Changing sides.
Chapter 17
She returned to the cottage feeling very low, and determined never to relay another message to Berlin. How could she ever face the widows of the men drowned on the SS Athenia? But also, how long would it be before the German coders suspected her radio silence?
She needed a plan and she had to make it quickly. She had to get out of Peniche, that much was clear, and in order to hide her tracks she’d have to travel light. The nearest safe house would be the British Embassy in Lisbon, but to get there she’d have to pass the seething nest of spies known to have gathered in Lisbon. Surely the German contingent would be watching who came and went from the British Embassy. She would need to arrive in Lisbon before the embassy opened. She consulted a map of the city which she had noticed in a small bookcase at the cottage. The British Embassy was located in the Rua de São Francisco Borja, in the centre of the city near the sea.
She prepared a bag to take if she needed to leave in haste, but she would have to leave much behind as a blind. Her oboe case filled the bottom of the bag. She would wear as many clothes as she could.
Then a trickle of fear ran down her body; she was meant to be an author, for goodness sake; she had to leave something behind to support that story. There was clearly no time to write a book, but she made herself a cup of coffee and sat down to write a potential plotline. She made notes, added words and crossed them out. On the folder she wrote First Draft and filled it with several blank pages; her outline was a Venn diagram, with shoots of ideas spreading to the corners of the page. She called the novel My Destiny in the Highlands. She wondered if it really was. By the time the coffee cup was empty, she had enough to give the impression she had at least made a start on a book. Surely, anyone who came across the folder would assume she was coming back; a real author would have taken it with her if she was simply moving on.
Hilda looked at Inka, and the little cat jumped up on to her lap. She stroked her and told her she was going away. She believed that somehow Inka understood. The animal had come into her life at exactly the right time, but nothing was forever. She would leave the door open when she went, so the cat could come and go. Indeed, that would be part of the plan.
First, though, she had to contact Berlin. She knew what she had to do. She opened the radio and put her headphones on. There was a clear line, and she began to transmit.
50... and... 34. 65... and 32 x 22 10/3/39 came the message from New York.
Received, over and out, she replied. Then she sent her own message to Berlin.
43... and... 31. 62... and 31 x 22 10/3/39.
The clock was now ticking. That message would be sent promptly to the pack of submarine wolves, sending them on a wild goose chase. They would query the information they had been given; they might look to her first, or perhaps to Nancy in New York, to see where the fault lay. She could not afford to be around when they discovered the discrepancy, and certainly not when they worked out the truth.
That night, an hour after midnight, she fulfilled her plan. First, she went to the beach. Fortunately, the moonlight was bright enough to enable her to make her way safely. She took her towel, a jersey and an extra pair of shoes. The tide was out. She laid the towel down in a position that could be seen from the road. Her shoes lay on a corner to prevent it blowing away. She had to make the scenario convincing; she tucked her watch in her shoe, and laid a book down with a bookmark three-quarters of the way through. There was no point in leaving footprints to the water; nor leave tracks when she came back. The tide would turn before dawn.
She stood back and observed the scene she had set with the pride of a movie director. By daybreak it might have become a murder scene or a missing person enquiry, and to her it looked pretty convincing. Now she had to move on, and quickly.
It was a quarter to three and still dark when she set off, leaving the bike resting on the side wall of the cottage. She walked swiftly and quietly, and mercifully no dogs barked as she passed. She nibbled a piece of cheese to keep her going, and reached the village of Sintra soon after five, heading straight for the bus park. The first bus to Lisbon set off at five thirty. She was in good time.
It was an hour’s journey, and for most of it she was the only passenger, which was a mixed blessing. Every hamlet seemed to be served by this slow-moving bus, but very few got on that morning. As dawn broke they passed farmsteads with crops of barley and wheat, and huge numbers of vineyards which supplied the Porto wine industry. Lisbon itself spread much further than she had imagined. That gave her some reassurance; she could easily lose herself in the city.
By the time the bus reached its final destination the day had started in earnest. Hilda had wanted to arrive at the British Embassy earlier than this. If she went there now, she would be spotted. She could not take the risk; she needed another plan.
She found a small family-run hotel on the Rua da Vitania, and asked for a room for the day. She signed the guest book with the first name which came into her head; she had no idea where it came from, but it would do as a cover during her enforced stay in the hotel.
