Gilbey nodded. ‘It’s certainly amusing, but the problem with it is it makes the Germans out to be clowns, and I’m afraid broadly speaking they’re anything but that. You’re making a very grave error if you think the enemy are fools, but too many people in London do make that mistake. Your Danish background and ability to speak the language is a great asset, Prince, and you have a very good Danish identity, but I don’t want you to feel that it makes you safe, if you get my drift. Always be alert, never be complacent. The Gestapo see through most cover stories, sooner or later. Main thing is to avoid falling into their hands.’
There was another period of silence. Gilbey sat down again and both men concentrated on their wine glasses. Gilbey started to speak a couple of times but paused, giving Prince the impression he was unsure of what he was about to say. ‘One final thing,’ he said eventually. ‘As you may have gathered, I’m somewhat sceptical about the Danes. I think we’ve been lulled into a false sense of security what with them being so friendly and so hostile to the Germans. Be very careful who you trust. Hendrie’s briefed you about Agent Osric? At least Osric is reliable.’
He leaned back in his chair, studying Prince very carefully, running his finger round the rim of his wine glass. ‘I’m going to be frank with you, Prince. There is something I’ve been in two minds about telling you.’
Prince was startled. This sounded ominous.
‘When we started, I wasn’t sure how you’d turn out. Nothing personal, you understand; it’s how I approach all new agents. It’s one thing getting top marks in training and quite another cutting it in the field. Very hard to predict – until you send an agent into enemy territory, you simply have no idea how they’ll perform.
‘However,’ Gilbey sat up at this point and leaned closer, so close Prince could smell the wine on his breath, ‘one does get an instinct for the quality of a person. I like to describe agents I know I can trust implicitly as cum laude – that’s Latin for “with very great distinction”. You’re a cum laude agent, Prince.’
‘Thank you, sir, I—’
‘No need to show me gratitude, we’re not in some bloody Oxford college. What it means is that had I not decided you’re a cum laude agent, I would not have told you what I’m about to tell you. We have a further source in Copenhagen, one so highly placed and so important to us that you are only to approach him in the most extreme of circumstances: if Agent Osric is unable to help you and if your life is in danger, not if you’ve run out of milk. Do you understand this?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Just three people in this country know about this source, including myself. If he’s compromised, it would be a disaster for this country. His code name is Browning. Under no circumstances are you to approach him directly. Now, you’ll need to concentrate, Prince. I’m about to tell you how to contact him.’
Chapter 4
The North Sea, November 1942
When Prince came down for breakfast at seven thirty, Jack Shaw was already at the table, looking slightly nervous and smiling as if genuinely pleased to see him. His hands shook slightly as he poured his own tea and a cup for Prince.
‘We’ll leave here at nine, maybe a shade earlier if the driver gets here before then.’
‘So we sail today?’
‘I’m afraid I’m only permitted to advise you of our arrangements one stage at a time, sir. In any case, you’ll not be going straight to the port. Mr Gilbey has arranged a stop on our journey.’
They left the house near Matlock just before nine and headed east. Throughout the journey Shaw was continually glancing around, peering in the wing mirror, trying to see through the back window and instructing the driver to let any car coming up behind them overtake. On at least four occasions he told him to pull into a lay-by, and they waited there in silence, apart from the driver drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. They drove south of Mansfield and crossed the Great North Road near Newark before joining the road to Hykeham, heading north towards Lincoln. Prince could feel his heart beating fast. He now had an inkling of where they could be going.
Instead of going to his own home, however, they turned north-east when they entered Lincoln, soon pulling into the driveway of a house off the Lindum Road. Shaw turned round, addressing Prince in his public school accent, no longer nervous.
‘Your son has been brought here for you to visit him, sir. Mr Gilbey didn’t think it would be wise for you to be seen at your own home. It’s now, what… eleven o’clock. The plan is for you to stay here until three. You’ll be able to play with Henry – apparently there’s a large garden with a swing in it – and have lunch and spend some time together. Mr Gilbey said it was because you might not see him for a while.’
