Agent Josephine, page 32
He tried to take stock. There was clearly no love lost between Hauptsturmführer Stutz and Colonel Harthammer, who outranked him. He figured Stutz had to be bluffing about dispatching him to a concentration camp. As with any British agent, which was clearly what they suspected him to be, he would not be working alone. He would be part of a larger group. They needed to keep him here and break him, if they were to bust open his network. If they did that, it would lead them to agent Josephine in Casablanca, of course. She was a sitting duck at the Comte Clinic, and there was no way on earth of getting a warning to her.
Over the coming days Stutz dragged him back for repeated interrogations, seeking to know all about his ‘relations with the Arabs, especially those in Marrakesh’.7 Abtey sensed an opportunity to counter-attack. He told Stutz that his Arab connections were all down to Charlie Hosby and the beautiful Ingrid, but Stutz didn’t bite. Clearly, those individuals were off-limits, which confirmed in Abtey’s mind just who they were and what role they’d played in his capture. He was grilled about Sydney, and their ‘curious relationship’, not to mention Sydney’s ‘peculiar business’.8 Abtey claimed they’d struck up a friendship as fellow Americans, no more.
Abtey endeavoured to keep a track of time by scratching a mark on his cell wall for each day that passed. In an effort to boost his spirits he kept reminding himself that the game wasn’t over. He reckoned they had to be holding him somewhere in the Rif Mountains. He could sense their cooling breezes through the cell’s narrow window. If he could just get out, he could lose himself in their remote wilds. But how to break free? Tales had done the rounds about how the Apostles had used Arab dress to disguise their most valuable local contacts – dressing Berber leaders as women, in full robes and veils.9 Maybe he could sneak out of the prison that way? But how on earth was he to get hold of such a disguise, locked away in this heavily guarded cliff-side fortress?
Having scratched his thirty-fifth day of captivity, Abtey was lying awake when the door to his cell opened without a sound. Ghost-like, Abderrahman, his local Berber gaoler, crept inside carrying a shapeless bundle. They’d spoken barely a word before now, though Abderrahman had been in daily attendance, delivering Abtey’s food and the like. He threw the bundle at Abtey, urging him to get dressed.
‘Put this on quickly and follow me. Your friend is waiting for us.’
The bundle turned out to contain a traditional woman’s Berber robe and face veil, and his gaoler had even included a pair of ladies’ slippers. But was this a set-up by Stutz, Abtey wondered? If he was caught trying to escape, the SS man would have every reason to have him shot, or whisked off to a dark fate in Germany. Abderrahman kept urging him to hurry. Finally, throwing caution to the wind Abtey dragged on the garments, and together the two figures slipped out of the cell. The gaoler led him down a steep staircase and across a courtyard, which ended at a stout wooden door.
‘It’s Abderrahman and Saadia,’ he cried, hammering on it. ‘Open up.’10
Saadia was one of the cooks who worked at the prison. The door swung open, the German sentry offered a cursory glance, before waving them through. But then the sentry grabbed the gaoler’s arm, making it clear he wanted a word. Abderrahman told Abtey – Saadia – to hurry ahead. He’d catch up once he and the guard were done. Abtey felt his pulse pounding with the fear of discovery, but it turned out that the guard was simply after some sour milk, a local delicacy that he wanted Abderrahman to fetch for him.
Abderrahman rejoined Abtey and the two fugitives slipped along a darkened hedge, and from there into a forest of evergreen oaks. There two mules were tethered, decked out in full riding gear. Having ordered Abtey to change into the dress of a Berber male, Abderrahman handed him a slender, curved dagger of the exact type that he had spied in El Hadj’s Tangier home. Abtey glanced at his Berber guide-cum-rescuer in surprise. Did this signify what he thought it did?
‘A gift from your friend, the Sherif,’ Abderrahman confirmed.11
Moments later they mounted the mules and headed into the dark trees, Abtey’s beast of burden seeming to naturally follow that in the lead. They climbed quickly, emerging from the woodland onto a wide, moonlit plateau. There, they paused briefly while Abderrahman removed some roast sheep from a basket slung from his mule. Abtey was ‘as hungry as a cannibal’ and he ate ravenously. Before hurrying on again, he asked when Abderrahman had last seen the Sherif, and why El Hadj was helping him. The Berber replied that El Hadj had described Abtey as having a good heart, and as being a friend of Morocco, hence they must ensure his rescue.
