by Alex Gerlis
Franz Hermann said nothing for a while, but Gunter noticed he was shaking his head then nodding it, as if he was debating with himself. Pros and cons. Podbielski Allee station was in view by the time Hermann spoke, though only after he had carefully looked around to ensure no-one was within earshot: that was how people spoke in Berlin these days. ‘This is about your son’s life, Gunter, so I can absolutely trust you, yes?’
‘That goes without saying.’
‘Let me ask you a question first: how senior are you at the Reichsbank?’
‘Senior enough: I run a department.’
‘And how close are you to Walther Funk?’
‘We aren’t friends as such, but I’m good at my job and he relies on me for certain matters: I handle our transactions with the Swiss. That’s very important to him.’
‘And the economies of countries we’ve occupied, do you get involved in them?’
‘To an extent, certainly, if we need to move money and gold from those countries to Switzerland. Why are you asking?’
‘I want to know how trusted you are at the Reichsbank. After all, you were married to a Jew.’
‘That was many years ago, Franz. And, remember, I divorced her. It’s no doubt on a file somewhere, but it’s not an issue. I even made sure I joined the Nazi Party. In answer to your question, I’m trusted.’
‘I have some… contacts, Gunter: people who may be able to help get Alfred out of Germany. But they’d want something in return, something you may be able to get your hands on.’
The two men had now moved to the side of the pavement, standing next to the railings and beneath a tree whose branches descended to just above their heads. Hermann paused and took a deep breath, about to take the plunge.
‘Go on Hermann, what is it?’
‘I’m going to ask you about something: if you’ve not heard of it, please forget I ever asked the question. Do you understand?’
He nodded. The two men waited while an elderly couple and their dog strolled past, nodding in reply to their greeting.
‘Have you ever come across a document called Directive 21?’
Reinhart stared at Hermann long and hard, his eyes terrified. He looked more shocked than when he had met the lawyer in the bar and been told Rosa and the children were back in Berlin.
‘Are you being serious?’
‘Yes. Are you aware of it?’
‘I am. But how on earth have you heard about it?’
‘For heaven’s sake, Gunter, keep your voice down. You don’t need to know that. Have you actually seen it?’
‘I have. Do you know how top-secret this is?’
‘Tell me how you’ve had access to it?’
‘There is one copy in the Reichsbank. It’s kept in a safe in Funk’s office, but I’ve been able to see it because he’s concerned that if this… hang on, Hermann: you tell me what this Directive is about – you tell me that before I say anything else.’
‘It’s about plans to invade the Soviet Union.’
‘Very well then: Funk and no doubt many of the others are nothing if not greedy. They’re concerned that if – when – this invasion takes place we should have plans in place to get our hands on what assets we can and get them into our Swiss bank accounts. That’s why I have access.’
‘Presumably you can’t take it out of Funk’s office?’
‘Yes and no: if I need to see it, I have to put a request in writing to his private secretary and if he approves it then I’m allowed to see it in a secure room next to Funk’s office.’
‘Are you alone in that room?’
‘Funk’s private secretary is meant to stay with me, but he’s an impatient sort: he’ll usually stay for five minutes and if it looks as though I’m going to be any longer, he’ll go and sit at his desk, which is just outside the door.’
Very slowly the two men walked towards Podbielski Allee station, talking as they went. It was gone eight o’clock before Gunter Reinhart returned to his house in Charlottenburg and the inevitable wrath of his wife. He was, however, oblivious to it.
He had to make a plan.
***
Chapter 15: London and Lisbon, February 1941
On a blustery Tuesday afternoon at the beginning of February, Captain Edgar was summoned to Christopher Porter’s office on the top floor of a building best described as functional. Edgar stood at the narrow window overlooking St James’ Square, his back turned to his superior who appeared to be even more ill at ease in Edgar’s presence than normal.
‘I do wish you’d sit down Edgar.’
Edgar turned round, leaning against the window ledge.
