The Best of Our Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  ‘My office is just down there, it is easier for me ...’

  ‘Nein.’

  ‘I have to collect a parcel from the back of the post office, here is my ticket ...’

  The cheap suit was gestured through.

  ‘I need to go to the baker’s ...’

  ‘Nein.’

  And then Geraldine. She had already removed her glasses and untied her hair, shaking it as she did so. She flashed a smile at the young sentry.

  ‘I have to collect a parcel but don’t have a ticket. They told me that if I showed them my identity card, that would do and I ...’

  The sentry was not looking too closely at her identity card. Her looked into her eyes and smiled, which she returned, at the same time allowing her hand to brush his.

  ‘All right. But don’t get me into trouble!’

  She gave him another smile and wheeled her bike through, taking care to put her glasses back on and tie back her hair. At the rear of the post office was an open door, from where she could see a man emerging with a parcel. She propped the bicycle against the wall. There was no one to be seen. She removed a plain brown headscarf from her jacket pocket and wrapped it round her head and walked in.

  An elderly woman behind a window asked her for her ticket.

  ‘I am sorry. I have left it at my office. My boss will be so angry with me.’

  ‘Do you remember the number of the ticket?’

  ‘No, but if I could phone him then he could give me the number.’

  ‘I cannot let you use this phone. You must use one through there. I will let you in.’

  She unlocked a door into the main part of the post office. Along the wall to her left was a bank of eight telephone booths. Three were being used. She chose one that had vacant booths on either side and turned to ensure her back was to the room.

  She dialled a Paris number.

  ‘Yes?’ The person answering was speaking French, but in a strong German accent.

  ‘Is that the dentist?’

  ‘It is. Which tooth do you have a problem with?’

  ‘My molar.’

  ‘And when did it start hurting?’

  ‘Last night. Very late last night.’

  ‘And is anyone with you?’

  ‘No. I am phoning from a post office. No one is near me.’

  A long pause.

  ‘Welcome back to France, Magpie. So long since we have spoken! Welcome home.’

  The conversation was urgent and to the point. Where are you? Where are you staying? Who are the people you are with? Where are you working? What is your identity card number? Her answers were quick and equally to the point. She turned round once, but no one was taking any notice of her. She affected a smile, as if in a conversation with a friend or family.

  ‘Is everything as expected?’

  ‘Yes. They are definitely coming in through the Pas de Calais. In this area. I am part of the advance guard.’

  ‘Good. You carry on as normal. I will come up to Boulogne in the next day or so. I will make contact with you when we know it is safe. From now on, it will be easy for you to pass information on to us.’

  The whole conversation had taken no more than five minutes. She returned to the parcel office, explained that her boss could not find the ticket so she would have to return and cycled back to the village alongside the river.

  As she got back on her bike, a man in his early thirties casually stepped back into a dusty shop doorway. Just in case, he covered his face by cupping his hands to light a cigarette. Anyone standing very close would have seen his pale blue eyes and brown hair momentarily catch the glint of the match. Jolly good, he thought to himself. He was carrying the blue coat he had been wearing when he waited for her inside the post office. He had made sure to turn it inside out, so only the beige lining was exposed. She was doing exactly as expected. London would be pleased to hear that. Very pleased.

  ooo000ooo

  Georg Lange had lifted up the receiver of his other phone from its cradle even before he had finished talking to Magpie.

  ‘Get me Major Schmidt in Tirpitz Ufer,’ he ordered the telephonist. This development was so important that Berlin needed to know first. Who could you trust in Paris? He stood up, preparing to talk to his superior. He had once been told that you should always stand up when making an important phone call. It gave you an air of authority apparently. At his height, that was important. He called his secretary in as he waited to be connected to Berlin.

  ‘Gertrude.’ He had lowered his voice and was cupping the receiver with his hand. ‘I need to travel to Boulogne this evening. I may be there some time. Please arrange for a car and for somewhere to stay. But please be discreet. The whole of Avenue Foch does not need to know.’

