Prince of Spies

by Prince of Spies (retail) (epub)

  ‘If I may say, Tom – and you’ll appreciate I am to a certain extent playing the devil’s advocate here – the evidence against Llewellyn Tindall is only circumstantial. Nothing has been found in his flat—’

  ‘Hang on, Roland, he was the only person in Rodmarton Street who knew about Hendrie sending an agent over, and sure enough there was a German reception committee of a couple of hundred troops waiting around the drop zone… and then what about this young chap with a foreign accent whom he met in St Martin’s Lane – his German contact?’

  ‘Indeed, Tom, but that’s circumstantial evidence nonetheless, and there’s nothing to prove Tindall is… was… a German spy. In law, one differentiates between circumstantial and direct evidence. Unlike hearsay, they are both admissible in court, but the latter certainly carries a good deal more weight than the former. And there may be another explanation for this young chap, the foreigner…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘This is somewhat sensitive, Tom, as you’ll appreciate, but Treslake told us Tindall was hanging around between St Martin’s Court and Cecil Court. Well…’ Bentley coughed nervously and glanced at Gilbey and then Hendrie, as if unsure whether it was wise to continue. ‘On that block is the Salisbury public house. You may not be aware, but that is a venue where homosexual men… meet each other. It is perfectly feasible that this is the reason Tindall met this young man. I believe they call it a pick-up. They went into Cecil Court, which is somewhat less prominent, where Tindall handed him a slip of paper with his address on it and arranged for him to visit him later that evening. Clearly he would not want to be seen travelling with the young man or indeed entering his apartment block with him. The evidence, such as it is, could just as easily point to this having been a sordid sexual encounter: illegal certainly, but hardly in the same bracket as treason.’

  Gilbey looked at Bentley, giving the impression that what he said made some sense, but he was nonetheless reluctant to acknowledge it as such. ‘What do you think, Hendrie? You didn’t think a lot of Tindall, did you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t, sir. He was clearly a resentful type, big chip on his shoulder and all that, but whether that makes him a traitor, I’m not sure. As I think I said to you, it’s all too convenient, eh?’

  ‘Nevertheless… nevertheless…’ Gilbey rearranged a few papers on his already tidy desktop and seemed to come to a decision. ‘As long as the possibility remains that Tindall was passing on intelligence about our operations to the Germans, and the young foreign chap is on the loose, we cannot risk using the SOE to send Prince to Denmark.’

  ‘But if the source was Tindall and Tindall is dead, then there’s no longer any danger, surely?’

  ‘I know, Roland, but if he was a Nazi spy, what might he have told this young man? We need to get Prince to Denmark by alternative means.’

  ‘Which is difficult,’ said Hendrie. ‘After all, the SOE has all the expertise in that respect.’

  ‘I know, I know. Tell me, Hendrie – Tindall’s assistant, the Danish girl, what’s she like?’

  ‘Greta Poulsen? Nice enough. Pretty thing, if rather broad-shouldered. Good legs, though, and a fine—’

  ‘I’m not asking about her physique. What is she like as a person?’

  ‘Quiet, but good at just getting on with things. I know Tindall complained about being used as a dogsbody, but in many respects Miss Poulsen was Tindall’s dogsbody, though she never moaned about it like he did. I’m not sure how well things would have functioned without her.’

  ‘Was she in the same office as you and Tindall?’

  ‘Just outside it, sir, in an anteroom. In case you have any worries, she was discretion personified. She always knocked before coming in, and either Tindall or I would lock the office when we left.’

  ‘No, I’m not concerned in that respect. She came through her security clearance with flying colours; I’d already checked that out. The thing is, we need her expertise, but we’d need to get her away from Rodmarton Street. I propose we second her to us while we prepare Prince for his mission.’

  * * *

  Gilbey called in a favour or two. He couldn’t risk Webster knowing he wanted to use Greta Poulsen to help prepare Prince, so Webster’s superior at Noresby House was persuaded to instruct him to dismiss her. ‘Sorry, Webster, that part of your operation will have to be shut down: consider it compromised. Don’t worry about Miss Poulsen, we’ll find something for her to do.’

