Prince of Spies

by Prince of Spies (retail) (epub)

  They were in the apartment in Copenhagen and Hanne was giving him his final briefing. She’d received instructions from London.

  ‘…then you walk out of the station. Blackbird will greet you soon after that. They will say, “You look so well after such a long journey,” and your response is… go on, Peter, your response?’

  ‘I’m to say, “But I could do with a good meal and a proper sleep.”’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Which is all well and good, but what is my fallback story?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s supposed to be rule number one when in enemy territory: know where you’re going and have a story to tell in case you’re stopped. If I’m stopped before I leave the station, what am I to say? With this identity I won’t last a minute.’

  She looked at him as if she knew he was right. ‘Hopefully it won’t come to that.’

  * * *

  By the time the train arrived in Greifswald at a quarter past five, he’d drunk the best part of Frau Henlein’s bottle of schnapps. He wouldn’t say he was beyond caring, or even that his guard was down, but he was certainly more relaxed than he ought to have been in the circumstances. He insisted on carrying her cases to the ticket barrier – where he was waved through – and was introduced to her daughter.

  ‘He’s such a nice man – but so unwell!’

  Greifswald station was small: just two platforms as far as he could make out, and a large number of troops lined up along one of them. He bid farewell to his travelling companion, more grateful for her company than she’d ever realise, then followed the other passengers out of the station onto the Bahnhofstrasse. He paused to tie his shoelaces, which he’d been advised not to do (too obvious, old chap), and set off along the road.

  By the time he saw her and recognised her, she’d already embraced him.

  ‘You look so well after such a long journey!’

  It was the woman from Berlin: the woman with the distinctive hats. She was wearing the turban-style one now and she looked genuinely pleased to see him.

  ‘But I could do with a good meal and a proper sleep.’

  She nodded. All was in order. ‘It’s good to see you, though you actually look terrible. I have a car just along here, and some papers for you. You’re my cousin from Dortmund, by the way.’

  ‘You’d better tell me your name.’

  ‘Of course. I’m Sophia. Sophia von Naundorf.’

  * * *

  Agent Blackbird – Sophia von Naundorf – had rented a small villa on the outskirts of the town overlooking the mouth of the River Ryck. It was in an ideal location: set at the end of a single-track road, the closest neighbours the other side of a field and the villa itself surrounded by a high wall, with an iron gate of similar height separating the drive from the road.

  The house and the area around it were bathed in darkness, the moon blurred by clouds. She led Prince into the villa and he waited in the hall while she turned on the lights.

  ‘They take the blackout very seriously around here: the British don’t seem to know much about the area, but it’s near Rostock so there’s always a danger they could hit the town. You look like you could do with a bath. I’ve laid some things out for you in that bedroom. When you’re ready, I’ll make you a meal, then we can talk.’

  It was an incongruous setting for their first proper meeting. They sat opposite each other in a small but elegant dining room, the French-polished table replete with what Sophia apologetically described as a modest meal.

  They said nothing for the first five minutes. Prince ate, occasionally glancing up at Sophia. She was the kind of woman people in England would tend to refer to as refined, and was younger than he’d thought. While he’d been in the bath, she had changed into a smart dress and had put on more make-up, most noticeably dark red lipstick.

  She waited until he’d finished his soup before she spoke.

  ‘You must have so many questions.’

  ‘I’m not sure how much you can tell me – and I’m certainly not sure how much I can tell you.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me anything. I know as much as I need to know, and I’ll tell you what you need to know. Can you pass me the potato salad, please? I don’t know if you like wine, but my husband got that bottle from France. Apparently it is excellent, I brought it with me from Berlin.’

  She filled her plate with potato salad and cold meats and poured wine into two crystal glasses.

