In Glasgow, Pedro – Garbo’s Agent 3 – had found something that would interest the Abwehr. During the spring of the previous year he had become friendly with an NCO in the RAF, a man of rather weak character who was often short of money. In conversation with Pedro one day, the NCO happened to show the Venezuelan a copy of an RAF aircraft recognition handbook. The airman did not know that Pedro was a Nazi spy, and allowed him to flick through the loose-leaf booklet with its illustrations and specifications on the planes then being used by the British Air Force.
How interesting, Pedro said, handing it back to the RAF man. Would he be prepared to sell it? It would be nice to have as a souvenir. The NCO agreed, but before negotiating a price, Pedro discussed the matter with his chief in London – Garbo.
Garbo – Alaric – put the matter through to his master in Madrid, Kühlenthal. He would, Garbo told Kühlenthal, authorise Pedro to buy the booklet for a maximum of £100. Would Kühlenthal be prepared to pay that amount?
Yes, came the reply. The Abwehr thought it a fair price for an RAF recognition guide.
Garbo relayed this information back to Pedro. But wait, said the Venezuelan. If I offer this man as much as £100 he might become suspicious and start suspecting my motives. Far better, he said, to pay him a mere pound or two. Garbo agreed.
In the end, the RAF man was happy to sell his guidebook for £3. Pedro took possession of it and sent it down to London, to Garbo.
Garbo was very impressed – his agent had shown his integrity by refusing to take the large sum of money suggested by the Germans. He was a man who could be trusted. Garbo mentioned this in his messages to Madrid, and how Agent 3 had risen in his estimation. The Germans concurred. They too were impressed, not only with Agent 3, but also with Garbo, who had likewise demonstrated his own integrity.
Now that Garbo had the booklet in London, there was the small matter of getting it to Madrid to deal with. It was decided that the best option was to send it baked inside a cake. Mrs Gerbers – ‘the Widow’ – was now part of the network and working as an assistant at Garbo’s home. The poor woman had been left penniless after her husband’s death and had sent an urgent message to Garbo only a few weeks earlier pleading for help. Garbo’s answer had been to head up to Liverpool and bring her back down to London with him, taking her on as a housekeeper – she was someone he could trust inside his home.
Now helping to look after the Garbo household, with Garbo’s wife and two small boys to take care of, Mrs Gerbers baked the cake that the RAF booklet would be sent inside, sealed in greaseproof paper. Garbo himself wrote with chocolate icing on the top: ‘With good wishes to Odette’. Inside the packaging he wrote a cover letter to a Miss Odette da Conceição, making out that it was a birthday gift from a seaman, sending a present to his girlfriend in Lisbon. Then in secret ink, in between the lines of text, he wrote a different message to the Germans:
Inside the cake you will find the book on aviation which was obtained by [Agent] Three [Pedro] . . . The cake itself was made for me by the Widow and I did the lettering myself. I had to use several rationed products which I have given in a good cause . . . if it does not arrive too hard it can be eaten. I hope you appreciate the culinary art of the Widow. Good appetite!
Some time later, having been sent via Lisbon, the cake arrived in Madrid. Kühlenthal was delighted with the contents. He was becoming increasingly happy with his London agent, whose occasionally odd behaviour merely added a certain charm to the excellent intelligence that he was starting to provide. It made Kühlenthal look good, and he was proud to be able to share stories about his spy with his superiors.
Admiral Canaris, the head of the Abwehr, even got to hear about the story of the cake. He made frequent visits to Spain during the war. On this occasion he was in Madrid, meeting his intelligence officers at the Abwehr station, and each one was able to regale the chief with stories about their agents. Kühlenthal stole the show, however, with tales of his man in London – Alaric, head of the Arabal network. Alaric, he told Canaris, was not only a spy, he was also a chef. But despite the fact that the cakes he sent them through the post were not great for eating, their contents were of the highest possible quality.
The story did the rounds within the Abwehr, and came back to the British more than once in decoded Bletchley transcripts.
