by Alex Gerlis
The brigadier – a large man whose uniform was at least one size too small – had greeted him formally as he entered the office: an exchange of salutes and formal handshakes. He’d now walked back to his desk and was standing behind it as he looked at an open file on the desktop.
He remained standing in the middle of the office as the brigadier read the file with a mixture of frowns and raised eyebrows. On a trolley next to the desk was an inviting bottle of Dalwhinnie, perhaps his favourite single malt, but he doubted Oakley was likely to offer him a drink at this time of the morning.
‘So you’re quite the brainbox, eh? A doctorate… in medieval literature! Has that come in useful over the last few years?’
‘I haven’t actually completed my doctorate, sir. It was taking rather a long time and I’m afraid I got bogged down. I thought if I took a short service commission and went back to it afterwards then things would be easier. Hasn’t quite worked out like that, not yet at any rate.’
‘I see you joined in early ’38: did you see the way things were going?’
‘I don’t think any of us did, sir.’
‘Indeed… So you joined the York and Lancasters… fought in Norway… then Brigade Headquarters in ’41 working in the intelligence unit, promoted to captain… Divisional HQ last year, due to come here in July but tied up in France… and of course, Caen. I always said that Monty’s plan to take Caen on D-Day itself was completely misguided, but as usual, he wasn’t listening to anyone – least of all me. But two months, that was far too long. How was Caen?’
‘Bloody, sir.’
‘And your shoulder?’
‘Bloody, sir.’
‘But it works?’
‘Oh yes, sir. It was rather painful and messy at the time, but the surgeon fixed it up nicely. I wear the sling every so often to rest it.’
‘Says here you’re not married.’
‘No, sir. The war’s rather got in the way, I suppose.’
‘I understand, but that arm ought to help, eh? Nothing like an injured officer to attract the ladies. I met my wife when I was on crutches at the end of 1915 after the Battle of Loos. I’m sure that’s what attracted her!’
They both laughed, and he shifted round to avoid looking at the whisky.
‘Congratulations on your promotion, by the way, quite an important step up from captain to major. Do sit down and I’ll tell you about your new job.’
They moved over to a table in a corner of the room, a large map of Europe pinned to the wall above it.
‘What do you know about the Directorate of Military Intelligence?’
‘That it’s part of the War Office, sir.’
‘A very important and in my opinion somewhat underrated part of it. Obviously our role is to coordinate all aspects of military intelligence. We’re divided into some twenty sections: these are denoted by numbers, each prefixed by the letters MI, standing for military intelligence. I imagine you know all this, but let me explain a bit about these sections. The two that get all the attention these days are MI5 and MI6, but that’s not to say the other sections aren’t important in their own right. I have a list here, top secret of course, but have a look. I think we ought to turn the lights on, eh?’
The brigadier placed a chart in front of him and angled it round.
‘Too many to go through, but each one is vital, of course. For example, MI4 you’ll be working with a lot; they look after maps. We’ll also be working very closely with MI17, which is the Director of Military Intelligence’s secretariat: that’s where I was based until a couple of months ago.
‘After D-Day, the director asked me to set up MI18. He worried there’d be a degree of disorganisation and even chaos regarding our advance into Germany. As you know only too well, the advance through France and into Belgium has proved to be most unpredictable, and the rows between us and the Americans and even our own generals not seeing eye to eye has exacerbated the situation. That is to a certain extent inevitable, of course – it’s the nature of warfare after all: you can plan to the finest detail, but once the first bullet’s fired, all kinds of unforeseen factors come into play. But the director is very concerned that invading Germany itself could be the most hazardous campaign of the war and he wants to ensure the Directorate of Military Intelligence is well prepared for it.
‘Our role in MI18 then is to coordinate intelligence relating to the invasion of Germany. You’ll be working for me, producing reports on the various Allied plans, checking to see if they clash and looking for any flaws in them. At the very least the director wants to be sure he’s not going to be blamed for missing something.’
He kept looking at the list until the brigadier pulled it away. He was confident he’d managed to memorise most of the sections.
‘I hope that’s all clear? Probably a bit much at the moment, but once you’ve read yourself in, I’m sure it will all begin to make sense. I’ll show you to your new office.’
He followed the brigadier and stood up. They both moved towards the door.
‘Best take this with you, Major, your first bit of homework. It’s top secret so can’t leave the office. Not that we don’t trust you, of course, but I’m afraid due to its classification you need to return it to me at the end of the day so I can lock it in my safe.’
He handed him a green folder with MOST SECRET stamped on it in red and a white sticker on the front with three words typed on it.
OPERATION MARKET GARDEN
* * *
His new office turned out to be small, with no windows, clearly once part of a larger room that had been divided up. The walls were an unpleasant shade of light brown and the large desk was bare but for a telephone and an Anglepoise lamp. Pinned to one wall was a faded map of the Indian Empire.
He was soon absorbed in the Operation Market Garden folder, and what he read was extraordinary: it could unquestionably alter the course of the war. Later that morning the brigadier asked to see him.
‘What do you make of it?’
