Agent in Berlin, page 10
Tom Gilbey was one officer at the same level as Barney Allen for whom envy was not an issue. For a start, Tom Gilbey himself was doing pretty well and in any case the two men were old friends – they’d been at school together – and Gilbey had been instrumental in Allen joining the Service. As a result, people assumed he’d allow them an insight into Barney Allen.
But Tom Gilbey said little.
‘Let’s just say that Barney has the Midas touch: let’s hope it lasts, eh?’
* * *
The three years since the summer of 1936 had been remarkably successful for Barney Allen. He’d been assiduous and resourceful in recruiting a network of agents across Germany, though ‘agents’ was a word he’d come to be circumspect about. Few were actual agents in the sense that Werner Lustenberger – for example – was an agent. Most were what he’d call sources – people in different parts of Germany and in different jobs and with different degrees of access to information. Some were committed anti-Nazis and sympathetic to Britain, others were prepared to trade information for money, some didn’t even realise they were supplying Britain with intelligence – the sources who didn’t even know they were sources.
Barney liked to think of his network as a collection of sources and contacts, held together by a small number of agents. Some sources would only be active for a short while, others would then take their place. Some supplied intelligence on a one-off basis. In the early days – certainly until the middle of 1938 – a high proportion of his network were committed anti-Nazis, either political opponents of the regime or Jews. But as the Nazis’ grip tightened these people began to leave Germany.
Or disappear.
Replacing them was far from easy. In some areas like Hamburg it was easier to find sources, in other areas next to impossible. Some people lost heart or were too afraid or stopped when they felt that they’d gone as far as their luck was going to take them.
But in general, the task that Piers Devereux had set Barney Allen in January 1936 had been achieved. He’d established a network independent of the MI6 station in Berlin and this was vindicated as tensions between Britain and Germany increased on a daily basis. Few conversations failed to mention the possibility of war.
* * *
The enthusiasm with which Werner embraced his role as a British agent astonished Barney Allen. His initial decision back in March 1936 to try and recruit Werner had been based on a gut feeling that he could be the right man for the job but also, if he was totally honest, was as much out of a sense of desperation. Piers Devereux had told him to recruit his own network and he was struggling. Werner was a gamble.
He’d never anticipated how good Werner would be. He wasn’t just competent: he was intuitive and good at using his own initiative as well as following instructions. He was sociable but also adept at giving away little of himself: he was enthusiastic too, and committed, motivated by a growing hatred of the Nazis and the sense that in this role he could do something about it.
Every time he and Barney met he would say how grateful he was for having been given this opportunity. And he liked the money too, which at first caused Barney some concerns that he was being too mercenary but Piers Devereux told him in fact this was reassuring: wanting to be properly recompensed for one’s services was perfectly natural.
‘How much are we paying him now, Barney?’
‘Twenty pounds a week, sir.’
‘The agents I worry about are the ones who have no interest in money. In fact, I’d distrust them. It’s not natural not to be interested in money, is it?’
Barney travelled regularly to the Continent, usually to Germany though not always. Sometimes he met Werner or his other agents across the border, in the Netherlands or France, occasionally in Belgium or Switzerland. And over time he began to understand why Werner – his codename was Robert – was quite so effective.
‘You know, Barnaby, I’d not realised how my whole life had in many ways been a perfect preparation for this role – it was as if I’d been trained for it without realising.’
It was a wet spring evening in 1938 and they were in the St Pauli district of Hamburg, on the upper floor of a cafe in an unlit side street between the Reeperbahn and the Elbe. They could hear the former and smell the latter.
St Pauli had retained some of its air of anarchy: in other times it would have felt dangerous and a place to avoid at night. Now that menace somehow made it feel safer. In the past few months Barney had found it easier to slip across the border from Denmark to Hamburg. He was even getting used to the city’s low German dialect.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Once I became a teenager and then in my twenties… being a homosexual here in Germany wasn’t a big problem as long as one was careful about it. Even though it was illegal – section 175 of the Civil Code, to be precise – it was more or less tolerated, more so than in many other countries in Europe. But since the Nazis took over things have become much worse; it was one of the reasons I left. The Nazis hate people who fail to conform to their view of society and since 1935 the sentence for homosexual activity has increased from six months in prison to five years and now they’re starting to send homosexuals to these awful prison camps. The point I’m making, Barnaby, is that my whole life I’ve learnt to conceal an important part of it, to present a front, if you like, so people see me without realising what secrets I have. Working for you is an extension of this. People see me as a happy-go-lucky chap moving round Germany representing his family business and Holborn College, perfectly sociable and with no interest in politics. I’m a good listener, I don’t get into arguments with people and I try not to draw attention to myself in any way.’
‘Which all goes to explain why you’re so effective, Werner.’
* * *
It was at their meeting in Hamburg in the spring of 1938 that Barney had told Werner that as well as he was doing, the view from London was that they needed him to move up a gear. Werner had looked at him confused and slightly hurt.
