‘Is this the prisoner?’ demanded Clark, gesturing dangerously with the gun.
‘Aye.’
Turning to one of the soldiers, he said, ‘We have a clear duty here. We must put him under close arrest.’
The soldiers looked uncomfortable.
‘Is there anywhere suitable across the road?’ asked Clark.
They shook their heads.
The prisoner spoke up: ‘Take me to Dungavel House.’
Clark raised the revolver higher. ‘Nobody asked you.’
David McLean explained, ‘He keeps asking for the Duke of Hamilton.’
Clark ignored that. ‘If the regular Army has nowhere suitable to confine the prisoner, we’ll have him in the Home Guard hut at Busby.’
‘I am a German officer.’
‘On your feet!’
‘He’s injured his leg.’
‘I don’t propose to march him there. Mr Williamson is the owner of a motor car.’
Presently, the prisoner emerged from the McLeans’ cottage supported by the soldiers, with Clark behind, pointing the revolver. Williamson opened the rear door of his small car. Before getting in, the prisoner turned towards McLean and his mother, thanked them, and dipped his head in a formal bow. Clark got into the back seat beside the prisoner and the car moved off into the night.
3
The Duke of Hamilton was not in residence at Dungavel on the night the German pilot parachuted into Scotland. He was some thirty miles away, at RAF Turnhouse, west of Edinburgh, where he served as commanding officer, with the rank of Wing Commander. Well known for his flying, the Duke had led the team that flew over the summit of Mount Everest in 1933.
He was in bed in his quarters when the telephone rang. He was overdue for a night’s sleep, after long spells of duty leading flights of Hurricanes against German raiders over Scotland. But this was not a call to scramble. It was the sector controller asking him to come to the operations room.
There, he was told that the pilot of the Messerschmitt that had crashed at Eaglesham had asked to speak to him. It was mystifying. Earlier, the Duke had watched the tracking of the German plane. A fighter had been sent up from Turnhouse to intercept, but had lacked the speed to get on terms. A lively difference of opinion had developed between the RAF and the Royal Observer Corps as to the identity of the aircraft. Early sightings by ROC posts on the east coast had given it as a Messerschmitt 110, but no regular Me 110 was thought to have the fuel capacity to make the two-way trip, and the RAF had taken it to be a Dornier 215. Shortly after 2300 hours, the report of the crash had come in, followed by positive identification of a Messerschmitt 110: satisfaction for the ROC.
‘He asked for me personally?’
‘It seems he was trying to reach you, sir. He had a map strapped to his leg marked with a flight path terminating at Dungavel.’
‘Do we know his name?’
‘Horn, sir. Hauptmann Alfred Horn.’
‘It means nothing to me. I suppose I’d better see the chap. Where is he being held?’
‘They’re taking him to Maryhill Barracks, sir. The Home Guard picked him up first and took him to a scout hut.’
‘Maryhill. He’ll have to wait until morning. See if you can raise the Interrogation Officer. I’d better arrange for us to see the man together.’
Before he returned to bed, the Duke did some checking. In 1936, as Marquis of Clydesdale and a Member of Parliament, he had visited Germany with a party of fellow MPs. The visit was officially to see the Berlin Olympic Games, but he was actually more interested, if possible, in getting a close look at the Luftwaffe. And it had been arranged. On 13 August, he had been introduced to Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, who had obligingly laid on a tour of three German airfields. At Staaken, Döberitz and Lechfeld, the Duke had met a number of Luftwaffe officers, whose names he had kept for reference. This was the list he had now taken out to check. There was no Hauptmann Horn among the names.
Next morning at 10.00 a.m., the Duke, accompanied by Flight Lieutenant Benson, the RAF Interrogation Officer for South Scotland, arrived at Maryhill Barracks in Glasgow. First they were shown the personal effects taken from the prisoner: flying-suit, helmet and boots; Lufwaffe officer’s tunic, trousers and forage cap; gold wristwatch; Leica camera; various medicines, vitamin preparations, glucose and sedatives; map-case and map; photographs of himself with a small boy and a woman; and two visiting cards, in the names of Professor Dr Karl Haushofer and Dr Albrecht Haushofer.
