The Winter Agent

by Gareth Rubin

  Schmidt managed to slip the catch on a small window and reach through with a looped wire to unbolt the door.

  ‘Good work,’ Klaussmann told him.

  Once inside, they immediately saw the well-used steps up to Reece’s attic bedroom. As soon as they were up, they closed the blackout curtains and Klaussmann divided the room into metre-square sectors in order to go through them methodically. ‘Not so quickly that you miss anything vital,’ he instructed Schmidt. ‘The last time, you went at it like a bull.’ He started examining his first sector.

  ‘Sir?’ Schmidt said, holding up a pair of boots. They were caked in thick mud.

  ‘Could be something – receiving a supplies drop – or maybe he just went for a walk in the countryside with his girlfriend.’

  They went back to their search. Klaussmann shook out the meagre bedclothes and checked the mattress for signs of the stitching having been opened. When he came to Reece’s bedside table, he lifted the Proust novel À la Recherche du temps perdu and leafed through it. He recalled a night in May 1933 when he had stood in Berlin’s Bebelplatz before a huge, burning pyre. Students from Humboldt University, under the watchful and approving gaze of Joseph Goebbels, had removed all the library books by restive Jewish authors and thrown them into the flames. No doubt copies of this one had been among those consigned to the pyre.

  ‘Anything in it?’ Schmidt asked.

  ‘Not that I can see,’ Klaussmann replied, placing it back on the table. He shifted his attention to the flooring but stopped and turned back. Something seemed out of place. ‘Have you ever read this book?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘It’s hard going,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Too hard for a simple shopkeeper.’ He lifted it again and began examining the pages more carefully, holding them to the light from the window. ‘Look here.’ He pointed to the final blank page. ‘You see these little marks?’ There were a few small light brown strokes on the page. ‘It could be invisible ink. It often leaves a few stains, as you can see.’ He stroked the paper, feeling for any indentation, but couldn’t find any.

  ‘Shall we send it for testing?’

  ‘Yes. And keep the place under observation, around the clock. If he comes back, we have him.’ He tapped the book. ‘Making invisible notes. I wonder if he’s the organizer,’ he said. ‘Well, we’ll find out sooner or later. Never be in a hurry – let him make mistakes. Such as using the wrong kind of book.’ Despite the fact that they would have to wait, he felt pleased with himself, and with the lesson it had provided for Schmidt.

  ‘I see, sir.’

  ‘But we know we are on the right track. So return to what you were doing. If he’s made one such error, he’s likely to have made another.’ Klaussmann himself went back to methodically searching his area. ‘After this, we’ll …’

  ‘Sir.’ Klaussmann looked over to see Schmidt run his fingers along the top of the skirting board. ‘Something here, I think.’ He took his pocket knife and inserted it behind the wood.

  ‘Be careful how you do it.’ Schmidt managed to gently ease the wood away, revealing a small cavity. He slid his fingers in and drew something out, a small box made of card. He opened it to find a handful of .32 hollow-point rounds. ‘No doubt now,’ Klaussmann said with satisfaction – satisfaction at what they had found and satisfaction with Schmidt’s work. ‘Well done.’ He clapped Schmidt on the shoulder. ‘We’ll finish up here then we’ll call on the neighbours. We need a physical description of this man.’

  CHAPTER 11

  Security of organization

  Security standing orders

  i) No member will be told more about the organization than is necessary for him to do his job.

  ii) No member will attempt to find out more about the organization than he is told.

  iii) Members must only use the service names of all other members.

  iv) No member will carry arms unless a cover story is impossible, e.g. during wireless transmission or reception. Where an agent carries a weapon, he must be ready to use it.

  11 February 1944

  At 3 a.m. Sebastien, organizer of SOE’s Fisherman circuit, sat on a felled tree outside Amiens with a knife in his gloved hand, cutting chunks of cheese by the light of a blue-bulbed pen torch. He was struggling, the cold air freezing the cheese as hard as wood. ‘Funny, when I was at the family place up in Yorkshire, I always used to miss the French cheese most,’ he said, popping a piece in his mouth. He drowned it in a swig of genuine red wine. ‘Now I would kill for a bit of good English Cheddar.’

