Every Second Counts Read online

  EVERY SECOND COUNTS

  EVERY SECOND COUNTS

  DAVID DONACHIE

  Essex, Connecticut

  An imprint of Globe Pequot, the trade division of

  The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.

  4501 Forbes Blvd., Ste. 200

  Lanham, MD 20706

  www.rowman.com

  Distributed by NATIONAL BOOK NETWORK

  Copyright © 2023 by David Donachie

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information available

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  ISBN 978-1-4930-6064-1 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-4930-7063-3 (ebook)

  The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

  BY DAVID DONACHIE

  THE JOHN PEARCE ADVENTURES

  By the Mast Divided • A Shot Rolling Ship

  An Awkward Commission • A Flag of Truce

  The Admirals’ Game • An Ill Wind

  Blown Off Course • Enemies at Every Turn

  A Sea of Troubles • A Divided Command

  The Devil to Pay • The Perils of Command

  A Treacherous Coast • On a Particular Service

  A Close Run Thing • HMS Hazard • A Troubled Course

  THE CONTRABAND SHORE SERIES

  The Contraband Shore • A Lawless Place • Blood Will Out

  THE NELSON AND EMMA SERIES

  On a Making Tide • Tested by Fate • Breaking the Line

  THE PRIVATEERSMEN SERIES

  The Devil’s Own Luck • The Dying Trade • A Hanging Matter

  An Element of Chance • The Scent of Betrayal • A Game of Bones

  HISTORICAL THRILLERS

  Every Second Counts

  Originally written as Jack Ludlow

  THE LAST ROMAN SERIES

  Vengeance • Honor • Triumph

  THE REPUBLIC SERIES

  The Pillars of Rome • The Sword of Revenge • The Gods of War

  THE CONQUEST SERIES

  Mercenaries • Warriors • Conquest

  THE ROADS TO WAR SERIES

  The Burning Sky • A Broken Land • A Bitter Field

  THE CRUSADES SERIES

  Son of Blood • Soldier of Crusade • Prince of Legend

  * * *

  Hawkwood

  To the memory of Sarah Grazebrook My partner and inspiration for forty-four wonderful years.

  To jaw jaw is always better than to war war

  WINSTON CHURCHILL

  CHAPTER ONE

  Wednesday, July 24, 1940, 4:40 a.m.

  Billy Houston had no idea what was in the stolen briefcase. He did know he’d been required to kill to get it. Unable to sleep and still fully clothed, he rolled out of bed to quietly ferret in the toolbox in the hall cupboard, only to find it took a chisel and a four-pound hammer to break the lock. Pulling out the mass of stuff inside, he threw the briefcase, along with the still attached handcuffs, under his bed and made his way to the kitchen.

  The dim bulb, combined with limited early morning light, was little help in a basement flat damp and chilly even in midsummer. So Billy pulled on his raincoat and lit the cooker, hoping to warm the place. Shivering at the table by the heavily barred window, he began to study what he’d acquired.

  Top of the pile was a large, lined pad, listing a series of hand-written numbers, underneath a set of folded maps, twenty in all, covered in symbols, each one broken into squared and numbered sections. The first showed the east coast of Kent from Dover to the Thames Estuary. Others went all the way past Portsmouth and Plymouth. The rest covered the inland areas, the various towns and cities of southern England, from East Anglia to Bristol.

  Concentrating on the one covering the beaches to the north of Dover, he studied the mass of neatly inked signs, these overlain with thick, scribbled pencil marks, arrows and numbered circles which made no sense to him. As the sun rose, to shed light into the street of five-storey houses, he focused on the permanent markings.

  Tiny skull and crossbones denoted minefields and these he recognised, symbols he had seen in the Great War as a sergeant in the Highland Light Infantry. This pointed him to the probable meaning of the others, like the trench systems on the heights overlooking Dover Harbour. He felt a growing sense of excitement at what he might have, though it was mixed with frustration. Even after an hour, he had failed to solve the mystery of the pencilled notations, which matched the figures on the pad.

  At the sound of movement from the next-door bedroom, he flipped over the topmost map, shoving it underneath the folded pile. Gingerly, he ran a hand over the painful patches on his face, wondering how bad they looked. It had been a ferocious scrap in that narrow hallway, as tough as any he had fought as a youngster in the streets of Glasgow or his more recent battles against the East End Jews. As a fight it had been more like the cramped and murderous ‘kill or be killed’ struggles he had experienced in the desperate closing battles of 1918.

  His victim had been fit for his age, but the briefcase attached to his wrist had hampered him as he tried to match Billy blow for blow. It took time to create enough space to swing the lead pipe and get a whack to the cheek, then finally to fell his opponent with one to the forehead.

  Having already carried out the planned burglary, the briefcase looked like a bonus until Billy, just getting his breath back, couldn’t find any keys in the groaning victim’s pocket. Livid and feeling thwarted—he’d always had a red-mist temper—he cracked down on the man’s head to shut the sod up. A search of the garden shed yielded only a small pruning saw which proved to be useless in getting the briefcase off the arm. It tore the skin, but the bone he had to stamp on to break.

