‘Do I have to stay?’
‘What do you mean Hoffmann?’
‘Well, am I under arrest? If not, you can’t keep me here. I—’
‘If it helps your sense of propriety, Herr Hoffmann, I can certainly arrest you…’
He left the Bavarian waiting in a cell for four hours; by the time he returned, Hoffmann was a different man. The arrogance had gone; now he was frightened.
‘The problem is, Herr Hoffmann, I’m not sure I believe you.’
‘In what way, sir?’ It was the first time he’d shown such deference.
‘Hans Hinkler made it very clear you’d told him to seat the two men downstairs. I think you knew full well what would happen. Saying the restaurant was busy was a ruse to get them upstairs. I also think you knew about another man – or maybe more – letting himself in through the back staircase. I think you were bribed. I don’t think you’re mixed up in espionage, I—’
‘Espionage! What?’ All the colour – there’d not been a lot to start with – drained from Hoffman’s face. He clutched the sides of his chair. ‘What the fuck do you mean? I thought it was a business deal and they needed a quiet—’
‘Ah, so you did know about it?’ Frank said nothing for a while, allowing Hoffmann to fully savour his considerable predicament. ‘Two things can happen now, Herr Hoffman. One is you can tell me everything you know, including names. Without names I won’t be satisfied. You look like you could do with another cigarette.’
The Bavarian’s hand was trembling as he guided the cigarette to his lips. ‘What was the other thing, sir?’
‘I could hand you over to the Gestapo. They tend to adopt a different approach to interrogations than the Kripo. You could describe it as a more physical one.’
Hoffman needed no persuasion. One of the men was called Bruno, he told Kriminaldirektor Frank; he was a fairly regular diner at Das Bayerischer Haus. In fact, he’d held a dinner there for his fortieth birthday and used the private dining room, which was how he was aware of it. Hoffmann remembered showing him the room and pointing out the door concealed in the panelling and the staircase down to the yard. In August, Bruno had come to him with a favour to ask: could he use that room for a meeting, and would Herr Hoffmann mind leaving the door from the yard and the one in the panelling unlocked? He’d thought no more of it. Bruno was most generous, and when he’d asked him again in early December for the same favour, he was happy to oblige. He’d had absolutely no idea he was doing anything wrong and he—
‘Do you know his surname?’
‘Whose surname?’
‘You’ve been doing so well, Hoffmann, please don’t spoil it now. Bruno’s surname!’
‘Bergmann, sir: Bruno Bergmann. And if it’s of any help, I even know where he works.’
* * *
‘You have done very well, Kriminaldirektor Frank: your work is as thorough as I have come to expect. You will certainly receive a commendation for this.’
‘But it’s not complete, sir. I need to arrest this Bruno Bergmann.’
Gruppenführer von Helldorf avoided looking at him and shifted uncomfortably behind his large desk, moving a bottle of ink from one side of it to the other and carefully straightening his blotting pad. ‘I’m afraid your role in this investigation has come to an end, Gunther. My instructions are that the Gestapo will handle matters from now on. I am told that as they began this investigation, they should be allowed to complete it.’
* * *
Manfred Lange wasted no time. Within minutes of Gruppenführer von Helldorf passing on Bruno Bergmann’s name, he headed for Spandau Locomotive Engineering along with a dozen of his men: he didn’t want to leave anything to chance. He sent another team to Bergmann’s house to search it and arrest his wife.
Within an hour – Lange was proud he’d been so quick – they were back at 8 Prinz Albrecht Strasse. Normal practice was to beat the suspect up and then leave him in a dark cell for a couple of hours: received wisdom was that after that they were much easier to interrogate.
But Lange was impatient. He didn’t want that patronising bastard from the Kripo getting any credit whatsoever. He ordered his men to take Bergmann down to the lower basement. ‘You know where I mean, and you know what to do.’
When he arrived there a few minutes later, Bruno Bergmann was strapped to a rack on the wall, his arms and legs splayed and pulled hard so he formed an X shape. His arms supported his body weight and Lange knew it was only a matter of time before his shoulders dislocated. A spotlight had been trained on his face. He looked as terrified as Lange had hoped he would.
