Our Friends in Berlin

by Anthony Quinn

  ‘What d’you make of Lang?’

  ‘You mean, as a colleague? Or a suspect?’ said Tessa, and allowed a silent beat to pass. ‘I don’t know. He doesn’t seem the type.’

  ‘Is there a type who passes secrets to Russia? I would have thought the great trick of the double agent is convincing everyone of his unlikeliness.’

  ‘Or hers,’ she said pointedly. ‘Did it cross your mind that perhaps –’

  ‘It might be you? I considered it – for about five seconds. No, Lang would be my steer. For one thing, his arrival here coincided with the first serious breach in years.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit too obvious?’

  ‘Perhaps. But sometimes it’s the things staring you in the face that are the hardest to see. I’ve warned Traherne, as I said. And you should keep your eye on him, if you can.’

  They had turned off the main thoroughfare and found themselves in a quiet little court. They could hear the life of the city going on around them, but no one else had intruded on the cloistered charm of the enclosure.

  ‘One other thing,’ Hoste went on. ‘A few weeks ago I heard that Heinrich Brunner was in the offing. Marita had a plan to smuggle him into London. Since then it’s gone rather quiet.’

  ‘You don’t think he’s in London, surely?’

  ‘Probably not. Gestapo agents have a low success rate in escaping detection, as you know. But this one is said to be exceptional.’

  Tessa looked consideringly at him. ‘I’ll put out a warning. We have people in the field who may know something.’

  They walked on and out of the court, then stopped again a few hundred paces from the office. Hoste checked the ticket that was still in his hand. He noticed the date the cleaner had written on it. 1/6/44.

  ‘Would you ever,’ he murmured. ‘It’s June tomorrow.’

  ‘Any day now,’ said Tessa, shielding her eyes as she looked at the blameless blue sky. ‘Let’s hope this weather holds for them.’

  Tomas, Marita’s cousin, had telephoned Amy proposing a day out with himself and Adam. They couldn’t do the weekend, so she arranged to take the Thursday afternoon off. There was talk of a visit to Madame Tussaud’s, where they agreed to meet at one. At the last minute Adam had to cry off and – another disappointment – they found Tussaud’s closed; workmen were still repairing bomb damage inside. It was a sweltering afternoon, so Amy suggested they go for a walk in Regent’s Park instead.

  ‘A pity Adam couldn’t join us,’ she said as they began making their way up the Broad Walk.

  ‘For you, perhaps,’ he replied with a sly smile. ‘For me – not so much!’

  The innocent flirtation of this both amused and slightly unsettled her. It was possible Marita had failed to inform her cousin that Amy was now ‘spoken for’, and that advances from interested gentlemen, however flattering, were not quite appropriate. She glanced at his face, noticing again the attractively angled cheekbones and the firm mouth. It would be ironic, she thought, to fall for someone just at the very moment she had committed to pretending she was unavailable. Or was she even pretending any longer? The other night would never have happened had she not agreed to the subterfuge. How funny to have shown up at his flat bedraggled like that, and how little she had suspected what might come of it. She hadn’t been able to think of anything else since.

  They had strolled towards the lake, and settled themselves on a bench. The warmth of the afternoon had slowed the city’s tempo. A mother with two children sauntered past, and Amy overheard her scolding the younger one in a heated whisper: ‘I told you, you should have gone before we came out.’ She smiled, and turned to Tomas to see if he’d heard, too, but he was busy searching for matches and his cigarettes. He offered one to her. The sun, bright all morning, had become quite fierce.

  ‘Flaming June,’ she said, squinting into the sky.

  Tomas looked at her. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Oh, just an expression. “Very hot.” It’s from a painting, I think, by – someone or other. Bobby would know.’

  ‘Bobby – is your brother?’

  She laughed. ‘No, Bobby’s a woman. Roberta. She knows a lot about painting. She’s rather a good artist herself.’ He nodded, expelling a lazy plume of smoke, and she added, ‘She’s in the WAAF now.’

  ‘The WAAF?’

