by Alex Gerlis
Tomorrow she would be back in London, with Owen. Her overwhelming thought as she drifted to sleep was how surprised she was that she found herself actually looking forward to being back with her husband. The cold does strange things to you.
ooo000ooo
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Berlin
January 1944
The chauffeur knew to check with his passenger before this particular journey.
‘Short route or long route, sir?’
Admiral Canaris looked at his watch. He preferred the long route. Anything to put off arriving in that wretched building. A pleasant drive through the Tiergarten would take the edge off his nerves. But the one thing you did not risk doing was keep them waiting. People had been shot for less.
‘Better go the short way, Karl.’
The long black Mercedes-Benz Tourenwagen pulled away from the Abwehr headquarters in Tirpitz Ufer and then turned left into Potsdamer Strasse, where they slowed down for the first checkpoint. The SS guards peered into the back of the car, clicked synchronised ‘Sieg Heils’ and waved them through. Then into Potsdamer Platz, where they took the second exit into Hermann Goering Strasse. Canaris smiled. Their arrogance means they can’t even see the irony of naming a wide road after a fat man. Moments later they came to the security barrier at the entrance into Voss Strasse. More peering into the back of the car, a check on a clipboard, a word with the driver about where to park, a Sieg Heil or two and they were through.
Canaris never ceased to be both amazed and appalled at the same time by this building. When it opened in January 1939 the myth was that Speer had built it in a year. Imagine, how wonderful we are! This magnificent building, constructed in just one year! Canaris knew it had taken two years, but he also knew better than to contradict people in matters like this. As he was fond of saying, people had been shot for less.
He climbed the dozen steps into the front, high columned entrance, choosing to walk through the middle of it. In the main reception area he had to wait behind a fat SS general who was complaining that his driver was not waiting for him. He informed the woman behind the desk that he had arrived and sat down to wait for his escort, doing his best to avoid making eye contact with Heinrich Müller, who was on his way out of the building. The last thing he wanted now was to have to make small talk with the head of the Gestapo. The Bavarian was a small man with a thin face. It went without saying that Canaris did not trust him. What made it worse was that Canaris rated Müller’s abilities. He was not someone to underestimate. But look at him, that was the problem with Germany these days. The country run by sergeants and corporals. People with no class.
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Müller was now walking towards him. This was going to be difficult. Just in time, a tall young and appropriately blond and blue-eyed SS-Obersturmführer appeared next to him. They exchanged Sieg Heils – one more enthusiastic than the other – and set off together. Admiral Canaris always thought of Daniel at this moment. He realised that Old Testament prophets were not people that immediately came to mind in this building out of all places, but he had an acute sense of being in the lion’s den.
The young SS-Obersturmführer was walking fast and Canaris was having to concentrate on keeping pace with him. Through the central courtyard and past the ridiculous statues of naked young men and towards the central part of the building.
They were now entering the heart of the Reichskanzlei, the Reich Chancellery. The office of Adolf Hitler.
Sentries were posted every few paces now and the corridors and the rooms off them were increasingly ornate. The SS-Obersturmführer’s jackboots were echoing around off the walls. Still they continued walking, the marbled floors reflecting the light from the small windows, magnificent crests adorning the walls. It was an extraordinary building, he thought. You had to hand it to Speer. He had managed to design a building that both impressed and intimidated those who entered it. The long walk was deliberate. You were left in no doubt as to the importance of where you were heading.
The SS-Obersturmführer wheeled right, leading Canaris into a stunning reception room. He clicked his heels and gestured towards one of the chairs arranged around an unlit fireplace. He then stood at ease on the inside of the door.
Canaris had a moment to reflect and to wonder. When you were summoned to the Reich Chancellery, you could never be quite sure what it was about. It was difficult to predict. Canaris had been good at it up to now, but he was growing weary at trying to stay one step ahead of trouble.
If he was lucky, it would be about Hitler’s current obsession: where would the Allies land in northern Europe – and when. At least he could tell him what he wanted to hear. He had been discussing it with Oster that morning.
‘What matters is not what the Abwehr thinks, but what the Führer thinks. That stubborn bastard made up his mind months ago that the Allies would invade through the Pas de Calais. All that we have done is tell him what he wants to hear. He still believes that he is the great military strategist.’
As long as the Führer remains convinced about the Pas de Calais, then the sooner this damned war might be over, he thought.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival in the room of Martin Bormann. Canaris groaned inwardly, while outwardly greeting him. Hitler’s Private Secretary was always rude. He never treated him with respect. A few minutes somewhere near a trench thirty years ago and these clerks now think they are important enough to be running Germany.
‘Just you, Canaris?’
‘Just me, Bormann.’
‘Uhm. I thought you would have others with you. Are you sure no one will be joining you?’
‘I am sure.’
‘Very well, follow me.’
Canaris followed Bormann, with the SS-Obersturmführer following him. Through an internal door, down a short, narrow corridor, past two sentries and into an inner office. What struck him most whenever he came in here was the sheer height of the room. The magnificent brown marble walls were the height of a house, leading up to a splendid panelled ceiling. Having spent so long in submarines, Canaris felt lost in a room like this.
