Ring of Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  ‘Hanne! Is there some news?’ Prince sat bolt upright, almost half standing.

  ‘There is indeed some news, but you’re not to get your hopes up. Apparently Hanne Jakobsen was alive on or about the eighth of February: I thought I’d better let you know that straight away. Look, I’m sending you to see a friend of mine at MI9; they’re responsible for all our prisoners of war and are obviously plugged in to pretty much everything relating to Allied prisoners of the Nazis, including the concentration camps. Tom Bennet is an old chum of mine – we were at the same college – and he’s high up in that section: I understand Tom Gilbey asked him to make finding out about Hanne a priority. He’s expecting you this morning. Do you know the Great Central Hotel?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘It’s opposite Marylebone station. MI9 has taken over part of the fourth floor. My driver will take you there – and it goes without saying I do hope you find her.’

  * * *

  On his journey to Marylebone, Prince thought about how the way you reacted when someone you loved died was a measure of that love. He had no doubt that he’d miss Hanne for the rest of his life, such was the extent of his love for her. He realised that for the past two years he’d been experiencing a kind of grief. When Harper had said there was news, he’d been so relieved he’d allowed the tears to well up in his eyes.

  Tom Bennet turned out to be a dry character, showing little in the way of emotion or manners and treating Prince as if he’d come in to clear up some confusion over a tax return. He sat behind his desk and, with a pair of reading glasses perched at the end of his nose, held a file high in front of him, obscuring his face.

  ‘So here we are then… I’ve been keeping an eye open for anything to do with Hanne Jakobsen since Tom Gilbey first asked me nearly two years ago now. I understand you and she became close during your mission, eh?’ He briefly moved the file down so he could see Prince and gave him a disapproving look. ‘Mixing business with pleasure rarely works, but there we are. For two years we heard nothing: the best I could say to Tom was that no news could be good news, but in truth there wasn’t a lot of evidence for saying that. Hopefully it made you feel better about things. Then last week we had a breakthrough. When the Americans liberated Bonn, a woman in a dreadful state crawled out of a cellar and—’

  ‘Hanne!’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not, Prince. This woman made a real fuss about seeing a British officer, insisting she had an important message. Fortunately there was a British liaison officer nearby. The woman’s name is Paulette Dubois and she was a French resistance fighter who’d been held at a concentration camp called Ravensbrück for some three years. She’d managed to escape a month earlier and had headed west. Her closest friend in Ravensbrück was Hanne Jakobsen, and they had a pact: whichever one escaped or was liberated first would pass on a message for the other. Jakobsen’s message was to ask someone in authority in London to tell a Peter Rasmussen where she was. I understand you are that Peter Rasmussen?’

  ‘It was an identity I used in Denmark, yes. Did this Frenchwoman say how she was?’

  ‘As far as I can gather, she was alive when Paulette Dubois escaped around the eighth of February. That’s all we can say.’

  ‘Can’t we rescue her?’

  ‘In due course, I’m sure that will happen.’

  ‘But I could go and—’

  ‘Prince, you must realise Ravensbrück is hundreds of miles from where the western Allies are at the moment. It’s fifty miles due north of Berlin. Even the Red Army aren’t near it yet. You have to be patient. We know a bit about that camp because some SOE agents have been held there. It’s mainly for women prisoners and is also a work camp, and at the moment we understand it’s very busy, which I suppose is a good sign.’

  Prince sat still, quite unsure of how to take the news.

  ‘I promise you as soon as we hear any more we’ll let you know, but hopefully the place will be liberated in a matter of weeks.’

  Prince said he was very grateful, and if there was any chance of him being there when that happened, he’d very much like to be considered. He was by the door, his raincoat over his arm, when he noticed that Bennet had stopped in the middle of the room, a finger on his lips and deep in thought.

  ‘Tom and Hugh speak very highly of you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Are you in a rush, Prince – do you have a few minutes?’

  Prince said he wasn’t in a hurry.

