Agent in Peril, page 14
The man smiled appreciatively and nodded his head. Thank you.
‘I became rather friendly with a manager here – I think his name was Kühn. Is he still here, by any chance? I was hoping maybe I could negotiate a rate more acceptable to my employers: they’re very mean, I sometimes wonder how Aryan they really are, if you get my meaning!’
The man laughed and said he did and yes, Herr Kühn was indeed still a manager here, in fact he was now the manager here. All the others had been conscripted. In fact, he was still on duty and if Herr…?
‘Schumacher, Hans Schumacher – from Mainz.’
Five minutes later Jack Miller was sitting in Rainer Kühn’s office, the hotel manager looking quite hostile.
‘Get the hell out of here and don’t you dare come back. I’m very tempted to call security and tell them to let the Gestapo know—’
‘Please, please, Rainer… obviously you’re not going to do that, are you?’
The hotel manager shifted uncomfortably behind his oversized desk and leaned over it to pick up a lit cigar from its ashtray. Jack noticed the man’s hand was shaking.
‘You were very helpful when I used to come here.’
‘You were an American then!’
‘I still am. I’d like to continue our friendship. I still have evidence of how co-operative you were before, the details you gave me of all the companies in this city who used the hotel, the lists of their senior managers, the maps… the—’
‘Nonsense: you’re talking nonsense. You were a guest and liked to have a chat. I never told you anything that was sensitive and even then, I regretted confiding in you, in fact I—’
‘You’re prepared to take the risk, are you, Rainer? Do you honestly think I’d have come here like this if I didn’t have something on you, something I’d be able to use to persuade you to help me again?’
The hotel manager looked terrified. He was a large man wearing a well-cut pin-striped suit – the kind designed to hide his bulk – but in the past few moments he appeared to have shrunk and looked defeated: he seemed to lack both the energy and courage to call Jack’s bluff.
‘What do you want me to do?’
Jack explained carefully: some information on the factories, on the damage caused to them, some photographs. Then he should be ready to be approached by someone who’d book in as a guest and would ask to see him privately and complain about the towels and Rainer would apologise and offer to change them and if the guest asked if they could they have an extra bath towel, then he’d know to trust them and should do what they asked. Rainer had fallen silent, studying the end of his cigar and Jack worried how plausible all this sounded. Maybe he should have come up with something more sophisticated, but Rainer said very well, on the understanding he’d help the person just once and he wouldn’t do anything that would put him in danger and Jack said of course not.
Rainer stood up and said he still had a bottle of Scotch, which he kept in his safe. Would Jack like a glass?
The drink relaxed him. ‘You heard about Stalingrad?’
Jack nodded.
‘It’s the reason I’m helping you now. When we first met and I helped you… it was because I thought this war would be bad for Germany. Now, it’s far worse than I could have imagined then. Stalingrad was a disaster. My nephew was there, we’ve heard nothing of him… my neighbour’s son was killed there… I could name a dozen other men I know of – all under the age of thirty – who were there and who’ve been killed or are missing. If this war carries on there’ll be a Stalingrad every month.’
* * *
Hans Schumacher left Duisburg on the Tuesday morning. The short journey east to Essen took less than an hour on a bus that was surprisingly empty, allowing him to sit on his own at the back and even grab a few photographs of the factories that lined the road between the two cities.
Essen was a company town, dominated by dozens of Krupps factories, all at the heart of the German war effort. The main Krupps factory was the size of a not-so-small town, dominating the city between the two railway lines. The journey bisected the main factory complex and although another two or three passengers had joined at Altendorf, he still felt able to take more photographs. There was some evidence of bomb damage, but the enormous complex was clearly operating at full capacity.
He left the bus at Adolf Hitler Platz and walked down Adolf Hitler Strasse to the main station. He had no intention of staying in Essen any longer than he had to. He’d visited it a few times before – both Schwarz-Weiss and Rot-Weiss were successful teams in the Gauliga Niederrhein – but he’d singularly failed to find any agents in the city. He wasn’t sure what to put this down to, though he’d be the first to admit that finding agents required a lot of luck and he’d never had any in Essen.
He hoped London would be satisfied with a few blurred photos and there was another reason for leaving the city so quickly. He wanted to put anyone interested in him off his scent. When he checked out of the Berliner-Hof they’d made a point of asking where he was going next and he told them he’d be staying a few days in Essen before returning to Mainz. All the more reason to move on.
* * *
He was in Gelsenkirchen by lunchtime, the short journey north on the branch line from Essen providing him with more opportunities to take illicit photographs.
Gelsenkirchen was the coal capital of the Ruhr and, like an alchemist’s den, the town specialised in turning the coal into fuel. He hadn’t needed Basil to tell him what the targets were in the city: the Nordstern, Wanne-Eickel and Buer synthetic oil plants, the giant marshalling yards at Schalke and Herne.
He’d visited Gelsenkirchen plenty of times because it was the home of Schalke, the football team that dominated Gauliga Westfalen and which he’d covered winning the German Championship in 1939 and 1940.
