From there she caught a tram towards the Assistens cemetery, getting off one stop after it, stopping at a news kiosk to buy a paper and check she hadn’t been followed before doubling back.
She left her chalk marks on one of the same graves as Weston’s courier used. She often wondered how wise this was, and she also questioned the sense of having to carry a bit of chalk in her handbag. How, she’d once asked Weston, would she explain that away? He’d patted her on the knee and told her he was sure she’d think of something. His courier would walk past in the next day or two. She had no idea who he or she was, or how they managed to get her messages to Stockholm for Weston to encrypt before transmitting them to London.
She did think she’d spotted one of his couriers a few months previously. It was a Monday lunchtime and she was walking through the cemetery to check the graves when she saw an elegantly dressed man, perhaps in his late sixties, walking ahead of her with a dog. He’d paused in front of one of the three graves and taken a step towards it before turning to check no one was around. When he saw her, he moved back onto the path and walked away in the direction she was coming from. For a brief moment their eyes met, perhaps with a fleeting understanding of what the other was doing there. Hanne saw him hesitate before carrying on, and she felt an irrational urge to run after him and say something, to have a word with someone who’d understand.
Espionage was not only tiring, it was also very lonely.
* * *
‘How is your revision going, Peter?’ She’d been calling him Peter ever since revealing his new identity, and he was becoming rather fond of the name. He felt he was more of a Peter than a Hans or a Jesper. There’d been a Peter in his year at school who’d been captain of both the rugby and cricket teams, as well as being the first in their year to have a proper girlfriend. Naturally he’d also gone to one of the better colleges at Cambridge. Prince had always aspired to being Peter.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your homework: how’s it going?’
‘Very well, thank you. I’ve memorised every detail I can on Peter Rasmussen and I now know the difference between port and starboard thanks to the children’s book on ships you brought from the library. And as for Helsingør, what do you want to know? I can tell you all about King Eric of Pomerania and describe St Olaf’s church in great detail.’ He was patting a pile of books next to him.
‘You’ll meet Agent Horatio tomorrow. You know what to do?’
He nodded.
‘I ought to be getting back to my apartment now. I won’t see you in the morning. I hope the meeting goes well. Are you all right, Peter?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you. Obviously a bit apprehensive…’
‘What happened last time was an unfortunate coincidence. You’ll be fine, you’re well prepared.’
There was a long silence. Prince started to talk, then stopped himself. He came and sat next to her on the sofa. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you have any family?’
‘Is it wise for us to be having a conversation like this?’
‘Is it wise not to?’
It was her turn to be quiet. She edged closer to him and rested her hand on his thigh, gently patting it as if in reassurance.
‘I’ve told you about my father – he’s in a home. He suffered a stroke a few years ago. My mother was killed when I was very young. My father brought me up on his own, though of course he had help. He and I are very close. And before you ask, I’ve never been married and I don’t have children. I’ve told you that already.’
‘Can I ask how your mother was killed? I hope you don’t mind…’
She removed her hand from his thigh and moved slightly away from him. ‘I don’t normally talk about it, Peter, it hurts too much. She was killed crossing the road. A lorry hit her. I was seven years old and had a twin brother. He was with her and was also killed, though not immediately. He died a few days later.’
‘You weren’t with them?’
‘No. Even to this day I don’t know where I was. I was in shock for weeks, perhaps months. My father and I never discussed it. I remember just the one conversation with him about it, very soon after my brother died. He said the only way we’d survive was by getting on with our lives and by not looking back, which is what we did. I do remember it was around then that I decided to become a police officer. I must have thought in my grief that maybe I could prevent that kind of thing happening.’
‘I’m sorry. I understand how dreadful it must have been for you.’
‘Really? But that’s the thing, Peter. People say they understand, but they can’t. Unless you have been through something like that, you simply have no way of understanding.’
She moved further away from him. She’d spoken in an admonishing tone and looked annoyed. She’d clearly felt he was being intrusive.
‘But you see, I have been through something just like that. My wife and daughter were killed in a car crash two years ago. And I have a son who wasn’t with them. He’s three. So I do know how you feel.’
They both sat in silence, during which time it grew dark, the room lit only by the light from the hall.
There was no need for either of them to say anything, but they did move closer to each other again.
It was perhaps not the best way for Prince to prepare for his meeting with Agent Horatio the following morning.
* * *
They’d agreed that this time he should approach Otto Knudsen well away from Kongens Nytorv, the square where he stopped for breakfast and where Prince had been arrested. They knew that after leaving the café Knudsen would head west towards his office, walking for about ten minutes in the direction of the university.
Not too near Kongens Nytorv. Not too near his office. Nowhere near his apartment on Nyhavn.
It wasn’t going to be easy.
He decided to wait on Gothersgade, which was the road Hanne had said Knudsen was most likely to take after leaving the café. It was a busy road, full of cyclists and people hurrying to work. Prince felt self-conscious and kept stroking his beard: it was the first time he’d been out for weeks, he was close to the place where he’d been arrested and he was dressed as a ship worker. It was half past eight and he hoped he’d got his timings right. If he had, Knudsen should be walking past in less than five minutes.
