Secret Ministry: A Johnny Fedora Espionage Spy Thriller Assignment Book 1
PRAISE FOR DESMOND CORY
"There is these days a comparatively slender band of first-class writers who are producing thrillers worthy of serious attention – among them authors like Margaret Allingham, John Creasy, Carter Dickenson, David Dodge, Ellery Queen, Simenon, and, of course Agatha Christie. Among them, too, is Desmond Cory, a man whose ingenuity, imagination, and good humour pervade his works with an agreeable excitement and readability."
— Bristol Evening Post 1960
"A remarkable literate suspense story. Certainly Cory's name will be one to reckon with after this."
— The Book Buyer's Guide 1965
"As one has come to expect from Cory, colorful action, copious carnage, elaborate intrigue, frequent surprises."
— New York Times Book Review 1966
"Readers who like their thrillers to complement their intelligence must on no account miss Mr. Cory".
— The Times 1971
"A really outstanding novel, remarkable not only for its ingenuity (though there is plenty of that), but also for the high intelligence and literary skill with which its essentially commonplace materials are handled."
— The Sunday Times 1975
"This near-perfect puzzler, written with intelligence and laced with wit."
— Publishers Weekly 1992.
"You hear that there was a Golden Age of thrillers in Britain between the wars. When you read Cory you realize that it hasn’t ended."
— Echo 1993
FOREWORD
February 16th 2011
If Desmond Cory were alive, today he would be celebrating his 83rd birthday (and 55th wedding anniversary), more likely than not typing industriously at the keyboard, puffing away more than just occasionally on his favourite brand of cigarettes, nonchalantly stroking a sideburn with the middle finger of his left hand, completely impervious to the world around him, lost in silent meditation and creative thought, weaving his magic on his latest novel.
In 1951 however, he was an undergraduate studying English Literature at St Peter’s College, Oxford, when his first novel was published, to considerable critical acclaim. This was Secret Ministry (The Nazi Assassins in the United States) featuring a half-Irish half-Spanish assassin Johnny Fedora, contracted by the British Secret Service to foil an attempt to resurrect the Third Reich. 15 other Fedora novels were to follow, translated into 12 languages, and Cory soon established himself as one of the leading exponents of what came to be known as “Brit Grit” – fast-moving, high-octane spy stories which provided much-needed escapism for a country still suffering from rationing and the effects of the Second World War.
Some critics have rendered Cory a great disservice by indiscriminately linking his name more or less exclusively with this genre. Cory was much more than another Ian Fleming. He was a prolific and marvellously eclectic artist, equally at home with spy novels as with thrillers (Deadfall – subsequently made into a movie starring Michael Caine with music by the late John Barry), detective stories (the Lindy Grey series: Begin, murderer; This is Jezebel; Lady Lost; The Shaken Leaf), psychological masterpieces (The Night Hawk; The Circe Complex), creating a very credible and amusing stylistic imitation of some of the giants of English literature (Lucky Ham), children’s books (Anne and Peter in Southern Spain; Jones on the Belgrade Express), combining all these facets with his own unique humour (The Dobie Trilogy: The Strange Attractor; The Mask of Zeus; The Dobie Paradox), writing film scripts (England Made Me), while at the same time publishing numerous erudite academic studies on English and European literature. His work also won important accolades such as the Sunday Times best crime novel of the year, and crime critics' choice of the year. Moreover, he could twinkle on the old ebonies and ivories with a certain panache, was a dab hand with brush and canvas, a talented amateur photographer and spoke Spanish and French quite fluently. But perhaps even more importantly, he was a loving and currently greatly-missed husband, father and grand-father.
By re-publishing this, his first novel, in a special 60th anniversary edition, we hope to re-kindle (pun intended!) some interest in this fascinating author, provide his admirers with the opportunity of possessing novels that are no longer in print, and of course introduce his work to a new generation of readers. Coming soon, we hope, the second Fedora adventure: This Traitor, Death.
John McCarthy.
SECRET MINISTRY
BY
DESMOND CORY
...whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles
Quietly shining to the quiet moon.
S.T. COLERIDGE.
First published by Frederick Muller, Ltd., 1951
Copyright: Desmond Cory
This edition: the 60th commemoration of Johnny Fedora - 2011
For more information on Desmond Cory's novels please visit the website: www.desmondcory.com
Chapter One
THE MEN FROM THE MINISTRY
KARL DOMNAU was walking slowly down one of the dirtier side-streets of Paris, kicking a small pebble along the paving in front of him; a tall, well-built man, with shoulders like a champion weightlifter’s and three days’ growth of bristles stubbling his chin. He wore a greasy beret and a shapeless grey suit, with a scarf thrown loosely around his neck; his eyes were sunken and grey in colour, his mouth wide and thin. He moved with the inelegant shamble of a very tired man.
Karl was thinking that life amused him, however. He was almost cheerful. That afternoon, for instance; the incidents of that afternoon had appealed to his sense of humour. Weill and Meyerhofer, of all people – they had known him well before the war, and yet had looked at him without the least sign of recognition. “Here, you,” Weill had said. “Take these bags – and be quick about it, will you?” And he had taken their luggage into the compartment and had been duly tipped. It was damned amusing.