  ‘I could have brought my maid with me from Berlin too but decided it would be prudent not to. So for the first time in many years I’m looking after myself, and to be honest, I quite enjoy the solitude. A local girl comes in most mornings to clean, but I’ve told her not to bother tomorrow or Wednesday. By Thursday, you should be gone. You realise I work for the British, don’t you? In Berlin my job was to keep an eye on you and ensure you were safe. I spotted the Gestapo following the Luftwaffe officer. My job here is to get you to into Peenemünde and then to pass on any messages you can get out of the place. When your mission is finished, I’ll do my best to help you return to Denmark, then I can go home to Berlin.’

  ‘What is your excuse for being in Greifswald?’

  ‘Have you heard of the Frauenschaft? It’s a Nazi women’s organisation. Dutiful wives like me are expected to attend its dreadful meetings where we blame the Jews for everything and then decide what good we can do. They run an orphanage here in Greifswald and I volunteered to come up for a few weeks to help out. Everyone thinks I’m wonderful. Take some more herring: it’s really rather good, a local speciality. Those pickled cucumbers are good too.’ She pushed some more plates in his direction. ‘My husband is a senior officer in the SS. He’s a Brigadeführer, which is equivalent to a general, apparently. He’s currently taking part in the Battle of Stalingrad, hopefully suffering like the rest of them and awaiting defeat. With luck, I’ll never see him again. You look confused?’

  ‘You wish that on your husband?’

  ‘I was born in 1910; my mother died when I was five. A year later, my father went to fight in the Great War. I don’t recall him even saying goodbye to me. I was looked after by nannies and always felt abandoned by him. He returned in 1918 but remained a distant figure. We were very comfortably off: not rich, but with a nice house in Berlin and holidays in Switzerland. We certainly wanted for nothing. Father was in manufacturing, household equipment, that kind of thing. But as the German economy crashed, he lost everything. The business closed, he had to sell the house and we ended up in a rented apartment in Wedding, a less pleasant part of Berlin.

  ‘I found work in an office and Father became obsessed with the idea that I should marry well. When I was twenty, I met Karl-Heinz. I was working in a legal office on Fasanenstrasse and he was one of the high-flying lawyers there. He’s ten years older than me and an attractive man, not handsome in the conventional sense but very smart and athletic, and he did have a charm about him, along with ambition and drive. When Karl-Heinz wants something, he invariably gets it. Not long after we met, he decided he wanted me. I wasn’t at all sure; I felt I wanted someone who was maybe more cultured and sensitive and possibly closer to my own age, but he was very determined and he had an ally in my father, who not only thought Karl-Heinz was wonderful but also saw him as a route out of the hardship we found ourselves in.

  ‘So against my better judgement – though I say that with hindsight, of course – we married. That was in 1932. Until then we’d never really discussed politics; it wasn’t something that Karl-Heinz seemed interested in. But all that changed after the Nazis came to power in 1933. He joined them and became a passionate Nazi, giving up his law job and becoming an officer in the SS. I cannot describe how terrible he became, though I have to tell you he’s always been very proper with me. I have no doubt he loves me and cares about me. Unfortunately, we’ve been unable to have children, and unlike many men in his position he has never held this against me: he’s paid for the best medical treatment and has always
been sympathetic.

  ‘A couple of years after we married, we moved to a beautiful apartment in Charlottenburg. I became very friendly with a Jewish family in an apartment below us – the Goldmanns. I was especially close to their daughter Esther, who was the same age as me. It was around this time that life became intolerable for Jews in Berlin. The laws being passed made their lives unbearable in almost every respect. Esther’s father was a doctor and lost his job at the Charité hospital, and would you believe it, their beloved dog was taken from them because a law was passed forbidding Jews from owning pets. They could only shop at certain times, they couldn’t own a radio, so many petty things – it was awful. Karl-Heinz thought this was hilarious. He was always rude to them, and when he was around, Esther kept out of the way.

