‘On the contrary, Lord Swalcliffe, based on what we received from Agent Laertes on his return to Copenhagen, it is clear that the German called Kurt answered all the questions we sent over. Isn’t that correct, Frank?’
Hamilton leaned forward to answer but was interrupted by Lord Swalcliffe.
‘But isn’t this the point, though, what this Kurt chap said in his answers? Let me quote. Here we are. Agent Laertes – do you employ classics scholars to come up with these ridiculous code names, Gilbey? – Agent Laertes says Kurt told him: “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.” And then he went on to say… where am I… ah, yes, here: “One of our many problems has been sourcing components that can withstand very high temperatures. Say we did solve the problem – what would happen then? There would still be dozens of other problems with the programme.”
‘So we either believe Kurt or we don’t. If we choose not to believe him, then what he says about the V-1 and V-2 programmes can be dismissed anyway as either nonsense or disinformation. If we choose to believe him, then we have to give weight to what I have just quoted, namely that the programme is not working and they’re facing major problems – dozens of them, as he says. Very much as I predicted, in fact. I simply do not believe they can develop the right fuel systems to launch a one-ton warhead and keep it in the air.’
‘But these problems can be overcome. We can’t afford to ignore them.’
‘Come on, Gilbey: you can’t have your cake and eat it. When we last met, we wondered, did we not, about Kurt’s motivations. Well, we have them here in black and white, courtesy of the resourceful Agent Laertes. The Oberst is a loyal Luftwaffe officer and his motivation for passing the intelligence on to us is presumably for us to do our part in helping to stop the V-1 and V-2 programmes so the Luftwaffe benefits. Here’s what he says: “The best service I could do for the Luftwaffe and for the German people would be to help bring about the abandoning of the V-1 programme. It’s distracting the Luftwaffe from doing its real job.” Then he goes on to say what a disaster Stalingrad is, and continues: “Throughout Europe our planes are outperformed by the RAF. We’d stand a chance of reversing that if all of our efforts weren’t going into the V-1 programme.”’
Lord Swalcliffe closed his file and placed it neatly on top of the others in front of him. ‘In my opinion, Pearson, we’d be doing the country a disservice if we did anything about this. My opinion that both the V-1 and the V-2 are doomed to failure has been vindicated. Let the Germans carry on wasting their time and resources on the programmes. Surely the last thing we want is to be complicit in bringing about their cancellation, thereby aiding the Luftwaffe, eh, Hamilton?’
The air vice marshal paused before replying, as if wanting to be certain Swalcliffe really had finished. ‘I hear what you say, Lord Swalcliffe, and it is not without some merit, but on balance I’m inclined to the same view as Tom: namely that we cannot afford to ignore the V-1 and V-2 programmes. Tim has done some analysis of the detailed answers Kurt gave to the questions we sent.’
The young wing commander opened a notebook. ‘There’s no question that the intelligence we’ve received from Kurt has added significantly to what we know about the weapons. For instance, we now know that the V-1 is to be launched from a special ramp and that it has a maximum flying time of one hour, after which the missile drops to earth and its warhead explodes on impact. He was also able to provide more detail on the V-2: the fuel is a mixture of liquid oxygen and alcohol, and after a minute it can reach a height of around twenty-three miles. It’s probably more accurate than the V-1 and its warhead weighs one ton.’ He spoke for another ten minutes, and as he came to an end, he closed his notebook. ‘Our conclusion is that there are clearly a number of problems facing the programmes, but we do not think this necessarily means they’re insurmountable ones. We think it is possible they can be solved, and therefore both programmes represent a real threat to this country and cannot be ignored.’
‘And may I add,’ Hamilton stood up as he spoke, and moved to the side of the maps and photographs behind him on the wall, ‘that from our point of view, the information Kurt gave on Peenemünde being the single site where both the V-1 and V-2 are being developed and manufactured is of enormous importance: if that was the only intelligence that resulted from Laertes’ trip to Berlin I’d have been delighted. We were simply not aware of this hitherto.’