Breakfast was both unexpected and a great pleasure. The owner, Deputada Theresa Soares, made her a tomato omelette, and she had rarely enjoyed a meal so much. She devoured it as if breakfast was the only meal she would get all day – which was quite possible. As she ate, she explained that she would be leaving very early the following morning, and hoped a taxi could collect her at six. That seemed to be no problem. They understood the broken Portuguese which she had studied so carefully during her brief stay in Peniche.
She was given a room overlooking a park, beyond which was a row of tenement buildings which housed the poor of Lisbon. It was not the most salubrious of accommodation, but an ideal place to hide for the best part of the day. She lay down on the bed still wearing her clothes, and soon she was sound asleep.
Hilda was woken by a knock on the door and her landlady announcing that an evening meal was ready. She was pleased to find she would be dining alone, and sat down with her back towards the main window. On her plate was a heap of lobster, with melted cheese on the white meat. There were also small tomatoes, roasted potatoes and a few runner beans, and a carafe of red wine with a glass to fill at her leisure.
The landlady’s husband came into the dining room and spoke to her in broken English.
‘English lady welcome. We welcome all spies.’ He laughed loudly, but his comment put her on edge. How could he have come to that conclusion?
‘You think I am a spy?’ She tried to sound casual, and laughed a little.
‘In Lisbon you are either Portuguese or a spy.’
She laughed with him, and took stock of him over the rim of her wine glass.
He opened the reception book and gave her a little bow.
‘I apologize. Spies are men, so you cannot be a spy, er... Miss Brackenridge.’
She played along with him. ‘You must be a spy detector to come to that conclusion.’
‘No, I am Chefe de Pollicia Edmundo Soares. In charge of the south of the city.’
This was exactly what she did not want to hear. The clock was ticking down, and it was possible he had already been informed of a missing British woman. She finished her meal and asked to pay her bill. ‘I shall be leaving at six tomorrow morning,’ she explained. ‘Your wife said I’d have a taxi waiting for me.’
Hilda hardly slept all night, not because she had slept most of the day but because of her fear of being discovered by the German Embassy. It was Friday night, and Lisbon came to life as soon as it was dark... Street music and dancing went on till after ten thirty and she watched every movement from her bedroom window. Afterwards she lay down, but she was still not ready for sleep. Her thoughts whirled; first around abandoning poor Inka, then sending a British ship to the bottom of the Atlantic. She felt she would never come to terms with this. She tried hard not to cry, but her heart was heavy. It was near one o’clock in the morning before she was able to nap.
The morning was another foul one, with squalls of rain battering the cobbled streets. For her that would be useful; she could move swiftly and less obviously in the rain. She had been awake since four. No wonder her stomach was in knots. Her future was in the balance, and her eggs were all in one basket, waiting to be smashed or served up at the British Embassy, if she ever got there. And if, or when, she did, would the ambassador’s staff believe her?
The cab arrived at twelve minutes past six. Twenty minutes later Hilda paid the driver and walked smartly towards the side entrance to the embassy. A few people were on their way to set up their market stalls, and some cyclists splashed through the puddles, but there were no men in suits, nor suspicious-looking characters smoking on street corners, taking sly looks around. The front door of the embassy was still firmly closed. The smell of wet vegetation caught her senses as she passed the side of the property; further round she was delighted to see a lawn with beautiful flowering chrysanthemums and creeping juniper, and a common walnut tree at the end of the walled garden.
She heard voices coming from the embassy, and approached an open window. It accessed the kitchen; she peered inside and caught the eye of a startled cook. Hilda smiled to show she meant no harm.
‘I have been travelling, and I've arrived too soon,’ she said.
‘Who are you to see?’
‘The ambassador himself,’ she said, hoping to impress the woman.
‘That will not be possible. He’s in London.’
Her heart sank like a lead weight. ‘Then I must see his deputy. I have important information to give the embassy.’
‘Wait. I am coming,’ the cook said, drying her hands on a towel.
Hilda's spirits lifted. She looked around her and saw no one looking at her. The cook in her white trousers and checked blue and white apron opened the side door. She was small and round, with black hair tied up in a tight bun, Portuguese olive skin and dancing eyes.
‘Come, this way,’ she said with a gesture.
