Those Who Dare - [Raiding Forces 01] Read online

  “What have we here?”

  “Duty calls, old stick.”

  “Duty?”

  “I asked Terry to be here,” Captain Lady Seaborn explained. “We have need of his special talents today.”

  “Does that mean there’s some top-secret outfit we haven’t met with yet that’s headed up by a nymphomaniac?”

  Captain Lady Seaborn rolled her eyes. “Hardly. Today you two have a command performance with C, the chief of British Secret Intelligence, MI-6. You will join him at his club, White’s, for lunch. Since no women are allowed inside, not even in the club’s waiting room, I shall not be tagging along.”

  “You came in to have lunch with the boys, Zorro? I’m impressed.”

  Captain Stone humored him with a thin smile.

  “Terry is a member of White’s,” Captain Lady Seaborn explained, “which by any measure is the most prestigious club in London. To become a member, one must be proposed and seconded. Then, once in, a new member is on probation for some period. Everybody is somebody at White’s, but being somebody by itself is not an absolute guarantee of membership. To be eligible it is necessary to have power and position or the prospect of having them, as well as money. Most of the Royals belong.”

  “I know White’s. We met Colonel Clarke there for lunch.”

  “You may have lunched there, John, but I seriously doubt you grasp the power dynamics of White’s,” Captain Lady Seaborn explained patiently. “The place is much more than just a club. In reality, it is an enormously influential political and social semi-secret society with close ties to Eton and the Life Guards.

  “Eton has an ultra-exclusive boys social club called Pop. The boys in it literally go on to rule the Empire. The members look out after one another for the rest of their lives through the Etonian old-boy network. They have a saying at Eton: You do not have to be in Pop to be a success in life; simply to know a member is enough.’

  “Also, there is a prestigious fox hunting club, the Beaufort Hunt, that’s even more select. Like White’s, it is not only a sporting association but also a political and social cabal of extraordinarily high influence. The Beaufort membership is quite capable of reaching out to even the most remote corners of the Empire and pulling the strings necessary to stage-manage events. C is a man named Colonel Stewart Menzies, DSO, 2nd Life Guards, Eton, Pop, and the Beaufort Hunt.”

  “Sounds well-heeled,” said Major Randal.

  “Terry is a member in good standing in every organization the colonel is, with the single exception of MI-6.”

  Major Randal gave Captain Stone an amused look. “And all along you’ve led me to believe you’re just a simple, degenerate womanizer! Aren’t you the social butterfly?”

  “One does have one’s responsibilities, old stick,” Captain Stone replied dryly. “However, I believe the rather more apt description is ‘social lion.’ A butterfly, I am led to understand, is what professional ladies of the evening in the Orient—which I do believe includes your old haunt, the Philippine Islands—call certain of their clients who flit from flower to flower instead of landing on just one for the evening. Then, of course, you would know a lot more about that sort of thing than I would, eh, John? Considering you do have a certain butterfly engraved on your trusty cigarette lighter.”

  “Aaah—”

  “Lady Jane is a member of the Beaufort Hunt, one should not fail to point out,” Captain Stone continued, unruffled. “Personally, I merely ride after foxes, dally with the daughters of the membership, and look dashing wearing the Beaufort buff and blue riding jacket, set off by the elegant brass buttons engraved GPR, which, for the great unwashed, stands for George Prince Regent, the first gentleman of Europe. Beaufort has marvelous hunt balls.”

  “So, you two are fraternity brothers,” Major Randal said.

  “It’s not quite exactly like that,” Captain Lady Seaborn smiled. “My Uncle Johnny is a longstanding member, and he wanted me to join so I could ride with him.”

  “Well, yippie-kay-yay.”

  “Her uncle, Colonel Bevins, is also a member of White’s,” Captain Stone added, “a graduate of Eton, a member of Pop, and C’s longtime friend. And for the record, he’s extraordinarily well-heeled, as you so colorfully put it.”

  “This is the most important interview you may ever have, John,” Captain Lady Seaborn said with an imploring look on her face. “If you get on well with Colonel Menzies, the future of Raiding Forces is assured. Do try.”

  “I’ll give my best, Lady Jane. I wouldn’t want to be an embarrassment to the Raiding Forces contingent of the Beaufort Hunt.”

  ~ * ~

  The Bradford provided a car and driver to chauffeur them to White’s. There was a strained silence between Major John Randal and Captain Terry “Zorro” Stone during the ride. Finally, the dashing Life Guards officer said, “I probably should have mentioned the Beaufort Hunt, old stick.”

  “I was wondering why you didn’t, old stick.”

  “I have not hunted since the war started. Lady Jane was a married woman, though her husband never seemed to be around and she always rode with her uncle. We only vaguely knew each other, and since women like her generally tend to view bounders like me as polecats, I kept my distance. Besides, Jane was officially off-limits to me, since her uncle is a former member of Pop. Even I have certain conventions I will not violate.”