But perhaps not so surprising after all. Five years ago, in 1938, he had worn the uniform of an S.A. Group Leader; everyone had thought him to be one of Himmler’s most promising boys. Now, he was an underpaid, half-starved railway porter at the Gare du Nord. He had changed a lot in those five years. The pebble had been kicked the hell of a long way since ’38.
The streets were almost deserted. Very few Germans cared to go down the side-streets of Paris at dusk, and very few Frenchmen bothered to. Karl was one of the few Germans in Paris who went where he wished, without fear. This was because he had stopped being Karl Domnau early in 1941 and become François Duval of Soissons, the same Duval who had escaped from an internment camp in Germany, and who, because he hated the Germans so much, had later become one of the leaders in the underground groups that, even now, were being spoken of as the “Resistance”. Ever since last August, since the raid on Dieppe, the groups had been growing in strength and efficiency; and in his tiny hovel of a room Karl had accumulated papers containing every detail of their organization and personnel. He had left the secret meeting that night with the final information that he required, and by this time to-morrow they would be in the hands of Reichsfuehrer Himmler himself. And then Domnau’s assignment would be completed.
And who was he, anyway, this Duval whom he had been for two weary years? Just another bloody little Frenchman, gassed in the chambers of some piffling little concentration camp. From now on Duval was Domnau again, Domnau of the Twenty-Second Standarte, Domnau of External Intelligence. Karl smiled to himself as he visualized the certainty of a handshake from Himmler, the sensual
pleasure of a hot bath and a shave, the cool kiss of silk pyjamas and the starchy smartness of his black uniform. And there was Hilsa… Hilsa with the blonde hair and the ripe, beautiful figure… He wondered if she still lived at that little flat near the Unter den Linden, or if the Royal Air Force had changed it into a heap of rubble. But in any case, she would he there, somewhere; she would be waiting for him. There are always Hilsas for people like Domnau.
He pushed open the wooden door of the last house on the street and walked slowly up the stairs. The last time, he thought, oui, la dernière fois. He had been thinking in French for a great many months now; but the habit would soon go.
He kicked open the door of his room and fumbled for the lamp on the table. He struck a match and lit it; pulled a battered Gauloise from his coat pocket and lit it with the same match. Then he turned.
He saw that a tall man was sitting on his bed. A tall, thin man, with a cadaverous face and the mournful eyes of a spaniel. He was sprawling on the bed, leaning against the wall behind it. In one hand he held a thick sheaf of closely-written papers, bound together with string, and the other, hanging straight down by his side, was holding a heavy .45 revolver.
He said in a faintly bored tone, “Guten Abend, Herr Domnau… bitte, treten Sie ein.” His accent wasn’t particularly good.
Domnau regarded him dispassionately for perhaps five seconds, then gathered himself together and sprang. It was the only thing to do; and it was hopeless. The tall man had time to shrug his shoulders even while he was springing, and, as he reached the bed, the other raised his forearm quite casually and squeezed off a shot almost as if he were firing at a range. He felt the bullet hit him high up in the ribs, knocking him back from the bed, kicking him away and downwards to the floor. He twisted once and lay still.
The tall man dropped the gun back into his pocket and got to his feet. Throughout the incident, his facial expression had not altered in the slightest. He walked over to all that was left of Domnau, felt in his coat pockets and drew out several sheets of scribbled paper. He picked up the papers on the bed and placed the whole sheaf carefully inside his coat.
Then he walked across the room, blew out the lamp, and the door closed softly behind him.
-----------------------
They were seated round the table, beneath the discreetly-shaded electric light; six of them, liberally be-medalled and impeccably uniformed. They were half-a-dozen of the most brilliant of Hitler’s military pilots, engaged in the time-honoured German pursuit of getting drunk. The table was almost covered with bottles, for they were celebrating the end of their days of dubious glory in the Battle of Britain. They had been sent from their squadrons to this luxurious château in the north of France, where, by the orders of Goering himself, they were to combine their knowledge of aerial warfare and of bombing technique – knowledge unequalled in the whole of Germany – for the instruction of younger, less experienced airmen: and, they felt, very nice too.
They were drinking with the characteristic determination of German gentlemen, emptying glass after glass with an almost ritualistic fervour. They talked loudly, with occasional bursts of uproarious laughter.
The handle of the door directly opposite them turned slowly, and the door opened as silently as if nothing but a gentle draught was behind it. Out of the darkness stepped a tubby, rosy-faced little man, wearing the uniform of a captain in the British Commandos and holding, almost with repugnance, the black steely shape of a Sten gun. He stood there, blinking nervously at the row of Luftwaffe officers, his feet slightly apart and his fingers fumbling with the catch of the Sten’s magazine.
… One of the airmen suddenly swore and stood up. The gun in the Commando’s hands exploded, suddenly and viciously; once, twice, and then in an angry stutter. The line of gaping figures along the table began to break up; they were slumping back in their chairs, rolling over the floor, kicking and clawing at the carpet in their agony. The air, strangely still after the outburst, was disturbed again by a horrible coughing that slowly died away.
