The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(65)
“Actually, I’m here to see you because of that.”
“Pigeons?”
“Radio transmissions.”
“Ah.” He didn’t sound surprised.
“As part of settling in to my new position, one of the first things I did was start to read through SOE agents’ back traffic. I haven’t even gotten that far, and there are some troubling aspects to the messages from both N-Section and F-Section.”
Bishop continued to look out over London. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
“On some of the decrypts, the agents’ security checks were missing. They were stamped as such by Station 53a—but no one at SOE followed up.”
“Hmmm.”
“I just spoke with Colonel Gaskell for SOE’s French Section, whom you know.”
Bishop made an even more ambiguous-sounding “Hmmm.”
“And I asked him why no one has followed up on the agents’ lack of security checks. That is, beyond chastising the agent and reminding her to remember for the next transmission. The thing is, he didn’t seem at all surprised. And then he told me he knew about the situation and that SOE’s completely on top of it. He assured me I had nothing to worry about.”
Bishop was preternaturally still.
“I pressed him on a particular agent, a woman named Calvert. Her coding, after a certain point during her tenure in France, became flawless. Which is, frankly, impossible. And yet none of these perfect messages have security checks.”
“Erica Calvert is the agent with the sand samples from the Normandy beaches,” Bishop remarked, surveying the cityscape.
“Yes, sir.” Martens realized he hadn’t told the older officer the agent’s first name.
“Whom we are in the process of extricating.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bishop turned. “Do you believe this woman has been compromised?”
Both men knew what this admission would mean. “Yes, sir,” Martens replied. “I do.”
“SOE is Winston’s special pet project,” Bishop explained. “A start-up. Raging amateurs. For those of us who have spent our professional lives operating in the shadows, those idiots are a liability.”
“Sir?”
“SOE and MI-Six agents often end up working at cross-purposes.” He took a monogrammed silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket, opened it, and offered a Player’s to Martens, who demurred. “They’re a mob of second-raters, disorganized and dangerous. And they jeopardize my own agents and their missions abroad.”
He took a cigarette for himself and pulled out a lighter. “They lack professionalism. And the grave mistakes they’ve already made should have been enough to eradicate the entire operation.” He lit the cigarette and inhaled, pausing to pick a stray flake of tobacco leaf from his tongue. “But SOE is Churchill’s brainchild—he won’t let it be disbanded.” Bishop let a stream of smoke pass through his nostrils. “I have long suspected the SOE agents in the Netherlands have been compromised and are operating under German control. It doesn’t surprise me in the least that the Gestapo in France may be taking a page from their book.”
Martens cleared his throat. “To the best of your knowledge, sir, have any SOE agents been captured and their radios turned?”
“No,” Bishop answered. “Not officially, at least.”
“Would SOE ever admit if their agents were caught?”
“That, my boy, is why you’ll need hard evidence.” Bishop looked at his watch. “Keep me informed on what you find out. You were right to come to me.” He trained his eyes on the skyline. “But for the sake of God and country—don’t put any of this in writing.”
—
At Avenue Foch, Hugh was seated in front of his radio. Professor Fischer and Obersturmbannführer von Waltz were facing him, gazing at the Englishman almost fondly, as though he were an extremely intelligent dog about to perform a wonderful trick. Hugh had been cleaned up, the cuts on his face bandaged. He was wearing fresh clothes. But his eyes were dull, unseeing.
“Now then,” said the Obersturmbannführer. “Let’s begin, Mr. Thompson.”
Mechanically, Hugh raised his hands; his fingers hovered above the keyboard.
“Let’s see, what should we have him say?” von Waltz asked the professor. “How about a request for more agents? Let’s build our little ‘orchestra,’ shall we?” He chortled. “Well, what are you waiting for? Start your message!” He leaned down to Hugh. “And be damn sure to include your security checks!”
Hugh began.
—
The F-Section agent code-named Clothilde was one of the few clandestine radio operators in Paris; they didn’t tend to last long. Six weeks was the usual length of time before undercover agents were discovered by the Germans. “We have the shelf life of yogurt,” they’d joke. But the German detection vans, listening for transmitted radio messages, were always circling, trying to zero in on transmission locations, which was why time on the air had to be kept as short as possible.
Clothilde was petite and young-looking, with heavy bangs shading bright brown eyes. Her radio set was open in front of her in Voltaire’s kitchen, power from the six-volt dry-cell battery on. “All right.” She cracked her knuckles, the antenna pointed out the window, rubber-coated aerial wires held up by tree branches while Voltaire kept watch for German vehicles. “What’s the message you want me to send?” Although her voice was steady, her hands shook slightly.