by Alex Gerlis
‘And what… just a week later Agent Milton passes on to him such apparently invaluable intelligence? Wouldn’t you say that’s quite a coincidence?’
‘I saw the recruitment of Agent Donne as a matter of urgency once we knew Milton was about to start work at the War Office, so the timing was deliberate.’
‘You don’t think some may say it’s all rather convenient?’
Rauter didn’t reply immediately. ‘You may be correct, sir. I accept there’s a tendency for some people in my position to be so pleased to get something from their agents that they’re not as scientific as they should be in evaluating it. However, my approach is always to be as objective as possible about any intelligence I receive. What I’d say in this case is that it has taken a long time for Agent Milton to start work at the War Office, and once he was at the Directorate of Military Intelligence he was bound to have access to a steady stream of first-class intelligence. I just hope it’s not too late, sir.’
‘In what respect, Rauter?’
‘In respect of helping change the course of the war, in helping to prevent military defeat. If only he’d been there in May and June, we might have had far more reliable intelligence on the Allies’ plans for the Normandy invasion.’
‘That’s true: we may have been less likely to fall for all that disinformation. So are you saying the arrival of Agent Donne and this intelligence about Arnhem is a coincidence or not, then?’
Rauter hesitated before answering. He looked like a man wary of being drawn into a trap. ‘I’d prefer, sir, to say that my having recruited a decent contact agent is the key factor here.’
‘Let’s hope so, Rauter.’
* * *
SS-Brigadeführer Walter Schellenberg was very strongly of the view that as this was his intelligence, the meeting should take place in his office. Berlin had become very territorial like that, a degree of importance being attached to where a meeting took place.
However, this was not a view shared by the first person he’d told about it within minutes of his meeting with Rauter. And because that man was none other than Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel, the meeting later that afternoon took place in Keitel’s office. They were in the Bendlerblock, the vast complex set between the Tiergarten and the Landwehrkanal that was the headquarters for various branches of the German armed forces.
Keitel was the head of the OKW, the High Command of the German armed forces. There were just half a dozen men gathered in the soundproofed meeting room adjoining his office. They included his deputy, General Alfred Jodl, and the chief of staff of the OKH – the High Command of the German army – General Heinz Guderian.
They’d waited impatiently as a secretary took an excessive amount of time to draw heavy curtains over the windows and the steel doors to the room were shut. The surface of the table they sat around was covered in maps of Europe. When they were finally ready, Schellenberg carefully repeated what Rauter had told him.
‘That’s all, Walter?’
‘It’s quite something, I’d have thought, Wilhelm.’
‘There are no documents or photographs – nothing like that?’
Schellenberg looked carefully at Guderian, resisting the temptation to reply that the mail service between London and Berlin wasn’t so reliable these days. He settled for shaking his head.
‘If we take this intelligence at face value, then it is of enormous significance.’ Jodl smiled in Schellenberg’s direction. ‘To have advance warning of a major Allied attack in an area and a direction we weren’t expecting – surely we cannot underestimate its importance.’
‘I don’t know… On the one hand I agree, but at the same time I worry that this is all a bit too good to be true. After all,’ Guderian shifted uncomfortably, ‘we should consider whether this could be another of the Allies’ deception operations: look at how they tricked us over D-Day! We were made to look utter fools. We far too easily bought into intelligence that informed us the Allies would land in the Pas-de-Calais, and to compound matters, even after they landed in Normandy we chose to believe those same sources that said Normandy was just a feint. We were—’
‘We know all this, Heinz, there’s nothing to be gained in going over it yet again. We accept mistakes were made, but now we need to…’ Keitel hesitated, uncharacteristically unsure of how to continue.
‘Your source, Walter, this Agent…’
‘Milton.’
‘Tell us more about him.’
‘I know he was recruited well before the war, and the view seems to have been taken to wait until he reached a more prominent position. I think Rauter’s strategy was that because the life span for our agents operating in the United Kingdom is relatively limited, Milton should only be activated at a time when the intelligence he’d provide would be of maximum benefit to us.’
‘And this Rauter – can we trust him?’ Keitel was nervously fiddling with his spectacles. ‘After all, Tirpitzufer is a nest of traitors. Was he close to that bastard Canaris?’
‘I’ll have him thoroughly checked out.’
‘I’d have thought, Walter,’ Keitel was gathering up his papers to signal the end of the meeting, ‘you’d have been doing that already.’
* * *
Over the next two days, every aspect of Franz Rauter’s life came under scrutiny. Rauter didn’t want to make a tense situation worse, but on more than one occasion he felt obliged to point out that while they were putting so much effort into investigating him, they seemed not to be acting on the intelligence he’d provided.
‘Surely,’ he told Hauptsturmführer Böhme, ‘that has to be the priority?’
The Gestapo investigated his private life and searched his apartment on Speyerer Strasse, which he was relaxed about. When the Abwehr had been absorbed into the RSHA in February, he’d decided the time had come to remove the handful of books the regime would disapprove of. They spoke with his neighbours, and with Frau Oberg, the Blockleiter, who said she’d never heard anything negative about Herr Rauter. No one had much to say about the polite, reserved man who was always smartly dressed.
