by Robert Moss
“Perhaps you could intercede for our dear hostess,” Bailey had suggested.
The Cambridge revolutionist had glowered at the Turner over the mantel. “In Russia,” he declaimed, “this house would be expropriated by the people and used to accommodate eight needy families.”
He had spoken with such utter lack of humour that Bailey had burst out laughing.
“It’s all very well for you to make fun,” the young man had said huffily. “The Establishment can afford a sense of humour.”
“My dear boy, it’s our last line of defence.”
“It’s obvious you’re a Tory.”
“I find politics rather a bore. But I’m against the revolution.”
“You mean the Russian Revolution?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I suppose you’re against the French Revolution too.” The Trinity man’s tone had been that of a prosecutor marshalling the points of an indictment.
“No question,” Bailey had countered blandly. “I don’t know if people still read Burke at Cambridge, but I think he polished off the French Revolution rather well.” He had been about to cite one of his favourite passages from Burke about the presumption of those “who think of their country as carte blanche, on which they may scribble as they please “—when Diana had decided to head him off at the pass.
“Actually,” she’d purred, “Colin doesn’t see the point of the agricultural revolution of four thousand B.C.”
On the way home, he protested, “I was just starting to enjoy myself.”
“Honestly, darling, one can’t take you anywhere.”
“I thought I was on my best behaviour.”
Diana started giggling. “You’ll cross swords with anyone, from Freddie the Fascist to the Trinity Terrorist.”
“They sounded pretty much the same to me.”
“Oh, Colin, be serious.”
“But that’s the point, my love. As I get older, I find there are only two parties worth a damn — the one that’s got a sense of humour, and the one that hasn’t.”
Bailey returned to the office shortly before six. The temperature had dropped, and the rain that had started coming down in mid-afternoon, as he left the club, was turning to sleet. Bailey crossed the road from the under-ground station and hurried up the steps of a greyish, undistinguished office block called Broadway Buildings. He had to squeeze through a crowd of shoppers and commuters taking shelter from the weather under the eye of a uniformed commissionaire on the other side of the glass doors.
The commissionaire opened the door for Bailey.
“Lift’s waiting, Major.”
Bailey took the reserved elevator that went direct to the fourth floor. According to the directory on the wall in the lobby, the tenant on that floor was the Minimax Fire Extinguisher Company. Bailey had always thought this a rather apt cover name for the Intelligence Service.
He found de Salis smoking a cigarette in C.’s outer office.
They had barely exchanged greetings when the red light above the padded door went off and the green light came on.
C. was engaged in mixing his staple draught: gin and bitters, diluted with soda rather than plain water. Bailey couldn’t stand the stuff. He asked for scotch, and C. produced a bottle from among the dummy bindings on the lowest shelf of his bookcase.
The office would have passed for a well-to-do, but quite unexceptional, Edwardian sitting room, except for the model warships in glass cases and the imposing iron safe in the corner. Bailey liked to fancy that inside that quarter ton of metal were things that could make the empire tremble, blood secrets from the time of Elizabeth and Anne and every monarch since.
“Well, Colin,” said the owner of the safe. “Do we have a verdict?”
“It’s not conclusive.” Bailey laid a hand on the tattered file, secured by ribbons, that he had brought with him. “We can’t match Adam’s chap up with anyone in our records. I did find a reference to a Comintern bomb-thrower identified only as ‘Alfred’ in the material we got from the French after that nasty business in Brussels. It may fit this chap. Or again, it may not.”
“What about the wireless traffic?”
“Nothing of interest.”
“What did the Sisters have to say?”
“On this occasion, the Sisters were quite helpful. It seems a Herr Dinkelmeyer did visit this country on the dates Adam’s man suggested. The Home Office still had the landing and departure cards. Special Branch reported a meeting between Jim Straw of the CPGB and an unidentified foreigner at King’s Cross Station. The foreigner gave them the slip. But he seems to match our man’s description. I gave Max Knight a few of the highlights from our man’s report on subversion in the armed services — edited of course — and he got quite excited. The names and addresses are right, and it all seems to fit the m.o.”
Bailey paused for a sip of whisky.
“Frankly, sir,” he went on, “it’s the connection with Andre Bloch that interests me. Or perhaps we’d better call him Max, since he seems to be running with that moniker now. What exactly did your chap say again, Adam?”
“He said he’d give Andre to us. Or words to that effect.”
“Only that?”
“I didn’t have time for a leisurely chat, Colin.”
“What do you suppose your fellow — Johnny — had in mind?”
De Salis thought about this for a bit. “There’s bad blood there,” he suggested. “I had the sense Johnny might be ready to have Max killed, even to do the job himself. I must say, I wouldn’t mind having a potshot at the bugger myself. At the least, I think Johnny can tell us where to find him.”
“I know where Max is,” Bailey said mildly. “He’s in Copenhagen, rebuilding his organization. And the last thing I think we should do is to have him killed.”
C. waggled his tufted eyebrows.
“What did you have in mind, Colin?”
“If we can play Johnny back against Max — and whoever else he reports to — we’re home and dry. With luck, we’ll know everything their lot is cooking up against us before they do any damage. Needless to say, Adam, I’m speaking on the assumption that your chap is genuine. The best way to find out for sure is to run with him and see how he performs.”
