Ring of Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  By now the Abwehr no long existed, its functions taken over by the RSHA. Franz Rauter decided to wait: he felt this was a time to keep his head down, and in any case he needed to be sure Milton hadn’t been compromised. Although Rauter had few obvious enemies, he didn’t have many friends either. Agent Milton, he decided, was a friend he’d never met, his insurance policy. He’d wait.

  Then the summons to Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse in the September.

  We think you have waited far too long to activate Agent Milton… It’s one thing having a sleeper agent, but this one could be regarded as comatose. We need to wake him up!

  * * *

  They’d been the stuff of gossip around Berlin for a while now, just over a year in fact. They were the result of a quixotic attempt to form a British unit of the Waffen-SS; similar units already existed for the Dutch, Ukrainians, French and Scandinavians. From what Franz Rauter gathered, the recruitment hadn’t gone very well: no more than a few dozen joined up rather than the hoped-for thousands. But a group of those recruits were still together, holed up in a disused school in a bombed-out street in Pankow in the north-eastern part of Berlin.

  They had a name – the British Free Corps – and had been recruited from among British prisoners of war: fascists or fascist sympathisers who’d been persuaded that they were on the wrong side and should join in the fight against the real enemy, notably the Jews and the Soviet Union.

  Rauter and his colleagues had followed their progress, if that was the right word for it, with wry amusement. Any of them could have told the SS it was a hopeless idea, but for some reason the group was kept together in the hope that its numbers would swell and the dreams of a British unit of the SS could be realised.

  The SS officer in charge was surprisingly amenable to Rauter’s request that he visit the men to see if any might be suitable for ‘other duties’, as he termed it. A few days after the meeting in Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, he turned up at the school in Pankow, dressed in the uniform of an SS officer to keep his cover intact.

  There were just thirty-three British men there, and Rauter spent four days going through their files and interviewing them. From early on there was one who stood out, a man in his early thirties with thick blonde hair and a calm manner. His name was John Morton.

  ‘Why did you join the British Free Corps, John?’ had been Rauter’s first question.

  ‘Because I hate the fucking Jews.’ Morton spoke in a pleasant manner, very matter-of-fact, as if he was discussing the weather. ‘And not just the fucking Jews: the fucking Russians too and fucking Winston Churchill.’

  One of the many things Rauter liked about Morton was that he didn’t volunteer too much information; anything he said had to be teased out of him. There was nothing worse than an agent who said too much. Over two long sessions, his life story emerged. In Rauter’s opinion, it couldn’t have been more ideal.

  He’d been born and raised in Leicestershire, an only child who was orphaned by the age of twelve, after which he’d lived in a children’s home until he was fourteen. This seemed to have instilled in him a grievance against the British state and left him feeling alienated. He left the home when he was fourteen and started work, moving around the country from factory to farm, drifting from bedsit to boarding house, from north to south.

  He’d never married, and in the mid 1930s had joined Oswald Mosley’s British Union of Fascists, allowing his membership to lapse just before he signed up to the Middlesex Regiment in the summer of 1939. His war ended when he was taken prisoner at Dunkirk in May 1940, and since then he’d been in a succession of prisoner-of-war camps.

  Franz Rauter liked that John Morton had no family in Britain and was familiar with London, having lived there on and off. There was not much that stood out about him; he was the kind of person people wouldn’t take much notice of: perfect secret agent material, nothing obviously odd about him but nonetheless something of a loner. He seemed to be someone who got on with what he was told to do, who probably didn’t exert himself too much but wasn’t a shirker either.

  He was physically fit, too – he sailed through a medical – and unlike most of the other British volunteers at Pankow drank little alcohol. How, Rauter asked him on their third meeting, would he feel about returning to England under cover to work for Germany?

  Morton hesitated for just the right amount of time before saying he’d be interested in finding out more. This was the correct response as far as Rauter was concerned. What Morton hadn’t known was that had he declined the offer, he’d have been handed over to the Gestapo: he knew too much.

