Debut for a Spy (21 page)

“I am afraid perhaps you drown,” she smiled.

“Were you going to jump in and rescue me?”

“I think about it.”

“Help! Help!” I shouted, sinking beneath the water.

I felt her hands pull me up. She was in the tub.

“I must help you breathe,” she laughed, covering my mouth with hers. Then she sat back.

“What is this I see?” she snickered, pointing to something which had broken the surface of the water.

“Up periscope!” I commanded. “Prepare torpedo for launch!”

I'd always loved playing in the bath as a kid.

But this was a lot more fun than Rubber Ducky.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Guildford
,
Surrey
–
Monday
,
June
18
,
1962

I awoke the next morning at the crack of dawn. I wasn't tired at all – In fact, I felt more at ease and rested than I had for months. The passion which accompanies newly-discovered love seems to invigorate in exact proportion to the amount of love-making. We had eventually dressed and arrived for dinner on the previous evening, but it was patently obvious to both of us that food was not the priority of the night. Rather, it was a voyage of discovery, and in the ensuing hours we set sail on numerous occasions. Sometimes it was fierce, sometimes tender, and, on occasion, full of laughter. Now, I was energetic, totally calm, and completely in love.

I looked at Marijke sleeping peacefully, and couldn't resist leaning over to kiss her lightly. Her eyes opened.

“Oh, good morning,” she breathed, “we must get up?”

“No, not yet. I'm sorry I woke you up. I didn't mean to.”

She snuggled over.

“It doesn't matter. But now I am awake…!”

She kissed me, and our interest in the proceedings increased very quickly. Ah, well.
Un
autre
voyage
.

A short time later we lay quietly, talking. I had something to broach and now it couldn't wait.

“Marijke, you remember that I said I had been in the army?”

“Yes, like House and Colonel Mowatt, you said. In music.”

“That's right. Well, I've been given a reserve commission in the British Army to help them out with a couple of things. That's what I'm doing today. I thought I should tell you because I must report in uniform this morning, and I didn't want it to be a complete surprise when you saw it.”

There was a thoughtful silence.

“It connects, doesn't it? I mean to the thing you help with in Paris? No, please don't tell me. I don't want to know about it. It's better for both I don't know.”

We both lay quietly without talking. Shortly, Marijke spoke again, very softly.

“We play deadly games, David. I hope on the same side.”

I tried to respond, but she put her fingers on my lips, silencing me.

“Come,” she brightened, hopping out of bed, “we get ready and have breakfast together.”

Heads and eyes turned when we walked into the dining room. Mostly because of Marijke's beauty, I realized, but a uniform does attract attention, and the staff who saw us the night before had not pegged us as a military couple.

It felt both familiar and strange to be wearing khaki again. The British version of battledress khaki was not quite as green as the Canadian Army's, but in other respects it was exactly what I had worn as working dress for nearly ten years. It fitted well, and the correct badges were in place. The shoulder flash said Royal Corps of Transport, but I couldn't quite accept the major's crowns on my epaulettes – I'd become accustomed to captain's pips. After we had ordered, Marijke looked me over for several minutes. I couldn't tell from her expression whether it was approval or the reverse.

“You look very good in a uniform, David. Very handsome. But the badge with the wings – you are a flyer?”

“Not really. I know how to fly, but I'm not a pilot in the military sense of the word. I was just barely qualified when I left the army.”

“And the two ribbons?”

“They don't mean anything significant. One is the coronation medal which I got in the reserves in Canada along with thousands of others. I think my name was picked out of a hat. The red and white one is the Canadian Forces Decoration for being in the services for twelve years.”

“I thought you were only in the army for ten years?”

“In the regulars I only did nine years and a few months, but I had four years in reserve units which counts, too. The British consider it a bit of a joke. We Canadians can put the letters 'CD' after our names and the Brits figure it's too much fuss for only twelve years. I tend to agree with them.”

We had light breakfasts of toasted English muffins with strawberry jam and a touch of Devon cream. I had coffee, but Marijke wanted tea. We had a few minutes to spare, and it felt good to linger over refills.

“Are you busy tonight? Any duties at the embassy or anything? I'd like to take you to a jazz club if you're not busy. I'll probably sing a few tunes. I haven't sung live in nearly two weeks, so I often drop in at Ronnie Scott's if I have to blow the pipes out. It gives me practice with real musicians. Much better than vocalizing at home. What do you say – do I have an audience of one?”

The strained look came back – I had seen it before when she was otherwise occupied one night the previous week. Then I'd thought I might be imagining it, but now I knew I wasn't mistaken. The problem was I didn't know how to read it or what to say.

“I am to work tonight, but I try to change it for tomorrow. I will like coming with you very much and hearing you sing. I am at my flat at six o'clock. You can call me?”

“Sure.”

“I say one thing more. It means very much to me.”

She reached across the table and held my hands.

“You are the first man I love, and… you are the first man I give myself to from the heart.”

Her eyes were moist, and I knew this statement was meant to convey something to me which I did not fully comprehend. But I recognized where it was coming from.

“You honor me, Marijke. I love you, like I never have loved before. I don't ever want to lose you.”

There was a fear in her eyes, as though I had raised a specter which she had no wish to confront.

“I try for tonight, David. Go soft, what you do today.”

I had placed my things in the Jag, came back in to pay the bill at the desk, and Marijke kissed me goodbye as I left the lobby. I turned to wave as she climbed the stairs, then strode out to the car and my appointment with the technological unknown.

