‘Will it be safe, a public place like that?’ Prince asked as he was leaving the apartment. He’d assumed he’d return there to discuss the travel plans.
‘It will be safe enough. It will be better than you coming here again; I don’t think we can risk that. One or two of my neighbours are of the nosy variety.’
At the café, Horatio had his excited look about him. He was very pleased with himself, he announced. The café was so noisy they had to lean very close to each other, their heads almost touching.
‘Congratulations, Peter! You’re now an employee of Mortensen Machinery Parts. Well done.’ He patted Prince enthusiastically on the shoulder as if he was congratulating him at the end of a gruelling selection process. ‘I’m very senior in the company,’ he continued. ‘I’ve worked for them for years and I’m by far their best salesman. I have a lot of influence and of course I know who’s sympathetic and won’t ask questions. Most Danes are opposed to the Nazis; it’s just a matter of being aware of the small number to steer clear of. I told my managing director I needed to take someone with me to Berlin next week and he said he was fine with that as long as it didn’t cause problems for the company.’
‘What kind of problems?’
‘Don’t worry, there shouldn’t be any. The important thing is that I’m getting papers sorted for you and we’re applying for your visa. You’ll be an engineer with a background in shipbuilding, which means your legitimationskort will be fine. The cover story is that I need your expertise with the company we’re working with in Berlin; we may need you to spend more time at their factory next year. I’ve sent a telegram to my contact in Berlin telling him I’m arriving on Tuesday and confirming we’ll meet him the next day. I expect to have all the papers and tickets sorted by Friday. Let’s meet on Saturday, say twelve noon outside the Restaurant Grøften in the Tivoli Gardens. Hopefully it won’t be raining.’
* * *
The terminal building at Kastrup airport at nine fifteen on Tuesday morning, the first day of December, was a bleak place. The civilian passenger building had been closed over the weekend and no one appeared to have bothered as yet to turn the heating back on. Deutsche Lufthansa flight number 29 to Berlin was the only flight scheduled before noon, so a building that could comfortably accommodate well over two hundred passengers today held only a dozen or so. Most sat on their own, well away from anyone else. There were two or three pairs of passengers, people who obviously knew each other. One of those pairs was Otto Knudsen and Peter Rasmussen, the latter now dressed in more formal garb than the ship worker’s clothes he’d been wearing before.
‘It’s good we didn’t arrive first,’ said Knudsen, who was not quite as calm as Prince had previously seen him. ‘The Gestapo look out for early arrivals, I’m not sure why. You see those two over there?’ He indicated with a slight nod of his head two men strolling in front of the seating, one short and fat, the other tall and thin. Both wore long coats and wide-brimmed hats. ‘They’re Gestapo. They’re always here. They look so unhealthy.’
‘If you were making a film about the Gestapo, you’d choose two people like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘If you chose those two, it would be a comedy film! Don’t worry, though. They’ll just be Anwärters; that’s the lowest rank in the Gestapo. They’re probably just here for show as much as anything else. This is what will happen next. Very soon that desk over there will open. We go and show our tickets, and they’ll give us another ticket that allows us onto the plane and shows us which seat we’ve been allocated. Then we go through the first security check; you can see the tables just behind the check-in desks. They’ll search your bags, but they do that with everyone. You have nothing on you to be concerned about. Then you go to the Gestapo desk, where they will check your legitimationskort and your travel documents and ask you questions: again, don’t worry, they ask everyone questions. By the way, Peter, I should have asked you: do you speak German?’
‘I do. I’m mean, I’m not fluent in it by any means and it’s nowhere as good as my Danish, but it’s not bad.’
‘Don’t use it, if possible. Best stick to Danish. The Gestapo officer will be Danish-speaking but will start off in German. If he has any concerns about you, he’ll bring in a Danish policeman to help him, but they prefer not to do that.
‘It’s usually a Junkers Ju 52 on this flight, which carries seventeen passengers. My guess is it’s pretty full today, so hopefully the Gestapo will get a move on. After you’ve been through the Gestapo desk, we wait in the departure lounge. Then we board the plane. From then on, act as if you’re in Germany. Don’t say anything to me about the mission, however irrelevant it may seem. Any German is a threat.’