  ‘Hello Tractor Three, this is Beggar. Hello Tractor Three, this is Beggar. Acknowledge. Over.’ Reece spoke into a microphone for the twentieth time. He was enveloped by the machine: an aerial strapped to his chest, batteries and electronic boxes on a belt around his waist and the headset over his ears. The S-Phone, heralded as a miracle of clandestine field communication, was in fact little more than a glorified radio. It allowed highly directional narrowcast communication, so it was difficult to intercept – even if an eavesdropper knew the right frequency – unless that listening post were in the direct line of transmission. Yet an agent on the ground was able to speak to an officer in a plane forty or even fifty kilometres away, so long as they were precisely facing each other. ‘Hello Tractor Three, this is Beggar. Hello Tractor Three, this is Beggar. Acknowledge. Over.’ The only reply was static, and he didn’t want to be here all night. Unlike a drop reception – which took at least ten agents and resistants to set out the flare path, hurriedly unpack the weapons, money and gifts from their big steel containers and hide the containers in the woods or down farm wells – there were only two of them tonight, skulking at the edge of the wood, but still the plane would be a big Hudson flying low and Reece was wearing radio equipment that could be detected.

  ‘You must have something very important to talk about,’ Sebastien said laconically. ‘No, don’t worry, I won’t ask,’ he replied to Reece’s stern look. ‘I’ve been here a while myself and would like to see the dawn of 1945.’

  Reece steeled himself. When the reply to his radio message had said that the deputy director of SOE F section was going to make a night flight through flak to speak to him, it wasn’t going to be good. He thought over the report he would write: filling in the details about the German spy and knowledge now of a plan that appeared to involve the battleships spearheading the invasion.

  ‘Hello Tractor Three, this is Beggar. Hello Tractor Three, this is Beggar. Acknowledge. Over.’

  Reece wondered if Parade had been recruited as he had been: to work for an ideal; or if it had been on purely financial terms, paid in Swiss francs. Perhaps, even, this man had seen which way the wind was blowing in 1940 and had decided to get behind the force that seemed to have destiny in its palms. Agents had volunteered for every conceivable reason; some for none.

  Reece wanted something – anything – that would put Parade in his sights. Parade could, he knew as well as anybody, sit in a London drawing room and dig a grave for twenty thousand men. A soldier will obsess about a man across the field pointing a rifle at him, a sailor about the opposing man at a wheel, a pilot about the man under the Plexiglass canopy with machine guns at his fingertips. But Reece saw his opposite number quietly walking between Whitehall offices, gathering knowledge as he went, building it into a far more dangerous weapon.

  ‘Hello Tractor Three, this is Beggar. Hello Tractor Three, this is Beggar. Acknowledge. Over.’ And then, finally, a rough, distant reply: a voice buzzing through the wires. ‘Hello Beggar, this is Tractor Three. You’re faint, but we can hear you. Over.’

  Reece felt relief. He knew the voice as that of his Officer Commanding, Major Daniel Delaney.

  ‘Good to have you with us, sir. Over.’

  ‘Report. Over,’ Delaney said.

  ‘Yes, sir. I believe our attempt to rescue Luc was betrayed. They were expecting us. The prints and negatives of the SS document have been taken from us. I believe by Charlotte. Break.’
/>
  ‘Acknowledged. Over.’

  ‘Charlotte’s gone, sir. I don’t know if she’s the informant, or she’s in hiding or if they’ve taken her. But she could have had the Gestapo waiting for me when I searched Luc’s house and she didn’t, so I’m not convinced she’s working for them. Over.’ He didn’t like revealing to the OC how much in the dark he was, it wasn’t strategic, but he had no choice if he wanted to get the job done.

  ‘Hardly conclusive. Over.’

  ‘Roger. But no matter what, she has the document or she’s seen it. She’s from Paris, so chances are, if she’s gone to ground, it’s there. I can extract the information from her. Do I have permission to locate her? Over.’

