The Speedicut Memoirs: Ungentlemanly Warfare

By Christopher Joll

In the last volume of The Speedicut Memoirs,
Charles Speedicut relates his involvement, as a member of the Special
Operations Executive, in many of the highly successful deception
strategies masterminded by the cross-dressing Colonel Dudley Clarke,
including Operation MINCEMEAT. He also discloses his role in the
high-profile assassinations of the Protector of Moravia & Bohemia,
Reinhard Heydrich, the Vichy French Admiral, François Darlan,
and the abduction of General Heinrich Kreipe.
In the post-war period, Speedicut is principally
concerned with uncovering Soviet spies in the British Establishment
although, along the way, he recounts the true story on which
The Third Man was based. He also reveals that he was responsible for
stealing the Duchess of Windsor’s jewels, his pivotal role in the
Vassall and Profumo scandals, the true identity of the ‘headless man’
in the notorious Argyll divorce case and the reason why
his memoirs were written whilst serving time
in HM Prison Ford.
“The activities of the Special Operations Executive
have been described as ‘ungentlemanly warfare’
entirely because of the exploits of Charles Speedicut.”
The Rt Hon Sir Winston Churchill

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Sep 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781728356150

Christopher Joll

After serving time at Oxford University and the RMA Sandhurst, Christopher Joll spent his formative years as an officer in The Life Guards. On leaving the Army, Joll worked first in investment banking, then as an arms salesman before moving into public relations. From his earliest days Joll has written articles, features, short stories and reportage. In addition to the Speedicut books, in 2014, Joll wrote the text for Uniquely British: A Year in the Life of the Household Cavalry, in late 2018 he published The Drum Horse in the Fountain & Other Tales of the Heroes & Rogue in the Guards and in early 2020 he will publish Spoils of War: The Treasures, Trophies & Trivia of the British Empire. Since leaving the Army in 1975, Joll has also been involved in devising and managing major charity fund-raising events including the Household Cavalry Pageant, the Royal Hospital Chelsea Pageant, the acclaimed British Military Tournament, a military tattoo in Hyde Park for the Diamond Jubilee, the Gurkha 200 Pageant, the Waterloo 200 Commemoration at St Paul’s Cathedral, the Shakespeare 400 Gala Concert and The Great War Symphony at the Royal Albert Hall for which he wrote, researched and directed the 60-minute film that accompanied the symphony. In 2019, this led to a commission to write, present and direct five short films for the Museum Prize Trust. When not writing, directing or lifting the lid on the cess pits of British history, Joll publishes a weekly Speedicut podcast and gives lectures at literary festivals, museums, clubs and on cruise ships on topics related to his books and the British Empire. www.christopherjoll.com

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© 2020 Christopher Joll. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 09/10/2020

ISBN: 978-1-7283-5616-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-5617-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-5615-0 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Notes On The Editor

Introduction

The Speedicut Family Tree

Foreword

Chapter One: The Perils Of Circumcision

Chapter Two: The Devil Wears Black

Chapter Three: Operation Ruthless

Chapter Four: Tartan Mischief

Chapter Five: The Bear Blew First

Chapter Six: Loafing Around The Levant

Chapter Seven: The Perils Of Drag

Chapter Eight: Rocks & Apes

Chapter Nine: A Watery Grave

Chapter Ten: Steamy Stuff

Chapter Eleven: Vive Le Roi!

Chapter Twelve: Topping A Frog

Chapter Thirteen: Dead In The Water

Chapter Fourteen: Bobbing Along

Chapter Fifteen: Honesty Among Thieves

Chapter Sixteen: Tarred & Feathered

Chapter Seventeen: Lèse Majesté

Chapter Eighteen: Captured In Crete

Chapter Nineteen: In The Hands Of Fate

Chapter Twenty: Life Or Death

Chapter Twenty-One: De Profundis

Chapter Twenty-Two: Falling In Love Again

Chapter Twenty-Three: Granny’s Chips

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Third Man

Chapter Twenty-Five: Much Ado

Chapter Twenty-Six: A Friend Of Dorothy’s

Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Perils Of Piscines

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Still Swinging At Sixty

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Operation Clockwork Orange

For

Philip Evans

who foresaw how it would all end

NOTES ON THE EDITOR

After serving time at Oxford University and the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, Christopher Joll spent his formative years as an officer in The Life Guards, an experience from which he has never really recovered. On leaving the Army, Joll worked first in investment banking, but the boredom of City life led him to switch careers and become an arms salesman. After ten years of dealing with tin pot dictators in faraway countries, he moved perhaps appropriately into public relations where, in this new incarnation, he had to deal with dictators of an altogether different type.

