Page 40 of Echoes of Betrayal

‘Not your fault, Fletcher. Don’t worry yourself about it.’

The young woman, still smart in her Wren’s uniform after a long day, hurried off to comply with Gould’s orders.

Jack leant back in his chair and contemplated what had just happened. Gould knew he had eyes on something he didn’t want him to see. This only made Jack more certain that something was going on at Bletchley that shouldn’t be. Sure, there were always secrets at the codebreakers’ station. That was the business they were in, but this was not that. This was out of the ordinary, and the minute Gould learnt he had withdrawn the batch of intelligence that contained the Swiss decrypt, he had revoked his security level. Jack knew from experience that if his security level hadn’t covered the batch, Fletcher would not have been able to withdraw it for him in the first place. No, this was something that Gould hadn’t accounted for, and he was back-pedalling furiously to cover up what he feared Jack may have seen.

Jack sat there pondering events as dusk descended on the cold hut and night fell. Then he tidied his desk, locking away several documents in his drawer according to protocol, and rose from his chair. Walking back through the darkening streets, he arrived at the pub and ordered a pint of beer. After the day he’d had, he needed it, and he found a seat near the window of the bar and wondered what the hell was going on right under his nose.

What more was the SIS hiding from Baker Street?

He sipped the foamy beer slowly, enjoying the tangy taste on his tongue as he smoked. By the time he had drained the glass, he had made up his mind.

First thing in the morning, he would go and see Gould. The anger he had felt before leaving for London had drained away, but now there was an even more pressing matter to raise with him.

It was time to have it out with Gould and see what he was playing at. He would flag his discovery with the SIS officer and gauge his reaction. Spies were brilliant at hiding their true feelings, but Gould had already shown his hand by withdrawing the batch of incriminating documents. If he’d stuck a red flag on them, he couldn’t have made it more obvious to Jack that he had something critical to hide.

CHAPTER 35

Lizzie looked around to check that no one was coming as she descended the spiral staircase at the bank. It was narrow and the steel steps were uncarpeted. Treading cautiously, careful not to lose her footing, Lizzie disappeared down the steps and entered what appeared to be an annexe of the building. Her steps rang out on the hard floor as she walked, and she thought surely someone might hear her or exit one of the closed doors at any moment and see her.

What was this place? It wasn’t decorated like the luxurious main areas of the bank and was more like some kind of storeroom facility. Lizzie couldn’t be down there for long before presenting herself to the doorman, without arousing suspicion. She calculated she had a few minutes to have a poke around, unless, of course, Brunner had alerted the doorman she was on her way, but she didn’t get the sense that he would. He had seemed so relieved no one was lurking in the corridor; it was unlikely he would draw attention to her.

His secretary wasn’t at her desk, so she hadn’t seen exactly when Lizzie left his office either. It was cool in the annexe, and she passed several doors until she reached a wall and had to turn back. Disappointed that there was nothing to see without entering a room, she hesitated. She was here and wouldn’t get this chance again, so she calculated it was worth the risk. If someone saw her, she’d act scatterbrained and say her sense of direction was poor and she’d taken the wrong stairs. That usually worked well on men, but not on women. The bank didn’t seem to have many staff at all, so with any luck she wouldn’t encounter anyone.

Lizzie reached the first door and tried the handle, but it was locked and refused to open. She froze, waiting to see if anyone had heard the noise from within, but the silence resounded all around her, and if anyone was in there, it likely wouldn’t be locked.

Unless it was like the cipher room at the Legation.

Still no sound. Creeping onwards without letting her heels touch the hard floor, she moved to the next door. This time the handle responded to her touch and clicked. As she pushed the door slowly open, her stomach felt as though it had risen into her throat. The urge to back away whilst she still could was overwhelming, but she resisted and closed the door silently behind her. Inside, there was a tiny window that shed a sliver of light on the tall shelves stacked with carton after carton. She had hoped the stairs might lead to the bank vault, but this was a filing room, which made more sense as the vault was probably in the basement.

Lizzie touched one of the box lids and groped around, not risking alerting anyone outside by switching on the light. Dust swirled in the air and tickled her nose, making her sneeze. She shoved her face into her sleeve to muffle the noise, and froze again, pushing her back against the wall to one side of the shelves in the shadows, waiting for the inevitable. Seconds passed, and then a minute, but all was silent.

