by Jana Petken
With no worthwhile reply, Max watched Romek go to the stove. Romek’s eyes had teared up during those last ominous vows. The fiery Pole was finally airing his feelings.
“What are you doing now?” Max asked.
Romek turned to Max and scoffed. “We have work to do. I’m making a fresh pot of coffee.”
He returned to the table and poured coffee into his cup, deliberately leaving Max without a refill. “Work – work, you lot call it. It feels like a stupid game to me. I used to fight the Germans, but now all I do is correspond with them using your lies – say it this way, say it that way, think like this, don’t think, just write. I’m not doing anything of use. I’m bored, and I feel like a bloody prisoner with Mrs Mullins pretending she’s a civilian and those two guards in the other room monitoring my every move. I’m surprised they don’t follow me to the bathroom when I take a shit.”
Max stayed silent. He had told the truth and felt better for it. One day, Romek would take his revenge, but until that day came, he’d continue to serve Britain as a double agent or in some other capacity. Like most of the Poles in Britain, Romek was dedicated to the task of defeating the Nazis. It was a sure bet he would put aside his personal feelings, as he evidently had until today, for as long as the Germans occupied Poland.
Max nodded and turned to the job at hand. “Do you know what our objectives are?”
“Some. But go on, enlighten me, as you love to do.”
Max lit a cigarette without taking his eyes off Romek and said, “For a start, this work is far from boring. We’re controlling the German spy system, you and me, and others like us. We’re learning about Germany’s spymasters, their personalities, methods, and what’s acceptable or not to them. We’re making money off the generous allowances they send to their so-called agents for living expenses. We’re learning about the Abwehr’s cypher work and their plans through the questions they ask you. And we’re influencing enemy plans with your answers and deceiving them about our goals and operations. You don’t have to be a visible enemy to beat the Nazis, and you don’t have to be in uniform. Always remember that, Romek.”
“Yes, yes, all right. Enough, now, Max. You’re giving me a headache,” Romek said, swallowing his coffee, then rising from the table again to check the typewriter ribbon. “I’m ready. Let’s start with the questions.”
Max ran through the long list of questions pertaining to aircraft and aerodromes located in Scotland and the current situation of a company called Vickers-Armstrongs, Limited, who owned factories at Brooklands. “… and this last question is more of a request. The Abwehr want sketches showing Vickers’ shipbuilding sites at Weybridge.”
Based on Max’s pre-written answers, Romek fashioned his responses to those questions, along with many others. He was a talented storyteller with a natural tone in his writing, Max admitted.
Hours later, Romek sat back and twisted his neck from side to side. “Ach, I remember this muscle pain, sitting at a desk all day, my wrists and fingers sore from typing. Brings back memories of my embassy job in Warsaw … seems like a lifetime ago I was a bureaucrat working for the Germans and living in my own country. I miss Poland.” He looked at Max, slouched in his chair, casually smoking a cigarette. “Seeing as how you’re sitting there like a languid lesbian, why don’t you make me a cup of coffee for a change?”
Max rose from his chair and then responded with a mock bow. “Your wish is my command.”
Ignoring the sarcasm, Romek continued, “I’m not happy about this last answer. It seems too succinct.”
“Read it aloud,” Max said, spooning coffee into the pot.
Romek began reading his answer, ending it with this final paragraph. ‘… the ninth air support group is concentrated in the Kent area, which is to be its theatre of operations, on aerodromes between Ashford and Tunbridge.’ I want to finish it by saying I am looking forward to going to Unsere Lieblings-bar für eine Mistela. We went to a bar in Madrid. It was full of communists, but Matador liked the Mistela – that’s a type of sherry. He’ll know it’s really me writing this if I put that personal stuff in.”
“That sounds fine,” Max said, bringing the coffee to the table.
“I don’t know, though … should we not? I was thinking I should tell him how many soldiers and airmen I saw, and maybe give him a date for a fictitious mission. You know, give them something meatier?”
“No, this is exactly why you have Charlie monitoring your transmissions. You’re not telling the whole truth to begin with, so don’t try to embellish your answers with unnecessary lies.”
