Agent in Peril, page 22
‘I know, sir.’
‘And this agent you’re sending in: I hope it’s someone bloody good?’
There was a pause: Barney looked at Piers Devereux who coughed before replying. ‘He’s the ideal agent, Roly.’
* * *
‘I doubt he’s the ideal agent, Piers: the reports on him are mixed at best.’
‘I doubt the reports on anyone are universally positive, Barney. I’ve told you many times, secret agents are by their nature flawed in some way: they’re not ordinary people because ordinary, normal people aren’t suited to or attracted to a clandestine life. We have to accept that a good secret agent is in many ways a rough diamond. You have his file there, don’t you?’
Barney Allen opened the file on his lap and sipped from a cup of tea, which had turned cold.
‘Philippe Moreau, born Auxerre, France, in October 1912 to a French father and an English mother. Family moved to England in 1926 when Philippe was fourteen. They settled in London and he left school at fifteen and joined the Wireless Telegraph and Signal Company, eventually becoming an electronics engineer at their factory in Chelmsford in Essex. He’s described as physically very fit. He was conscripted in 1940 and when the army realised he was fluent in French he was recommended to the SOE, who initially rejected him.’
‘I think that’s an unfair interpretation, Barney. The way I read it, he was deferred by the SOE. They felt he had an excitable personality and wasn’t good at taking instructions.’
‘The report says he was disruptive on his assessment course.’
‘Well, I probably would be too. Doesn’t make him bad agent material. But you’ve met him, Barney – do you think he’s up to it?’
‘I accept he’s probably the best we have at the moment. His French is mother-tongue standard and he also has excellent German. The Wireless Telegraph and Signal Company sent him to work in Hamburg for a couple of years.’
‘So we have a chap here who speaks both French and German and understands electronics. With the greatest respect, Barney, I think we need to stop worrying about him and get him over there. You say Frank has sorted out the transport?’
* * *
‘I had to get Arthur Harris to intervene on this, you know, Barney.’
It was the afternoon of Friday 21 May and Air Vice-Marshal Frank Hamilton and Barney Allen were in the back of an RAF staff car on the way from London to Kent. Barney Allen said how grateful he was and said Downing Street would be very appreciative, but the RAF man was keen to make his point, again.
‘161 squadron had to be prevailed upon, I can tell you that. Even taking off from Hawkinge is still two hundred and seventy miles from the landing point. The range of the Lysander is six hundred miles, Barney: that’s a round trip of five hundred and forty miles, which leaves very little margin for error. All you need is a nasty cross wind or a strong headwind and you’re in trouble. The Lysander will be flying at its limits.’
‘It will be empty on the way back.’
‘That helps, of course, but even so…’
They arrived at RAF Hawkinge just north of Folkestone at three o’clock. Philippe Moreau was already there with his SOE dispatcher in a Nissen hut close to the apron. Moreau was considerably more nervous than when they’d previously met: less cocky, no wisecracks and constantly drawing on a cigarette. Barney said perhaps now would be a good time to run through everything once more.
‘I’ve just had a word with the station commander who says the optimum time for take-off will be a quarter to one in the morning. There’s a nasty easterly blowing over the Channel and northern France, but that should have gone by then. Come over here, Philippe, and we’ll look at the map.’
Barney traced the route with his forefinger. ‘We’re here, near Folkestone. You’ll cross into France just south of Calais and then head south-east over Arras and Saint-Quentin, keeping north of Reims before heading due south and landing here, just north of the town of Saint-Dizier. The woods are quite dense in the area, but the resistance has chosen the landing site carefully. You’re in their hands then. I imagine they’ll have somewhere for you to hide until later on the Saturday and then you’ll head off for Switzerland. With any luck you’ll be in Geneva on the Monday.’
Philippe Moreau looked at the map for a bit longer, all the time holding a cigarette to his mouth. ‘And then I go to Germany?’
‘The resistance chaps who’re taking you into Switzerland will look after that. It’s quite a way to Düsseldorf but…’
Barney Allen’s voice trailed off.
‘But what?’
‘But I’m sure they’ll get you there in one piece. You have all your paperwork?’
Moreau nodded. He’d be Benoît Morel, a factory worker from Auxerre, which was his hometown and hopefully he would be confident answering any questions about it.
In the intervening hours Philippe Moreau changed into his French clothes and the SOE dispatcher carried out a thorough inspection of his belongings to ensure nothing could be linked to England. They sat quietly in the Nissen hut. A roast dinner was brought for Philippe Moreau, but he just picked at it. At midnight the station commander came in: the weather had lifted considerably and they were bringing the take-off forward to a quarter past midnight.
The Frenchman picked up a bit after that. Barney had brought a hip flask with him and poured a small Cognac for Moreau who drank it in one go and said it was very good, please could he have some more. He was holding the small glass out, waiting for it to be refilled.
