Carnival of Spies

by Robert Moss

  4 - The Walk-in

  It is not Germany that will turn bolshevist, but Bolshevism that will become a sort of national socialism...Besides, there is more that binds us to bolshevism than separates us from it. There is, above all, genuine revolutionary feeling, which is alive everywhere in Russia except where there are Jewish Marxists. I have made allowance for this circumstance and given orders that former Communists are to be admitted to the party at once. The petit bourgeois Social Democrat and the trade union boss will never make a National Socialist, but the Communist always will.

  -ADOLPH HITLER (1934)

  1

  Adam de Salis strolled up the Wilhelmstrasse towards the British Embassy. It was a warmish afternoon, and he had draped his topcoat nonchalantly over his shoulders. This, together with the brown trilby and, above all, the brown suede shoes, gave him a somewhat louche air, despite the perfectly pressed Savile Row suit and the monocle that swung on its cord above the third button of his waistcoat. Louche was the appropriate style for a foreign correspondent, de Salis thought. But while the nameplate on his door, a short canter south on the same avenue, blazoned the title of Fleet Street’s noisiest patriotic tabloid, journalism was only his part-time vocation. Adam de Salis, formerly Lieutenant Commander de Salis, R.N., was the chief of British Intelligence in Berlin.

  The ambassador’s Rolls was waiting at the main entrance to the embassy.

  Here comes the old fart now, de Salis thought as a peevish-looking man in a homburg hurried towards the car.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” said de Salis, touching the brim of his hat.

  The ambassador returned his greeting with the most distant of nods. He was the quintessential Foreign Office type, in de Salis’ estimation. In his impossibly grammatical missives to London, the ambassador frequently protested the use of his embassy as a post-box for messages sent in codes that he couldn’t read by people whose methods, he opined, were unworthy of gentlemen.

  The cable de Salis had in his pocket was flagged “CX,” which meant that it was for the personal attention of the chief of the Secret Service. De Salis had served under C. — a former admiral — on a dreadnought in the North Sea during the Great War, and he made use of the direct channel when he wanted to make a point.

  “How are you, Sandy?” he greeted the cipher clerk. “Still keeping the Fräuleins happy?”

  He handed over his text, which he had encrypted himself, and watched while Sandy transcribed it into another numerical code.

  He had taken some pains with this report.

  The main part dealt with the terrible fire that had gutted the Reichstag in the early hours of the morning. The Nazis had bagged a deranged Dutchman and were blaming the act of arson on the Communists. On that pretext they were rounding up thousands of their critics. In de Salis’s opinion, the whole business was a transparent hoax. He cited a curious piece of evidence. One of his sources, an elegant young ex-cavalryman who had ingratiated himself with Himmler, had been to a big party the night before, hosted by Hanussen, the Führer’s court astrologer. At the witching hour, the stargazer had gone into an apparent trance and announced to the throng, in a melodramatic basso: “I see a blood-curdling crime committed by the Communists. I see blazing flames! I see a terrible firebrand that lights up the world!”

  The Reichstag fire was a fraud, but in terms of British interests — so de Salis maintained — it had already had some useful effects. For years the Comintern had used Berlin as its forward command post. Now the Soviet cause in Germany was a busted flush. The Gestapo had hunted down that Bulgarian trickster, Georgi Dimitrov, and put away scores of his best agents. Some of the Westbureau’s secret files had fallen into Nazi hands, and de Salis was hoping to get a look at them through the good offices of the same friend who had told him about Hanussen.

  But the best thing about the whole episode, de Salis reported, was that it brought an end to a whole era of secret German-Soviet collaboration. The German General Staff had helped to install the Bolsheviks. The Soviets had returned the favour later on by assisting the Germans to rebuild their army illegally on Russian soil. In de Salis’s view, the greatest threat to the status quo was an alliance between Germany and Russia. Herr Hitler had put paid to that.

