Page 11 of Echoes of Betrayal

CHAPTER 9

Bletchley Park, February 1943

Jack had arrived at Bletchley Park in the county of Buckinghamshire early that afternoon. It was only around fifty miles from Baker Street, but the marked contrast between town and country was dramatic.

He’d visited Britain’s top-secret wartime codebreaking headquarters before, but never for any considerable length of time, so he wished to find his bearings as quickly as possible. His role as an SOE liaison officer meant he was immediately viewed with some suspicion, but he was prepared for that.

It was freezing in the unheated wooden hut where he’d been assigned a desk shortly after arrival, and he was grateful for his winter overcoat. He went outside, sidestepping workers huddled in small groups near the huts, and walked towards the lake. Lighting a cigarette as he took in his surroundings, he smoked and assessed the peaceful pastoral scene. The stark winter conditions did nothing to dull the beauty of the grounds, and his eyes wandered from the tangles of grey rushes at the edges of the dark lake to the ducks drifting slowly on the still water. The vibrant green heads of the Mallard drakes shimmered in the pale winter light, and geese thrashed their wings, squabbling amongst themselves and paying no attention to the stranger watching them.

Jack blew a ring of smoke into the icy air and studied the mansion across the lake. The Victorian house was a curious mix of Tudor, Gothic, and Baroque architecture, but was impressive despite the odd blend of period styles. His eyes strayed briefly to the copper-green turret and the smoking chimneys on the roof. The house was full of staff working in the offices at all hours, and even as he gazed at the building, a young man and woman exited the front door and hurried down the path in the opposite direction of the sprawling estate. Lizzie liked it at Bletchley, and he wished she were by his side now, but the war meant they spent considerable time apart, even though they were now officially engaged. Lizzie reminded him they were the lucky ones. Juliet rarely saw her fiancé Oliver, who, like their brother Archie, was on active service, and Jack knew the Beaumont family lived in dread of an unexpected knock at the door by a telegram boy. Jack’s thoughts flitted to his brother Henry, but he forced them out of his mind. He must focus on what he was here to do, not allow himself to wallow in gloom.

Bletchley was a remarkable wartime initiative. What had begun as a small group of hand-picked cryptographers had snowballed into a huge global intelligence operation. Val told him that the staff on site had grown to over five thousand and, as a result, BP, as insiders called it, was bursting at the seams.

Staff were billeted in local homes, but Jack’s secretary had booked him a room at a pub in Bletchley village. His driver had already returned to Baker Street after dropping off his suitcase at the pub, so he was marooned. The thought of borrowing a bicycle crossed his mind, but that was more Lizzie’s style. A memory of her racing around on a battered bike in Toulouse made him chuckle, and he wondered whether she would cycle in Bern too, but he assumed it would be too icy at this time of year. She had been on his mind almost constantly since he dropped her at the airfield and watched the tiny plane rise into the sky, and he hadn’t left Baker Street until the message from their agent, Tom Green, had reached his desk. Elizabeth Gale had arrived safely at the British Legation in Bern.

Jack could breathe again.

He finished his cigarette and ground it out with his foot on the path as he returned to the hut area. Inside, people hunched over their desks, whilst others darted from one corner to the other, a heavy haze of cigarette smoke hanging in the air. On the wall, beside Jack’s desk, was a poster reminding the hut boffins that Careless Talk Costs Lives. His stomach growled, and he decided he needed something to eat. A young woman in Women's Royal Naval Service uniform, or Wrens as they were called, sat at a table nearby and directed him to the recreation hut, and he went in search of refreshments. There was no decent coffee, so he ordered a mug of tea and a fish paste sandwich. The tea was strong enough to take the hairs off his chest, and the bread was the standard grey National Wheatmeal variety. He reminded himself this wasn’t Baker Street, which had access to luxury goods, and he’d have to acclimatise to living strictly on rationed items. At least there was beer, and he looked forward to having a pint later once he’d made some headway. Jack returned to his desk and ate his late lunch, surreptitiously studying the other inhabitants of the hut. There must have been twenty workers crammed into the makeshift space, mostly women absorbed in their work, and a handful of professor types dressed in tweed jackets, several of them smoking pungent-smelling pipes. Everyone ignored him as though he wasn’t there, and he realised his assignment would be tougher than he’d thought. He was an outsider, and he felt it acutely at that moment as he finished his sandwich and drained the enamel mug that had been allocated to him.

