The Swiss Spy

by Alex Gerlis

  ‘You’d better go and eat now, the dining room closes in 20 minutes,’ the manager said in what Henry thought could be an Austrian accent.

  ‘I’m alright, thank you,’ said Henry, the smell of grease and tobacco settling already at the back of his throat. ‘I think I’ll eat elsewhere.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky: there is no “elsewhere” these days. Leave your case here and go in and eat.’

  He reluctantly went in to the dining room, having passed up the offer of leaving his case with the manager. There were two long tables inside and each had six or seven men – only men – hunched around it, all eyeing each other suspiciously and spooning black stew into their mouths in apparent unison.

  Henry found a small space at the end of one table and the man next to him reluctantly moved along no more than an inch or two. No sooner had he sat down than a filthy hand deposited a bowl in front of him. The thumb and one finger were dipped in the stew. Henry moved his gaze up the hand and the frayed sleeve just above it: both belonged to a hunched body and pale face flecked with red sores, a woman in her fifties who looked as if she were about to collapse.

  A plate of black bread was pushed in front of him, along with a glass of watery beer. No-one was speaking to anyone else around the table and Henry was grateful for that.

  His night was not any more comfortable: the room had bare floorboards and just one small threadbare rug by the bed. There was a basin with a stained sink by a window that had a crack in the glass and Henry doubted the sheets had been changed since the last guest but one. As there was no functioning lock on the door, he wedged the single chair in the room against it and lay on the bed fully clothed, his briefcase containing the sealed envelopes under a pillow that smelt of sweat. In the distance he could hear the muffled sound of explosions: he could not tell whether it was bombs or anti-aircraft fire, but when he went over to the window and peeled back the blackout curtain he could see flashes far to the north.

  He left the hotel at seven in the morning, the manager and the woman from the dining room confused as to why he declined their offer of breakfast (‘but you’ve paid for it sir!’).

  For the next hour the station café provided a welcome refuge from the all-pervading odour of the hotel. The Stuttgart train left on time and the connection from there to Zürich was good and he arrived at 2.10. He was under pressure now. There was a train to Bern at 5.10, which was the one he would need to catch if Edgar and Remington-Barber were not to be too suspicious about his late arrival. It ought to give him enough time, but only just.

  He needed to get to Bank Leu as soon as possible, but only after he had made the phone call. There was a bank of phone booths on the main station concourse, but they felt too public so he left the station and walked across to the Bahnhofquai, where he found a café with phone booth at the rear, well away from the few customers. He rang the number Viktor had given him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Peter is coming round for dinner.’

  A pause and a muffled noise at the other end of the line, which sounded as if the person had placed their hand over the receiver and was talking to someone else in the room.

  ‘And will you be bringing wine with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  With that, the line went dead. He checked his watch: it was 2.25: according to Viktor’s instructions he was to be at the station exactly one hour after the phone call. That would leave him just over an hour and a half to catch his train: he would need to hurry. He left the café by the back door and took a taxi to Bank Leu’s head office on Paradeplatz.

  Michael Hedinger was apparently in a hurry. He came down to the reception and took Henry up to his office on the top floor. He checked the three envelopes from the Reichsbank for Bank Leu.

  ‘And the fourth envelope is for your friends?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When do you see them?’

  ‘I’m going to Bern now. May I use your phone to tell them what time I’m likely to be there?’

  Hedinger gestured at the phone: be my guest.

  Edgar answered: ‘Welcome home. What kept you?’

  ‘I’m catching the train at ten past five: I ought to be in Bern by eight at the latest. Where shall I meet you?’

  ‘Don’t worry old chap, we’ll meet you.’

  That was that: it was now a quarter to three, he had plenty of time. He could even afford to stroll back to the station along Bahnhofstrasse, which would at least give him time to compose himself.

  ‘And all went well?’ asked Hedinger.

  ‘Yes… yes, thank you.’

  ‘And I presume you wish to ask me a question?’

  Henry had no idea what the Swiss was on about.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Alfred! Don’t you want to know how he is?’

  ‘Of course, of course! How is Alfred?’

  ‘My wife and the children and the dog make such a fuss of him: it’s as if he has been released from prison. He’s such a sweet boy and very considerate. We’ll take good care of him. He’s obviously sad though. At night we can hear him sobbing in his room. He must miss his mother.’

  ***

  Arriving too early for a rendezvous is as dangerous as being late for one.

  He had arrived outside the Hauptbahnhof at a quarter past three, ten minutes early. Without thinking, he had continued into the station, assuming he would find a bar then go out onto the concourse ten minutes later. This is what he did, but no sooner had he stepped out onto the concourse than he was aware of two men either side of him, marching him out of a side exit. One of them was Viktor, his face impassive but his voice not disguising his fury.

  ‘We said be at the station one hour after the phone call, not 50 minutes. What do you think you are up to synok?’

  Henry shook himself from Viktor and the other man, who had now stepped back into the shadows.

  ‘Learn to do as you are told, Henry, you understand? Now, follow me – stay behind me. I will go into a shop and through to the back. You are to do likewise. Sergei will be behind you.’

