When two lives collide, p.11
When Two Lives Collide, page 11
At 10.15pm on June 5, 1944, the BBC broadcast the message all of us in France were longing to hear. News from England that the allied forces were ready to wreak hell on the Germans camped along the Northern French coast. A number of messages had been sent over the BBC air waves in an attempt to throw the German decoders into confusion. The awaited message agreed between all parties confirming the attack was underway was short yet simple. Using a poem by the French poet Paul Verlaine—Chanson d’automne, the message in French being “Les sanglots longs des violins de l’automne”, ‘Long sobs of autumn violins. The day imminent’.
Although a huge storm delayed the first wave of the invasion, June 6 saw the massed forces of many allied nations attack from a number of fronts. Over the following months, I worked with a growing number of resistance fighters, sabotaging all forms of exit routes taken by the retreating German forces.
Chapter 14
With World War II in Europe now over, I eventually arrived back in London early November 1945. My orders to go immediately to the underground offices in South London I’d last seen six years earlier. I had expected to find the offices deserted as the war had now officially ended. But no, the rooms appeared busier than ever. Even more machines chattering away. There was now an overwhelming realisation that Russian and German were the predominant languages bouncing around the crowded underground chambers. Ruddy had taken over SP’s office, my old supremo nowhere to be seen.
“At last, you made it back Bob. Welcome home, dear boy,” Ruddy thrust his manicured hand into mine. “Great work out there with the Frogs. Lot of debriefing I’m afraid before we get you back in the saddle. It’s going to be fun, now Churchill and Roosevelt have let those bloody Ruskies have too much of Germany. Still, we can discuss that later. Maybe Truman can knock some sense into them. By the way, SP got moved to Bletchley Park. All that code breaking stuff. Always loved it you know. Anyway, let’s say one month then we talk more.”
Ruddy turned away. I was dismissed by Captain Carrington. Although I carried the same rank, my position well established within our section, Captain Ruddy Carrington clearly outranked me.
There was little I could assist the interrogators with during my de-briefing. Although a treat to live for a few weeks in relative luxury, boredom soon overcame any benefits on offer. The MI had established itself well away from the smoke-riddled basement that controlled our activities in Europe. Their countryside headquarters at Persham House were located in a quiet backwater in the Kent countryside, some twenty miles south of Canterbury. Once settled in, I was repeatedly questioned about my knowledge of any Soviet troop movements. About how the Soviets operated within our resistance movement in France. Then over and over, names the Soviets I met in France.
To me, it seemed the plight of untold thousands of Jews and other displaced persons failed to register on any scale of importance whatsoever with my inquisitors. In fact, I had little knowledge of anything Russian or Soviet. Occasionally, we had discussed amongst my French compatriots our opinions of the unlikely liaison to between the Soviets and Hitler, but nothing more.
After my pointless weeks of debriefing in the comfort of the Kent countryside, I duly returned to what was now Ruddy’s domain. During my short time away, I had been formally outranked. Entering his office, I was haughtily greeted by a gloating Major Carrington. I endeavoured to find a modicum of humour in the situation where I was now outranked by a man with abhorrent principles. His only action over the past six years, extracting paper from the growing number of tele-printers. To me, there was something distinctly wrong with Ruddy’s appointment creating within me an uncomfortable feeling. Maybe it was Oxford or SP’s thoughts about communists. Maybe Ruddy’s comments when we first met during Professor Jenkins soiree.
Although perplexed by my unease regarding Major Carrington, it was imperative I retain a sense of perspective. I must shelter any suspicions away from my colleagues. If Ruddy were a spy, being head of our section, all internal working knowledge regarding post war policies crossed Ruddy’s desk. My deep felt concern being the security and physical safety of our agents still working undercover throughout Europe.