It was going to be a lonely posting, but he’d still rather be busy amongst strangers than in his empty London flat without Lizzie.

CHAPTER 10

Bern, February 1943

A week had passed since the morning Lizzie arrived in the city of Bern, which was the federal capital of Switzerland and the seat of the Swiss government. She was settling into a routine in her new life as Elizabeth Gale. Nigel Pemberton, the Commercial Attaché, was her new boss, and he appreciated her work.

Fog clung to the mountains, and she couldn’t see the bright white peaks when she stood at the window sipping her tea before leaving for the office. That morning, she tackled the translations of the latest batch of German commercial correspondence, which included dull trade documents and reports. Lizzie was alert for anything out of the ordinary tied to the purpose of her mission, but so far, she had seen nothing worth pursuing. She smiled wryly at the thought: it wasn’t as if they were going to parade a document with the ins and outs of Swiss and Nazi collaboration across her desk. It would be more subtle than that, and it was her job to follow her nose and uncover the proof Churchill needed.

Her instructor had briefed her on the basic workings of Swiss commerce and the demand for factory production, as this was one way Switzerland was supplying the German war machine, but based on what she had seen so far, they weren’t supplying the Allies in equal measure. No wonder London wanted to pressure them to shut it down.

When she knocked on Nigel Pemberton’s half-open door and he signalled for her to enter, she lay the latest translated documents for his reference on one side of his desk. ‘Thank you, Elizabeth. I must say you have set a record pace. At this rate, I shall have to improve my own speed just to keep up with you.’ Lizzie smiled back at him and took advantage of the moment. ‘I do my best, sir. Have you got a moment?’

‘Certainly, certainly, pull up a chair. You’ve had no training from me or my people to speak of and are doing a remarkable job so the least I can do is spare a moment for you. What’s on your mind?’

Lizzie sat on the nearby chair and turned to him. ‘It appears a high volume of the commercial documents passing through the office are for precision tools such as theodolites for surveying or measuring instruments and laboratory equipment.’

‘That is correct,’ Pemberton said, nodding. ‘The Swiss are remarkable in this field of industry. Their watchmaking expertise has proven indispensable in the engineering of precision tools and components, so they are in great demand, not only by us but by the United States too.’

Lizzie leant closer and lowered her voice as the door was still ajar. ‘Should I expect to translate documents that are munitions or military machinery related?’

‘Ah, I see what you’re getting at. You are astute, which is an admirable quality to bring to the detailed nature of this work. Unfortunately, that is an area where I must advise you to tread lightly, given our diplomatic function.’

Lizzie gazed at Pemberton, willing him to expand. She knew she was in danger of crossing an unspoken line, but after a week of translating documents that took her no closer to the purpose of her mission, she decided to be bold and see what she might discover from the man in charge.

She remained silent and waited.

Nigel Pemberton kept hold of his fountain pen and sat back in his large chair as if contemplating the world with a laboured sigh.

‘Close the door, Elizabeth and let us have a frank conversation.’

Lizzie did as he asked and swiftly returned to his side. ‘Thank you. I appreciate your time.’

‘Not at all,’ he said, waving his pen. ‘The last girl didn’t ask questions, but I can see you are of a different ilk. Am I right in assuming our friends in Baker Street had a hand in your appointment?’

Lizzie missed only a beat before inclining her head. If she wanted her boss’s help, she must give him something in return.

‘I see. Well, that rather casts a different light on matters. I must say, I wish the powers that be would give me a heads-up when they drop these potential diplomatic bombs on me.’