He picked up a cane and pointed to a map of northern Europe. ‘This is Peenemünde, part of Germany even before the war, on an island called Usedom, south of the island of Rügen, on the Baltic coast. It is about seventy miles due east of Rostock, and the same distance south-west of the Danish island of Bornholm. To the south-east – about sixty-five miles away – is the Polish city of Stettin.’
‘Kurt described it as a massive site, did he not?’
‘He did indeed, Sir Roland.’
‘So I presume reconnaissance has been relatively easy?’
‘Tim?’
The wing commander stood up by a series of enlarged photographs. ‘Actually, reconnaissance has been a major problem, sir. The distance to Peenemünde makes it very hard, for a start. Our best option has been one of the special Spitfires used by the photographic reconnaissance unit at RAF Benson. But these are very obvious: they’re quite exposed and a long way from home, if you get my meaning. Just sending them over the site carries the risk of alerting the Germans that we know something’s going on there. Nevertheless, we’ve had two runs over the site. The results,’ he pointed to the photographs, ‘are disappointing. They do show there is indeed a very large site, but we can’t get much detail at all. Large areas of it are covered by camouflage netting or are under trees.’
‘I should add,’ said Hamilton, ‘that we persuaded Bomber Command to lay on a raid over Rostock, the idea being that a couple of specially adapted Blenheims could detach from the main group and fly over Peenemünde on their way back. But I’m afraid one of the planes was shot down before it even reached Rostock, while the other came back with next-to-useless pictures – you can see them here. They also said there was an enormous amount of flak over the site.’
‘We need to decide what to do pretty quickly. Winston keeps asking.’ Pearson looked worried.
‘I’m prepared to be persuaded if can get some better intelligence about the site than those ridiculous photographs. Frankly, they look as if someone forgot to remove the lens cap. Get a decent first-hand account from the place itself and I’ll keep my head down if Winston asks. I can’t say I approve, but I’ll do my best not to bugger things up too much.’ Lord Swalcliffe smiled as if he’d intended to concede all along and had simply been toying with the others.
The meeting came to a close, its participants arising with varying degrees of ease. The only one who remained seated was Long from the Ministry. He cleared his throat loudly enough for the others to pause and take notice.
‘If we do get decent intelligent from Peenemünde – and by that, I mean a detailed layout, proper confirmation of what they’re up to there – then what?’
Everyone looked at Pearson, who in turn pointed to Air Vice Marshal Hamilton. ‘Then Frank will arrange for Bomber Command to raze the whole place to the ground.’
* * *
‘I suppose that counts as a victory, eh, Roly?’
‘Not sure, Tom. Feels to me more as if we’ve been taken to a replay. Better than losing, I suppose: Swalcliffe puts up a decent fight, you have to hand that to him.’
Pearson and Gilbey were in the former’s office deep inside Downing Street in the immediate aftermath of the meeting.
‘And if we’re being honest – entre nous, of course – he does have a point, does he not? If we brought the V-1 and V-2 programmes to an end and the Nazis ploughed all their resources into the Luftwaffe, that could rebound on us. If there’s no chance of these rockets working, then maybe one can see the merit in letting them del
ude themselves.’
‘So what are you saying, Tom – call the whole thing off? You were the one who was so keen…’
‘Not at all. I’m just trying to see both points of view. But I agree we need to get someone inside Peenemünde.’
‘Do we have anyone in that part of the world?’
Gilbey shook his head and frowned. ‘I’ve already asked around, SOE Polish section and various others. The nearest would be the Polish Home Army in Stettin, but they’re still quite far away and we can never be totally sure which of their units have been turned by the Nazis. In my professional opinion, we need an agent of our own, someone we can trust.’
‘You have someone in mind, don’t you?’
Gilbey nodded, though tentatively, as if he was still giving thought to the matter.