My fluency in German promoted me as a front runner for deployment into the first line of espionage operations in the newly segregated Germany. Split into three major sectors together with our American allies, all our concerted efforts were to ensure the safety of Europe. Our major priority, the undoubted ambitions of the untrustworthy Soviets. Everyone knew that an alliance between the Third Reich and Russia was a disaster waiting to explode into major bloodshed. So was the case with the treaty signed in 1940 which disintegrated in 1942.The consensus being that the Kremlin saw major parts of Germany and Poland as a prize for the costly war they had been forced to join.
My new posting was Bad Oeynhausen in North Rhine-Westphalia. From there, I controlled my team of four agents incorporated within a small subsidiary office of the British Embassy. Under this cover, we fed back a regular flow of information, mostly political gossip for Ruddy’s plethora of Eastern European experts. Our office was situated on Liegnitzer Strasse, just a stone’s throw from the River Werre. To the other Embassy workers, my small team were seen as boffins plying London with incomprehensible statistics regarding the German economy.
As head of station, my regular absence from the office drew no surprise or triggered alarms to the other Embassy staff. Shortly after our establishment, I received a coded message from London to make contact with our American counterparts. If they had worn badges stating they were spies, it would have been less conspicuous than the clothing worn by all the agents from the newly formed CIA. My first meeting was organised with their top agent, Jack Candy. Straight from central casting, bedecked in a gabardine trench coat, standard issue dark glasses and brown trilby. Any further contact with Jack would be at the dead of night away from any human activity. Soviet agents were less conspicuous and frequently women. And just like the Gestapo officers, an expertise with European languages came with job.
Ruddy had insisted that I meet the top Soviet field agent based in Berlin. As East Berlin was well within the Soviet sector, I was naturally concerned for my own safety. Within a week, Ruddy relayed a message that his contact within the NKGB would meet me in Bad Oeynhausen. Two more secure messages were transmitted between my office and London to arrange a meeting the following Sunday evening.
‘Walters’ was a well know all night bar, just off Konigstrasse, a bar used mainly by shift workers. My cover being an introduction to Vladimir Bashlachev, newly appointed chair of a Soviet engineering company. Vladimir had been tasked to acquire automotive manufacturing rights for new factories planned by the Soviets on the outskirts of Leningrad. I was already confused with growing concerns regarding Major Carrington’s true identity and political leanings. However, I understood it was imperative I retain a sense of perspective, regarding my increasing suspicions. If Ruddy were a spy, he could never possess a better position than his recently promoted post.
As time for my Sunday meeting with Vladimir Bashlachev drew closer, I considered that anyone wishing to make the journey into the British sector from the safety of East Berlin must have a serious purpose in mind. ‘Walter’s’ bar was relatively quiet as I selected a table farthest from the bar. None of the secure transmission had offered any form of physical description to either party. Beer had never been my favoured drink, but now in Germany, I had taken to merging into the local scenery and drank whatever appeared as the local brew.
“Ah, you prefer the local beer I see, Mr Robert?” a Russian influenced English voice moved to my table. “Vladimir Bashlachev, Leningrad development office, you’re expecting me I understand?”
I stood to shake the hand of a massive man standing head and shoulders over me. His smile radiating a strange warmth I had not expected. Already armed with a beer, he pulled a face of disapproval as he took the first mouthful of the foaming brew.
“Mr Robert, when we next meet I shall introduce you to my favourite vodka. Only then can business be carried out,” he continued, not offering me the opportunity to apply any contribution to the one sided conversation.
Eventually I felt the time was opportune to extract a reason for his risk laden journey from Berlin.
“Mr Bashlachev, what can His Majesty’s government do for you? I think we’ve explored our mutual interest in vodka. So what is it you want?” I sought to force a response already sensing this meeting could go in any direction.
With an uneasy smirk spreading across his face, he retrieved his black leather brief case from the floor. Slowly, with over exaggerated actions, attempting to create the maximum theatrical effect, he released its clasp. Looking directly into my eyes, displaying an increasing confidence, he opened the flap, extracting a tatty brown file, held closed by a wide brown elastic band.
