D-Notice Bill Walker (online e book reading txt) 📖

Turning up his collar, Thorley turned south on Whitehall, heading toward Parliament Square a block away.

The early evening crowds thickened as he crossed King Charles Street and passed in front of the Treasury. On his left, looking like some giant medieval toad, sat the red-bricked, turreted building that was Scotland Yard, headquarters of London’s world-famous police force.

Normally, Thorley felt a certain irrational sense of security seeing it there as he passed it day after day. Now, he found himself growing more anxious, turning the summons over in his mind as a cat would play with a dead mouse.

Reaching the square, Thorley turned west into Great George Street, fighting through a phalanx of grim-faced clerks determined to reach the tube station on the Embankment.

And everywhere he looked Thorley saw uniforms.

Army. Navy. RAF.

Proud men, vitally committed to their nation’s survival, men whose eyes gleamed with danger and purpose, their girlfriends clinging tight to their arms, breathless and heady with romance.

These men exuded a decisive power and it made Thorley self-conscious. For even though he was every bit as committed to England’s survival—a commitment that no one who knew him would ever question—he nevertheless felt inadequate, as if he were still an outsider.

Moments later, he passed into Storey’s Gate and then right into Old Queen Street. Here the crowds dwindled to the occasional passerby.

Sensing that time was growing short, he quickened his pace, turned onto a narrow carriageway that widened into Dartmouth Street, then doglegged into Broadway.

Moments later he stood in front of number 54.

It was an unprepossessing group of terraced houses in the ubiquitous Georgian style so common in the mid-to-late-eighteenth century when most of the Westminster area was built, and it was for precisely this reason, as well as its proximity to the center of power that made it the perfect choice for the Secret Intelligence Service, better known as MI6.

Organized in 1909 as the Foreign Section of the Secret Service Bureau, its main purpose was to neutralize the effectiveness of foreign agents working on British soil, primarily German agents sent in by Kaiser Wilhelm II. In those days it was run with a benevolent iron hand by Sir Mansfield Cumming, a former Captain in His Majesty’s Navy. By 1922, it had become the SIS, or Secret Intelligence Service, and operated under its own mandate to ferret out and destroy threats to British interests wherever they might be found. Cumming himself had recently retired, yet his presence remained tangible. His successor signed all documents as Cumming did: with the moniker “C”.

Glancing once more at his wristwatch, Thorley steeled his nerves and walked into number 54 through the massive glass and wrought iron door, the glass now crisscrossed by adhesive paper strips to reduce the dangers of flying glass in case of bomb blasts. It was one more reminder that life in Britain had changed for the duration.

Inside, Thorley found himself in a tiny dimly lit foyer of dark paneled wood that smelled of oil soap and furniture polish. It was devoid of any ornamentation, save for the portraits of several nameless seventeenth century nobles lining the walls, their catlike eyes gazing out of faces draped with long powdered wigs and haughty disdain.

Beyond the portraits and the sumptuous Persian throw rug that covered the walkway sat a plain utilitarian desk that belied the old-world look of the building, as did the straitlaced naval officer perched behind it. The boy, for that is what he appeared to be in his tidy Lieutenant’s uniform, had the well-scrubbed look that one saw so often on the children of the privileged. Thorley approached, and was about to speak when the young officer opened a fat ledger bound in red Morocco leather and pushed it toward him. He then handed Thorley a heavy Monte Blanc fountain pen.

“Please sign in, sir.”

Thorley scrawled his name on the next empty line and handed back the pen, noting that his name lay directly under that of Sir Basil’s. The officer glanced at the ledger and nodded. Thorley could almost hear the boy’s mind counting off a mental checklist.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Thorley. You’re expected.”

He motioned to a Military Policeman Thorley hadn’t noticed before. The man moved forward and took a position that placed him squarely between Thorley and the stairs. He watched Thorley with a flat beady-eyed stare that betrayed not the slightest emotion. It made Thorley even more nervous.

“The Director’s office is on the fourth floor on the Broadway side,” the Lieutenant said, breaking into Thorley’s thoughts, “Sergeant Hutchins will escort you. Please do not venture onto any of the other floors, and do not speak to anyone you may meet in passing. Is that clear?”

Thorley noticed a tiny smirk on the Lieutenant’s face. Was it mockery, contempt? He couldn’t be sure, but it was enough to make him forget his fear for the moment.

“Quite clear,” Thorley said, his voice tight with annoyance.

“You may proceed. And please be so good as to hang your hat and gas mask over there.” He pointed to a coat stand by the stairs.

Keeping his face neutral, Thorley mumbled his thanks and moved toward the stairs, placing his things on the coat stand as he passed. The military policeman dogged his heels. He knew the lieutenant was still watching him, could feel his eyes probing; and he realized that even though the boy had been the essence of courtesy, his eyes had been the same as those he’d seen in the ancient portraits: cold...suspicious...dead....

Grabbing the carved oak railing, Thorley mounted the stairs, his mind turning uneasy somersaults.

Chapter Three

Lillian tried very hard not to cry. It was a losing battle. The tears came, lapping out of her eyes like too much tea poured into a cup too small. They ran down her face and soaked into the bodice of her special dress, the one