Prince of Spies

by Prince of Spies (retail) (epub)

  And he remembered what he’d been told in Matlock: Checkpoints are routine in occupied Europe. Unfortunately, they’re part of everyday life. The most important thing to remember about a checkpoint is not to panic. Do not under any circumstances try and leave the queue – they watch out for people doing precisely that.

  So he waited his turn, agreeing with the old man next to him that it was indeed warm for the time of year and smiling perhaps a shade too pleasantly at the German sentry who hurried them along. The soldier appeared to be suffering from a heavy cold, wiping his dripping nose with the sleeve of his greatcoat. He looked at Prince’s identity card, then at Prince himself, and once more at the card.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Jesper Holm.’ He wondered whether to add ‘sir’ but decided against it.

  ‘Let me have a look.’ A short German wearing civilian clothes moved forward, one of a group of three observing the checkpoint: Gestapo. The soldier handed him the legitimationskort and he studied it carefully, then looked at Prince, appearing to go onto his tiptoes to get a better view. He turned round and said something to his colleagues, and before Prince could fully grasp what was going on, his arms had been grabbed from either side and he was being hauled away. He must have pulled against them, because a fist punched him hard in the ribs and he doubled up.

  By the time someone spat in his ear that he was under arrest, he’d already gathered that might well be the case.

  Chapter 7

  Copenhagen, November 1942

  He’d been blindfolded and bundled into the back of a car, so had no idea where they were going. His only impression of the vehicle was the tan-coloured seats he’d glimpsed under the blindfold and the aroma of leather and stale tobacco.

  There was a man on either side of him and another in the front alongside the driver; he was able to work that out from the different voices as they argued about where he should be taken, clearly unaware he spoke German.

  ‘I’m telling you, we take him to our headquarters on Kampmannsgade. There’s no question about him. This is so clearly a case for the Gestapo. This name has been on our watch list!’

  ‘But the protocol is that all Danish citizens have to be processed by the local police first – you know that as well as I do, Klaus. The last thing we want is another row with these precious Danes.’

  ‘But according to our information, he’s probably not Danish. Let’s go straight to Kampmannsgade and then deal with the bloody Danes. We’re far too sensitive about their feelings as it is.’

  ‘Look, let’s go to the main police headquarters on Polititorvet, get him processed as a priority and then we can have him back at our place within an hour.’

  * * *

  Having that conversation in front of him had been their first mistake, the first of a number the Gestapo made that day. The second was throwing him in a cell with someone else in it, a boy around eighteen years of age with a mop of blonde hair and a large bruise under one eye that he wore like a badge of honour. He told Prince he’d been arrested for throwing an apple core at a German armoured car. Prince told him he had no idea why he’d been arrested: a misunderstanding over his legitimationskort perhaps. He wasn’t even sure where he was.

  ‘This is the main police headquarters on Polititorvet. At least they’ve brought you here. If they offer you an all-expenses stay at the Gestapo place on Kampmannsgade, turn them down.’ The boy came and sat next to him on his bench and spoke quietly in a conspiratorial manner. ‘Do you have anything to worry about?’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘I mean, you say they arrested you over your legitimationskort. Was that at a checkpoint?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did they arrest anyone else?’

  ‘Not as far as I could tell.’

  ‘And your identity… do you have anything to be concerned about it? I mean, is it genuine?’

  At Matlock they’d told him to be careful of plants, seemingly sympathetic people who’d appear to be your friend, on the same side, and who’d lure you into revealing too much. With his innocent looks and obvious pride in his bruise, the boy didn’t look like a plant, but Prince knew he couldn’t risk it.

  ‘Of course it’s genuine – why wouldn’t it be?’

  * * *

  Perhaps they’d realised their mistake, because soon after that, he was moved to another cell, this time on his own. It was tiny, lit only by a small amount of daylight diffused through the opaque window. The darkness and the solitude gave him time to reflect. He remembered Gilbey’s warning – The Gestapo see through most cover stories, sooner or later – and realised he needed to act fast.

