by Jana Petken
Max jumped at the sound of a car horn at the corner of Broadway near St James’s Park Underground Station. The driver waved him over and he walked hesitantly towards Blackthorn’s vehicle. He’d not seen his boss for five weeks.
“Get in,” Bernie Blackthorn snapped. “It’s bloody freezing.”
Max opened the passenger door nearest the kerb and slid into the back seat next to Blackthorn.
“I take it you’re on your way to the airport, Vogel?” Blackthorn asked.
“Yes, sir. Thanks for letting me in on this meeting. I’m feeling more like my old self again.”
“Old, new, I don’t care how you feel. If I’d had my way, I’d have locked you up in that basement and thrown away the key.” Blackthorn shot daggers at Max, leaving him in no doubt that he’d still not been forgiven.
“I’m sorry. I…” Max muttered.
“A Polish Government official will be at the meeting,” Blackthorn interrupted Max’s apology. “The Poles want this Romek Gabula for themselves, but I’m betting Jonathan Heller will have him. He usually gets what he wants.”
Blackthorn paused and instructed his driver to go straight to the airport.
Max, glad he didn’t have to take the train, trod lightly with his next words, “I haven’t spoken to Heller, but he probably thinks he has first dibs. He recruited Romek before the war began, and I suppose he’s loath to let him go anywhere else.”
“Hmm, you may be right. Even so, I’ll put my case forward for SOE.”
Blackthorn offered Max a cigarette. The air inside the car was blue already with smoke, but he accepted nonetheless.
“You know the Pole better than anyone else, Max. Were you surprised to hear he was coming to London?” Blackthorn asked.
“Surprised and sceptical.”
“You’re not the only one. His arrival in Britain has sent the intelligence services into a tail spin. What’s he like, as a person?”
Max chuckled. “He has a flair for the dramatic. He’s conceited, flamboyant, and loves nothing better than to hold an audience spellbound with his exaggerated stories of heroism. He enjoys being the centre of attention. He’s a showman, a bit of a smug bugger when he wants to be. I don’t know why he’s here, but he’ll relish telling us.”
“You don’t trust him?” Blackthorn looked surprised.
“I didn’t say that. He’s always proved loyal in the past, but this … I can’t put my finger on it. If you don’t mind, I’ll reserve judgement until after I’ve spoken to him.”
Blackthorn puffed repeatedly on his cigarette until the ash fell on his coat. He brushed it off and said, “We’ve had our ups and downs, Max, but you’re wasted in that basement. We need you back.” Blackthorn sighed as he looked out of the window. “I’ve received more intelligence on the aftermath of your cocked-up mission.”
Max tensed. “As I said, I am very sorry about it all…”
“Oh, shut up with the apologies, Vogel, and listen. The consensus among the Saint Quentin Resistance group, which lost two of its members to the Gestapo, by the way, is that Paul must have passed on false information to the Germans. Why, Pascual didn’t say or doesn’t know, but your brother’s information led to the deaths of at least thirty people in the Dieppe area, most of them civilians with no ties to the Resistance at all – scapegoats, that’s all they were.”
Max, unwilling to give his opinion or views on why Paul had guided the Germans to Dieppe when he must have known he’d been held nowhere near the northern town, asked, “Does this mean Duguay is back in business?”
“Yes, and he has requested Marine as his liaison officer.”
Max shook his head. “The man’s got gumption, I’ll say that for him. But he can whistle for her. She’s going to Poland.”
“No, she’s not. She’s dropped out of the Polish course.”
Max swallowed. “She failed?”
“Yes – no – it was her choice. Said she wasn’t cut out for the Polish Home Army. She requested a transfer to F Section.”
“Will you take her back?”
“Damn right, I will. She’s a good asset despite her shaky past. She’s familiar with the Paris area and knows Duguay better than anyone else we might send. Anyway, Colonel Baranoski of the Polish section was always against the idea of having female agents on his front lines. He wants to wait until they’ve got a tighter grip on things in Warsaw.”
