Mr Campion's War

by Mike Ripley

  ‘Then you had plenty of time to warn me or warn them off. It might have saved me a cracked rib or two, several bruises and a perfectly good shirt.’

  ‘I wanted to see which one they were following: an innocent Canadian diplomat who mentioned the fact that he could pay his hotel bill in dollars, and was therefore a target of opportunity, or my old English chum who has come a long way to see me. Fortunately, they were robbers.’

  ‘Fortunately?’

  ‘I am sure they were after your money belt – please do not try and look surprised. It is obvious you were wearing one; your suit was too well cut to disguise it.’

  ‘The local criminal fraternity, eh? Perhaps my reputation precedes me.’

  ‘Let us hope not, but yes, those two are known figures in the Panier district. What did they take?’

  Automatically, I patted my sides, which was ridiculous as these were no longer my clothes.

  ‘My wallet, ration card, diplomatic accreditation and travel permits, but I did hang on to my money belt, though goodness knows how women put up with girdles.’

  ‘And you still have those gold sovereigns in the heels of your shoes,’ observed Robert.

  ‘How do you know what I may or may not have in my footwear?’

  ‘My dear Albert, you are not the first British agent to enjoy the hospitality of the Abwehr.’

  It was then I decided to ask the question that really needed asking and could be put off no longer.

  ‘Freiherr von Ringer, it is wonderful to be able to renew our acquaintance, but I really must know, am I your prisoner or your guest?’

  ‘Both.’

  One of Robert’s staff took my photograph, a head-and-shoulders mug shot, up against a whitewashed wall; I was assured that my noble image would adorn a new set of false papers by the morning. The staff, whom I suspect were all Abwehr officers rather than hoteliers, were then dismissed, leaving Robert and me alone in the small bar/foyer area. We were, he assured me, quite secure, and there was no fear of interruption, so we should make ourselves comfortable with recharged glasses and ‘put our cards on the table’.

  I pointed out that as he had dealt the cards and my hand had probably come from the bottom of the deck, I would let him take the lead.

  ‘First, I must thank you for coming here, at some risk to your person,’ he said formally. ‘You were the one Englishman I knew I could trust without question.’

  ‘Trust with what, Dr Haberland?’ My use of his pen name produced a satisfied smile. ‘It seems a long way to come for a report on the progress of some French naval water babies.’

  ‘I knew you would get the reference to the good Professor Haberland, and the French navy is certainly experimenting with new underwater equipment along the coast, but I wanted you here for another, more important reason: I need your help.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘To prevent a crime.’

  ‘Is there a shortage of policemen in Vichy? I hear you have plenty in Germany …’

  I knew, or I thought I knew, just how much I could tease Robert. When a man forgives you for scarring him in a sword fight, one assumes one has the measure of him. It was clear, however, that I had gone as far as I dare. He transferred his glass to his left hand and, with the forefinger of his right, traced the scar on the left side of his face.

  ‘You gave me this,’ he said. ‘So you owe me something.’

  ‘A re-match spiced with revenge after all these years? That’s not your style at all, old chum.’

  ‘No, not revenge, Albert, I meant what I said. I want you to help me prevent a crime and, in the process, hopefully prevent an innocent man being shot as a traitor.’

  ‘That innocent man being …?’

  ‘Why, me, of course.’

  ‘I had a feeling you were going to say that, and now I simply have to hear you out. If you are sure there is no chance that either of us will be shot before morning, you’d better tell Uncle all about it.’

  It would be pretentious of me, possibly heretical, to say that Robert von Ringer had experienced an epiphany, but it sounded that way as he told me the story of his transformation in a calm and rational, almost gentle, way. It was, like all epiphanies, an incident which first stabbed at the heart and then strengthened and resolved the spirit.

