by Larry Loftis
Dusko wondered aloud about the risk for Johnny, but his friend was stoic. Jebsen loved his country, he said, but felt no obligation to follow “a bloody tyrant.” Popov appreciated his predicament. A wealthy aristocrat without a care in the world and seemingly overnight his estate and lifestyle were in jeopardy. Yet it was more than that. Independence, freedom of thought, resistance—even disobedience—were deeply rooted Prussian values that permeated German nobility. It was reported that a Prussian commanding officer once scolded a major for following orders to the letter, saying, “The King of Prussia made you a staff officer so that you would know when you ought not to carry out his orders.”
Wehrmacht commanders of Prussian heritage regularly exhibited this independent thought and disobedience. Field Marshal Paul Ludwig von Kleist would lose his command in March 1944 when he disobeyed Hitler’s order and allowed the Eighth Army to retreat when in danger of annihilation from the Russians. General Dietrich von Choltitz, military governor of Paris, also disobeyed Hitler’s order by refusing to destroy the city in August 1944.
And such independence was not limited to the military. Historian Hans Schoeps described Prussia as “the home of thought.” As later years of the war would reveal, most of the leaders of the resistance movement—Carl Goerdeler, Helmuth Graf von Moltke, Ulrich von Hassell, Adam von Trott zu Solzm, Peter Yorck von Wartenburg, Henning von Tresckow, Ernst von Harnack, Wolf-Heinrich Graf von Helldorf, and Johannes Popitz—were Prussians.
With an upbringing in a wealthy Hamburg family influenced by this tradition, Jebsen kept his own mind on politics and man’s place in the world. He was no one’s harlequin, especially Hitler’s, and Nazis be damned he would orchestrate his own path through the war.
Popov agreed to help and took the list of ships to the British Embassy and met with a Mr. How, first secretary. While there, Dusko informed the secretary of the prior advances of von Stein, and inquired as to how he should move forward. Without mentioning a double agent role, How suggested that Popov indicate his willingness to work for the Germans. As for the ships, How passed Dusko to H. N. Sturrock, commercial secretary, who agreed to look into a possible purchase.
Days later Johnny informed Dusko that he had joined the Abwehr. At the time, most German aristocrats were enlisting in one of the two secret intelligence agencies—the Nazi Party’s SD or the military’s Abwehr. The latter, under legendary Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, was expanding rapidly. When Hitler rose to power, the Abwehr maintained a staff of one hundred fifty; by 1937 the organization had expanded to more than nine hundred. A man of Jebsen’s intellect and nobility was exactly what Canaris wanted for his spies. And for Johnny, joining a branch staffed almost exclusively with non-Nazis was exactly what he wanted.
Popov wasn’t entirely surprised by the announcement; every German male who didn’t join the service was considered a traitor, and treason was punishable by death. In his capacity as a Forscher (researcher), Johnny would avoid being cannon fodder on the front lines. But Jebsen had another reason for joining the Abwehr—freedom. Since his job entailed recruiting other spies, he was free to travel as he pleased, which would keep him in touch with what was happening in the world outside Germany. It was what opposition leaders like Carl Goerdeler referred to as ties to the “greater world.”
For Dusko, the stakes were mounting. His best friend had joined the Abwehr, and von Stein—working independently of Jebsen—pressed Popov to throw his lot in with the Germans. At the same time, the British remained coy.
Soon after this St. George Lethbridge, SIS (MI6) Belgrade station chief, summoned Popov to Passport Control. Dusko told him about von Stein, Johnny, and the overall German recruitment. Without offering specifics, Lethbridge said to play along. Anxious to stoke the fire, Dusko suggested that he could fool the Germans by claiming that a friend in London—Mr. Ivanovitch, director of the Yugoslav Lloyd and nephew of Bozo Banac—would be able to assist with information; the Abwehr could readily confirm the source and Dusko’s bona fides would be established. Ivanovitch had recently left for an extended stay in America, they soon discovered, and Popov suggested a second, fictional source who would be a staff member at the Yugoslav legation. Dusko would claim that the man refused to give his name, thus protecting the ruse.
