Prince nodded. ‘Black cats for luck, eh?’
‘Let’s hope so. It may mean you waiting for quite a while – I could be at work and back late. There’s an outhouse in the alley where the rubbish bins are kept. You can see the window quite easily from there. There are half a dozen bins there, big ones – you’ll just have to hide there. If and when you see the cat, go to your apartment and the key will be taped to the top frame. Once you’re in, put that blue vase over there – the one on the side table – in the window. Then I’ll know you’re back.’
‘And what about if I wait and the black cat doesn’t appear?’
She shrugged in a matter-of-fact manner. ‘Then you must assume something has happened to me and it’s not safe. We can’t plan for every eventuality, Peter. I’m afraid you’ll be on your own then. I’d suggest you try and make your way to Sweden.’
* * *
Now it was the middle of April, just over three months since he’d left Copenhagen, and he’d been hiding in the stinking outhouse in the alley behind Hanne’s flat for nearly two days. He’d arrived there at noon on a warm Wednesday, and now it was a few minutes past seven on the Friday morning, and in all that time no black cat had appeared in the window of Hanne’s apartment.
As far as he could tell, there’d been no other sign of life from her home: not a flicker of light, no movement. He’d stayed awake all last night, propped just inside the doorway of the outhouse, the door positioned so it shielded him but allowed him a view of the window. At least that gave him some relief from the overpowering stench from the rubbish bins. On the first afternoon, he’d raided the bins for food of some kind and selected some stale slices of bread and a few discarded boiled potatoes. He thought that would be safe enough, but later he was violently sick. As darkness fell, it became apparent that he shared his outhouse with an extended family of rats, one of those families that kept themselves busy all the time and didn’t believe in quiet nights in.
It was clear he couldn’t go back to the apartment. She’d suggested he try to get to Sweden, but he was exhausted and had no money and no papers, and he had little doubt now that his fever was typhus, which was hardly surprising given that so many people around him for the past couple of months had been suffering from it. That he’d managed to get back to Copenhagen was little short of a miracle.
He crawled to the back of the outhouse, kicked a rat off the piece of flea-ridden carpet he’d retrieved from a bin and slumped down. At least he’d not vomited for a few hours now. Another rat peered at him with ill-disguised curiosity from under a bin. He recognised it as Adolf, so named because of a black patch under its nose.
As well as being ill and exhausted, he was also having to come to terms with the realisation that something awful must have happened to Hanne. It was a terrible shock, which had hit him like a sledgehammer. He’d regarded her as such a clever and resourceful person, he’d assumed she’d rise above any situation.
And now he realised quite how much he loved her.
* * *
He must have dozed off for a few hours, because he was woken with a start by someone opening the outhouse door and throwing something into one of the bins. When they left, he checked it: half a loaf of bread and two or three wrinkled apples. Nourished by this and rested after his nap, he could think more clearly, and as he did so, he remembered that last evening in Matlock, when he and Gilbey were alone in the dining room and Gilbey had assured him he was an agent he could trust implicitly.
We have a further source in Copenhagen, one so highly placed and so important to us that you are only to approach him in the most extreme of circumstances. His code name is Browning… I’m about to tell you how to contact him.
* * *
Prince left the outhouse later that morning, conscious that he smelt and looked just like someone who’d spent the last two days in the company of rats. Along with the absence of a legitimationskort or any other papers, he could be excused for feeling wary.
But he also felt distinctly unwell, the spreading rash now very painful and his temperature rising, and it was an effort to focus on what he had to do next. He recalled Gilbey’s instructions.
Steal a bicycle. I’m told Copenhagen is full of them: annoying things. Do your best not to get caught.
He took a tram from Vesterbro to the Kongens Have park, where he’d previously noticed a large number of bicycles parked by Gothersgade. He took a seat on a bench in the shadow thrown by an avenue of trees and waited for prey to appear. Ten minutes later, it arrived: a man in his forties, perhaps, in a hurry and with a briefcase strapped behind the seat. He placed the bicycle against the railings and strode off, adjusting his hat and tie as he did so, heading north away from the park and from Prince’s destination.
