Web of Spies

by Colin Smith

  He looked at the bird which had settled on his wrist and was now pecking at the few remaining grains in his palm, once breaking off to give a little trampoline jump and furiously flap its wings to beat off a half-hearted competitor. The rest of the birds appeared to have come to the conclusion that there were richer pickings on the ground and had abandoned the Moudir’s person. Indeed, the reason this lone pigeon preferred the flabby palm of their benefactor was that whenever it settled on the ground the rest of the flock, particularly the white leaders, would drive it away.

  The Turk saw at once that it was an interloper. It was too fat and too grey apart from some distinctive brown feathers in its right wing shoulder. He noticed all this before he spotted the cylinder attached to its right leg. When he had examined its contents the Moudir went to his office and used the field telephone there.

  ***

  It took a Turkish staff officer, a clever, indolent fellow skilled at cards and languages, three days to break the code of five-letter groups the pigeon’s message was written in. He might have taken longer, but on the second day he happened to see a top secret file codenamed Yilderim lying on a brother officer’s desk. He flicked through it, realised its weight and freshness and wondered if the spy’s message might have anything to do with it, and as a test he transposed the Arabic Yilderim to the Roman alphabet, using this as his skeleton key to enter the code.

  There were in fact two messages in the pigeon’s container written in the same hand in block capitals on a single sheet of thin paper. Even before he had finished his work the Turkish officer had discovered that they were written in different languages.

  The long one was in French and the short in German. The French message gave an account of recent troop movements, some of it obviously culled from agents in a good position to observe railway traffic. It was signed ‘NILI’. The German message told how Falkenhayn had outlined his Yilderim plan and revealed Kressenstein’s outspoken objections to it on the grounds that it would denude his front to the point where he would not be able to withstand a fresh British offensive. It was signed ‘DANIEL’.

  ***

  When he had been told about the contents of the Daniel Intercept, as it rapidly became known around Fast’s Hotel, Kressenstein called a meeting of all German and Austrian staff officers. Krag was present and so was Weidinger and so, to the great surprise of both, was Major Franz von Papen, whose well deserved reputation for cleverness had saved him from any further exposure to the British creeping barrages around Arras.

  Kress’s Corset Staves were a bit put out to see von Falkenhayn’s nimble magician in attendance. Good regiments kept this sort of thing within the family. But it soon became apparent why the Uhlan officer had been invited.

  ‘Some Iscariotical bastard,’ said von Kressenstein in a voice so low it was almost a whisper, ‘is betraying us.’ The Bavarian was leaning with his back to his desk, legs crossed, hands gripping the desk top. Krag looked to see whether the knuckles were white. They were.

  Kress waited for a few seconds to allow them to digest his announcement before he fed them the gist of the deciphered message and the circumstances of its interception. ‘We must accept that either here or at the Nazareth headquarters British Intelligence has an agent. Nili watches the trains, but Daniel seems to have eyes and ears in this very building.

  ‘Since I cannot conceive that one of my officers is a traitor I can only conclude that if the information did come from here somebody has been saying too much to the wrong person. In any event, we must get to the bottom of this affair and do it quickly. For this reason it has been agreed that Major von Papen, who has been temporarily detached from his duties with the Herr Marshal, should investigate the matter.’

  Another pause. Several officers looked at Krag, trying to gauge his reaction to this news – for, short-handed as they were, it was well-known that his duties combined security with putting together a daily intelligence assessment. If there was going to be a witch hunt he ought to be the man in charge. Even von Papen contrived to look suitably abashed, greatness thrust upon him.

  Krag, as usual, was giving nothing away. He just stood there, leaning forward slightly, hands behind his back, thumbs crossed. And because Kress knew what they were all thinking he added: ‘This is absolutely no reflection on you, Major Krag. It is simply because I know that certain bonds have grown between us that might tempt us to cover up a comrade’s indiscretion. To be certain the job is done properly it is best that it is done by an outsider who will not be vulnerable to the dangers of having sentiment cloud his judgement.’

  Weidinger glanced at Krag and tried to imagine anything as malleable as mere sentiment lurking behind that iron mask. He could not. He was sure the man would hang his mistress if duty demanded.

  ‘If one of you remembers mentioning Yilderim to someone who is not in this room today,’ Kress went on, ‘even if you are certain in your own mind that the person you spoke to is entirely trustworthy, I would consider it an act of courage if that person presented himself to me or Major von Papen.’

  For an awful moment Weidinger feared that he was about to respond to the Bavarian’s headmasterly request by colouring like a schoolboy. Then the officers were all dismissed – all except Krag and von Papen, whom Kress motioned to stay behind.

  As Weidinger filed out he had to fight down the temptation to turn around to see if Kress was looking at him in some special way. Only the day before Maeltzer had asked him in his jovial way, ‘What exactly is Yilderim?’ His reply, with raised eyebrows, had been. ‘Something you shouldn’t know about.’

  Not that he had not been all that amazed that the journalist had got wind of it, because Fast’s was a gossipy place and Maeltzer, as one might expect, was good at sweeping up crumbs of information. Too good, sometimes, he thought, absently returning the salute of the sentries as he descended the main steps.