  Morton proved to be a good student, and in particular he had a very good memory. He was given a new identity – Jim Maslin, same initials as his real name, standard Abwehr operating practice – and a cover story that showed he was exempt from military service due to a nasty and debilitating bout of rheumatic fever.

  Towards the end of his training, Rauter had a long chat with him: he wanted to be sure of his motives. ‘Do you feel as if we’re asking you to be a traitor?’

  ‘I feel the people running Britain are the traitors, not me.’

  ‘But I want to be sure you fully understand the implications of what we’re asking you to do – to work against your country.’

  ‘That’s assuming I regard it as my country, isn’t it? It doesn’t feel like my country any more.’

  ‘But you know what will happen if you’re caught?’

  Morton had shrugged and laughed. ‘I won’t be caught, will I? There is something I want to ask you, though…’

  ‘Go on, John.’

  ‘I know you said I’d receive all the funds I need while I’m doing this job for you, but when the war’s over – one way or the other – it may be difficult for me to settle down. I’ll need to be very careful, won’t I?’

  ‘I’m not sure what point you’re making.’

  ‘I’ll need money for when I’ve finished this job for you. If I know I’ve got a few bob behind me, I think I’ll do a better job.’

  That mercenary approach was fine as far as Franz Rauter was concerned. It was agents who were too ideological who bothered him.

  * * *

  Jim Maslin – Agent Donne – was landed on the Kent coast and successfully made his way to London, where he arrived on a Thursday, the last day of August.

  It turned out Agent Byron had organised everything perfectly, including setting up an interview for him the following day for a job as a porter at St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington. Maslin also had his own flat in Shepherd’s Bush, a mile and a half west of the hospital. It was a small flat, but well stocked with food and clothes, and most important of all, its own entrance and telephone line.

  The key to the flat was hidden exactly as per his instructions, and the morning after he moved in, he went to meet Agent Byron.

  Take the number 11 bus from Shepherd’s Bush to Dawes Road in Fulham. Get off at the first stop and keep walking until it becomes Fulham Road. Just before the first bus stop on that road, there’s a newsagent’s. Go in and buy a packet of ten John Player and a box of Swan Vesta matches – but only go in if you think you’re safe, that you’ve not been followed. Then go to the bus stop and get on the first number 14. Go upstairs and sit in an empty part of the bus; it will be quiet at that time of day.

  Agent Byron sidled up to him soon after the bus pulled away from the stop. ‘Is this seat free?’

  ‘Only if you have a ticket!’ Laugh when you say it; it’s meant to sound like a joke.

  ‘Bus tickets are pretty much all you can buy these days!’ Agent Byron seemed older than Maslin had expected. He glanced over: his travelling companion had opened the Daily Herald to the sports pages. Everything was fine.

  * * *

  Agent Byron’s instructions had been clear.

  ‘Your interview at St Mary’s is at two o’clock this afternoon. You’ll walk into the job: they’re desperate these days. As soon as we part after this journey, I’ll get a message to Agent Milton: when
I hear back from him, I’ll be in touch with you.’

  He’d started his job at St Mary’s on the Monday morning. When he returned to his flat after his shift on the Wednesday, Agent Byron was sitting in the solitary armchair, holding a mug of tea in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

  ‘It’s all sorted. Agent Milton is ready to see you. What time does your shift finish tomorrow?’

  ‘Four in the afternoon, same as today.’

  ‘Very well, come over here.’ Byron shifted his seat so Maslin could crouch down next to him. He’d opened out an A–Z map of London. ‘You’re here,’ he pointed to St Mary’s, ‘and this is where he wants to meet you.’ He pointed to a spot on the north bank of the River Thames. ‘When you leave work tomorrow, walk over to Edgware Road – here – and take the number 6 bus, heading south. Remain on it as far as Fleet Street. If at any stage during the journey you suspect you’ve been followed, get off the bus and walk around for at least an hour, and only if you’re sure you’re no longer being followed head back here. But otherwise get off at any stop in Fleet Street and walk to the rendezvous from there. You’re meeting Agent Milton at a quarter past five, so there’s no need to rush. I’ll come here later that evening to retrieve the message he gives you. Have you got all that?’