  His opportunity came half an hour later, when he was marched up two floors and into an empty interview room, one not wholly dissimilar to the ones he’d spent so much of his career in. A Danish policeman guided him to a chair on one side of a large wooden table and secured one part of his handcuffs to the side of the chair.

  In the corridor outside, an argument was being conducted in German. Someone was telling another person to get on with it. The other person replied in poor German that he’d be as quick as possible but there was a procedure to follow. Moments later, that person came into the room: a tall man in plain clothes carrying a large notebook. He seemed nervous as he sat opposite Prince, constantly adjusting his wire-framed spectacles, all the while nervously coughing. As he opened the notebook, Prince could see his Jesper Holm legitimationskort interleaved between the pages.

  ‘Your name is Jesper Holm.’ It sounded like a statement rather than a question, but Prince nodded nonetheless. Then every detail on the legitimationskort was checked: profession, address, date of birth.

  More questions: where did he work; his father’s name; his mother’s name; which school he’d gone to. As nervous as he was, Prince had little trouble answering.

  ‘The problem is that for reasons they don’t share with us’ – Prince detected a hint of bitterness – ‘the Gestapo not only had the name Jesper Holm on a watch list, but also a description matching you, and that means we really have a very limited role in dealing with you, I’m afraid.’

  A long pause. I’m afraid – a hint of sympathy, possibly.

  ‘In a case where the Gestapo has an interest in a suspect, our job is simply to process you – fill in a few forms – and then hand you over to them. That way we maintain the pretence that the Germans aren’t really our occupiers.’ The man held up his hands as if to indicate there was no more he could do.

  Prince knew full well that the Jesper Holm identity was unlikely to survive a Gestapo interrogation. The fact that they were looking for someone who matched his description would explain why he’d been stopped so often on the journey from Esbjerg. Fortunately, the man they’d stopped then was Hans Olsen rather than the Jesper Holm they were looking for.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The Danish policeman sounded sincere, allowing an embarrassed smile to cross his face. ‘Would you like a cigarette?’

  In the apartment, when she’d surprised Prince by telling him her real name, Hanne had justified it by saying that knowing her true identity might help him. Now he was about to put that to the test. He leaned across the table as far as the handcuffs would allow, looking up into the face of the police officer as he coughed nervously once more.

  ‘I need your help.’

  The policeman’s eyes widened, more in fear than anything else.

  ‘It’s essential I avoid the Gestapo. I have a contact with you – with the police. I beg you to tell that person I’m here. I’m risking my life telling you this… and theirs.’

  A long silence. The man’s eyes narrowed. He removed his spectacles, studied them, then put them on again. ‘You’re risking my life too, telling me this. Who is your contact?’

  Maybe he should be brave. Maybe he should risk a Gestapo interrogation after all. He could rely on his cover story, and if that failed, at least he could protect Agent Osric and Agent Horatio. They were more important than him.
He’d sacrifice himself. But then he thought of his son and realised he had to do everything he could to escape.

  ‘Hanne Jakobsen – Vicepolitiinspektor Hanne Jakobsen.’

  The policeman leaned forward in shock. ‘Hanne? Hanne is involved with you?’ His hands were shaking. He closed his notebook and opened it again, clearly unsure of what to do or how to react.

  ‘Would you know how to contact her?’

  ‘She’s two floors above us.’

  * * *

  After that, the Gestapo made another mistake. The policeman went into the corridor and in poor German informed the waiting Gestapo officer that there was a minor problem and he needed to get a colleague to sort it out. It shouldn’t take too long. They wouldn’t want the paperwork to be incorrect.

  ‘Hurry up,’ had been the response. And then the Gestapo officer decided it had taken long enough already and he was going to get something to eat. ‘It’s twelve fifteen now. I’ll be back at one to collect him: paperwork or no paperwork!’