She took Hilda into the kitchen and opened her overcoat out beside the roaring fire to dry. A welcome cup of hot tea arrived. So far she felt safe, though it was far from guaranteed. She watched the cooks prepare breakfast for the staff, keeping well out of their way.
Eventually she heard English voices in the dining room. She felt she should go there, but she needed to bide her time.
Someone told her the embassy opened at eight. It would close at noon as it was Saturday. She kept her eye on the kitchen clock.
The cook returned from the dining room and said she had mentioned she was here, in the kitchen, of all places. She asked for a name, and Hilda hesitated. Which one should she use? She simply said Miss Campbell. The cook returned to the dining room.
At ten minutes to eight, as she was looking out at the wet garden through the kitchen window, a man entered.
‘Miss Campbell?’
She turned round to see a man at least ten years younger than herself. He wore a dark blue suit with a white shirt and a darker blue tie, and his shoes shone as if he was ready for a guard’s parade. His accent was midlands, she thought, but she was wrong. She learned later that it was a cultured north east accent; he was from Sunderland.
‘Yes, I am Hilda Campbell. I arrived very early. I hope you don’t mind. I travelled all night.’
‘Not at all. I’m glad the cooks looked after you. I am third in command here. Gavin Stevens,’ he said, offering his hand.
Hilda shook it warmly, holding on a fraction longer than politeness required. ‘They certainly did,’ she said, retrieving her overcoat from the warmth of the fire.
‘Please come with me to my office.’
She thanked the kitchen staff in her best Portuguese, which brought smiles to their faces and little bows of appreciation.
They walked along a corridor with Portuguese art on the walls. As they climbed the staircase, Mr Stevens had a question.
‘A stranded lady wishing to return home before the war gathers pace, or one who needs to renew a passport. Am I right?’
She shook her head slowly. ‘Mr Stevens, the war is under way and I have much to report.’
‘I see. Then I think you are not one of our usual visitors.’
‘No, I think you will find me rather unusual. I may have some important requests for you.’
He gave her an appraising look. Portugal was a neutral country; perhaps the war had not been the first thing in his mind. He seemed a little out of his depth, and she wondered if the requests she needed to make were beyond his remit. He did seem to realize he had a formidable woman before him.
She walked a little way along another corridor, and Mr Stevens opened a door, behind which was an elegantly room furnished as an office. He sat behind a large oak leather-topped desk equipped only with a blotter and a telephone, and indicated that Hilda should take the visitor's chair. A portrait of King George VI hung from the wall, which made her feel very much at home.
'Now,' he said briskly, leaning towards her attentively. 'Now about your requests. How can I be of assistance?'
Hilda hesitated, but only for a moment. This was the British Embassy; technically, at least, she was on home soil. If this man was unable to help her, he would know someone who could.
Best to come straight out with it, she thought. ‘MI6 must be told I am here. I am working for them.’
Mr Stevens' expression changed; clearly matters were a great deal more serious than he had realized. He lifted the phone, to contact someone more senior, she assumed.
‘Nigel, can you come to my room? I have a lady I’d like you to meet.’ He replaced the handset and smiled at her a little uncertainly.
They sat in silence for a minute or two, then an older man arrived, closing the door behind him.
‘Mr Sloan, this is Miss Hilda Campbell,’ said Mr Stevens.
‘Good morning,’ she said standing up and offering her hand.
‘Good morning. Now Miss Campbell, what are you wishing to tell us?’
She took a deep breath to compose herself, and sat down again. Mr Sloan remained standing.
‘I am a somewhat reluctant double agent. Before the war I was working for Germany, but now MI6 directs me. They need to know where I am, and I have some information for them about the loss of shipping in the Atlantic.’
‘I see,’ said Sloan.
There was a pause. She did not wish to say more than was strictly necessary at this stage, but there was one question she needed to ask.
‘Can you get a telephone call through to Mr Thornton or Mr Dynes at MI6?’
Mr Sloan raised his eyebrows and nodded at Mr Stevens. The younger man left the room, and Sloan took his place behind the desk.
‘So tell me, what are your German connections?’ asked Mr Sloan.