“In other words, you want to play him long,” C. suggested.
“I want to run him as an agent in place.”
“You don’t look happy, Adam,” C. remarked.
“I’m not at all sure Johnny will go for it. He’s suggested a one-time business arrangement. He gives us specified information, we give him enough money to retire somewhere in the sun. He says his terms are non-negotiable.”
“I find that most things in life are negotiable,” Bailey commented. “We’ll make him a counteroffer. He’s not likely to go shopping around for other bids, is he?”
De Salis was still reluctant to let slip his vision of a spectacular defection, complete with banner headlines and a roundup of Russian agents, bringing personal encomiums from a grateful prime minister.
“You realizes that Johnny may back off completely.” He appealed to C. with his eyes, but the chief was playing silent umpire now and seemed to think Bailey was winning on points.
“It’s a risk,” Bailey said. “I admit that. But my hunch is that your chap likes the smell of cordite, and might like a chance to get back at his own bunch if he thinks they’ve let him down badly. That’s what we can play with.”
“What are we going to pay him?” C. intervened.
“A hundred to start him off, and fifty a month if he produces,” Bailey said briskly.
C. noted the figures on a desk pad.
“Bit cheesy, isn’t it?” de Salis sniffed.
“It’s more than some of our chaps in the field are getting,” Bailey observed.
“There’s also the matter of the girl.”
“I hadn’t forgotten the girl. How much does she know about this?”
“All I know is, he wants us to help get her out of
the country.”
“Can’t he use his own network?”
“You don’t seem to understand, Colin. His network has collapsed, and the Gestapo could pick both of them up any day of the week. That’s one of the reasons he’s come to us.”
Bailey smoothed the hair at the back of his neck. “We mustn’t do anything to show our hand. Do you know what passport Johnny is using?”
“It’s Czech, I believe.”
“That makes things simpler. At a pinch, we’ll find a Czech passport for the woman.”
Bailey’s mind turned to a rustic inn near the Czech border, where he had lunched during a shooting holiday in Saxony.
“If necessary, we’ll point Johnny in the right direction. Once he’s out, I want to set up a meet. I’d like to take a look at this chap myself.”
4
Johnny decided to run on the day his photograph appeared on a wanted poster at the post office. It was an ancient picture; it showed a boy of seventeen in the uniform of a naval rating. He wondered where the police had dredged it up. The youthful face was hardly recognizable as that of a man now prematurely grey, weathered and scored by the life he had lived, and the caption identified him as “Johann Heinrich Lentz,” a name that few people in Berlin had ever heard. All the same, the photo told him that their time in Germany was up.
He had met twice with de Salis since the Englishman returned from London, full of promises but little hard cash. De Salis told him he would receive the bulk of his money when he was safely out of Germany and could be thoroughly debriefed. Nonetheless, de Salis tried to squeeze him for more and more information, especially about Max. The Englishman showed him a list of Russian names and asked him to talk about each one. He recognized most of them — OGPU and Fourth Department men — but he made the conscious decision to hold back. The British might be playing games with him, trying to suck him dry before they paid up.
At their last meeting, de Salis brought a passport for Sigrid. It was Czech not British, as Johnny had specified — and this was a source of new suspicion. But at any rate the passport matched his own. De Salis advised him that if he wanted to slip out of Germany without attracting unnecessary attention, he should make his way to an inn south of Chemnitz, near the Czech border. The mention of Chemnitz filled Johnny with black foreboding. It was at Chemnitz, ten years earlier, that the Communist Party leaders royally screwed up the Hamburg revolt.
“Is that all?” Johnny asked. “Just the name of a country inn?”
“Bailey says it will work,” de Salis said defensively. “Well, I’m glad I haven’t put you to excessive trouble,” Johnny parodied de Salis’s own style.
“We’re not babysitters,” the Englishman said huffily.
De Salis gave him a telegraphic address to memorize. It belonged to a Savile Row tailor.
“When you’re out,” de Salis instructed, “order a hacking jacket. Size forty-two if you’re in contact with the opposition, forty-four if you’re not.”
Back in the apartment, Johnny spent more than an hour getting his own passport ready for the trip. He had altered his appearance in minor ways, by dying his hair and putting on spectacles. He pasted a new photograph in the Czech passport to reflect these changes. To transfer the rubber stamp of the Czech police from one to the other, he used a hard-boiled egg. He peeled the egg while it was still hot from the pan and rolled it carefully over the original stamp until the imprint was transferred to the egg white. When he rolled the egg over the corner of the new picture, the stamp reappeared, only slightly paler. He then ate the egg for his breakfast. His job was clumsy compared with the work of the old forgery factory on the Lindenstrasse, but the Gestapo owned those premises now. It would do.
He showed both the passports to Sigrid.
“Brigitte Jelinek.” She tested the foreign syllables of the last name. “Yours is easier. Alfred Wittling. But it doesn’t sound Czech.”
“It sounds Sudeten Czech.”
“Aren’t all of them Hitlerites?”
