by Walter Ellis
Minutes later, as they sat bobbing gently in the water, a tender approached from the harbour and squeezed up next to their starboard door. The steward dropped the handle, admitting a cool sea breeze, and a tall Portuguese customs officer appeared, rising and falling in the swell. “Welcome to Lisbon,” he said, beaming broadly.
Lisbon: British Embassy, Rua São Domingos à Lapa, June 25
Bramall had expected him to be bigger. He was supposed to be one of MI6’s most effective agents, but he couldn’t have been more that five feet eight. In his mid–to-late forties, with sagging jaw muscles and red-rimmed eyes, he wore a pale, slightly ill-fitting linen suit of the type favoured by the English middle classes on holiday in Nice. His tie, a startling concoction, looked as if it had been pressed onto an artist’s still-wet canvas. The room itself was dull to the point of paralysis. A view of the Tagus River would have been possible through the dormer window if the desk had been arranged differently. As it was, it faced inwards, towards filing cabinets and shelves packed solid with documents.
“Sorry about the stairs,” a man’s voice said. “The Nazis give their intelligence people large offices with brass plaques on the door, next to the Ambassador. Mussolini’s lot go for comfortable settees and coffee tables strewn with the latest magazines. If one of their secretaries pauses on her way out to adjust the seams of her stockings, the Italians regard it as time well spent – which I suspect is why they’ll never make it as full-blown Fascists. This, however, is the standard British model: an attic room in what used to be the servants’ quarters. I’ve got a desk with an inkwell and there’s a gas ring in the corner so that any time I get fed up with the diplomats stealing the credit for the work I do, I can always make myself a nice cup of tea.”
Bramall felt immediately at home. “Charles Bramall,” he said.
“Douglas Croft.”
They shook hands.
“Pull up a chair and we’ll talk,” Croft said.
Bramall sat down. It was odd, he realised. Here, in this peculiar environment, in which diplomacy was replaced by a lethal variant of chess, he could feel anxiety creeping up on him like shadows on a September evening.
“You smoke?” Croft asked, reaching for an open packet of Player’s on his desk. His accent was London of some kind, or maybe Essex, but not cockney, which would have been a real surprise.
“I wouldn’t mind, actually,” Bramall replied.
Croft passed the Player’s. “Helps keep the flies off.” He struck a match and lit both their cigarettes. Then he leaned back in his chair. “There are two things you have to bear in mind about what lies ahead of you. The first is not to let anything get past you. Watch, listen and learn. The second is, don’t get killed.”
As he drew smoke gratefully into his lungs, Bramall couldn’t help observing how tired Croft looked. It was not the welcome exhaustion that concluded a period of intense activity, in which a good night’s sleep sent the body clock back to zero. It was the deeper-seated kind, built over time out of effort expended without reward. Others on the embassy staff, he imagined, came and went, progressing their careers and moving on, being careful not to dirty their hands. Not Croft. He would have bet his life on that. Croft had dirt beneath his fingernails. Blood, too, he shouldn’t wonder.
“How long have you been here?” he asked.
The veteran agent fiddled with the front of his collar, struggling to release the stud. “Too long,” he said. “I’m not sure I can remember what England looks like.”
Bramall nodded. “At least you don’t have the Germans on your tail.”
The look Croft gave him in response to this was not one of contempt, more of mild bewilderment. “I don’t know where you got that idea from, and I won’t ask. Just take it from me, the fucking Nazis are everywhere. I go to meet someone in a bar, ten to one an SD agent will be seated at the next table. We’ve had a couple of our people disappear. Just last month, a mining engineer from Birmingham got his brains blown out in Vila Real. I’m told some poor sod’s just come out to take his place – you have to wonder what the job description was. And then there was a local lad that smuggled documents for me. Antonio. Found him face down in a drain, his throat slit. And of course now that the French are run from Vichy, we don’t know what the Germans know and what they don’t about our past operations. Yesterday’s trusted friends turn out to be today’s enemies. Not an easy number, Charlie. Got to watch your back.”
A large, fat fly flew in the open window. Croft picked up a fly swat from his desktop and scythed the air with it, to no effect. “Like walking into the lions’ den,” he said. “I’m betting you’ll be dead inside of a month.”
“How reassuring. What odds did you get?”
“I’m not joking. Have you any idea just how many SD and Abwehr agents there are in Spain today?”
“They told me quite a few.”
“Two thousand. And the number’s going up all the time. Some of them even wear their uniforms; strut around like they own the place. You’ll be watched everywhere you go. If they think you’re getting too close to them or look like you might stumble on something interesting, they’ll be perfectly happy to put a bullet in your brain. We’ve complained, of course – even sent the police and foreign ministry lists of known operatives. But it’s done us no good.”
The fly landed on his knee. He swiped at it with his hand, again without result.
“And how does our side compare?” Bramall asked. “Braithwaite gave me to understand I’d be pretty much on my own.”
