by Alex Gerlis
By the time it turned dark that afternoon Prince knew Rudi wouldn’t return. He’d sensed the old man knew full well what he was doing, rather like Captain Oates walking into the Antarctic blizzard.
But when he woke the following morning Prince was shocked at his own complacency. It was all well and good Rudi assuring him he’d give nothing away, but if he’d fallen into the hands of the Gestapo those assurances would mean nothing.
Prince couldn’t remain where he was any longer.
He went over in his mind what Tomáš had told him on his last visit, almost a month previously.
‘If things get desperate or you’re in danger…’
He ate what little food was left and prepared his bag. He removed the Beretta and placed it in the waistband of his trousers and made sure his Emil Novák kennkarte was in his top pocket.
* * *
They caught Tomáš early on a bitterly cold morning in early February.
He’d been moving around the city like a fox at night, from safe house to safe house, never staying in one place for more than two nights. Now he was in the basement of a smart villa near the castle, and whereas up to then all his efforts had been concentrated on avoiding capture, now matters changed – a message came from Zora, who was hiding somewhere in the Moravian countryside. Orders had come from London: Tomáš was the only person left alive in Prague who knew where the Englishman was and he was to smuggle him out of Prague as a matter of urgency. So he left the safe house early the next morning and decided to walk to Beethoven Strasse. He reckoned it was safer than taking the tram, but he’d miscalculated – he should have waited until it was busier, mingling with people on their way to work. But with the streets still empty and, crossing Smetana Brücke, he was stopped at a checkpoint.
It was as if they were waiting for him. He was taken to the Gestapo headquarters at the Petschek Palace, which was on Bredauergasse, between Richard Wagner Strasse and Beethoven Strasse where the Englishman and Rudi were hiding, although he had no idea if they were still there.
At first Tomáš was so terrified he felt it might be better to confess. That way he might be able to keep some matters secret – including about the Englishman and Rudi. Especially the Englishman: Zora had made it clear to him just how important he was and how vital it was he should be kept out of Nazi hands and be helped to make his way back to England.
But Tomáš found a resolve he never imagined he possessed. It was a degree of courage which took him by surprise, so much so that he began to take a perverse pride in this hitherto unknown bravery. He found himself able to rise above the physical pain as if he was testing himself successfully against the Gestapo. This allowed him to resist the Gestapo’s interrogations and torture until early February. But on the night of Sunday, 6th February one of his Gestapo interrogators came to his cell and sat next to him on the rough board which passed as a bed.
‘You’re very good. Brave and clever. But you’ll break, people always break. Eventually.’ And then he told him they were sending two men from Berlin to deal with him. They’d be arriving in the morning. One of them was the best interrogator they had, apparently.
‘And the other?’ asked Tomáš.
The Gestapo man slapped him on the knee in a friendly manner. ‘Our best torturer, apparently.’
Chapter 25
London
February 1944
Martin Mason struggled to keep pace with Tom Gilbey and Christine Wright as they marched along Whitehall. They both occasionally glanced round, their expression making it clear they couldn’t understand why he wasn’t making more of an effort to keep up with him.
Tom Gilbey paused when they were inside the side entrance to 10 Downing Street. ‘We’ll be meeting Sir Roland in his office, which is uncomfortable at the best of times. Please just concentrate on facts rather than emotion, where possible.’
Sir Roland Pearson was sitting immobile and silent behind his desk, his eyes carefully following each of them as they entered the room and found a chair to sit on. He was holding a pencil horizontally between his two hands, wisps of steam rising up from a cup in front of him.
‘Sorry about the squeeze. I keep mentioning to Winston how inadequate my office is but he insists he has more important matters to be concerned with… Now then, the last I heard about your chap in Istanbul was that he’d treated himself to a holiday in Greece and then disappeared. Is that correct, Gilbey?’
Tom Gilbey coughed and glanced at Christine Wright, hoping she might answer first, but she was staring resolutely at her notes, as was Martin Mason.
‘Yes and no, Sir Roland. Let’s see where we are – even I get confused with his movements, for want of a better word. He arrived in Istanbul at the end of August and between then and 9th September we received three rather upbeat messages, all indicating he was on the trail of the chromium. We then didn’t hear from him until 21st September when he sent an article saying he had a new lead and was going to Greece.’
‘I hope he at least improved his classical education?’
‘I fear he’s not the classics type, Sir Roland. As soon as we received this message we sent him a telegram with a very clear “abort” instruction and then set Bryant and Stone on his trail, but he’d disappeared. However, on the… Christine, help me out, if you will?’
‘The 6th October, Mr Gilbey.’
‘That’s it, ah – here we are – on the 6th October another message comes through. It read: chromium located accompanying on journey on Danube to factory – from which we had to assume he was travelling with the chromium.’
‘To where?’
‘We assumed the factory he referred to was the Škoda factory in Pilsen, in what used to be Czechoslovakia, but we were rather in the dark. Christine, perhaps you could…?’
