A slow smile crept across his face, then he rose and made a formal bow. “I’m honored to carry your trunk, ma belle dame.”
Maggie lifted one eyebrow. “?‘La belle dame sans merci.’?”
Chapter Two
Against all advice from his cabinet ministers, his private detectives, and his beloved wife, Prime Minister Winston Churchill was presiding over a security meeting at Number 10 Downing Street.
Even though bombing from the Blitz had paused—at least for the moment—his staff would rather he worked at the Cabinet War Rooms, a secret underground bunker not far from Number 10.
But the P.M. loathed the dark and airless space and grumbled about turning into a “troglodyte.” He much preferred working either in the Annexe, the Churchills’ private wartime residence above the War Rooms, or back at Number 10, despite the fact that the two-hundred-year-old manse had sustained Luftwaffe bomb damage to its kitchen and state rooms in October 1940, while Churchill dined yards away in the Garden Room.
But who could say no to Winston Churchill? So the P.M.’s security meeting was being held in Number 10’s rectangular Cabinet Room—though the windows were taped over, the portrait of Sir Robert Walpole was in storage, and the Victorian mahogany chairs had been replaced by metal folding ones. Weak light glimmered through narrow openings in the heavy damask drapes. It was just past one o’clock by the ticking timepiece on the mantel.
The men seated around the baize-covered table included General Sir Hastings Ismay, Churchill’s personal Chief of Staff; General Sir Alan Brooke, Chief of the Imperial General Staff; Air Chief Desmond Morton of the Royal Air Force; Captain Henry Pim of the Royal Navy; General Sir Stewart Menzies, chief of MI-6; and Colonel Lord Robert Laycock, director of SOE. Churchill’s head private secretary, David Greene, was there to take notes for the P.M.
The men sat at the boat-shaped table with the Prime Minister at its head, puffing one of his favored Romeo y Julieta cigars, enveloped in a cloud of smoke. There were times when Churchill could be amiable, with a quick smile and a twinkle in his clear blue eyes, but this afternoon he seemed sunk in gloom, his shoulders hunched as if braced for imminent attack. He had on his gold-framed glasses and was reading the latest memo from General Ismay.
“Our friend Stalin isn’t pleased—wants us to create a European front immediately to divert troops from Russia.” He looked up over the rims of his spectacles and glowered through the tobacco haze. “And I still don’t know why you’re so keen on Normandy as an ultimate invasion point, Pug!” The Prime Minister used his nickname for General Ismay, whose face and brows did have a distinct resemblance to those of a sad-looking dog.
The P.M. gnawed his cigar. “We need to see what happens with Jubilee before deciding anything—that should keep Stalin quiet. For the moment, at least.” He was referring to the upcoming Dieppe raid, known as Operation Rutter during its planning stages but now by its final, official code name, Operation Jubilee. The attack was planned for the German-occupied port of Dieppe, on the northern coast of France, on August 19—two months away. It was to be a relatively small raid, with about six thousand Canadian infantrymen, supported by the Royal Navy and the Royal Air Force.
The P.M. glared at each man around the table in turn. “After Jubilee, we’ll see if it is indeed possible to capture a defended French deepwater port. Until then, we can’t plan the main attack.” He dropped the cigar into a cut-glass ashtray and picked up a glass of weak whiskey and soda.
“With all due respect, sir,” ventured Menzies. “Jubilee is a military action to convince the Russians we’re serious about a European invasion. It’s like sacrificing a knight in chess—so that we can get back to North Africa and proceed the way we’ve planned.”
“Winston—” General Ismay waved away the drifting cloud of smoke. “We’re currently going over French beaches from Brittany to Dunkirk, and there are only two possible invasion sites—Pas de Calais and Normandy. There are advantages and disadvantages to each.”
General Brooke cleared his throat. “I’m still concerned about the lack of intelligence we have on the coast. We have no actual geologists’ reports—only scans from people’s holiday photos we’ve amassed. Holiday snapshots!”
Churchill grunted.
“And, let me say, there are people on our fair isle who have no business wearing swimsuits in the first place, let alone being photographed in them….”
A few of the men murmured, “Hear, hear!” while Menzies lit a Player’s cigarette and looked on impassively. The Chief of MI-6 never said much in these meetings, preferring to watch and listen, and to collect information he might use later.
“At any rate, the sand quality and beach gradients have been estimated using only beach holiday snaps,” Brooke continued. “I will not even consider putting our tanks on French soil, let alone our boys, until we have hard scientific evidence to tell us about sand quality and depth of clay. This is no way to run a war, Winston!”
“Calm yourself, Brookie.” The P.M. looked to Menzies. “And what do you think?”
“This is SOE territory,” Menzies replied, not masking his distaste for the junior and “amateur” organization. “They’re supposed to have provided us with the sand samples already.” He pulled on his cigarette with thin lips. “If you’d given the job to my agents at MI-Six, sir, we would have had the information in hand months ago.”
“Not at all,” rejoined Laycock, bristling under the implied criticism. “SOE is on top of it. Colonel Gaskell of F-Section assures me that he has an agent with the Normandy sand samples, a young thing named Erica Calvert. Had to flit off to Paris apparently, on the run. But she’ll surface soon.”
Menzies stared down Laycock without blinking. “We hear your French agents are in a bit of trouble, old thing.”
Laycock stilled. He was an average-size man, but with wide shoulders that hinted he’d once been an athlete and thick, chestnut brown hair only touched by white. “Not at all, I can assure you.”
“Enough!” Churchill roared. “I won’t have this infighting between MI-Six and SOE. All my children must get along. Now then—Captain, tell us about our options besides Normandy.”
“Sir, we believe, regardless of sand, Calais would be too easily defended by the Germans—and the North Sea weather is far too unpredictable. Also, there are no beaches to sustain us in Pas de Calais.” Pim adjusted the gold-striped cuffs of his immaculate uniform.
“You don’t believe we can capture a deepwater port, Captain?”
“No, Prime Minister, I don’t.” Pim shook his head. “Unfortunately, I think Jubilee will only prove that.”
“So.” The P.M. drained his whiskey and soda. “It comes down to Pas de Calais and Normandy. We’ll need to choose one. And soon.”
“What about Roosevelt and the Americans?” asked Brooke. “I daresay they’ll have an opinion.”
“Let’s establish our own playbook before bringing in the damn Yanks,” Churchill rumbled. “I’ll handle Franklin and his boys.”
Brooke took a monogrammed silver case from his breast pocket and extracted a cigarette. “Hitler will expect us in Pas de Calais,” he said, lighting it with his Dunhill. The tip glowed red in the shadowy light.
“No, the Hun is too smart for that,” Churchill objected fiercely. “He’ll assume Normandy. Normandy, I say!” He banged both fists on the table, rattling teacups and making papers jump. “He always expects the unexpected. The Bavarian lout has an uncanny talent for it.”
“I’m all in favor of planning for a Normandy invasion, sir,” Brooke observed, “but before we commit, I must insist on those geological samples. We need to know how to build our tanks, what our boys will require to navigate the terrain—”
“Laycock, get all your agents on this. Highest priority!” the Prime Minister ordered.