The Vogels: On All Fronts (The Half-Bloods Trilogy Book 2)

by Jana Petken

  Romek choked. “You think I’m an enemy spy?”

  “My job is to presume that everyone I meet is a spy until proven otherwise. As I said, you will have to earn my trust, and thus far, you haven’t done that, not by a long shot.”

  Romek had been convinced that his record in France would be more than enough to endear him to both the British and Polish authorities. Kaczka’s well-founded suspicions, however, threw his Abwehr interrogation training out the window. “You, a pen-pusher, are lecturing me on trust?” he blustered as his burning skin turned crimson. “You were probably sitting behind a desk wearing your fancy military uniform that’s probably never seen a battlefield while I was fighting the Boche in enemy territory. I’ve been tortured, hunted, and shot at. I’ve lost good men and women to concentration camps. I lost my wife because of my commitment to the Resistance. I lived alone in Madrid, starving and sleeping under bridges … I risked everything to get here because I want to carry on the fight. And you, a bureaucrat, suggest I might be working for the Nazis … fuck off, Captain!”

  Romek, shaking with fury, got to his feet and looked down at the Pole. “Why don’t you get off your backside and try a spot of fighting instead of questioning those of us who have done their fair share of it?”

  With a stony face, Kaczka got to his feet, picked up a drab brown walking stick, and headed for the door.

  Romek gaped when he noticed the limp, the false foot, and, on closer inspection, the ridge of a prosthetic leg connected at the thigh.

  “I lost it at Dunkirk,” said Kaczka, his hand on the door knob. “I’ll be back with the others in a minute or two. Enjoy your tea, Romek.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Max Vogel

  “Well, what do you think, Max?” Heller asked.

  “I think he’s not himself. He looked staged,” Max answered, then he asked Captain Kaczka, “How did Romek know his Resistance fighters had been sent to concentration camps?”

  “I don’t know. He said it without being prompted.”

  Max frowned. “He couldn’t have known that unless the Germans told him. I got the news from the Saint Quentin Resistance, and he was nowhere near that group’s location. No, this is not right. We were friends, but he could hardly look me in the eye. Something’s up.”

  “He’s on the defensive, and as I said, he was aggressive. I agree with Major Vogel, he’s hiding something,” Kaczka said.

  Max, Heller, Kaczka, and Blackthorn huddled together in a small office down the corridor from the conference room to discuss their initial meeting with Romek. The French Resistance in Spain had reported by radio transmission to Heller that Romek was arriving in Britain. But in a coded footnote they had added that a French Resistance member from Madrid had delivered the travel details, not Romek.

  Heller said, “I wanted your personal thoughts before we got into any more discussions with Romek. I have reason to think he’s tainted.”

  After Heller had shown the others a copy of the French Resistance’s message, he continued, “This code at the bottom is used when an agent is suspected of colluding with the enemy. But this and my gut feeling are all I have to back up my theory.”

  Kaczka said, “He’s just told me in there that he survived alone in Madrid, never spoke to another soul or had any help. So how did he employ another Resistance fighter to deliver the message at the Spanish border? He gave me no explanation when I questioned him about that.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Max jumped in.

  “I’m not happy, Max. He’s either slipped up, or he’s deliberately being sloppy. I want to have another go at him,” Heller said, looking at Kaczka. “Captain, you and I will play our game. Max, you will stay quiet unless Romek speaks to you directly.” Heller then said to Blackthorn, “Bernie, we’ll take it from here. I’ll keep you updated.”

  Bernie nodded his agreement. “Okay, but if he is clean, I want him.”

  “Get in the queue,” Kaczka said.

  The second part of the interview proceeded with Kazcka’s aggressive questioning and Heller’s fierce defence of Romek. It was common practice in the intelligence game to play two interrogators off against each other; the friendly chap going soft on the suspect versus the antagonistic cynic coming down like an iron rod. The strategy was used to make suspects feel as though they had someone in their corner, a defender, a shield against the rougher, tougher cross-examiner. Max had often remarked that this age-old playacting tactic was overused and predictable; a cliché, but it almost always got the required results.