Max put the papers into a folder then looked at his watch. “I have to go out. I won’t be back until tonight, so amuse yourself after you finish your shift at the library.”
“You’re too kind.”
Romek followed Max into the hall. A minute later, the two guards came out of the living room. “Fancy getting your arse kicked at poker before you start work, Romek?” one of the men asked.
“Might as well. Nothing else to do around here except the bloody dishes.”
Chapter Forty
After leaving Romek and his two security guards to their daily game of poker, Max rode in the back of the MI6 car to their headquarters in Central London. It was a mild March day with a blue sky and a scattering of white clouds, so he asked to be dropped off in Piccadilly, where he’d walk the rest of the way and take advantage of the dry weather.
As he strolled passed the Ritz, Max noted that the air was cleaner than it had been since he’d last set foot in the capital. The city had been suffering terribly with smog and dust from the Luftwaffe air raids that coated buildings with thick grey powder. The fire brigade periodically dampened them down, but with a wind and only a day without rain, the dust was hovering once again in the air. According to Max’s driver, the Germans had not bombed the heart of the West End for three days. It was palpable; the difference when one inhaled was profound.
When Max arrived at Jonathan Heller’s office, Marjory, Heller’s secretary beamed at him, remarked that he looked well, then added that Mr Heller was waiting, and he was to go straight in.
Heller was on the telephone. He looked up and gestured to the visitor’s chair. When he finished the call, he asked Max, “What did you tell Romek about the upcoming mission?”
“Nothing, yet,” Max answered.
Heller placed a copy of a transmission in front of Max. “Orders have come through from the top. It’s been brought forward to Thursday’s full moon. You and Romek will leave for Grimsby on Wednesday morning.” He handed Max two train tickets. “You’ll have three Royal Navy crew members with you. They’re originally from Belfast and will be disguised as fishermen. They’ll be on board a trawler in Grimsby harbour with the coordinates of the meeting place. You’ll find the trawler’s details in the briefing pack.”
“And will Matador be coming in person or is he sending another Abwehr agent?”
Jonathan handed Max copies of three transmissions; two having been received the previous day. “Charlie has already decoded them. Read them and ask your questions when you’ve finished.”
The first radio transmission was from Matador, Romek’s spymaster. In it, he requested that he and Romek meet in person. I want to introduce you to a new technology that will greatly increase the amount of information you supply us.
Max presumed Matador was talking about microphotography and microfilm, which could reduce data on a full-size sheet of paper to the size of an easily concealed postage stamp. His eyes widened, however, when he read the next paragraph: Here is the name and location of a British man who can handle this technology for you. He is willing to work for us. His code name is Horace. Important you bring him to the meeting. More details to follow.
“I take it we’re going to bring this Horace chap in?”
“I’ll get to him in a minute. Read on – questions when you finish,” Heller reminded Max.
Max moved on to the second transmission, this one was Romek’s repl
y to the first. It was short and to the point and confirmed that Romek had understood Matador’s orders. Romek would contact Horace immediately, and they’d both attend the meeting. Charlie, the radio operator writing in the guise of Romek, had added that he hoped they’d have time for ein glas Mistella. And he had used the German, not the Spanish spelling, as Matador did.
The third transmission from the Abwehr was just as succinct as Romek’s, with the day, time and coordinates of the meeting. Matador was arriving on a German U-Boat in the North Sea at 03.00 on Thursday morning, and the Germans requested confirmation of the rendezvous.
Max lay the transmissions face up on the desk and frowned. “The Krauts are taking a hell of a risk just to give Romek technology and explosives. There’s got to be more to this. He must be bringing something else or needs to ask Romek something in person? Foolish, if you ask me.”
Heller fidgeted with his lapel. He was prone to do that when he was about to tell Max something he might not want to hear. “There is one more transmission, Max. Charlie sent it an hour ago. We told Matador that Romek had found the Abwehr agent, Horace, but the truth is, we found him and have him in custody.”
