Emerald

James Baddock

Description

Second in the Cormack and Woodward series. Based on a true story, Emerald is the fast-moving sequel to The Dutch Caper, showing Cormack and Woodward being flown into Berlin in order to bring out 'Emerald', the mistress of a high-ranking member of Hitler's staff in Berlin but also a long-standing British undercover agent. She has been passing on information from Hitler's Berlin Bunker for several months now, but has now become the object of an intensive Gestapo search. Emerald's real name is Marianne Kovacs, the Irish born wife of a Hungarian diplomat, who has been working for SIS for four years, but who knows that she stands little chance of survival if she remains in Berlin. (Her character is based on an actual British agent, whose fate in real life remains a mystery.) Cormack, Woodward and Marianne have to escape from a Berlin that is being systematically destroyed by the approaching Soviet Army, with the Gestapo hot on their heels. To add to their problems, the Soviet NKVD (the fore-runner of the KGB) starts to take an interest in them as well...

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 19 juin 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781782346142
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
EMERALD
James Baddock



Publisher Information
Digital edition converted and published
by Andrews UK Limited 2013
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © James Baddock 2013
The right of James Baddock to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or any means, without the prior written permission of the author.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.




Prologue I
The British Embassy, Budapest, Hungary: Friday, April 4 th , 1941
Martin Powell tied up another bundle of documents and placed it in the large cardboard box on his desktop; it was already nearly full. As he did so, the door opened and a young, bespectacled man came in with another pile of papers precariously balanced in his arms. Powell shook his head wearily. “How much more is there, for God’s sake, Harris?”
Harris shrugged. “I’ve no idea, sir. Mr Slocombe hasn’t even started on Room Twenty yet.” He looked round for somewhere to set down the documents.
Swearing under his breath, Powell cleared a space on his desk and pointed to a large sack in the corner of the office. “That’s ready for disposal.”
“Right, sir.” Harris hefted the bulky sack onto his shoulder and staggered out, leaving Powell staring thoughtfully at the new pile of documents. Most of it would be destined for incineration, but about ten per cent would have to be preserved and it was up to him to sort it out. Down in the underground Records Office, Slocombe, the Chief Records Clerk, would be performing a similar task, but the secret files that had been collected over the last twenty years or more were Powell’s responsibility. Officially, he was a Senior Attaché in the Embassy, but, in fact, he was the local field agent for SIS, the British Secret Service, and so it was his job to decide which of the files could be destroyed and which should be transported back to the United Kingdom.
There was precious little time to carry out such a massive administrative procedure. The latest news from London was that it would only be a matter of days before Whitehall broke off diplomatic relations with Hungary. Two days before, German troops had crossed the Austrian and Czechoslovakian borders into Hungary, supposedly in transit on their way to invade Yugoslavia. No permission had been granted by Budapest for this; it was thus tantamount to an invasion, except that the government was to be allowed to remain in power. Hungary was now no more than a Nazi satellite state, but Britain was powerless to intervene, despite the suicide of Count Teleki, the Hungarian Prime Minister, the day before. The message that the Ambassador had received from London had been to the effect that as soon as the invasion of Yugoslavia was launched, Britain would sever all links with Hungary on the grounds that it was allowing itself to be used as a base for Nazi aggression. The latest estimate for this was April 6 th or 7 th and in the meantime, all non-essential records had to be destroyed - a mammoth task as Powell was increasingly coming to appreciate.
The telephone on his desk rang and he scooped it up hurriedly; more bad news, almost certainly. “Yes? Powell here.”
“It’s Mackay, sir. There’s a woman here who would like to speak to you.”
“What about, for God’s sake?”
“She won’t say, sir. Says it confidential and very urgent. She won’t give her name, either, but reckons you and she met at the Swedish Embassy dinner a month ago and talked about the Eton Wall Game.”
“Eton Wall Game?” muttered Powell, frowning in perplexity before he recalled the incident, but the realisation only brought further bewilderment; what the devil did Marianne Kovacs want with him? “Very well, Mackay, could you have her brought up, please? Not to my office, though - better make it Mr Ellingham’s.”