‘Very ambitious, sir, it’s certainly a most bold plan.’
‘It is, but your job isn’t to sit there and admire the plans but rather to cast a very sceptical eye over them: pick holes, be as critical as possible. If Operation Market Garden goes wrong, we’re in serious trouble. I’ve told Holt in MI4 to let you have access to whatever maps you need – they’re just round the corridor.’
By the time he returned the file to the brigadier’s safe at the end of his first day, he knew just how important it was. But it was deeply frustrating too. His contact with this Agent Byron had been very intermittent: weeks went by before he heard from him, and the coded messages were always the same: Are you all right? What is your current role? Be patient; you’ll be contacted soon.
There were times when he wondered whether they’d forgotten about him altogether, and occasionally he’d allow himself the indulgence of letting his mind wander. How would he feel if they had given up on him: would it really be the relief he’d always imagined? The tension he’d experienced since the start of the war never lifted, and the apprehension of waiting for them to contact him and ask him to start providing intelligence was considerable.
One thing he avoided was allowing himself the indulgence of regretting his predicament. Nothing was to be gained from going back on the meeting with the man called Arthur in 1933, or the fateful friendship struck with the German in Cambridge in the summer of 1934. He now knew full well that none of it had been a coincidence, and by the time he went to spend the summer of 1935 at the university in Munich, he’d realised what was happening. When they told him to join the army in 1938, he couldn’t refuse. He’d become a German agent and he doubted he could go into a police station and tell them there’d been a terrible misunderstanding and hope they’d understand. The only way to approach matters was to be as professional as possible and so reduce his chances of being caught. Indeed, in the early part of the war he’d even thought he wasn’t in a bad position after all: Britain was in a mess, Germany seemed to hav
e a sense of order, and perhaps he could play some part in bringing the two countries together: they should have been on the same side after all.
But now he doubted the Germans would let him go. He knew he was too valuable. He was certain that like a sniper delaying his shot as long as possible, they’d be waiting for the right time. But then what he’d read on his first day with MI18 was so important he was worried it would be too late. There was a way of getting Byron to contact him; it was only to be used in extreme circumstances, but he reckoned this certainly fell into that category. There was a quiet alley off Pall Mall that Byron apparently made a point of visiting every few days: two chalk triangles on the second lamp post and Byron would know to call him.
Two days later at twenty-five to eight in the morning, the telephone rang in his St John’s Wood apartment. He waited for it to ring three times, then stop. He felt the usual mixture of fear and excitement and sat down on his bed, all the time keeping an eye on his watch as the second hand swept round. It was always possible it really was a wrong number, which had actually happened a few months ago. But after exactly two and a half minutes, the phone rang once more. He waited until it had rung four times before answering. The sequence of bleeps told him it was from a call box.
Don’t say anything – wait for him to speak first.
‘A very good morning to you: is that Abbey Road Cleaner’s? I left a brown suit with you last Thursday and I wondered if it’s ready yet?’
Agent Byron, the man he only knew by his voice.
‘I’m terribly sorry, but you appear to have the wrong number. I think you’ll find that the dry cleaner’s doesn’t open until eight o’clock, though.’
‘My apologies, I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
‘It’s really no problem.’
They were smart, there could be no question about that. Even the wrong number – that of the dry cleaner’s – was only two digits different from his. So much information contained in one apparently innocuous conversation.
This is Agent Byron. A new agent has arrived. You’re to meet him tomorrow, Thursday.
His response – about him having called the wrong number – assured Byron that all was well and it would be safe to meet.
At Middle Temple. At a quarter past five.
He made sure to arrive slightly early at the War Office the following day. Not so early that it could arouse attention, but early enough to ensure he’d be able to leave at five o’clock.
He did his best to study and memorise the most salient points in the Operation Market Garden file, testing himself like he used to for vocabulary tests at school. He was able to leave the Directorate of Military Intelligence at five o’clock, walking briskly along the Embankment and under Waterloo Bridge.
* * *
After meeting with the man called Jim, he was surprised at how calm he felt. He’d expected to feel frightened at the implications of having finally committed an act of espionage – treason, if he was honest with himself – but instead there was a sense of relief that the waiting was over. He could now concentrate on the practicalities of gathering the intelligence and passing it on rather than allowing himself to dwell on how he’d ended up in this predicament in the first place.
He’d told Jim that arranging meetings through Agent Byron was convoluted and potentially risky. He’d only contact him that way in an emergency. Otherwise they’d meet twice a week.
‘Do you know St James’s Park?’
‘You mean the football ground in Newcastle?’
He gave Jim a dirty look and Jim said he was sure he’d find it.
‘We’ll meet there on Tuesdays from now on and here every Friday. St James’s Park is right at the heart of government and there’ll be plenty of chaps in uniform strolling around it, but don’t worry. It’s not far from where I work and I have a perfect excuse for being there, and after all, neither of us will have anything incriminating on us. There’s a marble statue of a boy at the southern end of the park, just by Birdcage Walk. Same procedure as today: at a quarter past five you should walk past the statue from the direction of Whitehall. Don’t look around for me, but as you pass the statue switch your umbrella from your right hand to your left. When I catch up with you, I’ll be giving you directions to Buckingham Palace.’
