by John Gardner
In some ways it was even more claustrophobic than the flat.
For two days nothing happened. Then, after dinner on the third evening, George was asked to attend a meeting in one of the bare conference halls which the others called schoolrooms.
Ramilies was there; and two others: a rabbity little man wearing old-fashioned pince-nez on a black ribbon, who went by the name of Fenice; and a giant, florid of complexion, called Leaderer.
Fenice had got out of Paris three hours before the Wehrmacht moved in, and for some years before had been a peeping Tom on behalf of HMG. In short, spying on his own successive governments and their diabolically subversive handling of the military.
Leaderer was to become a legend—strange how, in a world of secrets, so many people become legends. Flamboyant of manner and dress (he favoured ginger tweeds, which matched what little of his hair remained), Leaderer was already well known in the capitals of Europe, where he had served out most of the thirties as a foreign correspondent for one of London’s major newspapers.
Ramilies introduced George as “Our Nostradamus expert.”
“Speaks French like a native, you say? That’s what I’m interested in.” Leaderer grinned and patted the pockets of his vast jacket.
“Yes, you come well recommended in my language.” Fenice had the unnerving manner of looking at your left ear as he spoke. George remained nervous of Fenice for the whole time he was at the Abbey. Now the Frenchman was rattling off questions in his own tongue. It was easier than George expected. Maman again, he thought.
Then Leaderer shot him some remarks in immaculate German—immaculate in that he spoke with a perfect Berlin accent. George just about kept up.
This went on for about fifteen minutes. Everyone appeared happy. Fenice even repeated, “Bon… bon… bon…” a number of times.
“Let’s get on with it then.” Leaderer lit a pipe of immense size, to match his personality. “The Rammer here has a tale to tell, young John Thomas.”
“George.” George had never been one for bluff and hearty men.
“All Thomases’re John to me, sonny.” Sandy Leaderer disappeared behind a smoke cloud.
The story—which Ramilies told with that same air of authority George remembered from his lectures at Oxford—began in the first few weeks of the war. It also started, if not in the Third Reich’s corridors of power, at least in one of their master bedrooms.
The club-footed Reichsminister of Propaganda, Paul Joseph Goebbels, was peacefully asleep in his bed. His wife, the Frau Doktor Magda Goebbels, was awake and reading a book titled Mysteries of the Sun and the Soul by Dr. H. H. Kritzinger. The book included a chapter on the interpretation of the Nostradamus quatrains, and one of Kritzinger’s interpretations made direct reference to events which would bring about the final noteworthy change of dynasty in Britain. The quatrain in question seemed to fit the tenor of these very days.
Magda was so startled by what Nostradamus had written that she woke her husband. Goebbels, being the shrewd man he was, decided that Nostradamus could be of value to the war effort on the propaganda front.
“Can you guess the quatrain, dear boy?” Ramilies gave George the fish eye he knew well from Oxford days. It meant George was the star pupil and should now show off. Woe betide him if he screwed it up.
George was delighted. He didn’t even have to think. The hours of memorising and study paid off. Downay had a lot to say about quatrain number fifty-three in the “Third Century.” Who could tell, thought George, if he had cribbed it from Kritzinger or vice versa.
He trotted it out and elaborated by saying that it implied Britain would face a great crisis in the late 1930s; the crisis would be with Germany, at the same time as a similar crisis concerning Poland.
Seven times you will see the British nation change.
Dyed in blood for two hundred and ninety years.
Not at all free through German support,
Aries fears for the protectorate of Poland.
The astrological mathematics were not easy, but it all made sense. Ramilies looked pleased; Fenice raised an eyebrow; Leaderer inhaled, spluttered, and then looked around for his gin.
Goebbels had immediately set about using Nostradamus for the greater glory of the Third Reich.
“Astrology,” observed Ramilies, still playing the lecturer, “is very much a going concern in Nazi quarters these days. I am given to understand that even the beloved Führer is an apostle—though who knows what we should really believe?”
