The Swiss Spy

by Alex Gerlis

  ‘You left Essen on the Thursday. As we understand it, that evening he was pulled in by the Gestapo. Apparently they’d arrived at his apartment in the afternoon, turned the place upside down and were waiting for him when he got home. Thank heavens the detonators weren’t there. He was then taken to the police headquarters in Virchow Strasse.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘One of his neighbours: most likely the one you met. Half the neighbourhood heard what happened from her and one of our chaps there overheard it. As far as the police are concerned, they’ve pulled in a number of retired detectives while the younger ones are in the army and another of our contacts heard all this at the bar that they frequent. Manfred was at Virchow Strasse right through the weekend: the Gestapo gave him their standard working over. Not pleasant stuff Henry: they’re bloody barbarians. He was a bloody pulp when they took him to the Provincial Prison across the road on Zweigert Strasse. The Gestapo had another go at him on the Monday then, by all accounts, he died that night. Apparently they were due to give him another working over the next day. I suppose in one sense they didn’t kill him as such, but of course…’

  ‘Of course.’ Henry felt bereft. ‘Do you think I should have warned him?’

  ‘Well from what you say, you didn’t have time, did you? If you’d done that then you’d have missed the Cologne train and you weren’t to know how long it would take them to find the coat and the trail which would lead to Lido.’

  ‘Good Lord… I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Whatever they did to him, he didn’t utter a word: gave nothing away. If he’d sung straight away, they may even have picked you up in Stuttgart – possibly even before you got there, but turns out he was a brave man. We always tell our chaps to hold out for 24 hours, though, to be frank, even that’s pushing it with those animals. But he held out for far longer than that: remarkable how resilient people can be.’

  ‘And brave.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And the shopkeeper?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I’m sorry if that turned out to be rather… messy.’

  Basil Remington-Barber looked confused. ‘Messy? Not at all! You did absolutely the right thing. It would have been messy had you attempted to extricate yourself from the situation in any other way. No, we’ve all been rather impressed: it was desperately unlucky the shopkeeper knew Gertraud Traugott. Not your fault. Important thing is you acted decisively. Don’t look so worried, Henry!’

  ‘I rather thought that you’d be… I don’t know… angry with me?’

  ‘I’d have been angry had you not told me what happened. And, as I said, you were observed in Essen: what you told me tallies with what we already knew. And there’s no harm whatsoever in having an agent who knows how to kill, not to put too fine a point on it, eh?’

  Remington-Barber clapped his hands and ushered Henry over to a table by the window, on which a large map of Essen was spread out.

  ‘You’ve brought your notes with you?’

  Henry had.

  ‘Good. What we need to do now is fill in all the information you picked up on the ground against this map. It’ll be like doing a jigsaw: should be rather fun.’

  Henry would not have described it as fun. They spent an hour going over the map, Henry doing his best to point out the location of factories and other key buildings. For all his bonhomie and apparent diffidence, Remington-Barber turned out to be highly adept at teasing information out of Henry. By 2.30 the map was much more detailed.

  ‘RAF ought to be chuffed with this,’ he announced, carefully rolling it up and slipping it into a metal tube. He then stood up and rubbed his hands, as if in excitement.

  ‘Right then! If you hurry, you’ll catch the six o’clock train to Geneva: saves us another hotel bill, eh? And talking of money, London are very pleased with the mission. Edgar says to tell you that 500 pounds will be put into your Credit Suisse account next week: says you’ll know what all that’s about. I hate anything to do with money.’

  ‘And what happens now?’

  ‘Go home and wait for us to contact you, which we’ll do through Madame Ladnier.’

  ‘And when might that be?’

  ‘Good question Henry. The truth is, I’ve no idea. Could be next week, could be next year. The only thing I’d say is if London were so pleased with this mission, the next one could be a lot more interesting. Something to look forward to! So don’t worry, I’m sure London will want to see you soon.’