  ‘Lange?’

  ‘Major Schmidt, a very good afternoon. I have some very good news for you. Magpie has returned to her nest. The British flew her in last night as an SOE agent. They saved us the cost of travel.’ He chuckled at his own little joke.

  ‘And where is she?’ The voice in Berlin was steady.

  ‘In Boulogne, Major. She landed in a field outside the town last night. She linked up with a small resistance cell based in a village on the outskirts of the town. She is certain that she is here to help prepare for the main Allied landings in the Pas de Calais.’

  ‘That is excellent, Lange. Excellent. And what do you propose to do now.’

  ‘I will travel to Boulogne myself this evening. I will be able to handle her personally.’

  ‘Well done, Lange. We have her just where we want her!’

  ‘Indeed, Major.’

  ooo000ooo

  As Lange prepared to travel north, Major Schmidt went to pass the good news to his superiors.

  Since Admiral Canaris had been forced out of office in February, the Abwehr had become part of the SD, so it was General Walter Schellenberg who was informed of this development just before he left for a briefing with Hitler. He liked to be the bearer of good news.

  ooo000ooo

  London, 12 May 1944

  On 12 May 1944, Dr Clarence Leigh’s office in Baker Street was so crowded that he had to bring in extra chairs himself from the room next door. If his secretary had been around she would have sorted it all out, but it was a Friday afternoon and for reasons that he had never quite fathomed, she had to go and do things in the country at the weekend, which meant she was allowed to leave at Friday lunchtime. Let’s hope D-Day is not on a Friday, he thought as he struggled in with another chair. At Oxford there were porters to do this kind of thing.

  Apart from himself, there were Newby and Nicole from F Section, along with that frightfully self-satisfied Major Edgar who was still acting as if he was winning the war single-handed and another chap from the London Controlling Section. Leigh had not met Captain Archibald before, but he seemed a very different kettle of fish altogether. Quite charming. Appeared to possess manners. Very distinguished Navy man in his time, apparently.

  ‘Rider has been in France for three weeks now. Thought it would be a useful opportunity for us to have a catch-up. See how she has been getting on.’ Leigh was flabbergasted. He had called the meeting because SOE had concerns about the whole operation. Now Edgar was trying to take it over. In his office. It was most irregular.

  Leigh cleared his throat. He was determined to be very calm.

  ‘Major Edgar, Captain Archibald. As you know we have had to put ourselves out considerably to accommodate this operation. We had to find a country house we had never used before, nor will be able to use again. We had to bring in a French officer to do the training and escort her over to France. Nicole here was the principal contact with Rider, which restricts her opportunities for working directly with agents again. And we could not even fly her out from our normal base, we had to use a special airstrip.’

  ‘We are, as you are aware, Dr Leigh, most grateful ...’

  ‘But what most concerns myself and F Section now is the extreme danger posed to the resistan
ce in Nord Pas de Calais. The occupation there has been especially brutal. I am unsure if you are aware, but that region is actually run from Brussels by General von Falkenhausen and they have suffered greatly. Notwithstanding that, the FTP have ...’

  ‘FTP?’ Captain Archibald asked.

  ‘I do beg your pardon. Stands for Francs-Tireurs et Partisans. Key resistance organisation even if many of them are communists. As I say, they have been very active in that area. Very well organised and disciplined. Typically they work in detachments of around thirty-five men ... and women. But within each detachment, they are organised in cells and the cells do not have contact with each other. That way, we cut down the risk of people betraying other cells if they are captured. Usually, two cells of four come under a chef de groupe. The chief will command one group of four and his or her adjoint, or assistant, will command another cell of four.

  ‘Clearly we did not want to risk the whole resistance structure in Nord Pas de Calais, as important as this Rider operation is. So what we have done is create a new cell, which was not too difficult as the FTP is especially strong in the Boulogne area. The cell is four strong, so Rider makes it five. And that cell now has no contact with anyone else in that detachment. The chef de groupe has been told this is because Rider needs to be kept isolated for reasons of D-Day security. So we believe that we have managed to protect the rest of the detachment. But in doing that, we have effectively cut that cell of four loose. That means, gentlemen, that four gallant resistance fighters are at very great risk ...’