From his earliest days, Joll has written articles, features, short stories and reportage. One such piece of writing led to an early brush with notoriety when an article he had penned anonymously in 1974 for a political journal ended up as front-page national news and resulted in a Ministerial Inquiry. In 2012 Joll wrote the text for Uniquely British: A Year in the Life of the Household Cavalry; in 2018, he published The Drum Horse in the Fountain: Tales of the Heroes & Rogues in the Guards; and, in 2020, Spoils of War: The Treasures, Trophies & Trivia of the British Empire.

Since leaving the Army in 1975, Joll has been involved in devising and managing charity fund-raising events. This interest started in 1977 with The Silver Jubilee Royal Gifts Exhibition at St James’s Palace and The Royal Cartoons Exhibition at the Press Club. In subsequent years, he co-produced ‘José Carreras & Friends’, a one-night Royal Gala Concert at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane; ‘Serenade for a Princess’, a Royal Gala Concert at the Banqueting House, Whitehall; and ‘Concert for a Prince’, a Royal Gala Concert staged at Windsor Castle.

More recently, Joll has focused on devising, writing, directing and sometimes producing events for military and other charities. These include the Household Cavalry Pageant (2007), the Chelsea Pageant (2008), the Diamond Jubilee Parade in the Park (2012), the British Military Tournament (2010-2013), the Gurkha Bicentenary Pageant (2015), the Waterloo Bicentenary National Service of Commemoration & Parade at St Paul’s Cathedral (2015), the Shakespeare 400 Memorial Concert (2016), The Patron’s Lunch (2016), the official London event to mark The Queen’s 90th Birthday, and the premiere of The Great War Symphony at the Royal Albert Hall (2018).

When not writing and directing ‘military theatre’ or editing Speedicut family papers, Joll is a Trustee of The Art Fund Prize for Museums. He is also the Regimental Historian of the Household Cavalry and has written his yet to be published memoires, Anecdotal Evidence, an account which promises to cause considerable consternation in certain quarters.

www.christopherjoll.com

INTRODUCTION

The chance discovery in 2010 of a cache of letters written during his lifetime by Colonel Sir Jasper Speedicut to his friend Harry Flashman, led to my having the privilege of editing and then publishing The Speedicut Papers.

When I sent the last manuscript of the series to my publishers, I thought that would be the end of my involvement with Speedicut. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when shortly afterwards I received through the post the following letter and a bulky, typed manuscript:

Villa Larmes des Russes, Cimier, France, 1st April 2016

Dear Mr Joll

It has come to my attention that you are the editor of the letters of my great-grandfather, Colonel Sir Jasper Speedicut. Consequently, I thought that you might be interested to have sight of the enclosed typescript which is a salacious, probably libellous and hitherto unpublished autobiography written by his late (and illegitimate) son, Charles Speedicut, who was, by coincidence, a close friend of my father.

I inherited the enclosed document on Charles’ death in 1980 and, as he was something of a black sheep and not spoken of in my family, it has remained unread by me until recently. If you find that it is of interest to you, I might be willing to discuss the terms under which a suitably expurgated edition might be published.

Yours sincerely

Olga Lieven-Beaujambe, Duchess of Whitehall

A cursory glance at the manuscript was enough to show me that, despite the date on the letter, the covering note stated nothing less than the truth. On further reading, it quickly became clear that Charles Speedicut had been involved in as many of the intrigues and scandals of the twentieth century as had his father in the nineteenth…

Despite the Duchess’s strictures, I have limited my editing to the correction of Charles Speedicut’s grammar and spelling, and the addition of historical or explanatory footnotes.

CHRISTOPHER JOLL

www.christopherjoll.com

THE SPEEDICUT FAMILY TREE

Colonel Sir Jasper Speedicut, 1st Baronet (1821-1915) m. (1)

Lady Mary Steyne (1828-1855), only daughter of 3rd Marquess

of Steyne; (2) Lady Charlotte-Georgina FitzCharles (1825-

1917), younger daughter of the 8th Duke of Whitehall

had legitimate issue

Dorothea Charlotte Speedicut (1865-1919) m.

