by Jana Petken
His body shuddered as it intuitively gulped for air. He looked up, his eyes widening, as he saw Paul’s face. His brother’s expression was grim, and disapproving eyes glared downwards. With a final spurt of energy, Max kicked upwards and broke the surface.
As he sucked in the icy air, he was greeted by an almighty explosion, and the U-boat erupted in a ball of flames. He wheezed, rasped for breath, and swallowed water already being laced with oil from the sinking submarine. The torpedo had snapped it in two, the screech and shriek of twisting metal accompanying the aft and fore sections to their graves.
Max turned full circle. The dinghy had completely disappeared along with the three Germans. The trawler was moving quickly towards him, and two shadows seemed to be flying in the air. The icy drink had robbed his body of all feeling, and his oxygen deprived brain was seeing flying spectral figures. Overcome by exhaustion and hit by the stricken sub’s wake, Max’s head slipped beneath the surface and met the dark abyss once again.
******
When Max awoke, he was lying on his side on the trawler’s deck vomiting the North Sea out of his lungs. Deaf, apart from the ringing in his ears, he pulled his knees up to his chest to cough and heave, breathe, then heave again. His chest burned, and salt water stung his throat. That he’d managed to get from beneath the waves to the trawler’s deck was a miracle by anyone’s standards, albeit how remained a mystery. He rubbed the salt from his eyes, the faces of the Germans as he went over the dinghy’s side and the U-boat’s fireball imprinted on his retinas.
After more vomiting and coughing, he rolled onto his back and surveyed his surroundings. A bright moon in a cloud-covered slate-grey sky welcomed him back to full consciousness, and at a nudge to his ribs he turned to see Romek sitting beside him. The Pole was soaking wet and appeared unusually shaken.
Max sat up, held his nostrils closed and blew to clear his ears. He croaked at Romek, “What the hell happened?”
“I saved you from drowning.” Romek hawked and spat phlegm. “Me and one of the sailors went in to get you as soon as we disposed of the Krauts.”
“Thank God, you didn’t hit me.”
“We aimed at the dinghy, not you,” Romek grunted.
Max noticed a sodden RN rating with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. “Thank you … both of you,” he wheezed again.
“We need to get you into the cabin to heat you up, sir,” the dry sailor said
The trawler’s engine was grinding and spluttering as it hit maximum knots in the rising swell. The English coastline was still a faint line, but they were approaching it as fast as they could whilst retracing their outward route.
Below, Max undressed and threw his wet clothes in a pile. He put on dry trousers and an old frayed fisherman’s pullover and then slumped into the bench seat in the cabin. “Jesus, that was close,” he muttered.
The seaman handed Max a flask with brandy in it. “Drink this, sir.”
“Perks of almost drowning? What’s your name?” Max asked the lad.
“Archie – Archie O’Sullivan, sir. That was a hell of a stunt you pulled out there, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Max chuckled. “Some might consider it a stupid stunt. But I wasn’t planning to go down with that U-boat. Are you in the medical branch?”
“No, sir, but I was in medical school before I signed up. I hope to transfer to a hospital ship.”
“Good for you…” Max coughed, then rubbed his burning throat.
“I suggest you don’t talk much for a while.”
Max pointed to his throat. “Good idea. I’ll let the brandy calm this down.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes. Give me fifteen minutes alone, then send Romek to me,” Max answered.
After taking a few more sips of brandy, Max sat at the radio station and began to transmit Protocol B, then he waited patiently for a response. This message was going directly to Charlie and Heller at MI6, and both men would know exactly what to do when they received the coded phrases.
When Roger – received came back a couple of minutes later, Max went to the bench seat, sat down, and put his feet up.
Romek entered the cabin, already undressed with a grey blanket wrapped around his naked body. His lips were blue, but he looked happier than he’d been for a long time and even gave Max a friendly smile. “Now, I’m satisfied. Finally, I’m doing something productive. This is what I call contributing to the war effort.”