‘You said this was urgent, sir.’ There was a pause before the ‘sir’.
Porter cleared his throat and nervously straightened the fountain-pen holder on his desk. ‘I have to tell you Edgar that I’m getting all kinds of flak from Downing Street. It’s most trying.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that sir: is this in connection with anything in particular?’
‘In connection with our intelligence that Germany may be planning an invasion of the Soviet Union. You insisted on it being a complete secret, but now Downing Street has caught wind of it and they’re not happy, to say the very least. Their view – and I’m informed it’s very much the view of the Prime Minister – is that we should have shared our intelligence such plans existed more widely from the outset.’
‘But we’re not obliged to share every shred of unconfirmed intelligence, surely?’
‘Indeed Edgar – but this is more than a “shred of unconfirmed intelligence”, isn’t it? We knew about the meeting in Bad Reichenhall last July and we know about this directive Hitler issued in December, don’t we? The Prime Minister is of the view that this is the single most important area of intelligence at the moment and we must do everything we can to get our hands on it. It’s been made very clear to me that our failure to share this intelligence is viewed most seriously: the one way in which we can redeem ourselves is by getting our hands on this wretched document. If…’
‘… Get our hands on it! Are you joking? If that’s seriously the view of Downing Street then one has to be most concerned at their grasp on reality. We’ve been told there are no more than nine copies of this Directive 21. The idea we can obtain one of them is ridiculous. How do your chums in Downing Street propose we go about this?’
Porter was now busying himself moving a large blotting pad around on his desk.
‘You’ll need to go out there, Edgar.’
‘To Germany?’
‘Not if we can avoid it. I was wondering about that chap Hunter?’
‘Henry Hunter?’ Edgar began to pace the room, turning once again to stare out of the window, deep in thought. ‘That’s not a bad idea sir, I’ll grant you that. His trial run in Germany last year went well. He’s still in Switzerland: he’s got perfect cover to go into Germany.’
‘The best bet would be for you to get to Switzerland through Portugal and Spain: can’t see another way at the moment. Once you’re safely there we can take a view.’
Edgar stared at Porter in disbelief as it dawned on him he was being serious.
‘Any other country you’d like me to drop into while I’m over there? Italy perhaps? Poland? And how do you propose I get out there?’
Porter smiled as he unlocked a drawer in his desk and removed a small pile of envelopes.
‘That, Edgar, is where I think I can surprise even you!’
‘You are being serious then?’
‘Indeed I am Edgar: not only serious but also resourceful. You may or may not be aware there is a scheduled daily air service from Bristol to Lisbon. You won’t know how hard this has been, but I’ve managed to secure you a seat on the flight this Thursday.’
‘This Thursday?’ Edgar looked surprised. ‘And when I get to Lisbon?’
‘Well, Lisbon station is very much Sandy Morgan’s show. He’ll arrange for you to meet up with Telmo and the three of you can see where we are with regar
ds to our lady in Berlin. After that Morgan will get you into Spain and over to Barcelona: there are scheduled Swissair flights from there into Switzerland. From Barcelona you’re going to have to go into Switzerland with your American cover: no alternative, I’m afraid: the Swiss are terribly jumpy about us at the moment.’
***
Captain Edgar was acutely aware he appeared to have been cast as a character from one of those Agatha Christie crime novels of which his wife was so fond.
It was midday and he and the other characters were assembled in a draughty room at Whitchurch Airport, just outside Bristol. There were 15 passengers including a priest, two elderly women wrapped in furs, a woman accompanied by a young boy and two men speaking Portuguese. Edgar was half expecting to be joined by a Belgian detective with a waxed moustache.
It had been an hour since Edgar had checked in for the flight. For the purposes of the trip, he was travelling under a British diplomatic passport in the name of the Hon Anthony Davis. The ‘Hon’, Edgar assumed, was an example of Porter’s public-school humour. The Hon Anthony Davis had various letters with him to the effect he would be spending an unspecified period of time at the British Embassy in Lisbon dealing with ‘consular services’.
