by Alex Gerlis
The Swiss Spy
Alex Gerlis
The Author
Alex Gerlis was a BBC journalist for more than 25 years before leaving in 2011 to concentrate on his writing. His first novel, The Best of Our Spies (2012), is an espionage thriller set in the Second World War and like The Swiss Spy, based on real events. The Best of Our Spies has featured prominently in the Amazon bestseller charts and has received more than 270 Amazon reviews. His third novel will also be set in the Second World War and will be a sequel to The Swiss Spy. He is also the author of The Miracle of Normandy, published in 2014 as a non-fiction Kindle Single. Alex Gerlis lives in London, is married with two daughters and is represented by Gordon Wise at the Curtis Brown literary agency. He is a Visiting Professor of Journalism at the University of Bedfordshire.
List of main characters
Henry Hunter
Also known as Henri Hesse
Marlene Hesse
Mother of Henry. Formerly known as Maureen Hunter
Erich Hesse (deceased)
Husband of Marlene and stepfather of Henry
Louise Alice Hunter (deceased)
Aunt of Henry Hunter
Captain Edgar
British spy master
Hon. Anthony Davis
Cover name for Edgar
Patrick O’Connor Jr
Cover name for Edgar
Christopher Porter
Edgar’s boss
Basil Remington-Barber
British spy chief in Switzerland
Sir Roland Pearson
Downing Street intelligence chief
Madame Ladnier
Contact at Credit Suisse, Geneva
Sandy Morgan
British spy in Lisbon
Rolf Eder
Austrian, working for the British in Switzerland
Franz Hermann
Berlin lawyer and British agent. Codename Hugo
Frau Hermann
Mother of Franz Hermann
Werner Ernst
Generalmajor in German Army High Command
Gunter Reinhart
Official at the Reichsbank, Berlin. Married to Gudrun
Rosa Stern
First wife of Gunter Reinhart. Married to Harald Stern
Alfred Stern
Son of Gunter Reinhart and Rosa Stern
Sophia Stern
Daughter of Rosa Stern and Harald Stern
Alois Jäger
Berlin lawyer
Katharina Hoch
British agent in Stuttgart. Codename Milo
Dieter Hoch
Brother of Katharina Hoch
Manfred Erhard
Contact in Essen. Codename Lido
Gertraud Traugott (deceased)
‘Aunt’ in Essen
Telmo Rocha Martins
Official in Portuguese Foreign ministry
Dona Maria do Rosario
Secretary at Portuguese Legation in Berlin
Viktor Krasotkin
Russian spy master
Father Josef
Priest at St Hedwig’s Cathedral, Berlin
Michael Hedinger
Official at Bank Leu, Zürich
Anatoly Mikhailovich Yevtushenko
Russian émigré in Interlaken, Switzerland
Tatyana Dmitriyevna Yevtushenko
Wife of Anatoly
Rozalia Anatolyevna Yevtushenko
Daughter of Anatoly and Tatyana
Nadezhda Anatolyevna Yevtushenko
Daughter of Anatoly and Tatyana
Nikolai Anatolyevich Yevtushenko
Son of Anatoly & Tatyana
Contents
Prologue: London, 22nd June 1941
Chapter 1: Croydon Airport, London, August 1939
Chapter 2: London, August 1939
Chapter 3: to France and Switzerland, November 1939
Chapter 4: from Marseilles to Moscow, December 1939
Chapter 5: Switzerland, 1929–1930
Chapter 6: Switzerland, 1931
Chapter 7: Berlin, January 1940
Chapter 8: Geneva & Bern, June 1940
Chapter 9: Salzburg Airport, July 1940
Chapter 10: Stuttgart, July 1940
Chapter 11: Essen, July 1940
Chapter 12: Lausanne, Bern, August 1940
Chapter 13: Berlin, August 1940
Chapter 14: Berlin, January 1941
Chapter 15: London and Lisbon, February 1941
Chapter 16: London, February 1941
Chapter 17: Zürich, February 1941
Chapter 18: Switzerland, February 1941
Chapter 19: Berlin, February 1941
Chapter 20: Stuttgart, Zürich & Berlin, March 1941
Chapter 21: London, March 1941
Chapter 22: Portugal, Switzerland & Berlin, March 1941
Chapter 23: Berlin, March 1941
Chapter 24: leaving Berlin, March 1941
Chapter 25: the Black Forest, March 1941
Chapter 26: Munich and Stuttgart, March and April, 1941
Chapter 27: Stuttgart, April 1941
Chapter 28: Zürich, April 1941
Epilogue
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM STUDIO 28
Prologue: London, 22nd June 1941
‘It looks like it’s started. You’d better come over.’
It was dark in the room and he was unsure if the vaguely familiar voice next to him was part of a dream or was real and, if so, where it was coming from.
‘Are you there Edgar? Can you hear me?’
He realised he was holding the telephone in his hand. He must have picked it up in the middle of a dream in which he’d been surrounded by men even taller than him, all wearing black uniforms with gleaming smiles. The menace that accompanied them had suddenly vanished at the sound of a shrill bell and a man calling his name.