  ‘Eventually the Goldmanns fled Germany – they went to Belgium as far as I know; I’ve never heard from Esther since they left. Because they left so quickly, most of their possessions remained in their apartment. Karl-Heinz arranged to have the pick of what they owned, so our apartment is stuffed with their silverware, their dinner service, a beautiful dining table and chairs – even paintings. I’m ashamed of this, of course, but I’ve decided to take the view that I’m looking after everything until the family return after the war.

  ‘As time has gone on, Karl-Heinz has given me every reason to hate him. He boasts about the role he’s played in murdering Jews. I can’t say too much, but I even have evidence of the dreadful things he’s done. He actually seems to believe this impresses me. It has had the opposite effect. I thought about escaping, but where could I go? Then in late 1940 I met an American journalist in Berlin. He was someone I could instinctively trust. I told him I was opposed to the Nazis and wished to help the British. Through him I made contact with the right people in London, and here we are.

  ‘As far as Karl-Heinz is concerned, I’m a loyal wife and a devoted Nazi and I play up to that role. It’s the perfect cover. Being married to an SS general is like being a member of the aristocracy. Finish the potato salad, there’s only a little left.’

  She began to clear the plates and Prince helped her carry them into the kitchen. She made a pot of coffee and they went into the lounge.

  ‘It’s real coffee, none of that ersatz rubbish: this is what happens when you marry into the SS. Now then, you haven’t come here just to drink decent coffee, have you?’

  ‘My instructions are to get into Peenemünde, provide a detailed diagram of the site and remain there to await further instructions. They want me to assume the identity of a French labourer. I have no idea how…’

  ‘You speak French?’

  ‘A little: my accent is passable enough, but I’m not sure many people will believe I’m French.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve been thinking about this, and I have a plan. I have to work tomorrow at the orphanage but I’m free on Wednesday. In the meantime, you need to get as much rest as possible while you can.’

  * * *

  ‘What do you think? I know it’s a ridiculously big car, but the important thing is the size of its boot. We could fit two of you in there quite easily.’

  Richard Prince climbed out of the boot of the Mercedes-Benz 770, which Sophia had reversed with some difficulty into the garage alongside the villa. There was no question he would fit into the space under the boot with room to spare. She had even placed a rug and some blankets in there to make it more comfortable.

  ‘It’s around twenty-five miles to the island. I could do it in an hour, but the roads aren’t too good and the checkpoint at Wolgast to get onto Usedom island can take another hour to get through. This will be the fourth time I’ve crossed over, so hopefully they know me by now.’

  ‘But surely they’ll search the car?’

  ‘Of course, but they won’t think of looking in that space, and remember, I’ll have various odds and ends on top of it. Before I forget, you’d better give me your identity cards – the Danish and German ones. It will blow your cover if you’re caught with them. I’ll keep them safe for you, don’t worry.’

  They left at ten o’clock on the Wednesday morning, having spent twenty minutes ensuring Prince was safely stowed in the space under the lining of the boot. It was more comfortable than he’d expected, though still claustrophobic: he knew he’d be in there for at least two hours, and possibly considerably longer.

  An hour after leaving Greifswald, the car stopped. For the first time he could make out sounds around him other than that of the car’s considerable eight-litre engine.

  ‘Heil Hitler! Good afternoon, my lady: my very warm greetings to you. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.’

  ‘Heil Hitler! I had today off, Oberleutnant, and I found my visit to the island on Sunday so peaceful that I felt pulled towards it once again.’

  ‘And do you have papers, my lady?’

  ‘Of course, Oberleutnant! I wouldn’t want to embarrass you like last time, would I? You were so kind to me then. My husband’s colleague Oberführer Hausser – he’s the senior SS officer in Greifswald, you know – has given me these travel papers.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘These are general travel papers covering Mecklenburg, my lady. They are not for Usedom.’

  ‘But Usedom is in Mecklenburg.’

  ‘I know, my lady, but as I told you before, because of the sensitive nature of some of the activities in this area, we have to be very strict.’

  ‘I understand. I suppose I could always turn round. My husband the SS Brigadeführer will—’

  ‘My lady, please don’t misunderstand me. Where is it you’re proposing to visit on the island?’