Lethbridge agreed, but told Popov he couldn’t mention their meeting to Jebsen. Dusko left with both feet planted firmly in midair—not quite a British agent, gagged with respect to Johnny, and about to become an Abwehr operative with unknown terms.
Dusko informed von Stein of his decision, and over the next few weeks Jebsen delivered three questionnaires to pass along to the London source. The documents requested information on British defensive measures along the south coast, location and sizes of divisions, officer names, anti-tank developments, armament factories, Churchill’s enemies, and more. The answers would take considerable time, Dusko realized, since the “diplomat” providing the information would be a team of British intelligence officers.
While leading the Germans to believe he had sent the questionnaires on through the diplomatic bag, Dusko instead gave them to Lethbridge, who forwarded everything to SIS London. At once MI6 and MI5 recognized the difficulty in processing the questions. All answers would have to be meticulously researched, coordinated between both agencies and the military, and approved. One slip and Popov would be blown.
As British Intelligence worked on the questions, the Germans became impatient. Weeks went by and Popov had heard nothing back from Lethbridge or MI6. When Johnny inquired about the delay, Dusko told him that his embassy source was fearful of putting the classified information in the diplomatic bag. Popov, the Germans suggested, would have to go to London to personally collect the answers.
The shell game between Dusko and Johnny continued, neither knowing the full intentions of the other. At their next meeting Jebsen said that they were “now both in the same service,” but probed as to Popov’s motivation. Johnny said he had joined the Abwehr because his varicose veins prevented normal duties as a soldier, and because he fit in better as an export/import type of agent. But why would Popov—being a democrat—help the Germans? he asked.
Dusko bluffed. He said he wanted an easier living, and that he had been promised big positions after the war. Johnny made no mention of the fact that Dusko needed neither.
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The first week of November Jebsen advised that a Major Ollschlager, head of the Abwehr’s I. H. Ost (Army Intelligence East) and Johnny’s supervisor, was in town. His real name, Popov learned, was Colonel Ernst Munzinger, and he also used aliases of “Hoeflinger” and “Anzueto.” About fifty, Munzinger had a ruddy complexion, with graying hair and rimless spectacles. Precise in his dress, the colonel preferred dark suits but always wore a green hat—with a feather.
At a restaurant outside Belgrade, Munzinger made the formal offer and disclosures. Espionage had risks, he admitted, but the Abwehr paid agents well and Popov would be rewarded with a position of prominence in the new Yugoslavia. Dusko accepted and the following day met Munzinger at the German Embassy to receive final instructions, a questionnaire for the London source, a vial of secret ink, and his code name: IVAN.
He was now a double agent.
Dusko’s decision did not come lightly. Joining the Abwehr and MI6 meant he’d wear no uniform and have no protection; spies were excluded from the Geneva Convention. If the Abwehr or the Gestapo caught him doubling, they could do with him as they pleased. That was a risk he was willing to take, but what about Johnny? Granted, Jebsen was not a Nazi, but neither was Canaris or Oster, his chief of staff, yet they and others like them were loyal to their country. Did Johnny realize that Dusko’s hatred of the Nazis would push him to the British? More importantly, would Jebsen look the other way?
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Over the ensuing weeks Popov had to establish a legitimate cover—linking trade between Yugoslavia and England—as an import/export consultant. One day while dr
umming up business, his BMW broke down. Since Dusko’s parents were in Dubrovnik, his father’s chauffeur, Bozidar, agreed to drive him around. A few weeks later, Dusko recalled in his memoirs, Johnny burst into his bedroom waving a set of papers.
“You’re being sold out by Bozidar!”
There were nine pages, Jebsen said, listing every appointment, every person Popov had seen in the last two weeks. Before he left for Vienna, Munzinger had hired Popov’s family chauffeur to spy on Dusko. Bozidar had sabotaged the BMW.
Dusko glanced at the report and shrugged. It was mostly a record of where his girlfriends lived, he said.
“What about this?” Johnny pointed to multiple visits to the same address. Dusko said it was the Passport Control Office, where he applied for his visa to England.
“Six times? Come off it, Dusko. It is also the headquarters of British Intelligence.”