  The man from MI9 paused, still deep in thought. ‘I wonder… I came across an odd tale the other day: do you mind if I run it past you?’

  He led Prince over to a table and sat opposite him.

  ‘A couple of weeks ago, a young flying officer by the name of Ted Palmer made it here on a home run: he’d escaped from Dulag Luft in Germany and managed to reach our forces in France. I did his debrief myself and he told me a most strange story that I just can’t work out.

  ‘Last July, Palmer was shot down over Flanders, not far from the town of Aalst. Fortunately for him he was rescued by the resistance and they got him to Brussels, where the plan was for him to lie low and wait for us to turn up, but he ended up being caught and was taken to the Hotel Metropole, which is the headquarters of the Luftwaffe. He was questioned there by one of their intelligence chaps, all pretty standard really. They even told him he was about to be sent off to one of their special camps for Allied aircrew. Then for no reason – and evidently to the surprise of the Luftwaffe officer – he was hauled off to the local Gestapo headquarters in Avenue Louise.

  ‘According to his account, he was questioned there at length, and he got the impression they were far more interested in his identity than in his mission and how he was rescued. Do you speak any German, Prince?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘Palmer understands some German but never let on, and he overheard them say Berlin kann es sortieren.’

  ‘Berlin can sort it.’

  ‘Indeed. The next day a man arrived from Berlin who Palmer said was jolly decent. He made sure he was patched up and allowed him to have a shower and something to eat. Palmer says that after a medical and a few questions – mainly to do with his age – this chap didn’t seem terribly interested in him. The doctor insisted he could be no more than twenty-five – in fact he’s twenty – and the man from Berlin told the local Gestapo chaps it had all been a waste of his time and then used the phrase “anyone can see how old he is”. They were almost apologetic, and young Palmer said it was as if they thought he was someone else. Odd, don’t you think?’

  ‘It is rather. I presume this doesn’t normally happen?’

  ‘I have to say I’ve never heard of such a thing before. Luftwaffe intelligence and the Gestapo don’t get on. The former see it as their role and theirs alone to interrogate RAF aircrew. What do you make of it?’

  Prince shook his head. ‘As Palmer implied, perhaps a case of mistaken identity?’

  ‘Sounds like it, but who on earth did they think the poor chap was? He looks like a schoolboy – they all do.’

  ‘And you say they brought a chap from Berlin to interrogate him?’

  ‘Yes, a Herr Rauter, according to Palmer. That’s what’s particularly odd about it: if the local Gestapo had made a mistake and roughed him up a bit before letting him go, that would be one thing, but bringing someone obviously quite important over from Berlin doesn’t make an awful lot of sense. Mind you, so little does these days.’

  Chapter 23

  London, April 1945

  ‘Are you drunk, Jim?’

  ‘Nope.’ Agent Donne scowled at Milton with a ‘what’s it to you?’ expression, then looked away hoping that would signal it was the end of the discussion.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m bloody sure – in any case, it’s none of your bloody business.’

  ‘I can smell it on your breath.’

  The two Nazi agents were huddled under a tree in Regent’s Park, sheltering from wha
t was turning out to be a particularly persistent April shower.

  ‘I’ve been drinking but I’m not drunk: a man with your education ought to know the difference.’ Donne removed a half-finished roll-up cigarette from a tin and relit it.

  ‘You don’t know anything about my education. In fact…’ Milton stopped himself, immediately regretting what he’d said. The last thing he needed was to get into an argument with Agent Donne or divulge anything personal. But he still didn’t like the idea of him drinking.

  ‘I reckon by the way you speak you—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jim, let’s forget it – it’s my fault. We’re all tense, aren’t we? We mustn’t let things get to us.’ He was aware he was stammering again and proffered a hand to Jim, who briefly shook it, all the time staring ahead, the lit end of his cigarette now perilously close to his lips.

  Things.