They even discovered that he stopped most mornings at the run-down café on the corner of Ludendorff Strasse, where the one-armed proprietor told them that his customer never spoke much and usually read a copy of Der Angriff.
* * *
‘And that’s it? They didn’t find a framed photograph of Churchill in his apartment, or a hidden transistor? The most they seem to have discovered about him is his fondness for buns.’
They’d reconvened in the secure room next to Keitel’s office, and the head of the armed forces was clearly in a sceptical mood.
‘My instinct,’ said Schellenberg, ‘is to trust him. If he’s a British agent I suspect we’d have found something on him. To me, the fact that there was nothing in his apartment to show he’s an enthusiastic party member is in his favour. For instance, there was no picture of the Führer or any Nazi Party literature. The Gestapo say that if he was working as a double agent he’d have bent over backwards to show how loyal he is. My recommendation is to take this at face value. After all, it’s not as if we have much time.’
‘I think,’ said General Jodl, ‘you should get Rauter to send Milton another message asking him to provide more information.’
‘That’s already happened, Alfred. We’re waiting for his reply.’
* * *
The telephone call for the dry cleaner’s came at the usual time on a Tuesday morning.
They are very happy but want more information and detail – as much as you can provide: names of units, start dates, times.
He wasn’t surprised at the call; he’d been expecting Berlin to respond like this. He was pleased he’d managed to whet their appetite. Had there been no response he’d have been worried.
The day before – the Monday – Brigadier Oakley had called him into his office.
‘You’ve had a chance to look at the file – what do you make of Operation Market Garden?’
He�
��d replied that it was very impressive but obviously he’d need more time and perhaps more detail, and if—
The brigadier held up his hand for him to stop. ‘This is such a big operation that I’m dividing it up. I want you to concentrate on the Arnhem part. And remember what I said last week: your job is to pick holes in it, to be as awkward as possible. Have the cartography chaps in MI4 been helpful?’
He said they had, though he understood some of the maps being drawn up were restricted.
‘Bloody fools, not to you they’re not. Don’t worry. I’ll tell Holt you have full clearance.’
He spent that Monday and Tuesday poring over the plans for the assault on Arnhem. He memorised the names of all the units involved and the locations of the different drop zones and landing zones along with the routes they’d be taking from them to the bridges.
Holt in MI4 had clearly been chastened by the repercussions of his failure the previous week to share material with him. He stood at a large table in the centre of Holt’s office as map after map was spread out in front of him as if they were delicate textiles for him to admire. After an hour, he left the room with an armful of charts, promising that of course he’d return them at the end of the day.
The maps were in many ways more informative than the file Brigadier Oakley had given him. He was amazed at the detail they contained, much of it no doubt provided by the Dutch Resistance. Some even showed gaps in the hedgerow – the kind of detail aerial reconnaissance photography couldn’t provide. He realised that the most helpful information was the location of the various zones, and he tried to work out how to present that information in a way that made some kind of sense. There were three drop zones, Y, X and K; four landing zones, X, Z, S and L, and one supply zone. Personally he thought they were situated too far from the bridges and too close to the woods to the north and west of Arnhem, but that was the least of his concerns. Eventually he decided he’d recite them as a list, descending from a point north-west of Arnhem to one to the south of it.
He met Jim in St James’s Park as planned at a quarter past five that evening. The other man had a certain bounce to his step and seemed quite jolly.
‘Do you think I’ll be able to pop in for tea?’ Jim had been pointing at Buckingham Palace, but he insisted they needed to concentrate. He recited the different zones – DZY, LZS and so on – and then made Jim repeat them a number of times.
‘Remember DZY is north-west of the town, you work down from there.’
‘Understood.’
‘And then you need to remember the name of the units in the 1st Airborne Division. Can you recall them, please?’
‘The 1st Airlanding Brigade and the 1st, 2nd, 3rd and 4th Parachute Brigades.’
‘Commander?’
‘Major General Richard Urquhart I think it is.’
‘It’s Robert, Robert Urquhart. Let’s walk down to the end of that path and we’ll go our separate ways, but before that, I think you’d better go over the information once more.’
* * *
Agent Byron was waiting in the apartment in Shepherd’s Bush when Jim Maslin arrived there an hour later. Maslin had spent that time repeating over and over in his mind the information Agent Milton had made him memorise. Only in his apartment was it safe for him to write it down.
Agent Byron looked at the sheet of paper as if he’d been handed a shopping list. He folded it carefully and slipped it into the seam of his jacket collar.
‘You look concerned?’ he said.
‘I thought we weren’t to write anything down… that everything was to be done from memory?’
‘You don’t need to concern yourself, Jim: the time you were most exposed was when you met Milton. You’d have been stopped long before now if you were under suspicion, and I’m certain no one followed you here. Once I’ve encoded the message, I’ll burn this.’
