Mr Campion's War

by Mike Ripley

  THIRTEEN

  The Devil’s Banker

  Camp des Milles, Aix-en-Provence. October 1942

  I don’t know how Robert did it and didn’t want to know. Should anything go wrong, the less I knew, the better. He must have pulled a few strings with Abwehr headquarters in the grand Hôtel Lutetia in Paris, where James Joyce had written parts of Ulysses and where, before the war, I had enjoyed a level of hospitality I was sure would not be offered to me now. I did not press Robert for details, just as he never pressed me on the methods I used to keep in contact with London. It was not a question of trust between two gentlemen, which I hoped we were, but Robert was just as much in danger from the Gestapo and its Vichy acolytes as I was if things went wrong, so the less we knew of each other’s secrets, the less we could betray under torture.

  However he managed it, by bribery, bullying or coercion, Robert had arranged what he had promised, or threatened, to do; he was taking me to a concentration camp, but no prisoner had been delivered into custody in as much luxury as I was. We travelled in a cream-coloured, chauffeur-driven Panhard et Levassor Dynamic limousine, the chauffeur being one of Robert’s men from the Hôtel Libéria, and I was sure I had also seen him lurking around the staff entrance of the Hôtel Moderne. He was difficult to miss, not because he was big, small, or deformed in any way, but because of where he sat. The Panhard was a battleship of a car which could seat nine people in comfort, but the unusual thing about it was that it had the steering wheel in the middle of the dashboard rather than to the left or right. However quirky the design, the Panhard – which the French affectionately referred to as a ‘Pan Pan’ – provided a very comfortable ride for the thirty-kilometre drive north towards Aix-en-Provence.

  There was also room in the car for a huge wicker hamper which, disappointingly, contained only packs of cigarettes and bottles of cognac, and was not a picnic basket as I had hoped, but a bribe for the duty commandant we had to deal with.

  We may have been driving through Cézanne country, but we had a grimmer destination than rolling fields of lavender. We were expected at a former tile factory near the village of Les Milles, which had become infamous as the Camp des Milles, an unsavoury holding pen for several thousand Jews rounded up that summer by the Vichy authorities, keen to impress their Nazi overlords.

  Robert’s field grey uniform, despite few insignia other than the obligatory eagle holding a swastika badge over the right breast, and the impressive Panhard got us through the main gates with only silent resentful looks from the militia on guard there. The main prison was a large four-storey brick building, with two tall chimneys rising from the rear, which resembled one of those giant wool mills in the West Riding of Yorkshire before it acquired its covering of soot and coal dust.

  To get there, our driver steered the Panhard down a corridor of two-metre-high barbed-wire fences, behind which were penned hundreds of silent, shambling men in civilian clothes, many clutching cheap suitcases and most poorly dressed for the approaching winter. I asked Robert what was going to happen to them and he answered, through tight lips, that they were ‘in transit’ and would be moved north into the Occupied Zone. Indeed, many already had been. When I pressed him as to what happened to them then, he replied grimly, ‘Nothing good.’

  The camp official who greeted us had put on his best uniform but, although it was hung with a rack of medals and yards of gold braid, he could not match his German visitor for military modishness. He did not resent this; rather he seemed deeply respectful and keen to ingratiate himself, especially after he took charge of the hamper in the Panhard. From then on he could not have been more helpful and was far more keen to impress his German visitor with the efficiency of the camp than to question the presence of a Canadian diplomat, or why said diplomat should want to talk to ‘the Israelite’ Nathan Lunel.

  Robert and I had agreed that I should talk to Lunel alone. An immaculate, well-pressed German military uniform might impress a sycophantic Vichy prison warden, but was not likely to be welcomed by a Jew imprisoned for nothing more serious than simply being a Jew.

  Our interview took place in a windowless cell which had been furnished with two chairs and a folding card table. The bare brick walls were stained with damp, and a single wall lamp in a metal cage provided the only light. If the cell contained a listening device, I had no idea where the microphone was hidden. Robert was of the opinion that the camp did not run to such sophisticated equipment, but while I was waiting for Lunel to be extracted from the main prison population, I scoured every inch of that claustrophobic brick box as best I could, looking for tell-tale wires.