Barney Allen thought of Oliver Twist and Philippe Moreau did indeed have something of a Dickensian air about him as he sat expectantly across the table, smaller than he’d seemed before, a bit too eager to please, clearly very nervous. Barney gave him another measure, worried it may be too much. Moreau started talking about his family, a rambling monologue about his mother and then an account of the various women in his life, many of whom seemed to overlap, which included two current ones – a married woman considerably older than him and the other significantly younger.
In normal circumstances that would have set one or two alarm bells ringing, complicated love lives were never a good thing for an agent to carry with them into the field, but Barney decided now wasn’t the time for all that.
He realised he was shivering, despite the Nissen hut being very warm. The young Frenchman was now talking about his landlady’s cat and how he’d always wanted a dog and Barney said maybe he could get one when he got back to England and Moreau gave him a knowing look followed by a shrug and then a muttered, ‘If I get back.’
A friend of Barney Allen’s was a barrister who’d represented a man sentenced to death and had been present for the execution. He’d told of how it was only a short walk from the man’s cell, along the landing and into the execution chamber. It was, he told Barney, quite the longest and most harrowing experience of his life.
Barney Allen felt very much like that as he accompanied Philippe Moreau the short distance from the hut to the Lysander waiting on the apron.
That was what he’d become now: someone making decisions that determined the fate of other people, dispatching young men to an uncertain fate, though as he watched the plane hurry down the runway, he wondered quite how uncertain it really was.
Chapter 23
France
May 1943
The landing field just north of Saint-Dizier had been well chosen: forests to the north, east and west ensuring it was secluded and protected from the wind. The final part of the descent was a bit tight as the pilot gave himself just enough clearance of the trees but the beacons were well placed and the field itself not too rough.
The pilot taxied to the far end and told his passenger to get a move on. The man clambered out and was hurried away by two dark figures. Moments later the Lysander was airborne and heading home.
Philippe Moreau – now Benoît Morel – was hustled into the woods and with a man on either side of him ran for what seemed like an eternity. When they came to a road, they waited in the undergrowth until they heard an owl-like sound and then crept across it. A woman was waiting for him in a ditch on the other side and she whispered the plan: they would walk for another two hours to a farmhouse where they’d stay for a few hours.
‘And then?’
‘And then you’ll go to Switzerland. For now, though, it’s best we don’t talk.’
* * *
It wasn’t that Philippe thought he knew better than the woman – Barney Allen had given him a bit of a stern talking to before he left about doing what he was told and not questioning orders – but he did wonder about her. In his training they’d been taught the importance of avoiding being caught out in the open. Now, instead of using the cover of the hedgerow, they were crossing open fields and he couldn’t help thinking how visible they were under the full moon.
By four o’clock he began to form the view that they were lost. They’d been walking for far longer than two hours. He tried to talk to her: he said there was no shame in admitting they were lost; it was easily done and maybe it would be better if they started to look for somewhere to hide because before they knew it would be sunrise and then they’d be in trouble.
She shook her head and said it wasn’t much further. They crossed another two fields and were now alongside a road and he worried that any German driving down it would easily spot them.
‘We’ll wait by the crossroads there: one of our comrades will collect us in his van.’
‘I thought you said we were going to a farmhouse?’
She hesitated before saying he’d be driving them to the farmhouse. At the crossroads there was a sign for Nancy and now he began to get very worried because he knew they ought to be much further south of Nancy than the sign indicated. Just as he was wondering how much he trusted her, a car pulled up followed by a van and the woman walked to the car and spoke to the driver.
Philippe Moreau edged back into the field.
Nothing felt right. He crouched down and hoped no one had seen him. He’d run back across the field and into a deep ditch they passed a few minutes earlier.
But when he turned round two men were walking towards him, almost casually and when he turned again, he saw the woman standing by the car and heard a man ask whether this was him and she nodded.
* * *
They kept him in the cell for a few hours.
He’d been roughed up when he arrived at the Gestapo headquarters in Nancy and although it hadn’t felt too brutal at the time, he’d been kneed in the groin and as he lay on the floor in his cell it was clear that pain wasn’t going away.
He tried to remember everything he’d been told about what to do if he was captured.
Hold out for as long as possible.
Stick to your cover story for as long as you can: it ought to be good enough to satisfy them for a while.
Give them bits and pieces of information: start with what you think they know already.
All of which seemed fine in a classroom but the way he felt now was very different. He was in pain, cold and wet, absolutely terrified, convinced they were going to torture him and he’d happily tell them whatever they wanted to know to stop them doing that.
The only problem was, he didn’t know very much.
He just knew he was being taken to Geneva but he had no idea who he’d meet there. All he knew was he’d get his instructions and then take a box containing some equipment to Düsseldorf.
A man called Felix. He remembered that. Maybe they’d know of a man called Felix in Düsseldorf and be satisfied with that.
He had no idea what time it was when the interrogation began. Despite everything, he was starving and eagerly ate the stew they gave him in the interrogation room and gratefully covered himself with the blanket.