  It was clear to even the most fanatical Nazi that the end of the war was in sight. It was 19 April – a Thursday – and that afternoon Milton had seen the latest briefings. The Allies were closing in on Berlin. The western Allies were on the banks of the River Elbe, the last remaining land obstacle before Berlin. The previous day the Americans had entered Magdeburg. The Red Army was even closer to the German capital: as far as he could tell from looking at the map, the Soviets could already be in some of Berlin’s outer suburbs.

  He’d just been told by Agent Donne that there was a message from Berlin demanding to know why they’d not heard from him in a while. He’d have thought it was obvious: there was nothing to tell them they didn’t already know. He was surprised that anyone in Berlin was taking an interest in him. In any event, what was he to say – the Americans are getting close? And the British, the Canadians, the Soviets? He had a feeling they must be aware of all that already.

  ‘It’s Thursday today, isn’t it, Jim?’

  ‘All day apparently.’

  ‘Let’s meet next Tuesday, same time, same place. Tell Byron to tell Berlin that I’ll have something for them by then – all right?’

  Agent Donne flicked the stub of his cigarette in front of him like he was tossing a coin and watched it fizz briefly on the wet grass. ‘You think it’s a good idea to meet in the same place?’

  ‘We’ve only met here once before. It’ll be the last time we use it. I’ll think of somewhere else after that.’ He made to leave, but Donne remained where he was.

  ‘Hang on a bit. I want to ask you a question.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘What do we do when this is all over?’

  ‘You mean the war?’

  ‘I didn’t mean the rain.’ Donne glanced at him briefly, a scowl still fixed on his face.

  ‘I imagine we just get on with our lives and hope no one connects us with anything. No reason why they should; we’ve been so careful, haven’t we? Maybe when the war’s over they won’t bother anyway. As long as neither you nor I nor Agent Byron makes a mistake, we ought to be all right. They’ll never know we existed.’

  ‘What will I do for money?’

  ‘Don’t you have any? I thought you were working?’

  ‘They gave me some when I came over, but I’ve spent that, and as soon as the war’s over I’m going to have to give up my job and move on. I’ve got to get out of London.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I need to get away from all this – you, Byron, everything. Also, I didn’t tell you this before, but there’s another reason I don’t want to hang around here.’

  The tone of his voice had changed. He sounded frightened, and Milton noticed that his hand was shaking as he held his cigarette in front of his mouth.

  ‘What is it, Jim?’

  ‘Byron said not to say a word about this, especially to you. Christ, I can’t believe what I’m involved in; I didn’t sign up for this, I can promise you.’

  ‘You’d better tell me, Jim. Maybe I can help?’

  Jim sneered and gave a brief sarcastic laugh. ‘I’m sure you can. Byron ordered me to kill a man.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Did I what?’

  ‘Kill him, Jim – did you kill this man?’

  Agent Donne nodded briefly.

  ‘When was this? Tell me what happened.’

  ‘It was in February. A man called Bird – Rodney Bird. He lived above a pub near Victoria.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I got the impression they didn’t trust him any more: Byron said the guy had become a liability. It was easy, actually. I did a good job.’

  ‘What did you say his name was again?’

  ‘Rodney Bird.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  There was no question Jim was describing Arthur Chapman-Collins, the man he’d first encountered in Cambridge nearly twelve years previously: the man who’d got him involved in this nightmare in the first place. The rain was now torrential, much as it had been on that fateful night in Cambridge. If Arthur Chapman-Collins had become a liability, that meant he himself was in danger. And no one had warned him. He was aware of water seeping into his shoes and Jim angrily asking him why he wasn’t saying anything.

  ‘I’m sorry. Why didn’t you mention it to me at the time?’

  ‘Because Byron said not to.’

  If Chapman-Collins had been compromised, then the trail could lead to him: he was surprised it hadn’t done so already. He felt quite sick and fumbled in his jacket pocket for a cigarette, which he lit with trembling hands. ‘I’ve never heard of him,’ he said. He was trying to sound as matter-of-fact as possible, but he was aware that he was stammering badly, so he told Jim he’d see him on Tuesday and hurried off.

