Otto leaned over, the coffee warm on his breath. ‘Before the war, this journey would take twenty minutes!’
The Spandau Locomotive Engineering works were vast, taking up three blocks in an area that seemed to be an uncomfortable mix of industrial and residential. Bruno Bergmann was much as Otto had described him: not unfriendly, but no small talk, and very much the engineer. He wore a stained light brown work coat over a shirt and tie.
The first hour was taken up with a tour of the factory, with Otto translating everything from German into Danish for Prince’s benefit. Then it was up an iron ladder attached to the wall onto a large gantry overlooking the main assembly plant.
‘What did you think of the factory, Herr Rasmussen?’ Bruno asked.
‘Very impressive; every bit as impressive as Otto said it would be.’
‘You’re a maritime engineer then? I am sure we have much to learn from our seafaring colleagues!’
Worried that he was about to be asked technical questions, Prince replied hurriedly, ‘That was some time ago, I’m afraid. Now I’m as rusty as some of the old boilers I worked on. I—’
‘Peter’s role,’ said Otto reassuringly, ‘is more commercial. He’s shadowing me on the sales side of our business so that if for some reason I’m unable to visit you, he could take my place. He is even due to start German language lessons soon. The truth is, Bruno, your drawing and specifications are so good that our draughtsmen and engineers need to do little with them. You could always find a job with us.’
For the next few hours, Bruno brought a series of drawings to the large table in the middle of the meeting room. They were intricate diagrams of machine parts. The idea was that Otto would then estimate a price and the following day negotiations would continue.
‘It is difficult to raise this, Bruno, but after my last visit the price we had to agree on… it barely covered our costs.’
‘Our instructions are…’ Bruno paused and glanced at Prince, who’d adopted a mildly dazed look suggesting he didn’t understand what they were talking about. ‘Your colleague, Peter – are you sure he won’t understand this part of the conversation?’
‘Of course I’m sure. To be honest, I told them it’s not much use him not speaking German, but they insisted. He has family connections with one of our directors, you know how it goes. He is bright, though, and reliable.’
‘Very well then: our instructions are to impose the lowest price possible on suppliers from the occupied countries. I know that sounds blunt and unpleasant, but it is what I’ve been told. If it is of any comfort, I could have pushed you even harder. The bosses here think we can get everything on the cheap. I tell them that if we do that, our locomotives will break down again. It’s not as if that hasn’t happened before.’
Another hour of talks, some translated into Danish, and then Bruno suggested they go to the canteen before they visited one of the specialist workshops.
‘Tonight, Otto, I was going to suggest we had dinner at the same restaurant we went to in August. Would you like that?’
‘That would be most pleasant, Bruno, thank you very much. Will your friend be joining us again?’
Bruno looked around before nodding.
‘And I presume the invitation extends to Peter?’
He raised his eyebrows, an unspoken question.
‘Don’t worry,’ Otto said. ‘He’s most trustworthy. I can absolutely assure you of that.’
A long period of silence, during which Bruno drummed the eraser end of his pencil on one of his diagrams. He had a slightly worried look about him. He shot a glance at Prince, who was staring out of the window into the main assembly plant below. An enormous hoist was travelling across the ceiling, a huge boiler suspended from it by chains, and he was following its progress, clearly fascinated.
‘I think I understand, Otto. That’s why you brought him to Berlin, isn’t it?’
* * *
‘Ah, here we are – Das Bayerischer Haus.’
The restaurant was on Donhoff Strasse, close to where it joined Kommandantenstrasse. It had been a ten-minute stroll from the hotel, one that would have been quite pleasant had Otto not spent much of it glancing ominously up to the sky. ‘There’s no moon and no clouds tonight; your RAF like to bomb Berlin without those distractions. If a raid starts before we reach the restaurant, I think it would be better to head back to the hotel. Make sure you keep your pass safe.’
The passes had been issued to them by the hotel, confirming they were registered guests, giving their names and the dates of their stay and declaring they were allowed to be out and about in the Mitte district until nine thirty – ‘precisely’ – that evening. They had an impressive array of stamps, including one at the top with a large swastika.
At the entrance, Otto stepped back and gestured for Prince to enter first. Once he was inside, he turned round. Otto was still holding the door open, this time for a woman on her own. It was unquestionably the woman from the hotel, now wearing a beret with a single feather set at an angle on the side of it. She glanced in Prince’s direction, her darting eyes connecting with his for the briefest of moments, and had it not been so dim in the restaurant, he’d have sworn she smiled.
As they were shown to their table, he wondered whether he should mention her to Otto but thought better of it. Otto would probably wonder if he was deluded. An agent in enemy territory overcome by paranoia. Not unheard of.
In any case, it was almost certainly a coincidence: a guest at the same hotel who he’d bumped into a couple of times, now in the same restaurant as them. Nothing unusual.
