by Alex Gerlis
‘Papers.’
He handed over his identity card.
‘Where are you heading?’
‘The station.’
That seemed to satisfy the man, who did not press him.
‘Open the suitcase.’
He rooted around in it for a moment or two but again was satisfied.
‘Your watch.’
They’d be looking for the old man’s watch. His was fine.
The Gestapo officer seemed satisfied.
‘One last thing: let me see your wallet.’
Henry handed it over. He and Manfred had agreed it would be best to dispose of the Reichsmarks he had taken from the till. ‘You never know,’ Manfred had said, ‘some shopkeepers mark their notes or there could be specks of blood on them.’ Henry was certain there was nothing to worry about in the wallet, nothing that would arouse suspicion. He did have the slip of paper, with the name and address in Altendorf of his aunt, but that would appear as innocuous as all the other contents.
But it was as the Gestapo man handed the wallet back to him and told him he could go on his way that Henry had the most terrible thought. He remembered the slip of paper was not in the wallet: he had transferred it to his coat pocket just before he arrived in Essen the previous day. For some reason, he’d decided it would be safer there. And now it was in the blood-stained and perfume-soaked coat he’d abandoned and which there was every chance would be discovered. They would find the piece of paper and go to the apartment block in Ehrenzeller Strasse and start asking questions. The lady with the filthy apron in the next-door apartment would happily tell them about the man who had knocked on Gertraud Traugott’s door and who had been taken in by Herr Erhard at number 19.
His legs were shaking as he hurried to the station. The large station clock had edged past 9.10 and he could see steam billowing from the Cologne train on platform three. There was a good chance they would find the coat any moment now – maybe they had already found it and had already spoken with the woman at the apartments. Maybe they were on their way to the station. He knew he should go to the lost-property office to warn Manfred, but he also knew if he did so then he’d almost certainly miss the train.
There was movement around platform three, the guard was about to close the gate. Henry ran along and managed to squeeze through in time. He hopped on board as the brakes were noisily released and the train began to ease along the platform.
Every time he closed his eyes on the journey back to Stuttgart he saw Manfred: he knew he could have warned him and given him a chance to escape, but that would have delayed his own departure from Essen and put himself at risk.
Poor Manfred, he thought: a decent enough man whose remaining ambition in life was that he could take his suicide pill before the Gestapo got to him.
I just hope he manages it.
***
Chapter 12: Lausanne, Bern, August 1940
Henry travelled to Lausanne on Monday 5th August, following the long weekend to celebrate Swiss National Day the previous Friday. He took the early morning paddle steamer from Geneva and, when the Montreux docked in Lausanne, a gleaming black Traction Avant was waiting for him.
On the 20-minute drive to Lutry, the Alps rose high to his left, the lake sweeping below him to the right. That summed it up, he thought: caught between two powerful forces. Not unlike serving two masters.
It took the Citroën a further ten minutes to climb the steep road out of Lutry to an isolated villa high above the town. Henry was led through to a magnificently appointed lounge, with large windows offering sensational views of the lake. The furniture was of the best quality, along with magnificent carpets and cabinets containing enough silver to fund a war slightly smaller than the current one.
As with all his meetings with Viktor, it began with an embrace. As Henry extricated himself, he turned round to admire the room.
‘Bit luxurious isn’t it Viktor?’
‘The location is very discreet: that’s what matters.’
‘Do you lot own this?’
‘We borrow it from a good friend, synok. We have very little time for questions; we need to get to work.’
Henry ignored him and walked around the room, genuinely admiring it. A pair of chairs on either side of the fireplace appeared to be genuine Louis XV: Viktor told him he wasn’t permitted to sit on them. Someone brought in a tray of what smelled like proper coffee and he helped himself to a cup before sinking into a large armchair opposite Viktor, who had his brown leather notebook on his lap and was sharpening his pencil with a penknife, the shavings scattering on the precious carpet.
