Prince of Spies

by Prince of Spies (retail) (epub)

  Prince said nothing at first. ‘I was in Germany.’

  ‘You were in a camp, weren’t you? Jensen told me. Which one?’

  ‘Neuengamme, it’s near Hamburg.’

  Dr Oppenheim leaned forward, a look of pain on his face. ‘Were there many Jews there?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so. We heard rumours that there’d been Jews there earlier in the war, but most of them had been sent to camps in the east. There are rumours about those places…’

  ‘Believe me, we hear them too, my friend. There are maybe ten thousand of us in Denmark, possibly less, who knows for sure? We couldn’t be treated better by the Danes – I mean, we are Danes. But the rumours we hear, the terrible rumours… we fear it’s only a matter of time.’

  * * *

  Ferdinand Rudolf von Buhler conducted the meeting with the Dairy Industry Federation with a haste bordering on rudeness. There were times when representing the occupying power had unintended benefits. The dairy men hadn’t even got onto the vexed subject of butter when von Buhler announced the meeting had come to an end.

  ‘But Herr von Buhler, you specifically asked at the last meeting for more time to discuss the issue of—’

  ‘That can be for the next meeting, then – it gives us something to look forward to!’

  He left the embassy via the rear entrance and hurried through the streets of central Copenhagen. Within ten minutes he was inside the bicycle shop off Pilestræde, breathless and anxious. He didn’t think he’d been followed, but he hadn’t had enough time to take the more circuitous route that would have allowed him to be certain.

  Jensen was behind the counter as usual, a half-smile fixed on his face. The diplomat presented the receipt he’d removed from his desk earlier that morning.

  ‘I was wondering if my bicycle is ready yet?’

  ‘It is indeed, sir, though I wonder if you will require further adjustments?’

  ‘I’ll only know when I see it.’

  ‘Perhaps you should come into the workshop then. Give me a moment while I close the shop for lunch.’

  Jensen locked the door and put up the closed sign before taking von Buhler into the back of the shop, through the workshop and into the small room behind it. Prince was still on the mattress on the floor, but was now propped up against the wall. The doctor was beside him, taking his blood pressure. The diplomat stepped away from the room and called Jensen over.

  ‘There’s someone else in there.’

  ‘Yes, Dr Oppenheim. He’s trustworthy, totally.’

  ‘And I take it he’s Jewish?’

  Jensen nodded. ‘I hope that’s not a problem for you.’

  ‘Not at all; the opposite, in fact. It means I can trust him.’

  Dr Oppenheim moved aside to allow the German into the small room. The diplomat asked him to wait in the workshop.

  ‘You speak German?’ Von Buhler was kneeling down beside Prince.

  ‘Some, yes.’

  ‘Do you want to give me a name?’

  ‘Are you Browning?’

  The German nodded.

  ‘I’m known as Peter Rasmussen here in Denmark, but I’ve lost all my papers. I was based here, then sent into Germany. I was at the camp in Neuengamme, but I managed to escape. My contact here has disappeared and I need to get back to England. Gilbey told me I should contact you in an emergency.’

  ‘And you think this is an emergency?’

  ‘It certainly feels like one.’

  ‘Very well then – and you work for Gilbey?’

  Prince nodded.

  ‘I take it you’re British?’ Von Buhler spoke the words in English, perfectly pronounced.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Were you given an escape route?’

  ‘No. I think it was assumed my contact here in Copenhagen would handle that.’

  The German said nothing, but lowered his head, thinking matters through. ‘The only feasible way out is through Sweden. Do you have any contacts there?’

  Prince shook his head.

  ‘I understand the MI6 officer at the British Embassy in Stockholm is a man called George Weston. I have no links with him, obviously, but I will endeavour to get you over to Sweden. Once you’re there, you’re on your own: you must make your way to Stockholm, then to the British Embassy, and contact Weston. It will take me a few days to sort this. In the meantime, you remain here.’

  ‘I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.’

  ‘Good. Is there anything else you need?’

  ‘There is, actually… the agent who was looking after me: I fear something has happened to her. Would you be able to find out?’

  ‘I can’t promise. What is her name?’

  ‘Hanne Jakobsen. She’s a police officer here in Copenhagen.’

  On the way out, von Buhler approached Dr Oppenheim, who was still waiting in the workshop. ‘Tell me, Doctor, how long before he’s well enough to travel?’

  ‘It depends how far and what kind of journey.’

  ‘It’s important he looks well. We can’t have him appearing so ill he draws attention to himself.’

  ‘In that case, I’d say not before the weekend, certainly.’

  ‘A week tomorrow – next Tuesday?’

  ‘Yes, I think that sounds reasonable. I must leave now. I have a clinic this afternoon and—’

  ‘One moment, Doctor. This is my card: have a look at it, please.’

  Ferdinand Rudolf von Buhler

  Commercial Attaché, German Embassy, Copenhagen

  It would have been hard for the doctor to look more shocked and unsettled. He wiped his brow and his hands shook.

  ‘We both understand the highly confidential nature of our encounter, I hope. Are you well connected with the Jewish community here in Copenhagen?’