What happened next was very much as Otto had described from his first visit to the restaurant. The ground floor was busy and the tables were packed closely together. With the windows covered by blackout material, the interior was quite gloomy, making it hard to see much around them. A tall waiter with a nervous tic showed them to a table for two by the stairs and provided them with a menu. Prince look round and noticed that the woman was sitting on her own at a small table by the door, her back to them, facing the window. He had barely had a moment to study her when the harassed-looking maître d’ appeared. He was terribly sorry, but there had been some confusion over bookings, for which he could only apologise: it was his fault. He would need their table to join to another one to accommodate a booking of four people. But he did have a room upstairs. Perhaps they’d find it more comfortable up there anyway?
The private room too was as Otto had described it: certainly large enough for eight people, the table with four place settings on it. The room was wood-panelled, stained rather inexpertly in dark brown. They sat down and waited for five minutes, neither saying a word. Eventually one of the panels opened – Prince had had no idea it was a door – and Bruno entered, followed by a taller man in his twenties wearing a long greatcoat and a peaked cap. Without speaking, he removed his hat and coat, revealing the grey uniform of a Luftwaffe officer. He sat down next to Bruno, opposite Otto and Prince.
Bruno made the introductions. ‘You already know my friend from Denmark… this is his colleague; I believe he has some questions for you. I am assured he is to be trusted absolutely. Unfortunately, he doesn’t speak German, but my friend will translate.’
Before either Otto or Prince could say anything, Kurt spoke, his voice sounding younger than he looked.
‘Let me anticipate your first question: why am I sharing all this information with you?’
Prince found himself inadvertently nodding even before Otto had translated. Kurt paused and looked at him slightly suspiciously.
‘You will have to be satisfied with this brief explanation. You know me as Kurt, which is of course not my real name, though I am an Oberst in the Luftwaffe. For the past eighteen months I’ve been attached to our scientific division. Over the last year almost all of our resources – money, equipment, people – have been diverted to the V-1 pilotless aircraft I was telling you about last time we met.’
He had a distinctive accent: as f
ar as Prince could tell, it was a form of High German, possibly indicating he was from Bavaria or Austria.
Kurt nodded to Otto and paused for him to translate.
‘I’m going to be frank with you: many of us are frustrated beyond words about this. We have to devote everything to developing the V-1 when we have reservations about it; these are professional reservations, you understand. If I thought for a moment the V-1 could be developed quickly and at a low cost and could make a significant contribution to our war effort, I wouldn’t be sitting here now, I can assure you of that. But the technology is complex and at every stage of the development programme we’re facing major problems. It could take years to get this right. Your friend really speaks no German? He gives the impression of following what I say.’
‘He understands the odd word, really no more than,’ said Otto, before translating.
‘One of our many problems has been sourcing components that can withstand very high temperatures, and this led to my meeting Bruno. To be honest, my initial approach was a perfectly proper one, part of my job – hoping our friend here from Copenhagen might be able to provide those components and this would help the V-1 development. But before that meeting I began to think about matters in a more reflective manner. Say we did solve the problem – what would happen then? There would still be dozens of other problems with the V-1 programme.
‘I began to see that the issue was a wider one: by solving one problem I’d be helping to keep the bigger problem on track, whereas in fact the best service I could do for the Luftwaffe and for the German people would be to bring about the abandoning of the V-1 programme. It’s distracting the Luftwaffe from doing its real job. Stalingrad has been a disaster: we’ve already lost hundreds of aircraft and we have to send in Junker 52s and Focke-Wulf Condors to break the siege, and they’re simply not up to those conditions. Throughout Europe our planes are outperformed by the RAF. We’d stand a chance of reversing that if all our efforts weren’t going into the V-1 programme.’
He waited for Otto to translate, pouring himself a beer and drinking most of it in one go.
‘But giving us all this information, it could be seen as treason.’ Prince spoke in Danish. He noticed that Bruno looked shocked when it was translated, startled at what he’d found himself mixed up with.
‘Depends on what you mean by treason. I’m trying to stop something I think is bad for Germany, so that can’t be treason. And in any case, there’s something else… the SS have now started showing interest in both our V-1 programme and the army’s V-2 rocket. There’s talk of them wanting to take both over. That would be an utter disaster. It would amount to the SS taking control of the Luftwaffe. I’m not a Nazi Party member, but I am a patriotic German and a professional Luftwaffe officer. I can’t sit by and do nothing while Germany’s future is compromised by these crazy programmes. What you do with the information I give you… well, I don’t want to know, just so long as it helps stop these ridiculous so-called miracle weapons. Anyway, you had some questions for me?’
Prince had, of course, not written anything down, but he’d memorised the questions London had sent via Stockholm.
Can Kurt give more information on the speed of the V-1?
How long does it take to reach that speed?
Can he give more detailed information on how any test flights have gone?
Have they managed yet to launch a V-1 with a one-ton warhead?
Can he say anything about the fuel systems?
Can he give any information on how the V-2 programme is going?
Kurt did his best to answer the questions, though Prince had the impression there was some information he was holding back.
‘May I ask you a question?’ He’d lit a cigarette when he’d finished answering and was leaning back in his chair. ‘I don’t need to know who you work for – in fact I don’t want to know – but what will they do with this information I give you?’
Prince shrugged. ‘I’m little more than a messenger, but I imagine they’d want to stop the programmes.’