  Henry was alarmed. ‘London! You want me to go to London?’

  Remington-Barber frowned. ‘Good heavens no! London will come to you.’

  ***

  Chapter 13: Berlin, August 1940

  Berlin in the first full summer of the war was a city of secrets and hushed conversations; a city at the centre of the conflict but a long way from the sounds or more obvious effects of it. The closer to the centre of power, the more secrets there were and the more hushed conversations became. Unless you knew someone well and were absolutely sure you could trust them, even a routine conversation was guarded and required a circuitous route to reach its point.

  For Franz Hermann, such a cautious approach was by no means an alien one. As a lawyer he was used to being careful and non-committal; discretion came as second nature to him. But late in the afternoon of an extremely pleasant Tuesday in the middle of August he was mindful of the need to be even more careful than usual. Hermann was on his way to meet a very important client, a General in the Army High Command.

  The lawyer had left his office in Friedrichstrasse to visit this client at his home in Moabit. Hermann headed west along the north bank of the River Spree and at Lehrter Station turned into Alt Moabit, past the Post Stadion. Four years earlier he had been there watching Norway unexpectedly beat Germany 2-0 to knock the hosts out of the Olympics football tournament. His initial disappointment at the defeat had been more than compensated for by the fact Hitler was at the game and was reported as being furious. He decided if Hitler was so upset by the result then maybe defeat wasn’t so bad after all. Your enemy’s enemy…

  Halfway along Strom Strasse he reached his destination: a handsome apartment block, overlooking the Kleiner Tiergarten. A maid, who looked as though she was still in her teens, let him into the apartment on the top floor of the building.

  Generalmajor Werner Ernst was in his study, still wearing his uniform. He moved his large head slowly, as if he had a bad neck. His eyes were noticeablely small in comparison to the rest of his face. He smiled politely and pointed to one of two armchairs angled towards the window, a small coffee table between them. Behind him were enormous picture windows over the park. A breeze that had not been apparent on the street was causing the tops of the trees to sway gently from side to side.

  ‘Please do sit down Herr Hermann: you’ll have to excuse me, I’ve only just returned from work and I’ve not had time to change.’

  They paused while the young maid came back into the room, carrying a tray that she placed on the coffee table. Hermann could smell real coffee, an increasingly rare sensation in Berlin.

  ‘Thank you Anke, don’t you worry, I’ll pour the coffee. And Frau Ernst reminded me it’s your night off. You may leave early if you wish.’

  The Generalmajor busied himself pouring the coffee and offering freshly baked biscuits to his guest. He waited until he heard the front door of the apartment close before signalling to his lawyer he could proceed.

  For the next half hour Franz Hermann went through various documents with his important client. A signature here please; an explanation necessary there; another signature here thank you; just an initial here will suffice; let me explain this sheet; I have taken the liberty of having this form already witnessed; one more signature there; all is in order.

  ‘There we are sir. I think you’ll find the business of finalising your mother’s estate is now complete. I’d estimate the funds will be in your bank account within the month.’

&n
bsp; ‘Thank you Herr Hermann. You’ve deal with this matter most efficiently. I realise it’s taken some effort to sort everything out. I’m most grateful to you.’

  ‘A pleasure sir.’

  Hermann began to gather the papers and place them in his briefcase.

  ‘Will you join me for a drink, Herr Hermann? My wife has gone to stay with her sister in Potsdam and it’s a pleasure for me not to be ruled by the stopwatch at home for once.’

  Without waiting for an answer, the Generalmajor produced a bottle of Armagnac and poured a large measure for himself and his guest. There was a long silence while he surveyed the drink before putting the glass to his lips and leaning back in his armchair, his tiny eyes first studying Franz Hermann carefully and then closing. It was a while before he opened them.