‘What London means is that it is all very well recruiting middle-ranking or lower officials across Germany – not that one isn’t very grateful, of course – but there’s a limit as to how much intelligence we can get from these people.’
He’d looked up and saw how disappointed Werner looked. ‘No reflection on you, good heavens, no – we’re very grateful and it’s all very useful – but what I think London means is that we need a higher grade of intelligence, probably the kind best found from within the higher echelons in Berlin.’
When he was giving difficult instructions, Barney did have a tendency to invoke ‘London’, which was partially true anyway but it was also a way of hinting it wasn’t a view he entirely concurred with: an attempt to reassure Werner he was on his side. The two of them against London.
‘When you say “higher echelons”…?’
‘I mean senior Nazi Party officials, civil servants, military… diplomats… I appreciate that’s easier said than done but maybe concentrate on Berlin for a while and see how you get on?’
Werner said fair enough – as long as it wasn’t a reflection on how he’d done so far and Barney said absolutely not, this was simply reflecting how much more serious the situation had become.
‘I mentioned diplomats, Werner: London also has a particular thing about countries who are likely to end up on the same side as Germany.’
‘What does “a particular thing” mean, Barnaby?’
‘It means they want to know more about them. At the moment it’s all a bit unclear as far as the Foreign Office is concerned, they seem to change their minds every week and their country desks aren’t always reliable. A bit like our embassies, they often go native and aren’t as frank as they ought to be. We want to know more about Italy: Mussolini’s obviously a natural ally of Hitler but every schoolboy can tell you that. We need to know more. There are rumours about a formal military pact between Italy and Germany. They’ve already got the Anti-Comintern Pact, of course, but anything you can pick up there.’
Werner nodded and said the Italian embassy was on Hildebrandstrasse opposite the Bendler Block, the Army headquarters, and Barney said thank you very much but he had in mind something better than an address and it was a moment or too before Werner realised that was meant as a joke and laughed.
‘And there are the other countries that may pal up with Germany: Spain, Bulgaria, Romania – Hungary. Anything you can find on them would be most gratefully received. No need to give me their embassy addresses though! And then there’s the country that worries us the most at Broadway: Japan.’
Barney paused and looked at Werner, who wondered whether he was to respond that yes, he had indeed heard of Japan.
‘Very strong militarily, currently at war with China, big powerful navy, air force growing by the day, already an ally of Germany. But while we know they’re on Germany’s side we need more specific intelligence: we’re not sure what their intentions are. Bloody hard to get anything out of Tokyo. Who knows, you may be able to pick up something in Berlin.’
Werner said it would be difficult and Barney said of course, he didn’t for a moment imagine it would be easy, but it was an example of what he meant by higher-grade intelligence.
‘One thought I’ve had, Werner, that may help you – who knows – is to join the Nazi Party.’
‘Seriously? I thought you said I was to appear disinterested in politics.’
‘I know, but there is a feeling that in the long run it may be a good idea: an insurance policy, if you like. No need to be active, going to meetings and all that, but perhaps if you joined sooner rather than later that could stand you in good stead.’
And Werner had indeed joined the Nazi Party. When they next met – in Berlin in January 1939 – he’d shown Barney his Mitgliedskarte, his party membership card, and said it had made some difference, actually; it seemed to open one or two more doors. It had given him a degree of confidence.
His Mitgliedskarte certainly came into its own in February 1939. Werner was concentrating his efforts on finding better contacts as requested by London, which was proving to be difficult and more than anything else was very hard work – out all the time meeting people, sticking to his cover story, trying to assess how important people were, how sympathetic they may be and how useful they would be in the unlikely event of them becoming a source of information.
He was still living in the apartment on Tauentzienstrasse but it was now more difficult to find a social life. The Saxon Klub on nearby Regensburger Strasse had been closed down by the Gestapo – it was surprising it had remained open as long as it had. But then he found a new bar through a most unlikely source. It was a late February Tuesday afternoon and he’d had lunch with the business manager of a college based in Moabit in the north-east of Berlin. She didn’t seem terribly interested in the idea of a partnership with Holborn College, but she was happy to be taken out for lunch at the smart place Werner had suggested just north of the Unter den Linden, quite close to the Reichstag. Werner was cultivating her because her husband was a senior civil servant at the Finance Ministry and at the social event where they’d first met she’d rather unwisely let it be known he was someone who didn’t approve of politics, which was code these days for saying he wasn’t a Nazi.
That, of course, was still a long way from turning someone into a source but it was how one started. He suggested that maybe her husband would like to meet for dinner one evening – he was rather hoping she’d invite him to their home – but she was non-committal. After that he decided to walk back to his apartment, but it was one of those February afternoons when it was surprisingly light even at three o’clock so he decided to try his luck and walk through the Tiergarten and sure enough he’d not gone very far – off the main path and down a narrow track in the bushes near the lake – when he saw a tall young man leaning against a tree.