‘Do many Germans travel on this flight?’
‘Civilians, yes; military personnel usually take a Luftwaffe passenger aircraft, but occasionally some will be on this one. The Gestapo tend not to bother with them too much!’
They sat in silence for a few minutes. The terminal building slowly came to life. There were hints of the heating having been turned on, and two or three people in bright blue uniforms were preparing the check-in desks.
‘Can I ask you a question, Otto?’
The Dane turned round and smiled. ‘As long as you don’t do it too loudly.’
‘Why do you do this? Helping us?’
Knudsen raised his eyebrows and pursed his mouth, as if to help him find the right response. ‘I’ll answer you in a very Danish way, Peter, by asking you a question: why would I not do this? It is my duty. I’m not a political man, though I’ve always been a supporter of the social democrats. For me, like most Danes, having the Germans occupy our country is an anathema, a terrible thing. But compared with the rest of occupied Europe, we don’t suffer much. What angers me most is what the Nazis are up to elsewhere in Europe. They must be defeated and I swore to myself that if I found I was in a position whereby I could assist the British, I would have no hesitation in doing so. I rationalised it like this: I wouldn’t go out of my way to find out something, but if something found me, so to speak, I would not ignore it. And that is what happened with Kurt, the Luftwaffe officer. He told me things I knew would be of interest to the British. And here we are! I’ve been divorced for many years and I have no close family. I’ve lived a good life, a very comfortable one. It would not be the end of the world if it was sacrificed for a greater cause. I hope that doesn’t sound too sanctimonious, but you did ask me.’
‘But your contact, how did he know to put you in touch with Kurt?’
‘That’s a good question, Peter. Maybe by the time we return we’ll know the answer to it. Look, we’d better move. Not too fast, though; let’s make sure we’re at the end of the queue. That way they’ll be in a hurry by the time they get to us.’
* * *
‘Date of birth?’
The Gestapo officer was a good two or three inches taller than Prince and appeared to be standing on a small platform behind his desk. He towered over the passengers in the queue.
‘Eighth of July 1901.’
‘Birthplace?’ Given the circumstances, he didn’t sound especially unpleasant.
‘Helsingør.’
‘Occupation?’
‘I’m a ship worker.’
‘Why is a ship worker flying to Berlin?’ A bit more unpleasant now, a hint of a sneer.
‘I’m actually a maritime engineer: my company is doing some work at a locomotive manufacturing plant in Berlin and my expertise is the operation of large boilers – industrial ones: the type you get on ships and trains.’ Prince could feel his stomach tightening. The Gestapo officer looked just like the kind of person who spent his leisure time looking at boilers, the industrial variety.
‘Your age?’
This is when they get serious; when they mix up the questions, go back on ones they’ve asked before but in slightly different ways.
‘I’m forty-one.’ No need to add anything; just answer the question. Sound respectful, but not too much. Don�
��t sound as if you’re in a hurry, but neither as if you have all day.
‘What day were you born?’
‘Eighth of July 1901.’
‘That’s not what I asked. I asked what day you were born; what day of the week.’
One or two identity cards in occupied Europe state the day you were born, but most don’t, and it’s a favourite trick of the Gestapo to ask. They’ll check it out. Best not to get it wrong, old chap, eh? If you’ve forgotten or aren’t sure, say you don’t know. You may just about get away with that; surprising how many people don’t know which day of the week they were born on.
‘A Monday. My mother always said she spent the whole weekend—’
The Gestapo officer held up his hand like a traffic policeman: stop. He was consulting something behind his desk, evidently checking whether 8 July 1901 was indeed a Monday.
Looking slightly disappointed, he thrust Peter Rasmussen’s papers back at him. ‘Very well, continue.’
Chapter 11
Berlin, December 1942
Tempelhof had been nerve-racking. Although he’d steeled himself for it, passing through the airport’s various layers of security felt like climbing an uncharted mountain: he’d reach a ridge and discover he was still in the foothills.