  Anyway, Weidinger was damned if he was going to be made to feel guilty about his dealings with Maeltzer. It was well-known that Kress liked to see the journalist fed selective titbits because favourable mention of his sideshow in the neutral press was thought to impress Berlin. And Kress, like most of the professional soldiers here, was forever wondering what effect on his career his prolonged absence from Europe would have once this war was over.

  Yes, thought Weidinger, it was easy enough to be forgotten and for one’s achievements to be pinned onto some thief’s chest. He wondered if the Swedish lunatic and the old Jew had anything to do with the Daniel Intercept. He was not going to risk asking Krag again how his inquiries were going on that score. Krag had made him feel gauche enough the last time he did it. Then it occurred to him that perhaps he should mention the matter to von Papen.

  ***

  Weidinger would have felt more charitably disposed towards Krag had he been able to hear what he was saying at that moment. For back in the briefing-room at Fast’s the intelligence officer was telling Kress and von Papen just what Weidinger had concluded himself: that secrets were hard to keep at this particular headquarters.

  ‘Not only are there Turkish officers at Nazareth aware of the Yilderim plan but there were Turkish officers at the marshal’s briefing here,’ Krag reminded them. ‘And as you know, sir, they tend to be a talkative bunch. Furthermore, most of them do not consider their Syrian servants to be members of the same species. They talk in front of them as if they were dumb animals. Luckily for us the English staff officers in Cairo are almost as bad.’

  ‘Well, perhaps there’s some truth in that,’ conceded Kress, who much preferred the theory of the eavesdropping servant to that of the Iscariotical bastard. ‘But we’re going to have to be more careful in future, limit the distribution of documents even more, make sure that only those who need to know do know. We really can’t have pigeons dropping in on the Turkish gendarmerie bearing our latest views on military matters. I suppose we should thank the good Lord that the bird had a poor sense of navigation.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

 
‘Either that or it was one of your double agents.’

  Von Papen gave vent to one of the short bursts of sycophantic laughter he reserved for senior officers’ jokes. It sounded to Krag like a cat being sick. Nonetheless, the intelligence officer managed one of his attempts at a smile, a faint puckering around the corners of his mouth which his mother, or perhaps Shemsi, might have recognised. ‘Not one of mine, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Do you think Nili and Daniel exist as individuals?’ asked Kress, the levity gone from his voice.

  ‘Difficult to say, sir – at least on the evidence available. They could just as well be codenames for entire networks. On the basis of what has been produced so far I would say that Nili is almost certainly more than one person. I don’t believe that an individual could cover that amount of territory. Hard to say about Daniel. Could be one man, could be more.’

  ‘How big do you think the British intelligence operations are in Palestine? Do they have many agents?’

  The exact truth of the matter was that Krag did not know, and ordinarily he might have said so – but he was not going to admit it in front of von Papen.

  ‘They laid the groundwork for a good intelligence operation before the war, sir,’ he said, and this was accurate enough. ‘They have probably set up networks all over the Levant. For instance, this Major Lawrence the Turks want so badly used to come to Syria on archaeological expeditions and stay for months at a time. Then there was an organisation called the Palestine Exploration Fund. They were always in and out of here. Big expeditions, big camps, young archaeologists fresh out of their universities and their Officer Cadet Training Units making maps and taking photographs of everything they saw: bridges, railways, old castles, new castles. Enough gold sovereigns with them to make lasting friendships. I’m sure you can imagine the sort of thing, sir.’

  ‘Why did the Turks allow it?’

  ‘The usual reason. A little baksheesh in the right place. Either that or the British Consulate here or in Beirut or in Damascus would come up with a convincing argument that would produce the necessary paperwork. In my experience, the British can be very persuasive diplomats.’

  ‘So Daniel, network or individual, could have been operating here since the war started?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Hmm. Well it doesn’t seem to have helped them very much. I suppose they call him Daniel because he’s in the lion’s den, so to speak?’

  ‘Yes, one doesn’t exactly get the impression of a great mind at work,’ drawled von Papen, who had worked as a military attaché in Washington until his expulsion in ‘15 and fancied he knew a thing or two about the Great Game.

  ‘He probably didn’t choose it himself,’ said Krag.

  ‘Quite,’ agreed Kress. ‘For God’s sake don’t underestimate your quarry, Major. He’s been clever enough so far.’

  Krag thought he detected a note of doubt in Kress’s voice, as if he had suddenly become aware of von Papen’s underlying arrogance and was wondering whether he had got the right man for the job. A point for me, Krag decided. If they had been duelling he would just have opened up one of the cheek bones of the Herr Marshal’s clever ADC by a couple of centimetres or so.

  ‘No, I don’t underestimate Daniel, sir,’ said von Papen, who showed no sign of being hurt. ‘I was simply thinking that the people who control him or her are not that clever. I’m not basing this on the codename, although it does to my mind show a depressingly unimaginative mind, but the way they handle his communications. I mean, carrier pigeons. What next? Why don’t they try runners with cleft sticks?’

  ‘What would you suggest?’ asked Krag.