  De Salis knew that some of his colleagues at Broadway Buildings were less sanguine about developments in Germany. Colin Bailey, for one, talked as if Hitler were as much of a menace as the Communists. Hitler was a vulgar upstart surrounded by beerhall louts, no argument on that score. Not the sort of chap you asked to dinner. But de Salis had long contended that Hitler’s bad manners and his silly obsession with the Jews were no reason to neglect his usefulness in dealing with the main enemy. He felt completely vindicated.

  De Salis appended a shorter message, requesting the transfer of a new man to work in the Passport Control Office. Until recently, the passport office — a mile away from the embassy, at the other end of the Wilhelmstrasse — had provided satisfactory cover for British secret operations. Staff duties were relatively light, and the visa fees collected were a useful supplement to the niggardly budget from headquarters. Herr Hitler and his well-publicized views on the Jewish question had changed all of that. Every day, the passport office was mobbed by would-be emigrants, mostly Jews. A lot of them were Poles who had come to Germany because they thought they would be safe from pogroms. Some were bound to be Comintern agents. Normal business had been hopelessly disrupted. The passport office had been forced to hire local clerks, and who knew where that would lead? Some of the Jews were willing to pay almost any amount to get a visa for Palestine. The Firm operated on trust, not routine bookkeeping, and that trust was being subjected to new strains.

  De Salis dallied for a couple of gins with the naval attaché and walked out of the embassy into a powdery dusk. His flat was only a few blocks away. He had plenty of time for a bath before he dined with his latest conquest, an aristocratic lady who made up with experience for what she lacked in youth and enjoyed the most remarkable entrée into Berlin society. De Salis was separated from his wife, which allowed him an agreeable latitude in his extracurricular activities. He found it amusing that both the Russians and the Gestapo had drawn certain conclusions from his bachelor status and had sent young women — and occasionally young men — to try to take advantage of his presumed vulnerability. He had fallen for the oldest trick in the world once, just once. The girl was a stunner. When she did her hair a certain way, you might have mistaken her for Marlene Dietrich. In the act of love, she had shown him things even he had never imagined, and he had discovered reserves of stamina he had never known were there. He was horny for her at breakfast, in the middle of the day, at teatime, like a randy teenager.

  She had come to him in the most banal way, looking for a job as a stringer with his newspaper. She was too perfect, in bed and everywhere else. He must have realized what she was, but he did not admit it to himself till he woke in the middle of the night after hours of lovemaking and found her rifling his safe. She got away, and though he put traces out for her he never found her. Her last name was phony, of course. But perhaps not the first name. Helene.

  He was thinking of her now, as he turned off the Wilhelmstrasse, heading east, when he sensed that he was being watched. He made a few detours and reversed direction abruptly in front of a department store. He failed to spot anyone. All the same, he decided to turn down the steps of a Bierkeller. Frequented by minor officials from the government offices along the Wilhelmstrasse, it was almost deserted at this time of day.

  De Salis settled himself in a booth by the far wall and ordered Berlinerweisse. In his first years in Berlin, he had found the taste of the raspberry syrup in the pale lager offensively sweet. It had grown, like the city, to suit his palate.

  A big man in a raincoat came in and surveyed the rows of trestle tables. His eyes fastened on de Salis’s table. Then he moved off to the right, slowly circumnavigating the room.

  De Salis marked him discreetly. Fair hair. Six-two, maybe
six-three. Built like a prize fighter, though the face was alert and intelligent. He was good looking in a primitive sort of way, de Salis thought. The type Lady Chatterley would go for. Not the sort you would want on your tail in a dark alley. Not a Slay. Almost certainly a Hun, or perhaps a Scandinavian. He might be from Himmler’s mob — they had put a tail on de Salis once or twice.

  The Englishman raised his newspaper like a rampart.

  He expected the stranger to seat himself at a strategic remove, somewhere between his table and the door. There were plenty of empty seats.

  To his surprise, the man walked up to his booth.

  Bloody cheek, de Salis thought. He must be Gestapo. Russian agents tend to show a bit more form.

  “May I?” The stranger gestured to the bench opposite.

  “Be my guest,” de Salis said smoothly. He did not look up from his paper.