Popov let the silence hang for a moment as he considered his predicament. He knew Johnny was anti-Nazi, but Jebsen was now a soldier in the German Army. He, Munzinger, and Bozidar were all on the same team, and Popov’s multiple visits to British Intelligence all but proved Dusko was doubling for the enemy. Was Johnny’s comment a shot across the bow?
He processed loyalties. If Johnny put the Abwehr first, he’d not have revealed the problem with Bozidar and the report. Patriotism aside, Dusko believed their brotherly bond was more secure than uniforms. He said he hoped this didn’t change things.
Johnny bristled and said that it was liable to blow Popov and everyone connected with him.
After a few moments Dusko told Johnny he’d prepare a new, false report and deal with Bozidar. Jebsen left, and Dusko went to inform his brother Ivo, whose medical office was nearby, that he was going to send the chauffeur on a long trip. Ivo didn’t like the solution. “Bozidar is a cancer now,” he said. “There is nothing we can do that will alter him. As long as he lives, he always remains a threat to you.”
Like a patriarchal brother, Ivo wanted to intercede and take care of Bozidar. It would be safer, he said, in case the Germans investigated. Dusko was touched but felt that it was his mess and his responsibility. He’d do it.
But not until nightfall.
4
MAGIC
Dusko wrestled with the decision all day. Years later, he would explain the dilemma: “[A] world at war is not sane. It has no rules. . . . Your weapons are lies, treachery, violence, murder. If you do not use them the result may be that you will lose a battle. You might lose thousands of lives which could have been saved. Or you might lose the whole war.”
After sunset he met with two roughnecks he’d represented previously in a criminal case. Whispering his predicament, he slipped the men a sheaf of bills. Later that night he asked Bozidar to run an errand. Struggling with the finality of the action, Dusko wrote in his memoirs, he gave Bozidar an opportunity to come clean.
“Have I been running you around too much these past few weeks? You look tired. Or worried. Is there anything?” He offered to use taxis until the BMW was repaired.
“Oh, no, no, no,” Bozidar said. “I’m glad to be of service.”
Dusko nodded and retired to bed.
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The following day police reported that Bozidar had been shot by railroad guards during an attempted theft. After the war, Dusko would have no regrets. Bozidar was working for the Nazis, he told an interviewer, and “could have caused death to me and many others.”
Johnny arrived that afternoon and chastised Popov for the lethal action. “Would you kill me, too, if you discovered I was playing dirty?” The question was unnerving. Dusko could only wonder if the tension and the loyalty issue would persist throughout the war. Would he have to constantly look over his shoulder, even with his best friend?
Johnny let it go and moved on to Munzinger’s questionnaire, telling Dusko to deliver something soon as the Abwehr would be watching closely. Dusko, however, was hamstrung—since the British were preparing the report, he’d have to hold Johnny off until MI5 delivered the goods.
The situation was precarious. He’d just started as an official Abwehr spy and already the whole thing was a mess. Jebsen knew he’d bumped off Bozidar, yet looked the other way. He knew of Dusko’s multiple visits to British Intelligence, yet assisted in the falsified report. Johnny was protecting him, yet was dutifully performing his Abwehr assignments.
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Sometime later, Popov wrote, he met Lethbridge at a secluded park outside Belgrade for final tutelage. “Act as if you are a real German spy,” the spook said. “Forget you belong to us. While traveling, look as though you are worried that the English may suspect you. You can be sure the Germans will be observing you at every moment. Keep your eyes and your ears open and your mouth shut. Remember names and addresses and faces and every word you hear from or about the Germans, but put nothing in writing.”
Lethbridge explained that British Intelligence was interested in anything Dusko might hear about Operation Sea Lion, Germany’s planned invasion of Britain. He didn’t know to which unit Dusko would be assigned, but explained that British Intelligence was comprised of two primary sections: the Secret Intelligence Service, better known as SIS or MI6, which handled intelligence abroad, and the Security Intelligence Service, MI5, which oversaw domestic counterintelligence and double agents.