“You see Captain Robert Ferguson, I think you will be interested in the contents of this file. Oh, and by the way, these are copies, the original are in my office. I’m sure you’ll understand.”
His attitude now exuding a confidence topped with a smirk which he seemed to be enjoying; his body language changing, now challenging towards me. For a moment I left the file still unopened between us, trying to imagine what he was offering for our discussions. Bashlachev blinked first. Pushing the file across to my side of the table. My mind was racing; surely the moment of truth had arrived. I had nothing to discuss with him, my orders were straightforward: meet, listen and report back. So I would proceed on that basis, then pass on the information contained in the file; my curiosity now burning, my fingers twitching to open the scruffy brown file.
As I silently turned over the last of the large black and white photographs, it was clear I had just faced a life changing moment. My military and social existence had never deviated from the honest principles set out by my parents. Heavily influenced by GT and dear granny GT. Of course, like all treading a path through our teenage years I’d bent rules, but nothing that could cause irreparable damage to me or my family. GT had a wicked sense of devilment regularly causing embarrassment to guests. When possible, he would set traps that would often allow obvious trysts to prosper. Again nothing but a few red faces or maybe rude awakenings to face the previous night’s stupidity, the only damage. But now I was faced with disaster that even the might of GT’s friends could fail to resolve.
On leaving Winchester College, Alasdair made it clear that conventional progress via university was a course he was not prepared to consider. For my brother had been indoctrinated with a magnetic vocational pull to follow father and grandfather into the church. The Great War had left the Church of England in turmoil. Many priests and young academics who had pursued ecclesiastical studies through university had died on the fighting fields of Northern Europe. Thus, the flow of clergymen and potential tutors had been virtually extinguished. Alasdair was manna from heaven. Already a dedicated pacifist, underwritten by the confirmed principles of my father. Alasdair made a meteoric rise through his seminary, which fortunately for our father was located no more than an hour from his diocese.
In his thirties, he was now head of his seminary with over two hundred hopeful young students under his control. Alasdair was heading for the top. Already, within the church he was spoken of with love and admiration for his academic and pastoral qualities. Many convinced he would soon become one of youngest bishops, possibly even groomed for the very highest office. However, unknown to everyone outside the seminary, Alasdair had a congenital problem over which he had no control. Unless remedied, it would eventually finish his career, plus guaranteeing that I would spend my remaining years behind bars. Alasdair’s problem would leave the reputations of both the Fergusons, together with the might of the Grayson-Traynors, forever left in tatters.
I stared again at each of images peering up from the beer stained barroom table, over and over again. How in God’s name did a Russian agent, now gloating at me across the table, obtain these revealing photographs? There was no doubt the clergyman performing perverse sexual acts was anyone but my brother. Certainly, those with him appeared to be more than compliant; a well organised sexual party atmosphere had been captured on film. It was not difficult to surmise that several of the boys, probably first year students, were little more than eleven. This was not only a homosexual orgy but systematic rape of young children, explicitly captured by someone wishing ruin to me and my family. But in return, the hammer was about to fall. Treason.
“Yes Captain Ferguson, the big boy,” he roared with laughter at the obvious reference to my brother, “yes, yes, Alasdair Ferguson, current head of St Bernard’s College. I suppose you can call this……”
“Ok enough, enough!” I shouted, rising from my chair to challenge the brute, which he copied, glaring down on me.
“Shall we discuss like gentlemen, Captain?” he sat back in his chair, gesturing I do the same.
“Now Captain, your life is now very simple. You are both trapped. You see, I have no issue releasing these photographs to your tabloid press. Many of your journalists, as I recall from my years at the LSE, are always ready to crucify anyone highly placed. Especially those within your hypocritical churches. But my greatest pleasure with be watching your political aristocrats, within your House of Lords, choke on their brandy in their private bar overlooking the Thames. Oh what fun! Now of course, this matter can be hidden forever. You will continue in your highly-respected post and supply me, or one of my colleagues, with any information we request. Let’s call it a quid pro quo. If I may suggest, you should advise your brother to take treatment for his problem. As a family man, I find his actions suitable for castration. However, our countries are on both sides of a difficult divide, and therefore, I must work with the hand I’ve been dealt. Please take the photographs. No doubt, you’ll wish to discuss them with your brother. One more thing Captain Ferguson, there’s a colleague of mine on the inside of your organisation; let’s just say he, or maybe she, will be watching you.”