  The saw, lead pipe and blood-stained gloves had ended up in the River Thames as he made his way back across the Lambeth Bridge to Pimlico. Only when he got back did he realise the bloodied instruments, hidden inside his Mackintosh, had left stains on the lining. Now, folded on the back of his chair, these marks were hidden.

  Bettina Wyvern pottered out of her bedroom, frowning at the still-lit cooker. Ever the tidy one, she lifted the coat to hang it in the hall, eyes wide with hurt when he snapped at her to leave it alone. Having examined the scratches on his face, her eyes moved to the objects on the kitchen table, by size and shape, unmistakable. Bettina, clearly troubled, rubbed her hands nervously down her sides and shook her head several times, her fleshy jowls quivering.

  To her clandestine lodger the reaction was typical. How different people were when they ceased to babble about “doing something for the cause” and were actually required to act. He’d seen it too many times to be surprised when they turned out to have lily livers.

  The “cause” had been an excuse. Billy, on the run, needed money and robbery had looked like a way to get some. Bettina, who cleaned houses to make ends meet, had let slip one of her regulars was something in the military. More importantly, he kept a large amount of cash in a bureau in his spare room, all this really a boast to let Billy know how much she was trusted.

  ‘He’ll have missed them by now.’

  Billy patted the topmost map, his tone confident. ‘He will, Bettina.’ ‘I hope it’s worth it?’

  ‘Of course it is, lassie. We struck a blow.’

  ‘I should never have given you the key. He’s bound to know it was me.’ He looked up at her, seeking to convey reassurance, even as he felt his anger rising. Her hands were clasped under a substantial bosom, which matched her pudgy body. The broad, pink-cheeked face, under a knotted turban was creased and unhappy, making her even less attractive than usual and that was pretty unappealing to begin with. No wonder she’d stayed a widow.

  ‘He will not, Bettina, cause ah’ve made it look like a proper break-in, so he’ll reckon it’s a burglary. You can turn up on Friday looking innocent and shocked. Now, what about a cup of tea and a wee bit o’ toast?’

  ‘Someone might have seen me in the phone box.’

  ‘Who’s going tae see you in the blackout? And even if they did, the chances of it being a body tae recognise ye is slim.’ He smiled at her and added in his most seductive tone. ‘Come on, make us some breakfast, hen?’

  Bettina’s task, her “aid” to the cause, had been to occupy the phone box at the corner of the street and alert Billy with two rings on the house phone should her employer show up. But he never got the warning. Had the old cow even stayed there as lookout? He could ask her, but he doubted if she’d admit to having panicked and fled, which she must have done to get back to the flat ahead of him with time to get in bed.

  Upstairs, rifling and pocketing the contents of a carved wooden box, Billy had heard the rasping of the owner’s key. Given his only possible exit was blocked, he’d knew he’d have to fight his way out, a bloody resolution being the inevitable outcome.

  As Bettina began to fill the kettle, it was clear what he had was of value, so he must decide what to do next. The sharp crack of the letterbox, followed by the slapping sound of the morning paper hitting the lino, made Billy jump. He rose to fetch it, leaving Bettina to slice the bread with her worn, bone-handled knife.

 
Unfolding the paper, his heart lifted at a headline and he ran his eyes over the article it covered. This delayed him too long so, by the time he came back to the kitchen, Bettina was at the table, standing over a map, face up and fully open. His raincoat had been turned inside out as well, the lining now on show.

  Her eyes flicked towards the coat, before she looked directly at him. ‘Billy, what you have done?’

  ‘What was necessary for the cause,’ he replied. ‘That’s what ah’ve done.’

  Gently he edged her away from the table, murmuring reassuringly about the cause they both supported and how his actions had made what they both believed in possible. But Billy was really reflecting on the way she’d betrayed him the night before, and he knew she might do so again, which had him slip the breadknife into his hand.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Wednesday, July 24, 5:00 a.m.

  Unbroken sleep didn’t come easily to the deputy director of Counter-Espionage at MI5. For weeks now, Adam Strachan had rarely been able to get through the night without tossing and turning to eventually wake up. Tasked with keeping the nation secure, it had been hard enough following the outbreak of war. How much more difficult would it become with the Germans holding the coast of Europe from the tip of Norway all the way to the Spanish border?

  The last two months had been especially hectic. In May, MI5 had finally been given the green light to move against adherents of all the right wing and anti-Semitic groups, a sweep against organisations which had been a curse to the country throughout much of the last decade. Nearly all the outright fascist sympathisers were now either behind bars or barbed wire on the Isle of Man. Few had escaped the net, though it had proved impossible to arrest everyone with extreme right-wing views.

  Adam knew, for every high-profile detainee, there remained thousands in the country who secretly sympathised with National Socialism, not least in the upper reaches of British society, and such people lurked elsewhere. Pre-war there had been one or more propping up the bar in every pub and golf club in the country. They would be less vocal now, but their views would not have changed.