A few minutes after midday the passengers were led out of the room and across the apron to the DC-3 that would be flying them to Lisbon. Within minutes they were airborne, heading west along the Bristol Channel and out towards sea. When the southern tip of Ireland peeked out of the low cloud the plane changed course, at which point the captain spoke to the passengers:
‘Welcome aboard this BOAC flight from Bristol to Lisbon, where we expect to arrive just after four pm local time. Due to wartime flying regulations we will be flying at a maximum altitude of three thousand feet.’
Edgar closed his eyes and tried to rest as the captain continued to speak. He recalled being told the pilots on these flights were all Dutch: they had managed to fly most of the KLM fleet to Britain just before the German invasion of the Netherlands, and they and their planes now serviced the few remaining BOAC flights.
To his surprise, Edgar must have fallen asleep straight away because he was woken by a stern-looking stewardess shaking him by the elbow. They were beginning their descent into Portela Airport.
The plane was flying low, hugging the Portuguese coast, the sky cloudless and the remains of the sun lighting up the land to their left. Edgar glanced to his right: across the aisle the priest was fervently praying, the rosary gripped tightly in his hands. The plane banked sharply over the city, buildings rushing by underneath them. Within a minute, Portela Airport appeared below them. The pilot made one pass of the airport, turned 180 degrees then began the final approach.
***
At the British Embassy just off the Rua de São Domingos, Sandy Morgan greeted Edgar like the old friend that he was. He hurried out from behind his desk in a crumpled white suit and after grasping him by the hand and warmly shaking it, removed a large bottle of Bells from a cabinet by the window. Two glasses were on his desk, one of which he pushed towards Edgar.
‘Now then old chap, bet you can do with one of these?’
Edgar smiled.
‘Good flight, I hope? Beats me how we can get away with it: can’t understand how they just don’t take a shot at our planes. Mind you, I suppose we’d do the same to theirs, eh? Handy though, can’t tell you how much useful stuff we pick up at the airport. We have people watching it the whole time. Germans do as well, so I suppose we cancel each other out. Even pick up their newspapers, which London is rather keen on. Anyway, cheers!’
Morgan downed his whisky, which had clearly not been his first of the afternoon, in one go and quickly refilled his glass from a new bottle he produced from behind his desk. Edgar held his hand over his glass and shook his head.
‘Now then, quick run through the plan. Idea is you stay at my place, which is in an annexe of the embassy, so no need for you to be seen out and about. We’ll sort you accreditation with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs tomorrow. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the story is you’re here to check our consular system?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Funnily enough, they could do with sorting out but I can’t imagine you’re interested in that. That gives you the cover you need: the PVDE keep a careful eye on us, but it’s not too difficult to fool them. Idea is that after a couple of days you’ll come down with something nasty which’ll keep you in bed for a couple of weeks. The doctor we use is a rather helpful chap; he’ll back up any story. That’ll give us enough time to get you to Barcelona and Switzerland then back again, and home without the PVDE spotting it. Sound reasonable?’
Edgar nodded, slightly unsure. Sandy Morgan, despite his manner, was a good operator. He was one of the few station chiefs whom he trusted.
‘We’ll meet with Telmo on either Saturday or Sunday: it’s quieter then, easier all round. I’ll only know for sure late tomorrow. Assuming that goes well, you’ll head off to Spain on Monday. Madrid station will look after you and get you over to Barcelona and a flight from there to Switzerland. You’ll be using an American cover, I understand?’
***
Sunday was warm; it almost felt spring-like. Edgar and Morgan sat on the balcony of Morgan’s small apartment in the Embassy annexe, sipping fresh coffee. Edgar had been aware Morgan had left the apartment very early in the morning, before six as far as he could tell.