The Haushofers. So they were the connection.
The Duke’s youngest brother, David, had introduced him to Albrecht Haushofer, the son, in 1936, during that visit to the Olympics. Albrecht, a bulky Bavarian, had impressed him as sapient, shrewd and possessed of independent views. Over dinner, he had shown a refreshing disrespect for certain of the Nazi leaders, mimicking von Ribbentrop and describing Goebbels as ‘a poisonous little man who will give you dinner one night and sign your death warrant the next morning’. Surprisingly after that, Albrecht had confided that, in addition to his duties as lecturer at the University of Berlin, he worked for the German Foreign Office. He favoured a policy of co-operation between Germany and Britain and he was a staunch worker for the preservation of peace. Moreover, he was a confidant of the Deputy Führer, Rudolph Hess.
In January 1937, the Duke, as Clydesdale, had taken the opportunity of a skiing trip to further the contact with Albrecht. This time he had travelled to Munich to meet Karl Haushofer, Albrecht’s father, the professor of geopolitics whose theory of lebensraum – room to live – had been seized upon by Hitler as the moral and academic justification of his territorial invasions.
During 1937, Albrecht Haushofer had made two visits to Britain. In March, he had delivered a lecture to the Royal Institute of International Affairs, and afterwards had stayed in Clydesdale’s London home. They had met again in June, when Albrecht was en route for America. In April 1938, Albrecht had visited Scotland and stayed at Dungavel. He was still talking of the need for an Anglo-German settlement, though with diminishing confidence. In July 1939, he had sent a long letter warning of the imminence of a war against Poland and in consequence a European War, and asking for a British initiative to forestall it. Clydesdale had shown it personally to Winston Churchill and the Foreign Secretary, Lord Halifax, and had then passed it to Lord Dunglass to put before the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain.
More than a year had passed – a year of war – before Albrecht had next penned a letter to his friend. It was a strange letter and the Duke had received it in curious circumstances. In the middle of March 1941, he had visited the Air Ministry in London, at the request of a Group Captain, who was ‘anxious to have a chat about a certain matter’. The matter had turned out to be a photostat of a letter signed by ‘A’, who, evidently from the contents, was Albrecht. It was dated 23 September. A Mrs V. Roberts had sent it on from Lisbon. It had been intercepted by the Ministry of Information Censor on 2 November 1940, photocopied, and sent to MI5. It was almost six months old when it had finally reached the Duke in this photocopied form.
By Albrecht’s standards, it was a short letter. He had begun, as usual, with the salutation, ‘My dear Douglo’, and had gone on to offer condolences on the recent deaths of the Duke’s father and brother-in-law. Then he had referred to the previous letter of July 1939, and the significance that the Duke and his ‘friends in high places’ might find in an invitation for him to meet with ‘A’ in neutral Lisbon. The reply was to be enclosed in two sealed envelopes and sent through another address in Lisbon.
British Intelligence had decided – after all those months – to ask the Duke to reopen contact with Albrecht Haushofer. He had been called for a second interview in April and asked to go to Portugal, to learn whatever Albrecht could tell him. This, the Duke had realised, amounted to working as a British agent. He had been told that it was the kind of mission for which one volunteered, rather than acting under orders.
After consideration, the Duke ha
d written agreeing to carry out the mission, subject to two safeguards: he wanted the British Ambassador in Lisbon to be informed, as well as Sir Alexander Cadogan, of the Foreign Office. This had led to a distinct cooling in MI5’s enthusiasm for the project, but it was still under discussion. In fact, the Duke had just written suggesting an alternative procedure for arranging the meeting with Albrecht. His letter, dated 10 May 1941, had not yet reached its destination when the mysterious Hauptmann Horn had parachuted into Britain.
‘Shall we go in and see him?’
The prisoner was sitting up in bed, dark, morose and staring.
The duty officer announced the names of the visitors, and the prisoner’s face lit up.
‘I would like to speak to you in private,’ he told the Duke. ‘It is most important.’
The Duke turned to the other officers. ‘Would you have any objection, gentlemen?’