  “Jane called you a skunk?”

  “Well, no, actually. As I recall, it was ‘lounge lizard.’”

  “You two do know the secret handshake, though?”

  “True, I should have mentioned it. But really, I never thought much about it.”

  “I don’t like surprises.”

  “Sorry, John.”

  “How exactly do you cook a fox anyway?”

  Captain Stone looked at him tranquilly and observed, “Nice Rolex. Navy model?”

  Proving to Major Randal once again that if he crossed verbal swords with the scourge of the Life Guards, he had best be prepared to take his share of hits.

  ~ * ~

  White’s was an unassailable social bastion where only men of vast wealth, high position, and immense power were welcome. The secure haven was so cloistered, no enemy spy could ever possibly infiltrate it unless he had been born and raised in the British aristocracy. While quite a few of its members were in the Great Game, however, White’s was not to be confused with the Secret Services club. That distinction, according to Captain Lady Jane Seaborn, belonged to its rival, Boodles, just down St. James Street.

  Colonel Stewart Menzies, aka C, and the executive leadership inner circle of Broadway, the Secret Intelligence Service, had elected to make White’s its unofficial headquarters. Everyone at the club knew Colonel Menzies, of course, and most were aware of what he did for a day job. There was not the faintest trace of gossip, though; it just was not done. The head of MI-6 felt so comfortable and secure at White’s, he had his most sensitive mail delivered to him there to be read in his personal enclave, the billiards room.

  When working at the club, he was never disturbed. C was not the only member who brought his work there to be conducted in comfort and privacy within its hallowed halls at any given time. It was said the officers for one entire Commando battalion, No. 8, had been recruited at White’s from among the sons of the ruling generation of the wartime British Empire.

  When the two Raiding Forces officers arrived, the hall porter said, “Nice to see you again, Captain Stone.”

  “Hello, Groom. We have an appointment with Colonel Menzies.”

  “Please have a seat in the anteroom while I check to see if the colonel is available, sir.”

  Within less than half a minute, Groom was back. “The colonel will see you now. Come right this way, gentlemen.”

  When they entered the billiards room, they could make out a slim, courtly man of approximately fifty—whose hair was thinning in front and whose clipped mustache was turning gray—sitting and reading next to the fireplace. Over the fireplace hung
a bust of Edward VII and a “Champion of England” boxing belt. Scattered around the room were deep leather armchairs and acres of thick pile carpet. The wood ran to mahogany. No one was playing billiards.

  Colonel Menzies rose when they approached and extended his hand. He looked extremely fit. “Terry, how nice to see you,” he said.

  Major Randal recalled that, by tradition, cavalry officers of the same regiment always called each other by their first names except when they were on parade. The colonel clearly regarded himself, still, as a Life Guards officer.

  “Good to see you, Stewart,” Captain Stone replied pleasantly to the older man. “I would like to introduce you to Major John Randal, my commanding officer and very dear friend.”

  “It is a pleasure, John. Your reputation precedes you. Not only did I follow with interest your exploits at Calais, but your great champion, Lady Jane, has also given me an exhaustive report on your raiding operations to date. I must confess to being more than a little curious about the man who can capture her fancy.”

  Colonel Menzies was a throwback to another age. He had been schooled at Eton, as had Captain Stone, in “God, Greek, and guns.” That is, he was taught that those who wanted to rule and command must first become gentlemen and that character was more important than intellect. He had been groomed to be a man of courage, truth, honor, and, last but certainly not least, chivalry. He hated to travel.

  These traits were not generally associated with the spymasters of the major world powers—not most of them, at least.

  That afternoon the three men sat by the fire, alone in the heavily paneled room, and discussed a number of things. At the end of their visit Major Randal would have been hard-pressed to say exactly what it was they talked about; it was all quite vague.

  Just before Major Randal and Captain Stone left, Colonel Menzies commented, “John, it has often been said that on the playing fields of Eton, England wins her wars and keeps her empire. A quaint notion actually, but one rather widely held. What is your take, as an American, on that line of thought?”

  “Too bad you didn’t just challenge Hitler to a cricket match, sir.”

  Colonel Menzies was still chuckling when the two Commando officers stood up to leave.

  Few people are ever privileged to actually observe how government operates behind the scenes, and many of those who did were not always aware of what it was they were witnessing. It seemed so ordinary.

  Is this how Great Britain’s national intelligence policy is formulated? Major Randal wondered. One man sitting alone in an empty pool room by a fire, a secret puppeteer masterminding the world’s most powerful intelligence organization, making decisions that affected the survival of the entire free world? Apparently so. It was a very heady experience to have been so close to the epicenter of power, even for such a brief time.

  Had he passed muster? He had no idea.

  C did drop one possible hint, however, when the spymaster offhandedly observed to Captain Stone, “John already knows two of us, Terry, and unless I miss my guess, it shall not be long before he makes it three.”