  Until that night, I had no idea that Robert had a younger brother, Freddie, serving in the regular Wehrmacht as a junior officer in General von Manstein’s 11th Army in Russia. Freddie was a good soldier, a promising officer, liked by his men, and a good German. He was not a good Nazi, however, and treated fanatical party members and organizations such as the SS with open disdain. He had been reprimanded more than once by senior officers with wiser, more cautious heads, who knew the power and vindictiveness of their political masters. Poor Freddie discovered those traits for himself during the German advance into the Crimea. It was at a place called Eupatoria, a resort noted for its spa and sanatorium, that Freddie von Ringer witnessed the execution – the massacre – of some 1,200 unarmed Jews, men, women and children, by dead-hearted, cold-eyed members of an SS ‘Action Group’. Powerless to intervene and overwhelmed at the horror, Freddie peeled off his uniform tunic and began walking back to Germany. Of course, he did not get very far before he was picked up by the military police and returned to his unit to face charges of desertion. The charges were never brought as Freddie spent his last few hours writing a long letter to his brother detailing what he had witnessed (a letter he entrusted to a faithful company sergeant), and saying goodbye to the men in his company, before borrowing a pistol from a fellow officer and blowing his troubled brains out.

  From the moment he read his brother’s final letter, all Robert von Ringer’s previously held doubts about the cause he was fighting for solidified into feelings of disgust and anger. He was aware that the murders his brother had witnessed were not the only horrors taking place on the Eastern front and, though his own sphere of operation on the tranquil Riviera was far removed from such violent atrocities, he began to bridle and protest when fellow Germans (and several Vichy officials) casually referred to Marseilles as ‘the new Jerusalem of the Mediterranean’ and suggested that Cannes should be re-named ‘Kahn’ due to the number of Jewish refugees who had fled south.

  It was, he said, as if he had developed an extra sense. He became aware of the persecution of the Jewish people in a way, he was ashamed to admit, he had not been before, and it was a painful awareness as he realized he was powerless to do anything to alleviate it, however much he wished to appease the memory of his brother.

  But at least his eyes were now open, which is how he noticed Nathan Lunel.

  Lunel’s name was raised at an Abwehr conference, not in France, but across the Mediterranean in Tripoli, in Italian-controlled Libya. The German intelligence service was active all across North Africa, operating freely in Vichy-run Tunis, Algiers, and in Rabat and Casablanca, and Nathan Lunel had come to the attention not just of the Tripoli branch office of the Abwehr but of all the Abwehr outposts in Tunisia, Algeria and Morocco. He was, it appeared, a frequent visitor to the sandy shores of Africa, though not as a tourist anxious to wander around Roman or Carthaginian ruins, but a man who rarely spent more than one day in any particular city, concluding his business as quickly as possible and then catching the first boat sailing for Marseilles. That his home port was Marseilles brought him within Ringer’s sphere of influence. That his meetings in North Africa always took place in French banks made him a figure of some curiosity. That he was always – always – accompanied by a Corsican gangster with an impressively long criminal record, made him a figure of considerable interest, as did his apparent ease when it came to getting travel permits and the crucial laissez-passer which allowed him to travel north into the Occupied Zone.

  On his own initiative, and keeping his actions secret even from his immediate Abwehr colleagues, Robert began to track the many journeys across France and North Africa taken by Nathan Lunel over several months. He even arranged to
travel on the same ship as Lunel and his ‘guardian’ on a return trip from Algiers; a voyage which was disrupted by warnings of lurking British submarines. Instead of Marseilles, the ship docked in Genoa, and the travellers chose to complete their journey by train, which involved an overnight stay in Mentone.

  Thus had Robert found himself in the Hôtel Beauregard and in conversation with M. Étienne Fleurey while admiring framed photographs of a group of especially handsome Englishmen in happier, pre-war times. That had given him what the cartoonists call ‘the light-bulb moment’ and he realized that I was the answer to all his problems.

  Well, perhaps not all, but possibly one, as it seems I was something of an expert.

  ‘I’ll have you know I have never been called an expert at anything!’ I protested. ‘There was a time when such an insult would have instantly brought forth a demand for satisfaction, but as you have undoubtedly kept up your duelling skills and I have not, I will let it pass as long as you tell me what the devil you are talking about.’