  ‘Zempin.’

  ‘Very well: I can issue you papers for today only and on the very strict condition you don’t travel further north than Zempin. Do you understand that?’

  ‘Of course. I’m so grateful. Perhaps you would allow me to give you these cigarettes as a token of my gratitude.’

  ‘Juno? Thank you so much, my lady. Three packets, are you sure? I’ll just quickly check the car; it won’t take long.’

  Prince became aware of the boot opening, but it was for no more than a few seconds. He recalled what she’d told him back at the villa.

  I’ve checked it out three times now.

  I’ll drive into Zempin and get as close as I can to the coast. Each time I’ve been there, groups of foreign workers have been moving up and down the coast road. They don’t seem to be guarded very closely. It’s not as if they’ve got anywhere to escape to.

  If it seems safe, I’ll approach them.

  Fifteen minutes after leaving the checkpoint and crossing onto the island, the car stopped again. He heard the door open and close. It was another few minutes before the boot opened and he heard Sophia’s voice. ‘We’re by the coast now. There are two groups of slave labourers nearby: one group seem to be Russians or Ukrainians and there are two guards with them. The group slightly nearer to us are French, and as far as I can see, they’re on their own at the moment.’

  ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘Repairing the defences on the beach, I think. You can come out from under there now, but stay inside the boot for the time being. You see this?’

  She was standing in front of a large white-painted wooden post. A weather-beaten life belt was attached to it below a sign warning people not to go anywhere near the beach. Behind the post was an area covered in shale. She beckoned him forward and he crawled to the edge of the boot.

  ‘When you’ve finished the map of the camp, put it in this.’ She handed him a black waterproof pouch. ‘Then bury it under the shale directly behind the post. When you’ve done that, scratch a mark underneath the life belt using a piece of shale. You know the Russian cross? That’s the sign you should use. I’ll look out for it and know to search for the pouch. Wait here, the group is coming closer.’

  She returned a few minutes later. ‘They think I’m mad, but I’ve given them sausages and cigarettes. I don’t think they’ve eve
r heard of anyone wanting to break into a camp.’

  ‘Nor have I.’

  ‘They’re all wearing dark grey, so you’ll fit in. Quick now, good luck.’

  * * *

  It had been as easy as that. Prince had rolled out of the back of the Mercedes-Benz and scrambled over to the beach, where a group of bemused Frenchmen were standing as if they were looking at a ghost. As far as he could tell, there were around half a dozen guards on the beach, scattered around and mostly with their backs to the group. The two closest to them were huddled together, trying to light cigarettes. Summoning his best French, Prince wished the Frenchmen a good afternoon and said he’d like to come with them into the camp. Would they be able to help?

  They gathered around him so he was now enclosed in the centre of their group. He suspected it was because they distrusted him rather than for protection. An older man moved close to him.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  He’d known he’d be asked this and had decided he had no option other than to tell the truth. It was a risk he had to take. ‘I’m English. I’m here to find out about the camp.’

  All the men looked at him through narrowed eyes. Despite the wind howling across the beach, he could hear the breathing of every one of them, and his own heartbeat. After what seemed like an eternity, the older man spoke, nodding his head approvingly as he did so.

  ‘Very well, we’ll help you, Mister Churchill. Stay in the middle of us.’ Then, in French: ‘Jean-Claude, give our friend your hat; Alain, swap jackets with him. It won’t do if he walks into Peenemünde looking like Mister Churchill, eh?’

  They went back to repairing the sea defences, and after a while, the guards called them: they were to return to the camp. The older man walked close to Prince. He introduced himself as Émile.

  ‘You’re lucky, Mister Churchill: you can’t trust all the slave labourers here, especially the Ukrainians, and I’m ashamed to say, not even us French. But my little group, most of us worked together in Tours: we’re socialists to a man. Just look tired as you go in. They’re so lazy, they only worry if there are people missing.’