  ‘Do you have children, Hermann?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I hope you don’t think it’s impertinent of me to ask, but it’s something I’ve been thinking about recently. This may be a strange thing for an army officer to say, but I’ve noticed among my colleagues that the ones without children seem to have a very different attitude to the war than the ones with them, especially those with sons. My own son is based in Poland, Herr Hermann. He is an Oberleutnant and just 22 years old. As an army officer, I’ve never held any fears for my own safety. Of course, I’ve always done my best to avoid making rash judgements that could cause harm to men under my command. But now my own son is a soldier, I’ve found that’s having an unexpected effect on my attitude to the war: I’m more cautious, I worry about the course of the war. It’s had a much more profound effect on me than I’d imagined. I’d hoped my son would become an architect…’

  The Generalmajor’s voice tailed off; he seemed to be preoccupied with his own thoughts.

  ‘Hopefully he won’t need to remain in the army for too long sir: victory will be ours soon!’

  The Generalmajor looked long and hard at the lawyer.

  ‘You think so, Herr Herrmann? What makes you so sure of that?’

  The lawyer shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘One reads in the papers how well the war is going, that it’s just a matter of time before Britain surrenders and…’

  ‘And you believe everything you read in the papers, do you Herr Hermann? I’d thought lawyers were trained to question things, not to accept matters at face value.’

  Hermann shrugged, unsure of what to say and wondering how he’d allowed himself to become drawn into a conversation like this.

  ‘Tell me, Herr Hermann: are you a member of the Nazi Party?’

  ‘I’m a lawyer sir. I’m not involved in politics.’

  ‘Many lawyers are members of the Nazi Party.’

  ‘I’m not one of them sir.’

  Generalmajor Ernst stood up and unbuttoned his jacket then walked over to the window. The trees in the Kleiner Tiergarten had stopped swaying. The Generalmajor shut the window and turned around.

  ‘Well if it makes you feel any better, Herr Hermann, nor am I.’

  Hermann started to get up, relieved at the opportunity to finish the conversation at that juncture. The Generalmajor gestured for him to remain seated and sat down next to him, pulling up his chair alongside the lawyer’s.

  ‘You’re a clever chap, Herr Hermann.’

  ‘Thank you sir.’

  ‘You’re not just a very competent lawyer, but you’re good at managing to appear to be what you are not.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure…’

  ‘You do an excellent job of appearing to be a mild-mannered lawyer, with no interest in politics. You’re quiet and you’re discreet. You don’t draw attention to yourself. But I also know that you have – now, how can I put this – that you have contacts.’

  Hermann could feel his breathing tighten and the room become hotter. He did his best to sound relaxed.

  ‘I suspect, sir, there must be a misunderstanding here. I am as you originally describe me: a lawyer with no interest in politics. But please be assured I am a loyal…’

  ‘Please, please, Herr Hermann. I’m sure you’re all of these things. But, you see, I know there’s more to you than that and you’ll find I’m not altogether unsympathetic. I know you have certain contacts and I wish to avail myself of them.’

  Franz Hermann said nothing. The Generalmajor leaned towards him, so their faces were just inches apart. He could smell the brandy on Ernst’s breath and see the tiny red lines in his eyes.

  ‘Three weeks ago, on the 29th of July to be precise, I was in Bad Reichenhall. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘Of course, a very pleasant spa town in Bavaria, not too far from Salzburg. My parents spent their honeymoon there.’

  ‘Indeed. But I wasn’t there to use the spa, I can assure you. Do you have a good memory, Franz?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Werner. Please call me Werner. You’ll make sure to memorise what I say now. Write nothing down.’

  Hermann nodded.

  ‘My area of expertise in the army is logistics. It’s not a glamorous job, but few people in the high command know better than me how to move our troops around in an efficient manner and ensure they’re well supplied. That’s perhaps the most underestimated part of warfare. It is one thing to advance fast, especially against a weak enemy, but it is quite another to ensure the integrity of an advance is maintained by having good supplies of food, fuel and ammunition. That’s what I excel at. But I’m not telling you all this to make me seem important. The reason I was in Bad Reichenhall was because the Chief of Staff, General Jodl, was holding a top-secret meeting there on the express instructions of the Fuhrer himself. You will have some more Armagnac, Franz? It’s quite excellent, one of the more tangible benefits of our conquest of France.’

