The following Monday morning Sir Pellinore rang up Gregory at the War Room to tell him that he had had a reply from Erika. But it contained no comfort for her distracted lover. She said that even if Sir Pellinore could manage a visit to Gwaine Meads during the course of the next fortnight she would not be able to bring herself to discuss the affair with him. Her mind was made up, she was doing her utmost to forget, and to reopen the matter could only cause her acute distress.
It was later that same morning, the 12th of October, that. Gregory ran into his old friend of Worcester days, emerging from the Chiefs of Staff conference room at the far end of the basement.
'Hello!' he said. 'Been called in for consultation by the mighty? You are going up in the world.'
The airman grinned. 'No, they only meet down here now at night when there's an air raid on. They've lent us their room because my little party has a global conference of its own on today. There's something rather awe inspiring in the thought that the top boys who do our stuff overseas for us all flew in yesterday from places as far apart as Cairo, Washington, Delhi and Cape Town, to meet us round the table. But it was essential that we should get all the loose ends tied up.'
By now, although no definite reference was made to Torch outside the offices of the Planners, it was generally recognized that everyone in the basement knew about it; so Gregory raised an eyebrow and replied, 'You've left things pretty late, haven't you
* Note: The Author is most averse to inventing fictitious States in his books; but the necessity for doing so in this instance will become clear as the story unfolds.
I should have thought you planning boys would have handed your stuff to the staff of the Force Commander long before this, and been working things out for landings in Norway or Burma next summer.'
His friend shrugged. 'The STRATS and the FOPS are; and at the same time are arguing the respective merits of our going into Denmark, Holland, Cherbourg, Sardinia, Sumatra, the Kra Isthmus and lots of other places. But the little party to which I belong is operational as well; so we are in it up to the neck till the last minute. From the wars of the Ancients onwards, every major operation has had to have its Cover Plan, and it's our responsibility to pull the wool over the eyes of the enemy. I don't mind telling you, it's quite a headache. We could easily make a mess of things, and if we do we'll have a hell of a lot to answer for.'
'I see. Then I don't envy that nice boss of yours. How d'you feel about your prospects?'
'It's difficult to say, because this is our first big show. I think they're pretty good. Of course, we are copying the Germans in putting out all sorts of false rumours, and everyone who's not in the show will be waving red cloaks like mad to draw the Nazi bull off in the wrong direction. But it's impossible to say if they'll fall for that. If they don't, it may lead to about the biggest disaster with which the British Army has ever met.'
Gregory nodded sympathetically. 'It must be worrying you out of your wits. Come along to the mess and have a drink. I'm sure you need one.'
Three days later he saw Sabine; but not to speak to. He had run into an old friend, a journalist who had become a war correspondent, and as neither had anything on that night they agreed to dine together at the Cafe Royal. As they sat down in the restaurant he caught sight of Sabine only a few tables away. Her escort was a tall rather flamboyant looking dark man, with a high bald forehead, flashing eyes and a bushy black moustache. On seeing Gregory she smiled and waved to him, and he waved back,
'Who is your lovely friend?' enquired the journalist.
Gregory told him, and added, 'It's really your job to know by sight everyone who matters. Does that cover the fellow she is with?'
'Oh, yes. He is Colonel Vladan Kasdar, the Moldavian Military Attaché. Not a bad chap as they go; but I wish to goodness all these neutral military attaches could be made to take a running jump and drown themselves in the Thames.'
'Why do you wish that?' Gregory asked with a laugh.
'Because they are so damn dangerous. I'm on pretty good terms with one or two people in M.I.5, and they tell me that they have the Nazi spy system taped. If one is parachuted in or lands from a U-boat, they can nab him within twenty-four hours. So all the leaks that take place are through the neutral Embassies and Legations. Of course it's their job to collect as much information as they can for their own Governments and most of the Swiss, Swedes, Turks and the rest are our very good friends. But there are black sheep in every flock, and the Nazis pay big money for the real goods.'
'I see; and they get the stuff out in the Embassy bags.'
'That's it. The bags enjoy diplomatic privilege and are still immune from censorship; so it's easy enough for chaps like Kasdar to slip a private note in for someone who is working with them in their own capital, and within a few hours its contents have been passed on to Berlin.'
Gregory looked thoughtful, then he said, 'I wonder our Government doesn't put an embargo on the bags any how for a week or so before big operations are to take place.'
'There would be one hell of a fuss if they did,' replied the journalist, 'but, all the same, I wish they would. And I have a personal interest in the matter at the moment. In your job you must know as well as I do that there's a big show pending. The northern ports are positively bursting with troops and shipping. Naturally people like myself are not told where they are off to or when; but it can't be long now because I've been told to stand by to go with them. And I don't mind taking normal risks, but I'm damned if I want to drown just because some Ruritanian type, like Kasdar, is anxious to earn a bit of extra cash to lavish on luscious little dishes of the kind he has with him now.'
The following day Gregory was not due to go on duty until the afternoon and, after breakfast, when he was straightening up the contents of a chest of drawers, he came upon the three big tins of foie gras that Levianski had got for him in Budapest. He had intended one for Sir Pellinore, one for Erika and himself, and one for the girl in S.O.E. Since his return, during most of his off duty hours, his mind had been too distraught with unhappy brooding to do anything about them; but it occurred to him now that a good way to fill in the morning would be to deliver the one for… yes, Diana was her name.
After a short wait he was shown into her office and presented his gift. She was naturally delighted, and said what a treat it would be for her stepfather, whose passion for foie gras had inspired her to suggest that Gregory should pose as a truffle merchant in Budapest. She then asked him how he had got on there.
He told her how the identity of Commandant Tavenier had unforeseeably landed him in the soup, and that he owed his escape to her private enterprise in having provided him with a safe contact in Levianski. He added that he had come, home with what he believed to be a first class coup; but unfortunately he had had all his trouble for nothing, as the Government found themselves unable to take advantage of it,