  Max was concerned about two things: Romek was unlike other refugees whose backgrounds were unknown. He already had ties with Britain, and on paper, should have been congratulated upon his arrival, not suspected of batting for the other side. But he was a suspect, and the more Heller stepped back to allow the more hostile Kaczka to rattle Romek, the more Romek appeared guilty of something. He was unnerved; his skin was beaded with sweat despite the unlit gas fire and freezing cold room. And he was being curt, to the point of rudeness when Kaczka asked him to answer questions he didn’t seem to like.

  “… Major Vogel, do you agree with me?” Heller was asking.

  Max, so deep in thought he hadn’t heard the most recent exchange, had no idea what to agree or disagree with. He looked at each man in turn, a little embarrassed. “I’m not quite sure what to think, yet,” he said.

  “Oh, come on, Max. You know I’m right. He should stick to what he’s good at,” Heller said. “You’re a spy at heart, and a damn good one, aren’t you, Romek?”

  “Yes, I am good. I was born for this job. Sending me to Poland or putting me in a uniform as Captain Kaczka has suggested would be a waste of my talents.”

  Romek’s eyes narrowed as he stared defiantly at his fellow Pole. “I will serve MI6, or I will do nothing at all. I’ve lost everything and everyone I ever cared about, the least you can do is settle me in Britain with Mr Heller, who is the only man here not to have abandoned me.”

  “You’ve been given a free rein for too long, Gabula,” Kaczka snapped “You’re deluded about your own self-importance, so let me remind you that contrary to what Mr Heller says about you having a choice, you will do as you’re told or be deported back to where you came from. As a Pole, you are expected to help liberate our country before France or Holland, or any other occupied territory. And the only way you can do that is by following your government’s orders, not Mr Churchill’s.”

  “Get off your high horse, Captain,” Romek sneered at Kaczka. “I’m not in the Polish army, or what’s left of that rag-tag useless bunch of refugees. I’m a free man and I’ll choose where to put my talents to good use, not you or your pretend government sitting in their fancy offices in London.”

  At first, Max had assumed that Romek’s brusque personality change had everything to do with his recent traumatic experiences and nothing to do with his present situation. But he’d now concluded that the honest man he’d known in France was not the one sitting opposite him. He was on the defensive, distracted, and at times jumpy, as though waiting for someone to walk in the door to arrest him. But Romek was more than this unrecognisable nervous wreck; he was a clever man, not the petty, blustering fool he was portraying. Max could only conclude, therefore, that Romek was deliberately opening himself up to suspicion and wanted to be caught.

  “… he’ll be sent back to Poland to fight with the Underground. His experience will be invaluable.” Kaczka stood now as though to leave.

  Romek shot to his feet, fists tight in anger. “I want to stay in Britain. I want to be a spy.”

  Max’s eyes bored into Romek’s, and in them, he saw a plea for help. “Captain Kaczka, Mr Heller, might I have a word with you in private?”

  ******

  Romek choked on the water, gasping for air when it went down the wrong way. His pulse was racing and all he could manage were short, sharp breaths. Was he having a heart attack? The Germans had warned him of British intelligence tactics, how the
y charmed and snaked their way under their victims’ skins until they peeled away the deceit and secrets. This wasn’t an interview; it was an interrogation being expertly conducted by Heller’s flattery and Kaczka’s appeals for patriotism. All their talk of how wonderful and sought-after he was had probably been a prearranged act to lower his guard.

  He’d handled hard, probing questions with ease under the Abwehr’s watchful eyes in Madrid, but this was a different beast. Heller and the Pole were working in tandem, toying with him, at times goading, concerned, attentive, manipulative. German spies in Britain would have to be absolutely dedicated to their cause to succeed – lying, cheating, killing, and stealing information could only be done well when it was achieved with great commitment, without conscience or regret. He’d reached that state of mind in Paris, but only because his heart had been in what he was doing. His cause had been just and pure. He couldn’t say the same about this smutty game of subterfuge against the British. His guilt was killing him, and his hatred for the Abwehr was far stronger than his fear of telling the truth and facing the consequences. Traitor be damned – the Germans could piss off!

