by Dick Hardman
The net tightens. 18th December 1943
Later that morning, MI5 agent Steve Davis, a subordinate to John Caplin, was reviewing the case file on Sundown, before it was placed in the archives. Informed by Caplin that the German agent was dead, and without any contacts to follow, the file was of no immediate use.
Although only 32 years old, the agent was massively overweight, but strong and deceptively light on his feet. His jowly face was clean shaven and sickly pale, in stark contrast to his alert dark brown eyes. The navy blue pinstripe three piece suit and coordinated old school tie were immaculate, as were his highly polished black brogues.
The photo of his stick-thin wife and chubby one-year old son took pride of place on his desk. They were everything to him. However, his obsessive involvement with work resulted in their neglect. At home, the man would spend his time eating for comfort as he sat in his armchair, meticulously scrutinising files and memos.
The office telephone rang and he snatched it up, aggressively. He was grieving for the agents who had died with Sundown. At the same time, he was irritable because the spy would never pay for his crimes.
“Hello, Steve Davis at your service, how may I help you?” His voice was polite with a soft tone, which masked his inner turmoil. Nevertheless, it could turn in an instant, becoming sharp or sarcastic, the moment he realised who was calling.
“Hello Steve, John Caplin here. Sorry to hear about the loss of your team in Poplar. Still, I suppose there is some consolation in knowing Sundown will never bother us again.”
“I find no joy in that, sir, my men had families.” The sir was emphasised slightly, and sarcastic rather than wholly polite.
Caplin sensed his mood and tried to see things from his perspective. Davis was an imaginative agent with an exemplary record for capturing German spies. He was also known for his aggressive and tenacious attitude. There was no give in the man, everything had to be done the way he said, and every spy in his crosshairs, would undoubtedly be caught.
“I believe Sir Philip has spoken to you,” Caplin lied, “about a newly discovered spy called Karl Strom, alias Pieter Klein.”
He had mentioned Sir Philip so there would be no bitching from Davis about being overloaded with cases. It was Caplin who needed Strom and his team captured, because Sir Philip had dumped the responsibility onto him.
“Well, the bugger has just landed on the south coast near Corfe Castle with a team of three, two men and one girl, trained for a special mission, according to Raven. Strom has brought with him some technical weapon, developed in Peenemünde. We thought Rabbit had bumped him off over there, but apparently not. Anyway, he is here now and the four of them have slipped through the net that Bovington threw over them.
“Your dead spy, Sundown, set up their infiltration, so you have good reason for wanting to snare them.
“Just thought you would want know?
“I will get the file over to you, straight away.”
Caplin smirked; he could imagine the relish Davis would experience, handling this case. With Davis on their trail, the four spies were as good as caught. Although the man would get due credit for their capture, Caplin would ensure he received Stern’s full appreciation - worth so much more.
“You have just brightened my mood, John. Thank Sir Philip, I appreciate him directing this case to me, I won’t let him down.”
It was Davis’s way of cutting through the department politics; Sir Philip pulls my strings, not Caplin.
***
With a broadening smile, John Caplin picked up his phone again and dialled.
“Sir Philip please, John Caplin speaking.” The secretary remembered the name.
“Ah! So you did have something to get excited about. Never a good move to upset Sir Philip’s routine unless you do. I will put you through.”
“Good morning John and a splendid one it is too. How is Margaret? Getting enough sleep I hope. Angela has good lungs she tells me, eh, what?”
Sir Philip Stern had relentless focus. He obviously knew about the tragic death of the six agents, but everyone had voiced their condolences to each other and the war marched on. He had no intention of prolonging the sentiment and platitudes, so never raised the subject.
“I suppose you want to tell me that your spy Strom has slipped through your fingers. I hope you have given the case to Davis. Jolly good sort that one, eh, what? Grinds the bounders down till there are no pips left to squeak, don’t you know.
“Raven was a tad slow coming through, in a bit of a spot I imagine, having to send by radio. Still, we are on the case, which is the main thing.
“Was there anything else, John?”
“No, that covers it Sir Philip.”
“Good sleuthing on your part, spotting Klein was actually Strom. Still that’s what you get paid for. Oh well, press on.” The line went dead.
Caplin inattentively replaced the receiver, wondering how on earth Sir Philip had heard the news about Strom so soon, and how he had predicted the content of the call. Anyway, it certainly wiped the smile off John Caplin’s face.
Safe house, London. 18th December 1943
Dan Stockley’s van was full. What with the kit, beacons, money and plumbing tools, it left little room in the back for Horst and Carina. Andreas and Pieter rode up front with the driver.
Although sweetened with £20, the driver was not prepared to talk about anything at all; he focussed instead on getting to London as speedily as the law allowed. It also suited Pieter not to converse, but he would have liked to know more about the driver. What sort of person was he? Some kind of conversation would have helped him to make his assessment.
Often people use words that are coloured by things going on in their life. They would hardly come right out and say “my wife has run off with another man”, but might bitch about unfaithful women, in a general sense. All Pieter knew so far was that Stockley worked only for money and would take no risks with his life. Fair enough, but he would also most likely switch allegiance for money, at the slightest hint of discovery, and leave them in the lurch.