The Gestapo officer who eventually interrogated him was a very large man with a disconcertingly high-pitched voice, almost as if he was imitating someone. He spoke good French and wasn’t unpleasant at first.
Please could you tell me who you are and the purpose of your mission?
He explained that his name was Benoît Morel and he was from Auxerre and he was in the area because he’d previously met a woman who he was ashamed to say was married and he’d come to this area to look for her but got lost and he’d asked another woman the way and now… well, he didn’t understand, but here he was.
The German shook his head and said he was shocked that the British had sent him over with such a poor cover story and Philippe Moreau realised he was nodding in agreement.
‘This is your last opportunity to tell me the whole story: I need everything – the purpose of your mission, who your contacts are, who your contacts were in England – everything.’
He was about to ask how he knew about England but realised that was a trap so decided to say nothing. The German looked annoyed.
‘Sprechen Sie Deutsch?’
Do you speak German?
They’d warned him about this. They always ask that early on: don’t let on you understand the language.
He stared blankly at the German who then said in German that if he was lying then he’d die a horrible death, but Philip managed to give nothing away and even allowed a faint smile.
‘The woman who led you to us – she’s seen sense and is working for us. She told us you were arriving this evening from England. Unfortunately, she’d not been told where you were landing, otherwise we’d have captured the plane too! So, you see, we know you’ve arrived from England.’
Philippe Moreau decided that before they started to torture him, he’d give them something at this point – his trainer called it a titbit. He said he’d been forced to come over and he was to go to Auxerre where he was to meet a man in the cloisters of the Abbey of Saint-Germain and he’d receive his instructions from him. He then went into some detail about Auxerre, which seemed to satisfy the German for a while, the various places he was to visit, where he’d go if the man he was meant to meet in the cloisters at the Abbey wasn’t there, where he was to leave messages…
The German was taking quite extensive notes and Philip felt that at the very least he’d want to check everything out with his colleagues in Auxerre and that would give him another day to get his thoughts together and maybe…
‘Nonsense.’ The German pushed the table at him so hard it smashed into his ribs and his chair toppled over, sending him sprawling over the floor. He was about to haul himself up when he felt a kick in his back and a pair of hands drag him across the room by his collar.
He feigned unconsciousness, during which time he heard the Gestapo officer speak – in his high-pitched voice – to someone else in German.
‘Hang him up, leave him there for a while.’
Startled, he looked up, convinced they were about to hang him. Instead, he was strung up against the wall in an X shape, his hands and feet shackled by chains to bolts set in the brickwork.
The Gestapo officer watched as two other men drenched him in bucket after bucket of cold water. He felt as if he was drowning and when he tried to shout out that he’d tell them whatever they wanted to know, no words would come out. He must have blacked out because he heard the high-pitched voice in the distance say something about leaving him there to think about it.
* * *
He had no idea how long they left him there. It was certainly many hours, and by the time they returned – and drenched him again in water – he’d lost all feeling in his arms and his legs were agony.
As soon as the Gestapo officer entered the room he began to speak, as if pleading for his life.
‘Switzerland…’
‘What about Switzerland?’
‘I was being taken there to meet a man who was going to explain to me how a piece of machinery worked and then I was to take it into Germany.’
‘What machinery?’
‘I have no idea, other than it was something to do with bombs.’
‘So, you were going to take a bomb into Germany?’
‘It’s not a bomb, I don’t think so at any rate…’
‘How were you going to get to Germany?’
‘Back through France: the people who met me yesterday or whenever it was… they were going to help me. I was told very little, they said I’d be given my instructions at each stage. I don’t have the names of anyone other than the man I was to meet in Düsseldorf.’
‘You never said anything about Düsseldorf.’
‘I was going to tell you. I was to meet a man there called Felix.’
‘And how were you going to find him?’
‘I was going to be told that in Switzerland.’
‘Do you at least know where in Switzerland?’
‘Geneva, I think.’
The Gestapo officer paced around the room and then called in another man. They spoke in German and clearly had no idea the man hanging from the wall understood every word.
‘You’ve fouled up here, Klaus: you should have followed them further. That bloody woman now admits her instructions were that he’d be collected by others who were going to take him to his next place. We could have seen what he was meant to be up to in Switzerland. Christ, if they hear about this upstairs. You go to work on him, see what else he can tell us.’
Klaus was a man of few words, delivered in a deep voice and a heavy accent. He used a knife to remove the clothes of the man who wasn’t Benoît Morel and the same knife to cut him. Every so often he’d stop and ask him if he’d remembered anything and Moreau would blurt out a word here and a phrase there, which another man in the room would write down.
He told them his real name was Philippe Moreau and he was indeed from Auxerre and they’d moved to England in 1926 and he’d become a very senior electronics engineer at the Wireless Telegraph and Signal Company and there was so much he could help them with.
He then went into some detail about the projects he was aware of, talked about his time in Hamburg, how by the time he left there in 1937 he’d become sympathetic to the Nazi cause and had been blackmailed into working for the British because of a misunderstanding over some money and…