  He’d always been very careful to ensure that Agent Donne left any meeting point before him, and if they left it together, he made a point of letting the other man get on a bus or go to an Underground station before he did. He’d even set off in a completely different direction to where he needed to go: the last thing he wanted was for Donne to have any idea where he lived.

  But he was so absorbed with the news that Jim had been ordered to kill Arthur Chapman-Collins that he dropped his guard. He headed west through the park, round the Outer Circle, hunched against the driving rain and not bothering to turn round or go back on himself or use any other very basic moves he’d normally employ to check he wasn’t being followed.

  He turned into Hanover Gate and wondered about waiting for a bus, but there was no sign of one so he carried on walking, past Lord’s cricket ground and eventually into Abbey Road. The rain was even worse now, bouncing off the slippery surface of the pavement, and he hadn’t once bothered to so much as even glance round.

  The only time he turned round was as he entered his mansion block, at which point he noticed a man standing still on the other side of the road, apparently watching him. It was only a glimpse and he couldn’t be sure, but once inside the entrance he was able to get a better look. Despite the condensation on the windows, it certainly looked like Jim. Milton was furious with himself for allowing the other man to follow him, but his anger only lasted until he got into his apartment. Once there, he knew what he had to do and concentrated on that.

  He’d known for a while it would come to this: the restrictions on access to the Rhine maps, the news about Chapman-Collins and his carelessness in permitting Jim to follow him had made up his mind.

  * * *

  Lance King had a possible breakthrough in the hunt for Agent Milton and was finding it hard to contain his excitement. He telephoned Hugh Harper and agreed they’d all meet in the morning.

  The morning turned out to be nearer lunchtime because of an MI5 briefing somewhere under Whitehall that delayed Harper. He looked exhausted when he arrived in the office, nodding curtly at the others and asking King to get on with it.

  ‘You may recall, sir, that at the end of March we decided to visit every one of the thirty-eight departments on the American embassy map distribution list? Prince and I divided them between us and it’s been quite a tiresome business,
making appointments and then working out how many people had access to the maps and what they’d been looking at. We weren’t getting anywhere, but yesterday I had an appointment at the War Office, specifically in the Directorate of Military Intelligence. They have a department there – MI4 – which specifically looks after maps: compiling them, distributing them, storing them and—’

  ‘Get a move on, please, Lance. Could someone open a window?’

  ‘The chap in charge there is called Holt and I had tried to see him last week but he was on leave. Insists on talking about stamps, but when I managed to get him onto the subject of who was requesting which maps, he mentioned a chap who works in another of their departments – MI18 – which coordinates intelligence relating to the invasion of Germany.’

  ‘I know it – run by Johnny Oakley.’

  ‘That’s right sir, Brigadier Oakley.’

  ‘He was on my father’s staff at the Battle of Loos: came to his funeral all those years later. Decent sort.’

  ‘According to Holt, this chap is a major on attachment from army intelligence and is in and out of there all the time; devours maps, he says.’

  ‘Which he would do, though, wouldn’t he – surely that would be part of his job?’

  ‘Of course, Audrey, but according to Holt, just after we withdrew the Rhine maps, this major asked for one but changed his tune when Holt said he’d need to request it in writing – told him he was no longer interested. I asked him about other maps he’d looked at and he gave me a long list, including Arnhem and the Ardennes.’

  ‘Certainly we should look into this more; it sounds promising. I’ll call Johnny Oakley. Did I miss this chap’s name?’

  ‘Sorry, sir, I ought to have mentioned it earlier. It’s Palmer. Major Edward Palmer. York and Lancaster Regiment… Divisional HQ intelligence… fought in Normandy, injured at Caen…’

  ‘Please could you repeat his name, Lance?’ Prince had a shocked look on his face.

  ‘Of course, it’s Edward Palmer. I say, are you all right, Prince?’