I had no sense of him leaving. My life as I had known it was in tatters. In that moment, I could quietly have my brother killed, but I was convinced the photos would still be released. My brother could resign on medical grounds; again, what would stop them releasing the photos. I was left with no alternative. I had to find a way to keep my brother in the clear, saving my family’s name and reputation. My stomach churned as I dwelt on the fact that I had no alternative but to become a collaborator, a double agent. If caught, I would rightly be hung as a traitor.
Chapter 15
Big Ben boomed out twelve chimes across the Thames, advising of midday, as I sat staring into its murky waters from a bench adjacent to the parliament buildings. For several hours, I’d sat mulling the seemingly untenable state of affairs my perverted sex mad brother had created. Captured on Kodak for the world to choose their favourite party snap. Somewhere across the river existed my only hope of turning round the hell I was facing. If GT had still been alive, access to his close friend General Tarquin Rothercombe would have been arranged in a heartbeat. However, the outcome of war with vastly changing boundaries across Europe had resulted in relocations within the UK powerbase. Those still considered worthy of positions in the new Europe would be thin on the ground.
General Rothercombe and Sir Vernon Kell had been the brains behind a structure that had masterminded the silent war. A movement that changed the course of the allies’ fight to rid the world of Hitler. But attitudes change. Who would have considered that Winston Churchill would have been rejected after the war; replaced by the Labour pacifist Clement Atlee. If Churchill had been replaced, I could only hope a similar fate had not befallen the General.
Alasdair Ferguson had made a meteoric rise to fame, now Bishop Ferguson, in control of not only St Bernard’s College but the ruling committee of a number of diocese across East Anglia. This was not a time to seek an audience with the top man via his minions. Today, I must arrive unannounced using whatever it would take to force a meeting. I figured that Monday would be a suitable day, following the various services he would have attended during the previous day.
St Bernard’s surprised me. I was expecting to arrive in the grounds of a rambling converted Georgian palace. St Bernard’s was in fact, mostly a series of ex-army wooden huts, which clearly formed the classrooms and probably dormitories. Along the driveway stood an unimposing run down Victorian pile. Its decaying glory bearing evidence it had once been the home of a wealthy Victorian industrialist. Lost forever, when his company failed to accept the changes of cheaper imported knitwear.
My brother had physically changed since our last family meeting, when our mother requested we meet her new husband at his estate in Wiltshire. Since that meeting, Alasdair had grown a Jesus beard, which compensated for his loss of hair; I smiled to myself at his monastic appearance. If he was concerned at my surprise visit, there was no evidence. My arrogant brother greeted me as though I was lowly parishioner seeking a blessing for his sins against his God. Within his office, sat three Alasdair lookalikes. Whatever this college was teaching, the makeup department were creating images straight from a medieval monastic movie. Eventually, Alasdair agreed to walk with me away from prying ears. My brother had reinvented himself, a caricature of Friar Tuck. Even his conversation was stilted, each word expressed in precise diction matching the character he’d become.
I fully expected my brother to break down into dramatic floods of tears. Grabbing me to support his failing body, begging for both mine and God’s forgiveness. No, he shrugged off the photograph, suggesting that members of his flock were missing from the shots. He increased his pace as though walking away, confirming our meeting was concluded, having no further interest to discuss any further the horrors facing us both. As he moved to enter a door, which appeared to be an access to the kitchens, I grabbed his collar dragging him away from the door. Wresting from my grip, he tumbled heavily onto his back, crushing two flourishing rose bushes beneath him.
