by John Gardner
C’s reply was to the point:
WILL MEET YOUR POSSIBLE ASSET IN BASLE OCTOBER FOURTEENTH AT NOON STOP RV HOLBEIN ROOMS IN KUNSTMUSEUM STOP HE WILL CARRY A COPY OF BAEDEKER STOP I SHALL CARRY COPY OF THE TIMES OF THIRTEENTH OCTOBER STOP I SHALL APPROACH HIM AND ASK QUOTE DO YOU ADMIRE HOLBEIN END QUOTE STOP HE WILL RESPOND I PREFER THE ELDER TO THE YOUNGER STOP HAVE TODAY POSTED YOU HORNET AS ASSISTANT PCO MUNICH UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE STOP YOU WILL TRAVEL TO BASLE AND STAND OFF WHILE I MAKE CONTACT STOP IF HAWK FAILS TO ATTEND THIS RV SEVER ALL REPEAT ALL CONTACT STOP CSS STOP.
Caspar turned the page. What followed was a long report flagged CSS only. It turned out to be the previous, long-dead C’s personal report on what occurred on October 14, 1938 in the Holbein rooms of Basle’s famous Fine Art Museum.
As Caspar read, so the years slipped back. He could even see his old Chief, looking drawn and slightly haggard as he had done in the last autumn of his years.
Chapter Thirty-one
Even in the passage of less than a decade, the style of the document seemed almost clumsily outdated. It was certainly genuine – Caspar would have known the neat hand of his old Chief anywhere. He paused, reminding himself that he must be suspicious at all times. So it was either genuine – as he believed – or a very good forgery.
The date stamp, faded from a worn ink pad, was October 23, 1938, and, from the prefix, the papers appeared to have been filed, under a miscellaneous batch of classified documents in the Foreign Office Central Registry.
The cover was flagged red, while the number and heading showed that the series of files, from which this had been taken, would never be released to the Public Records Office. The fact that they had been moved under a Foreign Office heading indicated that they were knowingly tucked away, far from the reach of prying eyes. Certainly no passing historian or researcher could have easily laid his hands on these dozen or so sheets of folio.
The whole thing was handwritten, showing that the author had made certain no typist would see the pages, which were headed ‘Most Secret, Private Report by C regarding Operation Antennae.’ It began with a brief preamble in which the then head of MI6 stated he had destroyed an original sealed letter left in his safe, giving instructions should he meet with an accident – deliberate or otherwise – during his journey to Switzerland.
As his eyes raked the pages, Caspar still smiled. His one-time Chief’s report read almost like a Boy’s Own tale of derring-do, the broad subject of which was made plain in the first sentences – the detail clear only if you had studied the series of cables passed between Hornet and the CSS. Even then, there was no mention of Hornet’s real name. Caspar had only the current C’s word that the man was one Nigel Mannus.
‘I set forth on this operation, which I have dubbed Antennae for obvious reasons, without speaking to any other serving officer or committing notes to paper,’ it began. ‘There are three reasons for this. First, it is not seemly for the CSS to be involved, alone, operationally in the field. Second, we are in profound need of another reliable source of intelligence within the Nazi camp. Third, I have an intuition that Hornet’s possible source will become useful. This last reason is probably why I have not confided in another soul. Intuition, I have learned over the years, should never be a guiding force in matters of intelligence or strategy. So no harm will have been done if I return empty-handed. I refuse to become a laughingstock in those areas of Whitehall which, of late, appear to have become a slough of despond.’
So it started, followed up with a crisp statement of what precautions he had taken – ‘Being of reasonably sound mind, and knowing the devious ways of the Nazi Secret Service, and their Gestapo, I realised this might well be a method of entrapment. This is why I made certain the meeting with Hawk was to take place in the open. For the more private consultation I had in mind, Berne was alerted and instructed to leave their safe house ready for use from 15th onwards. The Head of Station, and his deputy, in Berne, had no idea who would be using their premises, and they were ordered to stay clear.