“It didn’t go completely as planned,” Max said hoarsely with a wry smile, “but it was as near as damn it, when you consider I might have been on my way to Berlin or the seabed, by now.”
While Romek was dressing in dry clothes, he said, “I’ve lost my handler. What now, Max?”
“I sent Protocol B to Charlie. We won’t know for a while whether the Abwehr believe the message.”
“Which was?”
“Simple. The Germans turned up at the rendezvous site. The meeting went well, and Horace had returned to the submarine with Matador when the U-boat apparently hit a mine and exploded. You don’t know what happened to the sub’s crew, but you’d like instructions on how to proceed in the event of Matador’s untimely demise.”
“You sent all that in a message?”
“No,” Max responded with a grin. “I sent a pre-arranged coded message, known as Protocol B, to instruct Charlie to trigger the text I’ve just related to you.” Max was worried that the cock-up might be much bigger than he wanted to admit to Romek. “The next few days will be crucial.”
“You mean if they contact me, I’m still in, and if they don’t believe it, they’ll be gunning for me and may even kill my family in Warsaw?”
“Something like that,” Max said with reluctant honesty. “I’m sorry, Romek, but everything depends on whether or not the sub’s captain transmitted it had been a successful mission before his boat was torpedoed. From what I overheard on the dinghy, my best guess is he did.”
A little while later, Max and Romek stood at the trawler’s bow as she entered Grimsby harbour. Max’s chest felt tight, but he’d already decided to get the first available train back to London.
He glanced at Romek, who looked troubled. Max surmised that his old friend was thinking about his family, but at this point he couldn’t say anything that might alleviate his concerns.
The meeting had not gone to plan, Max thought again, but it had been a win for the British. The Germans had not read the atmosphere correctly and were too trusting of Romek and Horace to anticipate such an outcome. But it had been a close call, a difficult mission that could have dire consequences for other British double agents.
Max studied Romek, who was staring at the black outline of the harbour wall with an unfathomable expression. “No point dwelling on it, Romek…”
“You should have gone with them,” Romek retorted. “What I wouldn’t have given for the chance to see the Nazis’ seat of power in Berlin. You could have brought back a bucket load of intelligence on factories and armament depos.”
“I disagree. It would have been a very bad idea.” Max had no intention of telling Romek why it would have been a disastrous plan; about his twin brother or any other member of his family. They were off limits, like many subjects between them.
Taken by surprise by Matador’s order that he go to Berlin, Max had given Romek the distress signal to let him know it was a no-go. Romek’s instincts had been spot-on, on two occasions: the first being when he’d pulled his gun out, and the second when he’d signalled to Max in the dinghy with the glinting metal, which had been a shiny new florin coin. Claiming he didn’t trust Horace had been a gutsy move and precisely the right thing to do. His unscripted actions had been flawlessly executed despite the tiresome personal issues between them. And, Max thought, more importantly, Romek had jumped into the drink to save his life.
“Look on the bright side, Romek. We now have one less German U-boat to worry about. This is a huge win. C’mon, let’s h
ave a mug of tea before we get in.”
“I hate your English tea. It’s like boiled piss,” Romek said, nonetheless following Max to the cabin.
Max hugged his warm cup – the British solution to all things, his mother always said. She was right in this case. It was certainly hitting the right spot.
Romek, sitting opposite, tapped his fingers against his tin coffee mug while staring fixedly at Max. “You could have died, flipping into that freezing water like that.”
“But I didn’t, thanks to you and the sailor.”
“Did I do well, Major?” Romek grunted.
“Yes, you did. We should talk about what happens when we get back to London…”
“Blah, blah, blah, not now. Whatever you want to tell me can wait until we get back to the house. I need fresh air. I’m going back up on deck.”