  The doctor nodded.

  ‘There may well be a time in the coming months when I will need to contact them, to be of help. You should realise from my presence here today that I am to be trusted. If I need to see you, we can meet here; Jensen can arrange it. If you hear from him that he needs to see you because he has a strained knee, you will know it’s me.’

  The doctor nodded again, glancing from the diplomat to the card and back.

  ‘And it may be best if you give me the card back.’

  * * *

  Hitler’s birthday that Tuesday provided Ferdinand Rudolf von Buhler with the perfect cover. He was able to slip out to the consulate on the ground floor.

  ‘I need some travel papers.’

  ‘Where are you going, sir?’ The clerk was trying to close the office early.

  ‘Not for me. I need to send a new courier over to Sweden. Annoyingly, he doesn’t return from the Reich until next Monday, and then he’s supposed to travel the next day. If I give you his details, can you draw up the necessary papers?’

  ‘We really need his identity documents, sir. How long would he be in Sweden for?’

  ‘No more than twenty-four hours.’

  ‘In that case, I suppose I can issue temporary papers. It’s slightly irregular, but I’m sure it will be fine. Do you want me to book the transport too?’

  ‘I would be most grateful. Book him onto Tuesday morning’s ferry to Malmö, please. Charge it all to my budget. I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble, so I don’t mind if you book everything more informally.’

  ‘No problem, sir. I’ll have everything ready by Friday afternoon.’

  Ferdinand Rudolf von Buhler collected the travel papers from the consulate on Friday afternoon and prepared to leave the embassy. It had been a long week, he told his secretary, and he seemed to be developing a cold, so he would be going home early.

  Before that, though, there was an important telephone call to make. On Tuesday, after seeing Prince in the bicycle shop, he’d rung an acquaintance, a fellow diplomat with the thankless job – amongst other things – of being liaison officer at the Danish police headquarters on Polititorvet.

  ‘Probably nothing, Herman
n, but it may be something I need to refer to the Gestapo, and I thought I’d ask you first. Could you very discreetly find out what’s happened to a Hanne Jakobsen; she’s a police officer in Copenhagen?’

  ‘Give me until the end of the week, Ferdinand. Call me back then.’

  He called Hermann before leaving the embassy on Friday afternoon.

  ‘I don’t think you’re going to need to refer the matter to the Gestapo after all, Ferdinand.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘They arrested her back in January. As far as I can gather, she’s being held somewhere back in the Reich.’

  Ferdinand Rudolf von Buhler had told his housekeeper she could leave early on Friday as long as she was back on Sunday afternoon, which gave him two full days to himself. From the garden shed he removed a wooden box hidden under a pile of junk and brought it into his study. It was a small typewriter he’d brought with him from Germany after his last visit home. He’d found it in a second-hand shop, and apart from being compact, it had a smaller font size than normal, and tighter spacing.

  From the back of a shelf high on his bookcase he removed a pad of very thin paper, so thin that each sheet had to be backed against regular paper. And then he began to type, carrying on well into the night and for much of the next day, starting again early on Sunday morning. By lunchtime, he’d finished, two overflowing ashtrays, an almost empty bottle of Cognac and a dozen empty coffee cups a testament to his concentration. He packed the typewriter back in the wooden box and returned it to the shed.

  He took the sheets of normal paper he’d used as backing and consigned them to the fire, watching until the last fragments were reduced to ash.

  Then he brought out the trilby he’d bought the previous week. By the light of his Anglepoise lamp, he carefully unpicked the thread of the lining. He’d already folded the typed sheets of flimsy paper lengthways, which reminded him of when he and his brother made paper aeroplanes: there were two dozen sheets, and he was able to insert them almost perfectly into the lining before sewing the seam back.

  He held the hat up, admiring his work. Deciding it looked too new, he ran a clothes brush along the rear porch, and soon the trilby had a well-worn appearance.

  He added some logs to the fire and watched as the flames took hold of them, the occasional spark shooting onto the carpet.

  He’d come to terms some years ago with the side of his nature that was too willing to please, too amenable, too keen to help out, too reluctant to say no.

  It accounted for where he was now. All his instincts had told him not to agree to join the diplomatic service in the first place. Whichever way he looked at it, it was still serving the Reich, something he’d sworn not to do. He should have gone to Switzerland while he had the chance. And the meeting with Gilbey in the weeks before the war started, something that at the time had seemed like a chance meeting but was obviously not: even then he should have said thank you very much but I’m really not your man – not sure I’m brave enough, to be honest.

  But he also knew that had he not eventually agreed to help, he’d never have forgiven himself.

  He returned to Jensen’s bicycle shop on Monday at lunchtime. It was open, but Jensen was serving a customer, so he walked round the block before going back in.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s much improved: very keen to leave.’

  Prince was sitting in the small lounge in Jensen’s rooms above the shop.

  ‘You leave tomorrow morning for Sweden: here are your papers. The ferry sails from Copenhagen at nine in the morning and you’ll be in Malmö before noon. There’s a tram from the ferry terminal in Malmö to the central station. The Swedish trains are very good; they don’t have to worry about bombs. You should arrive in Stockholm around six that evening. There are plenty of cheap hotels around the station – and I’ve put some Swedish currency in that envelope. My advice would be to head to the British Embassy the following morning. I’ll give you the address in a moment. You’ll need to memorise it.