  I made sure I was seated, legs crossed, on one of the creaking chairs, and that I was looking relaxed, unaggressive and sympathetic when the door clanged open and Nathan Lunel was pushed, unceremoniously, into my presence.

  He was a small man; balding and dishevelled, his clothes filthy and torn, with the ripped pockets of his jacket flapping loose. He looked a good ten years older than he was. But then, given the circumstances, who could blame him? He gave off that rank odour of dirt and sweat which is known in certain circles as ‘prison smell’, and his entire body shook with nerves. He stood to attention in front of the table, removed his black beret and twisted it nervously in both hands over his stomach, while quivering like a squirrel trying to eat a walnut before he is discovered by other hungry squirrels.

  ‘You are Nathan Lunel?’ I asked in a neutral tone, trying to be official but not intimidating.

  He nodded nervously. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘My name is Hamelin. I am a Canadian diplomat accredited to the Red Cross,’ I lied – quite smoothly, I thought. ‘Please sit down. We have much to discuss.’

  He glanced over both his shoulders, as though expecting a guard to truncheon him into a sitting position, before scraping back the chair and shuffling his knees under the table. In his lap he continued to strangle the life out of his beret.

  ‘Do you speak English?’

  He glanced at me with pity, as if thinking, better than you speak French, but he held his tongue and said only, ‘Yes, sir, I do.’

  ‘Then let us speak it quickly and quietly, Monsieur Lunel. How are they treating you?’

  ‘As a Jew,’ he said grimly.

  ‘I am sorry. There may be a way to … alleviate your situation.’ He frowned at that. ‘I mean, there may be a way to have you removed from here.’

  ‘I understood your words, sir but being removed from this place is a fate which has already been planned for me and my fellow prisoners.’

  ‘That particular fate can be avoided.’

  ‘I seriously doubt that.’

  I glanced around the cell and at the door, to make sure the sliding metal peephole had not moved. I was still unsure about hidden microphones, but it was a risk I had to take as I had no idea how much time I would be allowed with the prisoner.

  ‘Monsieur Lunel, I know what you have been doing this past year. The bank accounts, the transfers, the trips to Algeria, Morocco, Tunisia. You have been working for some very unsavoury clients.’

  I thought I saw his lips twitch, but it was only the briefest shadow of a smile.

  ‘That is the lot of bankers, M’sieur Hamelin. Is it not the case in Canada?’

  ‘You do not seem surprised that I know of your activities.’

  ‘Why should I be? The web I was caught in was a big one. Too many people are involved, powerful people, and the sums involved are large, very large. It was inevitable that the conspiracy would be found out.’

  ‘You knew it was a conspiracy, but you still facilitated it?’

  ‘What choice did I have?’ I realized it had been a stupid question and Lunel had every right to be indignant at it. Instead, he answered it with sad resignation. ‘I am a Jew and Jews have no rights or choices any more. We hold our jobs, our property, our lives, only on the whim of others. I am here talking to you because a guard with a stick and a pistol ordered it.’

  ‘I appreciate tha
t, m’sieur,’ I said, noticing that he was no longer calling me ‘sir’, which I took to be a sign of progress, ‘but I have no whip or truncheon to threaten with. I can only ask you to trust me. I must ask you to trust me.’

  He was silent, reading my face intently. I removed my glasses and placed them on the table between us; a gesture to indicate that I was not hiding behind them.

  ‘How?’

  ‘By telling me about the conspiracy and the cabal of men behind it.’

  ‘Cabal – that is a good word for them,’ he acknowledged, ‘but I cannot tell you much about them.’

  ‘Cannot or will not?’

  ‘Cannot because I do not know who they are.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe. You were their banker and, I think, given your present circumstances, any attempt to protect client confidentiality is both inappropriate and pointless.’

  ‘Would it do me any good if I knew their names and told you? I think I would be dead before dawn. My clients, as you call them, know how to protect their investments. They are powerful. Some are high-ranking SS officers, some are politicians, some are gangsters.’

  ‘But you do not know their names?’