‘It’s Laertes, isn’t it, Tom? You think he’s up to it?’
‘I’m not sure, to be honest. He ended his report by asking when we were bringing him home and what the travel arrangements were, very much as if we’re a branch of Thomas bloody Cook. However, he’s been tested in the field and has proven to be resilient, and it’s not as if northern Germany is overcrowded with British agents. And Copenhagen is not too far from Peenemünde as the crow flies…’
‘But he’s not a crow, is he? He’s got to get into the Reich from Denmark and then across to the site: that’s a perilous journey in anyone’s book. And what kind of cover would he have? He can’t just wander into a top-secret site taking snaps, can he?’
‘The one thing we did get from the Poles is that there are thousands of slave labourers there: they’d assumed it was a factory. We can send Agent Laertes in as one of them.’
Sir Roland looked up at his former schoolmate, trying hard to disguise his scepticism at the plan. ‘Isn’t that rather easier said than done? Where are all these labourers from?’
‘The Poles say the majority are Polish, but there are also Russians and Ukrainians and more recently quite a number of French.’
‘No Danes, then?’
Gilbey shook his head. ‘Laertes speaks a bit of French, according to Hendrie.’
‘Quite the polyglot, isn’t he? Remember that modern languages master at school who was reputed to speak a dozen languages? What was his name?’
‘Johnson, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right. Odd fellow; left under something of a cloud. Do you recall? It was after my time. Something to do with boys in the prep school?’
‘I think it was drink, actually, rather a lot of it apparently, most of it from the headmaster’s cellar. Shame, we could have put him to good use in the Service. So we send Laertes to Peenemünde. Can’t imagine him being terribly chuffed at the idea.’
‘It’s not about being chuffed, though, is it? You’ll let me know how you get on, won’t you?’
‘There is something I left out of my report, Roly.’ Gilbey proceeded to tell Pearson about Prince’s escape from the restaurant and Kurt’s death.
‘And Laertes didn’t see fit to mention this?’ Pearson shook his head in disbelief.
‘Agent Laertes’ report concentrated exclusively on his conversation with Kurt, which is fair enough: after all, that was what we sent him to Berlin for. Agents often omit information they think reflects badly on them. They prefer to pass on more positive news in the limited time and space they have for their communications.’
‘Even so, not to mention that Kurt had been killed is quite some omission. That fact alone would seem to suggest he is – was – who he said he was, and gives us all the more reason to trust what he said. How do you know this anyway, Tom?’
‘We have an agent in Berlin. She’s top class, extraordinarily well placed: very brave, very sharp. She’s a Barnaby Allen recruit, and of course he runs her – you remember Barney? He was a year below me at school, always won at cross-country. One of those annoying types who was good at games but also top of the class in most subjects. Any contact with her is strictly through him, but I have to say, he’s been terribly helpful. I asked him if she could keep an eye on Laertes when he and Horatio were in Berlin. It was she who spotted that the Gestapo had tracked Kurt down to the restaurant, and she was able to warn them.’
‘Anything else you care to tell me about her?’
Gilbey shook his head. ‘Not much, Roly, you know how it is. There’s a limit to how much I know myself. Her husband’s a devout Nazi, a senior officer in the SS, that’s all I’ve been told. Barney doesn’t allow any of us to get anywhere near her, and I can’t say I blame him.’
‘Do you have a name for her?’
‘Her code name for this operation is Amsel. It’s German for blackbird.’
Chapter 14
Denmark, December 1942–January 1943
‘Stay in here, keep quiet and if you need to, use that bucket. I’m sorry it’s going to be so uncomfortable, but the Germans don’t usually come down here, so at least it ought to be safe. You have some food?’
Prince nodded and patted his backpack.
‘Remember it will be very cold. I’d better find you a couple more blankets.’