  ‘Wireless,’ said von Papen without hesitation. ‘If I were British intelligence I would have my spies in Palestine wireless their despatches to a ship and then let that ship relay them by wireless telegraph as soon as Cairo came within range of their transmitter. In fact, they were probably already in range. Marconi was sending telegrams across the Atlantic before the war.’

  ‘But can’t such telegrams be intercepted as easily as a pigeon – more easily in fact?’ said Kress.

  ‘Yes, but if they are written in a good cipher it doesn’t matter. The information is acted upon by the time the enemy has cracked your cipher, which is changed for each message.’

  ‘You have more faith in science than I do, Major.’

  Kress seemed to think it was time to change the subject. ‘I can’t make Nili out,’ he said. ‘Sounds like it might be an acronym. Do you think the Turks will catch them, Krag?’

  ‘I don’t see why not, sir. They’re usually very good at police work – they’ve got the manpower, the informers.’

  ‘You know them well don’t you, Krag – the Turks.’

  ‘I’ve been with the Eastern Military Mission almost nine years, sir – since ‘09.’

  ‘Yet you don’t like them very much, do you?’ Kress had a smile on his face which said that he did not find this state of affairs altogether amazing.

  ‘Not very much, sir,’ agreed Krag. ‘There are perhaps one or two exceptions.’

  ‘The usual reasons, I suppose: lazy, corrupt, degenerate?’ Von Papen was looking at him curiously.

  ‘A bit – but I think that is all very exaggerated. You’d be surprised how well they can do things when they really want to. And the discipline of the Turkish army is not entirely based on fear. Properly led they can be very good soldiers. Perhaps not as good as us, but a match for the British or the French any day. Nor are they incapable of producing leaders. Look at Mustafa Kemal, our hero of Gallipoli. No, the thing I dislike about them is their basic xenophobia, their intolerance. It’s part of the jihad mentality, the fact that they are often so willing to kill men, women and children in the name of religion.’

  ‘You’re thinking of the Armenians?’

  ‘Among others.’

  ‘You’re right to be concerned. I want to show you something.’ From his top pocket Kress drew a folded piece of notepaper and passed it to Krag who opened it out and held it so that von Papen could see it as well, like two men sharing a hymn book.

  The notepaper bore the letterhead of the Sonnenaufgang, the German League for the Promotion of Christian Charitable Work in the East. It was a copy of a letter the League had sent to the Journal de Genève complaining about the treatment of Armenian refugees in Aleppo. The tone, to say the least, was indignant. ‘Out of two thousand or three thousand peasant women brought here in good health,’ the letter stated, ‘only thirty or forty living skeletons are left.’

  ‘Appalling,’ said von Papen. It seemed to be the thing to say.

  ‘The missionaries know how to make themselves unpopular,’ was Krag’s only comment when he handed the letter back. He assumed that they must have thought a Zurich-based German-language newspaper like Maeltzer’s would decline to publish criticism of Germany’s allies.

  ‘They are not without influence in Berlin,’ said Kress. ‘The Foreign Ministry is putting some pressure on the Turks to behave. Some of the language is quite strong, urging them not to allow a repeat of the atrocities, that sort of thing. They’re a strange lot our allies,’ he sighed. ‘One moment they are the supreme chevaliers, inheritors of the Saladin charm – I told you about that business with the British prisoners at Easter didn’t I, von Papen?’

  The ADC nodded. ‘It would not have happened in France.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Kress, who always found reminders of the big war going on outside his sandpit irksome. ‘Then the next moment they leave you in no doubt that they are direct descendants of the hordes of Genghis Khan. I tell you frankly, gentlemen, I can never make them out.

  ‘Look at this business with the Jews. For years they allow the old and religious to come to King David’s city to die. Then they start to get involved with the Zionists, permit them to establish settlements, farm the land. They even turn a blind eye when the rich landlords in Beirut start kicking the Syrian peasants off the land they’ve farmed for centuries to sell it to the Jews
for a huge profit. And if the Syrians, most of them fellow-Muslims, begin to complain they hang a few and tell the rest about the great economic benefits Zionism is going to bring. Then the next thing you know they’re upset about this “alien presence” that has been created. The Zionists, of whom at least half must be German-speaking, suddenly all become British spies!’

  ‘Is it true they want to move the Jews away from the coast and disarm them?’ asked von Papen.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s right,’ said Kress. ‘Personally, I think it’s unwarranted. Perhaps a few do flirt with the Entente, like that fellow Aaronsohn, the agronomist. But Djemal Pasha told me the other day that the Jews were waiting for the English “like a bride”.’

  ‘It would only be a few,’ agreed Krag, ‘and they would have no more than a marriage of convenience in mind.’

  Von Papen honoured the intelligence officer with one of his shorter imitations of a cat being sick.

  5

  Athlit: Yom Kippur, 1917

  ***

  Joseph agreed to kill the birds, which they had both grown fond of over the last three months – ‘our Egyptian friends,’ he liked to call them – and Sarah’s sense of duty compelled her to take on the role of assistant executioner. It was almost midnight before they went to the trees where the loft was hidden. The pigeons appeared to be asleep when they arrived.