  ‘Not their real names, only the counterfeit names they used to open bank accounts. My task was to transfer those fake accounts to new fake accounts in Vichy banks in Africa.’

  ‘But you know those names?’

  ‘Of course. And’ – he lowered his voice – ‘the account numbers.’

  I sat back in my chair to let what he had said sink in along with the fact that he was volunteering the information in the first place.

  ‘Such information must be very valuable,’ I said. ‘Valuable enough to buy your way out of here, I would have thought. I believe such things are possible.’

  Now it was Lunel’s turn to sit back in his chair, though he was far from relaxed. If anything, his body stiffened, as if expecting a blow.

  ‘I cannot do that. Not as long as they hold my wife.’

  I took a deep breath and tried to retain my external composure, but internally I was kicking myself for my stupidity. I had thought of Nathan Lunel as merely a cog in a devilish machine, and if I could disrupt or somehow loosen that cog, then an enemy would be disadvantaged. I had forgotten – or worse, never considered – that he might also be a human being with feelings for things far more noble than the war or money.

  ‘Was your wife taken in the same Vichy round-up you were?’

  Lunel nodded. ‘She was arrested and put in the Centre Bompard. It is a hotel near the terminus du port now used as a prison for women, but she was removed from there.’

  ‘How? And by whom?’

  ‘How is anything done in Vichy? By corruption, and by a man who makes a career of crime and corruption; the prince of Marseilles’ gangsters, Pirani.’

  ‘I have had some dealings with him myself,’ I said, ‘albeit indirectly. If he is such a power in the land, why has he not also arranged for your release?’

  ‘Why should he? Since the round-ups, no Jew can move as freely as I used to and he knows I will do nothing about the accounts because he has my wife. Whatever Vichy or the Nazis have planned for the Jews here probably means I will soon be a problem he does not have to worry about.’

  ‘But if …’ I said, trying not to give away how big an ‘if’ it was, ‘it was possible to arrange for your escape, not just from here but from France, accompanied by your wife, of course, would you be prepared to share your knowledge of the cabal’s accounts?’

  He leaned forward, and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table. ‘I can do better than that. I have kept a ledger.’

  ‘And you would be willing to trade it for two safe passages?’

  ‘I will hand it to you personally as soon as we cross the border into Switzerland or Spain … or even Canada, M’sieur Hamelin.’

  I did not rise to his Canadian jibe, though I did not begrudge him it. ‘You would not be tempted to use the information in your ledger and access the cash yourself?’

  Lunel relaxed his grip on the table, flexed his fingers and exhaled. ‘Those accounts are tainted, Mr Canadian Diplomat, and I am not so stupid that I do not know where the funds in them came from. I would not touch them if my life depended on it, though my life is not worth very much.’

  He placed a fist on the table, not demanding anything, simply showing he had come to a decision.

  ‘In fact, my life is worth nothing at all; it can be forgotten. I will make a gift of my ledger if you can only get my wife out of France.’

  ‘You are offering me a substantial prize, M’sieur Lunel, without knowing who I represent or whether you can trust me.’

  ‘What choice do I have? If I must put my trust in someone, it might as well be you. At least you have not threatened me or demanded a share of the profits from those accounts – and the profits will be great, enough to tempt any man.’

  ‘But not you?’

  ‘They reek of corruption, and I have no wish to smell that stench again.’

  ‘Which is why those North African accounts must be exposed,’ I said.

  ‘And as soon as possible.’ Lunel spoke softly. ‘There cannot be much time left.’

  He scrutinized my face closely, but it was my most impermeable ‘poker face’ – not that I had ever played poker, but it sounds so much more dramatic than adopting a ‘four no trumps’ expression.

  I knew what Lunel was fishing for: the date of the American invasion of North Africa when those counterfeit accounts would blossom in value as francs became dollars.

  ‘I think the sooner we act, the better,’ I said.