  Next it was his sister-in-law, whose father owned and farmed considerable chunks of Derbyshire. ‘It’s going to be tricky, Tom,’ was her initial response. With her, things were always tricky. Gilbey said that was a shame, because he could be of considerable help with petrol rations – even quite generous. Half an hour later, she rang back: no problem.

  The house they came up with was perfect: a decent-sized farmhouse, no neighbours within a mile, situated west of Matlock and on the edge of the Peak District. It was in good condition, used by one of the estate managers until he’d been conscripted a few months previously. No one would have the faintest idea it had been borrowed by the Service. They called premises like this ghost houses: off the books, not known about other than by a very select few.

  ‘You’ve got three weeks to train him, Hendrie,’ Gilbey said. ‘You’ll go up there to be in overall charge. There’s an SOE trainer called Martin to do the nuts-and-bolts stuff, and Miss Poulsen will be there to help with all things Danish. You teach him what it means to be a spy – the theory and suchlike. I imagine you’re good at that.’

  * * *

  Richard Prince was in a bemused and even confused state when he arrived at the isolated farmhouse in Derbyshire on one of those October days when autumn has taken hold on the trees and the first hints of winter are in the air. They’d left Lincoln early in the morning, and by the time they arrived at their destination, there was still a frost on the ground.

  Hendrie was there to greet him, impatiently pacing up and down outside the house as if Prince was late, glancing at his watch and fussing unnecessarily about who’d carry which case into the house. The journey had given Prince an opportunity to reflect on his recruitment and the fact that he was now working for British intelligence. His bemusement was at the pace at which everything had happened and the fact that he’d had relatively little say in it. His agreement had been assumed: one moment he’d been a policeman in Lincolnshire, the next he was in his Chief Constable’s office, the room thick with cigarette smoke. Hendrie was making the whole business sound somewhat matter-of-fact.

  ‘A couple of months, Prince, that’s all. Come and work with us for a couple of months.’

  The Chief Constable had been sitting behind his desk, his face red and his demeanour that of a man who’d clearly lost an argument. ‘I’ve said two months must mean two months, Prince, don’t you worry. If I could afford to lose my best detective, I’d have allowed you to join up in 1939 as you wanted to, but Mr Hendrie is insistent.’

  Prince had turned to Hendrie, whose demeanour was the opposite of the Chief Constable’s: a man who’d clearly won an argument. Hendrie shifted his chair away from the angry gaze of the Chief Constable. ‘Look on it as a matter of duty, Prince. Clearly we cannot force you to work for us, but for what we have in mind, you’re undoubtedly the best person.’

  And while he could have conceivably said no at that point, he knew he’d have regretted doing so. Every time he saw a soldier or an airman, he felt a pang of conscience, a sense that he wasn’t playing his part in the war. He knew that but for Henry he’d have joined up long ago.

  ‘Two months you say, sir?’

  ‘More or less, yes. I mean, clearly we won’t be counting days as such, but…’

  The Chief Constable made a snorting sound.

  Prince took a deep breath. ‘Well, I suppose so, yes…’

  Hendrie had stood up rather too fast and walked over to him and clasped his hand with both of his own. ‘Welcome on board, Prince. Perhaps you and I can find somewhere to have
a chat?’

  * * *

  In other circumstances Richard Prince would have described the three weeks near Matlock as being rather pleasant. The house was very comfortable, a couple employed by the Service were there to look after the place and cook the meals and the countryside was stunning. A man called Martin gave him firearms and self-defence training along with sessions on communications. Hendrie’s job, apart from fussing around and worrying about security, was to brief him on the mission and initiate him – as he put it – in the ways of an agent on a clandestine operation. A Danish woman called Greta was there from time to time too: her job was to help construct his new identity and ensure he was familiar with all things Danish.