  He poured two more large measures.

  ‘Jodl is a busy man, he does not gather senior officers around him in pleasant Bavarian spa towns without very good reason. And the reason he gathered us last month was that, now that France has fallen, the Fuhrer has turned his attention to who we attack next. The common belief is that Operation Sea Lion is our priority and we’ll soon launch an invasion of Great Britain. As you know, we started our aerial assault against them over a month ago. But the Kriegsmarine has serious doubts we’ll ever be able to successfully invade the British Isles. Our hope is we win what they’re calling the Battle of Britain, gain air supremacy and this leads to victory. But that doesn’t appear likely. The RAF is proving to be a resolute opponent and Churchill shows no inclination whatsoever to surrender.’

  With the window closed, the room had now become quite stuffy. The Generalmajor stood up to remove his jacket and loosen his collar.

  ‘The Fuhrer has instructed Colonel General Jodl to explore other options, in the eventuality we do not invade Britain. The option we discussed in Bad Reichenhall was that of invading the Soviet Union.’

  During the shocked silence that followed, Hermann heard the loud ticking of a clock from the hall. The treetops in the Kleiner Tiergarten had begun to sway again. The Generalmajor reached over to a side table and opened a box of cigars. He offered one to the lawyer, who declined, then slowly lit one for himself.

  ‘Invade the Soviet Union? But surely that would be madness! We have a pact with them?’

  ‘It’s not as outrageous as you think it is, Franz. That pact was designed to keep our eastern borders quiet while we dealt with Western Europe. Now, I have no love for the Soviet Union but, for many of us Franz – those of us who approach matters from a professional military point of view as opposed to an ideological one – the prospect of invading the Soviet Union is a nightmare. To attempt to go in there would be to ignore the lessons of history. Bismarck himself said the secret of politics was to “make a good treaty with Russia”, which is of course what we did. From a military point of view, invading the Soviet Union has all the potential to end in disaster. Even Field Marshall Keitel is trying to dissuade Hitler from the idea and he is well known for never disagreeing with the Fuhrer
.’

  ‘When will this invasion take place?’

  ‘Too early to say, Franz. It may never happen. The purpose of Jodl gathering us in Bad Reichenhall was to get us thinking in theoretical terms about how we might prepare for such a plan. It’s so sensitive and so secret, we can do little more than think about it. The final decision will rest with the Fuhrer. After the conquest of the Low Countries and France, he’s convinced he’s a military genius: he thinks we older Wehrmacht officers are too cautious, too conservative.’

  The Generalmajor was now wreathed in cigar smoke, the colour of gun-metal. He leant back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling.

  ‘However, Franz, even Hitler knows the timing of an invasion would need to be very precise if we aren’t to be caught out in the Russian winter. If we’ve not achieved our objectives by the start of the winter then we’re doomed. So we’d need to attack by mid-May at the latest. Then we have a chance of success, although not a very good one.’

  ‘Why on earth are you telling me this?’

  ‘Many of us believe that to invade the Soviet Union would be suicide for Germany. There are groups of us in the Bendlerblock who are of a like mind. We believe we’re acting in the best interests of Germany. As you might be aware, the Abwehr has its headquarters in the Bendlerblock. A few days ago I was talking with an old friend who’s a very senior officer in the Abwehr. His mother died a month ago and he asked if I could recommend a good lawyer to take care of everything. I told him about you and that was that. The next day he asked me to go for a walk with him along the banks of the Landwehr Canal. He confided in me that you have come to the attention of the Abwehr.’

  ‘This is preposterous sir. It is simply untrue. I must insist that…’