‘On 14th, as arranged with Hornet, I presented myself at the Museum and was in the Holbein Rooms on the dot of noon. Alas, Hawk did not appear until almost quarter past the hour. He was obviously being very careful, but carried his Baedeker prominently.
‘I waited for a few moments to assure myself that he was not being followed, and was pleased to catch a brief glimpse of Hornet. All seemed to be clear so I finally approached Hawk in front of Holbein the Younger’s Christ in the Tomb. We exchanged the arranged greeting, and I was glad to see he gave me only one quick glance.
‘Hawk is a tall man – six feet or so – well proportioned and very much the old-style Prussian in manner and bearing – right down to the duelling scar stitched along his right cheek. He, naturally, wore civilian clothes and was very definitely edgy. At first I did not know whether to take this as a good or bad omen, but made my little speech as quickly as possible, ordering him to be in the station buffet on Platform One at Berne Station at ten the following morning.
‘The next morning I stood off until I saw Hawk arrive on Platform One at the Berne Bahnhof, and waited for fifteen minutes to observe any suspicious movement among the usual throng of travellers. Hornet went into the buffet shortly after Hawk. This was a good move on his part, as it would not only give the man confidence, but also make certain I was safe.
‘I made my approach as soon as Hawk was alone at his table. I went over and sat down, ordering coffee. Then I quietly told him to follow me when I left. He proved to be no fool, merely nodding, as though I had asked him if I was on the correct platform.
‘By noon we were together at the safe house.
‘Almost immediately it was clear that the man had his mind set on coming to England as quickly as possible. Unless he is a consummate liar, he regards the Nazi Party with great contempt. “They are fanatics, followed by hoodlums,” he told me. “The German people have been betrayed and will be dragged into a march of folly. We live in a country run by arrogant, ruthless men who see themselves as Germany’s saviours.”
‘He said he hoped that I was not taken in by the so-called Munich treaty. There will be war within the year. It appears that he was in Munich during the meetings and recounted to me a story he heard from one of his brother officers who was in the company of Herr Hitler and the porcine Goering after Chamberlain had left. Goering, it appears, asked his leader why he had signed such a stupid piece of paper, to which Hitler replied, “Well, he seemed such a nice old gentleman, I thought I would give him my autograph as a souvenir.” I tend to believe the story.
‘For the first hour he almost pleaded with me to take him straight-away to London, so I knew it would prove to be a difficult piece of work to persuade him to stay on as our man. Eventually I cut him off short, subjecting him to a long, though friendly, interrogation concerning his background and present situation.
‘He gave me positive proofs that he held the rank of Hauptsturmführer in the SS – which is roughly the rank of Captain, going by Army equivalents – and is on Himmler’s staff. He also brought some of the documents he had promised.
‘They make grim reading. Already the SS has set up several camps – Concentration Camps, they call them. I presume they had the idea from us, for I recall reading of the Concentration Camps we set up in South Africa during the business with the Boers. The Nazi versions are supposed to be places of correction for those who are criminals. Yet the term criminal appears to go further than theft, fraud, murder and the like. Most of the unhappy inmates have either spoken out against the Party or are members of some minority group. He showed me a photograph of one of these camps, high barbed-wire fences, guards, dogs, and a sign in ironwork over the gate saying Arbeit Macht Frei – “Freedom through Work.” Yet I cannot believe that many of those incarcerated in these places will ever see freedom again. They belong, in the main, to classes unacceptable to the regime – gypsies, homosexuals, some religious sects, certainly many Jews.
‘The wre
tches who are imprisoned suffer greatly at the hands of their guards, and are used as slave labour. The punishments are apparently brutal, and the photographs and papers are enough to show this is true.
‘As for his claim that there is a plot to enslave, and possibly murder all Jews in Germany or annexed countries, there is no proof. Hawk claims that he has heard it spoken of, but, I suspect, only in abstract terms. Certainly there has been strong anti-Semitic feeling in Germany for some years, and evidence of unjust oppression, but I really cannot accept the idea that the Nazis would even attempt a kind of genocide. After all, we are in Europe, it is the twentieth century, and society has long freed itself from barbarism.