Gelsenkirchen was also the place where one of his best agents had lived. He hoped she still did. He’d recruited Lotte fairly early on in his career as a British agent and she was utterly reliable, very smart, with a perfect temperament and impeccable judgement, allied with a considerable amount of courage. Nothing was too much trouble for Lotte. Nothing was a problem. Everything was a way to help defeat the Nazis.
Lotte was a finance manager at the Buer synthetic oil plant, the largest in the city. Before that she’d worked at Nordstern and seemed to have contacts at other plants elsewhere in the city. The quality of her intelligence was first rate: it allowed the British to gain a considerable insight into how good the Germans were at turning coal into fuel.
His method with Lotte was always the same: he’d telephone the apartment she shared with her elderly mother the night before and ask for Gudrun.
The following day he’d meet Lotte at the station cafeteria at lunchtime, always a busy place where people paid little attention to others. They would appear to be two strangers sharing a table and a cigarette and their brief conversation was polite and about the weather. After a short while – never more than ten minutes – Lotte would get up and politely wish him a good journey and he’d wait another three or four minutes or as long as it took him to finish a cigarette and then leave.
And without fail, inside the zipped bag between his feet on the floor Lotte would have somehow placed an envelope full of photographs, maps, diagrams and notes. At no stage did he notice her bend down and unzip his bag or do it up again.
A magician in the city of alchemy.
He waited until seven that evening before he called. He’d last been in Gelsenkirchen in the late summer of 1941, but he still remembered her telephone number.
Jack said he was looking for Gudrun and he heard a slight intake of breath: there was no Gudrun here, she replied, her voice clear and slightly put out.
The following lunchtime he was studying the arrivals and departures board in the station, well positioned to watch the cafeteria. He spotted Lotte going in and waited to see if anyone was following her. She sat on her own, sipping a drink, smoking and not looking around. She didn’t look in the slightest bit perturbed, but after ten minutes – exactly the period of time they’d agreed all those years ago – she left, walking across the concourse to leave the station by the opposite entrance.
He followed her as far as the post office where for the first time they made eye contact, the briefest nodding of heads to tell each other they thought it was safe and then he left first, walking to the small alley at the rear where she joined him a few moments later. They waited in silence, a few yards apart, long enough to be certain they were on their own and only then did they speak.
Lotte asked him how he was and said it had been a long time and Jack said he was fine: now his name was Hans, Hans Schumacher, and he was a travelling salesman from Mainz, and she said his accent was excellent.
‘Maybe we should walk for a while? I have to be back at work in half an hour. I’m combining my lunchbreak with a visit to the bank, company business.’
Jack told her as much as he could as they walked through a small park just to the north of the station. He explained how he’d had to leave Germany at the end of 1941 and he was sorry he’d not been in touch but had thought that was safer. He explained how he was now looking to make contact again with some of his agents and obviously she—
‘What is it you want? I don’t have long.’
‘You’re not under suspicion?’
‘Of course not. Once the United States joined the war, I wasn’t surprised not to hear from you, so I stopped gathering intelligence. It was very fortuitous because last June the Gestapo and our company security officers carried out a major investigation into our department. Whether they suspected anything, I have no idea, but they searched all of our offices and our homes. Of course, they found nothing, I’d even got rid of my camera. I don’t have anything to give you. If I’d known you were coming…’
Jack said there was no need to explain, he was just glad she was safe and said he was going to give her a new camera if she was happy to resume her work and she said of course: would he be her contact?
He explained it may be someone else, but then told her how she’d be contacted and how she’d know to trust them.
She glanced at her watch and said she was worried she was running late, but just wanted to say one thing. ‘When I first started working for you it felt hopeless: the Nazis seemed to be invincible. I just felt I had to do something. Now it is very different. The atmosphere here in Gelsenkirchen is very different: before it was quite triumphalist. Now it is one of despair. Everyone knows this city is a major target and people are terrified of the bombing. Everyone seems to know families who’ve lost soldiers in the east and although people don’t talk about it much, you can see fear in people’s eyes. Starting to work for you again, it gives me hope.’
* * *
He left Gelsenkirchen later that Wednesday afternoon. It was April 14 and he’d been in Germany since the previous Friday. He was worried about the timing: Basil said he should aim to stay for a week and ideally travel back to Switzerland over the weekend. He’d made it sound like a holiday.
Jack knew Dortmund would be his most important stop and so he made the decision to skip Bochum, one of the places on the list Basil had from London. He hadn’t operated an agent in Bochum since 1940, but it wasn’t as if the town was a mystery: Bochumer Verein had four large steel plants in the centre, grouped between and either side of the two main rail lines. There were enormous marshalling yards at Dahlhausen and Langendreer and a slightly smaller one at Weitmar. He’d already provided all this intelligence to the British.
He travelled to Dortmund by bus, taking a longer route, which meant changing at Castrop. It was getting dark when the bus stopped on Königswall, just south of the main station.
Jack was rather pleased with himself.
The mission had gone well so far: he’d never felt threatened or in danger, which he put down to a watertight identity and his own ability.