It happened much quicker than he’d expected. He was toying with the idea of going into a shoe shop, from which he’d be able to look into the street, until he noticed two German officers in there. He was about to cross the road when he spotted Agent Horatio coming in his direction on the same side as him. Knudsen was much taller than he’d appeared to be from the other side of the canal, and as such he was easy to pick out in the crowd. He was dressed as before, with a dark trilby-style hat and a long raincoat. He was carrying a black umbrella and wore the kind of half-smile that seemed to be a permanent feature of naturally jovial people. Peter Rasmussen was about to find out if this was true.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
Knudsen paused, still smiling. He raised his eyebrows in response. Can I help you?
‘I was wondering if you could tell me where the Amalienborg Palace is?’
Prince had wondered whether he should add that he was from Helsingør, but Hanne had advised against it. Stick to saying what he’s been told you’ll say. If you deviate from it, he may think something’s wrong.
Knudsen bowed his head as if to indicate he was happy to help. ‘It depends on whether you’d prefer to approach it from Frederiksgade or Amaliegade.’ Another smile.
‘I’d like to approach it from whichever way is closest to the church with the big dome.’
Knudsen nodded his head and the smile faded. ‘Walk a while with me. We are actually walking away from the Amalienborg, but never mind, no one would have heard us. We obviously cannot talk now. Do you know where I live?’
Prince nodded.
‘I’ll make sure I’m back there by fiv
e thirty this afternoon. There’s a rear entrance, which you can access through Heibergsgade. I shall unlatch that door at five thirty-five. Let yourself in and reset the latch. Maybe if you carry a parcel that will help. Come straight up to my apartment.’
Prince doffed his cap and thanked Otto Knudsen very much. The older man was pointing, as if giving directions. His other hand was gripping Prince’s forearm; he could barely contain his excitement. ‘I’m so pleased you’ve finally made contact. We have so much to talk about! I was expecting to see you weeks ago. Whatever happened?’
Chapter 9
London, November 1942
It had been raining for three days and four nights and Tom Gilbey – not a religious man, despite dutifully accompanying his wife to church most Sundays – was beginning to agree with colleagues describing the constant downpour as being of biblical proportions.
The surface of Whitehall had a layer of settled water on it, with dips in the pavement creating puddles deep enough to cover his ankles. By the time he reached Downing Street, his shoes were sodden. They were a particularly expensive pair, hand-made in Jermyn Street earlier that year and meant to last a lifetime, and now he was convinced they’d been ruined before they’d been properly broken in. But the nature of the summons he’d received earlier that morning ensured the state of his shoes was the least of his problems.
He turned right just before Number 10, down the path that would take him to the rear entrance, where a policeman nodded him through. Once inside, his papers were checked before he was escorted to Sir Roland Pearson’s office.
Sir Roland was the Downing Street intelligence chief. His role was to act as an umpire between the various intelligence and security agencies; to keep the internecine disputes and rows over who was responsible for what to manageable proportions. His office was deep inside Downing Street, looking out over an internal courtyard.
‘Come in, Tom, glad you could drop by.’ Pearson was a man given to understatement. My office, Gilbey, eleven thirty had been the message: hardly a cordial invitation to drop by.
Gilbey removed his coat and hat, the carpet below him dampening as he did so. When he sat on the chair opposite Pearson’s desk, he could feel quite how drenched his trousers and jacket were. He was beginning to feel most uncomfortable.
‘This report of yours, Tom…’ Pearson was tapping a dark green folder on his desk.
‘Which report is that, Roly?’ They’d been at boarding school together, Pearson a couple of years above him. Gilbey felt he could get away with Roly, but he did omit the Poly that came after it in his school nickname. Pearson had been fat even at school.
‘The one on Agent – what’s his name – ah, here we are… Horatio. Winston appreciated the classical references, though. It amused him for almost a minute.’
‘What about the report, Roly?’
‘The thing is, Tom, it has rather set the cat amongst the pigeons, I’m afraid.’
Silence in the office. The only sound Gilbey could hear – and he hoped it was imagined more than anything else – was that of water dripping from various parts of him. He wasn’t in the mood to make matters easier for Pearson by asking why his report had set the cat amongst the pigeons. Instead he indulged himself with a quizzical frown to indicate he wasn’t sure what all the fuss could possibly be about.
‘Let me explain, Tom. Winston prefers clarity to confusion. He doesn’t appreciate being given conflicting advice; he simply does not have time for that. Hence my role here in Downing Street – and indeed Lord Swalcliffe’s.’
Gilbey nodded. Now he knew why he’d been summoned and after their encounter at the Whitehall reception, it was no great surprise. Lord Swalcliffe – first name Edward, surname he couldn’t quite recall, but the man was originally from Luxembourg and he seemed to remember the name had an unfortunate Germanic edge to it – was Churchill’s principal scientific adviser and seemed to have the ear of the Prime Minister in a way few of his other confidantes did.