‘You’ve not heard from your Mr Remington-Barber yet?’
Henry shook his head. So did the Russian.
‘Strange. I’d have thought he’d have contacted you by now. As far as we can tell, you’re not being watched. You certainly weren’t followed today. He doesn’t seem to be very suspicious, does he?’
‘I’ve no idea, but maybe they’re unhappy about what happened in Essen.’
Viktor raised his eyebrows momentarily and looked up. ‘And what did happen in Essen, Henry?’
Henry took a deep breath. He had been dreading this moment. He wasn’t sure who he feared telling most: Remington-Barber or Viktor. He closed his eyes and carefully recounted the details of his trip to Germany. He had decided to leave nothing out: the killing of the old man in the shop and the fact his carelessness had almost certainly compromised Manfred. Viktor allowed him to speak uninterrupted, carefully taking notes. When he finished, there was a long silence, broken only by the sound of Viktor sharpening his pencil. Henry leant forward in his seat, his elbows on his thighs, staring down.
‘What’s the matter synok: you look bothered about something?’
‘He’ll be dead now, won’t he?’
‘Who?’
‘Manfred – Lido: do you think the Germans would have found him?’
Viktor shrugged. ‘I’d imagine so. Whatever we think of them, we can’t accuse them of not being thorough, can we? I’d be most surprised if they didn’t find the coat and that would have led to Manfred.’
Henry shook his head.
‘You seem to be upset?’ Viktor looked confused.
‘Well, I am actually, yes. He was a decent chap and it was my mistake that probably did it for him.’
‘He was a social democrat, Henry: their fate is to end up dead. And now he’s a victim of war. How do you feel about killing the man in shop? Has that upset you as much?’
‘Of course not: he was clearly a bad sort – a Nazi. I had no alternative.’
‘Indeed. I imagine it was somewhat easier than with the boy in Interlaken, or the puppy. That’s why we train you like that Henry, so you’re used to killing. As far as your Mr Remington-Barber is concerned, it’s your first.’
‘You think I should tell him then?’
‘Of course! It’s always good to have an agent who’s killed in the field. I’m not sure whether an English gentleman will approve or not, but he ought to be impressed with it. In any case, he may already be aware of it and it won’t look good if you don’t tell him.’
It was six o’clock now. Viktor checked back through his notebook, nodding his head at various points. He seemed pleased, though Henry knew better than to expect him to actually say he was. It was now Viktor’s turn to speak, in his deliberate and concise manner.
Listen carefully Henry: this is what’s expected of you.
We’re satisfied so far Henry, but there are many difficult days ahead.
It’s too risky for us to meet on a regular basis. We can keep an eye on you but we must keep these meetings to a minimum.
You must learn to operate on your own but to do exactly what we want you to.
It was a quarter to seven when Viktor finished.
‘I think we can risk driving you back to Geneva, synok. We now need to wait until Remington-Barber contacts you: I imagine that’ll be soon.’
Viktor stood up and embraced H
enry once more. The two men who had brought Henry to the villa had come back into the room. Time to go.
‘Before I go Viktor, there’s something I need to get off my chest.’
Viktor raised his eyebrows and looked at his watch, clearly irritated. ‘If you must: go on then.’
‘I just wanted to say I’m risking my life now. I’ve told you what happened in Essen. I’m not playing games. I know what I let myself in for, I realise all that. But there is something that’s made me very unhappy and I need to talk about it.’
Viktor shifted uncomfortably and looked at the two other men in the room. He nodded at them and they both left.
‘Go on, but make it quick Henry.’
‘I agreed to work with you – for you – because I believe in your cause: I see it as my cause too. You know that.’
Viktor nodded in agreement, unsure what was going to come next. Henry paused to compose himself.
‘I agreed to work for you because I was ideologically committed.’
‘We know that.’
