The Secret of Spandau Read Online Free

anyone I know, but he takes it seriously. He’s not out of Goodbody’s stable.’
    â€˜That’s a relief. Two of them would be a pain.’
    â€˜He’s TT, a non-smoker, doesn’t play cards –’
    â€˜â€¦ lives on whole food and reads the Bible on the train to work. I get the drift, thanks, Vernon.’
    Padfield said, ‘Actually, he drives to work.’
    â€˜With his eye on the road at all times,’ said Fleming. ‘Who knows? Maybe rubbing shoulders with Red will improve the young man, if improvement is possible. Can you find a replacement?’
    â€˜For how long?’
    Fleming lifted his hand and gestured vaguely.
    Padfield stared into the whisky, rotating it slowly in the glass. ‘I could say something extremely offensive.’
    â€˜Be my guest,’ said Fleming, rising from his chair.
    Padfield swallowed the rest of the drink. ‘Forget it. Do you want to see Dick now? Shall I send him in?’
    â€˜I knew you would understand,’ said Fleming as he opened the door.

5
    On the afternoon of Sunday 11 May 1941, London was still fighting the fires resulting from the worst night of the Blitz. Over seven hundred densely-populated acres had been destroyed, causing more deaths and damage in one night than the Great Fire of 1666 had inflicted in several weeks. The House of Commons itself had been gutted by incendiary bombs. It was not a propitious time to call the Foreign Office and ask to speak to a member of the government.
    One of Anthony Eden’s staff had been persuaded to take the call. As he listened, he became increasingly dubious. The caller claimed to be the Duke of Hamilton. He asked for Sir Alexander Cadogan, the head of the Foreign Office. He said he had something of the highest importance to impart, but he was not prepared to discuss it over the telephone. He wanted Sir Alexander to drive to Northolt Airport and meet him there.
    This was utterly impossible, the civil servant doggedly explained. If the matter were really important, he might be able to arrange an appointment at some time in the next two weeks. It was unrealistic to expect the head of the Foreign Office to motor out to Northolt to meet the Duke of Hamilton, or anyone else.
    This last remark was overheard. John ‘Jock’ Colville, the Prime Minister’s Private Secretary, had walked into the office.
    â€˜Who is it?’
    The civil servant cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘I think he’s a lunatic. He says he is the Duke of Hamilton, that something extraordinary has happened. He won’t say what it’s all about.’
    Colville reached for the phone. Strangely, he had dreamed the previous night that Göring had flown from Germany with the bombers and parachuted into Britain. It was one of those dreams that linger in the mind.
    â€˜Colville speaking. Who is there?’
    â€˜Thank God! Listen, this is Hamilton. I’m trying to reach Alex Cadogan. Something has happened, something unbelievable.’
    â€˜What, exactly?’
    â€˜I can’t say over a public line. It’s just extraordinary … like … like something out of an E. Phillips Oppenheim novel.’
    Colville hesitated. The dream surfaced again. ‘Has somebody arrived?’
    There was a pause.
    The Duke answered, ‘Yes.’
    â€˜Hold the line. I’m going to get instructions.’
    Winston Churchill was at Ditchley Park in Oxfordshire, his secret headquarters for weekends when a full moon made Chequers vulnerable to bombing raids. It was a country house in a four-thousand-acre estate owned by his friend Ronald Tree. That weekend was the first anniversary of Churchill’s appointment as Prime Minister, and thirty house guests had been invited. News kept coming in of the devastation in London, but Churchill was accustomed to adversity. He was jubilant that the RAF had shot down thirty-three Luftwaffe bombers. At his request, a film comedy,
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