Astrologers and followers of the occult had not always had it easy under the Party. Many of its main exponents in Germany had been put in the bag at one time or another. Recently though, if Ramilies’ information was correct, most of those left alive had been sprung. There was word that Goebbels had some tame stargazers in his employ.
It was indisputable, however, that, before the Blitzkrieg, the Luftwaffe had dropped both genuine and bastardised copies of selected quatrains on France to discourage the defences. The prophecies claimed that France was doomed and had no hope of beating back the invader—that Hitler would inevitably be the new, and greatest, world leader.
Astrology was also being used on the home market. A Party-inspired magazine called Zenit published propaganda under the guise of scientific astrological predictions pointing to the final supremacy of the Master Race. Hitler’s destiny was foretold in the stars.
The occupied countries were getting the same medicine. It would seem that the success of the war, the Party, and its leaders was clearly there—in the heavens for all to see; and already these stellar signposts had been outlined by the greatest prophet of history: Michel de Nostradame.
George latched on. “So our job’s to fight fire with fire?”
Leaderer gave Ramilies a quick look, asking if he could take over. The Rammer nodded. “Winston,” Leaderer spoke as though he were on drinking terms with the Prime Minister, “has given the order—Set Europe Ablaze. Lots of people getting ready to do that. Give ’em a spot of the terrorism. Organise an underground. We have a different task. We have to go for their minds.”
They were not concerned with what he called “the straight, clandestine graft.” They were to dabble in the arts, which were already being called Black Propaganda (“Not off the ground yet, but Winston feels we’re on the right tack”).
Leaderer revealed that he had some warlock working for him, perched on the cliffs near Dover running a radio coven. Even now they were beaming broadcasts into France, the purpose of which was to spread alarm and despondency, discontent and uneasiness, among the occupying forces.
The wireless warlock had, like Leaderer, been active on the foreign desk of a daily: Germany, Austria, and other points. He was causing mischief by giving peculiar English lessons to the Wehrmacht: teaching them to say The invasion barges are burning well, and The SS Sturmbannführer is nicely on fire. Not subtle, but effective.
There was more subtle stuff in the pipeline. A wireless station, near the one already operating, would purport to come directly from somewhere near Calais. Leaderer said that it would pose as a regular station catering for the Wehrmacht in France. It would broadcast genuine news items (“We’re getting the stuff from Berlin as quickly as their own newspapers. Silly buggers; the Nazi foreign correspondents. Left their ticker machine behind in London”), very good music—the best and most up-to-date in Europe—and the occasional tidbits with an edge to them.
“Like putting razor blades in cream buns.” Ramilies sounded most unpleasant.
Leaderer nodded. They were getting the ideas together. Things which, if fed through as disguised news asides, would cause malicious discomfort. Tales about the Gauleiters back home getting more rations than the civilians; stories of bribes, reports of the Führer awarding decorations to gallant doctors and nurses fighting cholera epidemics in Berlin, or the “safe” areas.
The station was to be called Soldatensender Calais. They hoped it would have an operational life of at least a year.
For a moment it was a charmed circle, while the three magi sat and looked at George. Ramilies broke the spell with a clearing of his throat: characteristic—two notes, one rising, the other a thump. “One of the things we have in mind for Soldatensender Calais…” He let it hang for a moment. “A rumour, tittle-tattle, backed up with some of Nostradamus’ famous quotes. A rumour that Himmler is out to give Hitler the order of the boot.”
George admitted later that he should have known then, because, at Oxford, Ramilies always coughed and weighed his words like that when he was about to spread fertiliser all over you.
“Putting the SS in the ascendant,” Fenice mused. He appeared to be lost in admiration for his own feet.
George tried, vainly searching for a better tag. “Set dog against dog.” He knew it was lame and that Ramilies would cap him.
He did. “Take but degree away, untune that string, and hark what discord follows.” Shakespeare had said it all.