Before pushing on Abtey asked where exactly he had been held and where they were headed now. The prison was at Souk el-Arma, not far from the city of Tetouan, in the midst of the Rif, Abderrahman explained. They were making for a remote mountain farmstead owned by a trusted friend of El Hadj.
Abtey posed a final question. ‘What do you think of the Germans?’
‘They are lions.’
‘Do you think they will win this war?’
Yes, said Abderrahman, he believed they would.12
Back at the Souk el-Arma prison, Abtey’s absence was discovered at around one o’clock in the morning, when a junior officer made his rounds. Pandemonium ensued. As no one had left the prison save some local staff, at first Stutz figured that Abtey had to be hiding inside. Frantic searches proved abortive, and Stutz concluded that ‘native scum’ had to be behind the escape.13 His men searched the locality and questioned every Arab, but all to no avail. Finally, an enraged Stutz worked out that Saadia, the kitchen assistant, had seemingly left the prison twice, but during different guard shifts, hence no one noticing.
Dawn was breaking over the mountains when Saadia was brought in for questioning, as a result of which the deception wrought by Abderrahman and Abtey was uncovered. Stutz was incandescent. More to the point, all were terrified of Berlin’s reaction, from the lowest guard to Stutz himself. People had been sentenced to death for far less than letting a British spy break out of an escape-proof prison, which this supposedly was. Stutz ordered every available man to join the search. Abtey had to be recaptured before sunset, or they would bear the consequences.
For Stutz the situation was made all the worse as a result of a letter he had just received, from Berlin. It identified the individual shown in Abtey’s passport photo as also being known as James Bradford, a British spy. Stutz had been ordered to dispatch Abtey – ‘Bradford’ – to Berlin, for he was too big a fish to leave languishing in Souk el-Arma. He had just started arranging for his travel when the bird had flown. In addition to sending forth search parties, Stutz posted a sizeable reward for any information leading to Abtey’s recapture. He also ensured that word was spread far and wide that the escapee was really a SIS agent, and that hunting him down was imperative.
Finally, he sought to deflect any punishment from himself, should Abtey not be found. If he could saddle Colonel Harthammer with the blame, that would be perfect. They hated each other, as Harthammer was no fan of either the Führer or the Nazi party. Stutz would be overjoyed to see the Wehrmacht colonel take the fall.
Long before sunset, Abderrahman guided Abtey into his place of refuge, a mud-walled farmstead set high in the Rif surrounded by olive trees. Inside, Abtey discovered none other than the Sherif, El Hadj, seated at a low table. Getting to his feet, he bade Abtey make himself at home. He gestured at the simple spread – roast pigeon, flat bread, butter and a wonderfully scented honey, plus a pot of steaming mint tea.
‘You are surely hungry? Sit down and eat.’
‘You saved my life,’ Abtey announced, as he took a seat. ‘Without you I would have ended up in Germany.’14
El Hadj demurred. It was a small favour. Abtey had the baraka – a beneficial force that flows from God to the individual – and it was his baraka which had saved him. He urged Abtey to remain at the farmstead for a few days, until the hue and cry had died down. No Rif Berber would ever dare go against El Hadj. Abtey was safe here. Once the dust had settled, Abtey could go about making contact with his people, to get a new identity sorted. After which, El Hadj would like Abtey to be a guest at his palace. They had much to discuss.
In the meantime, there was a small trout stream that cascaded down the nearby hillside. The Sherif put some basic fishing tackle at Abtey’s disposal. After resting, he headed to the river, letting all thoughts of Stutz, Harthammer, Randegg and Ingrid slip from his mind. As he cast the line and reeled in a few small trout, his thoughts drifted to fond memories of the Dordogne, of the Château des Milandes and of Josephine. Abtey was seized by a sudden urge to reach out to her, to check if she was safe and well. But he could not, of course, and certainly not before he had re-established a usable cover identity.