  Coming across my smiling visage in the Beauregard had triggered more than one thought in Robert’s mind, not only of our fencing days at Cambridge, but of the fame that had preceded me in German intelligence circles. I had, it appeared, been named in several confidential internal reports and memoranda as the main spanner in the works of a Nazi plot to drown the British economy in a flood of forged currency in the early days of the war.

  I could not deny my involvement in that little escapade, although I had been somewhat distracted by suffering from amnesia and waking up a married man!

  Modesty did not become me, said Robert, as the large-scale printing of fake currency (or ‘off-white fivers’, as Lugg would have said) was a plan, code-named Operation Andreas, into which the SD had put considerable time and effort.

  At this point my host leaned forward in his chair and held out the cognac bottle to refill my glass, which was surprisingly quite empty. I had a feeling things were about to get serious and having a stiff drink to hand might be advisable.

  ‘I am going to tell you a secret, a state secret,’ said mine host as he lit a much-needed cigarette for me and one of his vile cigars for himself, ‘an act for which I could be shot as a traitor.’

  ‘I do hope you are not expecting a reciprocal arrangement, old chum, for I know absolutely no secrets worth knowing – not even my wife’s weight, which is most closely guarded.’

  ‘Please be serious, Albert,’ said Robert firmly; so firmly, that I was.

  I was aware, of course, of the rivalry between the SD, the SS’s Sicherheitsdienst and the Abwehr, and I could well understand the glee in Abwehr circles when Operation Andreas failed, although my part in its downfall was fairly minimal. What I did not know until Robert took me, rather worryingly, into his confidence was that in July, a new counterfeiting initiative known as Operation Bernhard had been set in motion by the SD, utilizing the skills, under duress, of a large number of artists, engravers, plate-makers and printers currently enjoying Nazi hospitality in a concentration camp, many of them being Jewish with no option but to cooperate.

  It is second nature for spies to spy on spies, and so the Abwehr began to take an interest in the SD’s plans for manipulating Britain’s currency, and one name, Nathan Lunel, cropped up more than once; and in the world of intelligence agencies, more than once made him a person of considerable interest.

  Until the Vichy government imposed its anti-Semitic restrictions to curry favour with its Nazi neighbours, Lunel had held a senior position in a French bank with offices in Lyon and Marseilles. The fact that he could now travel freely from Vichy to Paris in the Occupied Zone, and then from Vichy to North Africa, suggested that he had friends in high places providing him with the necessary permissions and funds. Yet Nathan Lunel was not a known criminal, had no particular expertise in forgery or history of dealing in pounds sterling, so what use could he be to Operation Bernhard?

  The answer lay in his visits to North Africa, and involved solid, old-fashioned undercover detective work by Ringer and a few trusted Abwehr colleagues in Tunis and Algiers. Nathan Lunel was not forging money, he was moving money, as part of a highly unofficial operation mounted by certain members of the SD, based in Paris and working with a number of French industrialists (the sort who always prosper from war), some corrupt Vichy politicians and the criminal gangs that controlled the Marseilles underworld.

  That was, I agreed, an unholy alliance, but corrupt policemen, if one could describe the SD as such, who worked with criminals rather than against them, were not unknown in any society, and corrupt politicians were de rigueur in every system, even one as imperfect as democracy. Yet among the many twisted ideologies which made up the insanity of Nazism, personal corruption or deviant behaviour was frowned upon and punished very severely, although there were convenient double standards inherent in the system. It was perfectly acceptable for the Nazis to steal an entire country, but embezzlement of even a few pfennings from NSDAP – Nazi Party – funds could result in summary execution; a party big-wig, one of the ‘Golden Pheasants’, as they were known, could amass a vast collection of priceless art, whereas an impoverished art student caught listening to jazz music could face a lengthy stay in a concentration camp.

  If Robert was suggesting some form of criminal conspiracy, whereby the thieves were hiding their ill-gotten gains in North Africa (and personally I would have suggested Switzerland), then surely the wheels of diabolic Nazi justice and its agents should be put in motion. How could a middle-aged English dilettante, who was, after all, an enemy alien, if not a spy, possibly help?