It would, they claimed, make the Wehrmacht twitchy. The Wehrmacht was twitchy about the SS at the best of times. If they played it right, the idea might even sow dissent into the heart of the Nazi Party, right where the power was.
“And most of it will be done from long range.” Fenice fiddled with his pince-nez.
“This astrological rubbish…” Leaderer appeared embarrassed about even touching on the subject.
Ramilies stepped in hastily. “We feel that the whole thing could be backed up.” Once more the sinister pause. “It could benefit with some planted astrology.”
“Astrology being the popular science of the Party,” Fenice added.
Ramilies went on, fast. “Such as Nostradamus having already prophesied the fall of Hifter and the rise of Himmler.” He repeated the name Hifter to make sure George followed him.
George felt suddenly at ease and confident. He had seen enough of battle. Now, the idea of sitting here in the Abbey, or at Leaderer’s warlock’s coven near Dover, concocting phoney quatrains and horoscopes appealed to him. “You want me to make some adjustments,” he said.
“Sort of.” Ramilies did not look at him.
Later, George confessed that he should have known then, but they were all so full of the idea—of broadcasting the stuff on the fake wireless station—that it did not enter his mind.
He should have known then. He should have known that something was up when Ramilies said he was looking peaky. Too much study. Need to clear your head, Leaderer added. Fenice said something about getting the body muscles prepared for the brain work.
He should have known when they sent him off to the Strength Through Joy camp in Scotland with its exercises, dirty fighting, and even radio procedures.
Big Herbie ran the tape on. George had a lot of anecdotes about his time in Scotland and there was nothing of value there—except one reference to the fact that Maitland-Wood had visited him for a day. They were doing silent kills that day. Silent kills and evasion techniques.
Maitland-Wood suggested that Ramilies might want him to get some time in on simple ciphers: encoding and decoding.
Herbie ran the tape on to the point where they really laid the news on him, back at the Abbey.
George spent his Christmas leave in London. A sombre and austere festival in many ways, lightened by the fact that he stayed with an old girl friend from Oxford. She was called Heather Dare and was, therefore, subject to all the permutations of jokes concerning her name. Happily, she lived up to them.
He reported back to the Abbey on 2 January 1941, and was plunged straight into the cipher course. Basics only, together with some work on the Mark I portable transmitter, which packed into a suitcase and had been quickly developed for clandestine use within Hitler’s Fortress Europe.
He had his same old room, and the pile of books was redelivered. Procedure was just as strict: no talking about his work; no leaving the books unattended. But now there were some subtle pressures.
For instance, Ramilies took out at least one hour of each day, just talking to him. Slowly, the time spent talking with Ramilies lengthened. Mainly they spoke about the techniques of carrying out psychological upsets within occupied Europe and Germany. But slowly the scope of discussions widened.
Ramilies occupied a small, bleak room high up in the west wing. It was there, seated in aged armchairs—originally from the servants’ quarter—that the news was finally broken.
The only thing that was in any way new in the room was a small gas fire, recently fitted: two oars only, therefore not really warming unless you sat hunched over it.
“The adjusted prophecies,” the Rammer began one evening, when the wind rattled hard at his window and the cold seemed to blast its way through the casement. “Dear boy, you do realise that if they’re to take effect it’s no good letting them come out just from our one source—the wireless, Soldatensender Calais. To give real credence they’ve got to come from the inside as well. Pincer movement; don’t you see? It would be preferable if they seemed to emanate originally from one of the poison-dwarf Goebbels’ tame stargazers.”
“Asking a lot.” George was interested in the theory. “But how on earth could you do that?”
Ramilies leaned farther forward, hand to his hair, patting—a nervous gesture? It was certainly some kind of body signal which George had yet to divine. “Ah.” He sounded as though it was all very painful; as if someone should already have wised up George. “Ah, well. I have a taker over there, dear heart. Comfortably settled in. But we have our reservations about him. Nobody’s been able to test him out. Untried. Foreigner, of course, and that’s… well… We need someone with good cover—someone with him, working over there. In the lion’s cage. We—well I, actually—thought you might be the other one. Our taker’s the fellow at the Sorbonne—wrote the book—Prophet of Salon—Michel Downay. We’d like you to be his assistant. On the ground. In the field.”