‘And I still am. But now I’ve started to lay my life on the line, I can’t understand why we signed that bloody pact with them last year. I mean, they were meant to be our sworn enemy, they stood for everything we despise and now I have to get used to the fact they’re our allies, our friends even. That seems wrong to me. Whose side am I meant to be on now?’
Viktor sank back into his chair and motioned for Henry to do the same. He leant forward, placed his enormous hands on Henry’s knees, gripping them quite tightly.
‘What you must understand synok is that they’re not our friends. There is no question of that.’
‘But our allies? That’s bad enough… Perhaps even worse!’
‘Hardly even that. It’s a non-aggression pact Henry; that’s all – a matter of expediency. I shouldn’t quote Trotsky of course, but a couple of years ago he said “the end may justify the means as long as there is something that justifies the end.” That end is the victory over fascism and the triumph of communism. The pact is to buy us time to achieve that. Our feelings about them haven’t changed, but we need to be ready and this pact allows us to do that. It’s not meant to make us feel comfortable; it’s meant to protect us.’
‘Well, I do feel uncomfortable Viktor.’
‘And do you think you’re the only one?’ He gripped Henry’s knee so hard he winced in pain. His raised voice meant one of the men who had been sent out of the room popped his head round the door to check all was in order. Viktor stood up and leant over Henry, his hot breath was moist and smelt of alcohol.
‘We are not permitted the luxury of personal feelings or opinions: they are mere indulgences. Do you understand that?’
Henry edged back in his chair.
‘We do as we are instructed, all of us. Maybe we permit you too many bourgeois indulgences, synok. Have you forgotten? Never question; never discuss; never hesitate. You would do well to remember that more often than you evidently do. Otherwise, synok, you’ll be in a lot of trouble.’
***
Henry’s journey from Essen to Stuttgart had been uneventful and when he arrived at the Hotel Victoria late on the Thursday afternoon Katharina Hoch had not yet come on duty. She came up to his room later that night to collect her brother’s clothes and papers. She insisted he was not to tell her any details of the Essen trip. I don’t need to know anything else. Save that for Bern. They’ll want to know everything. He couldn’t decide whether she had any inkling of what had gone on in Essen, but if she did she gave no hint of it.
He had removed the Nazi Party membership badge he had taken from the dead man in the perfume shop from his lapel before arriving at the hotel. You never know, he thought. He hid it in the lining of his washbag.
She was right – Bern would want to know everything, though he could not understand why it was taking quite so long. Before the mission, Remington-Barber had told him he was not to initiate any contact when he got back to Switzerland. ‘Just wait, I’ll be in touch. Be patient. Apparently it’s a virtue.’
Henry had taken the Swissair flight from Stuttgart, which landed in Zürich just before 4.30 on the Friday afternoon, and had managed to catch a train straight back to Geneva. He was utterly exhausted. He had hardly slept for the past week: his plan now was to catch up on sleep that weekend. He assumed Remington-Barber would be in touch on the Monday, if not before.
But nothing: nothing on the Monday nor the following day. Nor the rest of that week nor, indeed, the following one. His visit to Viktor in the hills above Lausanne came and went, and it was the middle of August when he returned from his morning walk to be told by his mother that a messenger had come round from Credit Suisse. There was a letter.
‘Whatever can be the problem, Henry?’
It was from Madame Ladnier. Henry tried to read it away from the prying eyes of his mother, who was trying to move behind him.
‘I would like to meet with you today to review recent transactions. Two o’clock this afternoon, Quai des Bergues. Giselle Ladnier (Madame).’
At last. He felt relieved. His mother was looking at him anxiously, her eyebrows raised high.
‘What’s the problem Henry?’
‘There’s no problem mother, none at all. I have a meeting to review my account. It’s just routine.’
Madame Ladnier was calm and businesslike. Henry had arrived at the branch in Quai des Bergues at five to two and as the clock struck the hour above the cashiers’ counters Madame Ladnier emerged from a door and ushered Henry into a small office down a long corridor.