  ‘No, you do not! Going after Charlotte’s a fool’s errand – and going on what you’ve said, she’s almost certainly working for the Germans or in their custody. They’ll take you in an instant. Luc has seen the document. He must be able to remember more. Contact him. Over.’

  ‘Even if the Nazis don’t execute Luc as soon as they’ve interrogated him, making contact will be nigh on impossible, sir. We need to find Charlotte. Over.’

  ‘And you’re the last bloody agent I would send. If she’s working for them, then they’re on the look-out for you. And if she isn’t, then God knows what game she’s playing, but you’re not likely to find her. Over.’

  Reece watched the moonlit skyline for the Hudson’s approach. It would be making a drop somewhere nearby. Possibly it would be landing and taking a few agents home, although that was tricky, requiring a big field for take-off. ‘Sir, I’m the only one who can find her. Over,’ he said.

  ‘What the hell’s got into you? I’ve given you your orders. Over.’

  ‘Nothing has got into me. I am focused on my mission, sir. And there are facts on the ground of which you are not apprised. Over.’ He was angry that Delaney couldn’t see the right course of action, that Charlotte was the key. It all turned on her, not Luc. Delaney’s approach would undermine the whole mission.

  ‘I’m apprised of more than you would possibly believe,’ Delaney replied slowly. ‘Your orders are to contact Luc and recover as many details from the document as possible.’ His voice relented. ‘You’ve been bloody successful for a good long time. You know what’s coming. We need you A1 fighting strength for that. When your mission is complete, do you need to come back for a couple of weeks’ leave, to see your family, recharge the batteries? Over.’

  ‘Sir, all I need is Charlotte’s real name and address. Over.’ He held out little hope that his plea would be answered, but he had no more facts or argument. Chains of command existed of necessity, but this time one could well destroy all that he, the circuit and the whole of SOE had bled for time and time again.

  There was more static as Reece waited. ‘Look,’ Delaney eventually said. ‘I’m not happy about telling you this way, but you’re not giving me much choice. There’s another reason we can’t put you in danger right now.’ Reece waited. ‘We might be sending you on another reconnaissance op to the locations of your previous recces. We need more details of the ports there. Then you’ll come straight home to brief us. With what you know already, we just can’t risk you getting taken. Do you acknowledge? Over.’

  Reece understood. Another reconnaissance op to the prospective landing beaches and then to the War Rooms under Whitehall, with Churchill and two staff officers in a smoke-settled room. It would clearly be a vital mission and one that they couldn’t risk the Germans becoming aware of.

  Much as he disliked it, Reece knew what he had to do. ‘Roger,’ he said. ‘Over.’

  ‘Your request to pursue Charlotte is denied. Follow your orders, or come back and I will appoint someone to take over your current role. Those are your two choices. Will you comply? Over.’

  There was no way he could return now. It would be a poisonous end to his long mission in France. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t angry.

  ‘Wilco. Over.’

  ‘Then you have your mission. See it through. Out.’

  Reece tore off the headset and would have cast it to the ground if he hadn’t heard Sebastien clear his throat behind him. ‘Everything shipshape?’ he asked.

  Reece wondered how much Sebastien had heard and how much he could have reconstructed from one side of the conversation. But he couldn’t let Delaney throw everything away on a misjudged plan. He would have to follow both tracks at once. ‘You said you might be able to find someone with access to the prison.’

  ‘I can try,’ Sebastien replied cautiously, ‘but the chances are slim.’

  ‘Do your best.’

  ‘I will. I couldn’t help but overhear some of that,’ Sebastien told him.

  ‘I’m sure you couldn’t.’

  ‘We all have disagreements with the OC from time to time.’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘But I have to know. If I help you, am I committing mutiny?’

  Reece considered for a while. ‘Sometimes we know better than him, right?’ he said. But it wasn’t just that he was convinced going after Luc was likely to fail. If he was honest, he wanted to go after Charlotte because he wanted her in front of him. If she were loyal to him and to the service, then he had a duty to her. And behind it all, he wanted to believe that throughout their time together in England and France he hadn’t been a dupe.