The three of them walked in single file across the long carpet. Four chairs were arranged around a large, low desk.
Bormann sat in one of the chairs and gestured for Canaris to sit in another.
‘He wants me to assess your intelligence reports, Canaris. Everyone’s telling him different things. He doesn’t like you, but he respects the Abwehr.’
‘And you Bormann?’
‘I neither like you nor respect the Abwehr, Canaris. But I am here to do what the Führer says. Essentially, he is looking for good news. He doesn’t get much of that these days. Russia, North Africa – it’s all terrible. His obsession this week is with the Second Front. That is all he’s talking about. Come over here.’
Canaris followed Bormann to a large table covered in maps and charts. A large map was spread out on top of the table showing the northern coast of France and the southern coast of England.
‘He is obsessed with the Allies attempting to land again in northern Europe. He thinks he knows best, don’t forget that. He certainly doesn’t trust his generals. Look what happened when they tried to land in Dieppe. And now they will have to land a whole army, not just six thousand men. The outcome of the war will depend on whether the Allied invasion of northern Europe succeeds or not, Canaris.
‘If they fail, then they will not be able to try again for years – and by then we will have re-equipped the army, the Luftwaffe will have new and better aircraft and the navy will be stronger. And while we do that, we will be able to move enough divisions away from western Europe to sort out the Russians in the east. But it all depends on making sure that their invasion fails. And the best way of doing that is by ensuring that we are ready for them when they land. What the Führer wants to know is where do you think they will land?’
‘I believe it will be in this area.’ Canaris was pointing to the Pas de Calais, south o
f Boulogne.
‘And tell me why?’
‘Because it puts them nearer to Germany, because there are more places to land, because the sea crossing is shorter, because the terrain is easier and because they will have more air cover. According to Goering, the RAF have been mounting more raids over the past few weeks over the Pas de Calais than over any other part of northern France. Von Rundstedt and Rommel are trying to defend the whole of the northern coast, spreading our forces out too thinly. I believe we should concentrate our defence on the Pas de Calais. At least von Rundstedt has kept the Fifteenth Army in the Pas de Calais and most of the Panzer Group is there.’
‘And what makes you so certain?’
‘Our intelligence. As you know, we have at least two agents operating inside Britain – the Pole and the Spaniard. Both are extremely reliable and the message we are getting back from them is a consistent one: the Allies will invade in the Pas de Calais. They are operating quite independently of each other, of course, but they both report that General Patton’s First US Army is based here in Kent, ideally placed for the short sea crossing. The landing craft are all in Dover and Folkestone. And I am pleased to report another important development which you can convey to the Führer.’
Bormann raised his eyebrows and stepped back half a pace from the table.
‘I am pleased to report that we have another very well placed agent. Her code name is Magpie. She has been in England since 1940 but has only really been active since 1942, when she entered into a relationship with a Royal Navy intelligence officer. In the past few months, the quality of material we have been getting from her has been quite outstanding – and it all points to the invasion being in the Pas de Calais. It is intelligence of the very highest quality which corroborates all our other intelligence. And today I can report a very significant development.’
Bormann’s full attention was now focussed on Canaris. He nodded towards him. Carry on.
‘At the end of last year the British Special Operations Executive recruited Magpie. Because of her training with them, we have heard very little from her in recent months. The contact has been very intermittent. But we did know that they were training her to work with the French resistance in the area where the invasion would take place. Her role would be to ensure that the resistance group was prepared for the invasion. She has now completed her training. She will be flying to France soon.’
‘And do you know where?’
‘No,’ he said, dismissively, allowing a pause for Bormann to reflect on his question. ‘Of course, they are not to going to tell her where she is going. We will only find out when she arrives. But I anticipate here.’
He pointed at the map.
‘Somewhere round ... here. In the Pas de Calais. Just south of Boulogne.’
Bormann nodded approvingly.
‘So,’ he said, gathering his papers and picking up his gloves, signalling the briefing was over, ‘I shall be able to tell the Führer want he wants to hear. He’ll appreciate that.’
Canaris smiled and bowed towards Bormann, gesturing for him to leave the room first.
Bormann stopped in the doorway and stepped close to Canaris.
‘You had better be right, Canaris. Remember, I don’t like you and I don’t trust you.’
As he left the Chancellery, Canaris felt that on balance, he was pleased he had resisted the temptation to describe the feeling as mutual.
ooo000ooo
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
England
20 April 1944
The door of the dark brown Humber slammed shut and even before she had a chance to turn round and wave goodbye and blow a kiss as she knew would be expected of her, the car had accelerated down the road. Nathalie’s last view of her husband was of a blurred but forlorn figure, stepping from the kerb into the road to keep the car in view even as its tail-lights disappeared into the night.