And luck. Never underestimate the part that luck plays, as Basil always reminded him.
But his luck would run out in Dortmund.
Chapter 15
Switzerland
April 1943
‘You do realise it’s six-thirty in the morning.’
The duty officer at the British Embassy in Berne said he did realise that and repeated how terribly sorry he was to have woken Mr Remington-Barber up but as he’d just said, the man was most insistent and it all seemed rather urgent. ‘This gentleman arrived at the embassy a quarter of an hour ago and insisted he needed to see you in person. He says he has an urgent message for you.’
‘And you don’t know who he is?’
‘Only that he seems to be local, sir.’
‘Christ, this is all I need. I presume security have searched him?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Very well. I’ll be with you by seven. Lock him in a room if necessary.’ Basil Remington-Barber chuckled at his little joke.
‘I’ve done that already, sir.’
* * *
Fritz had arrived back at his home in Brückfeld in the north-west of Berne late on the Thursday night. He couldn’t get Sophia out of his mind, this well-spoken German woman with the most beautiful dark eyes which melted his heart but were also full of fear and urgency. He’d little doubt she was held against her will at the Russians’ place near Münsingen.
He left home at six the following morning and the man at the British Embassy said no, he wasn’t Herr Basil Barber but if Fritz cared to leave a message, he’d make sure he got it when he came in. Fritz had asked when that would be and the man said around nine o’clock, and that was when Fritz had made a fuss: this was urgent, a matter of life and death, and he insisted that the man call Herr Barber immediately.
He’d been taken to a side room and at seven o’clock a short, smartly dressed older man came in and introduced himself as Basil Remington-Barber and he understood Fritz had a message and how could he help?
Fritz pushed the letter towards the Englishman who took his time to put on his reading spectacles before carefully reading it.
Dear Herr Basil,
I was told by Jack that you were the only person I should contact if I ever found myself in Switzerland.
I escaped from Germany and entered Switzerland on Friday 12 March. For reasons I will not explain here, I have been held by the Soviets against my will for the past month.
I am now desperate: I have no desire whatsoever to work for the Soviet Union, but I fear that is what they want me to do. I’m being held as a prisoner in the countryside near Berne. The kind man who I hope will have given you this letter will be able to tell you exactly where I am.
I implore you to rescue me as a matter of extreme urgency, and I do hope you are able to tell dear Jack that I am safe and am counting the minutes until I see him again.
If you are able to come to my aid, I can assure you it is my intention to continue the work I have been doing on behalf of your country.
Sophia von Naundorf
Basil Remington-Barber read the letter once more and asked the Swiss man to explain the circumstances in which he’d met Sophia and describe exactly where she was being held. He asked him to wait and went to reception and told them to ask Mr Moore to come to the embassy immediately.
Despite the man’s protests about needing to be elsewhere at eight, Basil and Noel interrogated him for another hour before they were satisfied: he was genuine and this was no trap. He’d been very precise pointing out just where the house was on a map and his description of Sophia was very accurate.
* * *
Sophia had woken with the sun that Friday morning. She trusted Fritz the plumber and had no doubt he’d deliver her note to the British Embassy and she likewise had no doubt that once the man Jack had told her she could trust had read it, he’d come along to rescue her.
She’d sat patiently by the window, looking out over the fields of the Bernese Oberland. She could just make out a bend in the track that led to the house and kept her eyes on that, imagining a British convoy majestically sweeping to her rescue.
But by late morning she was still staring out of the window. She also fully expected Stepanov to turn up, and she imagined a race between the two diplomats: who’d get to her first, the British or the Russians.
* * *
The ambassador had been characteristically cautious in his very Foreign Office way. ‘I don’t think this is an appropriate request to make of the Swiss authorities, Basil.’
‘It’s perfectly appropriate, Sir Clifford. In the past year we’ve provided the Swiss police with the intelligence to break up three communist cells in the Berne area alone. They owe us a favour. Isn’t that how diplomacy works?’
Sir Clifford said it was a good deal more complicated than that and, ideally, he’d like the opportunity to run this past London, perhaps sending an urgent cable and hopefully by Monday they’d—
‘She could be dead by Monday. We cannot afford to wait. She’s an outstanding agent and Lord knows we have few enough of those. I’m sure London would take a very dim view of matters were the opportunity to rescue her be wasted.’
‘And how would you propose to rescue her, Basil?’
‘Captain Gerber is a great friend of the British. He is more than prepared to bring a dozen of his men with us to this house near Münsingen and help rescue Frau von Naundorf. And of course—’ he looked the ambassador in a pointed manner ‘—Winston himself has taken a particular interest in the work of this agent, Sir Clifford. Surely, we wouldn’t want to disappoint him, eh?’
* * *
Just after lunch the sun shone brightly over the fields. Beyond the bend in the track Sophia watched what looked like a mist hovering over a field, eventually realising it was the dust thrown up by a tractor turning in a distant corner. For a while she was captivated by the tractor, twisting and turning and transforming the landscape.