‘Winston is distressed at the degree of rancour existing between the various departments, agencies and individuals with whom we work. I realise that to an extent he encourages it: he realises disagreement can sometimes lead to honest opinions being expressed, which he sees as being better than suppressing one’s views. He doesn’t like matters being bottled up, like in some miserable marriage. Swalcliffe is very good at…’ Pearson hesitated, searching for the precise word, ‘distilling differing opinions and coming up with clear and concise advice, which is why this report’ – this time he held up the dark green folder and waved it in Gilbey’s direction – ‘has caused such a fuss. Lord Swalcliffe’s consistent and considered opinion has been that there is no threat from German long-range rockets: he does not think they’re feasible. That is the advice he has been giving Winston. Now you send in a report saying the contrary. He tore a strip off me last night and instructed me to sort it. So we’re going to go from here into a secure room in the basement and thrash it out. Swalcliffe will be there, of course, plus Air Vice Marshal Frank Hamilton of RAF intelligence and one of his chaps, and Long from the Ministry.’
Pearson hauled his considerable frame up from his chair and gestured to Gilbey to do the same. He paused by the door to regain his breath, turning to Gilbey and gripping him by the elbow.
‘Don’t let Swalcliffe rile you, and certainly don’t underestimate him, Tom. People do that at their peril. He’s terribly bright and misses nothing. He tends to take a contrarian view: he’s an original thinker, and Winston likes that. As difficult as he can be, he’s right far more often than he’s wrong. Best not forget that.’
* * *
There were six of them in a room that would have been a tight squeeze for four. It was more of an interview room than one suitable for a meeting. Given that all the attendees bar Pearson had been caught in the rain, there was an unpleasant fug about it. No sooner had the soundproof door been closed from the outside with some degree of ceremony than Lord Swalcliffe started speaking, dispensing with any need for introductions.
‘Well, Gilbey, I thought I’d suggested you steer clear of rockets? All this nonsense – and I didn’t know you had agents in Denmark. There’s a turn-up for the books!’ He spoke with the very faintest of accents, a hint of the Continent. Had Gilbey not known of his background, he doubted he’d have spotted it.
‘There we are then, Lord Swalcliffe.’ He’d thought about addressing him as Edward, but decided against it.
‘Meaning?’
Meaning you don’t know everything.
‘Meaning we do have agents in Denmark.’
‘I was under the impression all our agents over there had been rounded up?’
‘You’re probably thinking of the SOE, Lord Swalcliffe. Our service is perhaps more accomplished.’
‘Very well then.’ Swalcliffe paused to put on a pair of reading spectacles and open a folder in front of him. ‘One of your agents has met a man who knows someone else who knows a chap whose colleague may have overheard a German mention the word “rockets”: ridiculous!’ He closed the folder as if resting his case.
‘If I may say – with the very greatest of respect, Lord Swalcliffe – that is an unnecessarily cynical interpretation of what happened. We have—’
‘Perhaps it would help,’ said Pearson, leaning forward uncomfortably, ‘if Tom explained the situation and then you can respond, Lord Swalcliffe, along with our other colleagues, of course.’
Gilbey launched into his explanation before anyone could protest. ‘Back in August, Stockholm station had a walk-in: a Danish businessman who claimed to have picked up intelligence about the German V-rocket programme while in Berlin.’ He paused. Lord Swalcliffe was looking at his folder, impatiently bouncing his pencil up and down on it. ‘George Weston handled the chap himself and decided he merited serious attention, gave him the code name Horatio. We recruited an agent here – Agent Laertes – and sent him to Denmark to work with Horatio. We already had an agent in Copenhagen called Agent
Osric who we’ve been keeping under wraps for something of this importance. Osric has been in a good position to check out Agent Horatio and is satisfied, as far as one can be sure, that he is who he says he is. Therefore, we were able to move to the next stage of the operation: for Agent Laertes to meet with Horatio. This happened last week, and it is that meeting that forms the basis of my report.’
He hesitated. He wished he’d been better prepared. It was typical of Pearson to have thrust this briefing on him. At school Roly had a reputation as a particularly devious cricketer, known for running out his own teammates.
‘Let me say at the outset that Agent Osric watched Laertes enter the building where the meeting took place – Horatio’s apartment block, as it happens – and kept an eye on it throughout the meeting. When Laertes left, Osric followed him back to his safe house. They are certain he was not being watched or followed.’
‘Which doesn’t guarantee it’s not a set-up, does it?’
‘No, Lord Swalcliffe, it doesn’t, but everything does seem to point in the direction of Agent Horatio being who he says he is.’
‘The Germans could just be smarter than your agent, Gilbey.’
Gilbey looked around the table before continuing, hoping for some support. Roland Pearson wore a studied expression of impartiality; Air Vice Marshal Frank Hamilton had an impassive air about him, as did the young wing commander sitting next to him, while Long from the Ministry, who would certainly be his ally in this case but was evidently biding his time, was smiling weakly.
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