“How many? Well, there’s five – or is it six? – working in the iron ore and wolfram trade, who send us reports from time to time of anything unusual goes on. For the most part, they’re up North, miles from anywhere. Then there’s an SIS security squad – bodyguards really – attached to the embassy. You’ll meet them when you catch up with the Duke. What else? Well, there’s a strictly unofficial network of expats and Spanish sympathisers . But you can never put your faith in them. Some of them’d give you away to the Germans for an envelope stuffed with Swiss francs.” Croft paused for a second, then clipped the edge of one of his curtains with the fly swat, so that the unfortunate bluebottle fell dead at his feet. A look of satisfaction came over his features. “And then, of course, there’s you – the sole full-time agent of His Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service, MI6 division.”
The lines around Bramall’s face tightened. “Sounds like I’d better brush up on my Solitaire.”
“Patience more like it. Given that you’re a complete novice, I wouldn’t go taking too many chances. Never forget, you’re not supposed to be there. Here, in Lisbon, they know I’m a British agent. Turn a blind eye – oldest ally and all that. Bloody Madrid, they find out you’re MI6, you’ll be on the first plane out of the country – either that or strapped to a hospital trolley with electrodes fixed to your nuts.”
“Would that be before or after I’d been debriefed?”
“I’m serious. ”
“So am I … I think.” Bramall’s respect for the unassuming Croft was increasing by the minute. Whether or not that respect was reciprocated was another question. “It might help if you were to tell me what I’m supposed to do once I get there. I know what the goal is: to get anything I can on German plans on Gibraltar and the possibility that Spain might join the war. But up to now no one has explained how exactly I’m supposed to set about it. They talk about ‘keeping my eyes open’ and ‘looking and listening,’ as if it was likely that I would be in the room when Franco tells the German Ambassador he’s ready to sign on the dotted line. You all seem to forget that, apart from a bit of amateur sleuthing around Mosley and the BUF, I haven’t the foggiest notion how these things are done. Am I supposed to sleep with someone’s wife or take the place of one of the palace guards and march into the Caudillo’s office with a camera? I mean, for God’s sake!
“I’m rather afraid it is.”
“Fair enough. Well, allow me to let you into a little secret, then.”
“It would be my first.”
“London doesn’t really expect anything of you at all.”
“What?”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. They’d like you to find out everything there is to know. If you could bring them a copy of the map Franco is supposed to have sent to Hitler showing the extent of the new Spanish Empire, centred on Gibraltar, that would be terrific. They’d be positively delighted if you came up with a signed memo from Franco to General Vigón in which he revealed every aspect of his war policy for the next 12 months and how it fits in with the thinking of Admiral Canaris, head of the Abwehr. That’s what they’d like, Bramall. But they don’t expect it. Do you follow? Because, you see, there is no such map and there’s no such memo, and the idea of Canaris working against Hitler’s plans is a total red herring. As for Serrano sitting you down and spilling the beans personally, so that all you need do is take notes, well, I wouldn’t hold your breath.”
Bramall felt whatever modicum of optimism he had retained drain out of him like air from a collapsed bellows. But Croft hadn’t finished. He sniffed the air and scratched the underside of his chin, where he hadn’t shaved properly. “Just as well, anyway. Because from a tradecraft point of view, you’re a piece of shit. No offence intended. You know nothing, you’ve no training or background in anything that matters and, frankly, you’ll be bugger all use to me.”
“Thanks.”
“If Braithwaite had asked my advice, I’d have said, ‘look, if you can’t send me someone who knows what he’s doing, send no one.’ But, of course, he didn’t ask me, so now I’m stuck with you.”
“Is this supposed to be my pep-talk?”
“No. It’s your get-off-your-arse-and-go-and-learn-something talk. I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to nursemaid you or anyone else. There’s a war on and what we’re engaged in is called ‘active service.’ So my advice to you is, get active.”
“I don’t suppose you could be more specific?”
Croft rubbed his eyes, which were red-rimmed. He looked as if he’d been up all night, reading.
“Okay,” he said, “try this. Espionage is like a lot of other high-risk activities: long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of fear and excitement. You’ve got to listen out for things, just like they told you, and keep your eyes peeled for likely contacts – people a couple of notches down from the top who might say a little bit more than they should over a drink. Do them a favour if you can. Slip them a few pesetas if they’re short, lie to their wives about where they were that night they were out screwing their mistress. Nothing fancy, mind, just enough to make them feel they can trust you and they owe you something. And if you ever do get five minutes to yourself in the office of a General or a cabinet Minister, don’t waste it. Take a look at his desk diary, or, more likely, his secretary’s. Read any letters you see lying around. Open a filing cabinet if you get the chance. Why not? Only, try to pick the right drawer. Remember the alphabet – and don’t leave prints. Most important, never forget you need luck at both ends – to get the stuff in the first place and to live long enough to tell the tale. Other than that, do what the dips do: assess, interpret, put two and two together. If you’ve got time, it’ll start to add up.”
The Londoner paused. “Oh, and one more thing. Don’t make me have to clean up your mess. I’m head of station, Iberia, not a dish rag.”
Bramall felt as if he had just been kicked around the room by the school bully. “”Well,” he said. “Braithwaite said you were – what was it? – crusty. He didn’t mention you were a sadist.”
“How is the old bugger anyway?”