Quinn stepped back onto the pavement and Captain Archibald walked over to him from where he had been standing in the entrance of the pretty wisteria-covered safe house in Holland Park where Nathalie had stayed for almost three months. Sensitive to the mood, the older man said nothing for a while, bouncing slowly on his heels.
‘Chin up, Quinn. Expect you’ll see her soon enough. Could be just a few weeks the way things are going.’
Quinn walked ahead of Archibald, not wanting him to see the tears that despite himself now filled his eyes and were beginning to roll down his cheeks. He intended to say something suitable in reply to show that he agreed, but could not find any words. Archibald clearly sensed the situation.
‘Tell you what, Quinn. Why don’t you take yourself for a walk round the block? Clear your head. You can stay here tonight and take the day off tomorrow. That will give you a long weekend. As long as you’re out of the house by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Need to get the place ready for when we hand it back to the owners.’
So Quinn went for a long walk, circumnavigating Holland Park. He hadn’t known the area before Nathalie was moved here when she had returned from her training at the end of January.
‘Best steer clear of Alderney Street,’ they had said. ‘Don’t want anyone asking awkward questions. This place is safer. She’ll stay here until it’s time to move on.’
They had no idea how long she would be in the safe house, it could a few days, a few weeks, a few months. In the end, it had been three long months.
She was allowed out on her own during the day and he was permitted to visit her and even stay over some nights, though there was always someone else in the house which he found awkward. Whenever he awoke during the night, which was often, he would invariably catch her with her eyes open and staring into the matching darkness.
There were so many things that needed to be said, but their relationship had slipped into a kind of silence. If anything, that made things somewhat easier: Nathalie had always seemed to prefer the quiet and didn’t feel the need to fill the void with conversation as Owen did. Although she was evidently nervous she also seemed more relaxed with Owen, more prone to physical contact than before. Now, she would frequently hold his hand, or stroke his face, cupping her hand under his chin as she did so and holding it there for a while. If he ever tried to broach the subject of her going away, she would remind him that she could not discuss it. You ought to know better, Owen.
For a while he had allowed himself to imagine that Nathalie might not be sent away after all. Maybe they had changed their minds, perhaps she had not performed as well as they had hoped when she had gone away for training, possibly they were having second thoughts about her. She was certainly spending far longer than he had expected in the safe house. From the little he could gather, she spent most of her time in the house learning her cover story and practising her radio skills but in recent weeks there seemed to be less of that and much more waiting around.
But deep down, he knew it was a forlorn hope and by the second week of April Nathalie’s movements became far more restricted. She was no longer allowed out of the house on her own and Owen was no longer allowed to stay the night. It was clear that her departure was imminent.
Owen was still allowed to visit her after work, but he could not stay for more than an hour. He would find that by the time he arrived Nathalie had already eaten and was sitting in the small lounge and he would join her on the sofa where they would talk awkwardly. Neither of them could talk about work and there was precious little else that they could discuss within the earshot of one of Nathalie’s minders who would inevitably be hovering in the kitchen. If they ever dropped their voices, the minder would come closer.
It wouldn’t be long before he would be told that the car was ready to take him back to Pimlico and he would leave, not quite sure when he would see her again.
On the third Monday of April Owen arrived at the safe house in Holland Park just after six thirty to find Nathalie waiting for him in the small entrance hall, wearing a light raincoat and clutching her handbag. Captain Archibald emerged from
the lounge.
‘Thought you two deserved a night out. It’s a lovely evening so I suggest you stroll up to Notting Hill and find somewhere to eat there. Back by eight thirty please, at the latest.’
So they strolled up to Notting Hill. Owen kept glancing behind him as they set out.
‘You won’t spot them, Owen.’
‘Spot who?’
‘Who you’re looking for. Of course, they’re following us. You don’t think they’d let us out all on our own, do you? They watch me like a hawk now.’
Owen put his arm round his wife’s waist and pulled her closer to him. She responded by placing an arm across his shoulders and slightly inclining her head towards his.
‘They’ll be four of them. North, south, east and west. And we won’t have the faintest idea of who they are.’
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’ said Owen.
She shrugged, as if she had never really thought about it like that.
‘It will be any day now, you know that, don’t you, Owen?’
He nodded. ‘I know I shouldn’t ask you this, but I don’t suppose you have any idea at all of where you’re going, do you? Do you know what you are meant to be doing when you get there?’
She pulled sharply away from him, their arms disentangling as she did so.
‘Owen! You know that you can’t ask me that.’
They were in Notting Hill Gate now and at the end of a little alley by the side of a cinema, next door to a sweet shop, they found a pretty fish and chip restaurant called Geales, where they were shown to a table on the first floor in an area where there were just three other tables, two of which were occupied.
Despite her disdain for English food, Nathalie attacked a large piece of cod as if she hadn’t eaten for a week. Owen could not remember the last time he had eaten such a large and tasty haddock.
By the time she had finished eating, Nathalie appeared slightly more relaxed. A smartly dressed couple in their sixties had taken the table next to them, so they spoke quietly, struggling to hear each other’s voices.