  “Do you know Richmond-on-Thames?”

  De Salis put aside his paper and gave the stranger a closer inspection. The man spoke passable English. There was a touch of the East End in his voice, on top of that Germanic rumble. There was nothing shifty about those eyes.

  De Salis thought, he looks at me as if he knows me.

  “I’ve been to Richmond,” de Salis conceded. “But how did you know I was English?”

  “Your clothes.” The stranger’s glance encompassed de Salis’s bold pinstripe, the watch chain across his vest, the violet silk handkerchief exploding from his breast pocket. “Only an Englishman dresses like that. Do you know the Richmond Theatre? I have friends there. Actor friends.”

  “Really?” The Englishman’s tone was neutral.

  What is this? he asked himself. Another provocation? Perhaps the bugger was merely rough trade, the kind that thought that anyone who went to a public school was a pederast.

  “I saw a first-rate production of Candida, by George Bernard Shaw, in Richmond last summer.”

  The fellow was getting tedious.

  “Look here,” said de Salis, “this is all frightfully interesting, but I’m afraid I have a date.” He folded his newspaper.

  “I do wish you’d stay, Commander. I promise not to detain you for long.”

  De Salis raised an eyebrow at the use of his old navy rank. “You are Commander Adam de Salis, M.B.E., D.S.O.”

  “You seem to have me at a disadvantage, my dear chap. But since you mention it, it’s a C.B.E.”

  “Our records must be out of date. I congratulate you.”

  “Perhaps you’d care to introduce yourself.”

  “I am a major in the Red Army, currently assigned to the Comintern in Germany,” Johnny said in an undertone.

  “I thought your lot had all scarpered after the Reichstag fire.”

  “Not quite all. As you see.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I am in a position to supply you with certain information. Extremely valuable information.”

  “You intrigue me, Mister — er—”

  Johnny did not fill in the name.

  “But perhaps I should warn you,” de Salis resumed, “the rag I write for is pretty stingy about paying for stories.”

  “Can we stop playing games? I’ve seen your dossier.”

  “Might I ask where?”

  “At the British section of the Westbureau, here in Berlin. You were also pointed out to me once at a nightclub, by a friend of mine called Max. I imagine you have a file on him somewhere. You probably know him as Andre, or Andre Bloch.”

  The mention of this alias excited de Salis. He knew that a man code-named Andre was one of the most dangerous Russian agents in Europe, responsible for the murder of several British operatives. He had tried repeatedly to run Andre to ground. Instead, the Russian — or so de Salis suspected — had planted a female spy in his own bed.

  De Salis tried to keep up a mask of indifference. This could be another of Andre’s tricks.

  “Could you be more specific about this information you are willing to part with?”

  “I can give you the names and whereabouts of the principal Russian agents in Britain. I can give you a complete description of Communist sabotage units and the underground organization that is working to incite a mutiny in the Royal Navy. I created them myself.”

  To de Salis, a former navy man, this was pure gold. He knew that C. would feel the same way. But he kept his guard up.

  “What about Andre? Can you give me Andre?”

  “That, too.”

  The German spoke quietly, but something flashed in his eyes. Pure hatred, de Salis thought.

  Dammit, the Englishman told himself, I’m going to push my luck.

  “Do you happen to know a woman called Helene?” He described her quite vividly.

  “No.” The German touched his collar, as if it were too tight for him.

  Is he holding something back? de Salis asked himself. Of course he was. He’d be an idiot not to. But perhaps the girl was too much to hope for.

  “I don’t suppose you’re doing this for love,” de Salis suggested.

  “I have made a list of conditions,” Johnny said. “They are not for negotiation.” He brought a copy of a German paper out of his raincoat. It was the Völkischer Beobachter, the most vicious of the Nazi hate rags. He slipped it under the table, onto de Salis’s lap.

  “You realize I’ll have to consult on this.”

  “Of course. Your people will need to check my credentials. You will find something in there—” he angled his chin toward the paper he had slipped to de Salis. “You may also tell them that when I landed in England in 1931 I used a passport in the name of Ludwig Dinkelmeyer.”