Pieter noticed the way Stockley’s overall hung on the left side of his chest. It looked as if he was probably carrying a pistol, in a shoulder holster. His top buttons were fastened, so he was not expecting to use it at the moment.
“Der Fahrer hat eine Shchulterhalfter,” Pieter uttered loudly, laughing as though it was an amusing phrase.
“Ya! Ya!” responded the others and joined in with the laughter. They now knew the driver had a shoulder holster, was therefore armed and potentially dangerous.
The driver scowled, not understanding the joke. The only thing he liked about Germans, and pretty well anyone else actually, was their money.
***
It was a tiring journey, taking five hours to reach 28 St Albans Avenue, London. A typical Victorian mid terraced house, built of light brown brick, with a slate roof. Everyone clambered stiffly out of the van and to the nosey neighbours, it looked as if they intended to do plumbing work there. Dressed in boiler suits and wearing gloves, they did not look the slightest bit out of place. Bit by bit, the team carried in their equipment, then Dan Stockley drove off in the van, leaving them to it.
Pieter settled down at the kitchen table, and made it his first job to decode the message left for him by Sundown, on the previous day. He was still unaware that the spy had apparently blown himself up.
“Listen everyone. Keep your gloves on at all times whilst we are here. Wear the thin cotton type when you use the bathroom, they will soon dry if you get them wet.
“Next, and this is more important than you might think, we must use our new names from this moment on. I will run through them now, so there are no doubts.
“I am Peter, spelt the English way, code name Glass. You don’t need to know my surname at the moment.
“Horst, you are Henryk Robak, code name Zebra.
“Carina, you are Anna Gohl, code name Ballerina.
“Andreas, you are Andrzej Tro
cki, code name Arrow.
“Obviously you only use your code name with other agents and for messages. The reason is, you need to keep your private name from them, so they cannot identify you by that means.
”I want you to get settled in the house, but do not unpack. Keep all your things together in case one of us has to clear the building without the others. We cannot afford to leave anything behind, so keep everything down here, in the hall.”
They nodded to Peter, murmuring their understanding, and went about their task of settling in.
Henryk made a basic meal of soup, with baked beans on a slice of toasted plain white bread each. They finished it off with some bruised and over-ripe windfall apples.
Andrzej watched the street and rear gardens for suspicious activity. No one in the neighbourhood appeared to be concerned that four plumbers were working and living in the house.
Having settled in, they went on to prepare for their new jobs the next morning, and to get Anna well again.
They quickly lit the open coal fire. As soon as there was sufficient warm water from the back boiler, Anna took a quick bath, and crawled off to bed.
Peter knocked on the bedroom door. “Anna, may I come in. I need to see how you are and decide how best I can help you. I know you haven’t forgotten that you will be starting work at Gant’s Hill tomorrow, with Henryk and Andrzej. For that you all have to be fit and rested. Tired minds make silly mistakes.”
“Come in Peter, I am in bed now.” Remembering his warning to them all what would happen if they fell ill and jeopardised the mission, she was dreading what he might say to her.
He walked in and shut the door. She pulled back the bedclothes, revealing her naked body, to show him the state she was in. Large areas of her lower body were red like a bad case of sunburn, and every crease in the skin was broken and weeping slightly. She was obviously in great pain. Fortunately her temperature was close to normal, but having seen the damage to her body, it left him wondering what he could do about it.
He checked their supplies at the safe house and found some antiseptic powder for applying to knife and bullet wounds; it could do no harm and might aid in keeping the weeping areas dry. Between them, they applied the medication and she drifted off to sleep.
***
To prepare for the next day, the three men sorted the clothes, identity papers, money and details of tomorrow’s schedule. Peter also coded a message, and went out to the designated dead drop, as instructed in Sundown’s coded letter.
Amongst other things, Peter’s message explained Anna’s medical condition and its cause. He believed she was in urgent need of a doctor.
An hour later came the sound they all dreaded. There was a knock on the back door.
At the time, Andrzej had been keeping watch at the front and did not see anyone approach. It had happened as he alternated between front and rear.
He opened the door to a woman wearing a smart dark suit, carrying a black Gladstone bag.
“Is Mr Glass in?” she queried.
“I will call him. Do come in. Who are you?” Andrzej had strung together suitable phrases in perfect English, as he had been trained to do.
Sundown’s agent, a doctor of medicine, noticed he looked very nervous.
“Tell him it is Doctor Betty Marsh. Mr Sundown asked me to call.”
Andrzej raced upstairs to the bedroom and woke Peter, explaining what had happened and who was waiting downstairs.
“Send her up at once,” commanded Peter as he leaped out of bed, fully clothed.
Peter met Dr Marsh on the landing and showed her into Anna’s room. He called to Anna and gently woke her.
“Anna, a doctor has come to see you, she is from our friend Mr Sundown. I will stay while she examines you in case there are questions I can help answer.” Anna looked embarrassed, but neither Peter nor Betty cared, not in their line of work.
