by Alex Gerlis
‘With respect, Roly, my understanding was that Winston himself has to authorise access to Ultra.’
‘With respect, Hugh,’ said Sir Roland, ‘he has.’
Chapter 4
England, March 1944
‘The eyes give it away. You can’t control them, they always betray you.’
It was Bartholomew speaking, the leader of the Disciples, the name by which MI5’s team of followers and watchers had become known.
‘An innocent person’s eyes will show a mixture of surprise and annoyance at being stopped. More than anything else, they’ll look confused. But a guilty person’s will show fear and almost resignation – momentarily at least – as if they expected to be stopped.’
And when they stopped the man they’d been following across London since a quarter to eleven that morning, his pale blue eyes flashed that mixture of fear and understanding that Bartholomew was carefully looking out for.
Guilty.
* * *
After he was arrested, they took him straight to Latchmere House in south-west London. The large Victorian building overlooking Ham Common was MI5’s main interrogation centre and the first port of call for suspected German spies, the place where they aimed to turn them into double agents.
The prisoner was interrogated by a Mr White, a tall, formally dressed Yorkshireman; seemingly languid, he was possessed of a stamina that enabled him to conduct sessions that often lasted twelve hours or more. All the while he’d sit motionless in a heavy three-piece suit, unbothered by the temperature in the room, his voice never betraying any emotion or giving any clues to the person on the other side of the table.
The interrogation lasted four days, with just a few hours’ sleep allowed here and there, the occasional meals sparse and increasingly unpalatable. On the fifth day they left him in his cell all day – a tactic that had been known to unnerve prisoners to the extent that they suddenly became more voluble when the questioning resumed.
The interrogation recommenced on the sixth day but was as fruitless as the previous five, so at 9.30 that evening, White sent the prisoner back to his cell and climbed from the basement to the top-floor office occupied by the Colonel.
The Colonel, the deputy director at the centre, devoted some time to ensuring the curtains were properly closed and fussing with his fountain pen before joining White at the table.
‘I understand he’s not budging?’
‘No, sir. He’s sticking to his story.’
‘Which is…?’
‘That he’s a Polish refugee called Jan Dabrowski from Poznań who was working in France when the Germans invaded Poland and made his way over here. He claims to have been working at an engineering factory in Salford called Maddocks Brothers Engineering that was destroyed in an air raid. He was off shift when the raid happened and naturally all records at the factory have been destroyed. Two nights later, his lodging house was bombed out. That was in the middle of January, some two months ago. Since then he’s been moving around the country looking for work, which he says is the reason he was in London.’
‘And do you believe him, White?’
‘Of course not, sir.’
‘The bombing of the factory and the lodging house… that all happened, I presume?’
‘Yes, sir, obviously that was the first thing we established.’
‘Rather too convenient, eh?’
‘Of course, but he’s a professional: keeping his story simple and consistent and not volunteering unnecessary information. If we assume he is indeed this Agent Dryden we’ve been watching out for, then the Germans have considerably improved the standard of their agents and the way they’ve prepared them. Up to late last year, the ones they sent over were second rate, but not any longer.’
‘Unless of course his story is true: maybe he isn’t a spy after all?’
‘That’s always possible, sir, but he behaved exactly as the intercept told us he would, and I’d remind you that intercept was from the same source that identified the two other agents, Shelley and Keats.’
‘And a lot of use they were to us.’
‘I know, sir but we had to leave it to the police to arrest Keats, and they didn’t send enough men. As you know, he managed to throw himself in front of a train before they could apprehend him. That was in November last year, and the following month we tracked down Shelley, dead in that boarding house in Coventry. The post-mortem said he’d been dead for at least a fortnight and that cause of death was a heart attack. The landlady said he’d paid cash up front for the room and when she hadn’t seen him for a while she’d thought he’d gone away for a few days.’
‘Probably scared to death, literally. And there was nothing in his room, was there?’
‘No, sir, same as with Keats and with Dabrowski if he is Agent Dryden. Nothing to give them away, decent identities, plausible cover stories.’
‘You brought in that chap from Polish intelligence to interrogate him in Polish, is that correct?’
‘Indeed, sir, Major Olszewski.’
‘And what does he say?’
‘That Dabrowski is undoubtedly Polish, though whether he may have some ethnic German background, he’s not sure. He said he stuck to his story and seemed to be very comfortable talking about Poznań. Olszewski asked him which football team he supported, and said he had to sit through a long history lesson on Warta Poznań. Apparently they won the Polish League a few years ago and Dabrowski insisted on recalling all the results from that season.’
‘So he believes him?’
‘Major Olszewski was there to assess whether Dabrowski is a Pole from Poznań rather than whether he’s a spy. But he did say something very interesting in that respect. Poznań is close to the German border and has a large ethnically German population. When he asked Dabrowski about his background, he insisted his family were ethnic Poles. However, he says that at one point he referred to Poznań as Posen, before quickly correcting himself.’
‘And the significance of that…?’