  In the light of what happened subsequently, it seems incredible that at that moment I was suspicious of Lunel and began to doubt everything to do with him. Despite his incarceration and obvious discomfort in Les Milles, there was always the possibility – or so my training in the secret black arts had taught me – that a good story or ‘legend’ could also be a perfect trap. What if Lunel was where he was only to fish for the date and location of the American invasion of North Africa? And if he was, was he doing it in collaboration with Robert and the Abwehr, who had smoothed my path into this very prison? Robert involving me on the basis of an old friendship and the false assumption that the War Office was stupid enough to trust me with any sort of vital information.

  That was the way we were supposed to think: trust no one and assume only ulterior motives. I looked at the pale, drained figure of Nathan Lunel, sitting across the table from me, and thought of my old friend Robert Ringer and what they both had risked – and were going to risk – and decided that to doubt them was the way of madness. If I was to stay sane and retain my faith in humanity which, after all, was what we were fighting for, I would believe in them both and be proud to be on their side.

  ‘M’sieur Lunel, your wife …’

  ‘Astrid. She is much younger than I. You must say you will protect her.’

  ‘If I can, of course I will. Is she from Marseilles?’

  ‘No, from Pau in the Pyrenees, but we were both in Marseilles when the round-ups started. And before you ask, she knows nothing of the African accounts, or of the ledger.’

  ‘You are sure that Paul Pirani is holding her?’

  ‘Astrid is his insurance policy. He knows I will do nothing without her, but make her safe and I will give you everything. You must get my wife out of Vichy, and soon: there is not much time.’

  Again, I assumed Lunel was fishing for the timetable of the North African invasion, but I was wrong. ‘I have no idea how much time we have, m’sieur. I am not privy to the plans of generals and statesmen.’

  Lunel shook his head. ‘You do not understand. You must get Astrid away from Pirani and out of Vichy before the birth.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I said rather aimlessly.

  ‘My wife is pregnant.’

  ‘How far along?’

  ‘Seven months, perhaps a week or two more.’

  He read
the expression on my face.

  ‘But she is young and strong. She will do whatever is necessary to survive. Survival is the only weapon we Jews have these days. All you have to say to her is, “Nathan says …” and she will trust you and do whatever you tell her to do. Get her out of Vichy, M’sieur Hamelin, or whoever you are, and you will have the Lunel Ledger. It does not matter about Lunel himself: just save Astrid and our baby.’

  ‘If I can, M’sieur Lunel, I will save all three of you. Be prepared to move at a moment’s notice.’

  He spread his hands wide, shooting the frayed cuffs of his shirt like a sad magician proving he had nothing up his sleeves.

  ‘I do not have much to pack and my freedom of movement is somewhat limited.’

  ‘Forgive me, I should have said be prepared to be moved. The commandant here will receive a transit order for you. It will be to another prison, I’m afraid, but one which offers, shall we say, some advantages to us.’

  ‘You can do that?’

  ‘I have influential friends,’ I said. ‘Let us leave it at that. With luck the orders will be issued in the next three days.’

  The small man rubbed a hand over his balding pate. ‘Then you have three days to rescue Astrid.’

  Was the little man – the prisoner – bargaining with me? ‘You are convinced that Paul Pirani has her?’

  ‘Yes, I am sure. She was betrayed to the police by Pirani’s partner, a most evil man. An Englishman without honour and without a country. His name is Magnus Asher and he is very dangerous.’

  I had not gone blithely into my interview with Nathan Lunel without a plan, or at least the glimmer of one. It was now time to reveal it to Robert as the gates of Les Milles shrank in the rear-view mirror of the Panhard.

  ‘What are the chances of getting Lunel transferred to the camp at Rivesaltes near Perpignan?’

  ‘You are thinking of the Spanish border,’ said Robert.

  Indeed I was. I had been briefed on the camp by Benton of MI6’s Iberian section. Originally used to house refugees fleeing from Franco’s Spain in 1939, the Rivesaltes camp, only forty kilometres from the border, had been pressed into service by the Vichy regime as a holding pen for prisoners of any ilk, and no doubt ‘undesirables’ such as the Jews. Benton had assured me that the Perpignan area offered the best options for the ‘extraction’, as he put it, of anyone wishing to get out of Vichy France, either on foot into the Spanish foothills of the Pyrenees, or by ship to Barcelona or Valencia.