‘Edgar! Are you there?’
He switched on the bedside lamp and leaned back on his pillow. It was Christopher Porter. Annoyingly, his cigarette case was not on the table.
‘Yes sir.’
‘At last. I imagine I’ve woken you up?’
‘At two o’clock in the morning? Whatever makes you think that?’
‘You’d better come over. Looks like it’s all started.’
‘Not another false alarm, I hope.’
‘I don’t think so: you’d better come and see for yourself.’
He dressed quickly, not bothering to shave. Just as he was about to leave his flat he noticed a half-glass of whisky on the sideboard. He hesitated for a moment then drank it. If what Porter says is true, this may be the last chance for a drink for some time.
There was a light drizzle as he hurried down Victoria Street and by the time he crossed Parliament Square the rain had turned heavy, causing him to run down Whitehall. The city was enveloped in the darkness of the blackout, which meant he stepped in a few puddles. By the time he arrived at the entrance to the heavily guarded basement beneath Whitehall his light summer suit was quite drenched, his socks were soggy and he was breathing heavily. He joined a small queue of people waiting to be allowed in. The pervading smell was that of rain, sweat and cigarette smoke. He edged his way to front of the queue, ignoring the muttering behind him.
‘Who shall I say it is again sir?’ The army sergeant glanced anxiously at the men behind him.
‘I told you: I was telephoned just before and told to come here. I really do not expect to be kept waiting. You understand?’
The sergeant hesitated: he had strict orders about who he was to allow into the basement and what accreditation they needed. This man was trying to barge his way in. At that moment the door to the basement opened and a man tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Captain Edgar is with me: be a good chap and let him throug
h please?’
Five minutes later they had descended several flights of stairs and passed through a series of guarded doorways. Now they were on a narrow platform overlooking a large and brightly lit operations room, its walls covered in huge maps. Men and women in a variety of uniforms were either on the phone, writing on bits of paper or climbing ladders to adjust markers on the maps. Another platform to their left was crowded with senior officers.
‘So this is it sir?’
‘Seems to be: it all started just after midnight, our time that is. The Germans launched air raids against key targets in the Soviet-controlled sector of Poland. Soon after that their land forces crossed the border. Hard to be too precise at the moment, but everything we’re picking up seems to indicate this is a major invasion. Some reports say that over 100 German divisions are involved. Other reports say it could be nearer to 150.’
‘Reliable sources?’
‘Bletchley say they can barely cope with all the radio traffic: noisiest night of the war, they say. Plenty of good stuff coming through Helsinki too. The Finns are pretty much in bed with the Germans now as you know; wouldn’t be surprised to see them joining the party. They’re also well plugged into all kinds of sources in Russia. Close proximity and all that. Stockholm station is sending broadly the same message. Morgan sent three messages from Lisbon last night saying he thought it was imminent – two different sources apparently, one particularly good one in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.’
Edgar showed no reaction, as if nothing he was being told was news to him. He felt in his pockets and realised he’d forgotten to bring cigarettes.
‘What does the front look like?’
Christopher Porter pointed to an enormous map of Europe opposite them. ‘Starting up there in the north – where that red diamond is – they’ve certainly crossed into Latvia. Probably the 4th Panzer Group, we know they were in that area. Then all the way down the border, as far south as the Ukraine. Looks like the Romanians may be involved there, possibly the Hungarians too. See Brest on the map… there? That’s where the main thrust may well be, though it’s a bit early to say for sure. Between there and Lublin: north and south of the Pripet Marshes.’
‘Quite some front.’
‘Well, if they’ve really attacked from the Baltic to the Black Sea, that’s well over a thousand miles. Extraordinary if they manage to pull that off.’
Edgar stared at the map for a good five minutes. ‘He’s crazy, isn’t he?’
‘Who is?’
Edgar looked down at Porter, surprised. ‘Hitler. He’s left it far too late. Look how far they are from Moscow, over 600 miles. Talking of which, much noise coming out of there?’
‘Nothing official. Apparently there’s talk of their High Command having sent out some kind of alert about an invasion some three hours before the Germans attacked, but we can’t confirm that. Obviously didn’t have any effect. Certainly there was a very noticeable increase in radio traffic in and out of Moscow last night, but then we know the Soviets are prone to getting quite noisy every so often. All in all, it looks like they were caught by surprise.’
‘Well,’ said Edgar, removing his jacket, ‘it wasn’t as if we didn’t warn them.’
***
Chapter 1: Croydon Airport, London, August 1939
A shade after 1.30 on the afternoon of Monday 14th August, 20 people emerged from the terminal building at Croydon Airport and were shepherded across a runway still damp from heavy overnight rain.