“What have you learnt from him?” Max asked, fishing his cigarettes out of his pocket.
“Quite a lot. His family is originally from Belfast, Irish discontents who migrated to London when he was a baby. He married a woman from Dublin four years ago, a year before they set up home in Tottenham. According to him, they’re both Irish Republicans and members of the IRA. He hates the British and wanted to blow up the Houses of Parliament. He went as far as telling us he contacted the Germans in Portugal and asked them to use him for sabotage operations. He’s also quite an expert in technology, which I presume is why the Abwehr want him to work with Romek.”
“His speech?”
“He has a predominantly London accent, with the occasional Irish lilt thrown in.”
Max stared at Horace’s mug shot, taken by MI5. “Damn traitor,” he mumbled. “Don’t tell me you’re going to try to turn him?”
Heller grumbled. “No, he made his feelings quite clear. He wants Hitler to invade Britain and win the war, thinks the Irish Republicans will get Northern Ireland out of Herr Führer.”
“What does his future look like?” Max asked, disgusted.
“Bleak. I’ve decided to keep him locked up for a couple of weeks, or until I’m satisfied we’ve elicited every bit of information he has on his Abwehr contacts. Then we’ll hang the bastard in the Tower. The ravens will be excited about the prospect; they love a bit of carrion.”
Max, having no sympathy for the man whatsoever, asked, “Is this why we’re using Northern Irish sailors?”
“Yes. English fisherman wouldn’t be believable, not even if they’re supposedly chartering their trawler for money. Should Matador speak to them, they will tell him that they need Herr Hitler’s help to oust the British from Northern Ireland … we’ll go along the same lines that Horace used ... you know what they say, the enemy of my enemy is my friend, and all that.”
Heller paused to pick up the telephone. “Marjory – yes, bring tea for Major Vogel and myself – and, Marjory, afterwards, I don’t want to be disturbed.”
With a nagging suspicion that Heller was delaying his next question, Max decided to pre-empt his boss with one of his own. He had a good idea what Heller wanted from him. “I presume you need a Horace to replace the treasonous bastard you have in a cell downstairs?”
Heller smiled and passed over a thick file. “You know me too well. Yes, you’ll take his place.”
Marjory arrived with a tray which she set down. She looked at the men’s earnest expressions and left without pouring. She always seemed to know when a meeting fell into the top-secret category and immediately retreated, closing the door softly behind her.
Heller handed Max a file. “This is what we have on Horace. Study it and remember even the smallest details. If we have this, you can bet the Abwehr do as well.” Heller poured the tea and added, “His recruitment wasn’t done through the normal Abwehr channels, so they don’t have a picture of him.”
“Hmm, lucky for me.”
Heller handed Max the cup of tea, but without milk or sugar. “Sorry, old chap, I know how you love your sugar, but we ran out this morning.”
Max responded with a wry smile, “I see there’s no biscuits either. Civilisation is going to the dogs.”
Heller sipped his tea then continued, “Back to it. As I said, you’ll accompany Romek as Horace, but say as little as possible, stick to your London accent but use the odd Irish lilt if you can … one word here and there, and don’t talk German. Horace doesn’t speak a word of it. Romek can handle Matador on that front.”
Max was already dreading this mission. “Got it. I don’t speak German,” he mumbled.
For a while the two men went over the planning and objectives of the operation, but a question about an entirely different aspect of the operation was running through Max’s mind, one he presumed would have nothing to do with Romek or himself.
“A German U-Boat would be a good catch, don’t you think?” Max remarked as he slipped the file into his briefcase.
“I do. That’s why we’re going to blow it out of the water once it has left the rendezvous site. Not only will the Germans think twice about having tête-à-têtes with our double agents, they’ll be extremely worried about the future of their U-Boats in the North Sea.”
Heller laid out a map. “Look here. We’re giving you the Royal Navy’s latest coordinates of their minefields. These are a series of mines that were laid to protect friendly vessels and create a safe zone. The naval lieutenant accompanying you has already been briefed on the mission and will keep the trawler within the safe lanes. We’re also sending a minesweeper to the area beforehand to guide you, but it will be long gone before the meet. It means you’ll be hanging around for a couple of hours at the coordinates.”