Prince Dimitri Lieven (1866-1919)

had legitimate issue

Princess Anastasia Lieven (1896-1919)

&

Princess Tatiana Lieven, 11th Duchess of Whitehall (1896-

1955) m. Lord Tertius Beaujambe (1898-1939)

had legitimate issue

Olga Lieven-Beaujambe, 12th Duchess of Whitehall (1938-)

…

Colonel Sir Jasper Speedicut, 1st Baronet (1821-1915)

&

Sibella Halwood (1875-1941) from 1898-1910, Mrs Lionel Holland

had illegitimate issue

Charles Lionel Jasper Holland (28th February 1899-23rd April 1980)

from 28th February 1916 known as

Charles Lionel Jasper SPEEDICUT

later Major C L J Speedicut MC & Bar, Order of St

Stanislaus (2nd Class), Order of Franz Josef (4th Class)

FOREWORD

I barely learned to read at Eton, which is why I’m not much of a books man. So, it’s not surprising that I’d never heard of The Flashman Papers or Tom Brown’s School Days. But there’s bugger-all else to do in this dump except toss-off or read and as, at my age, the former holds few pleasures I asked the way to the library.

Once there I realised that I had a problem: where the hell was I going to start? Most of the library sections’ labels looked as though the contents of their shelves would be better than a sleeping pill: who the fuck wants to read about Philosophy, Law, Economics, Geography, Needlework or Home Improvement? I was about to give up the whole idea of whiling away my time with an intellectual pursuit when my eye caught a sign saying Biography.

As there was a sporting chance that on these shelves there would be a book or two about some of the people I’ve known - such as Philip ‘his baroque’s worse than his bite’ Sassoon, Dickie the upwardly mobile semi-royal Mountbatten, his millionaire bisexual wife Eddie, or David ‘suck my dick’ Windsor – I sauntered over for a closer look. What I found was shelf after shelf of unread tomes about people I’d never heard of who’d probably led worthy but infinitely dull lives: a bulky biography of someone called Benjamin Britten being a case in point.¹

Then my eye caught a gaudy set of spines. I pulled out the first book on the left, which was entitled Flashman. I confess that I chose it because I assumed it was about a fellow who exposed himself: it wasn’t, as I quickly discovered when I leafed through it. What it was, in fact, was the memoirs of an elderly Victorian General with a vivid imagination and a perpetually restless middle leg. I was about to put the book back on the shelf and head for the section that was sign-posted Adult Fiction when I tripped over the name Jack Speedicut.

Well, I knew I didn’t have any relations called Jack, but ours is an unusual surname so I started to read - and I carried on reading for the next half-dozen or so weeks until I’d finished the sixth and last book on the shelf.² It was good stuff and a lot of it had the ring of truth; it was even possible that the Jack Speedicut mentioned from time-to-time in the books was my Papa, thinly disguised with a new Christian name. This was a possibility that turned to a certainty when I glanced briefly through the utterly unreadable pages of Tom Brown’s School Days. However, from what I have gleaned over the years about my Papa, many of the events Flashman credited to himself were actually those of my forebear.

With the six volumes of The Flashman Papers under my belt, so to speak, I then searched for something else to while away the time but, unless one enjoyed reading about hypocritical parlour-pink Socialists or transvestite Tories, which I don’t, there was nothing further of interest under Biography. So, I turned to the Fiction section and there I found a series of books about carryings-on in high places called Alms for Oblivion by a disgraced ex-soldier called Simon Raven.³ It was clearly fact disguised as fiction and I even recognised several of the coves in it.

Anyway, the whole experience set me to thinking that my own adult experiences might make interesting reading, so I started to write. God knows if what follows will ever be published or if I’ll live to finish it. One thing is certain, however: thanks to the libel laws it won’t reach the reading public whilst any of those I’ve portrayed remain ‘above the sod’ – and there’s an appropriate turn of phrase if ever there was one…

Charles Speedicut

HM Prison Ford

CHAPTER ONE: THE PERILS

OF CIRCUMCISION

On the afternoon of the last day of the Creation, God and the Archangel Gabriel were sitting on a fluffy white cloud looking down on the Garden of Eden. There, a naked Adam, in a highly priapic state, was chasing a giggling and equally naked Eve around an apple tree, at the foot of which was a half-eaten piece of fruit. In the boughs of the tree above was a large python, looking on with a rather smug air.

