The Secret War Read online

  DENNIS WHEATLEY

  THE SECRET WAR

  For

  ANTHONY

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter I Anthony Lovelace Hears of the Millers of God

  Chapter II Murder?

  Chapter III Valerie Lorne Takes a Hand

  Chapter IV The Romance of a Queen

  Chapter V The Intricate Web

  Chapter VI The Opening of the Campaign

  Chapter VII Into the Lion’s Den

  Chapter VIII Love and Loyalties

  Chapter IX A Suicidal Plan

  Chapter X The House on the Edge of the Desert

  Chapter XI The Bluff that Failed

  Chapter XII In the Cistern

  Chapter XIII The Enemy Strikes Back

  Chapter XIV Out of the Past

  Chapter XV Abu Ben Ibrim Entertains

  Chapter XVI The Hawk and the Sparrow

  Chapter XVII The Land of Satan’s Children

  Chapter XVIII Dolomenchi of the Death Squadron

  Chapter XIX The Secret of the Second Nile

  Chapter XX The Last Black Empire

  Chapter XXI The Flowering of the Passion Vine

  Chapter XXII The King of Kings Goes By

  Chapter XXIII Preparations to Kill and Run

  Chapter XXIV “The Mills of God Grind Slowly …”

  A Note on the Author

  Introduction

  Dennis Wheatley was my grandfather. He only had one child, my father Anthony, from his first marriage to Nancy Robinson. Nancy was the youngest in a large family of ten Robinson children and she had a wonderful zest for life and a gaiety about her that I much admired as a boy brought up in the dull Seventies. Thinking about it now, I suspect that I was drawn to a young Ginny Hewett, a similarly bubbly character, and now my wife of 27 years, because she resembled Nancy in many ways.

  As grandparents, Dennis and Nancy were very different. Nancy’s visits would fill the house with laughter and mischievous gossip, while Dennis and his second wife Joan would descend like minor royalty, all children expected to behave. Each held court in their own way but Dennis was the famous one with the famous friends and the famous stories.

  There is something of the fantasist in every storyteller, and most novelists writing thrillers see themselves in their heroes. However, only a handful can claim to have been involved in actual daring-do. Dennis saw action both at the Front, in the First World War, and behind a desk in the Second. His involvement informed his writing and his stories, even those based on historical events, held a notable veracity that only the life-experienced novelist can obtain. I think it was this element that added the important plausibility to his writing. This appealed to his legions of readers who were in that middle ground of fiction, not looking for pure fantasy nor dry fact, but something exciting, extraordinary, possible and even probable.

  There were three key characters that Dennis created over the years: The Duc de Richleau, Gregory Sallust and Roger Brook. The first de Richleau stories were set in the years between the wars, when Dennis had started writing. Many of the Sallust stories were written in the early days of the Second World War, shortly before Dennis joined the Joint Planning Staff in Whitehall, and Brook was cast in the time of the French Revolution, a period that particularly fascinated him.

  He is probably always going to be associated with Black Magic first and foremost, and it’s true that he plugged it hard because sales were always good for those books. However, it’s important to remember that he only wrote eleven Black Magic novels out of more than sixty bestsellers, and readers were just as keen on his other stories. In fact, invariably when I meet people who ask if there is any connection, they tell me that they read ‘all his books’.

  Dennis had a full and eventful life, even by the standards of the era he grew up in. He was expelled from Dulwich College and sent to a floating navel run school, HMS Worcester. The conditions on this extraordinary ship were Dickensian. He survived it, and briefly enjoyed London at the pinnacle of the Empire before war was declared and the fun ended. That sort of fun would never be seen again.

  He went into business after the First World War, succeeded and failed, and stumbled into writing. It proved to be his calling. Immediate success opened up the opportunity to read and travel, fueling yet more stories and thrilling his growing band of followers.