‘Radio silence until 19th October when the Czech section of the SOE here in London were contacted by one of their agents in Pilsen, code name is Zora. She was parachuted in in late ’42 and is responsible for operations in the Pilsen area. On 18th October a chap turns up at the Škoda factory in Pilsen wanting to take snaps of the place.’
‘Our man?’
‘So it would seem, Sir Roland. Apparently he’d travelled with the cargo of chromium all the way from Istanbul to Romania, then as it was transported up the Danube to Passau in Bavaria and from there by lorry to Pilsen. A Hungarian chap who was in charge of the cargo was aiding him and he suggested he approach one of the chaps at Škoda who happened to be involved in the resistance. Naturally, they were rather suspicious and took him to a safe house in the city and locked him up before contacting Zora. She had the nous to ask him for a name they could use to check with London and he came up with Michael Eugene Doyle. Czech section put the word about and fortunately we caught wind of it.’
Tom Gilbey continued. ‘I recall mentioning all this to you in some corridor or other, Sir Roland, but never mind. A message we sent back was along the lines of yes, he’s most certainly one of ours, send him our warmest regards, please give him every assistance et cetera, et cetera and tell him to get the hell back here with the bloody evidence, if you’ll excuse my language, as soon as possible if not sooner. He’s been away for quite long enough.’
‘Splendid,’ said Sir Roland, sipping his tea. ‘And that was when?’
‘Late October. Since then nothing. Czech section of the SOE say things have gone rather badly in Pilsen. The resistance group at Škoda have all been rounded up but they don’t know about our man.’
‘Nothing in what… nearly four months? That’s ridiculous. If he still has the bloody snaps they’ll be out of date!’
‘If it’s any consolation the SOE don’t think he was captured. They believe they’d have heard if he was. They think there’s a possibility he may have gone to Prague.’
‘Prague? Quite the grand tour, eh?’
‘Indeed, Sir Roland. It’s not confirmed but they think at one stage in November he was being looked after by a resistance group there which has since been bl
own.’
‘Blown?’
‘The usual story, Sir Roland,’ said Christine Wright. ‘Some arrested, some gone into hiding. Again, the best they can say about our chap is that no news is good news.’
There was a long silence in the room. It was oppressively warm and Tom Gilbey loosened his tie. Martin Mason spoke for the first time.
‘However we do have reason to believe he may have the photographic evidence we require. It may well be that he’s laying low but that’s not the point. We need him back here and, more importantly, we need the bloody photographs. I’ve told the SOE they must regard getting him back here as an absolute priority for the Czech section. They’ve promised to do what they can. From what I understand they believe there’s one man in Prague who may know where he is. He’s being ordered to drop everything and get him out of Prague and back here.’
‘You really think there’s a likelihood of them getting him back here?’
‘A remote one, but it would help if next time Winston meets with the SOE he could tell them how important he personally regards this.’
‘I’ll do what I can but I’d rather been hoping to keep any bad news from Winston. That’s all I seem to give him these days and he’s got enough on his plate as it.’
* * *
As the meeting ended Sir Roland Pearson asked his former schoolmate to wait behind.
‘No news on the boy, Tom? I imagine if there had been you’d have told me.’
‘Of course, Roly. No news, I’m afraid – it’s not for the want of us trying.’
‘Of course, of course… poor chap though, imagine getting home after all he must have been through to find his son’s still missing.’
Chapter 26
Prague, Munich and London
February 1944
‘We can’t sort this now. You’ll need to come back with the proper papers.’
‘I don’t have any.’
‘Very well, then…’ She closed her eyes momentarily as she thought. She’d placed her hands flat on the counter but he noticed they were shaking. She looked up as her colleague next to her gathered her things and said she’d be back in ten minutes.
‘Go to St Vitus’s Cathedral.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘You can’t miss it, it’s more or less in front of this building. In an hour I can go for a short break. Meet me in there in the Wenceslas Chapel – it’s on the right as you face the high altar.’
* * *
‘Her name is Inge Brunner. She’s a clerk in the consular affairs section of the Swiss consulate on Hradschinplatz.’ It was Tomáš’s last visit to the attic in January and the Czech leaned closer to him, the warmth of his breath visible in the cold room. Prince noticed how pale the Czech’s skin looked and how it had the transparency of a much older person. ‘She’s been helping us over the years, but in a limited way. She won’t deal with Czech nationals, but occasionally she’ll help with foreigners – especially from the neutral countries—’
‘…well Ireland is a—’
‘…I know, I know,’ said Tomáš. ‘That’s why I’m telling you about her. She’s a rather enigmatic type but is undoubtedly anti-fascist, though we’re not sure why. We don’t ask many questions. One of my comrades thinks there may have been a boyfriend killed in the Spanish Civil War, but who knows. But remember, when you get there, it is only Inge Brunner you deal with. On no account are you to approach anyone else.’
* * *
Prince had left the building on Beethoven Strasse just after nine o’clock, Monday morning in early February, knowing once he’d left he couldn’t risk returning.
Before leaving he’d checked the map Tomáš had sketched for him one last time, his finger running the route from the right bank of the Vltava, which the Nazis now called the Moldau, to its left bank. He tore the map into tiny pieces and flushed them down the toilet. He remembered he had some stale biscuits left which he slipped into his pocket.