‘How are you, Herr Hesse?’
‘Very well, thank you.’ Do I ask about the delay, why I’ve not been contacted? Do I mention anything about Germany?
‘Good. Your account is in order. Please now take a few minutes to check your statements and initial each page to indicate you’ve read them.’
He scanned through the statements, initialling each page. There was no message for him on any of the pages as he thought there may be. He kept glancing up at Madame Ladnier, hoping for a smile or a nod or some acknowledgement of the situation, but she remained as impassive as one would expect of a Swiss bank official.
When he had finished, he returned the papers to her. She checked them and placed them neatly in a folder marked with his name.
‘Thank you very much for coming in, Herr Hesse. I’m pleased your account is all in order. I’d also ask you to take this pamphlet with you: it explains the various options should you wish to invest any of your funds with Credit Suisse.’
She had stood up now, preparing to leave the room. As Henry rose, she came around to his side of the desk and bent to pick up a piece of paper from the floor.
‘You appear to have dropped this paper, Herr Hesse.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Henry replied.
She handed him the small piece of paper, her gaze making it clear it was for him. It was a receipt from the cobblers in Bern where he had met Remington-Barber before the trip to Germany. Scrawled underneath the price of a shoe repair were the words: ‘Collection Friday 16th August, 1pm.’
Madame Ladnier held a long manicured finger over her mouth in case Henry was inclined to speak.
He left Geneva on the 9.30 train on the Friday morning and was in Bern in good time for his appointment on Kramgasse. There were no customers so he entered the leather emporium, where the cobbler glanced up and nodded, holding a few tacks between his lips and a hammer in his hand. He lifted the counter top and pointed the way up the stairs with the hammer. Basil Remington-Barber was standing by the window.
‘Good trip?’ He sounded as though he was enquiring after a holiday.
‘Well, all things considered, yes.’
‘All things considered?’
‘Well, considering I was sent into Nazi Germany then into the heart of the Ruhr carrying detonators concealed in my baggage, yes it was fine thank you.’
‘I’m not terribly sure what you were expecting old chap.’
‘… Which in a sense it was,’ said Remington-Barber. ‘Having said that, we’re hardly going to go to the trouble of getting you into Germany and take the risk of exposing some of our very few remaining agents there just as part of a simple training exercise for you, are we, eh?’
‘And the detonators?’
‘One of the purposes of your trip, Henry. I’m told we British make first-class detonators. We managed to get a few into Stuttgart at the end of last year, but we needed to move some to the Ruhr, which is where you came in. Evidently Lido did manage to pass on the detonators to another member of the cell the morning you left, so that is rather good news: with a bit of luck we may be able to do some damage there. Aerial bombing tends to be a bit hit and miss, but if we can actually plant something inside a factory or a coal mine – well, who knows?’
‘I think I ought to have been told a bit more about my mission before I was sent on it.’
‘Not sure it works like that old chap. Not to put too fine a point on it, you do as you’re told. You remember what Tennyson said? Theirs not to reason why. You’re one of the “theirs”, if you catch my drift.’
‘Yes, but what worries me is what he said in the next line: Theirs but to do and die.’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. No reason why it should. Now then, old chap, care to tell me about it?’
‘About what?’
Basil Remington-Barber stared at Henry for quite a long time, not in an altogether unfriendly manner, his eyebrows raised quizzically.
‘About what led to Lido being arrested and killed: and be a good chap and leave nothing out, eh? It’d be safe for you to assume that you were – how shall I put it – observed while you were in Essen. We have a good idea of what happened, even with that shopkeeper chap – but not all of it.’
Henry had already decided to explain what had happened, but confirmation that Manfred was dead caused Henry to swallow hard. When he regained his composure he began to recount the story in much the same way as he had with Viktor. Unlike the Russian, Remington-Barber interrupted him frequently, little questions to help him on his way or clarify a point. When he finished, he asked Remington-Barber what had happened to Lido.