  Was he referring to members of the club called Pop? He must have been. Who was the third member? Major Randal did not have a clue.

  In the car on the way back to the Bradford, Captain Stone said, “The women ride sidesaddle.”

  “What?”

  “The Beaufort Hunt requires its female members to ride sidesaddle. You should see Jane sit a horse.”

  “Somebody needs to tell you old boys and girls it’s the twentieth century.”

  “Are you absolutely certain, old stick?”

  ~ * ~

  23

  CHINESE FIRE DRILL

  LIEUTENANT PERCY STIRLING KNOCKED ON MAJOR JOHN RANDAL’S door at the Bradford later that afternoon. Since he’d had to call ahead first to obtain permission to board the private elevator, his arrival did not come as a surprise. What was unexpected, however, was the slim, towheaded lieutenant he had with him who was wearing the regimental insignia of the Sherwood Foresters, parachute wings, and a maroon flash that read II SPECIAL AIR SERVICES BATTALION.

  “Major Randal, I would like you to meet Lieutenant Harry Shelby,” Lieutenant Stirling said when Major Randal opened the door. “We served in No. 2 Commando together, only it’s not called that now. They changed their name.”

  “Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. Chauncy, would you bring these men something to drink? Beer okay?” he asked his guests.

  “Yes, sir,” they quipped in unison with big smiles.

  The butler appeared shortly thereafter with tall, frosty mugs he kept in the refrigerator at all times for just such exigencies.

  “Harry does not want to be in the 11 Special Air Services Battalion anymore,” Lieutenant Stirling announced.

  “Why not, Harry?”

  “Sir, I volunteered for Commandos to get a chance to take part in fast hit-and-run raids on the French coast from small boats. Then the War Department selected No. 2 Commando to become the first paratroop battalion. I was all right with the idea until I found out the RAF does not have enough troop transport aircraft to drop the battalion intact, which means we will not be going on missions anytime soon.”

  “Harry has a special talent, sir.”

  “What’s that, Harry?”

  “I am a big game hunter, sir.”

  “Tell him about your shooting.”

  “To keep my skills sharp for my hunting, I compete in long-distance rifle matches.”

  “Ever win anything?”

  “The King’s Prize, the Scottish Open Championship, and the Caledonian Shield, sir,” Lieutenant Shelby replied with disarming modesty.

  “Weren’t the Sherwood Foresters in the Norwegian Expeditionary Force?”

  “We were, sir, and my battalion also made it to France and came out through Dunkirk. I consider myself something of a specialist in retreats, retrograde operations, and evacuations.”

  “Well, I heard the Sherwood Foresters gave a good account of themselves against crack German ski troops while covering the withdrawal in Norway. Chauncy, would you get Lady Jane on the horn for me, please?”

  The ever-efficient butler quickly brought the phone, trailing a long extension cord, and handed it to the major. He dialed her number.

  “Jane, do you have a pen?” he said as soon as she answered. “Lieutenant Harry Shelby, Sherwood Foresters, currently assigned to 11 Special Air Service Battalion . . . Could you have him transferred to Raiding Forces, effective immediately? Thanks!”

  He hung up and looked at Lieutenant Shelby. “Welcome to Raiding Forces, Lieutenant.” Major Randal handed the phone back to Chauncy. “I take it you did want to volunteer? If not, you just got yourself drafted.”

  The two young lieutenants looked at each other and grinned. This was more like it!

  “Chauncy, see if you can get Squadron Leader Wilcox on the blower.”

  “Sir!”

  While Chauncy looked up the number and dialed, Major Randal continued, “Harry, I have an assignment for you, and I think it’s right up your alley.”

  The young officer looked surprised.

  “Sir, I have the squadron leader on the line,” Chauncy announced.

  “Tell him to be here at 1800 hours for a briefing.”

  Chauncy murmured into the phone. He looked at Major Randal. “Squadron Leader Wilcox says ‘Roger,’ sir.”

  “Now, get in touch with Captain Stone, Lieutenant Seaborn, and Sergeant Major Hicks, and call Lady Jane back to attend as well.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  “I’ll see you two men at 1800 hours.”

  The two lieutenants gulped down beers and trooped out the door in high spirits, delighted at being able to serve together again.

  Shortly after they left, the phone rang. Chauncy answered. “Sir, the front desk says there is a gentleman downstairs who would like you to meet him in the small bar in the lobby.”

  “Did they say who it was?”

  “No, sir.
”

  When he walked into the bar, Major Randal found Major Lawrence Grand, the debonair chief of Section D, Special Operations Executive, sitting at a table with a cocktail in front of him. The small bar in the Bradford was as good a place as you were likely to find in London to have a discreet rendezvous.

  “Hello, Major.”

  “Hello, Major, to you, too.”

  “Call me Larry. Care for a drink, John?”