Max let Romek go without objection. He closed his eyes, his need to sleep immense. But then he remembered the envelope Heller had given him and got up to find it in his wet trouser pocket. ‘Don’t read it until you get back from the mission, that’s an order,’ Heller had said. Well, the U-boat was gone and with it the operation. End of Mission.
He looked at the envelope with Max handwritten on it. The paper was soaking, so he carefully peeled the envelope away from the one-page letter inside. At least the paper was in one piece.
The ink had run into a few words, but they were still legible. He laid the page flat then read the smudged lines.
From Major Bernie Blackthorn. Classified
To Jonathan Heller
cc Major Vogel.
Excerpt of report from agent …. Report dated, March 7th, 1942.
Upon our arrival in … we were informed by the leader of the … that Klara Gabula had accidentally been killed. We were shown the grave and I later confirmed her death to the appropriate section in London.
During our stay, I overheard a conversation between two Frenchmen, during which they contradicted the cause of agent Gabula’s death. Subsequently, agent … and I secretly exhumed the body to find a gunshot wound to the corpse’s temple. It is, therefore, most likely that Gabula was murdered by … or someone in his group.
In order not to disrupt our alliance, we did not reveal our discovery to the person or persons we believe were involved in the murder … please advise.
Max read it twice more. Tears of rage smarted his eyes. He was so furious, his fingers trembled as they made a clumsy attempt to fold the piece of paper and replace it inside the envelope. As shocked as he was, he couldn’t admit to being surprised by the terrible news. Darek, now with SOE, had once mentioned that Duguay did not forgive errors. The Pole had gone as far as to say he was scared stiff of the Frenchman. All names, places, and groups in the message had been redacted, but it was evident that the agents were referring to the Communist Partisans, Duguay, and the farm where Paul had been held.
A wave of bile rose in Max’s throat and then spewed from his mouth before he could get to the fire bucket. He wiped his lips with the back of his shaking hand, feeling more disgusted with the part he’d played in Klara’s death than the puke now staining his fresh clothes.
Chapter Fifty
Max Vogel
After attending a meeting with the Twenty Committee and representatives from MI5 about Max’s semi-successful or semi-failed mission, Max and Heller retreated to his office with their tails between their legs and glasses of Scotch in their hands. The top brass had thrown Romek’s double agent status into disarray, and Heller was fuming.
“I knew it. I bloody knew someone would take Romek off me,” Heller said, tossing his whisky down his throat and then refilling his glass.
“It was only a matter of time before MI5 claimed him, Jonathan. And to be fair, the running of double agents based in Britain doesn’t fall within MI6’s brief anymore.”
“I despise these brusque changes. There’s too many of us, Max. If you ask me, the authorities have gone completely overboard in their organisational zeal. Every damn week the Twenty Committee is fighting with MI6, MI5, and the B1A subcommittee over one agent or other, not to mention those secretive, think they know-it-all people in the Wireless Board sticking their noses in. This is Churchill’s fault … sweeping into office and amassing Intelligence Services like a kid in a bloody sweet shop.”
“I disagree. We have the Prime Minister to thank for SOE and the Twenty Committee. The German’s can’t touch our extensive intelligence apparatus, and it’s all down to Mr Churchill’s perseverance. We have to move with the times, Jonathan.”
“Oh, I’m all for moving with the times, Max. It’s the speed and direction we’re taking that’s got my hackles up. You wait and see, Romek will probably go to MI5, then SOE will get him or he’ll eventually end up being smuggled into Poland to the Polish Free Army. It’s like a damn game of chess.”
Heller went into a desk drawer, brought out an antique brass match striker and vesta holder in the shape of a boot, and a fat half-smoked cigar. He struck a match, then took his time lighting the cigar whilst peering at Max through the smoke, “It’s a pity you had to kill Matador,” he eventually said.
Max disagreed. He was irritable because of his superiors’ unwillingness to give any credit to the men who’d performed admirably on the trawler. Thus far, he’d kept his temper in check, but he was coming perilously close to losing it now with Heller. “Would you have preferred it if had I gone with him to the U-boat?”