Her appearance as she was ushered into the office took him by surprise. He had a picture of her in his mind as he had seen her at the dinner: tall, slim, with long, reddish-blonde hair, startling green eyes with gold flecks and an excellent figure shown off to its best advantage by a black evening dress with a plunging neckline, but he scarcely recognised the woman who now stood in front of him. She wore a raincoat that had probably been expensive when new, but which now showed unmistakeable signs of wear and tear and a hat that all but concealed her hair, which had been pulled back into a bun on the nape of her neck. Her face was almost totally devoid of make-up; the elegant, sophisticated beauty had been transformed into a pretty, but anonymous, woman. “Do sit down, Mrs Kovacs,” said Powell in English, indicating a chair in front of the desk.
“Thank you, Mr Powell.” There was the merest trace of an Irish accent in her voice; if Powell had not already known that she had been born in Dublin, he would not have detected it at all.
“What can I do for you, Mrs Kovacs?”
Her green eyes stared at him with a disconcerting frankness. “I understand that you are the field agent for MI6, Mr Powell.”
There was no visible reaction on Powell’s face, but he could feel his stomach turning over. “Whatever gives you that impression, Mrs Kovacs?”
“Look, Mr Powell, I know that you’re not going to admit anything, but that’s not why I’m here anyway. Your status here is rather less of a secret than I imagine you would like it to be, but that scarcely matters now as you will be leaving within two or three days, does it? I’m telling you that I know who you are simply to make the point that I have access to diplomatic information that might well be useful to you - to Britain, that is - after your Embassy here is closed down.” Once again, she fixed him with her direct gaze. “I’m willing to supply you with that information.”
“I see,” said Powell noncommittally. “What sort of information do you mean, exactly?”
“You know my husband, don’t you?” There was a hint of scorn in her voice now; was it for Powell’s obtuseness or for her husband? “He is an ambitious man. Already, he is ingratiating himself with the Pro-Nazi factions in the Government and I have no doubt that he will gain enough favour to move several rungs up the ladder - but he is less than discreet when it comes to discussing his work.” She smiled, but with an edge of bitterness. “How else do you think I found out your identity, Mr Powell? The point is that Janos - my husband - gives me an entrée to the highest diplomatic levels here in Budapest, so who knows what I might be able to pick up?”
Powell stared down at the writing pad on which he had been doodling; amongst the random whorls and squiggles, he had written “WHY?” in block capitals. Quickly, he scribbled over it. “This is a very interesting proposition, Mrs Kovacs, but I’m sure you’ll appreciate that I’m not in a position to give you any immediate reply.”
“I know that - but you can pass the message on, can’t you?”
“Indeed, but-”
“Then would you? As soon as possible? Remember that you probably don’t have very much time.” There was a quiet desperation in her voice now; it seemed important to her that London’s answer would be yes. “Tell them that I don’t want any money or anything. Just tell them to think about my mother if they want to know why I’m doing this.”
Powell stared at her for several seconds then nodded. “I’ll certainly pass it on, but I can’t guarantee anything, Mrs Kovacs.”
“Good enough. You can contact me at this number.” She took a slip of paper from her handbag and passed it to him. “I don’t think I can risk coming back here again, so you’ll have to telephone me. If Janos answers, say it’s a wrong number or something. If you manage to get me, just let me know whether London’s going ahead and what arrangements you want to make. If he’s listening, I’ll just answer yes or no. All right?”
“Perfectly.” Powell tried not to smile at her naïve confidence; did she think this was all some sort of game?
“Good.” She rose to her feet. “At the risk of sounding melodramatic, is there a back way out of here? I don’t think I was recognised or followed on my way here, but I’d rather leave by a different route.”
Again, Powell forced down a smile, but it was a sensible enough measure to take, if perhaps over-dramatic. “Yes, there is. I’ll get someone to show you out.”
“Thank you, Mr Powell.” She held out her hand. “For all your help.”
Powell stared at the door for some time after it had closed behind her then shook his head slowly, regretfully. He had little doubt that London would be only too delighted to take her up on her offer to spy for them, but it would almost certainly be her death sentence; she had been given no training whatsoever and amateur spies rarely lasted very long. Sooner or later they made an elementary mistake that gave them away to the security services and Marianne Kovacs would probably be up against the Gestapo within a matter of weeks.
She would be lucky to last six months.




Prologue II
Berlin, Germany: November, 1944
“Good evening, Herr General.”
SS-Lieutenant General Hermann Fegelein turned around suddenly, as though startled, then smiled as he recognised the man who was talking to him: Major Otto Guensche, Hitler’s Personal Adjutant. Like Fegelein, Guensche was in full dress uniform, as befitted a reception being held by Dr Josef Goebbels, the Reich Minister of Propaganda. As always, it was on a lavish scale, with well over a hundred guests at what had been described as “an informal gathering” - although everyone was wearing evening dress, of course. And, as usual, the guests were dr