Indeed, the British were learning the double-cross game on the fly. Their only other double agent with Abwehr contact—Arthur Owens (codenamed SNOW)—was believed to be a triple, and MI5 was perplexed with how to use him. A Welsh engineer, Owens had patented a special dry cell battery, which was sold in great quantities to the German Navy. In 1936, during one of his frequent trips to Hamburg, Owens met with an Abwehr controller. MI6 put him under surveillance, and it appeared that Arthur had been engaged as a German spy. When Owens returned to London, British Intelligence interrogated him at length. Through it all, Owens proclaimed his loyalty, and MI5 allowed him limited duties as a double agent. On August 18, 1939, however, SNOW’s wife and son notified Scotland Yard that Arthur was a Nazi spy. Owens, who appeared to be playing both sides for money, continued to proclaim his innocence. In the ultimate game of double-cross, MI5 used Owens—by radio link from Wandsworth prison to Hamburg—to contact his Abwehr controller, Dr. Rantzau (whose real name was Nikolaus Ritter). It was the first wireless contact with the enemy.
Owens was allowed to visit Antwerp in 1940, but Major Robertson and Guy Liddell of MI5 continued to have serious doubts about his loyalty. The agency’s other spies proved equally uninspiring. Sam McCarthy, codenamed BISCUIT, was a reformed criminal, con man, and drug dealer. Gösta Caroli, a turned Germany spy codenamed SUMMER, MI5 planned to execute. Walter Dicketts, codenamed CELERY, was an air intelligence officer during World War I who had been discharged from the RAF for dishonesty.
Popov, on the other hand, offered intriguing potential. MI6 chief Stewart Menzies, “C” as he was known in intelligence circles, sought to use him to find out everything he could about his own counterpart, Abwehr chief Admiral Wilhelm Canaris. Canaris had been a peculiar opponent, and Menzies was processing considerable evidence that the admiral was not a Nazi and did not support Hitler. Better still was information that Canaris had gone so far as to warn the Allies of Hitler’s invasion date for Poland. But, to be sure, “C” needed confirmation from someone on the inside.
Major T. A. “Tar” Robertson, as head of MI5’s section controlling double agents, also could use Popov’s talents. Dusko spoke five languages, had a doctorate in law, and came from wealth; he could travel and mingle in the highest social circles. As Popov would say later, the Britons knew he “didn’t drink out of the finger bowl” and could hold his knife and fork. Like SNOW, however, Dusko carried tremendous risk of being a triple: He wasn’t British, had gone to school in Germany, and was recruited first by the Abwehr. MI5 would have to take significant precautions.
Within mo
nths Dusko would be working for MI5 and MI6. In the meantime, he was recorded on their books and given an initial code name of SKOOT.
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Berlin’s approval of Popov’s visit to London finally came, but instead of sending him directly, Munzinger ordered him to go to Rome, where someone would contact him. The British, in turn, told Dusko that someone would approach him in England with the password “Rubicon.” Since Popov was on a trial basis with both, he realized he might have two tails—one German, one British.
Hopefully, they’d not meet.
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On November 17, 1940, he left by train for Rome and arrived two days later. Per instructions he went directly to Ala Littoria; Munzinger had said he’d have no trouble acquiring passage to Lisbon. The airline clerk had no ticket, however, or even a reservation, but gave Popov a note, typewritten in German:
Dear Dusko, do not go away before seeing me; I shall be in Rome at the Hotel Excelsior. Johann
Returning downtown, Dusko checked into the Ambasciadore Hotel, called the number Munzinger had given in case of emergency—Rome 44168—and gave his name and hotel as the code. When Dusko mentioned his plane ticket, the man said there must be a mistake, that he had no idea what Popov was talking about. Dusko repeated his name and stated his business; the man said he’d heard of neither. Popov hung up and tried to find the Rome 44168 number in the phone book.
No trace.
Half an hour later two men showed up at the hotel. A small man, sixtyish with white hair and a pale, ill complexion, introduced himself as Dr. Campiagni. The second Italian, tall and about forty-five, said nothing. Campiagni asked a few questions, and Popov, who had been told nothing of a rendezvous by Munzinger, gave generic answers. After a few minutes the Italians admitted that Popov’s business was known, and was “receiving attention.” Giving Dusko his card, Campiagni said to visit in two days. It read: “Ardanghi–Lawyer, Via Torino 7, 4th Floor.”