  ‘Women’s Auxiliary Air Force,’ she replied, and he gasped out a laugh, covering his embarrassment: he hadn’t recognised the acronym. She asked him about his life before the war. He had been a student in Prague, and was training to be an architect when the Nazis arrived. He and some friends had managed to get out before the arrests started; he’d gone to Paris, lived there till 1940 and then escaped to England. He had trained as a pilot in Scotland. Amy asked him what it was like to fly missions, but he shook his head.

  ‘Enough. I want to know about you. Marita said you work in a “marriage agency” – is that the name?’

  She nodded. ‘We take on clients and introduce them to suitable partners. They pay a fee to register, and then pay again if they marry someone we’ve matched them with.’

  ‘And from this you make a life?’

  ‘A living,’ she smilingly corrected him. ‘Yes, we do. Fingers crossed. You’d be surprised how many people out there are looking for … someone.’

  ‘There are many lonely people,’ said Tomas, implying that he was not surprised at all.

  ‘That’s true,’ she replied.

  ‘And you? Marita said you have met a “very nice fellow”.’

  Her laugh hid a muddle of tenderness and doubt. ‘Yes, I suppose he is. His name’s Jack. I met him first by chance, years ago. He knows Marita quite well.’

  She glanced up at Tomas, who was attending to this with keen curiosity. She wondered if he was the sort who regarded a woman’s unavailability as a challenge. The sun’s glare was making her woozy; if she wasn’t careful it might boil her head, like an egg.

  ‘Shall we find somewhere a little cooler?’ she said suddenly.

  Tomas suggested they should go for something to drink. Once they reached the shade of the grand plane trees lining the Broad Walk her relief was palpable. The cafe was closed, however, so they walked on. As they emerged from the park and crossed the road, he briefly took her arm – a protective reflex that charmed her. At the top of Mornington Terrace they found a pub still serving the lunchtime crowd. Amy went off to the ladies while Tomas waited at the bar. In the mirror of the tiny WC she checked her face, flushed from the heat; her dress clung damply to her back. She seemed to be undergoing her own personal heatwave. She ran her wrist under the tap and held it against her forehead. That felt better.

  On returning to the lounge she saw Tomas talking to a little knot of soldiers at the bar. Spotting her across the room he gave a nod and broke away from them. He set down their drinks on the dimpled brass table – a lime cordial for her, a lager for him. Over his shoulder she noticed one of the soldiers gazing at them, openly, until he caught Amy’s eye and turned back to his fellows.

  ‘Been making friends?’ said Amy, gesturing with her eyes.

  Tomas, in the middle of taking a long gulp, made a wry acknowledgement. ‘They are on forty-eight hours’ leave. That means – well – something is going to happen, and soon. I asked them where they are stationed, but of course they would not tell me. Careless talk!’

  ‘I’m amazed you dared to ask,’ said Amy, accepting a light for her cigarette.

  He shrugged, and took a meditative drag on his Player’s. ‘Even if they had told me it may not signify anything. Perhaps they are part of the decoy operation. You have heard of it?’

  She shook her head. It was safer to deny particular knowledge, even though ‘everyone’ knew an invasion was coming. Months of rumour had prepared the way. She glanced over at Tomas: presumably he and his crew at the RAF base had already been briefed on their own part in the plan; and his admission that he would be back on duty this weekend indicated that the time was nearer than she thought. Maybe
nerves had prompted his question. So much hinged on the coming days. What had seemed a distant possibility for so long was about to take real, mortal form. When she had asked Hoste the other night if the Atlantic Wall could be broken he had replied, simply, ‘It must be.’

  Tomas was encouraging her to have a beer, but she stuck with the cordial: she had been drinking a lot lately, and something warned her she ought to keep a clear head. She watched him at the bar, among the soldiers again. Did she imagine it, or were they somewhat stand-offish with him now? – perhaps they didn’t take kindly to his foreign accent, or to his RAF uniform. She experienced a quick dagger-stab of sympathy.

  ‘Everyone’s being tight-lipped about it,’ she said consolingly, as he set down her drink. He looked at her, not understanding. ‘I mean, about Fortitude.’

  As soon as the word was out of her mouth she wanted to call it back. What was she thinking, dropping code names into a pub conversation? She looked away, thinking it might not have registered with him. When she lifted her gaze he was staring at her.