Lange pulled up a chair in front of him and lit a cigarette, a feeling of excitement and power sweeping through him. For as long as he could manage it, he said nothing. The only sound was that of Bergmann whimpering. After a while, he nodded to one of the two men standing on either side of him.
He was enormous, a former heavyweight boxer. He stepped forward and took up a classic southpaw stance: right foot slightly forward of the left, right hand up in a defensive position. Then he swayed forward and with his left hand punched Bergmann so hard in the stomach Lange was worried he might have killed him with one blow.
‘Leave him now,’ he instructed. ‘Bergmann, let me inform you of two things. We have your wife and children in custody. If you cooperate, their lives may be spared – certainly those of the children. We know you have a connection with Oberst Albert Kampmann. You can save your family…’ He paused here so that Bergmann could absorb the word ‘family’. Also, he didn’t look too good: his eyes were closing and blood trickled from his mouth. ‘You can save your family if you confess to everything.’
Which Bergmann did, telling Lange how he’d met Kampmann – whom he knew as Kurt – at a conference when he’d enquired about a series of technical issues. All along, he told Lange, he thought he was helping the Reich: that was his only motivation. By the time Kampmann had asked to meet his contact from Denmark, it was all too late. He bitterly regretted that—
‘Who is this contact from Denmark?’
Bergmann hesitated, but the boxer moved forward again.
‘Otto Knudsen, from Mortensen Machinery Parts, sir. We do an awful lot of work with them. They’re based in Copenhagen.’ Lange was smiling now, and Bergmann had obviously noticed and decided that this was a good sign. If he was cooperative, he was bound to be spared. ‘If it’s any help, sir, he stays at the Hotel Excelsior on Askanischer Platz. And on his last visit he was accompanied by another man from Copenhagen called Peter Rasmussen, whom I did not like one bit.’
Lange was delighted at how successful his interrogation had been. There was no question but that this would be looked on favourably by his superiors. He ordered Bergmann to be cut down and taken to one of the dungeons. He’d need to remain alive until the trial.
‘That will be in a couple of weeks,’ he told one of his colleagues. ‘It shouldn’t last more than a day.’
* * *
Manfred Lange had rather hoped he’d be allowed to go to Copenhagen to arrest this Otto Knudsen. He’d never been to Denmark and he fancied a trip there. He’d heard wonderful stories about Scandinavian women, and he was sure his Gestapo colleagues in Copenhagen would happily accommodate him in that respect: ‘blonde and very young’ would be his request.
He was also sure he’d be treated with a good deal of respect. He’d get to fly on a plane for the first time, would probably be picked up in a Horch, put up at the best hotel in the city and no doubt have an opportunity to impart his wisdom and advice to an appreciative local Gestapo, honoured by a visit from one of their colleagues from Berlin. Maybe he’d end up with a posting to somewhere agreeable.
To his disappointment, Lange remained in Germany. He had to pass on all the details of Otto Knudsen and Peter Rasmussen to the Gestapo in Copenhagen. At least he’d have the fun of dealing with them once they’d been sent back to Berlin.
* * *
In the Gestapo headquarters on Kampmannsgade in Copen
hagen, there was some concern. When a job came from Berlin, it had top priority; they didn’t like to get it wrong. Otto Knudsen was no problem: they quickly identified where he lived on Nyhavn. But Peter Rasmussen was an altogether different matter. They could find no trace of him. They had his legitimationskort details from his travel documents, but the address in Vesterbro turned out to be a false one. They decided that the best way to find him was to keep an eye on Otto Knudsen, which they did for two days, following him to and from work, even searching his flat while he was out.
By then, the pressure from Berlin was becoming intolerable, and there was even talk of sending a team to take over from them, so they decided to give it one last chance in the hope that they’d also net Rasmussen. The plan was to follow Knudsen on his way to work one morning. If Rasmussen didn’t approach him en route, they’d arrest him at his office.