"It was divinely clever of you to have mounted Woman’s udders on her chest, Exalted One, lisped the Archangel. They produce such a stimulating rhythm when she runs," he added, shaking his gilded wings and thereby displaying a rather less than angelic engagement with the scene below. This did not go un-noticed by God, who had eternally assumed that His Chief Seraph harboured a passion only for the Cherubim.

You think so? God replied wearily, as He remarked to Himself that Gabriel’s unexpected interest in Woman could come in useful if, as He foresaw, He had to go ahead with the Annunciation.

"Indeed, Your Almightiness. The effect would be quite different if they were on her abdomen, as they are with the beasts of the field. With this design, procreation is assured, as I am certain that you intended."

Frankly, my dear Gabriel, said God, emitting a deep sigh, it wouldn’t have made any difference to the multiplication of the human race if I had mounted Woman’s tits on her arse.

"Oh, surely not, All Powerful One…"

But before the Archangel could say any more, God raised His hand.

I fear, my dear Archangel, that I have a confession to make.

"A confession, Your Most Divine Being, what could that be?"

I have made a dreadful mistake with Man.

"A mistake, Your Uttermost Holiness? But that is not possible. You are both omnipotent and omniscient – unless, that is, you are referring to the size of Man’s membrum virile… he might have been happier with the one that you gave to the horse," he added, with a less than seraphic smirk.

No, it’s not that.

Then what, All Highest?

My mistake, which I now recognise, He nodded towards the Garden of Eden, where Adam had just felled Eve with a rugby-style tackle and was urging her to suck his quivering membrum, is a design fault in Man’s hard drive.

I see what you mean, Your Magnificence, said the Archangel, deferentially. "Man won’t achieve procreation that way."

No. It’s not that either, replied God, as Adam extracted his quivering rod from between Eve’s lips, pushed her onto her back and splayed her legs.

What, then, Most Knowing One? queried the Archangel. "From where I’m sitting, he added, as Adam – with a whoop of pleasure – achieved full penetration, it seems to me that you have designed Man’s reproductive instincts to perfection."

You are a perceptive Seraph and have put your finger on my error, God replied.

"Really?" asked the Archangel, looking shocked and momentarily forgetting his manners and celestial etiquette.

Yes. You see, my dear Gabriel, when I wrote the software that would ensure that Man would multiply, I inadvertently made an unbreakable connection between his brain and his balls. When Old Nick finds out, he’ll think that all his Christmases have come at once.

Christmas, Most Incarnate Divinity? What’s that?

Something to look forward to, replied God, with a heavy hint of irony. But back to today’s problem: my mistake is going to lead to big trouble for Mankind, Gabriel, particularly for the House of Windsor.

Who are they, Most Holy Being?

The future… God concluded, with a deep sigh of regret.

The rest, dear reader is – as they say – history. So why have I regaled you with this smutty story at the outset of this latest episode of my reminiscences? The answer is that it has a very real bearing on the situation in which I found myself in late-June 1940. If you want to know why, read on.

…

As those you who have indulged yourselves in my earlier scribblings will be aware, in the early months of the Second World War, I was involved in a series of clandestine missions for both the British Secret Intelligence Service and the equally secretive Brotherhood of the Sons of Thunder. I’m not going to recap those escapades here – dammit, you can buy the book and read all about them for yourselves – beyond reminding my readers that both organisations were headed by Stewart Menzies.⁴ So it was that, immediately upon my return from the latest of these hair-raising jaunts on the continent, I found myself in Menzies’ office where he briefed me on a German plot, codenamed somewhat appropriately under the circumstances, Operation WILLI.⁵

The objective of this clandestine plan, which had been uncovered thanks to the Government Code & Cypher School’s fledgling ability (thanks in part to me)⁶ to decode German signals, was to persuade HRH The Duke of Windsor and his ghastly wife, Wallis,⁷ to remain in neutral-but-German-leaning Spain where they had just arrived from the Côte d’Azur.⁸ The Germans’ reason for wanting to keep the ex-King and his cutie in the land of paella was so that,⁹ following the imminent invasion of the scepter’d isle, HRH could be re-installed by Hitler on the throne of England as a Nazi puppet ruler.