In London, Harris read the Abwehr messages with great interest, watching as, through Garbo, he himself set something in motion, passed it on to the Germans, and then monitored the reaction in the Germans’ comments. Kühlenthal was the closest he had to a personal adversary – Pujol’s other spymaster, his German controller. Part-Jewish, like Harris, yet working for a regime that was starting to murder Jews in their hundreds of thousands. Doubts about him in Berlin persisted, not least because of his Jewish blood; some within the Abwehr counter-espionage section suspected that he might be working for British intelligence.
The RAF aviation guide was genuine enough, but the most recent information had been removed to leave it several months out of date. Indeed, it was identical to a similar guide that the British believed had fallen into German hands some months before during the North Africa campaign.
The truth was that the British were merely feeding the enemy what they already knew. They had no need to buy off Kühlenthal. By his own efforts and blunders, and thanks to Garbo, he was becoming MI5’s own mouthpiece within German intelligence.
13
London, 1943
THE NATIONAL ARCHIVE at Kew has a wealth of material on Garbo. Some of the files are several inches thick, their tattered, ageing pages delicate and fraying, often scribbled with pen and pencil marks from the various people through whose hands they passed before being filed: ‘Tar’ Robertson, ‘Tommy’ Harris, Guy Liddell.
The papers are now available to the public and shed a clear light on one of the most fascinating chapters of the Second World War. Details are given of the hundreds of messages that Garbo sent, how they were then reported by the Abwehr, and subsequently spread through the German military system. There are delightful titbits of information about certain individuals – for example, Kühlenthal’s passion for tennis, and his attempts to have one of his agents send him a racket from London. He received a racket all right, but not of the tennis kind.
Much as I searched, however, there was one file that I could not find, the file that might give a window on to life inside the Garbo office, of how Harris, Pujol and Sarah Bishop worked together. In his account of the Garbo operation, Harris often compares Pujol’s imagination to that of a novelist. ‘It read’, he said of a story that Pujol fed to the Germans about a sub-agent trying to blackmail him, ‘like a scene from a commonplace detective story in which the hero outwits the less subtle, though cunning, crook.’
Indeed, Pujol’s original cover story had been that he was ‘a writer’ based in Britain. His prose style may have been wordy and baroque, but time and again Pujol comes across as a storyteller, even a compulsive one: a fantasist who could change the world around him by the tales he told – often to deceive people or make them think what he wanted, or needed, them to think.
Not least was his ability to create rich, colourful characters. In the end, he dreamed up twenty-seven fictional sub-agents in his network:fn1 they became vital elements of ‘Garbo’ itself, as Ewen Montagu, the Royal Navy representative on the XX Committee described.
‘Tommy and Garbo “lived the life” of all these imaginary sub-agents,’ Montagu wrote, ‘remembering all their characteristics and foibles. For example, if I suggested that [Agent] No. 1 at, for instance, Bristol, should report so and so, it might be that he was no use as he never reported “I believe” or “I’ve heard that”. He always reported something as a fact, but Tommy could get No. 3 to a suitable port in a couple of days and he could report a rumour. On the other hand No. 4 who knew about a subject I wanted reported, could not make the journey because his wife was ill. Every one of these notional sub-agents was like a close personal friend of Tommy and Ga
rbo and lived in their minds.’
Anthony Blunt painted a similar picture.
‘[Harris] “lived” the deception, to the extent that, when he was talking in the small circle of people concerned, it was difficult to tell whether he was talking about real events or one of the fantastic stories which he had just put across to the Nazi Intelligence Service.’
But how did Harris and Pujol conjure up their fictitious sub-agents? What would it have been like to sit in that cramped, dark office on Jermyn Street, and watch them work together?
Let us imagine them in a real situation. It is the autumn of 1943. The Allied invasion of France, they know, will be coming at some point over the following year and the Garbo network will soon be needing new sub-agents to help fool the Germans.