  He had an extraordinary World War II, being one of the first people to be recruited into the select team which dreamed up the deception plans to cover some of the major events of the war such as Operation Torch, Operation Mincemeat and the D-Day landings. Here he became familiar with not only the people at the very top of the war effort, but also a young Commander Ian Fleming, who was later to write the James Bond novels. There are indeed those who have suggested that Gregory Sallust was one of James Bond’s precursors.

  The aftermath of the war saw Dennis grow in stature and fame. He settled in his beautiful Georgian house in Lymington surrounded by beautiful things. He knew how to live well, perhaps without regard for his health. He hated exercise, smoked, drank and wrote. Today he would have been bullied by wife and children and friends into giving up these habits and changing his lifestyle, but I’m not sure he would have given in. Maybe like me, he would simply find a quiet place.

  Dominic Wheatley, 2013

  CHAPTER I

  ANTHONY LOVELACE HEARS OF THE MILLERS OF GOD

  “War,” declared Christopher Penn, “is the most terrible of all evils. Pestilence and Famine are natural ills which civilisation is gradually bringing under its control. Fire and Tempest, Earthquake and Flood—they at least are short-lived localised horrors which it’s impossible to prevent. But War is man-made. It’s a wilful, inexcusable act of barbarity. It entails the committal of mass-murder, mass-mutilation and every other crime in the calendar, by one set of normally peace-loving people against another. Nothing—nothing, I say, is too terrible a punishment for those who set it in motion.”

  The two other men at the table—fair, fat, red-faced Billy Van Der Meer, and grey-headed Hythe Cassel—were silent for a moment; they were a little taken aback by this unusual vehemence in the slim, frail-looking young man opposite them. His pale face was ascetically handsome, with features as clear cut as a cameo, and its natural pallor was in striking contrast to the jet-black hair above his high forehead.

  Van Der Meer shrugged his broad shoulders. “Well, I don’t see what you can do about it, Penn. There always has been war in the world and it looks as if there always will be.”

  “Nonsense!” expostulated Cassel. “Two hundred years ago people said the same about duelling, but public opinion condemned it, so duelling, or private war, was stamped out. Nowadays, public opinion has advanced to a stage where it condemns national war, so why shouldn’t that be stamped out too? This Italian invasion of Abyssinia is sheer unprovoked aggression.”

  The war in North-East Africa had already been raging for six months. Ever since the Wal-Wal incident Mussolini had been massing men and material in Eritrea and Italian Somaliland. All through the previous summer he had parleyed with the bickering League, outmanœuvring the anxious diplomats at every turn. In the autumn he had withdrawn Italy’s representatives from the Assembly and, contemptuous of world opinion, marched into Abyssinia without even a formal declaration of hostilities. He was “adjusting his frontiers” he said, and quite a lot of people were exceedingly worried as to where he would ultimately decide that the frontiers of Italy’s African possessions should be. Some thought that the modern Cæsar would not be satisfied until the whole of North Africa was again a Roman province; others, experienced in hill fighting against hardy tribesmen in hideously difficult country, that he had burnt his fingers and wo
uld never reach Magdala, let alone Addis Ababa. Yet by the spring he had avenged Adowa, captured the sacred city of Aksum, and his legions were steadily advancing into the interior, building solid motor roads for their supporting artillery and supply columns behind them as they went. The problem still uppermost in the minds of most thinking people was, what would be the final issue of the campaign and would the dilatory League come to the assistance of the Abyssinian Emperor in some really practical manner.

  Thin-faced, grey-haired Hythe Cassel; castigating the Italians for their attack upon a free people, as he sat with his friends, young Christopher Penn and red-faced Billy Van Der Meer, had voiced the opinion of many.