Prince waited another five minutes, and when he was sure no one was paying the slightest attention, he casually strolled up to the bicycle, mounted it and rode away.
The bike shop is in Indre By, in the centre of Copenhagen. It’s down a narrow alley off Pilestræde. You won’t be able to miss it; it’s the only bike shop there. Even has a bloody bike over the entrance, I’m told.
It was only a short ride, but before he reached Pilestræde, Prince stopped, dismounted and fiddled with the front wheel. He walked along with the bike for the remainder of the journey.
The shop’s called Jensen, that’s all. Jensen’s the name of the owner too.
The shop was just as Gilbey had described it. Prince pushed open the door, an action that set off a complicated sequence of movements and noises, culminating in a cord running down a wall pulling a bicycle bell.
Jensen is always there, otherwise it doesn’t open. He has a beard.
He had a shock when the man he assumed was Jensen turned round at the sound of the bell. He was a doppelgänger for Leon Trotsky. Prince was familiar with the Russian’s image from newspapers and magazines, and couldn’t spot any differences between this Danish bike shop owner and the Russian revolutionary. Jensen had Trotsky’s thick hair, greying and swept back; the round black-framed spectacles, the full moustache and goatee beard. He was even formally dressed as Prince recalled Trotsky always seemed to be, in a dark jacket and a tightly knotted tie.
‘Can I help you?’
He was momentarily surprised at the man’s unmistakable Danish accent. He’d somehow expected a Russian one.
‘I appear to have broken a spoke on my front wheel.’
Jensen nodded, his face impassive. ‘And have you come far?’
The correct response. ‘Yes, from Skovshoved.’
Now Jensen would be sure too, and his dark eyebrows, so like Trotsky’s, shot up a little. ‘And your broken spoke – when did you notice it?’
‘Fortunately not until the end of my journey.’
The man nodded and held the front of his counter, bowing slightly, concentrating on taking two or three deep breaths. It was a moment for him to gather his thoughts.
‘You’re certain no one has followed you?’
Prince nodded.
‘Very well, you’d better come straight through to the workshop. I’ll lock the door and put up a closed sign. Fortunately, it’s almost lunchtime. You don’t look too well – are you all right?’
* * *
‘You’re not Browning, are you?’ Prince asked once they were in the workshop.
‘No – I’m the contact for Browning. But I must ask you why you need to see him. I’m sure you’ve been told he can only be contacted as a last resort.’
You are only to approach him in the most extreme of circumstances… if your life is in danger, not if you’ve run out of milk.
Prince hesitated, unsure how much he could trust this man with.
‘Don’t worry – you need only tell me as much as you feel able to. It may be safer for you to leave out any names and addresses. That cuts down the risk. If it helps, I know Tom Gilbey. He recruited me, and I recruited Browning for him. I operate completely independently of any other British intelligence in
terests in Denmark; it’s safer that way. Even Gilbey’s people in Stockholm don’t know about me. If Tom gave you this address, it shows he obviously trusts you. And by the look of you, you’re going to have to trust me. Let me get you some water.’
Jensen had pulled two chairs up alongside a workbench, various bike parts scattered around them.
‘I don’t suppose you have any aspirin, do you?’ Prince asked. ‘I think I may have caught something.’
A few minutes later, he began to feel slightly better. ‘Gilbey sent me over here in November. There’s an agent here – a Danish woman – who’s been looking after me. She provided me with somewhere to stay and a new identity, and she’s passed messages and intelligence to and from London via the MI6 station in Stockholm. I’ve twice been on missions inside Germany. Could I trouble you for some more water?’
Jensen refilled his glass and told Prince to rest for a moment.
