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 if identified, or served at the British Embassy, if she ever got there. In addition, if she arrived at her destination, 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 could be seen splashing through the puddles, but there were no men in suits nor suspicious-looking characters smoking on street corners and looking furtively around. The front door of the embassy was as tightly closed as a bank vault. 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. Her Portuguese olive skin enhanced her brown dancing eyes.
‘Come, this way,’ she said with a gesture.
She took Hilda into the kitchen where she took off her overcoat and spread it beside the roaring fire, to dry. A welcome cup of hot tea arrived. So far, she felt safe, though her purpose had yet to make a mark. 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.
The cook told her the embassy opened at eight on a Saturday morning and closed at noon, till Monday. Hilda kept her eye on the kitchen clock.
The cook returned from the dining room and told Hilda she had mentioned she was there, in the kitchen, of all places. She asked for a name and Hilda hesitated, making sure she did not slip up. In the end 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. He had a Midlands accent she thought, but she was wrong. She learned later that it was a cultured northeast 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 underway 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. Of one thing, he seemed certain. 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 elegant room furnished as an office. He sat behind a large, oak, leather-topped desk equipped only with a blotter and a telephone. He indicated that Hilda should take the visitor’s seat. 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 were unable to help her, he would surely 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 realised. 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, and 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, now 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 also 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 Forres, but I have lived in Hamburg for more than twenty-five years, ever since I was married; my husband was an eminent doctor in Hamburg. After he died, and war began to seem inevitable, I decided to visit my parents in Forres for a while. Before I left Herr Eicke of the Gestapo approached me, and I agreed rather reluctantly to pass on any information I could find about northern 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 that 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.