Harris had concluded that an entire, ready-made organisation should be created, a small group of potential sub-agents whose loyalties could be relied on from the start, as there was little time to build up trust in them before a deception plan covering the invasion had to be implemented. Everyone at MI5 felt the pressure: they knew that the Germans were a formidable foe. ‘The enemy is still proud and powerful,’ Churchill had said a few months before. ‘He still possesses enormous armies, vast resources and invaluable strategic territories.’ Memories of Dunkirk and Dieppe were fresh. Schemes to hoodwink the German military would be vital if the Allied landings on the French coast were not to result in disaster.
Stepping into the office one morning, Harris outlined his ideas to Pujol and Sarah Bishop. He suggested a pro-Aryan organisation of some sort, people who felt an affinity with Nazi ideology and who could therefore be easily accepted by the Germans.
Sitting at his desk, his hands illuminated by the pool of light from the table lamp, Pujol listened and quickly put his mind to the task.
‘Aren’t there people in Wales who feel strongly anti-English?’ he asked.
Harris grinned. Pujol already knew the answer. They had been working together closely for a year and a half, and he could already sense where this might be going. His friend was Catalan, and knew how regional resentments could simmer for many years, even centuries.
‘Would that be a useful starting point?’
‘Yes,’ Harris said.
Pujol shuffled in his chair.
‘The Welsh are Celts ¿verdad? And aren’t the Celts also considered one of the Aryan peoples?’
‘They were the last time I checked.’
‘Perhaps we could ask Herr Hitler to confirm,’ said Sarah Bishop.
Pujol smiled.
‘A group of Welsh Aryan nationalists might provide a useful source of future sub-agents,’ he said.
Harris placed his fingertips to his forehead and closed his eyes. Pro-Nazi Welsh Aryan nationalists? Could they really get away with it? And yet he knew by now that the cheekier and more bizarre the idea was, the greater chance it had of success.
‘It’s perfect,’ he said, looking up with a grin. His opponents in the Abwehr were unlikely to question the existence of such a maverick group. In fact he felt sure that they would happily accept ‘intelligence’ from anti-English Welshmen with dreams of aiding the Reich.
What was more, he knew that they already had a Garbo character who could help them build up these new recruits. Stanley, Agent 7, was Welsh, a former merchant seaman who was acting as a military reporter after being invalided out of the Merchant Navy.
Sarah Bishop was one step ahead of him. She went to the cabinet and pulled out the detailed information that they had built up on Agent 7.
Harris took the files and thanked her. Glancing through, he remembered that Stanley was interested mostly in money, and had pestered Garbo many times for payments. But he also had nationalist leanings and, as such, was anti-English.
He dropped the file on to Pujol’s desk.
‘I think we need Stanley to make some new friends.’
Pujol’s fantastical imagination was already working on it. Harris knew that it was best now to hold back and watch.
‘Welsh nationalists, like him,’ Pujol said, his eyes fixed on Harris’s, ‘but even more revolutionary in their thinking. More radical. And they need a name.’
Harris waited. From the look on Pujol’s face, he knew that his friend was on the brink of dreaming one up.
‘I’ve got it,’ Pujol said. Harris and Sarah Bishop leaned in. ‘The Brothers in the Aryan World Order.’
They all laughed, but Pujol carried on speaking as the characters in the group began popping up in his mind.
‘They’re former members of the Welsh Nationalist Party,’ he said, still giggling. ‘And they left because they wanted to create a more radical group of their own. They’ve been acting clandestinely for the past months, maybe years, gathering names of Communists and Jews they want exterminated once their goals have been achieved.’
Harris and Sarah’s laughter died down.
‘Yes,’ Harris said. ‘I think they would provide an excellent source of sub-agents.’
In a matter of moments they had dreamed up the organisation, the name and the motives for their wanting to help the enemy. Now they needed to create the characters who would become Garbo’s agents within the group itself.
Pujol picked up a paper and pencil lying on his desk and started to scribble down notes as Harris and Sarah watched. His hand moved quickly over the page as, in a matter of minutes, he built up a list of members, complete with how each one had been recruited, physical characteristics and their relationships to one another.
‘This would be the first one,’ Pujol said, looking up. ‘A man called David, about thirty years old. He was an old schoolmate of Stanley and was released from military service because of his asthma, which was also the reason why he left the Merchant Navy six years ago.’
