by Seb Spence
Agent of the Reich
by
Seb Spence
Copyright © 2012 Seb Spence
This is a work of fiction. Although set against a historical background, it describes events that did not occur, people who did not exist and places that you will find on no map.
“Nobody can ever claim with absolute certainty that no spies escaped capture, but what can be said is that those who were caught had been trained in a hasty and slapdash fashion ... ”
Derek Robinson, ‘Invasion, 1940’
“In the course of their duties, [two Special Branch officers] have had to visit many restaurants, cafés and night-clubs, with the result that we are faced with a rather formidable bill of costs ... "
Sir Dick White, Director General of MI5 and subsequently Head of the Secret Intelligence Service. Comment in 1940 on the hunt for a Gestapo agent who was never captured. (The National Archives, Catalogue Reference KV 2/2106)
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Notes
Chapter 1
1.
Monday, 26th August, 1940: Birmingham, England
Supervisor Morrison would always remember the phone call he took that August evening, perhaps because it was his last memory before the incident with the bomb. It was the night of one of the first of the big raids on Birmingham, a raid that had targeted much of the city’s industry and infrastructure: the Castle Bromwich Aero Factory, the Daimler works, the GWR marshalling yards were just a few of the places hit that night.
Morrison had been on duty in the switch room of the telephone exchange where he worked, when one of his operators called him over to her station to deal with a caller. He remembered it was around 11.30pm. The exchange had just received an ‘Air Raid Warning – Red’ message, which meant that bombers were only five minutes flying time from the boundary of their district.
As usual, the staff in the exchange had remained at their posts when this message came in. A ‘red’ meant the operators had to clear their switchboards, pulling out the jacks and cutting off all callers except priority users. They then had to work through a list of phone numbers to pass on the air-raid warning: ARP headquarters, the fire brigade, police stations, factories…
Just before the warning came in, this particular operator had taken a call from a man in a phone box in Hednesford, a small town to the north of the city. As the man claimed he had an urgent message, she was reluctant to cut him off and so had called Morrison over to deal with it.
“This is a supervisor speaking,” Morrison told the caller. “What is the problem?”
“I was trying to get through to a Stanmore, London, number,” the man replied, speaking quickly and sounding out of breath. “Your operator tells me the lines are down.”
“Yes – they were damaged in a raid earlier today. All I can suggest is that you try later. There’s an emergency here, so we can only deal with essential calls.”
“Listen, this is important. I’m in RAF intelligence and I’ve an urgent message to pass on. I might not be able to ring later. Please take this message down and pass it on to Pilot Officer Barton at the Stanmore number I gave. Say it’s from GK. Tell him that I know who ‘Cobalt’ is ... ”
The man continued speaking for another ten seconds or so but then stopped abruptly. Morrison noticed that during the caller’s last few words there were sounds in the background, as if the kiosk door had just been opened. Then there was a muffled grunt, followed by a series of loud, slow clicks – he guessed the phone receiver had been dropped and was swinging against the back wall of the kiosk. Seconds later the receiver was replaced and the line went dead.
The switch room was on the top floor of the exchange and had a number of blacked-out skylights in the ceiling. Through these, Morrison could now hear the drone of the bombers flying overhead. He went over to his desk in the centre of the room and was about to start writing down the message and details of the call on a report form when there was a crashing sound above his head and he was showered with broken glass.
A silvery metal cylinder about the size of a wine bottle had smashed through one of the skylights and bounced across the floor, landing a few yards away from him. It had drab green fins at one end, and Morrison recognized it instantly as an incendiary bomb. Straightaway, he dashed over to it, picked it up by the fins and ran out of the switch room with it.
The procedure in these cases was simply to throw the device out of a window to the ground below, where it could do little damage even if it went off. Morrison headed for the nearest window, pulled back its blackout curtain and was just releasing the latch when the bomb ignited, going off like a flare and showering him with globules of molten metal.
He remembered tossing it out of the window and then staggering backwards, temporarily blinded by the bomb’s intense white light. He could not recall what happened after that. His next memory was waking up in a hospital bed with his head and hands swathed in bandages.
2.
Tuesday, 27th August, 1940: Hampstead, London
Colonel Minton arrived at the large Victorian, yellow-brick villa that housed Interrogation Centre 3 just after 7.30am. Located on a quiet suburban cul-de-sac in Hampstead, the centre looked from the outside like an ordinary private residence – the home of a well-to-do solicitor, perhaps, or a banker in the City. Standing in half an acre of grounds and surrounded by trees, shrubs and huge rhododendron bushes, it was barely visible from the road: a passer-by would hardly have known the house was there. It was a discreet, out-of-the-way place that attracted little attention.