‘I asked Hawk about his prospects in the SS, and he became very alarmed at this hint that I might leave him in Germany. I boxed mighty cleverly, for he is on leave in Switzerland and could easily make a run for it – France is so close. For right or wrong I persisted, and he said he dreaded the thought of where the SS would take him. He is frightened of being put in charge of one of these camps, I fear, so I changed the subject and asked about his own connections within the Party he sought to betray.
‘He has what appears to be a mistress – a Fraulein Bauer who is a personal friend of Hitler, and almost a part of his court. He then told me certain things which have not been passed on by any of our own people. It seems that the picture we have of Hitler the ascetic political man with high moral ideals, is simply an image fostered by propaganda. I was amazed, almost shocked, to hear there was a scandal in the late ’20s concerning his niece, a girl called Geli Raubal, with whom he had a long – possibly incestuous – relationship, and who committed suicide because of him. There have also been many love affairs, and he has a mistress, a Fraulein Eva Braun. Why have our own sources not reported this? Hawk says it is common knowledge within the SS and among Hitler’s circle. We should have been apprised of this information through our embassy officers long ago.
‘I pressed harder and discovered that, because of Hawk’s attachment to this Fraulein Bauer, he has a stepping stone into the circus which surrounds the German leader. I decided to sleep on this and ponder.
‘Hawk stayed in the house with me, for we talked until late, resuming again after we had cooked ourselves breakfast the next morning. By this time a plan had formed in my mind and I went for him like a bull at a gate.
‘First I asked him what his motives were in wanting to come to England. He replied that he could not stand the Nazi regime and wished to fight it, which played straight into my hands. “If you really wish to fight Hitler and the Nazis, then you must fight from within,” I told him.
‘He seemed to be taken aback at this, asking how he, a mere Captain in the SS, could fight back? I then explained. He was silent for some time – most of the morning in fact. Later he came to me and said of course I was right. To flee was cowardly. If I really thought he could help, then he would assist in any way I suggested. It then became all too obvious that he is a very frightened man, for he immediately stipulated a watertight private circle of knowledge regarding the gathering and passing on of intelligence by him.
‘He will work to me alone, at the moment, though I have explained he must do it through Hornet, who will act as a cutout. It took some time to convince him this was the only way it could be achieved. But I have given my word that no other person will be informed of his true identity.
‘We talked together at great length, and it appears that – as he has already indicated – he is gravely concerned in case he is posted to some SS Unit which calls upon him to show ruthless brutality. I told him that, if he is determined to assist us, he must at all costs keep his cover as a loyal SS Officer. I must admit that my blood ran cold when I heard of the oath he had taken upon joining this, so-called, elite force. The form of words is as follows –
I swear to thee, Adolf Hitler,
As Führer and Chancellor of the German Reich
Loyalty and Bravery.
I vow to thee and to the superiors whom thou shalt appoint Obedience unto death
So help me God.
‘Hawk also described other ceremonies which appear to show the SS as almost a religious society – there is even a form of catechism, their songs are like hymns, rituals abound and there are other binding oaths. The whole business smacks of a warped Jesuitical training, in which God and Hitler are mingled as one. It is blasphemous. I said as much to Hawk. He nodded, remarking that Himmler had been brought up as a strict Roman Catholic. Does the Reichsführer see himself as a kind of cardinal to Hitler’s Pope?
‘When talking of Hawk’s cover, I could only counsel him that, if he was to escape detection, he would have to do as he was ordered. “If they demand ruthlessness of you,” I said, “then you must show it. If fact you have to appear to be one of the most ruthless officers within the SS.”
‘He blanched at this, but I convinced him.
‘That night I put out a prearranged sign for Hornet to approach. He arrived at ten: thirty, and together we worked out a method of communication. I told Hawk that we required anything he could get hold of – particularly advance notice of Order of Battle; War Plans etc. Also any details – however trivial – of Hitler’s life and state of mind, plus those of other members of the Nazi hierarchy, especially his own chief, Himmler – Hawk calls Himmler “the chicken farmer.”