* * *
He’d been rather impressed with this Jim. He seemed to be calm, and when he’d asked him to repeat the message to be passed on for Berlin, he’d remembered pretty much every word of it correctly.
Just as he wouldn’t expect Jim to ask him any personal questions, nor was it for him to question Jim, but he did wonder about him. For some reason he hadn’t expected this agent to be a fellow Englishman.
A traitor.
Just like him.
Chapter 9
Berlin and London, August–September 1944
Set up a ring of agents around him, and above all, don’t be rushed… Protect him as a source. Take time before you reel him in.
For five years Helmut Krüger’s final words had hung over Franz Rauter. According to the file, Krüger had been planning to visit Milton in England in June 1939, but his poor health had put paid to that. He hadn’t been entirely idle, though; even when the illness that would kill him was beginning to take its grip, he’d recruited a very good radioman, an Englishman who lived in Chelsea, in west London. The radioman – code name Byron – was dedicated to Milton: he’d only receive and transmit messages in relation to that one agent.
Rauter wondered if Krüger had been too cautious. His own strategy was to send over an agent to be the link between Byron and Milton. He knew the wireless operator was often the most exposed and vulnerable part of the network because of the possibility that the equipment could give them away. This way he’d ensure Milton would never be anywhere near the radio transmitter and nor would the agent who’d make contact with him. Once Milton was activated, it was this agent who’d carry the intelligence to and from the radioman.
Rauter had taken the precaution of adding Milton’s details to a central register that held the names of members of the British military who in case of capture or arrest were of special interest to various German agencies. Any information relating to this man was to be passed immediately to Franz Rauter, Abwehr, Berlin.
He was fortunate in that after Prager’s death, Admiral Canaris himself had taken an interest in Milton, and as a professional intelligence officer, the head of the Abwehr had appreciated the need for patience. Every few months Rauter would discuss the case with him.
‘He’s doing well,’ Canaris would say. ‘Krüger and Prager recruited a good agent: if only they were still with us. But let’s wait, Franz; Milton’s getting there but he’s not there yet.’
In September 1943, Rauter had asked to see Canaris. He had news, a new posting for Milton. Canaris looked impressed. ‘That is a very useful position for us. I think we should pat ourselves on the back, Franz: our patience appears to have paid off. We’ve been vindicated.’
‘We’ll now need to send an agent to work with him and the radioman, Byron. Can I go ahead and recruit someone?’
Canaris had looked at him awkwardly. ‘The Reich Main Security Office insists on being more involved. They say the Sicherheitsdienst have some good agents we can choose from. I’m afraid we’ll have to go along with that.’
‘Seriously, sir… the SD?’
‘I know what you’re thinking, Franz, but I have to be mindful of the way the wind blows in Berlin, which isn’t always in the direction we’d like. They want their Foreign Security Service to be given more responsibility and I’m afraid that in this instance I have to go along with it.’
From the moment he first met him, Rauter had had no confidence in the SD’s first recruit: a cocky Nazi from Westphalia with a limited attention span who seemed easily bored by the detail of his training. His only merit, as far as Rauter could see, was that he came from a village bordering the German-speaking area of Belgium and could pass as Belgian. He’d been given
the code name Keats, and the last they heard of him was that he was killed by a train on a railway track outside London soon after he’d landed in England in the November. He’d never managed to make contact with Agent Byron, the radioman.
If Rauter had reservations about Agent Keats, they were nothing compared to those he had for the SD’s next recruit. This man was from Bremerhaven, a teacher of English and fluent in the language but with a heart condition that had kept him out of the army. When Rauter pointed out that this might be an impediment for an agent in enemy territory, he was told not to be so negative and the man was quickly trained – far too quickly in Rauter’s opinion – and landed on the Norfolk coast. They knew this because at least Agent Shelley had been in touch with Byron: too many long and barely coded telephone calls in which he recounted how unwell he felt. He reckoned he was suffering from hypothermia after his dinghy journey ashore from the U-boat. They agreed he should follow the protocol for such circumstances. Instead of going straight to London, he was to find a city far away from where he’d landed and do his best to recuperate in an anonymous boarding house. It was weeks before Byron discovered that Shelley had been found dead in his bed.
In March they’d sent over another agent, whom Rauter had to admit appeared promising despite a clear fondness for alcohol and a touching certainty that God would protect him come what may. Agent Dryden was Polish, from a German community near Poznań, with a plausible cover story, and they’d sent him over in February. He’d gone to Manchester to establish his cover, but once he headed for London, everything went wrong. He’d contacted Agent Byron from Birmingham, and despite being given clear instructions as to where to meet him, he’d never turned up at either the rendezvous point or the fall-back location. Byron reckoned he’d misunderstood both the time and the locations and had probably been overwhelmed on his first visit to the capital. A week later, a story appeared in a number of British newspapers with his name and photograph and an account of his death following a road accident in Birmingham.