A small wooden nameplate fixed to the wall by the entrance to the driveway announced ‘Windermere House’, but the centre was known formally as IC3, for it was, in fact, one of several facilities run by MI5 for detaining and processing individuals thought to be a security threat. In the climate of near panic following the fall of France in the spring of 1940, MI5 had set up several such centres in preparation for dealing with the large numbers of German agents believed to be in – or on their way to – Britain to assist with the expected invasion. Some of these facilities were huge places, intended for screening the thousands of refugees flooding into Britain from the occupied countries, and could handle hundreds of people at a time. Other centres were smaller and set up for interrogating suspected fifth columnists, Nazi sympathisers or possible agents within the resident population. IC3 was a small facility intended exclusively for suspected agents and could hold up to five detainees in separate cells constructed in the basement. It was run by Colonel Minton, who headed a staff of fifteen: four interrogators, including himself, nine guards and two support staff.
By August 1940, however, it was clear to senior officers in the security services that the Abwehr had few agents in Britain, and that of those who were in the country, most had either been neutralised or persuaded to work for British intelligence. So business had not been very brisk at IC3: only a trickle of customers had passed through. In fact, things had been so quiet that Minton was beginning to think the war was passing him by. Currently, there were just two detainees: an elderly Canadian businessman who had been observed taking pictures at airfields in the south-east, and a merchant seaman known to have been contacted by an Abwehr agent while ashore in Lisbon. Based on his preliminary interrogations, Minton thought that the Canadian was probably an innocent eccentric, and the seaman an unwitting pawn.
Minton had come to the view that IC3 was a waste of resources; it should be sh
ut down and its staff transferred to the overstretched refugee reception centres. He had intimated this in a memo to his immediate superior, Brigadier Vaughan, who had agreed to meet with him at the centre to discuss the situation.
Vaughan arrived just before 8am and was taken up to Minton’s office on the first floor. The two men sat facing each other across the Colonel’s desk. Both were in their forties but quite dissimilar in appearance. Minton was tall and thin, with a narrow, lined face and aquiline nose. His thinning dark hair was swept back over his head and overall his aspect was rather stern and impassive. If you had seen him in civilian clothes you might have guessed he was perhaps an undertaker by trade. In contrast, Brigadier Vaughan was a stocky, jovial-looking man with a plump, shiny face. He had fair, curly hair and wore round-rimmed spectacles. He seemed to be in a good mood this morning.
Vaughan started by re-iterating the importance of having a discreet facility like IC3, out of the gaze of press and parliament. He was dismissive of Minton’s concerns.
“I think business may be about to pick up, Minton. The Radio Security Service intercepted another outgoing transmission last night; GC&CS haven’t been able to decode it yet, but RSS say that, judging by the ‘fist’, it was almost certainly Cobalt sending again. The transmission wasn’t long enough to get an accurate fix on where they were sending from, but it was somewhere in the Birmingham/West Midlands area.”
“Will the Bletchley Park people be able to give us a decrypt?” Minton enquired.
“To be honest, they’re not hopeful about decoding this latest message any time soon. They say Cobalt has changed codes since the last transmission and they’ll need to see more intercepts before they can crack it.”
“So are we really any nearer to capturing this agent? It seems to me we’re dealing with an operative who’s well-trained – always transmits from a different location and never long enough for us to pinpoint exactly where the transmission is coming from. Radio direction finding alone is unlikely to be enough to lead us to Cobalt. And this latest development with the code is worrying. If we can decode the messages being sent between an agent and their Abwehr controllers we might pick up some leads: who their sources are, what circles they’re moving in, that sort of thing. But if we can’t decode the messages being sent or received, this line isn’t open to us and we’re totally in the dark.”
“I agree it’s going to be difficult, but I’m optimistic. If we’re lucky, Cobalt’s Abwehr controllers might set up a rendezvous with one of the double agents we’re running, perhaps to pass on funds. That’s happened more than once in the past.”
“So, what’s the plan then?”
“We can only wait until Cobalt makes a mistake, or we get a lead from another agent, or someone spots something suspicious and reports it. It’s a waiting game, Minton, but I have a hunch business at IC3 will pick up soon.”
This did not sound like much of a plan to Minton: it seemed to him that basically they were clutching at straws.
3.
Wednesday, 28th August, 1940: Lewisham, London
As usual, at 1pm that day, Lucy Walker left the second-hand bookshop where she worked and walked to the small park down the road to have her packed lunch. She went to her favourite bench, sat down and unwrapped the fish-paste sandwiches she had made for herself that morning. She liked to read while she ate lunch and had brought her latest novel with her: ‘Lady Audley’s Secret’.
Lucy had been sitting on the bench for a few minutes when she happened to look up and notice that a tall, brown-haired man in a dark blue blazer had entered the park and was walking along the path in her direction. She went back to reading her book but glanced up as he drew near and saw that he was staring at her. She looked down hurriedly at her book and ignored him as he walked by.
He seemed familiar, and she tried to think where she had seen him before. Suddenly, she remembered – the bookshop, of course! He had come in a couple of days ago looking for a copy of Dicken’s ‘Bleak House’. She recalled he had asked if they had a specific edition; he needed it to complete a set, he said. She glanced up again in time to see him turn and walk back towards her.