'I am Scottish, from Elgin, but I have lived in Hamburg for more than twenty-five years, ever since I was married; my husband was an eminent doctor. After he died, and war began to seem imminent, I decided to visit my parents in Elgin for a while. Before I left I was approached by Herr Eicke of the Gestapo, and I agreed rather reluctantly to pass on any information I could find about British airbases and troop movements. When I arrived in Britain MI6 approached me. I was never comfortable with Herr Eicke, and certainly never liked what he stood for; I felt all along he had coerced me into spying for him with veiled threats towards my family in Germany. So when the MI6 agents asked me to be a double agent, I agreed without hesitation.
'After a few months I was summoned back to Germany by Herr Eicke, though with MI6's blessing, but then the war began. I underwent some training, then I was sent to Portugal, to receive radio messages from America and send them to Berlin. I suppose you would say that put me back in the German camp.’
‘So you are a counter, counter spy? Of course I need to know which side you are really on, you understand.’
‘If we get through to either Dynes or Thornton, it will be a great relief to me. I'm certain they will be able to reassure you.’
Sloan began to drum his fingers on the desk. Hilda found it vaguely threatening, but tried to set that aside.
‘And if they don't?’ he asked, stroking his chin.
'They will,' she said firmly, though less confident that she wanted Sloan to believe. What consequences would result if her story faltered against someone else’s version of events?
'What if we are unable to get in touch with them?'
She hesitated, then remembered what might be happening at the cottage in Portugal.
‘I need to stay here. I will have been reported as a missing person, probably drowned at sea two days ago.’
Mr Sloan's eyes creased. She suspected he might be thinking she was deranged.
The telephone rang. Mr Sloan lifted the handset, listened, and said nothing. Then he looked up at her.
‘It’s for you,’ he said.
‘Really?’
He handed her the telephone. ‘A Mr Thornton,’ was all he said. Relief flooded through Hilda, and she sank back into her seat. She had not realized how tense she was. She grabbed the phone from Sloan's hand.
‘Mr Thornton? Thank goodness! It’s wonderful to hear your voice again...'
'Hilda, it's really you. Are you all right?'
'. Yes, yes, I’m fine. I need to return to London, as soon as possible.' 'Of course. Where are you? Still in Hamburg? Can you tell us who you've been working with?'
'No, I'm in Lisbon, Portugal. And yes, I can give you some names, and a lot more besides.’
'We'll get you home as soon as we can. Let me speak to the embassy man again – Sloan, is it?'
She handed the telephone back with her heart beating as if it would burst out of her chest. Everything was going so much better than she had dared hope.
‘Hello again,' Sloan said. 'Yes... yes, I see. So that’s who she is. Definitely one of ours?... Okay, it’s just past eight a.m. now. Yes... okay. When? Let me see... Ah, a flight will leave at, er, at two p.m. Yes..., of course. We will take care of everything. Easily arranged. That is no problem. Can I pass you back?’
He held the phone to her once again.
‘Hilda, it’s looking like you won’t be going back to Germany for some considerable time now,’ said Thornton.
‘I certainly won’t. I decided to drown yesterday, so locals will report my disappearance, and when the German Embassy follows it up, they should swallow the bait. That gives me some time. Looks like I could be stateless.’
‘No, no, certainly not stateless. You're a British citizen, there's no doubt about. Now, you're not to worry. Sloan is making arrangements for you to fly home today, and we’ll pick you up when you land.’
Hilda struggled to control the tremble in her voice. ‘Thank you. I look forward to that very much indeed. Goodbye for the moment.’ She replaced the handset on the cradle but her hand seemed unable to let go of it. She closed her eyes, and a potent mixture of disbelief and joy coursed through her. She’d be back in Britain in a few hours, and surely they would grant her some leave to get home to Elgin to see her mother.
Mr Sloan looked at her and shook his head, then his face broke into a broad smile. ‘I guess you are a bit of a celebrity,’ he said
She managed to let go of the telephone and opened her eyes. She returned his smile back and shook her head. ‘Far from it. I’m just a fortunate woman. My work isn't finished. In fact, I suspect it has hardly started.’
‘A double agent's work never ends, I suppose?’
She shook her head. ‘It ends in one of two ways, death or retirement.’
‘Doesn’t that apply to everyone?’
‘I mean premature death and nerve-racking retirement. I have much to tell Mr Thornton.’
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Ron