  Once the Gestapo officer left, Hanne was summoned. She seemed remarkably calm when she entered the room. Certainly she shot Prince a disapproving look, but it was more like a parental look of disappointment rather than one of anger.

  ‘Give me a minute, please, Jens,’ she said to her colleague. Once the policeman had left, she sat opposite Prince. ‘So what happened?’

  He explained.

  ‘And it couldn’t have been Agent Horatio informing them?’

  ‘I can’t possibly see how – he’d have had no idea I was following him from the other side of the canal. And the checkpoint was a random one; the queue was already quite long when I joined it.’

  She nodded. ‘Nonetheless, it seems the name Jesper Holm was on a watch list and you match a description they had. You must have been betrayed. We have to get you out of here.’ She chewed a nail and looked at her watch. ‘We have half an hour at the most. Let’s see what we can do. I can’t tell you how fortunate it is Jens was questioning you. He’s a friend and I trust him. I can’t say that of everyone here.’

  He was left on his own for five minutes, still handcuffed to the chair. When Hanne returned, it was with Jens and two uniformed Danish policemen. The handcuffs were released and Hanne explained the plan.

  ‘Go with these two officers. They’ll drop you somewhere safe. You know where to return to. Once there, stay put. Wait until I come, which may not be today. Understand?’

  He was hurried down to the basement and into the back of an unmarked van. The van drove around for an hour, then it stopped, the rear doors opened and he was told to get out quick. Without so much as a goodbye, he was on his own, by the entrance to Enghaveparken. Ten minutes later, he was in the apartment off Carstensgade. Only when he locked the door and sank into the armchair did he appreciate the state he was in: drenched in sweat, his heart beating fast, mouth dry, and alternating feelings of dizziness and nausea. He was about to get up for some water when a wave of emotion hit him in a way he hadn’t experienced, not even when told of Jane and Grace’s deaths.

  This was not so much shock, more profound fear and sadness. He thought of Henry and whether he’d ever see him again. He realised how close he’d come to falling into the hands of the Gestapo. The fact that he had apparently been betrayed only added to the emotion, and for a full hour he sat in the armchair and, for the first time since he was a child, sobbed his heart out.

  * * *

  At police headquarters on Polititorvet that afternoon, various careers came to rapid ends. When the Gestapo officer returned from his meal break and found Prince was missing, Jens was summoned. He explained, with an admirable degree of plausibility, how there had clearly been a misunderstanding. He had assumed that once he’d sorted the paperwork – which thankfully he had – he was to send the suspect direct to the Gestapo headquarters on Kampmannsgade.

  ‘So he’s there now?’

  ‘Yes – he must be.’

  A delay while calls were made. There was, it transpired, no sign of the suspect at Kampmannsgade. What arrangements had been made to transfer the suspect?

  He’d been sent down to prisoner transport, explained Jens. Prisoner transport, it transpired, had undergone a shift change. It would take some time to check exactly what had happened to the suspect. It was possible he might have been put on a transport to Roskilde, by mistake of course.

  It was around this time that the Gestapo officer – a squat man with bad skin and a distinctive Swabian accent – began to realise how much he was to blame for the suspect going missing. He knew full well he should not have left the prisoner on his own. Going for a meal break, notwithstanding his considerable hunger, was tantamount to desertion.

  When his senior officer arrived at the police headquarters, he took a similar view. The squat Gestapo officer with bad skin and a Swabian accent was dismissed on the spot. At one point his senior officer pinned him against the wall. ‘I promise you that within twenty-four hours you will be on your way to the Eastern Front: see how many fucking meal breaks you get there!’

  Jens’s boss agreed that his officer had, quite uncharacteristically, made a serious error, albeit one arising through a misunderstanding. Jens would of course resign and no further action would be taken against him.