Another figure materialized beside the captain, a lanky, green-bereted figure with a sergeant’s stripes on his arm. He stood still as death beside the door, looking not at the twisted corpses on the floor but at the plump, half-ridiculous man who was fitting a fresh magazine into the carbine.
“Okay, sergeant,” said the captain. He turned round. “Let’s go.”
They left the room and melted into the darkness again. The door clicked shut and all was quiet; the electric light swung gently to and fro, casting weird shadows on to the tortured upturned faces, gleaming on the first wet trickles of blood.
-----------------------
Above and to the north, the mountains were swimming in the light of the moon, pale and silvery and unreal. The town itself lay in the shadows beneath, dim and silent, filled with the strange magic of the Provence. It was quiet, so quiet that one could hear, as though very far away, the faint lapping of the Mediterranean on the beaches below. The town was asleep and dark, and not a light showed.
Except where, in the deeper blackness of an alcove in one of the narrower streets, every now and then a cigarette, carefully shielded in someone’s palm, cast the faintest of red glows into the well of darkness.
The man whose hand covered the cigarette was leaning cross-legged against the wall. He was young; wearing flannel trousers and a very old pullover. He badly needed a shave. The face that showed from time to time in the cigarette’s glow was lean, tanned and curiously ascetic, with thin, mobile lips and cynically drooping eyelids. His entire lack of movement was almost startling; no part of him moved, but for the arm that carried the cigarette up to his mouth.
Then the bright end went out, suddenly and without a spark, and was replaced by something that gleamed for a second as the moonlight caught it; something that made a smothered but metallic click and then was silent.
The quietness was abruptly broken by hurried footsteps coming down the street, by a soft and tuneless whistling that resolved itself into a horrible parody of Bach. A figure came into view in the moonlit street, moving quickly, showing the silhouette of a peaked cap and a smartly-cut uniform; and as he came nearer his armband gleamed clearly, a white arm-band bearing – as the waiting man knew – the insignia of the swastika. Some distance behind him came the clatter of many more feet, booted and callous, rattling on the paving-stones.
The man in Gestapo uniform came abreast of the alcove. There was a sharp plop that, faint as it was, tore the silence like a strip of calico, and he crumpled to the ground like a puppet with cut strings, his whistle ending in a gasping hiss.
A door in the alcove opened and shut, and the boots thirty yards behind suddenly broke into a run. The air was filled with abrupt, shouted orders; then the bright beam of a torch cut sharply through the darkness and centred on the pathetically lifeless shape on the road. The stamping boots raced nearer and stopped as another peak-capped figure knelt beside the body.
“God!” he said in an angry whisper. “They’ve got the Colonel – through the head.” Then, looking back over his shoulder and raising his voice to a shout, “Kastner! Get your men down the road, and cordon off this block. Quick, man!… You, Brun, get down that passage and search the house. Take these two men with you.” He stood up, slipped his revolver out of its holster and stood, feet wide apart, listening.
There was no sound but the scuffling of feet down the road.
-----------------------
Squires sat back in his easy chair and began to fill his pipe. He handled it carefully and methodically, gripping the bowl with fingers as long and tactile as a pickpocket’s. He lit the tobacco with a single match and blew out smoke in a thin, satisfied stream.
A curious man, Squires; elderly, with wiry grey hair and a thinly-lined forehead that fronted a brain of unusual agility and resource, while deeper lines around the nose and mouth suggested heavy responsibilities. His body, slim almost to the point of frailty, retained after fifty years of hard usag
e something of the suppleness of the trained athlete. A hard man, one might have thought, difficult to work for; but always harder on himself than on anyone else. That was betrayed by the puritanical rasp in his voice when he spoke.
He coughed and said, as though concluding a narrative, “Well, those three are all that I have left, Holliday. That’s the sort of work they did during the war; they, and nine others. The others didn’t come back.”
His companion, invisible in the depths of an armchair, said, “They all did that sort of thing?”
Squires nodded. “Yes,” he said. “The section killed eighty-three of the enemy all told – Gestapo men, Army officers, quislings, traitors – anybody that we considered better dead than alive. Emerald, de Meyrignac and Fedora got forty-two of them. As a team of seasoned assassins they’re almost unique.”
Holliday grunted. He said, “I don’t particularly need an assassin. I want a reliable C-E operative, and I’ve been told that you have one kicking his heels here. That’s all.”
“Well,” said Squires, inspecting his fingertips thoughtfully. “It can’t be Emerald. He’s had no experience of spy-catching. And de Meyrignac was in the Deuxième Bureau until 1940; he’s had some experience, but I don’t think he’s the man you’ve been told about. Fedora, now… he did two years in the counter-espionage branch of the F.B.I., before he came to my unit. I think he might do.”
Holliday grinned. He said, “That’s the chap – and you knew it as well as I did, too. Tell me about him.”
He sat up; revealed himself as a square-jawed, medium-sized man of almost any age from thirty to fifty, with thick, powerful hands and broad shoulders. He took a cigarette from the silver box on the table and lit it, watching Squires curiously.