  In the field, loneliness was a danger for the agent – they had all been told that again and again during their training, that it allowed enemy agencies a way in. And he had to admit to himself that the solitary existence he had lived had got to him. So when the relationship with Charlotte had formed it had been a crutch. In the bitter winter, there had been, simply, someone in the same room as him.

  And so he had qualms when it came to finding Charlotte. He didn’t want to discover it had all been a trick. He had tricked and used others – sometimes good people who were just reluctant to help – in his own mission, but each time he had done it for what he unflinchingly knew to be the restoration of decency to a world on the brink.

  If she were with them, she didn’t even have the thin excuse of having been brought up smothered in the ideology of National Socialism, like the young soldiers tramping the streets in feldgrau. If mindlessly following Nazism made one guilty – and he believed that it did, even those soldiers still had minds to think and reject it, to desert, malinger or rebel – then choosing it, seeking it out, was a capital crime.

  So if, as Delaney presumed, it was Charlotte who had informed the Gestapo of the raid, leaving Richard dead on the road, then Reece knew he would ensure there was justice. He had to be just enough to extract it.

  Sebastien leaned against the mottled bark of a tree and looked up to the slice of the sky where the unseen aircraft must have flown. ‘Do you need me to hide you for a while?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I need to find someone,’ Reece replied. ‘I have to go back to Paris.’

  Just after 7 a.m., Klaussmann read a brief message from the French tax records bureau. The owner of the tabac was, as the neighbours had claimed, one Marc LeFevre. He had bought it two years earlier and the only address for him was the shop itself. No more information. Klaussmann went to the window in thought. ‘This man and his comrades were taking a severe risk, hitting the prison transport.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Schmidt replied.

  ‘So they must have been desperate to liberate their friend.’

  ‘What is happening to Carte, sir?’

  ‘The SS garrison in Amiens is under Obersturmbannführer Baumann. He’s working on the man.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Baumann’s committed, I’ll give him that, but not made for these affairs.’

  ‘Has he got anything from the prisoner?’

  ‘He said he’ll update me “in due course”, which makes me believe he’s got nothing. Now.’ He tapped on the window to underline his point. ‘The English cell failed to free Carte but got away mostly intact. I imagine they will try again to either free or contact him.’

  ‘You think LeFevre
has gone to Amiens?’

  ‘I think there’s a good chance. I don’t want to hand it all to Baumann, so we’ll go ourselves. A bit of pressure and one of the local terrorists might let something slip.’ Klaussmann smirked. ‘It’s old-fashioned legwork.’

  A junior officer from the Amiens SS garrison drove Klaussmann and Schmidt around a series of locations and businesses suspected of being actively sympathetic to the Resistance: a couple of cafés, a bookshop, a car-repair garage. Questions about Marc LeFevre were met with blank stares. Overall, the two Gestapo officers came up with nothing and returned, frustrated, to the train station just before 1 p.m.

  A dusting of snow lay on the ground like lace when they set foot on the platform for Paris. Porters stood idly around below red swastika-emblazoned banners.

  ‘If you see him, arrest him immediately. You understand?’ Schmidt instructed two SS guards. ‘And make sure whoever replaces you understands too.’

  ‘Yes, sir. We were all briefed.’

  ‘I’m sure you were. But I wanted to remind you.’

  Klaussmann spoke. ‘Schmidt is my hand of efficiency,’ he said with a smile. ‘I know you two men will do well.’ The SS troopers saluted and went to their posts.

  Klaussmann brooded as he waited for the train. Six mothers back home would already be screaming their throats raw for what the British spy had achieved. He thought of his own mother, when she had received the letter telling her that her husband would not be returning from the previous war: the look of desperation in her eyes. The others, and many more, would be like her. The needle-pricks of terrorism were not without cumulative effect.

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen.’ A girl with skin stretched over her bones like cheap fabric trudged towards them, carrying a bundle of firewood. They parted to let her pass between them. She dropped a couple of sticks and Schmidt immediately picked them up from the ground.

  ‘Allow me, miss,’ he said, offering to take the full burden from her.