by Alex Gerlis
‘Hey – come back!’
Prince went straight to the soldier. ‘Thank you so much, I need to see someone, a senior diplomat if possible, I beg you… I’m a British… police officer!’
The soldier looked at Prince with something approaching incredulity. ‘You’d better come in, then, hadn’t you?’ He spoke with a strong Black Country accent. ‘But I’ll need to search you and that briefcase first.’
Prince was escorted into the reception area where he explained he needed to see a senior diplomat about a highly confidential matter. He was told to wait on a wooden bench. Ahead of him was a large clock showing it was ten past ten. Over the next quarter of an hour a dozen or so people walked through the reception area, chatting to each other as they did so. Prince was beginning to feel emotional and when he spotted a portrait of the king and queen on a wall near the clock tears welled in his eyes.
By the time a man in a pinstriped three-piece suit with a military bearing appeared in front of him, Prince could no longer contain his emotions. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
‘Perhaps you’d better come with me, eh?’
Ignoring Prince’s obvious emotion he led him into a side room off the reception area. Prince noticed a soldier followed them and remained outside the door.
‘I’m the duty officer today – perhaps you’d like to tell me what’s going on?’
He’d placed a silver cigarette case on the table and offered one to Prince. He reminded Prince of Dr Gibson, his family doctor back in Lincoln – the same patrician manner, the consultation taking place behind a cloud of cigarette smoke, an undoubted air of superiority.
‘Are you a senior diplomat?’
‘I’m the most senior diplomat you’ll get to see until you tell me what this is all about.’
‘It’s a matter of national importance… of national security. You see, I’ve escaped from Nazi Germany.’ Prince was inhaling hard on his cigarette, his hands trembling, the tears running down his cheeks. He felt nauseous and hot and wondered whether this was due to nerves or typhus.
The man who reminded him of his GP leaned forward, looking carefully at the man in front of him, trying to discern whether he was telling the truth. ‘You mean you’re on a home run?’
Prince said he wasn’t sure what he meant.
‘It’s the phrase we use for a prisoner of war who’s escaped and made it to safety. Do you have any identity on you, a dog tag perhaps?’ He leaned back in his chair, a pleased-with-himself look creasing his face.
‘I don’t have any identity on me other than one I stole from a dead Swiss in Munich and I’m not a prisoner of war and—’
‘Well, who the hell are you, then?’
He spoke in a patronising manner and gave the impression he didn’t believe Prince. But it was the smug grin on the diplomat’s face that caused Prince to explode.
‘I’m a fucking spy!’
The diplomat looked shocked but said nothing as he stubbed one cigarette out and lit another, all the time his eyes on Prince. He picked up a telephone and dialled a number. ‘Basil? Good morning. I think I have one of your chaps down here with me – if you’d be so good as to pop down.’
* * *
In the end he was taken up to the office of a man called Basil, but only after being thoroughly searched. The office was a grander affair and certainly with more security around it than Prince would have expected for that of the commercial attaché, which is what the sign on the door indicated it to be.
The man he assumed was Basil had said little. He was what Prince would describe as dapper: in his sixties, his longish iron-grey hair flecked with white, with a clipped upper-class accent and a tailored tweed suit. He wasn’t unfriendly; probably the type of person one would describe as clubbable but only once you knew him a bit better. A cigarette was resting in his ashtray, sending up a narrow plume of smoke, and on a side table within reach of his desk was a large bottle of whisky with a tray of glasses next to it, one of which appeared to have been recently used despite the time of day.
He told Prince his name was Basil Remington-Barber and he should trust him, so please could he tell him everything – and he meant everything.
Prince hesitated.
‘Look, if it helps, for anything to do with national security I’m the person here who deals with such matters, if you get my drift. Now, you told Wright downstairs that you’re a spy – I believe you said a “fucking spy”, which is fine, it’s an adjective I often use too before that particular noun. But if you are a fucking spy you really do need to tell me everything.’
Which Prince did, barely pausing for breath. He told the man called Basil how he worked for British intelligence and that in August he’d been sent on a second mission to Turkey to find out about chromium exports to Germany – ‘…well, to the Protectorate, but you know what I mean…’ and he’d managed to accompany a shipment all the way from Istanbul to Romania and from there up the Danube and then onto Pilsen, where he managed to get photographs which he hoped would be just what London had in mind, and then had to flee to Prague where the Czech resistance looked after him – ‘…Christ, I’m forgetting days now, but on Tuesday… yes, this Tuesday it must have been, I escaped from Prague to Munich, yes I know, of all places… and then I killed a man and stole the identity of a Swiss chap and flew to Zurich yesterday and arrived in Bern last night and… here I am.’
Basil Remington-Barber said nothing for a while, his facial expression no more animated than if Prince had been describing an eventful round of golf. He nodded his head and leaned over to his side table.
‘Sounds like you could do with a decent malt, eh? This is an eighteen-year-old Talisker, just what you need.’
There followed a series of questions, all prefixed by a polite, ‘Would you be so good as to tell me…’ or ‘Perhaps we could now turn to…’.