  ‘Precisely because you are English and an enemy,’ Robert responded, ‘and being a dilettante certainly helps, as no one who has met you will suspect you, just as no one would suspect Nathan Lunel.’

  ‘I am not sure I follow the last part of your logic,’ I told him.

  With a shrug of his shoulders, he explained the gruesomely obvious. ‘The SD is the intelligence arm of Himmler’s SS. Who would believe they were trusting a Jew to move their money?’

  I accepted Robert’s rather distasteful point, but still could not possibly see how an enemy national with no practical powers and few attributes – other than his natural charm, of course – might help.

  Robert stubbed out his cheroot in an overflowing ashtray and promptly lit up a replacement. ‘I am a good German, like my brother was,’ he said, ‘and though I am no Nazi, I am no more a traitor to my country than you are to yours. What we are dealing with here, if I were to try and stop it, requires treason on my part. For you, it would involve only doing your duty. I would be put up against the nearest wall and shot – if the SS were feeling merciful. You might get a medal.’

  I told Robert I was still somewhat in the dark, and if only he would use smaller words, I might understand what he was getting at.

  ‘You must understand, my friend, that we are not dealing here with petty criminals intent on hiding their bad profits. What is the phrase you have in England for Schlechte Gewinne?’

  ‘Ill-gotten gains.’

  ‘Your German is good,’ he acknowledged.

  ‘Not as good as yours,’ I conceded, which produced a brief smile.

  ‘You must take this seriously, Albert, though I know that might be difficult for you. This is a conspiracy on a massive scale, which will bring huge profits to some very powerful people after the war – a war which Germany is certainly going to lose. It is a conspiracy which depends on the Allies winning the war and, when they do, this gang of thieves will profit immensely.’

  After the long days of travelling, the excursions and alarums of the evening and, possibly, too much brandy, my brain abandoned its usual torpor and began to spark faintly into life.

  ‘It’s to do with those trips to North Africa, isn’t it?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Robert, with the satisfaction of a schoolmaster awarding house points to the straggler of the class. ‘Lunel is opening fake accounts in banks all across North Africa and fill
ing those accounts with money transferred from banks in both Vichy and the Occupied Zone with an eye to – as the Americans might say – making a killing. You do understand why, don’t you?’

  ‘Accountancy was never my strong point, old boy. At school I wasn’t trusted with the tuck-shop takings, and my current employers keep me well away from the Christmas Club, so please enlighten me, unless it involves divulging state secrets, that is.’

  ‘It almost certainly does, I’m afraid.’ Robert did not seem at all afraid; he was irritatingly confident. ‘Everyone, except perhaps our beloved Führer and his close circle of cronies, can see the way the war is going. It will not be long before the Allies attack in the west while the Russians keep us busy in the east; it is only a matter of where and when.’

  I was not sure where this little homily was going, or happy with its direction, but as I was enjoying Robert’s hospitality – and hopefully his protection – I allowed him the floor.

  ‘And this is the point where we exchange secrets, or perhaps they are not so secret. Your raid on Dieppe last month was a bloody rehearsal for you, and we do not think an invasion will come in France – not yet, anyway. One theory is that the British will try and land a force in Portugal; it is an old ally of yours and your generals may still have fond memories of the Duke of Wellington and the Peninsular War.’

  He must have noticed my eyebrows rise at that, but I kept them under control so as not to give anything away.

  ‘We have a contingency plan for that: it is called Operation Isabella, which has a nice Spanish ring to it, don’t you think? If the British land in Portugal, then the Wehrmacht will move into Spain to help our Spanish ally, General Franco.’

  ‘Spain is neutral. Franco might sympathize with Hitler but he is not an ally,’ I observed.

  ‘He will be if the Wehrmacht says he is, but that is a remote possibility. Far more likely to happen is Operation Anton, the code name for the German occupation of Vichy France, and that will happen – not could happen but will happen – the moment the Allies, almost certainly led by the Americans, invade North Africa from the west. Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia are Vichy territories and soft targets. With the British army in Egypt, if they are taken then the Afrika Korps is trapped, but – more importantly for anyone with accounts in Vichy banks there – their funds will automatically be converted into American dollars …’