  He made Maslin repeat his instructions, and when he’d finished, he folded up the map. ‘And you understand everything about the meeting and what you’re to say?’

  Maslin nodded. ‘I do, though there is one thing… I’m concerned that if it’s very busy round there, I may miss Milton. What does he look like?’

  Agent Byron laughed as if the question was a preposterous one. ‘I have no idea. You see, I’ve never met him!’

  * * *

  For the first time in his life, Jim Maslin found what he was doing to be truly fulfilling. There’d been one or two summers on farms when he’d really enjoyed the work and the lifestyle had been pleasant, but by and large he’d found most of the jobs he’d done and the places he’d lived, along with the people he met, to be a disappointment.

  He’d quite liked aspects of being in the army – it was undeniably exciting, and there was a certain degree of comradeship – but he couldn’t get it out of his mind that he was on the wrong side. But this opportunity afforded him by the well-dressed man in Berlin was too good to turn down, and in any case, he was no fool. He could only imagine what they’d have done to him had he declined their offer. And it was turning out to be exciting: not only was he on the right side for a change, but he found he was actually very good at what he had to do. He was clearly well suited to a clandestine world: in truth, it was one he’d inhabited for most of his life – always suspicious, never trusting, always moving, always alone.

  When his shift finished on the Thursday afternoon, he walked over to Edgware Road and took the number 6 bus as instructed. He left the bus in Fleet Street: it was a minute or so before five and he knew he was too early. The man in Berlin had been quite clear about this.

  It’s far worse to be early for a meet than late for one, I can’t stress this enough. Being early means you hang around, and that attracts attention. And it’s hard to avoid looking anxious: you can easily take on the demeanour of someone who’s waiting.

  He walked up Fleet Street as far as Ludgate Hill and then down Blackfriars to the Victoria Embankment. He remembered working for a week at one of the newspapers on Fleet Street – he seemed to recall it was the Daily Express. It had been back-breaking work, carrying stacks of papers up and down stairs.

  It was exactly 5.15 when he entered Middle Temple Gardens, vegetable patches obviously now having taken the place of lawns and walkways bordered by well-tended edges, in contrast to many of the surrounding buildings, which were little more than bomb sites. Sitting on a bench in the lee of the ruins of a burnt-out church was a tall man wearing the uniform of an army major. One arm was in a sling and he was leaning back as if deep in thought, enjoying the late-afternoon sun, a cigarette in his mouth and his eyes seemingly closed.

  Maslin couldn’t be sure this was him, even though Agent Byron’s instructions had been to look out for a man in uniform sitting on a bench near the church.

  He walked past, taking care not to slow down or look in the man’s direction. As he carried on, he transferred his umbrella from his right hand to his left, the sign that as far as he was concerned he could be approached. Another minute and he heard footsteps slowly gaining on him.

  ‘Would you have a light, by any chance? I’m clean out of matches.’

  Do make sure you’re carrying some!

  ‘Of course: please take the box. I seem to have another one on me.’

  ‘Thank you so much. We could do with more rain, eh?’

  So far so good.

  Just as Agent Byron looked older than Maslin had expected, Agent Milton appeared younger. For some reason he’d imagined a man in his fifties. He seemed to speak with a stammer, and he’d not been expecting that either. Perhaps the man was nervous.

  ‘Indeed, we’re never satisfied, are we?’

  The man lit his cigarette and carried on walking. It was a while before he spoke again. ‘Let’s walk round the gardens and then on to Victoria Embankment. If anyone comes too close, I’ll just switch to giving you directions to Cannon Street station: got that?’

  It sounded like an order. Maslin said he did.

  ‘When did you arrive here?’

  ‘A couple of days ago.’