There was a pause as Shaw’s final words hung heavy in the car. For a while…
‘That is very nice of Mr Gilbey,’ said Prince. ‘Though four hours isn’t terribly long, is it?’
‘I’m afraid it’s as long as we can spare, sir. There is one other thing: Mr Gilbey said to remind you you’re not to utter a word about where you’re going and what you’re up to.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Shaw, Henry is three years old! If you seriously think I’m going to discuss my mission with him…’
* * *
By the end of the visit, Prince wondered if it wouldn’t have been better if it hadn’t taken place at all. Henry had been thrilled to see him, and for the first hour it had been fine: they’d played in the garden, kicked a football around and played with a large black cat that gave the impression they were in its territory and should respect that. Then it had started raining, so they came inside, where there was less to distract them, and sat in a slightly formal lounge with a couple of jigsaws that were far too difficult for Henry. Shaw was in the kitchen but popped in every so often to ask if everything was all right.
Prince’s sister-in-law was also there, and she hovered nearby.
‘Evelyn, perhaps if you could let Henry and me have a few minutes on our own?’
‘Lunch will be ready soon.’
‘Well, a few minutes before lunch then, eh?’
He’d never got on particularly well with his wife’s sister, who since Jane’s death had appeared put out that she’d not been asked to be more involved in Henry’s life. It was as if she felt she ought to replace her sister as Henry’s mother, something Prince wasn’t keen on.
However, when he was recruited by Gilbey, he felt he had no alternative but to ask her to help out. After all, Gilbey had assured him it would only be for a few weeks. She’d had to make do with a brief explanation about a project to do with port security.
Since they’d arrived in Lincoln, he’d been thinking about how he’d broach the subject of his absence with Henry. ‘Daddy’s going to work for a few days. When I come back, we’ll go somewhere very special. Where would you like to go?’
‘Can we go and see Mummy and Grace?’
He didn’t know how to respond. Henry had been just a year old when his mother and sister were killed. He had no memory of them, and Prince had felt it was best left that way. He’d tell him when he was older. He guessed Evelyn must have been talking about them.
There was a bag with some books in it, and Henry thrust one in his hands for him to read. It was the story of a little bear whose father goes to find food and gets lost in a forest. The little bear appeared to spend all his time looking out the window for his father to return. He couldn’t have chosen a worse book.
Prince was on the edge of his emotions for the remainder of the time in Lincoln, doing his best not to show how upset he was and praying for the weather to improve so they could be alone in the garden. At two thirty, Shaw came into the lounge, tapped his wristwatch and told him there was half an hour to go. Five minutes later, the rain stopped and the sun broke through. He and Henry put their coats on and went outside, his son clutching his hand.
‘You know I told you I’m going to work for a few days, Henry?’
Henry was kicking leaves a
nd looking for the black cat and didn’t appear to be paying attention. Tears welled up in Prince’s eyes and he was grateful his son was distracted.
‘Just remember this: Daddy loves you very much and you’re very special to him. You understand?’
The boy might have noticed the catch in his father’s voice, its unfamiliar cadence. His grip tightened and he looked up, smiled and nodded as if he did understand, although Prince wasn’t sure that wasn’t wishful thinking on his part.
* * *
They left Lincoln at three, as planned. Prince cuddled his son in the hallway and then left the house quickly.
They headed north out of Lincoln, towards Market Rasen. It was a road Prince knew well. An hour or so later, they arrived in Grimsby, driving through the town and onto the docks. A policeman on a motorbike was waiting for them at a security gate and they followed him as he drove past a large wooden sign for Fish Docks No. 3 barely covered by a frayed sheet of tarpaulin. The enormous Dock Tower loomed in the distance as they headed to the furthest part of the docks, close to the sea wall. They drove slowly along North Quay, the sea wind buffeting the car, until the policeman stopped, his arm outstretched, pointing to a small building.
