Agent Zigzag

by Ben MacIntyre

  Ryde grumbled and plotted: “It is becoming increasingly35 clear to me that there are a number of serious security dangers which, in the case of a character like Zigzag, it is impossible to avoid.” Zigzag was proving harder to kill off than Ryde anticipated; every time he believed he had Chapman on the ropes, the man would bounce back with another demonstration of his worth. Von Gröning continued to send messages of support, demanding ever more intelligence: “Try to get latest editions36 of monthly antisubmarine report issued by antisubmarine warfare division of Admiralty…Very important.” Von Gröning repeatedly congratulated Fritz on his performance: “General report37 [is of] great interest.”

  On September 8, Germany launched its first V-2 attacks against Paris and London. The V-2 was a quite different creature from its predecessor. An early ballistic missile driven by liquid oxygen and alcohol, the rocket bomb had a range of two hundred miles, flew at ten times the speed of the V-1, and carried a nose cone with a ton of high explosive. Chapman had learned of these weapons back in France, and warned British intelligence of a “radio controlled rocket38 which will be bigger, very costly in fuel and not at all economical in construction.” Von Gröning instructed Chapman to act, once again, as a target locator for the new bombs: “Continue giving data39 about place and time of explosions. Are they more frequent now?” The V-2 attacks were often devastating—160 people were killed in a single explosion when a bomb fell on a Woolworth’s department store in southern London—but Chapman sent a reply downplaying the effects: “Heard many rumors40 of explosions of gas works and mains but no information of the cause. Making inquiries.”

  During his visit to the Luftwaffe headquarters in Berlin, Chapman had been shown fragments of British night-fighter radar equipment, and noticed that the pieces had serial numbers. He now asked von Gröning to transmit a complete list of those serial numbers, notionally so that he could steal the correct device, but in fact to give the Air Ministry a clear idea of exactly what the Germans had salvaged. It was also decided that a display of petulance would keep von Gröning keen. Chapman sent an angry message, complaining that he was not receiving sufficient backup and urgently needed more money. He also asked, pointedly, whether the German secret service intended to support him when the war was over.

  Chapman could not have known it, but during his absence Hitler had destroyed the remains of the Abwehr. On July 20, Claus von Stauffenberg, a German officer, tried and failed to assassinate Hitler by planting a bomb in an attaché case in the conference room at Hitler’s “Wolf’s Lair”—his command post for the eastern front in Rastenburg, Prussia. The device exploded against the heavy leg of an oak table, which probably shielded the Führer from the full force of the blast. Chapman would never have made such an elementary mistake. Five thousand members of the German military were arrested in the aftermath of the failed July plot, including Canaris and his deputy, Hans Oster. They were tried, convicted of treason, and then hanged. Von Gröning does not appear to have been implicated in the plot, but as an Abwehr officer of the old school with anti-Nazi views, he was undoubtedly under suspicion.

  Von Gröning’s response to Chapman’s complaint arrived on August 28, after a gap of several days. It was an odd—and oddly moving—message, the statement of a proud man whose world was falling apart: “War situation need not41 and will not affect your return you must make suggestions in good time and you will have every support whatever happens. Was home, my house destroyed by bombs, otherwise would have answered sooner. Graumann.”

  The von Gröning family home in Bremen, that great five-story symbol of aristocratic eminence, had been flattened by Allied bombers. The house had been empty: the cook, the chauffeur, the valet, the gardener, the maids, and the other servants had been laid off long before. The gilded carriage had been stolen, the family cars commandeered. Von Gröning’s pictures, antiques, china, silver, and other valuable objets d’art—the remains of his great inheritance—had been stored in the attic. All had been destroyed. The only item of value recovered from the rubble was a singed silver plate engraved with the names of his fallen comrades in the White Dragoons.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Case Dismissed

  CHAPMAN IMAGINED HIS old friend, sitting in the bombed-out wreckage of his privilege, drinking himself into amnesia. He was touched by von Gröning’s plight: SORRY YOUR BAD NEWS1 DON’T DRINK TOO MUCH. AM GOING TO MANCHESTER TO DO JOB. WHAT ABOUT PICKUP OFF NE COAST? CAN YOU LEAVE ME COVER ADDRESS IN FRANCE ALSO RADIO POSSIBILITY FOR JIMMY OR MYSELF TO GO THERE. NEED FRENCH MONEY ALSO. DAGMAR.