  Prince and Greta Poulsen became close during her visits to Derbyshire. He wasn’t able to tell her anything about himself and she only knew him as Thomas – Hendrie was the only person there aware of his true identity. But she was friendly, in contrast to Martin’s businesslike approach and Hendrie’s fussing around. They went for long walks in the countryside and after a couple of days she would link her arm through his. Soon after that, she took to kissing him on the cheek when they met and when they parted.

  Prince hadn’t anticipated how much this friendship would mean to him, and he even came close to telling her about his circumstances. He thought about it as they walked down the lanes and across the fields: of course he wouldn’t give his name or any other details, but he could hint at a recent tragedy involving his wife, and maybe even refer to a child – he’d avoid saying it was a son. It might help explain a certain reticence she’d have been bound to have spotted in him. He didn’t want her to think of him as being rude.

  But then he remembered how Hendrie had warned him to tell no one anything. All you need is one person you trust to let slip to someone else they trust a seemingly innocent detail and they tell another person – who they also trust – and the next thing you know you’re in a damp basement having to explain yourself to the Gestapo, which is not something any amount of training can really prepare you for.

  In fact, they had tried to prepare him for such an eventuality. They’d brought up a couple of MI5 interrogators, with whom he spent an unpleasant few hours in a barn, and then a Danish army officer had come to interrogate him in Danish. He was roughed up a bit, then blindfolded and forced to stand in the dark with his hands and feet bound for what felt like hours. The consensus was that he handled these mock interrogations very well: he was unflappable, managed to think before he answered without any undue hesitation, demonstrated a degree of physical bravery and had quickly mastered his backstory – the legend, as they insisted on calling it. ‘You’re jolly good,’ Hendrie told him when the interrogation training ended, as if he was surprised. ‘However, you need to understand that unfortunately that doesn’t count for an awful lot once the Gestapo get their hands on you. The most important thing is to use this training to stop yourself falling into their hands. Don’t be cocky: they’ll smell that a mile off. That and fear.’

  Greta Poulsen was spending more time in Derbyshire now, though every few days she’d return to London, where she was helping with preparing his documentation.

  ‘Important you feel comfortable speaking Danish,’ Hendrie told him.

  ‘I always have done, sir. The language came naturally to me and I always spoke it with my mother.’

  ‘Even so, you’ll have to speak it under pressure when you’re there. Take advantage of Miss Poulsen being around, but do be careful about how much you let on. Remember, Mr Gilbey and I are the only people who know all the details of your mission.’

  * * *

  The last three days at the farmhouse moved at a frantic pace. Greta returned to Derbyshire on Sunday, and she seemed to have caught the solemn mood. For two hours she sat in a room with Prince and Hendrie as they went through everything that had been prepared for him: the clothes with Danish labels, the Danish toiletries, the odds and ends and scraps of paper to go in his pockets and wallet.

  ‘And here’s your identity, Thomas: you’re Jesper Holm. In this envelope is your identity card – your legitimationskort – in that name along with various other documents. And here,’ she handed him a file, ‘is Jesper Holm’s story.’

  Prince opened the file, but Hendrie put his hand on top of it. ‘Later. You’ll need to read this, absorb all the information and commit it to memory. Remember, your life depends on it. It’s not just a matter of memorising the information; you must absolutely believe it and live it. By the time you leave here you need to be Jesper Holm. Greta’s done a splendid job. It’s a first-class identity and absolutely rock solid.’

  When they finished, Prince went for a walk in the paddock alongside the farmhouse. He was leaning against a fence when Greta joined him. She stood apart from him, gazing into the distance.

  ‘Are you ready for your mission, Jesper? You have to get used to being called that.’

  ‘Not yet, but I imagine I will be once I’ve read up on him.’

  ‘Do you go this week?’

  He shrugged. ‘I really don’t know, Greta, I—’

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be asking you these questions.’ She glanced at him and then away again. They didn’t speak as they walked back to the house.