‘Posen is the German name for Poznań. Olszewski is adamant that an ethnic Pole would never use it. He believes it was a slip-up on Dabrowski’s part.’
The Colonel looked up at the ceiling, contemplating what to do next. ‘Is that really the best we’ve got against him: using the German word for Poznań?’
‘That and the fact that he did what the intercept told us he’d do, sir.’
The Colonel drummed his fingers impatiently on the table.
‘I don’t know, I really—’
‘How about if we were to consider this a case of the last resort, sir?’
The Colonel shook his head. ‘You know how reluctant we are to go down that path; we’re not the bloody Germans after all, are we? Our guidelines are perfectly clear: we only deem a case to be of the last resort and act accordingly if we believe there is an imminent threat to life. Sir Roland Pearson has to sign it off, and he’ll only do so if a case meets these strict criteria, and even then he’s reluctant. Give Dabrowski one more go and take Olszewski in with you.’
‘And then what, sir?’
The Colonel shrugged. ‘Then we’ll see.’
* * *
They woke Jan Dabrowski at five the following morning. This time they took him to a different room, one with the clinical appearance of a medical room of sorts, with a more menacing air to it. White instructed the guards who’d brought him in to remain, both standing behind him as he sat handcuffed to an uncomfortable chair.
‘Eight days ago, Mr Dabrowski, you arrived in London. By an unnecessarily long and indirect route you made your way to Kentish Town station and from there walked to Warden Road, arriving there at noon. You remained outside the Admiral Napier public house for nearly an hour, apparently waiting for someone. At one o’clock you hurriedly left the area and returned to Kentish Town station, where you hailed a taxi and asked it to take you to Flask Walk, just behind Hampstead Underground station. You remained there for another hour or so before attempting to hail an
other taxi, at which point you were detained.’
White looked carefully at the Pole. ‘And here we are, Mr Dabrowski. We’ve had nothing approaching a reasonable explanation for your movements, or why you went to the Admiral Napier.’
‘I told you. Since I lost my job and my room in Manchester, I’ve been travelling the country looking for work. In Birmingham I met a man who told me he knew an Irishman in London called Michael who’s always looking for labourers and pays well, and that I could find him outside the Admiral Napier pub in Kentish Town most days at twelve noon. I went there but didn’t see him.’
‘Really, Mr Dabrowski, is that the best you can do? Every other Irishman is called Michael as far as I’m aware. And then despite being down on your luck, you decide you can afford to take a taxi to Hampstead – which you could have walked to – and unaccountably wait behind the station there for another hour. Why?’
‘I’ve told you, I realised I may have got confused and thought the man in Birmingham said something about Hampstead station.’
‘And the taxi fare, how come you could afford that?’
‘The man in Birmingham lent me money. In any case, what have I done wrong? I’ve not broken any law, have I?’
White looked at him long and hard. There was no question the man’s journey to Hampstead lacked subtlety and had aroused suspicion, but his behaviour in the interrogation had been impeccable and he’d stuck to his story. He waited a while before responding. ‘We had very specific information that a German spy using the code name Dryden would travel that day to Kentish Town and then to the Admiral Napier. Our information is that once your contact was satisfied you’d not been followed and it was safe to do so, he’d approach you. No doubt there’d have been an agreed form of words; we all know how it works.
‘When he – or indeed she – didn’t appear, you went to the fall-back location, where there was also no sign of your contact. Our information was that if you had not been approached by then, you were to abort the mission, which is when we decided it would be nice for you to come and have a chat with us.’
Dabrowski shrugged, a ‘what can I say?’ gesture.
‘You are Agent Dryden, aren’t you?’
The Pole shook his head and looked suitably confused.
‘How did you get here, Dabrowski – to this country? There’s no record of anyone of your name entering in 1939 as you claim you did.’
‘It was chaos when I arrived. I’d be surprised if there was a record.’
‘Who is your contact here? Tell us that and everything about your mission and we’ll take the view that you’ve been cooperative. That can literally be the difference between life and death. Make sure he understands that, Major.’
Major Olszewski spoke in Polish, Dabrowski shaking his head all the while. Afterwards, though, White and Olszewski agreed they’d noticed a very slight change in his demeanour. His body seemed to tense and then slump, and Bartholomew remarked how he had definitely spotted the flicker of fear in his eyes with which he was so familiar.
* * *
‘And that’s it – you all agree?’
They were crowded into the director’s surprisingly small office. They’d been joined by Hugh Harper, who ran MI5’s section responsible for tracking down German spies, and Lance King, Dabrowski’s case officer.
‘Yes, sir: I regret to say we aren’t going to get any more out of him, not with our current approach, that is.’ White, whose demeanour was normally unchanging, now looked uncomfortable. ‘I realise I am saying this with the considerable advantage of hindsight, but I can’t help thinking we perhaps ought to have let Dabrowski continue from Hampstead. He might well have led us to something.’
‘My orders,’ said Bartholomew, looking annoyed, ‘were to arrest him if and when he left the fall-back rendezvous location.’
‘Exactly, Bartholomew, and I’m not blaming you, but we had precious little against him to start with and I can only work with what shreds of evidence we have.’