  “That may help.”

  He’s a professional, de Salis told himself. No doubt on that score.

  The German was rising from the table.

  “Wait a bit, won’t you?” de Salis appealed to him. “How can I contact you?”

  “You can’t. I’ll contact you.”

  “What do I call you, for God’s sake?”

  “Call me Johnny.”

  “Is that German?”

  The big man smiled. “As German as possible.”

  2

  “Thank God.”

  As Johnny closed the door behind him, Sigrid threw herself into his arms. He caressed her hair and felt her tremble against him. Her face was burning.

  “You’re running a fever,” he said gently. “I’ll put you to bed.”

  “I was scared for you, Johnny. I had a premonition—”

  “I’m here.”

  “They took Mailer,” she told him, shivering. “I saw them from across the street. There was a police informer, in a hood so I couldn’t see his face, jabbing his dirty finger at the people they dragged out of the bar. They took nearly everyone.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “I was told to meet a man.”

  “What man?”

  “Someone from Max.”

  Always Max, lying in wait at every turning. My nemesis. You took Helene, he addressed Max mentally. You won’t take this one.

  “Was the man there?”

  “I can’t say. I didn’t see him. I went to Münzenberg’s place, but the police were there too. I didn’t know where to turn. So I came back here.”

  It was his turn to say, “Thank God.”

  I’m not going to lose you now, he promised himself.

  She sat on the window seat, swaying lightly as she talked, as if she were trying to keep her balance in a driving wind. The amber light from outside made a soft aura around her head and shoulders. In the penumbra of the room, her lips were purple, almost black, dark as the plums he’d so often stolen from an orchard on boyhood outings to the country. This mental association tugged at his heart, because it brought with it images of a parallel life they had never shared, a life that had room for children’s laughter, and the smell of new-mown hay in the sun, and the heart’s leap at the sight of a wisp of smoke from their own chimney as dusk settled over the fields. It was
the life he had denied her, the life she might have had with a different man. It was the ordinary life of ordinary people, and at that moment, in that occupied city, he yearned for it with every fibre of his being.

  “Listen to me,” he said to her. “I think I’ve found a way to get us out. It may take a few days. You must stay here. Don’t go out, not even for groceries. I’ll take care of everything.”

  She tried to argue, talked of duty and responsibility.

  “Half the people we know are under arrest,” he reminded her. “Most of the others have fled or turned into snitches for the Gestapo.” This was reasonably accurate. Gurevitch, the Fourth Department chief, had gotten out the same morning. He had told Johnny that Max Fabrikant had slipped away to Copenhagen on the eve of the Reichstag fire, alerted by a sixth sense or, more likely, by information from his own spies which he did not choose to share with those who depended on him. “It’s all falling apart,” Johnny went on. “Trust me. I’ll get us out of this.”

  He carried her into the bedroom and tucked her under the covers.

  “I’ll make you a toddy,” he announced.

  “There’s only one medicine I need.” She opened her arms to him, and he made love to her slowly, tenderly, till a warm tide swallowed both of them.

  When she fell asleep, he sat up in a chair beside the bed, watching her.

  Helene was wrong, he told himself again. We are still the same.

  Later, in another country — in England, perhaps, or France — he would be able to explain everything to Sigrid. It would not be easy, he had no delusions about that. It would take time for the wounds to heal, time for understanding to grow. He imagined the conversation they might have if he simply announced, “I’m working for the British.” She would spurn him as a traitor, and until two weeks ago — until he learned how Heinz had died — he would have agreed with her.

  He would have to begin by explaining, painstakingly, everything along the road that had led to this tremendous watershed in his life. He would have to describe the macabre dance of death he had helped to lead, of revolutionaries betrayed by the corruption and stupidity of their commanders. He would have to show her the proof that men who paraded as paladins of the anti-Fascist cause were secret collaborators with the Nazis. He would tell her why Heinz had died — because he cared more about fighting Hitler than about licking Stalin’s backside — and who had killed him.