An unlit cigarette hung from his mouth and he was wearing a dark brown suit with a dark shirt and no tie – Werner worried he may be cold without a coat – and a long green scarf was draped over his shoulders and he appeared camouflaged against the tree. His eyes caught Werner’s and he asked if he had a light and Werner said of course and as he held his lighter the man held his hand. He had dark blond hair with deep blue eyes and a face that looked almost delicate. They remained like that for a moment – the flame still licking from the lighter – and then it started to rain, one of those showers which very quickly goes from light to heavy. He said his name was Rudolf – Rudi – and Werner said he was Josef – Joe – and Rudi asked if Joe had a place nearby and Werner, who didn’t like bringing anyone back to his place said unfortunately not so Rudi said he had a room in Neukölln and they could go there if Joe paid for a taxi.
Afterwards they stayed in the room in Neukölln for a while, which was a good job as Werner was quite exhausted. It was very comfortable – fully carpeted with its own small bathroom and perfectly warm and cosy. Rudi said he was from Lübeck but was now based in Berlin – he didn’t say what he did – and his parents were paying for the room because they wanted him to be comfortable and they both laughed at the thought of his parents seeing just how comfortable he was now.
‘Where do you go in the evenings, Joe?’
‘I don’t much these days – they’ve closed everywhere down. I used to go to the Saxon Klub on Regensburger Strasse.’
‘There’s a new place, but you need a recommendation.’
‘Where is it?’
‘In Schöneberg – on Reppich Strasse, between Belziger Strasse and Hauptstrasse. I could get you in.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘It doesn’t have a name.’
‘What about the Gestapo, aren’t they a problem?’
Rudi laughed sarcastically and suggested they meet the night after next and Joe would see what he meant.
‘There’s a cake shop on Reppich Strasse: meet me outside it at nine o’clock. I’ll be coming from work.’
Werner said that sounded good. He’d look forward to it.
‘One thing, Josef, as well as requiring a personal introduction the club is also very discerning.’
‘Of course.’
‘It doesn’t want… how can I put it, undesirables.’
‘I’m not sure what that means.’
‘It means people who’d be regarded as a problem for the Reich. Are you a civil servant or an official anywhere… or do you have a Nazi Party card?’
‘Of course I’m a Party member!’
‘That is no problem then.’
* * *
The night after next was a Thursday and following a few almost spring-like days Berlin had settled back into its traditional bitterly cold weather. That evening an odd kind of mist had fallen over the city, an unpleasant and stifling mixture of dense, light rain and the ubiquitous coal fumes. As Werner walked down from Tauentzienstrasse into Schöneberg the city was deathly quiet, the buildings looming out of a light brown haze as if cast in sepia. He’d noticed that since the turn of the year there were fewer people on the streets. Tonight, there were hardly any.
He arrived outside the cake shop on Reppich Strasse just before nine and waited for Rudi in the shelter of the doorway. He ought to have arrived earlier and walked round the block and checked the area, looking for alleyways and the connecting passageways that linked blocks and streets in this part of Berlin, but he was tired and cold and, in any case, he’d taken the view that this was his night off, even Barnaby would allow him that.
Despite the chill he was relaxed, looking forward to the evening and seeing what the club that didn’t need a name was like and also looking forward to seeing Rudi again. He was younger than Werner was normally interested in but he did have a certain boyish charm. He’d keep him amused for a few weeks.
The silence of night was broken by sharp footsteps approaching from the direction of Hauptstrasse. The mist was low and quite dense so he didn’t see the person until they were just a few feet in front of him and even then, it was hard to make out anything other than a tall figure in black.
When he realised the black was the uniform of the SS he felt himself sway and he gripped the wall next to him.
‘Follow me.’
He looked round and was as sure as he could be there was only one of them, which seemed unusual but it was still the SS and they were telling him to come with them and for the life of him he couldn’t think what mistake he’d made or who’d informed on him and how could he get a message to Barnaby that he was very sorry but he’d been arrested by the SS?
The man was still a few feet away from him and now sounded impatient.
‘Come on now!’
Chapter 11
Berlin
February 1939
Werner turned towards the man in the black uniform. The white runic flashes on the lapel just stood out in the gloom but little else. For a moment or two he pondered making a run for it. It was dark, visibility was no more than a few feet and he knew the area. But even though he was quick he doubted he was quicker than the man in uniform and he certainly didn’t fancy seeing whether the Luger semi-automatic pistol was as lethal as the newspapers claimed it was.
‘Are you coming?’ The tall man moved even closer. ‘What on earth’s the matter, Joe – you look terrified?’
A moment’s silence. Werner’s breathing seemed to fill the street.
‘Rudi, my God, is that you?’
‘Who else had you arranged to meet outside a cake shop on Reppich Strasse at nine o’clock on a Thursday night? Come, let’s go. Have you got your Mitgliedskarte with you?’
‘I didn’t know you were in the SS.’
‘You didn’t ask, Joe. I was off duty the day we met.’