  Von Gröning’s message had hinted at a plan to continue espionage operations with Chapman, “whatever happens.” The Allies were acutely conscious of the danger of postwar resistance groups emerging in Germany—the so-called Werewolves, SS fanatics who might be determined to continue the war by other means. Ryde grudgingly conceded that the message put the Zigzag case in a different light: It showed that the German spymaster “has a post-war plan2 in mind and there is now a real purpose in keeping the case running” in order to find out “whether Graumann intends to continue to work after the complete and final German collapse.” If Chapman could “get the Germans to lay on an expedition to meet him somewhere in the North Sea,” Ryde reported, then an ambush might be set.

  As promised, the next day, von Gröning sent over a complete list of all the serial numbers obtained from the equipment in downed British aircraft, “a collection of words,3 figures, stops and dashes” that added up to another intelligence bonanza. The Air Ministry set about identifying the various bits of machinery. Montagu of Naval Intelligence was overjoyed: “The Germans have told4 the Agent highly secret information about the state of their knowledge…there are also points in it of which we did not, in fact, know that the Germans were aware, even from our knowledge gained from Most Secret Sources.” A proposal to launch yet another deception plan based on the night-fighter intelligence was ruled out, however, on the grounds that “German knowledge is5 too near the knuckle for us to try to tamper with it at this stage.”

  Ryde fumed. Chapman had escaped again. To make matters worse, Robertson had instructed him to discuss compensation with this unpleasant young man and decide whether “we should out of our6 own funds supplement what ZZ has received from the Germans.” The money was disappearing fast. “I still maintain that we are7 bound to give Zigzag a square deal,” wrote Tar, “as he has done a very considerable service for this country.” The sum of £5,000 was suggested, as a “settlement of our indebtedness8 to him [and] to impress upon Zigzag that we value the work which he has done for us at least as high as the Germans value that which he has done for them.”

  One evening, in strained conversation with Ryde, Chapman remarked that he expected to be “dealt with fairly”9 by the secret services.

  “Could you give me some idea of what you have in mind?” Ryde asked, through gritted teeth.

  “Well, the Germans gave me £6,000 when I came back here,” Chapman replied.

  Ryde responded that “of the £6,000 he had brought with him, £1,000 was for someone else and that being the case he had £5,000 from the Germans.”

  Ryde could hardly believe that he was having to haggle with such an individual. He pointed out that Chapman had also kept the money from his first mission, and should be grateful. “This argument did not seem to impress Zigzag,” who tersely pointed out that the entire case had so far “only cost the British government about £200.”

  “I think that is a matter about which you should feel gratified,” said Ryde, with all the considerable pomposity at his disposal. But Chapman was “not at all impressed.” The discussion ended in deadlock, acrimony, and even deeper mutual antipathy.

  The Germans, it seemed, were in a much more generous mood. Chapman had sent a message demanding “at least £6,00010 to be delivered to him by parachute.” In reply, the Germans had said that they would rather send the money through Lisbon, perhaps via the “reliable sailor”11 who had delivered the photographs
. But if that proved impossible, then they pledged to drop the money by air. “Such promises are generally empty,”12 insisted Ryde, at the same time scenting another opportunity to put an end to his agent.

  The Abwehr had often made a practice, in the past, of providing agents with forged British currency. This was an economy measure, but a foolish one, since several Nazi spies were uncovered trying to spend the fake cash. “I think it would be13 important in closing the Zigzag case to destroy his faith in the Germans,” wrote Ryde. “Zigzag’s only interest in the case is the money he can make out of it, and if we were able to get the money and then prove to him that it was forged, we shall have gone a long way towards shattering the very high esteem which he undoubtedly has for Graumann and others…If the money is in fact counterfeit, Zigzag will probably send an unprintable message, closing the case himself.”