“Not all. But I’ll practice being one for a day or two, if you don’t mind.”
He had explained the escape plan to Sigrid in some detail, letting her believe that he had got his directions from the Fourth Department. She approved the general idea and came up with a refinement that he liked. The forced inactivity of the past days had made her listless and depressed. The apartment had become a prison cell. Now, at the prospect of breaking out, she was as chirpy as a bird. She was actually singing when they boarded the train.
They had to change trains at Dresden. As the passengers came out of the cars, they were herded into line by black-uniformed guards. The nails of their boots clacked against the concrete. Johnny glanced along the platform. At the head of the line, a self-important SS officer was installed at a makeshift desk. A roll of fat hung over his collar like a dewlap.
Johnny squeezed Sigrid’s arm lightly, nudging her forward. He fell back a few paces. He doubted that his passport would stand up to close inspection. If he was taken, at least they would not be taken together.
She glanced back, doubtful and afraid, and a small vertical crease appeared between her eyebrows. He looked away.
The SS guards worried at the flank of the column, like sheepdogs.
He saw Sigrid shuffle to the head of the line, heard her laugh at the officer’s jokes. The SS man returned her passport without even opening it. Her looks were her safe-conduct.
The line shunted forward, then stopped.
The man in front of him was becoming agitated. He put his suitcase down, picked it up immediately, then dropped it again.
“What’s going on?” he appealed to Johnny. His accent might have been Polish. “Are they going to arrest us?”
The man was swarthy, with tufts of black hair on the back of his hands. The SS officer wasn’t going to give him the nod, not with that hooked nose.
“Will you carry this for me?” he mumbled, indicating the suitcase. It was the cheapest sort, cardboard, with a strap around the middle.
Johnny shook his head.
“I can pay you.”
“Keep moving!” an SS guard bellowed.
That instant, the Jew lost his sanity. He dropped his suitcase and dived over the edge of the platform. It looked like a bad fall, but he picked himself up and started scuttling across the tracks, toward the shelter of some freight cars on a siding.
The guard released the safety catch on his rifle and took aim. Two more SS men shouldered their way through the line and brought up their submachine guns.
“Not yet!” the SS officer bellowed. He strutted over to the edge of the platform, gauging the distance between the runaway Jew and the freight cars. When the Jew stumbled and fell across the tracks, the officer waited patiently as he struggled to get up.
Still on his hands and knees, the Jew looked back at the platform, puzzlement written all over his face. All was still, as if the whole scene had been captured under glass.
Then the guard nearest Johnny spoke. “Look at his fat rump. I could hit him with my eyes shut.”
“But we’re sportsmen, Frick,” the commandant said pleasantly.
He waited until his quarry was almost out of danger, until he had his hand on the railing at the back of the caboose, before he drew a bead along the barrel of his Luger and squeezed off a couple of rounds. His aim was excellent. The first bullet found its mark at the midpoint between the victim’s shoulder blades. As it crumpled, the body seemed weightless and insubstantial, an emptied sack.
The SS officer stuck his gun back into his holster and returned to business.
“Next!”
Several suspects had already been herded to the far end of the platform.
Johnny lit a cigarette. It pleased him that it took only one match.
“Next!”
He walked up to the desk.
“Papers!”
“Jawohl, Obersturmführer,” he responded, promoting the SS officer by at least two ranks as he offered his fake passp
ort.
“A shithead Czech,” the officer said with disgust, leafing through the passport. “You don’t look like a Czech.”
“I’m no shithead Czech,” Johnny replied in the same tone. “I’m as good a German as any. Heil Hitler!”
Reflexively, the SS man returned the salute.
“Sudeten. Well now, that’s different.” He returned Johnny’s passport. “You’ll be joining the Reich soon enough, Kamarad. Come see us again before we come to see you!”
The final stage of the train journey was uneventful. At Chemnitz they hired bicycles and pedalled south with backpacks and picnic lunches, like any number of ramblers in those first days of spring. The crocuses were out, and you could smell the sap rising in the forest.
They were close to the border when they found the rutted dirt road Colin Bailey had remembered. The inn at the end of the road hadn’t been discovered by tourists. They ate their lunch among local people, both Czechs and Germans. They didn’t hurry the meal. Johnny ordered dessert and liqueurs, although Sigrid only toyed with her main course.
Johnny finally paid the bill, and they slipped out the back way, through the owner’s private apartments. A schnauzer trotted out and snapped at their heels, but nobody came to stop them. When they walked out the back door, Sigrid froze. There, clearly visible above the pines, was the pointed roof of a watchtower.
“It’s all right,” Johnny said, clasping her by the waist.
“We just crossed the border. Half the inn is in Czechoslovakia.”
He tried to give the words a ring of triumph, and she let him press her to his chest. But the warmth of the spring afternoon was not inside him. They were out of Germany, but they had not stopped running.
At the end of that week a messenger from Colin Bailey’s tailors arrived at his flat with a box of detachable collars and a telegram, confirming his belief that the long-established firm of Plunkett & Rice was one of the most reliable institutions in England. The telegram contained an order for a hacking jacket and specified a forty-four chest measurement. It announced that forwarding instructions would be sent from Paris.