“She wants to go back to France?” Max mumbled, still coming to terms with the news. He’d been an ass to her in Scotland and hadn’t been in touch with her since that final cold goodbye in the classroom. He had struggled to understand his feelings that day. Beautiful as always, still herself with the brightest of smiles and shining, love-lit eyes, she had been for him no more than a mishmash of sweet memories soured by lies and betrayal. It had been a wonderful, heady affair at the time, but it had lost its allure; tarnished by the ugliness of war and events that had brought out the worst in him. His decision stood, and though he still felt the void in his heart, he also felt strangely liberated from the tangled mess they’d once got themselves into.
“She’s already on her way to him, Max, so don’t even think about contacting her again – you hear me?”
“Yes, I understand, sir. No contact.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Romek Gabula
London, December 1941
Romek had arrived from Madrid openly carrying one small leather valise but hiding an array of secret treasures on his person and clothes. Secret documents containing the Abwehr questionnaire were concealed inside the sole of his left shoe. Another two pieces of paper giving targets and their locations were in a knotted condom up his backside. Two crystals to make the radio transmitter nestled in the heels of his shoes. A small bottle of special ink was concealed inside a jar of cold cream. His combustible notebook, which contained film that would ignite when triggered by his pencil, was in his jacket breast pocket looking perfectly innocent to the untrained eye. He was also in possession of a cyanide pill, which was dug deep inside a fake tooth; it was a necessary evil, he’d been told, but vital if things went badly.
Before reaching customs, Romek had been picked up by British officers who’d recognised him from the MI6 records that Heller had sent over. Romek, assuming he’d been expected, had volunteered his name before being asked a single question and was immediately escorted to a military style detention complex.
Left alone in an interview room furnished with a table and two chairs but no windows, Romek rehearsed his story for the forthcoming interview with British Intelligence. His handler, Matador, had said it was all about strategic deception before going into his homily about how to be a good spy. “You’re a performer now. You must play your role even when you think you are alone, or with a person you believe you can trust. Never be Romek Gabula – always be Cicero. Cicero is your name and your mission in life is to serve the Abwehr.”
Romek had been relieved but not surprised that his arrival had been anticipated. He’d agreed with his handler in Madrid that he should use his French connections to inform the English of his impending arrival. By doing that, he might avoid invasive body searches and a barrage of unwanted questions. Matador had, after the brief discussion, deployed one of his Abwehr agents, in the guise of a French Resistance fighter, to inform the French rebels on the Spanish-French border about Romek’s travel details. The Rebels had been told that Romek was afraid to leave Madrid for fear of being captured by German agents.
Once detained in London, the customs officer had told Romek that he wasn’t going to be arrested, searched or questioned until the appropriate authorities arrived. The officer had not articulated to which authorities he was referring, and Romek hadn’t asked. He surmised they would include MI6, which meant he might see Max; that backstabbing, wife-stealing bastard who’d get his comeuppance at the appropriate time.
Romek’s nerves were tingling with apprehension, and compounding his fear was the struggle with his conscience. That he w
as working for the enemy was evident. But he’d accepted his Abwehr role because he was, in his mind, as much a prisoner of Germany now as he had been in Fresnes Prison in France. The only difference was that these new German chains would, in theory, allow him to make a life for himself and save his Polish family from harm.
During his training with the Abwehr, Romek had been given the task of memorising a list of questions to which the Germans wanted answers. He was also subjected to fake interrogations to make sure his false story would hold up. Matador had told him to stick as close to the truth as possible, which Romek found difficult to achieve when under pressure. He had also been coached in speaking slowly to cover any hesitations, and that had also been hard for him as he tended to have a high, accelerated voice whenever he was nervous or under stress, and especially when he lied.