Over the coming days Abtey made his way to the Sherif’s Tangier home, travelling on mule trails that criss-cross the Rif. El Hadj had reminded Abtey that another English cigarette delivery would always be appreciated. Abtey didn’t doubt that the Sherif had a hand in Sydney’s trade, as he would do in all underground activity in his fiefdom. For the journey into Tangier, Abtey adopted local Berber dress, and in that way he made it to the Sherif’s modest villa in safety. In similar local guise, the following day he headed to the British consulate in Tangier, to arrange for a new passport and identity.
He also had a visit from Sydney. From the gangster boss he learned all about how he had come to be captured. Juanita, Abtey’s Spanish lover, had alerted Sydney to his disappearance, after which Sydney had alerted El Hadj, who had used his Berber networks to find him. In essence, he had been saved by his Spanish girlfriend, his Mafia brother and the Berber chieftain. But since then Juanita had disappeared and no one doubted that the Germans were responsible. In the hunt for Abtey, there were other seeming victims. Sydney vowed that he would find her. They would ensure she was safe.
Shortly, Abtey linked up with El Hadj who had cheering news. Rather than face the wrath of Berlin, SS-Hauptsturmführer Stutz had shot himself dead. The Sherif proceeded to introduce Abtey to his foremost Berber friends, all of whom it seemed were in the Istiqlal – the Independence Party – a group of powerful Moroccans who believed the country was ripe for throwing off the French colonial yoke. Believing Abtey to be an American, and in view of the Atlantic Charter issued by Roosevelt and Churchill and its promised freedoms for all, they shared their views with him freely.
Abtey’s capture and escape had truly brought him to the heart of things. As El Hadj made clear, Abtey was no longer just his friend. He had ‘become his brother’.15
As soon as he was able, Abtey made a beeline for the Coordination Centre – Josephine’s Casablanca clinic. It was an emotional reunion, for while Abtey had been locked up and facing torture and death, Josephine had herself been at death’s door. But with the return of the spring weather she had rallied, spending hours sunning herself on the terrace. She was on the road to recovery, Dr Comte assured Abtey. During his visit they received an unexpected guest, the French General Augustin Xavier Richert. General Richert – a Saint-Cyr graduate, a decorated commander of the French Foreign Legion, and a Croix de Guerre recipient from the First World War – had heard reports about how sick Josephine was and had come to investigate.
As the esteemed French war hero settled in to talk with Abtey and Josephine, General Richert made plain his hatred of Nazi Germany and all that it stood for, while outlining his efforts at covert cooperation with various Allied intelligence outfits, including the 12 Apostles. It was a meeting of minds, and the three pledged to unify their actions. Fired up with energy and enthusiasm, General Richert went to fetch Sidney Lanier Bartlett, the Apostle who had taken Canfield’s place, when the latter was returned to Washington. Bartlett turned out to be a tall, craggy, tough-talking Californian who had the easy gait of a cowboy. He was also something of an all-action adventurer. Working in Paris as an executive for Shell Oil when war broke out, Bartlett had volunteered as an ambulance driver for the American Field Services, a front-line medical corps staffed wholly by volunteers.
After Canfield’s precipitate departure from Morocco, Staff Reid had stepped in as Josephine and Abtey’s chief handler, but the garrulous Bartlett was more than keen to take over his role. ‘I’ll make a deal with Stafford Reid,’ he proposed, ‘and we’ll do some good business together. Your clinic is a great place to meet, Miss Josephine.’ As she was American-born, no one would find it remotely surprising if Bartlett were a regular visitor. ‘And don’t worry,’ he reassured them all, ‘we won’t be bored.’
Bartlett asked if they would re-establish contact with Paul Paillole, in Marseilles. It would be fantastic if the French intelligence chief could plug the Apostles into his French intelligence networks. ‘Tell them you’ve been contacted by me,’ Bartlett urged, ‘and that I would be very interested in working with them…’16 Abtey did just that, getting a message through to Paillole. In response the French spymaster confirmed that building an intelligence conduit via Bartlett through to London and Washington would have his full backing.