  In the meantime, Chapman sent a message to von Gröning saying that he was heading to the Liverpool docks to try to find a courier to bring the money back.

  Ryde wanted to sack Chapman without a penny. He wanted to see him off the premises in such a way that he could never come back, never demand anything else of the intelligence services, and never work as a spy again. For this, he needed to demolish his credibility. Just one serious blunder would bring Chapman down. In the end, Ryde discovered two, furnished by Chapman’s closest allies: von Gröning, the newly homeless aristocrat, and Jimmy Hunt, a newly released convict.

  Ryde was intrigued by the close relationship between Chapman and von Gröning: “Zigzag has always14 spoken of Graumann in the highest terms and has expressed something akin to affection for ‘the old man.’ ” But there was something more to the mutual admiration in this case, something about von Gröning he felt that Chapman was holding back. Ryde was a prig and a snob, but he was also a talented spy, with the intuitive ability to spot a lie.

  One morning in the safe house, after Chapman had transmitted his morning message to Germany, Ryde deftly steered the conversation toward “Dr Graumann,” and wondered “whether the Germans15 have any suspicion that he was being worked under control.” Before Chapman could answer, Ryde continued, as if thinking aloud: “If Graumann did suspect this, it is unlikely that he would reveal his suspicions as it is in his own personal interests to keep the case going as long as possible.” Chapman agreed, “without a moment’s hesitation.”

  “Graumann is my best security,” he added.

  “What do you mean?” asked Ryde.

  “He has made a great deal of money out of the case. For example when I ask for £6,000, Graumann probably draws £12,000 and pockets the change.”

  Slowly, it dawned on Ryde that Chapman was putting out enough rope to hang himself. If Chapman and von Gröning were in league embezzling money from their German masters, then it was also probable that Chapman had confided that he was working for the British. If so, then von Gröning, for reasons of greed and ambition, was betraying his own country with an agent he knew to be false. This evidence of financial collusion, wrote Ryde, “increases my suspicion that he has at least told Graumann, his German spymaster, of his connection with us in this country.”

  Seeing Ryde’s expression, Chapman changed the subject. “My impression was that Zigzag knew perfectly well what was in my mind but was not going to admit it, and my earlier suspicions were strengthened.”

  Ryde conceded that the possible risks from a joint conspiracy involving Zigzag and his German boss might be limited, since von Gröning’s self-interest would probably ensure that he kept Chapman’s secret. “If it is true that Graumann is aware of Zigzag’s position in this country it is very unlikely that anyone other than Graumann knows and there is probably little danger to us at present.” But more important to Ryde’s campaign, if Chapman had revealed himself to his German spymaster but had kept the fact from the British, this was a major security breach, proof that he had lied. Ryde was elated: “It may show that Zigzag has withheld from us this very important piece of information and it is against our principles to run a case with anyone who is found not to be absolutely open with us.”

  If Chapman had told von Gröning he was working for British intelligence, then who else had he let in on the secret? The question was soon answered.

  Ryde was still debating how best to deploy this new evidence of Chapman’s unreliability, when Jimmy Hunt accidentally administered the coup de grâce. One late October evening, Ryde’s deputy, an MI5 officer called Reisen, paid an unannounced visit to Chapman’s flat and found a debauched scene. Chapman was throwing a party. Characters from his seedy past and increasingly dubious present were ranged around the sitting room in various states of inebriation, including the boxer George Walker, a jobbing journalist named Frank Owens, and sundry other denizens of the Soho underworld. As Reisen entered the room, a large individual with the pallor of long-term imprisonment rose unsteadily to his feet. Here was Jimmy Hunt, the safecracker who had played such a crucial role in Chapman’s early criminal life and then, as a figment of MI5’s imagination, in his second career as a spy.

  “I suppose you have come to take Eddie away on a job,” Hunt said, grinning knowingly. Reisen made a noncommittal reply, determined not to betray his astonishment “in the presence of so many others.” The implication of Hunt’s remark was clear, and Reisen was “quite certain that Hunt knew the nature of the job to which he referred.” Chapman had held his state secrets close for five years, but now, it seemed, his innate braggadocio had reemerged to trip him up. He had not merely spilled the beans: He had spilled them to a newly liberated, extremely drunk convict, and in so doing he had served up his own head, on a plate.