* * *
It was a wet Wednesday morning when Otto Knudsen entered the head office of Mortensen Machinery Parts and climbed to the top floor and along the corridor towards his office. As he did so, he saw his managing director coming towards him. As they drew close, his colleague – whom Otto thought looked quite unwell – muttered, ‘I’m so sorry, Otto,’ and then hurried on.
Before he could react, he spotted two men following in his boss’s wake. They were unmistakably Gestapo. When he turned round, there was no sign of his colleague, but two more Gestapo were now behind him.
Otto’s shock was so profound, he was aware of little for the next hour or so. He was taken to the Gestapo headquarters on Kampmannsgade and interrogated. They told him he was being sent to Berlin ‘to be dealt with’, but in the meantime he was to tell them all he knew about Peter Rasmussen.
He said he didn’t know a Peter Rasmussen, but when they insisted he must do because he’d travelled to Berlin with him the previous month, he knew the game was up. He could feel tears welling in his eyes. It had been a good life, not as fulfilled in some ways as he’d hoped, but it had been interesting, and he’d been comfortable and had enjoyed good health, which now felt somewhat ironic. But since meeting the Englishman, he’d feared it could end like this, and he’d resolved what to do. He was prepared.
‘I’ll tell you everything: it’s all down to Rasmussen. I know where he is.’ They all nodded, evidently pleased that it had been so easy. ‘Perhaps if I could use the toilet first?’
He was searched, but they seemed to be looking for weapons. Nonetheless, he didn’t have long. One of them stood just outside the cubicle, the door open. From inside his collar he removed the pill he’d obtained just before the trip to Berlin. His pharmacist friend told him he’d supplied dozens of them. The Nazis are good for the poison industry. This will take up to twenty seconds to work, Otto, and I’m afraid it won’t be a very pleasant twenty seconds. Whatever you do, make sure you swallow it quickly. Don’t keep it in your mouth or they could pull it out. Once you’ve swallowed it, you’ll have passed the point of no return.
‘Hurry up!’
He couldn’t wait any longer. He didn’t regret helping the Allies, but then again… he slipped the pill into his mouth. It felt much larger than he’d imagined, and he had to cough to gather enough saliva to swallow it. He heard shouting – maybe they suspected something – but by the time someone grabbed him by the shoulder, his body had begun to tighten from the inside and a dizziness swept over him, followed by darkness, and then it was too late.
* * *
It was a sign of failure for the Gestapo to seek the help of the Danish police. That they barely trusted them went without saying. What bothered them more was how it showed them up: the Gestapo were meant to be the elite, the representatives of the master race, the occupiers. Asking for assistance was not part of the image they sought to encourage.
They’d gone to the police headquarters on Polititorvet, but no one in the registration and records department could help them: there were quite a few Peter Rasmussens in Copenhagen, but none matched the description of the man they were looking for.
‘And you’ve tried that address?’
‘Of course we’ve tried that address, you fool! What do you take us for?’
None of the Danish officers answered.
‘Has anyone in here come across a Peter Rasmussen?’ one of them called out across the room.
‘Peter Rasmussen, you say?’ It was an older officer, who’d just entered the room, glasses perched on top of his head, reading a document. He hadn’t spotted the two Gestapo officers sitting with their backs to him. ‘Hanne Jakobsen from the Major Robbery Unit at Nørrebro asked us to issue a legitimationskort for a Peter Rasmussen back in November. She signed the authorisation herself.’
By the time the two Gestapo men stood up and turned round, it was too late. The temperature in the room turned ice cold.
‘Hanne Jakobsen, you say?’ A thin smile was spreading across the Gestapo officer’s face.
The room had been quiet up to that point, but now a sudden and chilling silence descended on it. It felt as if the air had been sucked out of the place.
And from that moment on, those who knew Hanne Jakobsen began to speak of her in the past tense.
Chapter 18
London; Peenemünde, February 1943
‘Remarkable Tom, absolutely remarkable.’