He walked across Wenceslas Square, managing to spot a German checkpoint being set up so turned into a series of side streets, worried at first he was lost but then spotting a sign telling him he was in Altstadt. He knew then he was in the Old Town and so headed west, soon finding the Charles Bridge with its gallery of statues. On the other side of the river a couple of bored-looking sentries were doing little more than glancing at everyone’s kennkarte and there was no problem with his. It was a ten-minute walk from there to Hradschinplatz, the Swiss flag signalling his destination.
The consular affairs section was a rather handsome, low-ceilinged room with dark wood panelling and a tiled floor which created a series of echoes with every step. At one end of the room was a counter, rather like in a bank. Behind a glass partition were five well-spaced cubicles, but only three of them were occupied by clerks, each with their name displayed on a wooden plaque in front of their position. On the left was a Fräulein Inge Brunner, possibly his age, with her hair tied back but eyes which reminded him of Hanne. Prince patiently waited his turn, worried one of the other clerks might become free first.
Fortunately Inge Brunner had just finished with someone as Prince reached the front of the queue. She nodded her head for him to come forward. He spoke in German, so quietly she had to lean forward. He explained he was an Irish national – ‘here are my papers’ – and he urgently needed to get to Switzerland. Her expression was unchanged, what he’d describe as businesslike. That was until he used the phrase Tomáš had told him to use.
‘My very good friend Oskar from Moravia sends you his warmest regards.’
She nodded and although her expression was unchanged her body seemed to tighten.
‘How nice. And how is Oskar?’
Prince said Oskar’s leg was very much better, thank you, and she nodded once more and it was then she told him he’d need to come back with more documents and where they should meet in the cathedral.
* * *
The Gothic splendour of the cathedral was lost on Prince who’d gone straight to it from the consulate only to realise he’d arrived too early. He slowly walked round it before sitting quietly in a pew by the Archbishop’s Chapel. The air felt ancient, unchanged for centuries, as if trapped under the cathedral’s extraordinary vaulted ceiling. The shafts of light filtering in through the magnificent windows behind the high altar barely reached the seating area.
At eleven thirty he entered the Wenceslas Chapel and was surprised to see Inge Brunner was already there, alone. ‘Your German is not good enough to be that of a Swiss German, I’m afraid.’ She paused and glanced behind her, shifting closer to him on the narrow bench. They had their backs to the main body of the cathedral and were facing the tomb of St Wenceslas and the frescoes of Christ’s Passion behind it.
‘Do you speak French or Italian?’
‘Some French, but it’s not as good as my German. No Italian.’
‘I suggest you return to the consulate in about one hour. We close at one for lunch, so come before then. Make sure you see me. You will say you are a Swiss national, from say… let’s say Montreux. So we’ll come up with a name and an address. Say you’ve lost all your papers. In those circumstances, I’m able to give you temporary documentation. I—’
‘…thank you so much, I—’
‘…wait, it’s not as straightforward as you’d wish. I am only able to give you transit papers to cross one border. For papers to see you all the way through to Switzerland that would mean me referring the matter to the consul general upstairs and that is too risky, and in any case would take two or three days. Transit papers means I can issue you with documents today to get into Germany. There you’d need to visit another Swiss consulate to get another set of papers to travel on.’
‘Germany?’
‘I’m afraid so, though in any case that’s your best route, and if you go to Munich I have a good friend at our consulate there, someone I trust and have used for this before. I’ll send a cable to let her know you’re coming and ask her to issue you with
papers to enable you to travel from there into Switzerland. From Munich to the Swiss border is not far, there are trains…’
* * *
By one o’clock a Charles Rochat from Le Châtelard in Montreux had been issued with a set of impressive-looking papers from the Swiss consulate in Prague. Along with various official stamps was one which made it very clear in German, Czech and French that these papers were only valid for travel to the German Reich.
‘I cannot guarantee they’ll work, but…’
The consular affairs section was closing for lunch and the other clerks had already left their cubicles. He and Inge Brunner were the only ones left in the room.
‘I’ve written here the address of the Swiss consulate in Munich – it’s on Ottostrasse, not too far from the main station, between it and the river Isar. My friend there is Sigrid Schneider, I’ll cable her this afternoon and tell her to expect you. Do you have money?’
Prince said he did.
‘My advice is to take a late train. It takes a ridiculously long time – something like twelve hours –but a colleague here travelled on it last month and said there was less security than on the daytime trains. They only run this service because of the bombing – trains are less of a target in the dark.’
He managed to make the walk back across Charles Bridge and through the Old Town to Veitsberg and the train station last an hour and a half. The queue for a ticket took another half an hour.
‘Papers, please.’
The clerk carefully checked his papers. He added some stamps and wrote something in a ledger.
‘To Munich, you say? There’s a train departing at four o’clock – in… forty minutes time. The one after that leaves at a quarter past seven and arrives in Munich at… a half past seven tomorrow morning, stopping at most stations en route so it seems these days.’