Sarah Bishop sat down at her desk to listen, while Harris remained standing.
‘Stanley found David after searching around the Swansea area for sub-agents of his own,’ Pujol continued. He pointed at Agent 7’s file. ‘As we already instructed him to. Stanley was nervous when he approached David, as he thought he might already be working for the Germans through some other organisation, given his politics. But once he realised that was not the case and they got talking, David told Stanley about his small radical group and how they’ve been working for years, building up a dossier of information in the hope of one day passing it on to the Germans.’
‘That’s good,’ Harris said. ‘David can be the first of the group to be recruited.’
‘Stanley already has one sub-agent,’ Sarah Bishop said. ‘Agent 7(1), the soldier in the notional 9th Armoured Division. David can be Agent 7(2).’
Pujol outlined other members of the group for them. It was straightforward from there, he said, to get more Welshmen from within the Brotherhood to act as sub-agents. But while the next three characters were all Welsh and more or less of the same type, Pujol had a surprise for them when he mentioned the fifth member.
‘There is also an Indian,’ he said.
Harris tried to stifle his laughter. At her desk, Sarah Bishop was shaking her head.
‘Are not Indians also considered Aryans?’ Pujol asked.
‘They are,’ Harris said.
‘This man,’ Pujol said, ‘is a dreamer, a poet.’
‘I know!’ Sarah called out. ‘We’ll call him Rags, or something.’
‘Rags it is,’ Harris said.
‘Right,’ Pujol continued. ‘Rags joined the Brotherhood to uphold his fanatical belief in the superiority of the Aryan race.’
‘Naturally,’ Harris grinned.
‘And what’s more, he’s fallen in love with the group’s secretary.’
Sarah Bishop threw him a glance.
‘Who is . . .?’ Harris asked.
‘An Englishwoman.’
‘English?’
‘She’s become Rags’s mistress,’ Pujol explained. ‘And now she’s joined the Brotherhood because she’s attracted to Indian men.’
‘Al
l Indian men? Or just Rags?’ Sarah asked.
‘Something about the physical and moral supremacy of the Aryan races,’ Pujol said.
‘She’d be very useful,’ said Harris. He knew that someone like this could be sent to India. There was an opportunity here to spread the Garbo network into Asia.
‘She needs a name, too,’ said Sarah.
‘Theresa Jardine,’ The name had popped spontaneously into Harris’s head.
There was a moment’s pause before they all nodded. Yes, it worked. It was so mad there was no chance that it could not work.
‘We might want to conscript her into the WRNS.’ Harris looked across to Sarah and she began taking notes. ‘And on account of her predilection for Indians, she should do everything in her power to get a posting to the subcontinent.’
Harris checked the time: he had a meeting to attend. He left Pujol and Sarah in the office to flesh out more details. The Allied invasion of France was only months away – their new additions to the Garbo network could come in handy. He would mention them to Tar Robertson and Masterman when he saw them. His superiors would welcome the new recruits, he felt sure. David, Rags and Theresa Jardine were typical Garbo characters, existing in some borderland between the unbelievable and the credible, so odd that they had to be real. Or at least in the Germans’ minds.
And was it really so strange to dream up something like the Brothers in the Aryan World Order? Real life could throw up equally curious organisations. In fact it was almost as if the Garbo team had clairvoyant powers. Later, in his offical report, Harris would write the following conclusion to his chapter about this particular episode of the Garbo story:
Lest the reader should consider these recruitments too fantastic he should be reminded that the truth is often stranger than fiction. This was subsequently to be proved to us, for several months later the activities of a Welsh seaman who had been arrested were brought to the notice of M.I.5. It transpired that he had been detained for spreading subversive propaganda among his fellow seamen. He had been circulating subversive typewritten leaflets and had spread anti-Semitic propaganda in the name of a small organisation which, from the material discovered amongst his property, ornamented with swastikas and other Nazi emblems, was the ‘ARYAN WORLD ORDER’.
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