Romek had decided on the plane that the less he said the better. If he gave the British too much information about his time on the run in France and his stay in Spain, he might get questions he would rather avoid. If he were honest, he’d spent as much time picturing himself with a gun in his hand shooting Max’s handsome, double-crossing face than he had thinking about how his friend would react to seeing him in Britain. Within five minutes of his arrival, that gówienko – piece of shit, Max, would confirm that Romek Gabula was a good, loyal Resistance fighter and give him a glowing report. Romek in his new role, would be equally complimentary about the treacherous pig.
While thinking about all the terrible things he’d like to do to Max, Romek’s mind wandered to the British Intelligence Service and how they might react should he reveal his true mission. They might see him as the enemy, even execute him as a spy, or lock him up, throw away the key, and let him rot for the duration of the war. Or maybe they’d give him a decent welcome, a house, money, and a career as a double agent. He knew from his disastrous experience with Oscar that such two-faced people existed. He’d like to betray the Abwehr while coining in the money they were going to send him for living expenses, but if they were to discover his duplicity, they’d kill him and his family in Warsaw. This was the hardest dilemma he had ever faced.
Two hours and half a cup of disgusting British tea later, Romek was taken to another room where Max and three other men were waiting. Romek’s heart pounded, his pulse raced, and he was dry and could hardly swallow. He should have drunk the tea. His time in the detention room had unhinged his resolve and his courage with it.
Romek’s first instinct was to behave in a formal and polite way when seeing Max, but that plan was taken out of his hands when Max rushed forwards and gave him a bear hug. Matador’s words about him being an actor came to Romek’s mind and he began his portrayal without knowing his lines or how the scene would play out. This was no longer a rehearsal, but the performance of his life.
“Max, my old friend. I’ve never been happier to see a familiar face. I feel safe for the first time in over two years.” He gave Max a hefty pat on the back then drew away. “My God, it’s good to see you again.”
Max gestured to the other men present. “First things first, Romek. Let me introduce you to my colleagues. They’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
Romek searched the faces of the other men seated at the conference table. His eyes settled first on the Polish army captain. The soldier, so very tall that his head towered above the man next to him, had a long, clean-shaven face, and had what Romek would describe as a mean-spirited gaze – not the friendliest-looking fellow.
“Welcome to Britain on behalf of the Republic of Poland’s government in exile. I am Captain Bazyli Kaczka of the Polish 1st Grenadier Division.”
“Thank you, Captain. It’s a relief to be here,” Romek responded in Polish.
“This is Jonathan Heller.” Max indicated the second man in the room. “He is Section Chief of the British Secret Service, MI6 division.”
Romek felt a twinge of guilt as he stared at the man wearing a grey pinstriped suit. He was number two on the Abwehr’s list of targets; the man to whom Romek was to get as close as possible. This was easy, he thought. Not three hours in the country and they were all in the same room.
Romek then turned to the third stranger. Dressed as a British major, he eyed Romek from his chair. No hand-shaking, no welcoming smile.
“You don’t need to know my name just yet,” said Bernie Blackthorn.
Kaczka began the interview in Polish with a series of questions about Warsaw: what was Romek’s job before the war, his home address, his marital status, and the names of family members? He also tested Romek’s authenticity by asking him to give Warsaw street locations, the names of restaurants he might have frequented, and the floor plan of the German Embassy where he had worked for years.
Next, Romek was invited to talk about his time in France, and he gave a flawless recital, a glowing account of his work with the Resistance. Only when he described in detail the group’s downfall, his incarceration in Fresnes Prison and his eventual escape into Spain, did he falter. The last part, which had been carefully rehearsed after hours of Abwehr coaching, sounded false and weak even to his own ears, but he pushed on nevertheless until a middle-aged woman wheeled a tea trolley into the room. Romek pulled a face, the only honest gesture he’d accomplished all day. He’d already decided he didn’t like the typical English beverage.
“Before we continue, tell me, Max. Where is my wife?” Romek asked with a straight face.
Max’s discomfort was laughable, but Romek was too damn angry with his old friend to find his hesitation amusing.