‘What is Roly?’
‘Oh do come on Tom. This Agent Blackbird – saves Agent Laertes’ life in Berlin, keeps the whole mission on track and now manages to get him inside Peenemünde. I call that remarkable.’
Tom Gilbey remained impassive. ‘And brave.’
‘Goes without saying. And you totally trust them?’
Tom Gilbey nodded. They were sitting in the meeting room deep under Downing Street, waiting for the others to arrive. Sir Roland Pearson had suggested he and Tom Gilbey meet a bit earlier (‘make sure we’re singing from the same hymn sheet, Tom, you know the score…’)
‘And is there anything else you can tell me about this Agent Blackbird?’
‘Come on, Roly, you understand how this works. The fewer people who know, the better and in any case, she’s Barney Allen’s agent, I told you. I’m not in a position to divulge anything about Agent Blackbird and frankly I’m surprised you…’
‘Naturally one understands that Tom, but of course I only ask in case Winston asks and if…’
‘…in my experience Roly, Winston rarely does ask. He’s got a very good appreciation of how intelligence works. They’ll be here any time now, remember, and I don’t want this meeting to end without a commitment to bombing the bloody place. Don’t let Swalcliffe talk you out of it, Roly. You’re supposed to have Winston’s ear just as much as he does.’
* * *
The meeting had the feel of a family gathering with tensions bubbling just beneath the surface, the participants obliged to meet, the occasion made all the more awkward by the links that had brought them together in the first place.
As usual, Lord Swalcliffe sat on his own opposite Sir Roland Pearson and Tom Gilbey, his face barely concealing a look of resentment. Air Vice Marshal Hamilton and Wing Commander Carter were at one end of the table, in front of a wall covered in charts and photographs, and Long from the Ministry was opposite them, as ever his presence somewhat enigmatic: unexplained, largely silent but nevertheless apparently important.
‘I think you will have to concede, Edward, that the map we received from Agent Laertes does rather substantiate Kurt’s intelligence: Peenemünde is where the V-1 and the V-2 are being developed.’
Lord Swalcliffe huffed and puffed and shifted around in his chair, clearly unhappy at the suggestion that he might concede anything.
‘None of this so-called intelligence proves these bloody things can fly, though, does it? My concern remains that this could all be part of a very sophisticated deception operation by the enemy. Even if it’s not, there’s no guarantee their technology works. It could simply be something to indulge Hitler. The war in Europe is beginning to turn against him – by
all accounts the Nazis have been defeated at Stalingrad just this week, and lost the whole of their 6th Army in the process – and he needs to convince the German people everything will be fine because they’re developing secret weapons to defeat us. If we go ahead and bomb Peenemünde and turn the site into rubble, as I dare say you’re going to propose, we’ll be shooting ourselves in the foot. I say let them carry on with this nonsense. If we bomb some common sense into them, it will rebound on us: mark my words, the Luftwaffe will end up as the main beneficiaries.’
‘What do you chaps make of it, Frank?’
Air Vice Marshal Hamilton stood up, positioning himself between two large charts.
‘There can be no doubt that the map we received from Agent Laertes is consistent with what we were able to ascertain from our aerial reconnaissance photographs. It’s terribly good by the way, quite the professional touch to it. As we said before, our photographs were poor quality. With the help of the map, they now make considerably more sense. The intelligence from your agent not only corroborates what we knew about Peenemünde, but actually adds significantly to it.
‘For instance, we’ve been able to identify what the different structures and locations are. We now know that this – here – is the power plant; we had no idea that this was the experimental works; and here, at the southern end, this complex of buildings is actually where the slave labourers live. Had we not known that, we might well have destroyed it. So put together,’ his cane tapped the blow-up of the map and a panel of photographs, ‘we now have a pretty damn good idea of what will be below our boys when we come to bomb the place.’
‘If that is what this meeting decides.’
‘Of course, Lord Swalcliffe. Tim, why don’t you take us through some of the plans we have for a possible bombing mission?’
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