  The shop was a narrow tobacconist in a warren of alleys behind the station. The counter top was already open when Henry arrived. Viktor was in a room at the back, along with a shrivelled-looking man half the size of the Russian. He was dressed in a faded pinstripe suit and peered up at Henry through thick glasses that sat unsteadily on the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Have you spoken with Edgar?’ Viktor sounded impatient.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In Bern: they’re expecting me to be on the train that leaves here at ten past five. I’ve no excuse for not being on that one.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you will be. You have it?’ Viktor looked anxious.

  Henry took the sealed Reichsbank envelope out of his briefcase, but held on to it while he spoke.

  ‘I do Viktor, but it’s sealed. How are you going to open it without Edgar and Remington-Barber realising?’

  Viktor took the envelope and passed it over to the man, addressing him in German.

  ‘Arndt, what do you reckon?’

  The man took the envelope and held it under the light, turning it very slowly one way and the other, moving it close to his eyes then running his fingers along its every surface. He nodded and replied into a squeaky, high-pitched voice.

  ‘This shouldn’t be a problem. Give me an hour, but I want everyone out of here.’

  ‘Apart from me,’ said Viktor.

  ‘Of course, apart from you, Viktor,’ Arndt said obediently, half-bowing as he spoke.

  As Henry left the room he could see the man arranging a large camera, a lamp and various tools on a bench. He was about to operate. Henry spent the next 15 minutes standing silently in the alley behind the tobacconist with Sergei. When Viktor called Henry back in, he was clearly finding it hard to contain his excitement. Little Arndt was packing away his equipment, the surgery over. The envelope was handed to him. ‘Examine it, please. See how perfect it is.’


  Henry looked at it carefully. It was impossible to see how it could have been opened. With a huge arm around his shoulder, Viktor shepherded Henry to a corner of the room and whispered into his ear.

  ‘We have made a copy: you have no idea how important it is, synok. We will transmit the entire text to Moscow tonight. You have 40 minutes before your train, so tell me everything you can about this man who supplied the document. It’s so important that Moscow will ask me many questions about it: I need to have the answers.’

  ‘Before I do that Viktor, I need to ask a favour of you.’

  Viktor looked at him puzzled: a favour? Henry did not ask favours of them. They asked favours of him.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, hardly managing to hide his irritation.

  He looked at the Russian, wishing he was more sympathetic at times. Even some gratitude wouldn’t have gone amiss.

  ‘I don’t want to sound like I’m going soft or anything, and I’ve coped very well in Germany so far, but I have this worry they’ll send me back there, and sooner or later, I…’

  ‘Why, have they said anything about that, synok?’

  ‘No, but I get the impression they don’t exactly have a team of agents queuing up at the border waiting to be sent into Germany. I feel exposed when I’m in Berlin and I was wondering: do you have anyone I could contact there – in an emergency?’

  Henry shrugged, eager Viktor should not think the request an unusual one. What I am I to do – tell him I’m determined to go back there anyway?

  Viktor looked at Henry, suspicious at first but then more understanding.

  ‘Let me see what I can do, Henry. There’s the embassy, but I don’t trust anyone there. I do have some people, I’ll let you know. Now, tell me how you got this document.’

  ***

  Chapter 21: London, March 1941

  Edgar arrived at Whitchurch Airport just after 12.30 on Monday 10th March on BOAC flight 777 from Lisbon. A black Humber Imperial with military plates was parked close to the base of the aircraft steps and three hours later it deposited an exhausted Edgar outside the building overlooking St James’s Square where Christopher Porter was waiting for him in his office on the top floor.

  Edgar handed over the film of Directive 21 to Porter, who promptly left the room, returning five minutes later.

  ‘We’ll have that developed straight away and sent off to the analysts tonight. They’ve been told to deal with it as a matter of priority. We’ll meet here tomorrow afternoon to hear what they make of it. But well done Edgar: something of a coup to get our hands on that. How’s our chap Hunter?’

  Edgar leaned back in his chair, barely stifling a yawn. ‘Turns out to be rather good at his job actually. Not someone you’d automatically think of as spy material, but I suppose that’s the whole point, isn’t it? I remember that classics don who trained him saying he looks for people who’re slightly apart from the crowd but not so much that people would notice them. He said he’d never come across someone who fitted that bill quite so well as Hunter. He’s survived three missions into Nazi Germany now: if he looked or acted like a spy he wouldn’t have lasted more than an hour or two.’

  ‘And his other masters… Would they have seen the Directive?’

  ‘I certainly hope so. We allowed him enough time in Zürich. One of Basil’s men spotted him leaving the station with Viktor, so I think we can assume they have the document. There is one concern, though…’

  ‘With Hunter?’

  ‘No, with our Portuguese friends actually. When I came back through Lisbon Sandy was in a bit of a flap about Telmo. He’s been rather elusive and Sandy’s worried he may be getting cold feet. Telmo seems to think the PVDE may be on to him, though there doesn’t seem to be any evidence for that. Personally, I think he’s just getting twitchy; agents get like that from time to time, as you know. There is a well-founded concern about Dona Maria though.’