*

There are two Dunsfolds. One is a quiet little village in the Surrey countryside whose claims to modernity include the leaded stained-glass windows of the cruciform church, and the 16th century timbering in a house called Burningfold. This Dunsfold lent its name to the other one, an airfield carved from the countryside near the village in 1942. Now, twenty years later, Dunsfold Airfield, or Aerodrome, as some called it, was at the forefront of the most remarkable advance in the history of flight since the development of the jet engine itself. Leased by Hawker Siddeley Aviation Limited, Dunsfold was the center for the flight testing and development of the unique aircraft without a name – the P1127.

I had read the notes which Hammond had secured for me, and knew as much as I could from what was written on paper. Just exactly what was to be accomplished by this excursion and charade on my part was eluding me, but I couldn't help but feel excited and nervous about my impending encounter with this mythical beast.

Mythical, yes, just as Pegasus and flying carpets were mythical, until we created our own beasts of the air to provide winged transportation. An aircraft without a propeller was a myth until Frank Whittle proved otherwise, and now this latest in modern mythology – a jet aircraft which could lift straight up off the ground. As I drove south I realized that I had very little idea about what to expect.

Dunsfold wasn't far from Guildford, and my musings almost made me miss my landmarks: shortly after a pub called the Leather Bottle watch for a gravel pit on the left, then take the right fork off the main road. I curved through some pretty copses, and passing a couple of farms I knew I was nearly at the gate.

Suddenly there was a chain-link security fence on my right, with a barrier dead ahead. I came to an abrupt halt.

The security guard came out of his gatehouse, clipboard in hand. Just a performance, I kept reminding myself. Steady now. Ignore the two guys with guns in the gatehouse. Focus. Curtain up.

“Good morning, sir,” he said, saluting. “May I 'ave your name, please, sir?”

“Major Baird. Mr. Bedford is expecting me.”

“Ah, yes, sir, 'ere it is. Now, if you don't mind, sir, I'd like to see your identification.”

I produced my I-card, and he perused it before returning it to me. Then he scribbled on his board, handing me a tag in a plastic case with a clip.

“Wear this on your uniform while you are on the airfield, sir. Do you know where you are going?”

“No, I don't.”

“Go straight down to the perimeter track, sir, turn right, travel along the track. At the flight control tower on the right turn in and park near it. Mr. Bedford's office is in that building.”

I followed his instructions, and as I drove I realized that the airfield had probably changed very little from its World War II days. I could see quite a few Nissen huts, and apart from the main hangar, which seemed to have had a facelift, most everything else looked wartime issue. At least the flight control center was solid – concrete with a balcony on the second floor, the control tower itself with its sloped windows making up the third floor.

I decided to leave everything in the Jag until I had scouted the situation, so I headed for the door of the tower building.

There was a man standing just inside, watching me approach. Slightly taller than my 5' 11
”, he had a spare frame, light brown hair, and was dressed in a houndstooth jacket with a bow-tie. As I drew closer I perceived an analytical gaze peering at me out of hazel eyes.

“Hello,” he said to me in resonant, measured tones, “I'm Bill Bed-ford,” with a careful separation of his surname into two syllables.

“David Baird,” I replied as we shook hands.

“You're the chap Basil Hammond called me about. Let's go up.”

He led me inside, down a short hallway, and up a flight of stairs. His office was at the top of the stairs on the left. It was small, barely room for the desk, a filing cabinet, a locker, and a table by the window, with one chair for a visitor. Bill closed the door, and motioned me to sit.

“I didn't realize you were playing the role in costume,” he smiled.

“Hammond's idea, Bill. He felt it would look more convincing for an army pilot to be here than a Canadian civilian.”

“He's right, of course, but those wings could be dangerous around a group of flyers. You might get caught out with a question which would give it all away.”

“I hope not. I think I can handle the basics, if it doesn't get too technical.”

“Do you, indeed,” he commented, with a slight smile. “Well, then, what makes an aircraft fly?”

I looked at him incredulously.

“You're kidding, aren't you?”

“Not in the slightest, old chap.”

“Do you want it text-book or will a brief version suffice?”

“Keep it short, if you like.”

“There are four contradictory forces affecting an object in flight – lift, thrust, weight, and drag. The thrust of the engine, overcoming drag, causes air to flow over the wings or airfoil. The airfoil is shaped in cross-section with a longer, curved top, and a shorter, straight bottom. The bisected airstream must move faster across the top of the airfoil in order to reconnect at the rear, and this causes a reduction of pressure on the upper surface which results in an upward load on the airfoil. When thrust and lift are greater than weight and drag, the aircraft flies.”

Bill sat there looking at me, then burst out laughing.

“I see you've done your homework. Or is it possible that those wings are not just decoration?”

“Hammond didn't tell you? I qualified on Harvards when I was in the Canadian Army. What you see is what I wore for nearly ten years, even the corps is right. I haven't flown a lot, but I know enough that you don't have to spoon-feed me while I'm here.”

“I should have guessed that Basil Hammond had something up his sleeve, and that he wanted me to find out on my own. Well, so be it. That was a bloody good answer, by the way, and if the rest of what you know about flying is just as thorough, then you'll come away from this with a lot of valuable information and a good working knowledge of vertical flight.”

He gave me a furtive smile.

“How about the singing part of this? Is that real, too?”

“'Fraid so. I'm just about to open in a show in the West End. I'm still not sure how I got talked into this spy caper, but here I am, and I said I'd see it through.”

“Well, don't tell me anything you shouldn't. Let's play it on face value. It'll be far easier with everyone else around.”

He tapped the desk with a pencil.

“I've set aside the morning to give you the familiarization tour, and I'm a firm believer in getting hands on as quickly as possible. But before we go down to the hangar, do you understand what we're up against in making a jet take off vertically?”

“I think so. I've read the notes Hammond got for me, and as I understand it, the problem has to do with those old forces of lift, thrust, weight, and drag. In vertical take-off you have no lift from the airfoil, so the engine must generate enough power to overcome dead weight.”