Flight Lieutenant Benson and the Army officer agreed to withdraw, leaving the Duke alone with the prisoner.
The prisoner’s eyes glittered triumphantly under the thick, black brows. He said, ‘Yes, I can be sure you are the Duke of Hamilton. I saw you in Berlin in 1936, when we held the Olympic Games. You had lunch in my house. I do not know if you recognise me, but I am Rudolf Hess.’
4
A tall man with flame-coloured hair came out of the telex room of one of Britain’s national Sunday newspaper offices, shoulders hunched and shaking his head, and passed into the labyrinth of the newsroom. He was Dick Garrick, the deputy sports editor.
‘Bad news, Dick?’
Garrick stared across the copy paper and plastic cups and saw that the enquiry came from Cedric Fleming, the editor-in-chief. It was 10.35 on Saturday evening, and the top brass were gathered at the back bench, checking the first edition.
‘We just lost our only world boxing title.’
‘Already?’ said Fleming. ‘Didn’t it go the distance?’
‘Four rounds. Our boy was disqualified for low punching.’
Fleming screwed his fat face into an expression of shock. ‘Deplorable. I presume he was innocent.’
‘He was British.’
‘Good point, Dick. The Marquess of Queensberry really ought to have put in a rule to safeguard our lads from over-zealous referees. Still, if it had to happen, rather the fourth round than the fourteenth, eh? It should make the late edition.’
‘Mm.’
‘It was Queensberry, wasn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘Wrote those rules.’
Garrick shook his head. He moved closer, to make himself heard above the clatter of machines. ‘It was a Welshman called Chambers. He got up a competition for amateur glove-fighters in 1867, and persuaded Queensberry to present some cups. They were known as the Queensberry Cups, and fighting was according to the Queensberry Rules.’
Garrick moved on to the sportsdesk and picked up a phone.
The night editor said, without looking up from the layout on the table, ‘That’s either a very bright young man or a nut.’
‘Both,’ said Fleming with approval. In his experience, the ability to recall facts was the hallmark of a good journalist. He was not much impressed with the dictum that nothing is worth remembering that can be checked in a reference book.
He had poached Dick Garrick from the Daily Telegraph in 1978, when he had made a good impression subbing as a casual on Saturday nights. The lad had been assigned to the sportsdesk to fill a temporary gap, and stayed. Starting with no more than a mild interest in rowing, he had steeped himself in the lore of each major sport, and was now the paper’s main authority on athletics, boxing, rugby football and water sports.
Towards 11.00 p.m. Fleming gave the nod to the front page, ambled across to the sportsdesk, and asked Vernon Padfield, the sports editor, to spare him a few minutes.
‘It’s about Garrick,’ he said in the upholstered quiet of his office, as he poured a couple of scotches. ‘How would you feel, dear boy, if I took him off sport for a bit?’
‘Do you want a short answer? Shattered.’
‘He’s that good?’
‘Dare I say indispensable?’
Fleming handed over the drink. His physical bulk and almost apologetic style of speech were deceptive. He was amiable to a point – the point of decision; at various times in his twelve-year tenure as editor, he had taken on the print unions, the NUJ chapel, the proprietor and the Press Council, and not merely defended his autonomy, but caused heavy casualties among the opposition. His capacity for survival was both legend and mystery.
He lowered himself gingerly into the bentwood armchair that had supported him through the whole of his journalistic career, starting with the Ballroom Dancing Times, a credit he coyly concealed from the compilers of Who’s Who. ‘Vernon, my boy, I’m going to come clean with you. Queensberry Rules, right? I need a ferret, a bloody good ferret.’
‘You’re onto something?’
‘A sniff, just a sniff.’
‘Soccer bribes?’
‘Nothing to do with sport. Much bigger. Can’t say more.’
‘And you want Dick to do the digging?’
‘Some of it. Others will be involved.’
‘Would Red Goodbody be one of them?’
Fleming’s eyebrows peaked in surprise. ‘How do you know that?’
‘He was tanking up in the Cock when I went over for a sandwich, announcing to the clientele that you summoned him back from Berlin to a house party. I thought you sent that guy to Germany to give us all a break.’