  ‘I thought someone was supposed to be here months ago… fucking months ago!’

  Maslin was taken aback: even with the stammer, he could tell the man spoke with what was probably a middle-class accent, and this outburst seemed incongruous. Milton looked tense but carried on walking, regaining his composure as he did so. ‘I’m sorry, not your fault, of course, but I can’t believe how slow they’ve been. Wondering if they’d forgotten about me has been extremely difficult, I can tell you. I was beginning to think they’d left it almost too bloody late, but as it happens, you’ve turned up just in time.’

  ‘The man in Berlin said I needed to be sent over here as soon as possible because they were hoping you’d soon have stuff to pass on. Haven’t you moved into a new job or something?’

  ‘Keep your voice down, for Christ’s sake. You say you were in Berlin?’ Milton looked incredulously at his companion. ‘What the hell were you doing there?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Another time. What should I be calling you, by the way?’

  ‘Jim, I guess.’

  ‘Jim… We had a dog called Jim: golden retriever – used to chew carpets and chase the neighbour’s cat: let’s hope you’re better behaved. I understand the way we do this is I tell you what the message is and you memorise it and eventually it ends up with our friends elsewhere: is that correct?’

  Maslin said that as far he was aware that was it.

  ‘Nice and secure, I suppose, though there is scope for a message getting garbled, like Chinese whispers. I’ll keep it as simple as possible and you’d better listen very carefully. There’s a lot to tell you and every single word is extremely important.’

  Chapter 10

  London, November 1944

  Over the past few days, a noticeable bite to the wind along with a constant damp had descended on the city, working its way into all but the most well-heated premises, of which there were now very few. Regular dustings of snow had turned the pavements slushy and treacherous.

  Agent Milton had settled into a routine at the War Office and had managed to dodge any of the blame sweeping around the Directorate of Military Intelligence in the aftermath of Arnhem. ‘Defeat’ was a word avoided in connection with the operation. The War Office preferred euphemisms such as ‘retreat’, or ‘debacle’ if the discussion was particularly acrimonious.

  For two or three weeks there’d been an attempt at an inquiry. As far as Agent Milton was concerned, it began on somewhat worrying lines: Why was Field Marshal Model based in Arnhem? How
come the 9th and 10th Panzers were in the town? Why was the railway bridge blown up before the Paras got near it? How come the enemy were able to anticipate the location of so many of the drop and landing zones?

  But soon it was dismissed as a combination of bad luck on the part of the Allies and good luck on the part of the Germans. It was a setback, a mere delay on the road to Allied victory. Everyone seemed happier with muttered conversations in corridors and conspiratorial chats behind closed doors, where blame was apportioned between Montgomery and the Americans.

  The directorate dusted itself down, deciding it had played no part whatsoever in the events – another euphemism – at Arnhem. Agent Milton was given a new project: working on more detailed plans for a crossing of the Rhine, one that would hopefully not go wrong.

  In the first week of October, Milton had met Donne at Middle Temple and the man he called Jim had a message. ‘Our mutual friends say to tell you they’re delighted.’ They were strolling past the bombed-out church and had paused as an elderly gardener brushed the snow from the path in front of them. ‘They say you’re to lay low for a while – me too. When they want anything else, Byron will contact us.’

  Milton told Jim he quite understood, and when the two men parted outside Temple Underground station, they shook hands as if they’d concluded a business deal.

  * * *

  It was seven weeks before he was contacted again. This time the call from a telephone box came at a quarter to seven in the evening – three rings before ending, ringing back after two and a half minutes. The evening calls purported to be to a residential number similar to his.

  Meet Agent Donne tomorrow at St James’s Park – usual time.

  The meeting hadn’t started well. As Milton left the War Office and crossed Whitehall, a colleague hurried to catch up and insisted on walking alongside him, chatting as they went under Admiralty Arch and into the Mall. Milton had ignored the first ‘Where are you heading?’ and when he was asked a second time, he said he’d forgotten something in the office and would have to return there.