Lizzie crept back to the box and slid the dusty lid to one side. It was just a cardboard box, the sort offices used for filing old records. They had a similar storeroom in the basement at the Legation that had boxes stacked on shelves.

From her inside pocket, she withdrew her small torch and felt the comforting bulk of the Swiss Army knife Tom had organised for her. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use it, but her instructor at Baker Street had told her to get one, as it would be less dangerous than smuggling a weapon over the border. It was rare for her to take an actual gun on her missions, although she was a trained expert markswoman.

Agents had access to guns when working with the networks in France, but missions like this required small weapons hidden in secret pockets or suitcase compartments. And then there was Berlin when she’d only had knitting needles to defend herself. Pulling her mind swiftly away from that disturbing memory, she shone the torch into the box and scanned the files within. The boxes were in alphabetical order, and she was in the H section. What was interesting about the names was their varied origins. Switzerland was a global tax haven, and as such, people from all over the world trusted banks like Brunner & Cie with their funds. She scanned details of several of the files and realised they contained paperwork for clients. Brunner had given her copies of the ledger, but here were actual client files. She needed more proof that the Swiss were facilitating the laundering of Nazi-gold looting. Would she find that here?

Her eyes darted across the shelves as she wondered where to look next. Glancing at her watch, she saw she had already been down there for seven minutes. Lizzie sighed. Tearing herself away from this treasure trove was difficult, but she had to go before someone realised that she was still in the building. Vowing to return when she could orchestrate another solo meeting with Brunner, she shoved the lid hastily back on the box and moved towards the door.

Just as she was about to slip out, she heard muffled voices echoing in the corridor outside. She couldn’t catch what they were saying, but there were at least two of them, so she searched for somewhere to hide and saw a tall cupboard on the other side of the storeroom. It would be terrible if she were caught. They might report her to the authorities, and even if she played dumb, at the very least she’d be on a watchlist or transferred from the Legation if the pressure was great enough.

The Swiss government did not take kindly to foreigners nosing around in their affairs, and as the footsteps stopped outside the door, she berated herself for her impulsive action. If she hadn’t been tempted to sneak down the stairs, she’d already be on her way to the diplomatic quarter and the sanctuary of the Legation. Now she’d compromised her own mission, and for what? She had discovered nothing of any significance. It was no surprise that a private bank kept client files on its premises, and she’d compromised her cover in a reckless move.

The door opened and Lizzie stood as still as a statue, her back pushed against the cupboard, her heart thumping so hard that she was afraid they must hear its beat. Her nose tickled, and her eyes watered as she buried her face into her sleeve, praying she wouldn’t sneeze again.

The voices were clear now. A deep male voice told the woman in Bernese dialect which files he needed. He listed several names she recognised as Jewish, one of which was Rosenthal, and it caught Lizzie’s attention. That was the name from the copy of the bank ledger where the family’s account was listed as dormant. Lizzie’s muscles ached as she stood stock-still whilst she heard the sounds of boxes being opened, hands shuffling through files and papers, and boxes thudding back into position on the shelves.

‘Those five will do for now,’ the man said. ‘I’m expecting Kurt Voss in my office in fifteen minutes and need to look over the files first. He’s not a man who likes to be kept waiting.’

‘Yes, Herr Hausner,’ replied the woman’s voice.

So, this was Brunner’s partner, about whom he was so concerned. Lizzie guessed the woman was his secretary by her deferential tone. They closed the door behind them, and Lizzie was once more engulfed in solitude with only the sound of her pounding heart in the confined space.

Tentatively, she pushed open the door and gulped for air as she stepped out of the cupboard, her legs shaky from being stiff in the same unnatural position for too long.

She must get out of the bank before the infamous Kurt Voss saw her. His name kept coming up, but she didn’t know what he looked like. Perhaps today she would find out.

Lizzie closed the door quietly behind her and raced up the spiral stairs back onto Brunner’s office floor. She retraced her steps the way she had come, but just as she was about to enter the grand entrance hall, she saw a man she recognised being ushered in through the heavy front door. She ducked into an alcove, pushing herself against a wall once again. Two sets of footsteps approached, and the visitor passed her, escorted by the faithful doorman. The second she saw them turn the corner, she darted across the entrance hall and fumbled with the door handle. If she were locked in, she would have to spin a yarn for the doorman when he returned, but it would be far better if she could get away without him knowing she was still there.