For Paillole, nothing was more important than the flow of accurate and timely information. ‘Intelligence is like the air we breathe,’ he would declare. ‘We realise that it is indispensable when we lack it.’ From his base in Vichy France, he’d been increasingly hunted, as had all his TR agents, with the result that they’d suffered ‘hundreds of dead comrades, deported and mutilated families’. Regardless, he knew that their efforts ‘had to be amplified’, even though the enemy’s response would be ‘increasingly savage measures of repression’. Via Bartlett, Paillole would have a direct route to get his intelligence to those who mattered most.17
The divorced Bartlett, thirty-six, was possessed of a certain ‘suavity and courtesy that is exaggerated almost to the extent of eccentricity’, according to the American consul in Casablanca, H. Earle Russell. Murphy’s assessment was a little kinder: Bartlett was ‘conscientious, dependable and industrious,’ and would learn ‘discretion and judgement’.18 In time, Bartlett would crash and burn, and even more spectacularly than Canfield had before him. But for now, his up-front enthusiasm and candour won them all over at the Comte Clinic.
In his French government file, Abtey would record the forging of this alliance with Bartlett, plus General Richert and Paillole, as being a signal moment on the long road of resistance. ‘In the months preceding the landings, a Committee of… Fighting France [‘France Combattante’ – another term for the Free French forces] was constituted in Casablanca under General Richert… and a General Staff was formed, in which I was entrusted with the Deuxième Bureau.’19
In mid-April 1942 the second offshore cigarette drop was made, courtesy of Gibraltar’s ghost fleet, after which Abtey decided to up the ante. He promised to guarantee two such deliveries per month – double the present rate – if El Hadj and Sydney, plus Frank Costello in New York, agreed to back him. He planned a tour of Morocco’s main cities, taking in Rabat, Fez, Agadir, Safi, Marrakesh and Casablanca. At each, El Hadj and Sydney would introduce Abtey to their contacts, including the Rif chieftains, so he could test the waters about whether they would welcome the Allied landings. Securing that intelligence was critical. If the Berbers resisted, it could spell disaster.
Sydney and El Hadj endorsed Abtey’s plan and the tour got under way. As well as sounding out the local Berber chiefs, Abtey secured crucial extra support. The Rif chieftains offered to use their networks of cigarette smugglers to track, identify and keep watch on the Armistice Commission agents. They would use their dock workers to report on the movement of warships. They’d tap their contacts among senior Moroccan officers serving in the French military, to gather intelligence on the strength of French garrisons. The sponsorship of El Hadj, combined with the backing of the US Mafia, had certainly opened doors.
All of this information Abtey worked into the hands of the Apostles. They sought more and more detail: the depths of the main ports; the composition of the stretches of beaches upon which landings were being planned; the state of the tides; the ferocity of the waves, especially along the Atlantic coastline; the breadth of any roads running inland, their composition and state of repair, and the weight-bearing load of any bridges. Clearly, the planners were envisaging landing heavy armour, hence the nature of the queries. Nothing like this had been tried by the Allies, and if successful, it would pave the way for what was to come in Europe. The stakes were huge.
But during their stopover at the coastal city of Agadir, to the south of Casablanca, Abtey ran into two old acquaintances who were most unwelcome. In the bar of the city’s Marhaba Hotel, Major Randegg and Ingrid were waiting. Beautifully tanned, dressed in matching white outfits, it struck Abtey that they looked like ‘two Nordic deities’.20 In a seemingly light-hearted manner they questioned him about how and why he had dropped off the radar and for so long. After a sustained bout of verbal fencing, Abtey made his excuses. Places to go, people to see.
Major Randegg was also on the trail of El Hadj. Realising his crucial role as a power broker, Randegg was doing all he could to woo the Berber chief, including using Ingrid as bait. Abtey confided in Sydney that ‘the most dreaded of his German enemies’ was courting El Hadj.21 When Abtey explained exactly who Randegg was, and that he was closely aligned to the Gestapo, Sydney spat disgustedly. He revealed that he was actually Jewish himself, and he would gladly take Randegg out. All Abtey had to do was give the word and Randegg was a dead man. For now, Abtey asked Sydney to keep a close watch. It was better to track, trace and roll up Randegg’s network.
In among his frenetic schedule Abtey found a moment to flit across to Spain, travelling on a false Costa Rican passport, in part to check that Juanita was all right. Through Sydney’s contacts, they’d managed to track her down. She’d been hunted and hounded by the enemy, but through it all she had remained loyal and true. She was being watched closely by German agents, and for now at least would have to remain in hiding.
