invasion force had landed at Oran in Algeria. Only last week the Russians had launched a counter-offensive on the Volga front to encircle German forces at Stalingrad. The conflict was at a tipping point. In the Far East, in a war he’d done everything in his power to stop, there was stalemate on Guadalcanal, but a sense that the mighty American industrial machine had only just begun to flex its muscles … exactly as he’d predicted.
It had started with a chance meeting, a shared interest – in this case aviation, in which he was regarded as something of an expert – which developed into an unlikely friendship and an admiration for a culture that had so much more depth, and, yes, more integrity than his own. He’d barely noticed as a few shared personal confidences – keep it under your hat, old boy, but so and so is … – developed into something more. Eventually, it had blossomed into a relationship that, on his part, was designed to ensure peace between the two countries closest to his heart.
And so it might have stayed if it hadn’t been for his gambling debts. A chap had to accept help where it was offered, particularly when it was help from an old chum. It came as rather a surprise when it emerged such generosity might have a price.
Minor commercial information from his own department had been enough at the start, but somehow they’d always wanted more. He’d wriggled, of course, when he realized what was happening, but once one accepted the reality of one’s situation it was so much easier. His greatest coup had been a decade earlier when he had supplied his – yes, let us be frank – his employers with the plans of a top-secret float plane in the earliest stages of its development. If he thought about it at all, it was with pride that he’d helped to shape a nation’s military future. When that future came to pass at a terrible cost to his own country and others he’d watched with neither guilt nor shame.
Finally, he reached the office he was looking for. He pulled out a bunch of keys secretly put together over the years, which allowed him access to every room of any importance in the building.
They’d posted guards in the main corridors of the upper floors soon after the fighting began in 1939. In contrast, security in the basement levels was more or less nonexistent, especially here where the scrap paper from the typing pools was stored before burning. He slipped into the room and locked the door behind him. It was amazing what you could find when you knew where to look. Once the war started, technical details were much harder to come by and he’d thought his usefulness might be at an end. It turned out his masters were even more interested in the thoughts of those in power, and the political undercurrents that dictated their strategy, particularly those involving the great ally.
He stopped and listened again, ears tuned to any potential danger. Fortunately, the sacks of paper were stacked methodically in their usual places. He went directly to the one that would contain draft copies of the minutes of high-level government meetings. It was sealed, of course, but he’d managed to take a wax copy and a contact had helpfully run him off duplicates. It was the work of seconds to unclip it and untie the string at the neck of the sack. Finding the kind of information he sought took longer, but he willed himself to stay calm. Experience had taught him to identify documents of interest among the piles of turgid dross about potato quotas and provision for the return of evacuees. He found a partial minute of a War Cabinet meeting about the dispatch of African troops to the Burma front, which would be of interest, and pushed it into the buff file he carried on these expeditions. One more. Just one more and he would leave. He leafed through the sheaves of paper, skim-reading the first line and discarding them one by one. And froze.
‘TO BE STAMPED TOP SECRET’.
‘… Source X …’
Who was Source
It had started with a chance meeting, a shared interest – in this case aviation, in which he was regarded as something of an expert – which developed into an unlikely friendship and an admiration for a culture that had so much more depth, and, yes, more integrity than his own. He’d barely noticed as a few shared personal confidences – keep it under your hat, old boy, but so and so is … – developed into something more. Eventually, it had blossomed into a relationship that, on his part, was designed to ensure peace between the two countries closest to his heart.
And so it might have stayed if it hadn’t been for his gambling debts. A chap had to accept help where it was offered, particularly when it was help from an old chum. It came as rather a surprise when it emerged such generosity might have a price.
Minor commercial information from his own department had been enough at the start, but somehow they’d always wanted more. He’d wriggled, of course, when he realized what was happening, but once one accepted the reality of one’s situation it was so much easier. His greatest coup had been a decade earlier when he had supplied his – yes, let us be frank – his employers with the plans of a top-secret float plane in the earliest stages of its development. If he thought about it at all, it was with pride that he’d helped to shape a nation’s military future. When that future came to pass at a terrible cost to his own country and others he’d watched with neither guilt nor shame.
Finally, he reached the office he was looking for. He pulled out a bunch of keys secretly put together over the years, which allowed him access to every room of any importance in the building.
They’d posted guards in the main corridors of the upper floors soon after the fighting began in 1939. In contrast, security in the basement levels was more or less nonexistent, especially here where the scrap paper from the typing pools was stored before burning. He slipped into the room and locked the door behind him. It was amazing what you could find when you knew where to look. Once the war started, technical details were much harder to come by and he’d thought his usefulness might be at an end. It turned out his masters were even more interested in the thoughts of those in power, and the political undercurrents that dictated their strategy, particularly those involving the great ally.
He stopped and listened again, ears tuned to any potential danger. Fortunately, the sacks of paper were stacked methodically in their usual places. He went directly to the one that would contain draft copies of the minutes of high-level government meetings. It was sealed, of course, but he’d managed to take a wax copy and a contact had helpfully run him off duplicates. It was the work of seconds to unclip it and untie the string at the neck of the sack. Finding the kind of information he sought took longer, but he willed himself to stay calm. Experience had taught him to identify documents of interest among the piles of turgid dross about potato quotas and provision for the return of evacuees. He found a partial minute of a War Cabinet meeting about the dispatch of African troops to the Burma front, which would be of interest, and pushed it into the buff file he carried on these expeditions. One more. Just one more and he would leave. He leafed through the sheaves of paper, skim-reading the first line and discarding them one by one. And froze.
‘TO BE STAMPED TOP SECRET’.
‘… Source X …’
Who was Source
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