  And all this time Hanne Jakobsen was not involved. Her name was never mentioned, and the Gestapo had no idea who she was.

  They decided this was an example of typical Danish incompetence. They’d find Jesper Holm sooner or later anyway, and at least they now knew he was in Copenhagen. After all, how long could a British agent survive once his identity had been blown?

  * * *

  Early the following evening, Hanne appeared, as silently as ever. She looked for all the world like a busy housewife returning home, a shopping bag in each hand and even a pleasant smile to greet him. But she didn’t say a word until she’d double-bolted the front door and led him into the lounge, taking her usual seat in the large armchair, tucking her legs under her and lighting a cigarette.

  ‘I cannot believe we got away with that,’ she said eventually, shaking her head in disbelief. There was another period of silence, during which she pulled hard on her cigarette before finishing it and lighting another one. Prince began to say something, but she held up a hand, as if stopping traffic. Wait, let me speak. ‘Thank Christ I told you my real name. I knew it was a risk, but if I hadn’t… who knows what the Gestapo would have done to you by now. And who knows what you’d have told them.’

  ‘You can trust me, I wouldn’t have—’

  ‘Wouldn’t have what – told them anything? Listen: those bastards at Kampmannsgade have broken the most hardened resistance fighters in a matter of hours. You cannot begin to imagine what they do to you. By now, everything could have been blown – you, me, Agent Horatio, the people who helped you in Esbjerg and on the way here. As it is…’

  She paused again, walked over to the window and pulled the drawn curtains aside before returning to her chair.

  ‘As it is… what?’

  ‘As it is, the situation is bad enough. Potentially, I’m compromised. Fortunately, Jens is to be trusted: he won’t say anything. He’s not a well man and he wasn’t far from retirement as it is, so for him to lose his job over this is a very small price to pay. He’s the only one who’s really aware of my connection with you.’

  ‘What about the policemen who drove me back to Vesterbro?’

  ‘I didn’t say we were safe, did I?’ She sounded annoyed. ‘Jens said they’re trustworthy, but who knows? In any case, it wasn’t as if they dropped you here, was it? Our real worry is you. Tell me again what happened this morning: everything.’

  Prince told her every detail, and she listened thoughtfully. When he had finished, she went into the kitchen, came back with a glass of water, walked round the apartment, back into the kitchen and then came to sit down before starting her now familiar cigarette routine.

  ‘We need to get you a new identity. But the fact that the
y know what you look like is a concern. The only way we can do it is by changing your appearance. Your hair is quite dark, especially for a Scandinavian. We can certainly make it lighter; that should be easy enough. Have you ever grown a beard?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any idea how long it would take you to grow one? It would need to be a proper one, though.’

  Prince was stroking his chin, trying to assess how long it would take. ‘I don’t know really. My guess is at least three weeks, perhaps a month.’

  ‘Very well then: I’ll get a message to Weston in Stockholm and he can tell London there’s been a delay. They don’t need to know more than that; they’ll just have to be patient. I’ll speak to someone about a new legitimationskort, but we can’t actually prepare it until we can get a photograph of you with lighter hair and a beard. In the meantime, you stay here. You’ll just have to be patient. Would you like a cigarette?’

  ‘I would actually, thank you.’

  She lit one and passed it to him, noticing as she did so how his hands were trembling. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘You don’t look all right.’

  Prince looked down at the rug between them, his eyes filling with tears as he did so. He watched as a couple of them dripped onto the ornate pattern, and then wiped his eyes.

  ‘No, it’s just been a terrible shock, that’s all. I’m sure I’ll be fine.’

  Hanne said nothing, but she leaned forward and wiped a tear from under his eye with her thumb.

  * * *

  Hanne’s work was split between the police headquarters in Polititorvet and the police station in the Nørrebro district, where the unit investigating high-value robberies was based. A week after sending the message to London via Weston in Stockholm, she made one of her regular lunchtime visits to the Assistens cemetery.