To ensure that the Windsors remained in Madrid until the time was ripe, it appeared from the Bletchley Park decrypts that the Krauts had made a promise to the Nazi-loving Wallis that,¹⁰ if she was able to keep her husband in Spain, she would soon become Her Majesty The Queen Consort of the United Kingdom, Empress Consort of India etc etc. And because Windsor’s balls were, like the rest of mankind, connected to his brain, what Wallis wanted, Wallis was always granted by her utterly besotted husband. Hence the point of the story with which I opened this chapter…

Now, under normal circumstances, Operation WILLI would have been laughed off by British intelligence as a prime example of deluded Germanic thinking. Afterall, in 1936 Windsor had made his marital bed, full in the knowledge of the consequences, and it was unthinkable, despite his German blood and known Nazi sympathies, that he would contemplate such a proposal for even a second. That, however, would be to overlook Wallis’s complete hold over the ex-King, a grip that she exercised – to the complete satisfaction of his previously unsatisfied royal libido – by the application of her expert lips to his tiny sceptre. So it was that, in June 1940, Wallis’s garishly rouged mouth was working overtime on the diminutive royal bijoux de famille – apparently, with some success, as Menzies explained:

Last night [25th June 1940], Winston sent the Duke a telegram to his hotel in Madrid ordering His Royal Highness to move to Lisbon, where there is an RAF flying boat waiting to bring him and the Duchess back here.

And?

His Royal Highness replied this morning that he refuses point blank to do so until his terms have been met.

Which are?

Financial compensation from the Privy Purse for the loss of his non-domiciled tax status, a senior command job, equal royal rank for his wife and the restoration of his position as a full member of the Royal Family.

All of which has, presumably, been politely declined.

Correct. As a result, the Windsors are refusing to move.

So, what’s next? I assume that the PM has more important matters to attend to, such as preventing a German invasion.

You are right: Winston doesn’t need this distraction, but the issue can only be resolved – and the German plot scuppered – once the Windsors are back on British soil. That’s where you come in. My stomach hit my knees at these words. You are to fly to Lisbon tonight, in the guise of an American banker, from where you are to make your way with all speed to Madrid. Once in the Spanish capital, you are to use whatever means are necessary to remove the Windsors to Lisbon and from there back to this country.

Will I be acting for the Service or for the Brotherhood?

For the first time since both organisations were formed, Brother Charles, the aims and objectives of the two are completely aligned.

And the means of achieving those aims: are they also aligned?

Yes. Entirely.

And how am I supposed to fulfil this task?

With charm and diplomacy – in both of which skills you are amply provided.

How am I to meet them?

As if by chance, at a reception they will be attending at the British Embassy in Madrid, tomorrow evening [Thursday 27th June 1940].

And if my charm and diplomacy fail to persuade them?

Then you are to escort them to Lisbon at the point of a gun, if absolutely necessary.

Really? What about the Krauts? They’ll soon cotton on to what I’m doing and move heaven and earth to prevent it – and they’ll have no scruples as to the means.

I agree. So, before you ask, you can take one of your German servants with you. Indeed, I insist that you do.¹¹

What other support will I have?

"None, other than access to funds at the Swiss Bank Corporation’s branches in Lisbon and Madrid, and some German handguns that I have had pre-positioned for you in that bank’s safety deposit boxes in those cities. Before you ask, you may not use any of the resources of our embassies as, officially, the British government cannot be seen to be in any way involved. It must appear as though the Windsors are returning to Britain voluntarily. You will, however, stay in close touch with me by coded telegram – but NEVER by telephone, as all the Iberian lines are insecure."

Unofficially?

I have to give you the same answer.

And if they refuse to move, even under armed threat?

You will inform me accordingly and, upon receipt from me of the codeword, CIRCUMCISE, you will eliminate the problem… permanently.

You are joking? It’s treason to top a member of the Royal Family.

I never joke, Brother Jasper. Besides which, the extra-territorial execution of a pair of traitors is hardly an act of treason, particularly when it emerges that the deed has been done with a German weapon used by a former German national… now you understand why I’m happy for you to take one of the Saugens with you. Indeed, it is an essential part of my fall-back plan.

I was too shocked to say anything to this.

Anyway, the likelihood is that the Windsors will come quietly and none of this nastiness need arise. ‘Q’ has everything that you will need, so call in to his office on your way out.

…

Half-an-hour later I was back at Grosvenor Square, clutching a code book, a wad of Yankee dollars, an American passport in the name of Clyde Barrow (with valid visas for Portugal and Spain),¹² an invitation to the Embassy reception, and reservations at the Grand Hotel, Lisbon, and at the Ritz in Madrid. Otto met me at the door of the flat, bouncing up and down with excitement and holding a telegram.

