to leave, Joan Miller was called back into the office. M stood up and went to the window, once more turning his back to her.

‘He’s still there,’ M muttered. ‘Dirty little creep.’

He beckoned her over. She hesitated. It was as if he was trying to provoke her in some way.