  Edgar shifted impatiently in his chair and interrupted. ‘But as we keep telling you, Dr Leigh, they are perfectly safe as long the Germans need them. If they touch them, then they expose Rider and if they do that, then they will stop getting all of the information that she provides.’

  ‘Oh, we do understand that, Major Edgar. But at what point will the Germans decide they don’t need Rider? An hour after D-Day starts? What is going to happen then? Will they realise that they have been deceived and arrest her along with the four people in the cell?’

  Captain Archibald noticed that Dr Leigh was getting red in the face and somewhat excited. He attempted to calm things down.

  ‘That will not be the case. Rider has already been given information alerting the Germans to the possibility that the initial Allied attack on D-Day itself will, in fact, be a feint. As soon as D-Day happens, we will reinforce that message to her. The longer that we can keep that going, the better. Anything, to tie the Fifteenth Army and Panzer Group West down in the Pas de Calais for as long as possible. We know from Ultra that the Germans are anticipating a feint, so we believe that they will swallow this information. If we can keep them believing that for at least a week then we will be buying valuable time, but frankly even if it buys us a day or two it could save thousands of Allied lives.’

  ‘And are the Germans really still buying into Pas de Calais?’

  Leigh was trying hard not to sound too sceptical.

  Edgar nodded.

  ‘We think so. Had a bit of a scare in February when Canaris was arrested. He seemed to believe the Pas de Calais line, mainly we think because that’s what his agents like Garbo and Magpie were telling him. So as long as he was running the Abwehr, then we knew that the Pas de Calais was a favourite inside German military intelligence. It’s still a bit unclear about what happened in Berlin in February. Most likely thing is that Himmler finally had enough of Canaris and got Hitler to dismiss him. Canaris is now under house arrest, so he appears to be out of the picture. We’d be surprised if he re-emerges. A chap called Walter Schellenberg who runs the SD is also looking after the Abwehr. But we don’t think that this is affecting the Pas de Calais intelligence we’re sending them. The most important factor is that Hitler remains convinced that the invasion will be in the Pas de Calais and so long as he thinks that, then the Pas de Calais is odds on favourite in the Berlin bookies, so to speak. Having said that, I’m not sure what the Nazi line is on gambling.’

  ‘And how long can you – we – keep this pretence up?’ The sceptical tone was still apparent in Leigh’s voice.

  ‘Well,’ said Major Edgar, ‘there will be a point after D-Day – probably a few days after, possibly a couple of weeks – a bit longer if the Gods are with us, when Ultra and everything else will tell us that the Germans no longer believe that Normandy is a feint. Then they will know that there is going to be no invasion in the Pas de Calais. At that point, we tell you and you somehow get the message to the cell to go into hiding. With some luck, that should only be for a few days.’

  ‘And what are they meant to do with Rider?’

  ‘That,’ said Edgar, ‘is up to them. If she is still around.’

  Silence in the room. Leigh knew what Newby from F Section was thinking, he saw the rationale of it himself. They had taken every precaution they could, but there was a very good chance that the cell of four résistants in Boulogne would have to be sacrificed. Greater good and all that.

  ‘Very well. We shall proceed on that basis.’

  ‘And how,’ asked Captain Archibald, ‘is she getting on over there?’

  Leigh waved his open hand in the direction of Major Newby.

  ‘Major Newby is handling the case personally. Major?’

  ‘She has taken to it rather splendidly. The new cell was a bit of a hotchpotch, to be honest. We weren’t going to risk anyone very experienced, but she seems to have knocked them into shape. We’re getting all your messages through to her loud and clear but, of course, we don’t know what she is doing with them once she gets them. We assume that it is fairly easy for her to make contact with the Abwehr over there. One of our chaps is watching them from a distance so to speak. She seems to have rather taken a shine to a young man in the cell. How is her husband, by the way?’