"Wolf has reached Lisbon,¹³ sir. The troop ship he is on is refuelling there, before making the run to Portsmouth. With any luck we’ll have him back here in a week."

I think not, I said, taking the flimsy. I’ve been ordered to Lisbon tonight and from there I’m to go to Madrid tomorrow. Brigadier Menzies has said that I am to take one of you with me. As Wolf is already in Lisbon, that will save you the trouble of packing.

Otto’s face fell at this news, although whether it was at the prospect of not accompanying me, or at not seeing his brother after nearly a year, it was hard to tell.

But, sir, he’s not fully fit.

According to Brigadier Menzies, he’s fit enough to fuck anything in a skirt that gets within range of the tip of his dick. Besides which, I don’t think that this assignment is going to be very strenuous. All that I’m required to do is to persuade the Windsors to get on a flying boat that’s waiting for them in Lisbon harbour. If they refuse, I am to shoot them. One way or another I should be back by the end of the month. Send a reply to Wolf telling him to meet me for breakfast at my hotel at nine tomorrow morning. I’ll be staying at the Grand – and tell him that I’m travelling in the name of Barrow. As soon as you hear back from him, wire me at the hotel.

If you are sure, sir?

I am.

At what time are you leaving, sir?

I’ll need you to drive me to Hendon in time for a flight that departs at 8pm.

What am I to pack for you, sir?

That’s a good question. I’ll be in the guise of a well-heeled Yankee banker and it’s going to be damned hot in Lisbon and Madrid, so pack my flashiest summer clothes. The ones I used to wear for weekends at Port Lympne should be suitable – and don’t forget to include the ghastly white dinner jacket that I acquired in Hollywood. I’ll need it in Madrid.¹⁴

Very well, sir. And some personal protection?

I was about to say ‘no’, for Menzies had said there would be hardware available at both of my destinations, but then I changed my mind.

I’ll take the Colt .38 Special with the waistband holster; the one that I bought at the same time that I got that awful white excuse for evening wear. Wolf will need to be armed from the outset – as a precaution, I added, noticing the look of concern that flashed across Otto’s handsome face.

…

The following morning found me seated under a parasol on the terrace of the Grand Hotel in Lisbon, enjoying what passed in Portugal for breakfast, albeit, I was on my own. I had expected to find a telegram from Otto on my arrival a few hours earlier, but there was none. Ah, well, I thought, Wolf will be along soon. But, as the hotel clock chimed eleven, there was no sign of him, and I had a car booked to take me to the railway station in time to catch the midday express to Madrid. I was about to get up, make my way to Reception and send a telegram to Otto when a bell boy appeared in front of me, carrying a brown envelope on a silver salver. He gave me a bow.

"Senhor Barrow?"

I confirmed it and he proffered the tray from which I took the missive, slit it open with a marmalade-encrusted side knife and read:

NO CONFIRMATION FROM W STOP SUSPECT HE MAY HAVE ALREADY SAILED STOP I AM ON STANDBY STOP SEND INSTRUCTIONS STOP O

"Há uma resposta, senhor?"

No, thank you, I replied, as I needed time to work out what to do.

Given that I had to be in Madrid that afternoon, I reasoned that even if Menzies managed to get the RAF to fly Otto to Lisbon on the next available plane, and he then made his own way to Madrid in double-quick time, the probability was that we would miss each other. You see, I had no intention of hanging around in the Spanish capital, which I knew to be crawling with German SD and Abwehr operatives, for any longer than was strictly necessary. There was, therefore, only one thing for it: I would have to proceed on my own.

Fifteen minutes later, I was in a taxi heading for the railway station whilst the following telegram was winging its way to London:

SIT TIGHT AND DO NOTHING STOP WAIT OUT STOP S

CHAPTER TWO: THE DEVIL WEARS BLACK

The Grand’s concierge had reserved two seats for me in the First Class dining saloon of the Lisbon-Madrid express, which was just as well as the train was packed (not that I was looking forward to the inevitable fare of greasy grilled sardines, inedible saffron-infused rice laced with elderly shell fish and a tasteless cake covered in sickly syrup that was the Iberian railways’ idea of haute cuisine). However, I was not to remain on my own for long. The train was clattering through the slums of suburban Lisbon, when the maître d’ oiled up to my table.

"Excellenza – if your campañera is not-a joining you – would you permit-a for another pasajera to share-a your mesa?"