‘On my last mission, I was arrested, although they didn’t discover I was a British agent. Nevertheless, they sent me to a concentration camp near Hamburg. From there I was sent to Lübeck, and I managed to escape on a Danish ship that was sailing to Copenhagen.’
‘What was the name of the ship?’
‘The Strand Stjerne.’
‘When and where did it arrive?’
‘In Holmen, early on Wednesday morning. I’m losing track of time. Is it Friday today?’
Jensen nodded.
‘Because I was going to be away for several weeks on this mission, the Danish woman and I had agreed to a safety signal, but it never appeared. I have no idea what to do. I have no papers, I’m unwell and I’m desperate. I know Gilbey said to approach Browning only in the most extreme of circumstances, but I think this must qualify.’
It was only when he’d finished speaking that Prince realised quite how unwell he suddenly felt. He had the sensation of the room spinning round, and his vision was blurred. His body felt as if it was tightly wrapped in a rough, very hot blanket, and a wave of nausea rode through him. He was aware of a person moving towards him and saying something, though he couldn’t make out any words. After that, he sensed he was lying down, overcome by dizziness. He tried to say something but was unable to form any words. When he attempted to lift his head, there was a jarring pain and everything went black.
* * *
He lay very still for quite a few minutes. He had no idea where he was, other than in a room that resembled a cell, so he assumed he’d been arrested. He was covered by blankets and lying on a mattress on the floor taking up the width of the room and most of its length. The walls were white-painted stone, and high in the one behind him was a window sending a shaft of bright sunshine into the room. Above him was a light shade with a floral pattern, which didn’t feel very cell-like, and the door in front of him was ajar.
He had the impression of having been asleep for a long while: he was soaked in perspiration, and when he raised his head, he felt dizzy but better than before. Slowly he began to piece together his last memories: the outhouse behind Hanne’s apartment; the tram to the park; the bike ride and then finding the shop; the man who looked like Trotsky – he even recalled the name Jensen; a conversation in the back room, and then… nothing.
‘So you’re awake!’ Trotsky had appeared in the room, smiling and carrying a wet flannel. ‘How do you feel?’
‘I’m not sure. Where am I?’
‘In a room at the back of my workshop. I normally keep bicycles in here. I brought a mattress down from my rooms upstairs; I was unable to carry you up. Do you know how long you’ve been asleep?’
Prince shrugged.
‘You arrived here late Friday morning. It’s now early Sunday afternoon. You have typhus, you know.’
‘I thought so.’
‘After you collapsed, I called Dr Oppenheim. He came that afternoon and diagnosed it straight away. He gave you some injections, including one to help you sleep. He’ll be in tomorrow and will talk to you then.’
‘And Browning, were you able to contact him?’
‘Not yet. It’s a complicated business getting hold of him and I wanted to be sure you were well enough. Now I can set things in motion.’
Chapter 22
Copenhagen; Stockholm, April 1943
At precisely ten minutes to eight on the morning of Monday 19 April, the commercial attaché of the German Embassy to Denmark left the breakfast room of his generous residence in Lyngby, a genteel suburb to the north of Copenhagen.
He went into the hall, smoking his fourth cigarette of the morning and resolving – as he did every morning – not to smoke more than one packet that day. He stood by the mirror adjusting his tie and listened to his housekeeper, who’d followed him into the hall.
Yes, venison stew sounds very good – thank you.
Yes, I will be dining alone – as usual.
No, on Tuesday night there’s a function at the embassy.
He took his coat and hat from the housekeeper and stopped by his study to pick up his briefcase. At five to eight, he opened the front door, where his driver was waiting. The two men exchanged Heil Hitlers, one with considerably more enthusiasm than the other.
Ferdinand Rudolf von Buhler settled into the back of his Horch for the twenty-minute drive to the embassy. It was going to be a trying week, even more so than usual. Tomorrow was Hitler’s birthday, an event marked with a good deal of extravagance at the embassy. It was bad enough being required to indulge in this enthusiasm, but worse was the expectation that Danes would share it. Of his many Danish contacts, only two had no other engagements for that evening. German officers would have to be drafted in to ensure the reception had a respectable turnout.