They climbed to the top floor, to an office warmed by a large oil fire and with views of the dock to one side and the Humber Estuary to the other. Their driver followed them in with their bags and then left.
‘It’s getting dark. We’ll need to close the blackout and put the lights on,’ said Shaw. ‘Before we do, though, come over here.’
He was standing by the window overlooking the dock. Immediately below was a trawler that to Prince looked quite old, possibly not even seaworthy, though he’d be the first to admit he was no judge of such matters. It was painted almost entirely black, with a narrow white band running horizontally around the hull and the name of the ship picked out in white – Northern Hawk, Grimsby – along with its registration, GY512. The same registration was painted on the stern. The deck was blackened with soot and grime, the wheelhouse a dirty white.
‘At the start of the war there were around four hundred and sixty trawlers sailing out of Grimsby,’ said Shaw, who was evidently more relaxed close to the sea. ‘We requisitioned the best ones and they’ve done a splendid job with the convoys. They make excellent minesweepers and rescue ships and the crews are second to none. As the war has gone on, we’ve released more of them back for fishing. The Northern Hawk is ostensibly one of those: it may look like it’s not up to it, but actually that’s deliberate. If it looks like a rust-bucket, the Germans are less likely to be interested in it. In fact, it has a brand new engine and is in tip-top condition; its rather sorry-looking exterior is as much a camouflage as anything else. Ah, there we are – you see those two men coming down the gangplank?’
Prince could make out two figures dressed in black.
‘That’s the skipper, Bert Trent, and his first mate, Sid Oliver. They both have top-level security clearance but obviously don’t know what you’ll be up to in Denmark; they only know you as “Tom”. It goes without saying that you don’t breathe a word about your mission while on board. In a moment I’ll give Bert the coordinates for the rendezvous point with the Danish trawler: that’s as much as he needs to know. But he’s absolutely reliable and this isn’t the first time he’s undertaken something like this for us. Here they are.’
The two men who entered the office were both quite short and built like boxers, their weather-beaten faces making it impossible to pinpoint their ages. They moved in the somewhat deliberate way sailors do on land, each smoking a pipe and looking at Prince with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity, studying him without saying a word. Shaw did the introductions and both men crossed the room to shake hands in a rather formal manner. Then he passed Trent an envelope. The skipper put his pipe down while he opened it, read its contents carefully, then handed it to his first mate.
Shaw indicated that they should both join him at a table covered in charts. For a while Trent didn’t say a word as he held a large ruler over the charts and made calculations with a pencil. Then he muttered something to Sid Oliver, who shook his head and pointed to another part of the chart. Trent looked up.
‘It’s very close to Denmark, Jack, very close. They realise that, I presume?’
‘That’s the coordinates we’ve been given, Bert; we can’t change them now. I think it must be because they don’t want to risk the other ship having to come out too far.’
‘I don’t imagine they do. Very well then. The rendezvous point is here – only just outside Danish territorial waters, west of the North Frisian Islands.’ His forefinger tapped part of the North Sea on the map. ‘Sid and I will do more detailed calculations before we set sail, but I’d estimate it being some two hundred and fifty nautical miles from Grimsby. We’ll travel at seven knots; we’re capable of more but that could draw attention to us. Best they see us as a harmless old trawler unable to go any faster.’
‘When will we get to the rendezvous point?’
‘Hard to say, Jack, hard to say: two hundred and fifty nautical miles assumes we travel in a straight line, but it doesn’t tend to work like that. The sea conditions could knock us off course, and then we have the German navy to worry about…’ He paused, bouncing his pencil on the chart. ‘Today’s what – Tuesday – and my estimate is a minimum of thirty-five hours once we leave Grimsby, but according to these instructions the rendezvous should be between midnight Thursday and two in the morning Friday. I don’t want to get into the area too early, it could arouse suspicion.’
‘What do you reckon then?’