“Pardon me for interrupting your lunch,” he said, smiling down at her, “I believe we met at Pickering’s Bookshop the other day.” He had a pleasant face, with mild-looking, blue eyes, and Lucy guessed he was in his early thirties. She noticed he had a large mole at the left side of his neck, just above his collar.
“Seeing you again,” he continued, “it occurred to me you might be interested in a career opportunity.” He gave her his card. “I work for Lyonesse Films – you’ve maybe seen some of our output: ‘Hunter’s Last Case’, ‘The Lady in the Lake’, ‘Forrest of the Night’?” He looked at her enquiringly.
Lucy went to the cinema almost every week but did not recall any of these titles. If she had seen them, they could not have been very memorable films. “Sorry,” she said, “I don’t think I have.”
“Never mind,” he went on unabashed. “We’re auditioning for our latest film, and I think you might be suitable for one of the parts. Have you had any acting experience?”
“No,” she replied, shaking her head.
“Amateur dramatics? Part in a school play? Anything like that?”
“No, none at all.”
“Well, that’s not necessarily a problem – some people have a natural talent for acting; you might be one of them. We’re looking for a fresh face for a new film we’re about to start work on. Physically, certainly, you’re a match for what we have in mind: a slim girl in her twenties, around 5’6” to 5’8” and preferably a brunette. I’d say you fit the bill pretty exactly. Anyway, if you’re interested, ring me at the number on the card, but you’ll have to be quick. We begin auditioning on Monday next week and hope to start filming by Friday. Thanks for your time.” He turned and was about to go, when he seemed to remember something.
“Oh yes, one more thing,” he said, turning back to her, “I’d appreciate it if you could keep mum about this. There are going to be some big names in this film and we don’t want the studio being swamped with fans: it can interrupt the filming schedule. All the best!” He turned again and continued walking along the path.
Lucy looked down at the card he had given her. It announced, in a rather modern looking font: ‘John D. Elliott, Casting Director, Lyonesse Films Ltd.’. She felt flattered that someone would think she was suitable to be in a movie, but at the same time, she was wary. She had heard stories about young women being lured into traps and abducted, or worse; and her Aunt Irene, who she lived with, had warned her many times about talking to strangers. Numerous questions now occurred to her, and she was annoyed with herself for not thinking of them when the man was speaking to her: what was the film about, what would her part be, who were these big names?
Later that afternoon, Lucy felt a slight thrill as she locked the bookshop door and set off home at the end of her day’s work. Perhaps, she thought, in a few weeks she would be locking this door for the last time and leaving her job in Pickering’s Bookshop for something more exciting. She could not believe her good fortune and wished she had someone she could tell her secret to. There was her aunt of course, but she was the last person Lucy would want to tell. Aunt Irene would almost certainly try to stop her from taking the opportunity that had been offered. Anyway, Mr Elliott had asked her not to discuss it with anyone, so perhaps it was just as well she had no-one to confide in. She took out of her raincoat pocket the business card he had given her when they had met in the park and read it for the twentieth time: “John D. Elliott, Casting Director, Lyonesse Films Ltd.”
4.
Thursday, 29th August, 1940: Lewisham, London
As soon as she got off for her lunch break the following day, Lucy went to a phone box down the street from the bookshop and rang John Elliott’s number.
A woman with a frosty voice answered, “Lyonesse Films, Mr Elliott’s office.”
“Hello, I’d like to speak to
Mr Elliott please.”
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“Lucy Walker. Tell him it’s the girl he met in the park. I’m ringing about an audition he offered me.”
“One moment please.”
There was a long pause. Lucy expected the frosty voice would return to tell her that he was at a meeting, or unavailable, or it would announce “Sorry, the part has been filled.” But suddenly it was Elliott speaking: “Hello, Miss Walker. John Elliott here. Nice to hear from you. I take it you’re ringing to arrange an audition?”
“Well, perhaps. I have a few questions first, though.”
“Of course. Fire away.”
“To begin with, what is the film about?”
“The working title for the film is ‘Agent of the Reich’. Essentially, it’s a combined thriller and romance about enemy agents operating in Britain. In a nutshell, the hero falls for a girl who he later discovers is a courier for a Nazi spy-ring in London. Despite his love for the girl, he decides to put his country first and tracks down and eliminates all the members of the cell. So the good guy wins in the end, but at a price. How does that sound to you – do you think audiences will like it?”
“Yes, it sounds like a good plot.”
“Our company feels it’s important the film industry in this country supports the war effort, and this is us doing our bit. As well as being a morale booster, the film has an important message to get across: it is a warning that we must all be on our guard against the fifth columnists who are almost certainly operating here.”
“So what part would I be playing?”
“You will be auditioning for the part of the girl courier. It is the main female part in the film but does not involve a lot of dialogue, so even someone with limited acting experience could tackle the role.”