“You do know where she is?” Romek repeated his question.
“In France where you left her.” Max casually crossed his legs. “She’s all right. That’s all I can tell you. You understand … security and all that?”
Romek nodded. “But you’ve seen her? You can tell me if you think she’s safe in Paris or in danger from the Gestapo and SS, can’t you? After all, she is my wife, the woman I love. You know that better than anyone, Max.”
“We can’t say any more about one of our agents until you’ve been fully vetted,” Heller said, coming to Max’s rescue.
During the short pause that followed, Romek managed to glance at one of the pages in the open file sitting across from him and in front of Kaczka. Though the writing was upside down, familiar names jumped from the paper: Darek Lukaszewicz, Florent Duguay and Marine, the code name for Klara, followed by dates and places. He opened his mouth to speak but then snapped it shut as Max and the two Englishmen rose and abruptly left the room, leaving their tea behind. Kaczka, however, lingered in his chair and lit a cigarette, signalling that he wasn’t finished with Romek yet.
“Our Polish Headquarters could do with an experienced man like you, Romek,” Kaczka said after sipping his tea from the green government-issue teacup. “I’m sure we’ll find something useful for you to do.”
Romek was wary. The Pole’s friendliness was forced and unnatural, like the Germans’ attempt at being nice to the French in Paris. While speaking, his eyes had flicked to Romek’s hands as if he were watching for signs of nervousness; a tremor, a clenching of fists. The young captain also reminded him of one of the mock interrogators in Madrid who’d oozed charm one minute and was antagonistic the next. He knew the game more than Kaczka could possibly imagine, and – more disturbing – the others, including Max, had upped and left the room without a word or explanation, as if their exit had been rehearsed beforehand and the tea had been the signal. Had they left him with the Captain for some sinister reason yet to unfold? Or was this about him being asked to join the Polish campaigns?
“Is there anything you would like to ask me?” Kaczka asked, surprising Romek.
Romek pointed to the file left by the British officer. “Yes, this. If you already knew everything about me from that report, why were you testing my loyalty to the Allies and trying to confirm I was from Warsaw? I’ve already proven myself.”
“If we, and by that I am referring to the Polish Security Service,
didn’t test the loyalty of every Pole who came into this country, we wouldn’t be doing our job properly. We’re satisfied that your escape was genuine, but you will still have to earn our trust … my trust.”
He picked up the file. “There’s a story about you in there, Romek, and I’m duty bound to find out if it’s fact or fiction. That might seem straightforward to you, but it really isn’t that hard for a person to fabricate events or places or to feign loyalty to one’s enemy. More than once, I’ve heard men proclaim their devotion to the Allies only to find out that they’re being paid in German Reichsmarks to spy on us.”
Romek exuded confidence. He wasn’t just a man who’d walked in off the street. He knew what he was doing. “Max and his associates will collaborate everything that’s in that file. It was MI6 that probably gave you the information about me in the first place, and it’s safe to assume you read everything in it before I even got here.” He turned to look at the door. “I don’t know where they’ve gone, but if you’re waiting for me to deny my heroic acts in France, you’ll be getting pins and needles in your arse. I’m everything those pages say about me: loyal, trustworthy, diligent, and the Germans’ worst enemy.”
The Captain sniggered. “Well said, but it’s not your level of loyalty to the French Resistance in Paris that concerns me. It’s what you did after you escaped from Fresnes prison. That part of your story isn’t in the file, is it?”
“I’m not following…”
“Then let me explain. According to you, every member of your Resistance group was apprehended and later transported to Germany, yet you escaped from a German military transport and managed to evade further capture. You then made your way back to the French Resistance who helped get you into Spain. You spent almost eight weeks in Madrid with no money, but despite that obstacle you managed to arrange for another French Resistance fighter to travel back to the Spanish-French border to inform yet another Resistance cell that you were coming to Britain – Romek, you’re either a very lucky man, or you’ve been turned by the Germans – which is it?”