He said he’d appreciate that. It was already five o’clock in the afternoon and the ferry wasn’t due to sail from Gedser until nine the following morning. That meant sixteen hours in a windowless storage room, no more than three foot by seven, with much of the room taken up by piles of lifejackets and a large coil of foul-smelling rope. They were on the lowest deck, and the noise of the engine and the pumps reverberated around him.
‘I’ll get you the blankets and then I’ll lock the door. I’ll unlock it when we’re in Warnmünde.’
‘When will that be?’
Peder shrugged. He was the chief engineer on the ferry and a contact of someone recommended by someone Hanne knew. A friend of a friend of a friend: it all felt a bit tenuous, but Peder seemed pleasant enough and Prince had no alternative but to trust him.
‘Depends on whether we get away from here on time, what the conditions are like on the crossing and how long the Germans take to search the boat in Warnmünde. Sometimes they have two or three men taking less than half an hour; other times it can take a lot longer and be quite thorough. It’s a three-hour crossing, so if all goes well you could be off the boat by one o’clock, but it may be later.’
Peder brought the extra blankets and then locked the door. He assured Prince there’d be no one on the boat overnight other than a nightwatchman on the top deck. He had also brought a small lamp but told him to use it sparingly. It gave Prince enough light to arrange some of the lifejackets into a bed of sorts. He’d hesitate to describe it as comfortable, but with the blankets wrapped around him it was not quite as bleak as it could have been.
As for his mood, though, that could not have been bleaker. He’d had every reason to expect he’d be back in England by now. He’d hoped he’d be spending Christmas with his son, but now it was the first Monday in January and he was heading into the German Reich once again.
* * *
It was only when he and Otto were in the taxi from Kastrup airport to Copenhagen after their flight from Berlin that Prince finally felt he could relax. He realised he was still a British agent in Nazi-occupied Denmark, with all that entailed, but the end of his mission was in sight. Within days he’d be back in England, with his son. Despite signs everywhere of the German occupation, Copenhagen felt considerably less menacing than Berlin.
All that remained was to compile his report and arrange his journey back to England. The taxi dropped him in Vesterbro, about ten minutes’ walk from the apartment. As he got closer, he realised quite how excited he was to see Hanne. He’d no doubts now about either the nature or the extent of his feelings for her. It was the same feeling he had had in the early years of his marriage to Jane, before Grace was born. But he had to caution himself. He must assume these feelings were unrequited. It was all well and good him feeling so carefree: within days he’d be back in England. In a few weeks he’d probably be back as a detective in Lincol
nshire and most important of all, with his son. Prince realised he was assuming Hanne felt the same way about him and he had to admit he had no real evidence for that. It was true Hanne had been warmer and friendlier than when they first met, but he’d have expected that anyway. He also knew that even if she did happen to share his feelings, her situation was very different to his. He could afford to relax; he would soon be out of danger. She could not contemplate either of those.
These uncertainties soon disappeared. Less than twenty minutes after he entered the apartment, Hanne arrived. Within seconds they had fallen into each other’s arms and they remained like that as they staggered into the bedroom.
For the next hour, not a word was spoken, and when they paused for the first time, an exhausted Prince spoke, aware that what he said was likely to change the mood.
‘I need to write my report and you’ve got to encode it. I presume you’ll drop it off on your way to work in the morning? If so, we really haven’t got long.’
She hauled herself up and brushed the hair away from her face, looking slightly disappointed. ‘I suppose you’re right. You write it while I get some sleep. Wake me up when it’s done. I’ll encode it before going to work.’
It took Prince three hours to write the report, constantly editing it to be as succinct as possible, but ensuring he quoted Kurt’s key answers as directly as possible. He decided to leave out what had happened when they left the restaurant. He didn’t think there’d be sufficient time and space, but he also felt – not entirely logically, he realised – its inclusion might disappoint London and somehow delay his return home. He did, however, allow the indulgence at the end of the report of a question about the arrangements for his journey back to England.
The report was placed in the dead letter box on the Friday morning: by the Sunday lunchtime it had been collected.
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