He recalled Hendrie telling him how important it was to adopt a frame of mind that there was nothing about him that could cause people to be suspicious, while at the same time remaining alert.
At the time he’d thought that would be easier said than done, and so it proved.
* * *
‘At least we’re past the first hurdle, eh?’ The U-Bahn train was almost deserted on the short journey from the airport to Koch Strasse station: just three stops up from Flughafen, then a short walk to their hotel. He was quickly put in place by Agent Horatio.
‘I’ve told you, be careful.’ Knudsen looked furious, his angry whisper just audible above the metronomic sound of the wheels on the track. He stared out of the window rather than at Prince. ‘Keep quiet until we’re somewhere safe. Believe it or not, getting into Germany is the easy part. The real danger begins once you’re in the country – and when you try to leave it.’
* * *
Agent Horatio’s instructions not to discuss anything about their mission during the flight had turned out to be academic. Despite sitting in one of the rear rows, the considerable noise from the two wing-mounted engines close to the cockpit rendered any conversation near impossible.
The pilot’s intercom was just about loud enough to break through the racket. Because of a strong prevailing wind, he told them, they’d take off in a northerly direction and head up the Øresund, banking south once they reached eight thousand feet. This would take about ten to fifteen minutes; they’d then climb to around nineteen thousand feet, crossing the German coast at Stralsund and heading south, keeping to the east of Berlin and flying close to a maximum speed of around one hundred and sixty miles an hour.
All the passengers had been handed copies of Völkischer Beobachter, the mouthpiece of the Nazi Party. Prince read a long article on the brave defence being put up in Stalingrad. Things must be going badly for the Germans in the battle; anything less than positive in the Völkischer Beobachter usually meant bad news.
An hour later, the pilot was back on the intercom: the wind was against them, he announced. They were descending to fifteen thousand feet and one hundred and thirty miles an hour. They were unlikely to land at Tempelhof before eleven fifteen. He was sure the passengers would all understand.
His final announcement came at eleven twenty: passengers may have noticed they had not landed he said, sounding rather pleased with his little joke. They’d been told by air traffic control to fly as far south as Schönefeld before turning north towards Berlin.
Just before their final descent, a steward came round to check all the curtains were drawn over the portholes. They were not to be opened in any circumstances, he instructed them. Otto Knudsen leaned over and whispered in Prince’s ear: ‘There are military planes here; they don’t want anyone to see them. Especially those bringing casualties back from the east.’
It was a shade before half past eleven when the Junkers Ju 52 pulled off the runway, crossed the apron and shuddered to a halt in front of the arrivals hall. It was a short walk from there to the building, where non-German nationals were pointed in the direction of a separate entrance.
‘Let me go in front,’ said Knudsen. ‘I’ll be talking in German but it’s probably better if you don’t let on you speak or understand more than a few words.’
When it was his turn, Prince was searched and his suitcase emptied on a trestle table where a bored-looking woman in a light brown uniform checked every item. He noticed half a dozen men, presumably Gestapo, spread out around the perimeter of the room, their backs to the wall, observing everyone and everything. He caught the gaze of one of them for a few unblinking seconds. Prince smiled politely and the man continued to stare.
Eventually the woman finished her search. She indicated he should repack his suitcase and pointed to a desk where a man in his fifties with improbably thick spectacles looked as if he was genuinely pleased to see him.
‘Sprechen Sie Deutsch?’
The man called Peter Rasmussen frowned and smiled: he didn’t understand.
‘Sprechen Sie Deutsch?’ The German no longer looked pleased to see him and pronounced the words loudly, with the pause reserved for uncomprehending foreigners between each one: ‘Sprechen… Sie… Deutsch?’
A nod of slight understanding from Peter Rasmussen, who nonetheless then shook his head. ‘Ich spreche nicht Deutsch.’ He pronounced it badly and repeated it three or four times. ‘Kein Deutsch.’
The Gestapo man with the thick spectacles tried a different tack. ‘Verstehen Sie Deutsch?’ Did he understand German? He was looking quite annoyed now.
Prince shook his head and managed to look disappointed. ‘Ein bisschen’ – a little.