‘He asked what he should do if he was posted away from Berlin, or taken off Himmler’s personal staff. I instructed him that he should go on sending whatever intelligence he could. Then, as an afterthought, I said, “It might be interesting for you to tap into the Russians.” He had mentioned that he was on good terms with two officers from the Soviet Legation. Hawk asked if I really meant this, and when I told him, yes, he admitted that he had already been approached by members of the NKVD. The thought of working with the Soviets is really as repugnant to him as his present situation, but I see great opportunities here. He has agreed to appear interested if they make any further overtures, though I cannot understand why he did not report the earlier passes to his superiors, and said so. He answered that he was prompted by fear. “You do not seem to understand what horrors could be heaped on me,” he said. “If I reported the Russian approaches, the Gestapo would not think twice about investigating me – and that could truly mean a slow death, even though I was behaving with loyalty.”
‘We have agreed the following –
‘That Hawk shall be known under the code name Harold and will, until such time as it becomes difficult, send information on a twice-monthly basis. Hornet has arranged dead letter boxes for him – both in Berlin and Munich. I have placed Hornet in sole charge and made many reassurances that Harold’s intelligence will be seen only by me. Hornet will send it CX by the diplomatic bag, or King’s Messenger. We spent a day with him on the kind of cipher he should use, and he proved an able pupil.
‘Harold, as he is now named, will be my private source, and I write this simply for the use of any successor.’
The document was signed in C’s full name, followed by his title – CSS: Chief of the Secret Service.
Caspar glanced through the pages again.
So, he thought, by the end of 1938 the weakening C had a private agent within the Nazi SS and a young member of the SIS acting solely as his controller and cutout.
In the distance he heard the scratchy sound of Herbie’s records on the gramophone.
Caspar turned to the following pages, neatly divided into dossiers or sets of specific documents. The next one came directly from the SIS Registry, and was C’s personal analysis of intelligence which came, as he put it, ‘from a very delicate source.’ Some of these pages of intelligence analysis had obviously been sent on to C’s Deputy during times when C himself was either at home or in the hospital during 1939.
Caspar was about to read on when Herbie knocked at the door to tell him the evening meal was ready.
‘Come in, Herbie.’ Caspar beckoned the big German.
‘You are wishing to s
peak?’
‘Yes. How much do you know of all this business?’ He indicated the files.
Herbie shrugged. ‘I am office boy only. I fetch and carry. Arnie calls me a gofer, which is funny, yes? He say I gofer this and gofer that.’
‘You haven’t read these files, then?’
‘Me? No. I go blind, deaf, and dumb with files. I am like the four wise monkeys, ja?’
‘Three, I think.’
‘Four. I see no evil thing; I hear no evil thing; I speak no evil thing; and I screw no evil thing. So?’
Caspar allowed him a small smile.
‘There is food,’ Herbie said. ‘The girl who looks after us has made good meal. You want to go on reading or do some eating?’
Reluctantly, Caspar dumped the file into the large document case where it was usually kept. He locked it and carried it through to the dining room where the attractive redheaded girl was waiting to serve the meal.
For an odd reason, Caspar got the impression that she had been crying.
*
Summer had gone without the Symphony team even noticing. Arnold took the first possible train to Haversage the following morning, arriving at noon. He had telephoned ahead, from Paddington, so Sara waited for him with the car and told him the latest news as she drove the mile into the small market town, passing through the square with its statue of King Alfred – minus his axe which, it was said, had been taken by the Americans and carried by one of them onto the bullet-raked Juno beach during the Normandy landings on D-Day.
Sara chatted on as she manoeuvred the Daimler out of the town and up Red Hill to the gates of Redhill Manor. It was as Arnold got out of the car that he realised autumn was almost upon them. A breeze hit a pile of dry brown leaves, which whirled and rustled, reminding him of Roger Fry’s voice. There was something he should do about Fry, he thought.
‘Great surprise, Arnie.’ Sara came around to him and linked an arm comfortably through his. He felt the side of her body against him and thought, God, she’s over sixty yet feels as soft as a young girl. Looking down, he saw her eyes sparkling. ‘Naldo’s bringing his intended down later.’