  He heard footsteps and stared at the door. They’d be back any minute; Heller, desperate to have him on his team, the brave Captain Kaczka, a man he admired for his devotion to duty despite losing a leg at Dunkirk, and Max, who had already noticed that something wasn’t quite right with his old friend.

  Romek fidgeted in his chair as the men traipsed back in and took their seats. He glanced at Max, who was staring back at him with eyes black with suspicion – the hypocrite, the liar, the man who had betrayed their friendship by having sex with his wife in his bed. He’d get to Max another time.

  He sniggered, knowing the game was up. “Look at you three, sitting there, caught up in this little charade of yours, waiting for me to confirm what Max already suspects.”

  Heller’s eyes shot to Max, and Romek chuckled again. Sweet liberation. The truth would set him free or have him locked up before 13:00; either scenario would be better than being a Nazi whore. “Here’s the thing. I really don’t want to play this game with you. My heart’s not in it. I feel dirty, and somewhere between our first and second interview, I decided not to pursue other people’s goals when mine are completely different.” Romek paused to meet Max’s eyes again. “You remember my cousin and his pregnant wife, Max? You met them in Warsaw on the night of the German invasion.”

  “Yes?” said Max, eyebrows raised.

  “Well, it seems I’ve got my family in a spot of bother with the Germans. They have me up against a wall.”

  “Who are you working for?” Max asked.

  “Ah, so I was right. You already suspected,” said Romek, surprised by Max’s calm restraint.

  “Of course, I did.”

  Like a man about to entertain friends with a good story, Romek sat back in his chair and finally relaxed. “I was approached by the Abwehr while I was in Fresnes Prison. They offered me a deal, which they said would save my thirty fighters from execution and my family from death. And I, being a loyal man to those I care about, agreed to become an Abwehr agent even though my stomach heaved, and I wanted to reach over the table to choke the life out of the smug Nazi bastard sitting across from me.”

  Heller’s shoulders heaved as he removed his glasses and placed them gently on the table. Max appeared unruffled. Kaczka looked furious.

  Romek swallowed. He was about to throw all his cards on the table at once, knowing he had a bad hand and no aces up his sleeve. “I have come to Britain with the Abwehr’s expectation that I will spy for them. Let me show you?”

  Romek stunned the men by taking off his shoes and producing two radio transmitter crystals from his heels. He then tore away the soles and retrieved the questionnaire on specific English targets. “I have other documents, but I’d have to go up my arse to get them…”

  Three bemused faces stared back at him. “My principal mission for the Germans was to report on aircraft production in this country. I also agreed to use the contacts I would develop among Polish and British leaders.” He waved a hand around the room. “You three perhaps? I was then to report any high-level political information I might come across.”

  He took a measured sip of water. “I also had a more farsighted assignment, which was to foment discontent among the Polish armed forces, and if possible, organise a new Polish column that would be sympathetic to Germany. Why they thought I would have the power or know-how to manage that, I really don’t know, but I can tell you they were very insistent that I would soon be joined by many more German agents on this island.”

  Romek stared at Kaczka, holding the captain’s eyes, as he said, “The Abwehr went as far as to hint that their agents were already embedded in the Republic of Poland’s government in exile. Right here in London, Captain.”

  Kaczka shot Romek a contemptuous glare, but behind his anger was a flash of surprise. “Go on.”

  “My Abwehr handler in Madrid, the man who trained me, was very clear that if I didn’t fulfil my obligations to Germany, the Gestapo would execute my family in Warsaw, whom they said were already in their hands … shoot them between their eyes one by one with the children dying first so the adults could watch, they specifically said.” Romek looked at his ripped-apart shoes. “I love my family, and I despise the German pigs who think they own me now. I don’t … never did want to work for them … and I would have told you all this, if not now, then tomorrow or the day after. I could not have gone through with it.”