They were a somewhat disparate group, as international travellers tend to be. Some were British, some foreign; a few women, mostly men; the majority smartly dressed. One of the passengers was a man of average height and mildly chubby build. A closer look would show bright-green eyes that darted around, eager to take everything in and a nose that was bent slightly to the left. He had a mouth that seemed fixed at the beginnings of a smile, and the overall effect was of a younger face on an older body. Despite the heavy August sun, the man was wearing a long raincoat and a trilby hat pushed back on his head. In each hand he carried a large briefcase; one black, one light tan. Perhaps because of the burden of a coat and two cases, or possibly due to his natural disposition, he walked apart from the group. At one point he absent-mindedly veered towards a KLM airliner before a man in uniform directed him back towards the others.
A minute or so later the group assembled at the steps of a Swissair plane, alongside a board indicating its destination: ‘Service 1075: Basle.’ A queue formed as the passengers waited for tickets and passports to be checked.
When the man with the two briefcases presented his papers, the police officer responsible for checking looked through them with extra care before nodding in the direction of a tall man who had appeared behind the passenger. He was also wearing a trilby, although his had such a wide brim it wasn’t possible to make out any features of his face.
The tall man stepped forward and impatiently snatched the passport from the police officer. He glanced at it briefly, as if he knew what to expect, then turned to the passenger.
‘Would you come with me please, Herr Hesse?’ It was more of an instruction than an invitation.
‘What’s the problem? Can’t we sort whatever it is out here?’
‘There may not be a problem sir, but it’d be best if you came with me. It will be much easier to talk inside.’
‘But what if I miss my flight? It leaves in 20 minutes.’
The taller man said nothing but gestured towards a black Austin 7 that pulled up alongside them. By now the last passenger had boarded and the steps were being wheeled away from the aircraft. The short journey back to the terminal was conducted in silence. They entered the terminal through a side door and went up to an office on the second floor.
Herr Hesse followed the tall man into the small office, which was dominated by a large window overlooking the apron and the runway beyond it. The man took a seat behind the desk in front of the window and gestured to Hesse to sit on the other side .
‘Sit down? But I’m going to miss my flight! What on earth is this all about? All my papers are in order. I insist on an explanation.’
The man pointed at the chair and Hesse reluctantly sat down, his head shaking as he did so. He removed his trilby and Hesse found himself staring at one of the most unremarkable faces he’d ever seen. It had the tanned complexion of someone who spent plenty of time outdoors and dark eyes with a penetrating stare, but otherwise there was nothing about it that was memorable. Hesse could have stared at it for hours and still had difficulty picking it out of a crowd. The man could have been anything from late-thirties to mid-fifties, and when he spoke it was in grammar-school tones, with perhaps the very slightest trace of a northern accent.
‘My name is Edgar. Do you smoke?’
Hesse shook his head. Edgar took his time selecting a cigarette from the silver case he’d removed from his inside pocket and lighting it. He inspected the lit end of the cigarette, turning it carefully in his hand, admiring the glow and watching the patterns made by the wisps of smoke as they hung above the desk and drifted towards the ceiling. He appeared to be in no hurry. Behind him the Swissair plane was being pulled by a tractor in the direction of the runway. A silver Imperial Airways plane was descending sharply from the south, the sun bouncing off its wings.
Edgar sat in silence, looking carefully at the man in front of him before getting up to look out of the window for a full minute, timing it on his wristwatch. During that time he avoided thinking about the other man, keeping any picture or memory out of his mind. When the minute was up, he turned around and sat down. Without looking up, he wrote in his notebook:
Complexion: pale, almost unhealthy-looking, pasty.
Eyes: bright-green.
Hair: dark and thick, needs cutting.
Nose at a slight angle (left).
Smiles.
Build: slightly overweight.
Nervous, but sure of himself.
A colleague had taught him this
technique. Too many of our first impressions of someone are casual ones, so much so that they bear little relation to how someone actually looks, he had told him. As a consequence we tend to end up describing someone in such general terms that important features tend to be disregarded. Look at them for one minute, forget about them for one minute and then write down half a dozen things about them.
A man who at first glance was distinctly ordinary-looking, who in other circumstances Edgar might pass in the street without noticing, now had characteristics that made him easier to recall.
You’ll do.
‘There are a number of things that puzzle me about you, Herr Hesse. Are you happy with me calling you Herr Hesse, by the way?’ As Captain Edgar spoke he was looking at the man’s Swiss passport, as if reading from it.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ Hesse spoke with an impeccable English accent that had a hint of upper-class drawl.
‘Well,’ said Edgar, tapping the desk with the passport as he did so. ‘That’s one of a number of things about you that puzzles me. You’re travelling under this Swiss passport in the name of Henri Hesse. But do you not also have a British passport in the name of Henry Hunter?’
The man hesitated before nodding. Edgar noticed he was perspiring.
‘I’m sure you’d be more comfortable if you removed your hat and coat.’
There was another pause while Hesse got up to hang his hat and coat on the back of the door.
‘So you accept you’re also known as Henry Hunter?’
The man nodded again.
‘Passport?’
‘You have it there.’
‘If I were in your position Herr Hesse, I think I’d adopt a more co-operative manner altogether. I mean your British passport: the one in the name of Henry Hunter.’