  * * *

  The following morning, Tom Gilbey arrived along with a young Royal Navy officer he introduced as Jack Shaw.

  ‘I gather things have gone rather well?’

  ‘I hope so, sir.’

  ‘Nervous?’

  ‘Naturally. I suspect I’d be nervous if I wasn’t nervous, if you gather my meaning.’

  ‘Very good. Now then, you’re going to be travelling to Denmark by sea, and young Shaw here will be your escort.’

  They ate that night in the dining room, the first time they’d used that room since arriving in Derbyshire. It felt very formal, like a farewell dinner, with an atmosphere to match. There were four of them round the table: Prince, Gilbey, Hendrie and Shaw. When they’d finished their meal, Gilbey asked Shaw and Hendrie to leave.

  ‘I return to London tonight, Prince. You’ll leave here in the morning. Shaw’s terribly good: we’ve borrowed him from Royal Navy intelligence and they rate him very highly. I know he looks like a schoolboy, but then they all do these days, don’t they? You’ve had all your briefings, eh?’

  Prince nodded, wondering whether he dared help himself to another glass of claret.

  ‘Any… problems?’

  ‘Only that I’m leaving my son, sir. Of course, I realise everyone has to make sacrifices because of the war, but he is all I have, and perhaps more to the point, I’m all he has. But Mr Hendrie says it will only be a couple of months, and once I’m back…’ He stopped speaking as he tried to compose himself, his head dropping down.

  Gilbey allowed a few moments of silence before he spoke. ‘Of course, one understands, but as you say, we’re all making sacrifices. Do have another glass of wine; there’s very little not helped by that.’

  He waited while Prince poured a large glassful. ‘I do worry that when we train our agents, we cram their heads full of information and it’s sometimes hard to see the wood for the trees. I always try and send them off with a short summary of what the mission is about so they can be clear as to what I expect.’

  He stood up and circled the dining table before sitting down next to Prince.

  ‘The tide of the war has turned in our favour, no question about that. But we mustn’t be complacent; there’s still an enormous amount of fight in the Germans. They’re a formidable enemy and a clever one. The biggest threat to this country could well be from these long-range rockets they’re developing. They could cause us untold damage; they could even reverse our fortunes. I’m not suggesting they could cause us to lose the war on their own, but if the rumours are close to the truth, they could set us back months, quite possibly even a year or two. That would be a disaster. However, there’s a worrying degree of scepticism in some quarters. There are people in Whitehall – some of
them quite influential – who insist these rockets pose no threat, or that the threat is exaggerated, and they’re trying to influence Winston accordingly.

  ‘Recently our head of station in Stockholm was approached by a Danish businessman, whom we call Agent Horatio. He travels to Berlin frequently for his work and claims that while there, he’s picked up something about the rockets. But there’s a limit to what we can do with him from a neutral country: I need my own man on the ground in Copenhagen to run him. First, though, you’ll need to check him out – we cannot even be sure we trust him. In the end, it may well be a matter for your judgement. If you think he passes the test, I want you to milk him for whatever intelligence he has.

  ‘I don’t think I’m exaggerating, Prince, when I say that this mission is of the utmost importance: if half of what we hear about these rockets is true and they extend the war by even a couple of months, that could be a disaster. And there’s something else: Denmark is also very well placed to gain information about the rockets. The Germans are developing the damn things at a place called Peenemünde, which is on the Baltic coast, very close to Denmark. They’re even test-firing some of them into Danish territory.

  ‘So that’s your job, Prince. Run Horatio, find out what you can about the rockets, supply me with the evidence I need to persuade the fools here that this is a genuine threat. Do that and you’ll be a hero.’

  There was a period of silence. Prince was not sure if the conversation had come to an end. Gilbey stood up and walked towards the large stone fireplace.

  ‘Have you seen that film The Great Dictator?’

  ‘The one with Charlie Chaplin, sir? Yes, we saw it at the Regal.’