‘And if you get stopped on the way?’
‘Don’t worry about that either, I won’t be. Did Milton say anything else?’
‘He said there’ll be some more on Thursday. I’m meeting him at Middle Temple, same time.’
‘Very well, I’ll be here waiting for you. Well done, though. If they’re as chuffed with this as they were with the last message, we can consider we’re doing a decent job. Now then, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better be going. I’m under orders to transmit this as soon as possible.’
* * *
‘You’re coming with me, Rauter.’
Brigadeführer Schellenberg had made it sound like Rauter was under arrest. Although nothing would surprise him these days, he did think the timing odd: only a few hours earlier, he’d presented Schellenberg with the latest report from London. As requested, Agent Milton had provided further intelligence, with the promise of more to come. Schellenberg had appeared to be delighted.
‘Where to, sir?’
‘I have a car waiting.’
Although it was only a short walk from Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse across Potsdamer Platz to the Bendlerblock, they’d travelled in Schellenberg’s Daimler and the Brigadeführer had even made an attempt at small talk. ‘Do you have enough food coupons, Franz?’ It was his way of signalling his approval.
In the secure meeting room they discussed the latest report: the details of the drop zones and the landing zones, the names of the British units involved, Major General Robert Urquhart…
‘This is high-quality intelligence, Rauter,’ said Field Marshal Keitel.
General Jodl introduced himself and said it was indeed a breath of fresh air to see such good intelligence. ‘But can you guarantee that none of the three agents involved has been turned by the British into double agents? They have – I’m afraid it has to be said – an impressive record of doing that. After all, this could be a clever way of getting us to divert our forces north, thus allowing the Allies a clear run further south – say into the Ruhr?’
‘No, sir, I can’t guarantee it, sir,’ said Rauter.
There was clear discomfort in the room at his reply.
‘I can only be honest with you. Agent Byron has a code word that he always includes to indicate he’s not been compromised, and another one he’d insert if he’d been caught, and there’s been no problem there. But no system is perfect, sir: it’s always possible that the message could have been altered when it was passed on. It’s even possible that one of the agents has been captured and has given away the safety words.’
‘You don’t sound very confident, Rauter.’
‘With the greatest of respect, sir, you didn’t ask if I was confident – you asked if I could guarantee that none of them had been caught. It’s impossible to guarantee that. But if you’re asking me if I think this intelligence is genuine, then my answer would be yes, I believe it is.’
‘You’ll no doubt be pleased then to learn that you have an ally. You’ve heard of Field Marshal Model, I presume?’
‘Of course, sir, he’s in charge of Army Group B?’
Keitel nodded. ‘He was delighted when he saw this intelligence. As far as he’s concerned, it corroborates what his own intelligence officers have been telling him – that the Allies will launch a major offensive through Nijmegen and Arnhem and that there will be extensive use of airborne troops. Model is convinced your source is accurate and is planning his defence accordingly. In fact, he is going to base himself in Arnhem.’
Franz Rauter found it hard to resist smiling.
‘But the question he most wants answered is when the hell this is going to happen.’
‘I’m afraid we don’t know that yet, sir.’
‘Let’s hope Agent Milton can come up with a date, eh?’
Chapter 8
London, September 1944
A few days preceding this was the first Monday of September and the first day in his new posting, and it felt very much like the first day of term: that familiar feeling of apprehension and anxiety that had been a constant shadow through his school days and that persisted even now.
He was in th
e oak-panelled hallway of his small apartment in a modern mansion block in St John’s Wood, standing in front of the long mirror and admiring his new uniform – the major’s single crown having replaced the captain’s three stars that had been on his epaulette for far too long.
He glanced at his watch and realised he had to get a move on, but he needed to calm his nerves. He was only too aware that they’d contact him any day now – he was surprised they’d left it so long.
He went into the kitchen and poured himself a Scotch: if he drank whisky before lunchtime he tried to keep it to a single measure and drink it neat, but his hands were shaking and his breathing was quickening so he made it a double, drinking it swiftly before brushing his teeth one more time and making sure he had a packet of mints in his briefcase.
The number 53 bus took him direct from Abbey Road to his new office in Whitehall. It was a pleasant journey down the west side of Regent’s Park, along Baker Street, Oxford Street and Regent Street, through Piccadilly Circus and across Trafalgar Square. His new place of work was on the corner of Horse Guards Avenue: the magnificent neo-Baroque edifice that was the War Office.
He was escorted to the fifth floor and along a corridor round to the rear of the building, to a room with ‘MI18’ on the door. Behind it was an outer office with a small stretch of the Thames just visible through the windows, and four secretaries who were all watching him over the top of their spectacles.
One of them eventually asked if she could help, and he explained who he was and who he’d come to see. His stammer, which he’d kept in check until that morning, had returned.
‘Brigadier Oakley is waiting for you,’ she said, pointing to a half-open door.
* * *
‘Well I’ve certainly had to wait for you, haven’t I?’