  ‘“Fortitude”,’ he repeated quietly. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I meant about the need for it,’ she said, despairing of her bluff. ‘Grit. Or “pluck” as we say in English. D’you know that word?’

  He shook his head. He seemed distracted, as though something was nagging at him. She couldn’t tell what it might be. Presently, Tomas looked at his watch. He rose, explaining that he had promised he would ring Marita at some point in the afternoon – she wanted to know his plans for the evening. He winked at her before he went off in search of the pub’s telephone.

  When he had gone she allowed herself to breathe again: she had got away with it. But how foolish to have nearly given the game away! Vigilant at all times – that was the rule, even among those you could count as friends. Thank God she had only let it slip in front of Tomas. Had it been Marita the mistake might have had consequences … She had been so preoccupied that she hadn’t noticed his return. He was beaming.

  ‘You must drink up,’ he cried, quickly downing his beer. ‘Marita has organised a trip for us!’

  ‘What? Marita has – ?’ She had not prepared for this.

  ‘Yes. I asked her what was happening and she refused to tell me. But she said “Make sure Amy comes with you!”’

  Amy looked at her watch. ‘I don’t know. I have things to do later …’

  But Tomas would not accept excuses. They were going to have a ‘jolly time’, he said, and Marita had insisted that she join them. He hurried her out of the pub and onto the street, overriding her objections. What on earth had she planned – and why could it not wait? A taxi was approaching, and Tomas let go of her arm to flag it down.

  It had come to a halt, its engine throbbing expectantly.

  ‘Tomas, I really haven’t the time –’

  ‘Oh, Amy, please,’ he said over her protests. ‘Marita will be so angry if I don’t bring you with me.’

  She could almost believe it. He held the car door open in eager invitation, and with a half-sigh she climbed in.

  Across town, Hoste was waiting at the counter of the cleaner’s in Victoria Street. The man he had dealt with flapped through the shop curtain, bearing his newly pressed jacket. ‘Very nice bit of cloth,’ he said, stroking a lapel. He indicated where he had made the repairs: the sleeve button wasn’t an exact match, but came near enough. ‘Looks good as new,’ said Hoste, which drew a quick smirk of satisfaction. As he was about to leave the shop the man called him back.

  ‘These are yours,’ he said, handing over a couple of items, one of them a box of Swan Vestas. ‘We always go through the pockets before we press ’em,’ he explained. ‘Them matches could start a terrible fire with the cleaning spirit.’ The other thing was a folded slip of paper, which he’d found in the ticket pocket. Hoste examined it for a moment; it must have been put there by Traherne, years ago, and forgotten about. Oh yes, they found all sorts in a gentleman’s pockets, the cleaner went on. ‘I once found a ring in this gown and handed it to my guvnor. Turned out it belonged to the Bishop of Westminster.’

  ‘That was very honest of you,’ remarked Hoste.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ the man shrugged. ‘I got a commendation for it. Though to be honest with yer, I’d rather have ’ad cash.’

  Out on the street Hoste unfolded the paper again. It was a laundry list from the St Ermin Hotel, just round the corner from where he stood – a favourite watering hole of the Section, though it hadn’t occurred to him that Traherne might also use the place as his laundry. He was about to discard it when he noticed in the margin a faint pencil-written line of numerals and letters. It looked like a cipher. Was that Traherne’s handwriting? He wasn’t sure.

  He put the list back in the ticket pocket, where it had lain hidden, unremarked. It was only when he was back in the office that he took it out for another look. He would drop it by the cryptanalyst department on his way out.

  An hour or so later Tessa Hammond stopped by his desk. She had been running checks on the most recent intelligence they had gleaned about Marita. Much of it had come from conversations between Hoste and Amy Strallen, which he would then write up in a report. The last of them dated from the night Amy had attended the party at Marita’s flat.

  ‘There’s just one query,’ said Hammond, riffling through the pages. ‘Strallen says she was introduced to Tomas Vachek, a cousin of Marita’s attached to the RAF. We checked the base at Norfolk, and they had no record of him. Then we ran it past every other base in the country. Nothing.’