Bruno shifted nervously in his seat. ‘We have possibly been here long enough. I propose we leave in no more than five minutes. We haven’t even eaten yet!’
‘I have one last question for Kurt: are the V-1 and V-2 projects being developed in different places?’
Kurt looked at him suspiciously and spoke to Otto. ‘Tell me, where is he really from, this friend of yours?’
‘He’s Danish.’
‘I don’t believe that. I think he’s working for the British. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s understood every word I’ve said; I’ve seen the way his eyes follow the conversation.’
No one spoke. The silence was eventually broken by Prince, now speaking in German.
‘Let’s be honest, eh? If you were that concerned about what happens with the information you’re passing on, you wouldn’t have come here tonight in the first place and answered my questions. As far as the V-1 and the V-2 are concerned, we may have different reasons, but we both want them stopped. So maybe you can tell me the places they’re being developed?’
Kurt thought for a while, drumming the fingers of both hands on the table. He had a resigned look about him when he spoke.
‘Very well. Peenemünde – it’s a massive site on the Baltic coast, not too far from the Danish coast. I’m surprised you’ve not heard of it.’
‘And that’s the site for the V-1?’
‘Both the V-1 and the V-2: separately but on the same site, if you see what I mean. In fact—’
They were interrupted by an urgent rapping at the door. Bruno went over to open it. It was the woman in the beret with a single feather, the one from the hotel with the dark, darting eyes. She leaned into the room, speaking with an urgency that shocked them all.
‘You’d better leave now, all of you. Quickly. The Gestapo are on their way.’
Chapter 12
Berlin, December 1942
There was no panic in the private dining room of Das Bayerischer Haus. Once the woman in the beret had disappeared, Kurt pointed to the hidden door in the panelled wall and they filed towards it. It opened onto a steep stone stairway, lit from the top by a bright bulb, which revealed an iron rail running down the wall. They gathered together at the top of the steps as Kurt closed the door behind them, quietly sliding three sets of bolts into place. No one had said a word, though everyone was breathing hard.
‘It will be safer to turn out this light,’ said Kurt, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘Walk down slowly, one step at a time. Just make sure you don’t let go of the rail. Are any of you armed?’
They all shook their heads.
‘I’ve got my Mauser; I’ll go first. What’s that?’
They listened in silence: the muffled noise seemed to be coming from the room they’d been in.
‘We’d better hurry. When we reach the bottom of the steps, I’ll open the door. You’ll find we’re in a back yard. It’s not the yard to the restaurant, which will be to your left, on the other side of a high brick wall. Once we’re all out, I’ll lock that door – you’d better give me the key, Bruno – and then we’ll go our separate ways. Come on, let’s move.’
The descent was a perilous one in the pitch dark; the steps, as well as being damp and slippery, were also of varying heights, making their progress slower than they would have liked. Behind them they could hear some kind of commotion. Kurt was at the front, Prince behind him, followed by Otto, with Bruno at the rear. Kurt waited until they were all at the bottom before sliding open the single bolt.
The yard was empty, and although it was dark, it was possible to make out their surroundings: two large dustbins ahead of them and the high wall Kurt had mentioned to their left, behind which was the rear entrance to the restaurant. They could hear voices coming from that yard. To their right was a tiny passageway that led to the street.
They closed the door and Kurt locked it, placing the key in one of the dustbins. Somewhere in the distance they co
uld hear shouting, and a dog barking. He gathered them in a huddle and pointed to the passageway.
‘That opens on to Lindenstrasse,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll turn left, which will take me back towards Donhoff Strasse. Bruno, you turn right and then into Kommandantenstrasse. You two carry on down Lindenstrasse. You’re at the Excelsior, correct? Well, keep going until you see Koch Strasse: that will lead you back towards Askanischer Platz. We’d better hurry now.’
They moved as a group down the passageway and waited behind Kurt as he peered up and down the street. At last he turned and nodded, as if to indicate all was clear. He buttoned up his greatcoat, checked his cap was at the correct angle and put his semi-automatic pistol into his side pocket. Then, without saying a word, he stepped confidently into the street.
Bruno followed a few seconds later; he looked terrified, the sweat pouring from his forehead and his hands trembling violently as he put his hat on.
‘We’ll be at the factory as planned tomorrow morning,’ Otto whispered. ‘We’ll see you then.’ Bruno looked at him as if he was mad: tomorrow morning was a country so far away he had no expectation of ever getting anywhere near it.
Otto made to move out of the passageway almost immediately after Bruno had left it, but Prince put his hand on the other man’s arm to stop him. ‘Give it a minute.’
He was back in Matlock now, being trained for what they called ‘out and about’, which made it sound like a nature ramble rather than the deadly serious matter of how to operate in a town: how to avoid being followed and what to do if you were stopped.
Don’t walk too fast.
Don’t walk too slowly.
Don’t keep looking behind you: avoid doing so where possible.
At a junction is the best time to look around you.
Resist the temptation to stop and look in shop windows, especially at night. It can appear too obvious.
If you’re stopped, make sure you can explain where you’ve come from and where you’re going.
Prince of Spies Page 17