“I would have preferred it had you refused to get off the trawler. Look at you, you’re no good to me sneezing and blowing your nose every two minutes. You could have got yourself killed.”
“Is that all you can say? It would have been better, Max, if you’d been blown up on a German U-boat, or better still, had the Germans shot you for not getting on the dinghy … bloody charming.”
“Watch it, Max.”
Max swallowed the remains of his Scotch and his retort, then slammed his empty glass on the table. “You weren’t there, Jonathan. Had you been, you’d have seen that Romek and I did the same as you or any other agent would have done. The Twenty Committee agreed with our actions, as did MI5, apart from that upstart who looked about twelve. You seem to be the only other bugger who disapproves with how we handled it.”
Heller got up, cigar still stuck between his fingers, and crossed to a filing cabinet. He opened a drawer, took something out, and then slammed the drawer closed. When he came back, he tossed an envelope on the table. “Forget the mission for now. We might have bigger things to worry about than Romek’s cover being blown. While you and he were away, Mrs Mullins intercepted this letter when it was delivered to the house.”
Max took the letter out of the envelope and raised a questioning eyebrow when he saw a white twenty-pound note in its fold, stamped S&Co. “What the devil has Selfridges department store got to do with Romek? Do we know who sent it?”
“We traced the note back to a woman named Likla Nowak. She’s a Polish national, and records show she purchased the note.”
“Has she been questioned?”
“No, but we know where she lives. MI5 are keeping her under surveillance, hoping she’ll lead them to an answer. Has Romek ever mentioned her to you?”
“No, never heard of her.” Max turned the rare note in his fingers. “Romek is a lot of things, Jonathan, but he’s not duping us. He’ll have an answer for this.”
“I’m not convinced. The money is going to him for a specific reason. She didn’t send him this out of the goodness of her heart.”
Max shrugged. “Maybe the Poles are wooing him for information about what we’re up to?”
“Bribing him, more like. I don’t give a damn if the Poles are our allies, if Romek’s double crossing us he’ll be punished, and so will the Poles.”
Max was uneasy about Romek and national security being mentioned in the same sentence, but he was unwilling to get drawn into a game of supposition. “Why do you still have the letter?”
“Because you’re going
to reseal it and hand it back to Mrs Mullins, who will, at some point, tell Romek it’s just arrived for him. Then we’ll wait to see if he tells you about the money or makes a move in another direction.”
“If he does, I’ll be ready.” Max eyed Heller as he topped up their glasses.
Heller was swaying in his chair, partly because he hadn’t left the building since the North Sea mission began and was dog tired, but also because he was drinking the whisky like water.
Max, forgetting about their little spat, smiled to himself. He was in the same boat. If he had another Scotch, he wouldn’t have the legs to make it to a bomb shelter if the sirens went off. Oh, to hell with it, he thought, accepting the refill. If MI5 were taking Romek off MI6, then he, the always-available-for-any-job Max Vogel, would be given a new case or mission. His life was about to change again, but at that moment he was officially off-duty. He deserved a night off.
“What are you going to do about Duguay?”
“You read it then?” Heller stubbed his cigar out.
“Yes. You can’t let him get away with murder. He’s got to be brought to justice.”
“We need him, Max. So, he can get away with it, for the moment.”
“Can I speak freely, sir?”
“You’re drinking my Scotch, aren’t you?”
“All right, then the first thing I want you to know is I’m glad to be getting away from Romek. The man saved my life, yes, but our relationship is no longer conducive to business.”
“Oh? Why do you say that?” Heller asked, his tumbler half way to his lips.
“It’s a long story.” Max swallowed uncomfortably. “I did a shitty thing to him by having an affair with his wife. We carried on for almost three years, and I finally came clean to Romek a few days before the mission.”
Heller wore a grim expression. “Does he know she’s dead?”
“No.”
“That’s something, I suppose.”