After the examination, the doctor explained her conclusions.
“Anna has a bad case of dermatitis. It is the worst case of nappy rash I have ever seen. The slight fever is due to systemic thrush and a bladder infection, I can give you something to help with those. What I cannot help with is the rash, but if you keep the areas clean and dry, it will go on its own in a couple of days.
“I understand you start work tomorrow Anna, and red legs would be a topic of gossip. You cannot wear trousers, it is most inappropriate for your initial induction into the factory. You will need dark stockings, and they will be very hard to find. You will have no chance to get any in the morning, before work. You had better have mine.”
Without hesitation or modesty, the doctor removed her stockings and suspender belt.
“Here is a prescription for more medication and you need to get it now.”
Peter chimed in. “Don’t worry Anna, I will go out to a chemist for you and get what you need.” He could see she was relieved. She smiled weakly and her eyes watered, in gratitude.
The doctor drew a map indicating where he had to go, only certain places would be open this late in the day. Peter took the map and the prescription, and walked out onto the landing with the doctor.
She said. “I have done everything I can. I need payment now, in genuine currency, no forged notes. The fee is £100.”
The real cash was dwindling fast, Peter would have to take the train to a nearby city tomorrow and convert forged £5 notes.
“Here is your fee, doctor. Thank you for your help, it is greatly appreciated.”
She went downstairs and Andrzej let her out of the front door.
The briefing. 19th December 1943
The wind-up alarm clock briefly hammered at its twin bells. It was 6.00am.
Henryk, who had taken over the watch from Andrzej, prepared a plentiful fried breakfast and cups of tea made with condensed milk. Actually, they all preferred coffee, but when in Britain, do as the British do. Habits and customs were vital to the longevity of a spy.
Anna was still extremely sore and still running a slightly high temperature, from the thrush. Also, it burned terribly when she peed. Nonetheless, she was soon dressed for work. She looked very attractive in her dress and dark stockings, planning to change into her boiler suit at work, after the introduction by the personnel dept. By keeping the stockings on, under the boiler suit, it would reduce the chafing.
Breakfast was most welcome and was likely to be all they would have time for today.
Peter made sure they had everything they needed, and watched over them like a mother fussing over her child on its first day at school.
“I will go with you. We will all leave from the back of the house a few minutes apart, go together by taxi, and get out a short walk from the factory. It is better you arrive there as individuals. Male and female couples are normal, but two men and a woman together may look odd. Anyway, you are not supposed to know each other.
“I will leave you and get on with other things during the day.
“Walk back the same way when you finish work and I will meet you. Keep an eye out for me, but do not stop to speak. Walk past a hundred yards or so and when you are all together, I will come and get you.
“Remember, we have rehearsed many times the sort of questions and answers you will have to deal with, this morning in particular. Now you are on your own.
“Each of you, get to know where the others are in the factory, in case there is a need to communicate about something serious. Otherwise, you do not know each other. In some circumstances, a polite greeting or remark would be appropriate. For example, you bump into somebody and apologise, in English, always speak English, or you might hold open a door for someone. But, you know all this, we have been over it many times.
“Time to go team, I will leave first and call a taxi, so meet me in the street in ten minutes.”
Davis gets lucky. 19th December 1943
It was 8.00am, Steve Davis was in his office at MI5. He had been reviewing the Klein/Strom case. He reasoned, people do not walk through walls or become
invisible; there is always an explanation for spies slipping through a tight cordon. It was up to him to solve how they did it.
Davis’s desk was littered with files and reports that he had been carefully sifting through.
He began to speak loudly, to no one in particular. “According to these reports, no one is missing and no one reported their vehicle stolen from the area. According to the police and soldiers on guard, no unfamiliar vehicles had been sighted, either. I have the feeling these spies have been assisted by a local, and not another German agent, so that would involve some kind of payment.
“If they had been coerced into helping, I guarantee they would have come forward by now and told us everything.
“What do you think lad?” He was actually thinking aloud, and not eliciting an opinion from his young, acne-faced assistant.
“You are right of course Mr Davis sir. That must be what happened.” The young man held Davis in awe and would never have ventured his own opinion.
Davis continued his auditory thought gathering. “The only item that stood out as an anomaly, and therefore a reasonable possibility, was the parked lorry down at Chapman’s Pool.
“Be a good lad, I want an agent to come with me to Dorset, get my car brought around so we can leave straight away. Tell the local police we are on our way; I want them to arrest the owner of the lorry and anyone working for him.” The clerical assistant made the necessary calls while Davis tidied his desk, placing the precious files in his bulging leather bag.
***
The skilful driver, agent Mark Holland, made good time from London to Wareham Police Station in Dorset, arriving at lunch time. He was assisting Davis in his investigation.
After introductions with the Chief Inspector, and a briefing, the interview office on the first floor was made available to Davis. The owner of the building firm, Dan Stockley, also the driver of the lorry, was hauled in first and told to sit in front of a table. The man scowled as he was confronted by Steve Davis, who dwarfed the rather small table that he sat behind. Holland positioned himself by the door, symbolising there was no escape.