As I could see no reason to refuse, I nodded, and the head waiter made a sort of waving motion with his hand to someone further down the carriage. Moments later, a cropped headed, slightly built man about ten years my junior stood by the table. He was dressed in a black linen suit, but he had the unmistakable air of the German military. Clicking his heels, he introduced himself.

"Mein name ist Schellenberg."¹⁵

On the instant, I decided that Barrow would be unlikely to speak German, so I replied in what I hoped was a passable version of English as spoken in New York, if that isn’t an oxymoron.

Barrow. Pleased to meet you.

Ah, zo you are an American, he replied, in near-perfect English. Vot is the purpose of your visit to Madrid? Germans never can resist playing the interrogator, you know.

I’m a banker and have business there, Herr Schellenberg, and you?

Me? Oh, I am travelling there for a holiday.

You have been given leave after the Battle of France? I enquired, innocently.

Leave? No, I am a Swiss diplomat not a German soldier! And I’m the Queen of Sheba, I thought to myself.

During the hours that passed before our arrival in Madrid, we continued to exchange highly mendacious pleasantries, although by the time we pulled-in to our destination I was no nearer to knowing who Schellenberg really was, or what he was doing headed for Spain. Nonetheless, I was certain that he was probably an Abwehr man as he didn’t seem to have the underlying menace that goes with being a member of the SS or the SD.

How faulty was my judgement emerged within an hour of my arrival at the Ritz. No sooner had I checked in, than I sent a coded signal to Menzies informing him that I was now in Madrid, flying solo, and that on the train I had met a probable Kraut spook called Schellenberg. His immediate reply, once I had decoded it, left me feeling both a fool and deeply worried.

SCHELLENBERG WORKS FOR HEYDRICH AND MASTERMINDED VENLO DEBACLE STOP HIS PRESENCE IN MADRID PROBABLY SAME AS YOURS STOP C¹⁶

The mere mention of Heydrich’s name put me into nothing less than a blue funk, a mood that I was still in later that day, as I made my way in my white dinner jacket to the British Embassy’s reception.

So preoccupied was I with the fell spectre of Heydrich, that I still had no definite plan of action as I walked through the Embassy portals. Worse still, I suddenly realised – as I should have done from the outset – that there was a gaping hole in the middle of Menzies’ plan: my disguise as a New York banker would be penetrated the moment the Windsors clapped eyes on me, for they both knew me well. I may not have seen them since the invasion of the Low Countries, but that was only in May, and we went back a lot further than that. Either or both of them were bound to blow my cover the moment they clapped eyes on me.

This might not have mattered too much within the confines of the Embassy, were it not for the appalling fact that the first person I spotted across the vast expanse of the ambassadorial ballroom was Schellenberg in black evening clothes, talking to Wallis. What the hell was an enemy alien doing quaffing HE’s finest fizz whilst chatting up the bony wife of the Britain’s ex-King, I thought? Then I remembered that he was masquerading as a Swiss diplomat, hence his presence at the reception. I was about to turn on my heel and make for the bog, so as to re-order my thoughts in the peace and quiet of a cubicle, when I felt my upper right arm being squeezed from behind.

Speed, you old rogue, what the hell are you doing here dressed like a spiv?

I spun on my heel to be confronted with the moustachioed face and balding pate of Gray Phillips,¹⁷ wearing the kilted Mess Kit of the Black Jocks embellished with an Equerry’s aiguillettes. I’d last seen him in Paris with the Windsors, for whom at the time he’d been acting as Comptroller. It was a miserable job that he’d held since the start of the war.

I might ask you the same, I said, although his gilded accoutrements clearly indicated that he was still ‘in service’ with the royal Household. At least I’m not in a skirt.

Steady the Tenth, he said, with a smile. And show some respect for your elders and betters, he added, with just a tinge of Household hauteur.

"So, what are you doing here?" I asked, ignoring the jibe.

I would have thought that was obvious, he replied, fingering the gold-laced tassels that hung from his right shoulder. I’m still looking after His Royal Highness and the Duchess.

You have my deepest sympathies, I said, with a grin. "I heard how they treated ‘Fruity’,¹⁸ so I’m surprised to see you still clinging to the royal coat tails."

"Dulce et decorum est… now tell me why you are here."

I decided on the instant that this was the one time in my life when it might pay to tell the truth, so I told him. Although, I only disclosed that part of my mission which didn’t involve firearms.

Can you help? I asked, trying to keep the desperation