  ‘Missing her. Poring over his charts and drinking rather too much whisky,’ said Archibald. ‘Convinced they’ll be back together soon and strolling arm in arm down the Champs Élysées.’

  ooo000ooo

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Pas de Calais

  5 June 1944

  By nine o’clock on the evening of Monday, 5 June 1944, the unseasonal storms that had been whipping down the Channel from the Atlantic all week and battering northern France had begun to relent. It now felt a bit more like the typical seasonal bad weather common to all coastal areas.

  It was not just to the sea that anxious residents of the Nord Pas de Calais region would glance. For the past few weeks, the Allied bombing of the region had intensified. ‘Bientôt’ was the word with which locals now tended to greet each other when they were certain they were out of the earshot of any Germans. ‘Il sera très bientôt.’ ‘It will be very soon.’

  In the village of Hesdin-l’Abbé, five miles south of the port of Boulogne, a young man and woman were walking arm in arm by the side of the Rue du Mont de Thunes. Although the road was normally quiet, dozens of German troops were billeted in the village and their lorries and cars had a habit of speeding along with their lights too dim, so the couple chose to wheel their bicycles along the side of the road. To their right, the grey steeple of the seventeenth-century church of St Leger loomed in the distance. To their left was Château Cléry, where the villagers swore that Napoleon had once stayed, though it would be an unusual French village if there was no property to claim a visit, however brief, from the Emperor. Now, the chateau was the residence of German officers. The village began to merge into the countryside and opposite one of the rich ploughed fields that sustained the area was a row of five detached houses, more substantial than the others in the village. The couple paused and fell into each other’s arms, holding the embrace just long enough to be able to observe over each other’s shoulders that all was clear. Satisfied that it was, they turned sharply into the narrow driveway of the second house, which was shielded from the road and its neighbours by tall rows of conifers.

  As the couple approached the side entrance of the house, the door opened. They
were expected. They silently acknowledged the elderly lady behind the door, propped their bikes behind the curtained alcove in the hallway and climbed two flights of stairs. On the upper landing the man picked up a broom resting against a wall and gently tapped the trapdoor above his head. Two taps, a pause and two more taps.

  The trapdoor opened and a ladder lowered to the ground. The couple climbed into the attic to join an older man in there. They nodded to each other.

  ‘You are both all right? Certain you weren’t followed?’ said the older man.

  ‘Pierre, trust us. You always ask.’

  ‘And I will continue to do so, Jean. Geraldine, how are you?’

  She said she was fine as she made sure the trapdoor was firmly closed. Pierre fiddled with the dial on the radio in front of him, Geraldine adjusted the aerial in the rafters of the roof and Jean slipped the safety catch off the American Colt automatic pistol that they had only had for two weeks and were yet to use.

  Within a minute they were tuned into the BBC French programme. Listening to this programme in a nearby house the previous Thursday, Pierre had heard the message:

  L’heure des combats viendra.

  ‘The hour of battle will come.’ The invasion was imminent. The message was telling the resistance that the invasion would take place in the next fifteen days. That night he had risked breaking the curfew to inform as many of the others as he safely could. From then on, at least three of them would listen to the broadcasts every night.

  The following night, 2 June, they had heard the next message:

  Les sanglots lourds

  Des violons

  L’automne.

  It was the first three lines of a poem by Verlaine. The schoolteacher had questioned why the poem was not being quoted accurately. There are two mistakes, he said. Don’t worry, Geraldine had reassured him. You’re not in the classroom now. They knew that when they heard the next lines of the poem, that would be the signal that the invasion would take place the following day.

  Now, three nights later, they were crouched in the attic, the dusty history of a family’s life stacked around them. Tennis racquets, children’s toys, old clothes, a chair without a seat and, wrapped in brown paper, parcels of the resistance newspaper, La Voix du Nord.