“He’s well.”
“Don’t suppose he mentioned his time in Russia?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t ask?”
“No.”
“Pity. Never let good manners stand in the way of finding out what you need to know. That’s where your sort usually fuck up. The point is, Braithwaite’s forgotten more about this business than either of us will ever know. Don’t make them like him any more. Russia was the big one. Sidney Reilly tried to get the Bolsheviks to stay in the war. Damn near succeeded. Braithwaite worked the other side. Knew Kerensky, tried to nudge him towards a deal with General Kornilov and the Whites. Hairy stuff and no medals. But somebody’s got to do it.”
“Right.”
“Hoare was there, too, you know.”
“You’re kidding.”
“A year or so earlier – 1916 – when there was talk of the Tsar backing out of the war. He was SIS in those days, of course.”
“Really? So he must have known Braithwaite.”
“Too right he did. Of course, in 1916 Braithwaite was in Ireland.”
“Was he?”
“Where he didn’t exactly endear himself to the rebel cause.”
“I would imagine not.”
“But then, the rebel cause didn’t exactly endear itself to you, did it?”
“No.”
“So you have that much in common.”
The heat was suffocating. Croft blew out a thick cloud of smoke in the direction of a small electric fan, which re-directed it towards the open window. Bramall would never have guessed that the podgy figure of Braithwaite had had a ringside seat at some of the most momentous events of the century. It didn’t seem to go with his waistcoats and his hidden sugar supply. But then, he realised, we all grew older and became pastiches of ourselves. It was the way of the world, which contrived to turn high drama into light comedy. As for Croft, he seemed to him the epitome of a good man resigned to his fate. If he ended up like him, it wouldn’t be the worst thing he’d done.
“Is Braithwaite married?” he suddenly asked. He didn’t know why.
Croft looked puzzled. “Married? Braithwaite? Shouldn’t think so.”
“He never said?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t ask?”
“No. And before you ask, the first Mrs Croft ran off with a salesman from Penge. The second died in childbirth. That was 10 years ago.”
“I’m sorry. Did the child make it?”
“No. Poor little bleeder was the wrong way round. Tried to come out feet first, got strangled by his own umbilical.”
Croft stubbed out his cigarette into a saucer already crammed with butts. He didn’t allow himself to become maudlin and cut back to the business in hand.
“I think we should get started,” he said. “The Duke’s been in Madrid the best part of two days already and the embassy do’s coming up on Saturday. If you’re not careful, you’ll miss it. So concentrate. The man you’ve got to watch out for is Javier Bermejillo – strictly speaking the Marqués de Bermejillo, known to his friends as ‘Tiger.’ Picked HRH up at the border and escorted him to Madrid. He’s a diplomat, smooth as silk, arrogant as bedamned, and Beigbeder has assigned him to the Duke so that anything that’s said goes straight to Franco. Then there’s Miguel Primo de Rivera, brother of the late, unlamented Falange leader, José Antonio. Miguel’s the civil governor of Madrid, so he’s got clout. A bit of a playboy on the side, gets on well with the Duke. But he’s also pretty thick with the Generalísimo, if you get my drift – so tread carefully. And then, of course, there’s the Germans. Paul Winzer is the police attaché. Gestapo – a right devious bastard. But you might also want to keep an eye on Klaus Hasselfeldt, an SD major, newly arrived from Berlin, said to be a personal protégé of Schellenberg’s.
“Head of counter-intelligence.”
“The very same.”
Bramall was struggling to take all this in. “Y
ou do realise,” he said, “that I’m only using the Duke as cover. I couldn’t actually give a stuff what he’s up to in Madrid. Good God! The man’s an idiot.”
“Do me a favour,” said Croft.
“What do you mean?”
“Listen to what I’m telling you. Before he became King, he and the Duchess went to see Hitler, who, you may recall, took quite a shine to him. Bit like yourself in that respect. He’s also spent a fair bit of time in the company of your pal Mosley and he’s not above coming out with pro-German sentiments when he thinks he’s in safe company. Even speaks German! Probably doesn’t know which side he’s on. As for her…” Croft emitted a low whistle. “You know she had an affair with Ribbentrop in ’36?”
Despite himself, Bramall was shocked.
“He was Ambassador in London at the time and she was the King’s mistress, but that didn’t put him off – not until after they got engaged. Dirty sod used to send her 17 red roses every day. I heard that from Special Branch. Seventeen! Why not a dozen, or two dozen? You might well ask. Because seventeen’s the number of times they slept together. I tell you what, if Ribbentrop’s got the Duchess wrapped round his little finger and she then convinces the Duke he’s the once and future king, who’s to say where it’s all going to end?
Bramall made a face. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t know about her, but he’s not a traitor.”
“For Christ’s sake, how would you know? Wouldn’t be the first time we’d got a king over the water. Just remember … how many times do I have to repeat this before it gets through your thick skull? Keep your ears open, as well as your eyes. Look a right ‘Charlie,’ wouldn’t you, if you turned up in Spain as the Duke’s minder and him and the Duchess wound up in Berlin giving an interview to Lord Haw Haw?”