  ‘The lady in Berlin?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Telmo says she’s been transferred within the Portuguese Legation there: she’s no longer working for the Military Attaché, she’s now with the First Secretary.’

  ‘A demotion?’

  ‘Not as such, but it gives her less access to the kind of intelligence we’re interested in and also to the Diplomatic bag. Apparently the First Secretary is quite high up the hierarchy at the Legation, but his role is more ceremonial. She’s worried they may be watching her: she’s certain her desk was searched recently and she thinks she’s been tailed on a few occasions’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Not the Germans; security people from the Legation. Also, her home leave has been brought forward to 24th March: which is two weeks on Monday. She’s worried that once she returns to Lisbon she won’t be allowed back again. Telmo is demanding an absolute promise from us that the minute Dona Maria arrives in Portugal, we put both of them in hiding and bring them to Britain as soon as possible.’

  ‘And you said?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I told Sandy to agree to whatever he asks for. I told him to say that once they get to England they’ll be given money, a house and new identities. I hope that’s in order?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure the Service will be happy to find them some love-nest somewhere or other.’

  ***

  The following afternoon, Edgar and Christopher Porter were in a large map-room in the basement of the St James’s Square office, along with a number of colleagues from the Service and a few men in uniform. Copies of Directive 21 were handed round by a lanky Brigadier from Army Intelligence who cut a colourful figure with his florid face and a large black-and-grey striped moustache. When he spoke it was with a Welsh accent.

  ‘These are English translations, as you’ll see. The document itself is astonishing, quite astonishing. Let me quote: “The German Armed Forces must be prepared, even before the conclusion of the war against England, to crush Soviet Russia in a rapid campaign.” That last bit – crushing the Soviet Union – is underlined. The Directive says preparations for the invasion “… will be concluded by 15th May 1941”.’

  There was murmuring around the room, and people looked at each other with raised eyebrows and barely concealed surprise.

  ‘They even have a code name: Operation Barbarossa. However, we must be cautious. The most important question we have to address is whether the document is genuine because there’s no point in us acting upon it if we feel that, on balance, it’s not what it purports to be. We’ve had all types of experts studying this ever since we got our hands on it.’

  The Brigadier removed a pair of reading glasses from a case in front of him and glanced at some handwritten notes.

  ‘First of all, we’ve had the Directive subjected to something called text analysis by a German expert. What he does is compare one text with others, to see if they’re from the same source. He believes it’s very similar to other ones released by Hitler. I quote from his report: “It feels identical in terms of tone, syntax and vocabulary to other documents released by Hitler. The mixture of rhetoric and military detail, the constant reference to himself in terms of orders being given and decisions being made – all that is very familiar.”

  ‘Then there’s the question of how feasible it is that Germany would consider breaking its pact with the Soviet Union. The consensus is this is perfectly likely. The Nazis hate Communists and Russians and Slavs almost as much as they hate the Jews. In fact, they tend to see them as one and the same thing: when they think of a Russian, they see a Jewish communist. So the pact was a surprise in one respect, but not in another – Hitler was being shrewd. He was buying time, ensuring his Eastern Front remained quiet while he conquered Western Europe and attempted an invasion of the British Isles. So, breaking the pact would not be a surprise, it was only ever a short-term ruse.’

  The Brigadier walked over to a large map on the wall behind him.

  ‘So if we accept this document is genuine, then we need to analyse its feasibility from a militar
y point of view. It’s an extremely ambitious plan: one which depends on co-operation from the Finns in the north and the Romanians in the south, which may be a problem as they’re unlikely to be as committed to an invasion of the Soviet Union as the Germans are. It also depends on two other critical factors: a significant element of secrecy and surprise, and the Red Army being utterly ill-prepared for this. We do know the Red Army isn’t in a good state, but even so…’

  The Brigadier was looking at the map then at the directive. He peered closely at the map and pointed to a spot around the Polish-Russian border.

  ‘Hitler seems to be talking about concentrating the main German thrust here, around the Pripet Marshes. He talks about having two Army Groups operating north of the Marshes and one Army Group south of it. The key object of the southern group looks like the Ukraine, with all its agriculture and industry. The aims of the northern groups, it says here, are Leningrad and Moscow. This is what he says about Moscow: “The capture of this city would represent a decisive political and economic success, and would also bring about the capture of the most important railway junctions.”’

  A colonel wearing the insignia of a Guards regiment walked noisily over to the map, his boots echoing on the floor. After studying it for a while he turned around and spoke unnecessarily loudly, each syllable carefully enunciated. ‘Personally, I can’t see the Germans attempting this with less than 100 divisions – talk about putting all your eggs in one basket. If Hitler thinks he’s going to get as far as Moscow the only advice I can give him is that he’d better get a move on. Once that Russian winter starts even the greatest army in the world doesn’t stand a chance. From a logistics point of view this would appear to be almost impossible.’

  For the next two hours the men crowded into the map-room weighed up the pros and cons of Directive 21. All the participants took it in turn to play devil’s advocate at every opportunity, but the discussion kept coming back to a point of agreement: on the balance of probabilities, the document was a genuine one.