‘I’ve got to use him for this.’
‘Goodbody and Garrick? It’s not up to me, I know, but are you sure the mix is right, Cedric? Dick is a first-rate journalist and he’ll do your research as well as anyone I know, but he takes it seriously. He’s not out of Goodbody’s stable.’
‘That’s a relief. Two of them would be a pain.’
‘He’s TT, a non-smoker, doesn’t play cards –’
‘… lives on whole food and reads the Bible on the train to work. I get the drift, thanks, Vernon.’
Padfield said, ‘Actually, he drives to work.’
‘With his eye on the road at all times,’ said Fleming. ‘Who knows? Maybe rubbing shoulders with Red will improve the young man, if improvement is possible. Can you find a replacement?’
‘For how long?’
Fleming lifted his hand and gestured vaguely.
Padfield stared into the whisky, rotating it slowly in the glass. ‘I could say something extremely offensive.’
‘Be my guest,’ said Fleming, rising from his chair.
Padfield swallowed the rest of the drink. ‘Forget it. Do you want to see Dick now? Shall I send him in?’
‘I knew you would understand,’ said Fleming as he opened the door.
5
On the afternoon of Sunday 11 May 1941, London was still fighting the fires resulting from the worst night of the Blitz. Over seven hundred densely-populated acres had been destroyed, causing more deaths and damage in one night than the Great Fire of 1666 had inflicted in several weeks. The House of Commons itself had been gutted by incendiary bombs. It was not a propitious time to call the Foreign Office and ask to speak to a member of the government.
One of Anthony Eden’s staff had been persuaded to take the call. As he listened, he became increasingly dubious. The caller claimed to be the Duke of Hamilton. He asked for Sir Alexander Cadogan, the head of the Foreign Office. He said he had something of the highest importance to impart, but he was not prepared to discuss it over the telephone. He wanted Sir Alexander to drive to Northolt Airport and meet him there.
This was utterly impossible, the civil servant doggedly explained. If the matter were really important, he might be able to arrange an appointment at some time in the next two weeks. It was unrealistic to expect the head of the Foreign Office to motor out to Northolt to meet the Duke of Hamilton, or anyone else.
This last remark was overheard. John ‘Jock’ Colville, the Pri
me Minister’s Private Secretary, had walked into the office.
‘Who is it?’
The civil servant cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘I think he’s a lunatic. He says he is the Duke of Hamilton, that something extraordinary has happened. He won’t say what it’s all about.’
Colville reached for the phone. Strangely, he had dreamed the previous night that Göring had flown from Germany with the bombers and parachuted into Britain. It was one of those dreams that linger in the mind.
‘Colville speaking. Who is there?’
‘Thank God! Listen, this is Hamilton. I’m trying to reach Alex Cadogan. Something has happened, something unbelievable.’
‘What, exactly?’
‘I can’t say over a public line. It’s just extraordinary … like … like something out of an E. Phillips Oppenheim novel.’
Colville hesitated. The dream surfaced again. ‘Has somebody arrived?’
There was a pause.
The Duke answered, ‘Yes.’
‘Hold the line. I’m going to get instructions.’
Winston Churchill was at Ditchley Park in Oxfordshire, his secret headquarters for weekends when a full moon made Chequers vulnerable to bombing raids. It was a country house in a four-thousand-acre estate owned by his friend Ronald Tree. That weekend was the first anniversary of Churchill’s appointment as Prime Minister, and thirty house guests had been invited. News kept coming in of the devastation in London, but Churchill was accustomed to adversity. He was jubilant that the RAF had shot down thirty-three Luftwaffe bombers. At his request, a film comedy, The Marx Brothers Go West, was to be screened after dinner.
Churchill was puzzled by the message from Colville. He knew the Duke of Hamilton as a friend and former colleague in the House, but he could think of nothing of ‘urgent Cabinet importance’ that the Duke would need to discuss with him. He sent Brendan Bracken, the Minister of Information, to the phone. Bracken came back with a more sensational version: the Duke had an ‘amazing piece of information’ to report, so sensitive that it could not be divulged over the phone.
The Secret of Spandau Page 2