‘I understand you spoke with him, Olszewski?’ Hugh Harper looked at the Polish officer. ‘What did he say to you when he was offered the opportunity to cooperate in return for his life?’
‘Not much, sir. He repeated that he was simply a refugee from Poznań who was looking for work. He said all this talk about an Agent Dryden was completely beyond him, he didn’t know what on earth what you were talking about… that it must all be a coincidence. As for the life-or-death option – like a good Pole he said that both are in the hands of God.’
‘Well we’ll have to see about that,’ said Lance King. ‘If you chaps couldn’t get anything out of him in a week, then I doubt you’ll do so if we keep him here any longer. I consider this to be a case of the last resort, I’m afraid.’
The atmosphere in the room chilled as he uttered the words. Everyone knew what he meant. ‘I completely concur with that view,’ Harper said. ‘If we capture a German spy of this calibre and fail to extract useful intelligence from him, we are putting lives at risk, therefore it meets the criteria of a case of the last resort. I’ll get it signed off by Sir Roland.’
‘You know my view, Hugh.’ The director looked uncomfortable. ‘I consider information gathered in the manner you’re proposing to be unreliable. Under those circumstances people will say anything. It’s not the British way of doing things. My interrogators here are the best in the business. If we can give them one more week…’
‘A week is out of the question, but don’t worry, Pat, we’ll not ask you to do the dirty work. We’ll move him to Huntercombe.’
* * *
They’d timed his arrival at Huntercombe for the early hours of the morning, which meant that no more than a handful of people saw Jan Dabrowski.
Huntercombe was the place where Latchmere House’s dirty work was carried out. Lance King believed there was a tendency for those at Latchmere House to be a bit too prim and proper, too ready to play by the rules. He didn’t think they always displayed the same sense of urgency he found at Huntercombe. Before leaving Latchmere House, King had ensured that any records relating to the Pole’s stay there were handed over to him, and he made sure the transfer was accompanied by a minimum of bureaucracy. By the time they arrived at Huntercombe, Dabrowski had become Prisoner 44/1153, and after a quick medical, he was taken to a cell in an isolated block.
Once Lance King was satisfied the prisoner was secure, he went into a basement room, followed by a man who’d silently observed their arrival. He was a short man, not well built but with a tanned complexion and the physique of a boxer.
‘That’s him, Hood.’
Hood nodded. ‘I’ve read the report.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘I think he’s a class above the others you brought here. You’re sure about what you want us to do?’
King nodded. ‘And it’s been signed off by Downing Street, albeit somewhat reluctantly. He’s the third of these agents, Hood, the only one we’ve caught alive. We have to find out what we can from him. They put White on him at Latchmere and he got nowhere so I’m relying on you.’
‘And you’re prepared for any possible consequences? There’s always a risk involved.’
‘I know there is, but you’ve not let me down yet.’
‘There was the Belgian last year, remember.’
‘He was a sick man before he came to you. When will you start?’
Hood glanced at his watch – an expensive-looking gold affair. ‘I’d propose leaving him there for forty-eight hours. This time tomorrow we’ll take him to the farm.’
* * *
Prisoner 44/1153 was kept isolated in his cell for two days and nights, with no food or water, bright lights blazing away for the first twenty-four hours followed by twenty-four hours of pitch darkness.
At four o’clock in the morning, four men burst into his cell and administered a quick beating-up – nothing too serious but, as Hood liked to put it, something meant to show they were starting as they intended to car
ry on. The prisoner was then bundled up, handcuffed, strapped and blindfolded before being carried outside and thrown into the back of a van.
Not that Prisoner 44/1153 had the faintest idea of where he was, but Huntercombe was nestled in a fold of the Chilterns Hills, surrounded by fields and hedgerows blossoming with their early spring colours, the trees in competition with each other for the most alluring shade of green or golden brown. The van drove round the countryside for two hours, the prisoner held in position on the floor by the boots of his guards.
When it came to a stop, they were little more than two miles from where they had started. The van parked in a farmyard and the prisoner was carried into what had once been a barn but had now been adapted to Hood’s demanding specifications, chief among which was it being quite soundproof.
When he was finally untied and shackled to a chair in a corner of the barn, Prisoner 44/1153’s complexion was a deathly white, his face and clothing caked with blood and dried vomit, his face bruised with a nasty cut around his mouth and his eyes wide open with fear.
Hood waited a while for the prisoner to recover his senses and have a good look round. He wouldn’t be in any doubt that the barn was a chamber of horrors: there was a table covered with sticks and knives, a machine with wires and clasps attached to it, handcuffs hanging on a wall, and dangling from a roof joist a long rope with a noose at its end.
Hood was sitting in a comfortable chair in front of the prisoner. He poured a glass of water and allowed the man to sip from it.
‘Let me make one thing clear: no one knows you’re here. Even if you shout at the top of your voice, someone standing on the other side of this wall wouldn’t hear you. Had you been more cooperative, we wouldn’t need to be going through all this, but it was your choice. More water?’