  As he spoke, a newcomer entered the room in the Union Club where the three were talking: a tall, soldierly figure, brown-haired, his temples just touched with grey, brown-eyed, thin-nosed, with a small up-combed moustache making a dark line above his tight mouth and long chin. He was an Englishman and only an honorary member of the Club for the short period of his stay in New York. He did not know many of the men who were sitting or standing about the big room, but he was aware that they were not of the type who make spectacular money overnight and drop it again next morning. Most of them came from families who had governed the destinies of the United States for several generations, and approximated very closely to the landed gentry of Great Britain. Quiet, exclusive, travelled, very sure of themselves, they were of the class that makes its spirit felt, at any crisis, in the best interest of their nation.

  Christopher Penn caught sight of the newcomer and beckoned. “Come and join us, Lovelace. We’re talking Abyssinia and you know the country.”

  “Thanks.” Sir Anthony Lovelace had met the young American, casually, on only two previous occasions, but Penn’s strangely beautiful face had aroused his interest. He was introduced to the other two, and sat down, stretching out his long legs. “Don’t know,” he went on, “that I can tell you much about Abyssinia, though. I wasn’t there for long. Only on a visit to see the Emperor’s coronation in 1930.”

  “I was just saying,” Cassel began, “that the League of Nations ought to enforce sanctions to their fullest possible extent, so as to put an end to this senseless slaughter.”

  “The League!” Van Der Meer’s plump face held an expression of disgust. “What’s the good of the League, anyhow? There are seven major powers—the United States, Great Britain, France, Germany, Russia, Italy and Japan. For all practical purposes in this dispute only three of them, Britain, France and Russia, are in the League. All talk of collective security is just hot-air so long as four of the seven big boys remain outside the ring.”

  “You’re wrong!” Cassel was protesting hotly. “Even a weak League is better than no League at all. It’s still the only international instrument for the maintenance of peace. Even with ourselves, Germany and Japan outside it, the League is strong enough to smash Mussolini and restore peace if it really wanted to.”

  “That’d mean revolution in Italy, though,” Lovelace said slowly, “and there are a lot of people who would hate to see a Bolshevik state in the middle of the Mediterranean.”

  “Hi! Steward!” Cassel caught the attention of a passing waiter. “What will you drink, Sir Anthony?”

  “A dry sherry, please.” Lovelace hunched his lean figure in the chair and pulled out an ancient pipe.

  Cassel gave the order. “I’ve nothing against Mussolini personally,” he said, “and no one wants revolution anywhere, but such considerations should not be allowed to affect the high purpose of the League. The tragedy is that members of the League betray it whenever it suits their own ends best to do so. France wants to keep Mussolini in power, and so she’s put every difficulty in the way of applying sanctions that she possibly could.”

  “Well, you can’t say that of Britain, although it wouldn’t suit us to have Italy go Red.”

  “On the contrary, Britain’s playing her own hand every bit as much. She’s only backing the League this time because she doesn’t want Italy to have Abyssinia.”

  Lovelace began to fill his pipe with deliberation. “I don’t think you have any real justification for saying that. We’ve all the territory we need without trying to grab this last chunk of Africa.”

  “Still, the fact remains that the League has world opinion solidly behind it, and if only Britain and France would act together, with real determination, they could stop this war, and make a new landmark in the history of humanity.”

  “You don’t think it might be in the interest of—er—humanity if the Italians were allowed to occupy Abyssinia?” There was just the suggestion of a twinkle in Lovelace’s brown eyes.

  “What!” Cassel sat up with a jerk. “You can’t be speaking seriously?”

  “Not altogether, but the place is a bit of a mess. The Emperor is quite enlightened, I believe, and probably he does his best, but he’s almost single-handed, and conditions there are—well—quite mediæval.”

  “They’re building schools, you know, now, hospitals and modern prisons as well.”

  “Perhaps, but that’s only since Italy threatened to take the country over and it became vital that Abyssinia should win the sympathy of civilised nations by showing that she meant to mend her manners. They only abolished slavery as the price of admission to the League, and nine-tenths of the population are still completely barbarous savages.”

  Van Der Meer grinned. “Is it true that if a chap wants to marry a girl there he has to show her proof that he’s bumped off another fellow before she’ll have him?”