21
ENGLAND 1941
THE DREAM ABOUT ACTING his own plays, single-handed in Lockhill Terrace during childhood, now became almost a nightly occurrence for George.
After putting the boot in, Ramilies left him in no doubt that this was the end product of all the training. There was a period of deep depression, after which George just did not have the time to worry about what might, or might not, happen to him.
Fenice ran through Michel Downay’s background and physical characteristics. Leaderer was over at the Abbey for long periods and, on one occasion, even drove George down to Dover to meet the warlock at the radio coven which was to become Soldatensender Calais. George thought most of the people there were like resting actors. There was an air of unreality about it all.
But that was probably his own safety mechanism. Already he was starting to remove himself from the persona of George Thomas, Oxford graduate, young officer, to the new one—Georges Thomas, scholar, historian, student of the occult who had assisted Michel Downay at the Sorbonne in 1937-38 while he was working on The Prophet of Salon.
Fenice claimed to have known him well—Downay that is—and felt that he was probably clean. “He spoke to me many times about how he could help France. Because of his leg he could not fight.” Fenice had only just got out in time. Downay had sent messages with him. He would help in any way. He would even infiltrate the enemy if he could.
There had been more messages, via the Swiss route and, mainly, the Breton fishing boats. Though the latter was dicey. As Ramilies said, “If they picked up one message, Downay was blown. They could have turned him around.” As the messages were usually long and detailed letters, only one going astray would have been necessary.
Downay’s last contact had asked for assistance, and details had been sent in. via a pianist in Austria. For pianist read radio operator. Downay claimed to have been approached by Goebbels and the SS. (“Double top,” said Leaderer.) Ramilies had told him to expect the arrival of his old colleague Georges Thomas. Georges would send him a telegram to say he had decided to come and help. Downay would have to stall both Goebbels�
�� people and the SS, whom he said were asking him to go to Berlin.
“Told him to say he’d written to you in your hidey hole of a village near Compiegne. We’ll see to the telegram and we’ve already installed a pianist for you in Paris.”
The network, if that is what it was, had been coded Stellar. There was Caspar and Melchior. The pianist was Balthazar. Object of the exercise—to place subversive horoscopes and phoney Nostradamus quatrains into the mouths of senior officers. Split the leaders; set the SS more at loggerheads with the Wehrmacht than it was already.
Ramilies worked daily on the quatrains with George. Once they had been placed, Balthazar would signal back and the same bits of astrological garbage would be mentioned by Soldatensender Calais.
That was all straightforward enough. What worried George was the fact that he was a guinea pig. “If we’re being set up, they’ll put me in a dungeon, bleed me dry about what covert assistance we’re organising, then bury me.”
“Quite possible, dear boy. But you don’t know anything, do you?” Ramilies licked his lips and gave a thin smile. “Yes, it’s possible that Downay is neither Snow White nor any one of the seven dwarfs. On the other hand, we must act as though he is absolutely honest. Honourable intentions and all that. It’s unlikely they’ll clobber you fast. They’ll play you out to start with. So you, George—or may I call you Georges?—must play him.”
“I’m a bloody tethered goat.”
“Something of the sort, dear heart.” It was their operation: a kind of a means test. George realised that this was part of the job. He was to check the temperature; be a water diviner who might get lost down the well if it turned out to be poisoned. It was part of the game.
In the second week of February, they told him it was time for the off. There was little more they could do to help him now.
Except for Ramilies.
On the night before the first attempted landing, Ramilies locked George in with him; in the monastic bed-sitter perched among the eaves of the west wing. There, he began to deal out a whole new set of intriguing rules, which took into account the definite possibility of Michel Downay being a plant, ready to sell them down the river.