  Hoste stared at her. Tomas – she had mentioned his name that night. He picked up the telephone and got through to her office in Brook Street. Miss Strallen wasn’t in, said the secretary. He asked to speak to Johanna, who told him that Amy had arranged to take the afternoon off.

  ‘I gather she’s meeting her friend’s cousin. A chap in the RAF.’

  In the cab Tomas at first kept up a stream of talk that seemed as much for his own diversion as for Amy’s. He apologised for springing all this on her but Marita’s will was not to be defied. ‘You know what she’s like!’

  Amy hadn’t heard the address he had given the cabbie but it was clear they were not going in the direction of Marita’s flat. They had flashed by St Pancras and King’s Cross and were now heading down the City Road towards Old Street. At one moment she glanced at Tomas, quieter now, his expression grimly focused on the gaunt, troubled streets. Shoreditch: unknown territory. Amy wondered now if she had been too compliant with him. She didn’t even know this man.

  A few minutes later the taxi made a signal and turned right into Curtain Road. It deposited them at the cobbled entrance to a courtyard, inside which an old red-brick paperworks was situated. Tomas paid the driver, then indicated that Amy should follow him. They entered the building, echoing and seemingly derelict, and began to ascend the wide stone staircase. On the second floor they found an office, barely furnished, wooden laths exposed in the wall. Through the far door was a small kitchen and an even smaller bathroom, which showed the rumpled evidence of previous occupants. The desperate shabbiness put her on guard.

  ‘What on earth is this place?’ she asked him. ‘Who lives here?’

  Tomas ignored her, and went around checking the windows. She thought he was going to open them – it was warm in there – but it seemed he wanted them kept closed. At length he said to her, ‘Have a seat.’

  She looked at him. ‘I will once you tell me what we’re doing here.’

  ‘All in good time,’ he said, and consulted his watch. His manner was no longer one of smiling flirtation; a brusqueness had replaced it. She had an instinct to walk out and leave him to it, but at that moment a slammed door was heard down below, then footsteps hurrying up the stairs. Tomas strode to the door and opened it in time to welcome Marita, whose expression was one Amy hadn’t seen on her in a while: her eyes were dark with fury.

  She stared hard at Amy before addressing her cousin. ‘Why have you brought he
r here?’

  ‘Because, my dear lady, she knows. You will perhaps find this hard to believe, but you have been taken in.’

  Then another grim astonishment leapfrogged that one: she and Tomas began talking, angrily, in German. Amy felt a sudden hollowing-out inside her chest. She looked to her friend. ‘Marita. What’s going on?’ Her voice sounded small, and anxious.

  Marita shook her head, slowly, sadly. ‘Amy … I cannot believe this. I cannot believe it – you, of all people.’

  ‘Believe what, for heaven’s sake?’

  Tomas interposed himself. ‘That you have been in conspiracy with Hoste – not, as Marita has long supposed, an Abwehr spymaster, but an agent of MI5.’ Amused, he turned from her to Marita. ‘Look how white she has gone! The game is up, Miss Amy Strallen.’

  Amy stared back at him. She briefly recalled his not knowing what the WAAF was, and the hostility of the soldiers in the pub. ‘Who are you?’

  He returned a pitying look, and glanced over to Marita. ‘Who am I? Only now do you think to ask the question! Obersturmführer Heinrich Brunner of the Gestapo. I am here by invitation of Marita, though of course I can hardly introduce myself in polite society.’

  At that she looked in appeal to Marita and saw in the bareness of her gaze the knowledge that Amy had played her false. The air between them seemed to bristle with questions – How had it happened? At whose instigation? How long had she been in cahoots? Underneath her fear Amy felt a thin cold trickle of shame, because she knew Marita had trusted her.

  Brunner continued. ‘I wasn’t sure of your involvement until you let slip the code name. The word has been coming up on the wires these last weeks, always the same. Fortitude. Fortitude. We want to know what it means.’

  There was a pause before Marita said, ‘There’s no use in asking her. How could she possibly know?’

  He frowned at this. ‘On the contrary, there is an absolute necessity in asking her. MI5 has been issuing a lot of noise about the invasion. Our intelligence indicates there is a dummy plan – we think it may be known as Operation Fortitude. Hoste knows of it. Therefore she knows of it.’