  With all the cockiness drained out of him, he added, “My goal, my only goal, is to persuade you three to accept me as a double agent, and to let me do all I can to destroy the Nazis’ plans for me and my family. And I will do whatever you ask of me. Without any qualms. I will murder, lie, and cheat my German handler with false information. If you’ll have me, I will give you my loyalty and my life – here, on this piece of paper – see that? It’s the address of my safe house. It’s run by a German woman who works for the Abwehr. My first job will be to get her for you.”

  Romek paused, then flicked his eyes to Heller. “I want Max to handle this…”

  “You’re not in a position to make demands!” Kaczka shouted. “I could shoot you today, and no one would bat an eyelid!”

  “Hear him out, Bazyli. He hasn’t spied on anyone yet,” Heller said.

  “Thank you, Mr Heller.” Romek gave Max a sideways glance. “I will be the best double agent you’ve ever recruited, but if you want the best from me you have to give me the best to work with. Not a Pole, not another British spy, but Max. He’s the only man I trust.”

  For the next half hour, Romek took the men through his training regime, holding nothing back and even going as far as to talk about his fling with a Spanish woman who had made his life a bit easier in Madrid. Finally, he put his fingers in his mouth and took out the false tooth with the cyanide capsule inside. When he stopped talking, he stared long and hard at Max. “Now you see the real Romek, don’t you?”

  ******

  Max, Heller, and Kaczka left Romek in the conference room under guard and retreated to Heller’s office. Romek’s bombshell had hit Max hard, but he was not as shocked as Kaczka, who had earlier planned to go out on a limb for Romek by recommending that he receive a commendation for his work in France.

  The three men, scrambling to make decisions, found themselves at odds with each other. Max maintained that Romek hated the Germans with every ounce of his being and that he’d make a highly effective double agent. Romek had asked that he be given the chance to prove himself in that role, which demonstrated that he had thought long and hard about committing himself to the most dangerous section of the spy business; that of playing for both sides. He had also given the address of a German safe house, a treasure for British Intelligence. Heller, however, seemed sceptical of the whole matter and wanted time to think about the best way to move forward.

  “Romek vowed in there that his aim is to help us, but he must have
sworn the same oath to the Germans,” Heller said. “And if the Abwehr trust him enough to get him to Britain, what’s to stop him from forming some sort of triple-cross? He’s certainly a more sinister individual than you or I ever thought, Max.”

  “True. But convincing the Nazis of his loyalty doesn’t mean he planned to hold up his end of the bargain. I believe him, Jonathan,” said Max. “I don’t think he ever intended to go through with this. His feeble attempt to hide his guilt was more like him giving me a sign that he was in trouble. Romek is no fool, trust me, he wanted us to know. He probably just didn’t know how to tell us.”

  “Well, what are we going to do with him today?” Kaczka asked.

  “You can take him into custody,” Heller suggested.

  “No. I don’t want him near the Polish headquarters. If what he said is true about there being Abwehr spies in our offices, I will need to clean house. Romek was your man in France, Jonathan. You fix this.”

  Max had another alternative. “Bazyli, Jonathan, your choice is simple. You can imprison him as an enemy agent or you can use him to cause havoc for the Germans. Might I suggest that we agree to take him on but keep him under close watch? We can tap his telephone, monitor his correspondence, and have an MI6 handler with him in the Abwehr’s own safe house.”

  Heller stood up. “No. We’re finished here, at least for today. If Bazyli doesn’t want him, we’ll take him to our holding cells at MI6 and pick this up again tomorrow morning.”

  “Very well,” Kaczka agreed. “Does eight o’clock suit you?”

  Max had trouble keeping up with Heller as he strode along the corridor to where two subordinates had been waiting for orders. “What the hell was that all about? Why did you leave in the middle of it?” Max asked before they’d reached Heller’s men.