‘Unterlagen.’ An exasperated sigh as the Gestapo man pointed at the papers Peter Rasmussen was clutching.
The German moved his spectacles to the top of his head and one by one held each of the papers close to his face, checking them slowly. Every few seconds he licked his lips in a disconcertingly meticulous manner: the lower lip first, right to left, then the upper lip, left to right. First the legitimationskort: a nod, Rasmussen’s identity was in order. Then the flight ticket, followed by his exit card from Denmark and his entry visa for Germany: more nodding, not quite enthusiastic enough to be interpreted as a sign of approval, but acceptable nonetheless. The final two documents were his letter of accreditation from Mortensen Machinery Parts and the telegram from the hotel confirming his reservation. The Gestapo man studied these more carefully before calling over a colleague and handing them to him.
‘Warten Sie dort,’ he repeated several times to Peter Rasmussen, pointing to a bench where he was apparently supposed to wait.
After ten minutes, Prince wondered whether this was routine or whether he should worry. As far as he could tell, Otto Knudsen had already passed through security. He clasped his hands together to stop them shaking and wished he could get up to walk around. There seemed to be far more security people in the building than passengers, and it was easy to think they were all looking at him. For the first time that day he thought of Henry, and of how he could have allowed himself to be placed in such jeopardy. He was a Lincolnshire police officer sitting in the arrivals hall of an airport in Berlin, being questioned by the Gestapo. The situation was so ridiculous he found he was grinning to himself.
He recalled one of the many briefings in Matlock – the tutorials, as Hendrie liked to call them. ‘Remember, old chap, a chain is only as strong as its weakest link. Rather a cliché, I know, but a very wise one nonetheless and one you’d be well advised to keep in mind. At any and every stage of your mission there’s bound to be one part of your cover – your story, if you like – that is not quite as robust as the other parts. Be
prepared for that.’
And now – possibly too late – he decided the accreditation letter from Mortensen Machinery Parts was the flaw, Hendrie’s weakest link. It was all well and good Agent Horatio sorting matters out with his managing director, but what would happen if the Gestapo called the switchboard and they replied that they had no employee called Peter Rasmussen?
‘Kommen Sie her!’ The Gestapo officer was calling him and Prince could feel his throat tightening, convinced there was a menace to the man’s voice. As he walked back to the desk, he noticed a couple of SS officers standing in front of the exit; he was sure they’d not been there when he last looked.
But the man with the improbably thick spectacles nodded his head to indicate all was in order and handed the papers back to Peter Rasmussen. ‘Willkommen im Reich.’
Prince bowed very slightly in gratitude and muttered, ‘Vielen Dank,’ with a slightly better pronunciation than was perhaps wise. When the Gestapo officer enthusiastically shouted, ‘Heil Hitler!’ he decided the wisest course of action was to respond likewise.
* * *
They were in Kreuzberg now, and it was a five-minute walk from the Kochstrasse U-Bahn station to Askanischer Platz. ‘We ought to assume we’re being followed,’ Knudsen said. They were crossing Wilhelm Strasse, and he had his head down as he spoke. ‘As I said, getting into Germany is not so difficult. It’s easier to break into a prison than out of one, isn’t it? They will be keeping a close eye on us, certainly for the first twenty-four hours. They’ll want to know what we’re up to while we’re here. There are rumours they let in people they know are here to cause trouble just to see who they meet with and what they get up to. So we’ll do nothing suspicious. In fact, I’m making it easy for them to keep an eye on us.’
Prince glanced around him. He’d been shocked enough on the streets of Denmark at the ubiquity of the Nazi occupation: the flags, the soldiers, the weapons. But this was altogether different and considerably more sinister than Denmark. At least there it was reasonable to assume that most people around him at a checkpoint or in the street were opposed to the Nazis. It was hard to underestimate how reassuring a slightly raised eyebrow, a frown or a hint of a smile could be. But here he had to assume everyone he encountered was the enemy: the mother pushing a pram, the old lady weighed down by her shopping, the limbless veteran of the Great War. It was far more unsettling than he’d anticipated.
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