  The rounding-up of enemy aliens followed, arrests carried out with too few operatives, in an effort to crack a problem next to impossible to solve. How to sort the bad from the good? For the escapees from Nazi tyranny, the good had to be in the majority, but there was no certainty.

  The action had been especially harsh on German Jews already uprooted to avoid Adolf Hitler’s thugs.

  Then Mussolini had invaded the South of France, an attack which, even if it had been a military fiasco, led to the detention of legions of bemused Italians—hotel staff, restaurant and café owners, many of whom had lived in Britain for decades. Even the maître d’hôtel of the Savoy had been hauled off, which had led to howls of protest from his well-heeled clientele.

  Neither had it been a pleasant assignment, even for him, supervising matters at arm’s length, not in face-to-face contact with those taken into custody. And it did nothing to solve the central problem; where there still active spies in the country? Dozens of enemy agents had been rounded up since the previous September, but you could never be certain you had them all.

  The Abwehr was reckoned to be a model of efficiency, which made suspect such ineptitude when planting spies in Britain. Some agents had struggled to speak decent English and knew nothing of the British way of life. Others had made simple mistakes, like using their radios in static locations, making them easy to track down, perhaps too much so.

  No one believed Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, who ran German military intelligence, was inept; if anything, the opposite was true. Thus, the suspicion existed he was prepared to sacrifice small beer and in quantity in order to protect his more valuable intelligence assets. Gnawing on this, Adam lay awake, teeth clenched. Each time his concerns faded and he was going under, his wife would turn in bed, groaning and murmuring.

  When he did eventually drift off again, it was to the image of messages being sent to Berlin by people as yet undiscovered, intelligence which would ensure much of what he and his department had done since the outbreak of war had been totally wasted.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Wednesday, July 24, 5:14 a.m.

  Rudolf Graebner arrived home in fitful morning light, fresh from the bed of a new amorous conquest. He’d spent the previous evening at a Mayfair nightclub, mixing with the society he’d been tasked to monitor. It was a place frequented by the well-heeled and the well-informed, and it had turned out to be an especially productive night. The chatter was full of whispered hints a change was imminent at the top of the British government. On his way to the lift, he’d picked up the early editions of the morning papers, to discover, in the stop press, such gossip was based on fact.

  Reich Chancellor Hitler’s speech from the stage of the Kroll Opera House, delivered the previous week, offering an olive branch to the British Empire, had been followed by a diplomatic note sent through Sweden. It suggested an immediate armistice as a precursor to peace talks. Churchill had responded in his usual bellicose fashion, determined to go on fighting, even with an invasion threatened and, after endless evacuations following on from Dunkirk, an army that had abandoned its equipment and was now in tatters.

  Wiser heads at the cabinet table had prevailed and the Bulldog had resigned, his replacement as yet unnamed, news which Rudi absorbed with mixed feelings. Ever since Germany had been forced into launching a pre-emptive attack on Denmark and Norway, he had been obliged to read about the stunning successes of the German armed forces while he was twiddling his thumbs in the enemy capital.

  His presence in London, as well as his induction into the Abwehr, had come through an early upbringing in Madrid. Born into the Spanish nobility, he naturally possessed complete fluency in his native tongue and had a good command of French. An infancy spent under the hand of a British governess, employed by his widowed mother, had also provided him with an ability to speak fluent, albeit grammatical, English.

  Such advantages had not been lost upon moving to Germany with his stepfather, Karl Graebner, the Kaiser’s assistant naval attaché in Spain. That was the country he now considered home and in whose navy he served. Recruited by Admiral Wilhelm Canaris at the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War, to act as an interpreter for the German military mission, his task had been to keep Berlin informed of the currents of feeling on the nationalist side, which were not always pro-German.

  Following the end of the civil war, the Spanish diplomatic corps was now full of new people, the previous Republican diplomats, those on the losing side, not being perceived as sufficiently ideologically sound. Thus, victory for General Franco had allowed Canaris to slot his man into the London Embassy before the outbreak of the European war. Known in London as Rodolfo de Bázan, his Hidalgo birth name, only the intelligence officer and the ambassador knew his real identity.

  To everyone else he was Spain’s cultural attaché, a post which opened up a stream of invitations to society events. Questioned on the origins of his blond good looks, he would claim descent from the Visigoths who had conquered Roman Iberia many centuries past. With a diplomatic passport and the immunity it conferred, he had for several months, been relatively free to travel around Britain, albeit he was obliged to share his destination and journey details with the Foreign Office.

  Country houses had been opened to him, while his skill with the rod had led to an invitation to fish for salmon on a private stretch of the River Tweed in the borders of Scotland. Grouse shooting also brought him into contact with people of influence, including those who held political views considered dangerous by their government. Many of these notables were prepared to air them to a man taken for what he claimed to be.

  He was viewed as a well-born Spaniard from a noble family, who shared the values of the upper strata of European society: extremely anti-Bolshevik and inclined to see developments in Italy and Germany as a political template not to be despised. Graebner had thus been able to supply Canaris with a great deal of the social gossip which buzzed throughout the upper reaches of the British establishment.