But Ferdinand Rudolf von Buhler was about to find out that Hitler’s birthday celebrations would be the least of his problems that week. The first sign of trouble came as the Horch entered Nørrebro. They were on the main road, which had been carefully selected because it was so busy in the morning that cars were obliged to drive slowly.
As he always did, von Buhler watched carefully as they drove past the pharmacy, a beautiful building with a Beaux Arts facade in pinkish-red brick. On a shelf high in the window were three enormous blue medicine jars. Except this morning the three blue jars had been joined by one red one. The message was clear and caused the commercial attaché of the German Embassy to Denmark to experience a sensation of fear and excitement.
‘Georg, I’ve just realised I’m short of cigarettes. Stop at the tobacconist’s, please.’
‘The usual one, sir?’
‘Of course, Georg.’
The tobacconist’s was more a kiosk than a shop, so narrow there was room for only one customer inside it at a time, which von Buhler imagined was the reason it had been chosen for this purpose.
‘Two packets of ten, please.’
The tobacconist took two packets from the shelf behind him. ‘And I imagine you’d like matches today, sir?’
The message was confirmed. He was needed: urgently.
* * *
Before Ferdinand Rudolf von Buhler had even removed his coat in his office on the fifth floor of the German Embassy, he checked his appointments for the day with his secretary.
‘There’s the routine with the ambassador at ten, and at eleven you have the Dairy Industry Federation coming in. That is scheduled to finish by a quarter to one, and then your driver will take you to lunch, which is with Herr Lorenz of the shipping agency at the fish restaurant on Nyhavn.’
‘Cancel that.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘No, sorry, I mean don’t cancel lunch, but cancel it at the fish restaurant.’
‘I thought it was your favourite restaurant, sir?’
‘It was, but I didn’t enjoy it last time. I’ve come to dislike this Scandinavian passion for raw fish. I’ll tell you what: book us a table at that Norwegian place Heinz took me to the other week, the one on Pilestræde. Make it for one thirty. And I’ll walk there. I need the exercise.�
� He patted his stomach through his coat and winked at his secretary. ‘And one other thing, make sure the dairy people are gone by twelve fifteen. There’s only so long one can talk about cheese.’
That sorted, he went into his office and closed the door. With his coat still on, he unlocked his desk and opened one of the drawers. In an envelope under a pile of papers was a receipt, which he folded and placed in his wallet.
Only then did he remove his coat.
The receipt was for a bike. It gave him an excuse to be going to the bicycle shop off Pilestræde. He’d not yet collected a bike from there; each time he went, he was given a new receipt, so if anyone checked it would not seem too dated. He was a clever chap, that Jensen, the one who looked uncannily like Trotsky.
* * *
Dr Julius Oppenheim arrived at the bicycle shop after his morning surgery. He apologised profusely to Jensen.
‘I’m sorry, I’d hoped to be here earlier, but there are patients… you’ll understand, I hope… patients who only feel safe seeing me these days. There’s a fear that’s beginning to envelop us; people are becoming worried. So he’s woken up then?’
‘Finally, Dr Oppenheim, yes. Please come through.’
The doctor examined Prince carefully. He said little until Jensen left the room.
‘You’re lucky: this is early-stage typhus. Although it hit you quite hard, collapsing as you did was probably fortuitous. I’ve been able to treat you symptomatically, and I believe we’ve halted the progress of the disease. Had we not done so, it could soon have progressed to the next stage, with psychotic symptoms, and then you’d have been extremely unwell. I’d like to think the forty-eight-hour sleep stopped the illness in its tracks, and the important thing is that you’re now in a typhus-free environment. This medication here,’ he opened his case and took out a large brown bottle, ‘will help. Where did you catch the disease?’
Prince of Spies Page 28