  ‘Don’t go into the embassy, though, or even too close to it: the Nazis watch the place like hawks. Hang around nearby, observe people going in and out, and if you can approach someone in the street away from the embassy who looks like a British diplomat, then do that. I’m sure you know what to do. Oh, and this hat: wear it and make sure you keep it safe. When you get to London, please give it to Gilbey. It’s most important.’

  * * *

  Prince took a few minutes to study the papers and take in what the German had told him. He couldn’t believe that this time tomorrow he could be in Sweden. His nightmare might be coming to an end. There was one other matter, though.

  ‘You promised to find out about Hanne – Hanne Jakobsen?’

  ‘I was about to come to that, my friend, and it’s not good news I’m afraid. She was arrested by the Gestapo in January and taken to Germany. I’m sorry, but I know no more than that. Do give Gilbey my warm regards.’

  Prince spent the next few hours sitting in Jensen’s lounge, too distressed to move.

  She was arrested by the Gestapo in January.

  He went over those words again and again, as if there might be some cause for hope hidden within them.

  Taken to Germany.

  Maybe she’d escaped, like he’d managed to do. She was so resourceful, her German was excellent… but as the light began to fade, he realised her situation was most probably hopeless. It was too much for him to even think about. The nightmare he’d hoped was coming to an end was destined to continue.

  He had to force himself to put her out of his mind, at least for long enough to study his new identity. As he did so, he realised he was brushing tears from his eyes.

  The thought of Hanne and whatever had been her fate was more than he could manage.

  * * *

  The ferry was exceptionally busy, and although security was tight, most of it seemed to be reserved for Danish or Swedish passengers. Prince’s papers showed he was a German, a courier for the embassy, and so he had few problems. He caught the first tram to the station and within half an hour was on a train to Stockholm.

  He slept little that night in the hotel by the station. It was a mixture of nerves, the excitement of travelling home and the anticipation of seeing Henry, but also the realisation that every step of his journey was taking him further from Hanne. He felt partly responsible for whatever terrible predicament she was in.

  The following morning, he found a bench in a small square near enough to the British Embassy to be able to keep the main entrance in view. At eleven o’clock, he spotted a man coming out who looked just like a bank manager from any English high street. Taking his chance, Prince followed him, making sure at the same time that he wasn’t being followed himself. Three blocks later, he intercepted the man as he was about to cross a main road.

  ‘Excuse me, I work for the British government and I urgently need to see George Weston. I fear my life may be in danger.’

  The man looked at him kindly, as if he’d encountered a lost child. Prince realised that tears were forming in his eyes. ‘I’ve escaped from Germany…’

  The man took him by the elbow and guided him towards a side street. ‘You see that café over there? Wait inside and I’ll go and get George. Don’t worry, old chap, it’ll be all right. I say, where are you from?’

  ‘Lincoln, sir.’

  ‘Nickname of the football team?’

  ‘The Imps.’

  ‘Colours?’

  ‘Red and white striped shirts, sir, black shorts.’

  ‘And the ground?’

  ‘Sincil Bank.’

  ‘Splendid: and I’ll need a name to give George.’

  ‘Just say Laertes, sir. Agent Laertes.’

  * * *

  ‘That’s an awful lot to take in.’ George Weston looked somewhat put upon, though not altogether unsympathetic. ‘I knew something was up with Agent Osric, told London as much. No consolation being right, though. Still, well done you – getting i
n and out of Germany like that, and then over here. I imagine Gilbey will have lots to ask you. You’ll stay at the embassy for the time being; much the safest option. I’ve got my work cut out. I need to file to London and then see what we can do about getting you home.’

  Richard Prince travelled to London the following Monday on a British passport issued by the embassy in Stockholm. From Bromma airport he took a Swedish Intercontinental Airlines flight to Scone in Scotland, where Hendrie greeted him with a brisk handshake and a ‘Well done… welcome home’ before leading him across the tarmac to a waiting Halifax.

  ‘Tom’s got lots to ask you, Prince.’

  ‘If you see him before I do, you may want to give him this.’

  ‘The hat?’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  Chapter 23

  Ravensbrück, April 1943

  ‘Come here, Hanne, I have something to tell you.’

  She hadn’t seen the Norwegian girl from her hut for a couple of weeks and was surprised to bump into her near the camp infirmary. When Hanne had arrived at Ravensbrück two months earlier, Marit had been a big help, showing her around and telling her who to befriend and, far more importantly, who to avoid. They’d been drawn together by a more or less common language. Marit, though, was a few years younger than Hanne and seemed to treat life – even life in a concentration camp – as one big adventure.

  The fact that she’d disappeared two weeks ago was just one of those things that happened all the time in Ravensbrück: you’d meet someone, become friendly – even reliant on each other – and then they’d be gone. Some were moved to another camp, or elsewhere in the vast complex; others were taken to be murdered or to become the subject of medical experiments.