‘I wouldn’t say that Telmo has got cold feet but he’s nervous, Edgar. Things aren’t quite right in this city. Portugal is meant to be our oldest ally, but Salazar trusts no-one: not us, not the Germans and certainly not Spain. He seems to have got it into his mind that Spain has plans to invade this place. Upshot is that everyone is very twitchy. The PVDE are watching everyone and Telmo is worried they’re watching him. He tried to cry off on Friday night and then again last night, which is why I had to sneak out this morning. He’s agreed to meet you Edgar, but be gentle with him. He’s one of us, after all.’
‘When and where?’
‘This afternoon: hope you like football.’
Morgan and Edgar left the Embassy later that morning, half an hour apart, and met as arranged at a bar on the Rossio an hour later. They then travelled by tram, taxi, foot and tram again. By the time they had finished their second tram journey they were part of a crowd heading in one direction. They were, Morgan announced, in Lumiar.
‘We’re in the north of the city, not far from the airport.’
Twenty minutes later Edgar was inside a football ground for the first time in his life.
‘Quick briefing Edgar: you’re now in the Campo do Lumiar which is the home of Sporting Clube de Portugal, who are always called Sporting. They’re one of the top clubs in the country; some would say the top club, though I daresay Benfica and Porto might disagree. Their opponents this afternoon are Barreirense, so it’s something of a local derby.’
They were walking down the stand now, Morgan looking carefully along the rows.
‘Just so you don’t appear too ignorant, Sporting play in green, Barreirense in red.’
‘And who do we want to win, Sandy?’
‘Doesn’t matter, does it? Personally I have a soft spot for Benfica, so I don’t mind. Barreirense are quite a good side this year so it could be a close game. Perhaps best if you don’t shout too much anyway. Clap in the right places. Ah… good, there’s Telmo; so he turned up after all. Now remember to be nice to him – make him feel wanted. We don’t want him turning cold on us, do we?’
At the very end of a row Telmo Rocha Martins was standing up, waving casually at them. Here I am. He was short – about five foot five, bald, with a neat moustache and round, black glasses. A large crowd had already formed in the Campo do Lumiar and Telmo, wrapped in a large, slightly shabby jacket, was just one of them.
It was the first time Edgar had actually met Telmo Rocha Martins, one of the most important British agents in Portugal. Telmo was a middle-ranking civil servant in
the Portuguese Ministry of Foreign Affairs – not regarded highly enough nor ranked so senior as to be considered a diplomat, but the kind of civil servant who ensures everything runs smoothly while other people grab the glory. This had been a source of increasing resentment to Telmo, one that had led him to approach the British when the war started with an offer to pass on the kind of information for which money changed hands.
Now, his status and his low profile suited him perfectly. No-one suspected this diminutive, bespectacled man for a moment. The quality of intelligence he passed on to the British improved all the time. He had been given a miniature camera and at first it was copies of Ministry briefing papers and some telegrams from overseas embassies that were passed on. Then, in early 1940, Telmo asked Morgan at one of their regular meetings whether he would be interested, by any chance, in more material from Berlin?
Rather had been Morgan’s response, careful to show he was not too desperate. London had been crying out for anything from Berlin, such was their paucity of sources in the city. And we mean anything: even bloody bus tickets!
What Telmo came up with was much better than ‘bloody bus tickets’. There were briefings from the German foreign ministry, minutes of meetings with German officials, assessments of the strengths and weaknesses of the armed forces, telegrams: half the contents of the diplomatic bag, as far as Morgan could work out. And from what London was telling him, it was all first-class stuff. Well done. Plenty more of that will do nicely thank you!
But Morgan was a cautious chap. He was well aware this intelligence coming out of Berlin could turn out to be too good to be true and, if that were the case, he did not fancy getting the blame for it. So one Saturday afternoon he took Telmo out for a drive to Cascais and they went for a long walk along the seafront.
London want to know how come you’re getting such good material out of Berlin?
They had walked for quite a while with Telmo saying nothing, evidently weighing up whether or not to come clean.