Sid Oliver spoke. ‘High tide’s at about eight fifteen tonight. I think we should delay our departure to midnight. Rather than going in a straight line through Humber and German Bight – they’re shipping areas, Tom, here and here – I think we should head north up through Humber into Dogger and from there down to German Bight. Bert’s right, we don’t want to arrive too early.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but…’ Prince hesitated, aware that he sounded awkward, ‘aren’t we sitting ducks for the Germans – U-boats and all that?’
‘You’re right to mention that. The danger is from U-boats heading out to the Arctic or returning from it. Their two main bases are here, Trondheim, in Norway and here, Kiel on the Baltic. Fortunately, their routes should keep them north of us. The U-boats based in Hamburg – here – tend not to bother with a lone trawler these days: they worry about exposing themselves, giving away their position, and it’s not worth it for an old rust-bucket like us. It’s not unknown for trawlers to be used as decoys to tempt U-boats to the surface and then attack them. But that’s no guarantee of our safety.’
* * *
They set sail a few minutes before midnight, the Northern Hawk slipping silently and unseen through the dock gates into the Humber Estuary, the world around them pitch black, with only an occasional distant flickering light to remind them they were not alone in it.
Shaw and Prince shared a tiny cabin next to the skipper’s, just below the wheelhouse. They remained there the rest of that night and throughout the following day, when the Northern Hawk moved into Dogger and cast its nets. ‘It’s important they keep up the pretence of being a working trawler,’ Shaw explained. ‘And if we leave the cabin, we’ll just get in the way.’
When night fell on Wednesday, they ate in the trawler’s galley and then Bert Trent asked Prince if he’d like to join him in the wheelhouse.
For a while neither man said anything. The sea was calm and the same colour as the sky; impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. The gentle swell gave the impression that they were in the middle of an enormous shifting field, with the suggestion of hills rising far in the distance.
‘First time at sea, Tom?’
‘I guess it is really, yes.’
More silence. The skipper peered through the window to his right and then checked his dials. ‘We’re making good progress. We’re above Dogger
Bank, you know. Wonderful fishing ground. They say that thousands of years ago this was all land, connecting Britain to the Continent – all the way from Lincolnshire to Jutland! You wouldn’t have needed us then, would you? Mind you…’ Another long pause; it seemed as if the skipper had lost his train of thought. ‘If we were still connected by land, the war would’ve been over long before now.’
‘Maybe it would never have started.’
‘Who knows.’
‘Were you in the convoys, Bert?’
The other man nodded.
‘And were they as bad as they say?’
‘Worse, far worse. We’ve lost dozens and dozens of men.’
‘You must have known some of them.’
The skipper nodded, staring hard ahead of him, his hands gripping the wheel. ‘My brother and brother-in-law.’
‘I’m sorry, Bert.’
Another long spell of silence. When Trent spoke again, his voice was barely audible above the hum of the engine and the crashing of the waves against the trawler. ‘And my son.’
Prince stepped to the rear of the wheelhouse. The thought of his own son overwhelmed him. He could feel the tears welling in his eyes, and all the time the Northern Hawk was taking him further away from Henry.
* * *
Late on Thursday afternoon, the Northern Hawk changed course and headed south from Dogger into German Bight, closer now to Denmark. The wind was against them and they’d increased their speed to eight knots, but the first mate thought he might have seen a periscope in the distance, and there was certainly a ship on the horizon, so they dropped their speed and cast their nets for an hour in case anyone was watching.
At eleven o’clock that night, Shaw called Prince into the cabin. A final check, he said. They went through the rucksack Prince would be carrying to make sure there was nothing that could link him with Britain, and then his papers to confirm they were all in order. Then Shaw quizzed him on the details of his new identity – where Jesper Holm was born, his date of birth. Finally Prince prepared for the rendezvous, wrapping his rucksack in an oilskin and putting on a lifejacket.
Prince of Spies Page 7