‘What is your real name?’
‘What was your cover?’
‘How did you get to Istanbul?’
‘Where are the photographs you mentioned?’
‘Who handles you in London?’
‘Where was your safe house?’
‘Tell me again how you travelled from Pilsen to Prague?’
‘How long were you in that apartment… and the name of the road again?’
It lasted an hour, during which a secretary brought in a pot of very strong coffee, without which Prince would probably have collapsed with exhaustion. Basil Remington-Barber made copious notes of Prince’s answers, often not looking at him as he fired questions. He was a skilful interrogator, asking the same question in a variety of ways, all the time trying to trap Prince but in an avuncular manner.
‘So do you know Tom Gilbey?’ Prince said when asked who his controller was in London for what seemed like the fifth time.
The diplomat shook his head. ‘Never heard of the chap.’
When he finished he told Prince he was to wait while he checked one or two things out. They took him to a nearby room where Basil Remington-Barber said he’d be more comfortable, the door locking when he closed it.
* * *
When Prince was brought back into the office four hours later the diplomat’s demeanour had changed. There was a broad smile on his face as he came round from his desk, vigorously pumped Prince’s hand and slapped him on the shoulders.
‘Splendid… well done… quite the hero… London thrilled, absolutely chuffed… we’re to do everything we can to help, obviously. Tom Gilbey’s absolutely thrilled.’
‘I thought you said you’d never heard of him?’
Basil Remington-Barber laughed and gave Prince a conspiratorial wink.
‘I guess that means you believe me, then?’
‘Of course! Tom Gilbey says many congratulations and wants you home as soon as possible. You’re a lucky chap, eh?’
‘Did he have any news for me?’
‘What kind of news?’
‘About my family.’
Basil Remington-Barber shoo
k his head uncomprehendingly, quite unsure what Prince was referring to, and as he did so Prince’s brief sense of euphoria left him. If there’d been any news on Henry, Gilbey would have been sure to pass it on. The pressure of the mission and especially the escape from Prague and killing the man in Munich now began to overwhelm him. The very last thing he felt was lucky.
Chapter 28
Switzerland and England
February, March 1944
In the end there was no euphoria, no sense of joy or of obvious relief, there were no displays of emotion or excitement – since he’d left England at the end of August all that had been drained from him. Now it was as if he was devoid of thoughts, relying largely on instinct.
In fact, there was one emotion remaining, one that occupied his every waking moment. It was an emotion people would have least expected. Although his son had constantly been in his thoughts – though often buried deep within them – he’d been able to cope with the trauma of his disappearance by reassuring himself Henry would have been found by the time he returned home.
He’d somehow managed to avoid the awful reality of his situation.
Now he was about to confront it and a sense of trepidation had started to overwhelm him.
* * *
‘You’re going to need to keep your head down for a few days, I’m afraid, Prince.’
It was late afternoon in Remington-Barber’s office and the diplomat turned on his desk lamp, casting a pool of light between them.
‘I’ve put out feelers all over the bloody country – here obviously, but Zurich and Geneva too and all points in between. I’ve been in touch with all my contacts and called in one or two favours I was saving for a special occasion and I think there can be no doubt that somehow the Gestapo in Munich know that you’re the same person who escaped from Prague, who then went to Munich where you killed a chap in that hotel and took the identity of a Pierre Martin and landed in Zurich last Thursday. And – naturally – they’ve told the Swiss all about it.’
The light from the lamp meant Prince could only really see the diplomat’s hands as they nervously twirled a fountain pen.
‘There’s a good chance they’ve put two and two and whatever else together and worked out you’re a British agent, so we need to be careful with you.’ Basil Remington-Barber stopped and took a deep breath. ‘The ambassador is very sensitive about our relations with the Swiss. He knows they’re inclined more towards the Germans and he’s keen we shouldn’t get ourselves in hot water. There’s an understanding that none of our prisoners of war who make it to Switzerland will be given refuge in the embassy. We have safe houses for them elsewhere. In an ideal world one would put you up in one of them and then fly you to Spain perhaps. But I fear they suspect you’re here. We’ll need a different plan.’
* * *
Two days later Prince was back in Remington-Barber’s office. He now had a plan. And a warning.
‘I warn you, Richard, it’s going to be quite a trek.’
‘…quite a trek…’ turned out to be quite an understatement.
His journey home began in a bread van which smuggled him out of the embassy to a farm just south of Geneva, close to the French border. There he met his first passeur, the guides who looked after him one stage at a time.
This passeur led him into France and after a night in a farmhouse another passeur took over, escorting him through Haute-Savoie to Grenoble. From there it was a series of bus journeys, a day and a night across mountains – the Vercors Massif – and then an uncomfortable journey to Avignon in the boot of a car with very limited suspension.
He spent the night in a safe house in the shadow of the Papal Palace in the old centre of Avignon followed by the train to Béziers and a night in a barn outside the town. The following day a passeur called Henriette took him on a succession of buses: first to Narbonne and then to Perpignan. From there he was taken to an apparently deserted farm just outside Céret, less than five miles from the Spanish border.