  Ryde, delighted and vindictive, marshaled his evidence and moved in for the kill, as remorseless as if he had been terminating an enemy spy. Chapman had faced so many inquisitors in the past: Tin Eye Stephens, Praetorius, von Gröning, Dernbach, and a beautiful woman in a designer coat in Romainville jail. He had survived interrogations by the Gestapo, the Abwehr, and MI5; an agent provocateur in an Oslo bar; an inquisitive SS spy catcher in Paris; and any number of agents posing as spies had all tried to trip him up. But it was the bean counter of Whitehall who trapped him in the end.

  Ryde’s denunciation was a masterpiece. “I have long suspected that Zigzag has no regard whatever for the necessity of observing complete silence regarding his connection with us,” he wrote. By confiding in Hunt, Chapman had “broken the most elementary security rules.” With malice aforethought, Ryde methodically laid out the case for the prosecution: Chapman had already confided in one unauthorized individual, Dagmar Lahlum, and was probably in league with his German spymaster. He had attempted to extract money from MI5, gambled in fixed dog races, and kept the company of professional criminals. He had threatened to work for a rival secret service, and he was costing a small fortune to maintain in a lifestyle of champagne and loose women. Leaving aside von Gröning, who clearly had a vested interest in his success, the Germans were uncertain of their spy’s loyalty, and the speech by Duncan Sandys had probably undermined his credibility anyway. Finally, and fatally, he had bragged to a known criminal about his work for the British secret services. “This act of Zigzag’s does of course provide a first-class excuse for closing the case with him in the wrong and for administering a very firm rebuke,” said Ryde, with relish. “In view of the inflammable situation caused by Zigzag’s indiscretions to his very doubtful friend…it seems to me that we should dismiss him, explaining that he has broken his side of the bargain and that from now on he need expect no assistance from us in any trouble he may find himself in the future.”

  Nor should he be allowed to work as an intelligence agent for anyone else: “We should impress upon Zigzag that we would take the strongest possible exception to any approach which he might feel inclined to make to the Americans or French or any other government.” In Ryde’s view, Chapman should not receive another penny: “I should be opposed to paying him any further money, for once we do this we lay ourselves open to further approa
ches…We can now say to Zigzag that he can expect no further assistance, either financial or legal, we have obtained for him from the police a clean sheet, and he has a large sum of money which he would never have obtained without assistance. He has now let us down badly.”

  Ryde advised against continuing the Zigzag traffic with Germany without Chapman himself, arguing that any attempt to impersonate his radio technique would pose a “considerable risk, because Zigzag has a distinctive style.” The case should simply be shut down in a clean break, leaving the Germans to believe that Chapman had been caught: “As far as the Germans are concerned Zigzag is away contacting a courier. Should he never reappear on the air again the assumption will be that he has been arrested.”

  Faced with Ryde’s damning dossier, the MI5 chiefs had little choice but to agree. The Admiralty, with reluctance, acquiesced, although Operation Squid was still under way. “My feeling,”16 wrote Masterman, “is that his case should be closed now, that we should pay Zigzag nothing and that the Yard should be informed.” Tar Robertson did not object: “We should close it now.”17 On November 2, 1944, Chapman was presented with a copy of the Official Secrets Act. Unaware of what was coming, he signed it, thereby stating: “I understand that18 any disclosure by me, whether during or after the present war, of facts relating to the undertaking upon which I have been engaged…will be an offence punishable by imprisonment.” Having gagged Chapman, MI5 then sacked him.

  Ryde was authorized to dismiss Chapman, which he did, “as forcibly as possible,”19 throwing him out of the Hill Street flat after a fierce lecture on the error of his ways and warning him that if he dared to reveal what he had done during the war, he would be prosecuted. Ryde was exultant and ungenerous in victory and washed MI5’s hands of Chapman with a flourish, and a threat: “He must understand20 that he must now stand on his own feet, and should he make any approach we, the office, will consider whether he should not be interned or otherwise disposed of.”