Another question struck Max, “Have the Royal Navy and Air Force been briefed?”
“Yes. They’ll not bother you or the sub during the meeting. Two Motor Torpedo Boats will be standing by to deal with the U-boat. As soon as it moves or dives, we’ll strike.”
“What’s the chances of the MTBs being spotted by the U-boat’s periscope?”
“Less chance than if we used frigates. We’ll position the MTBs in close harbours, north and south of the meeting’s coordinates. This is still being put together. I’ll have more information for you on the day.”
Heller sipped his tea then completely changed the subject. “How are you, Max? How’s the family?”
“They’re well. I spoke to my mother last week. She’s settled in nicely at Bletchley. My father is happy enough, she said. They’re both worried about Paul and Willie, of course, but my father’s genuinely enjoying his job.” Max chuckled. “C’mon, Jonathan, you know more about them than I do.”
Heller picked up the phone. “Marjory, I want you to locate Judith Weber. She’s somewhere in the building.” He covered the mouthpiece. “You don’t have lunch plans, do you Max?”
Max shook his head, and Heller went back to the call. “Ask Miss Weber to wait in the lobby. Major Vogel will be down shortly to escort her to lunch.”
Max was hit with a pleasant fluttering in his stomach. “This is a nice surprise,” he said.
“I thought you’d like it. She’s a charming girl. Your mother asked me to look after her, but I don’t have the time today.”
Max got up without asking Heller what Judith was doing in London. She’d tell him herself, he presumed.
“Wait, Max. There’s one more thing before you go,” Heller said pulling an envelope from his top drawer and handing it to Max. “Open this when you get back from the mission.”
Max turned the envelope over in his hand.
“After the mission. That’s an order,” Heller warned again. “Good luck, Max.”
Chapter Forty-One
Judith Weber
“Hello – hello, Judith!”
When Judith saw Max in the entrance hall she halted mid-step and grinned. Her tummy lurched in a soft feathery way that left her stuttering in English to the two women with her. “My friend … he’s here … thank you.”
“What a delight, Judith. I had no idea I’d see you today,” Max said with a broad smile.
“I am in luck … yes … and how are you, Max?” Judith responded haltingly, since she’d been ordered to speak in English whenever she was not at her workplace.
“All the better for seeing you. I was just going for a bite to eat. Will you join me?”
She stared at him, mouth agape. German words wanted out, but English ones were stuck in her throat. She seemed to have forgotten everything she’d learnt in the last year.
“I’m going to a restaurant not far from here.” Max slowed down. “You might know it, Lyon’s Corner House near Oxford Circus?”
“No … I don’t think … no, sorry.”
Max gave the two women escorting Judith a boyish grin. “Ladies, you don’t mind if I take Judith to lunch, do you? I’ll have her back here within a couple of hours. You have my word.”
One of the women giggled, “Yes, you can take her to lunch, Major. We were already informed of her date.”
The other woman said, “She was all of a tizz, Major.”
Once the two women had left, Judith said, “Thank you, Max. Lunch is a nice idea.”
The Lyon’s Corner House was busy as always, full of men in military uniforms and women who had evidently paid a lot of attention to their appearances. Waiters carried trays at shoulder height, and the hustle and bustle went on under the watchful eye of the maître de.
“It’s very nice to see you again, Judith,” said Max, once they were seated at their table. “I had no idea you were going to work with Mr Heller for a few days. How do you like your job? Are you enjoying our capital?”
“I’m happy. I love London,” she replied, although she’d only experienced a few busy long streets whose names she couldn’t recall. She cast her eyes around the packed restaurant. She’d seen Max slip a handsome tip to the maître de, and subsequently they’d been given a table in the corner. It was partially hidden from the main dining area by two pillars and was quite a way from the tables in the main room. She was hopeful that if she got stuck for something to say in English, she’d be able to revert to German without being overheard. Perhaps that was why Max had paid the man at the door for privacy.