That night a Catalan smuggler called Francesc arrived to take him over the Pyrenees. It was a gruelling climb in driving rain, all the while Prince fearing the damp and exhaustion would ignite his typhus. But he imagined every step taking him that much closer to Henry and somehow ascent was not as bad as he’d feared.
It was around nine o’clock on the Friday morning when he stumbled down the mountainside into Spain, where in a village called Maçanet de Cabrenys Francesc handed him over to a thin, red-faced man wearing a suit and bow tie. He introduced himself as Angus, from the embassy in Madrid.
Angus drove him to the Portuguese border where he was handed over to a man in a crumpled white suit called Morgan and they drove through the night to Lisbon, straight to the docks at Alcântara where Prince was hurried onto a British freighter just as dawn showed its first signs of life over the Atlantic.
The convoy of merchant navy ships and their naval escort formed later that morning further out in the Atlantic and reached Liverpool the following Thursday, 30th March.
Only when they entered the Mersey was Prince finally allowed on deck. As the wind swept through his hair he calculated his mission had lasted seven months, another seven months away from his son.
Which explained his pervading sense of trepidation.
* * *
‘You can’t refuse to tell us anything, Prince. I’m afraid that isn’t how it works, you know that.’
It was the day after Prince had arrived in Liverpool, from where he’d been escorted to London by train, put up in a Service house overnight, and was now in Tom Gilbey’s office in St James’s.
‘I’m not refusing as such, sir, but I did ask for you to give me any news on Henry and I’m not happy you said to wait until after I’ve given my report. I’d rather you tell me first, even if it’s bad news.’
Gilbey muttered, ‘Very well, then…’ and came round from his desk to sit opposite Richard Prince. ‘I’m afraid it’s not good news, Prince, in that there’s no news. And it’s not for the want of trying. I can assure you, Chief Superintendent Newton reports to me on a regular basis and he assures me he’s left no stone unturned. Perhaps he’s rather old-fashioned in his approach, possibly rather too slow and methodical, and one would certainly have hoped for some news by now but he’s still hopeful, as you must be too. I’m sure it’s just a matter of time.’
Prince nodded, said he understood, and walked over to the window where he stood for a while. ‘I suppose I expected as much, otherwise I’d have been told sooner. I’m ready to give my report, sir. All I ask is that when that is done I’m allowed a few weeks to search for Henry myself.’
‘Of course, of course… always had that in mind, Richard. Your photographs are absolutely first class, just what we wanted – better than we could have hoped for, to be frank. Of course we had the set that Remington-Barber sent in the diplomatic bag from Bern, but the RAF experts insisted they needed the original film to ensure they were developed and enhanced to the very highest standard. They worked on them through the night. Come and have a look.’
He led Prince to the large table covered in photographs, an acrid smell rising from them. Gilbey explained what would happen next: two intelligence specialists would join them and the four of them would spend ‘…as long as is needed…’ to make a detailed account of Prince’s mission.
‘Of course, what we’re most interested in is the chromium trail, Richard. We’ll want dates, places, names… you’ll be surprised how much detail these chaps will get out of you. Then we’ll need to match these photographs to that account. We’d better get started.’
* * *
They began on a Friday and it took until late on the Monday evening. Prince told of how he’d initially struggled to pick up any hint of the chromium – he accepted his early coded messages had perhaps struck an over-optimistic tone – how he’d gone to the Kayseri in the Unkapani district more out of desperation than anything else and how he’d been rescued from there by chap called Alvertos.
They’d taken a break there, one of many when they insisted Prince went for a stroll around the park. ‘Important to keep your head clear – feed the ducks, if you like…’
Then there was the account of the trip to Thessaloniki to rescue little Moris. Prince paused when he thought Gilbey was shaking his head in disapproval but was told to carry on. He told how Alvertos kept his word.
The dock at Tuzla.
The Steliana, the ship which took him and the chromium to Constanța.
‘Date again of departure, please?’
‘Wednesday 6th’
‘Of October?’
‘Obviously.’
‘There are no obviouslys in this process, we do keep telling you that. Carry on, please. Name of the skipper perhaps?’
‘Cristian Moraru. Chief mate in charge of the cargo was a Hungarian called János, no… never got his surname. Cargo taken by train to a port called Cernavodă…’ A pause while a map was consulted and a pointless discussion about what the accent above the ‘a’ was called… ‘carry on…’ an account of loading the cargo onto the barge and the journey up the Danube followed by more poring over the map, someone knocking over a cup of tea as they opened the map out on the table.
The journey through Romania, Serbia, Croatia, Hungary… another pause as the map was consulted, ‘carry on, please…’ Slovakia, then Austria… a discussion about whether Austria technically no longer existed but Gilbey said that really didn’t matter as long as they got the route right, ‘for Christ’s sake…’ then into Germany proper – Bavaria, obviously, even though there are apparently no obviouslys – and arriving in Passau. ‘P-A-S-S… thank you very much but we do know how to spell Passau.’
‘And the date you arrived in Passau?’