  “Yes, among certain of the tribes.”

  “Golly I Did you see anything of that sort when you were out there?”

  “A number of old warriors I met had pretty gruesome necklaces, and in some parts it’s still extremely risky to travel without a big escort. You see, there’s practically no law outside the principal towns, and unless you pay your way with constant presents you stand a good chance of being murdered for your rifle or a couple of dozen rounds of ammunition.”

  “You’re right, then. The place should be taken over by somebody.”

  “I disagree entirely,” Cassel cut in. “Under the present Emperor conditions will improve very rapidly and, if once a white race were allowed to get a grip on the country, it’d be the end of the blacks. They’d be exploited in the interests of capitalism and become wage slaves in two generations. The only hope for the Abyssinians is to keep the white man out. It’s their country and they have the right to do so.”

  Lovelace had filled his pipe and applied a match. Little imps of laughter were dancing in his eyes as he looked over the flame at the aggressive pacifist. “I’m afraid you’re wrong there. The greater part of Abyssinia doesn’t really belong to the Abyssinians. They only took it over with fire and sword themselves less than half a century ago. It’s still peopled by completely alien races.”

  For a moment Cassel chewed morosely on the butt of his cigar. “It’s easy to see you’re a hundred per cent. pro-Italian,” he burst out.

  “No, I’m not, but, if I cared to, I could make a pretty good case for Italy.” Lovelace’s sherry arrived at that moment, and as he raised the glass he added: “Well, here’s fun. Aren’t you joining me?”

  Cassel stood up and shook his grey head. “No. If you’ll forgive me, I’m afraid I must be moving now. I fear we’d never agree, Sir Anthony, but all the same, it’s a pleasure to have met you.”

  “Same here.” Van Der Meer rose beside him. “I’m with Sir Anthony, though. Let Italy have the place, and anyhow, the League’s a washout.”

  Christopher Penn had sat quite silent listening intently to the discussion. Now, as the other two moved off, he spoke for the first time since Lovelace had joined his table.

  “What a tragedy it is that the League should have failed! Wilson intended it to embrace every nation on the globe, and now it has shrunk to little more than the old Triple Entente—Britain, France and Russia in alliance under another name. When Germany and Japan left it th
ey put the clock back to 1914, and if they joined Italy the three would form a block every bit as strong as the old Triple Alliance—stronger, in fact, since Japan would prove a far more powerful ally than was the case with Austria-Hungary.”

  Lovelace nodded. “That’s so. Half the people in Europe refuse to face the fact that the nations are divided into two great camps. In the event of a blow-up some of the smaller states would come in with us, of course, just as they did in the last Great War, but others would remain neutral, and others, again, would be forced to join the anti-League block, because of their geographical position. As things are, neither Britain nor France can possibly afford to back the League to the limit. If they did, either of them might get let in for a war on account of some trivial sideshow, which would give the nations outside the League an excuse to combine against them. Whatever happens, we mustn’t risk another wholesale slaughter.”

  “You think Van Der Meer is right, then, and that as there always has been war in the world there always will be?”

  “God knows I hope not, but it looks like it.”

  For a moment Christopher Penn did not speak. He was staring across the room with a far-away look in his eyes. “There will be,” he said softly, “as long as there are people like the man who is coming to speak to me now. I’ve been waiting for him.”

  Lovelace followed his glance with quick interest. “Who is he?”

  “Sergius Benyon. They say he’s made another couple of million out of this war already.”

  Benyon was a big, jolly-faced fellow with little twinkling eyes. He paused at the table and nodded cheerfully. “They told me outside that you wanted a word with me, Penn.”

  “I do. Sit down a moment. This is Sir Anthony Lovelace.”

  “Glad to know you.” Benyon drew up a chair. “Well, Penn, how’s the lovely Valerie? I see she broke another record with that plane of hers the other day.”