Agent in Berlin, page 14
Of course.
With a flourish he produced an envelope with all the papers. They were leaving the following day. A very nice man called Mr Moore at the British Passport Control Office on Tiergartenstrasse had called him in and sorted everything out in a matter of minutes and told him it was all due to Jack Miller!
A week later Jack was still trying to work out quite how this had happened when he received a telephone call. It was the charming Englishman, Edward Campion, who unexpectedly found himself back in Berlin and was at a loose end and perhaps they could meet for dinner, though maybe not with quite as much wine as before?
They met at a Swiss restaurant just off Behrenstrasse and Edward Campion was less jolly than when they’d met before, but then without three bottles of Bordeaux and vintage Port that was hardly surprising.
Did Jack remember that he’d expressed an interest in remaining in Germany as a working journalist, ideally covering football?
Jack said he did recall that. In truth, he’d been thinking of little else. Associated Newspapers in New York hadn’t been very keen on the idea of him remaining in Germany and on their payroll and were asking when he was returning. Jack had been trying to work out how feasible it was to remain in Germany as a freelance journalist.
‘Well, I think you may be in luck, Jack – here, have another rosti, I’m full already. It seems there’s quite an appetite for coverage of football in Germany from someone who can write decent English. Are you still interested, by any chance?’
Jack Miller didn’t want to appear too keen because there was bound to be a catch so he said, yes, thank you very much, Edward, he would have another rosti and, yes, he was indeed very interested.
‘Well, looks like you may be in luck, Jack. I don’t know how it works in the United States but in Britain we have three different types of newspapers. There are the national newspapers like The Times and the Daily Telegraph and then we have local newspapers – most cities and towns in the country have those. But there is another category of newspaper and these are what we call regional newspapers and the difference between them and local newspapers is firstly that they cover a larger area and secondly, they are published in the morning like the nationals and unlike the local papers, which tend to be published later in the day.
‘I was at school with a chap whose family own a couple of these regional papers and I remembered he told me a while back that they sometimes struggle for the right kind of articles because they’re less parochial than local papers but without the clout of the nationals. I thought you may be just up their street and… well… to come to the point, I had a word with him and he put me in touch with one of his editors and he said they’d be terribly keen to look at what you can send them – no promises, of course, until they see something. Even better, because the regional newspapers don’t compete with each other they sometimes share the same article, helps with the cost and all that. And as far as the articles go, they’re rather keen on sports-related stuff, especially football. They say they get plenty of political material from the news agencies. How does that all sound?’
Jack Miller – who thought it sounded a bit too good to be true – said he thought it sounded… interesting. He hoped Edward didn’t think he was being too blunt, but what kind of fee would be involved?
‘As far as I gather, you’ll be paid around three pounds per article, which I gather is around eleven dollars. Hope that doesn’t sound mean. Apparently, you’ll get more if more than one of the newspapers takes the same article.’
Jack said it didn’t sound mean at all and… when should he start?
Edward Campion had replied that there was no time like the present so why didn’t Jack start right away, which is pretty much what happened. Jack resigned from the Philadelphia Bulletin but promised Joe Walsh at least one article a month and Ted Morris in New York was agreeable to Jack sending him articles to syndicate across his newspapers.
He found an apartment on Sächsische Strasse that had a second bedroom that he turned into his office and he even had his own telephone. Edward Campion had put him in touch with various editors and soon he had a stable of papers with a surprisingly keen interest in his articles. His main clients were the Western Daily Press, which was based in Bristol; the Eastern Daily Press in Norwich; the Yorkshire Post in Leeds; the Evening News in London; the Western Mail in Cardiff and the Scotsman in Edinburgh.
He was in his element. He loved the independence of being a freelance journalist; no editor coming up with crazy ideas and telling him to write something in a thousand words when he didn’t think it merited two hundred, if any at all.
He seemed to do well too. He placed at least two articles a week in his British papers and perhaps one a week in the American ones. On that income he was able to live comfortably. And living in Berlin was proving to be an extraordinary experience, though one with an undoubted unpleasant edge to it. He had a palpable sense of watching history being made by the day and the sheer menace of the Nazis and the danger and horror that was all round made life difficult though fascinating at the same time, if often very hard to come to terms with.
His instinct as a journalist was that the brutality of the Nazis was what he should be covering rather than sport, but he’d got to know some of the American and British reporters based in the city and for a start there were plenty of them covering that story and then they all seemed to operate under the same fear: that it was only a matter of time before they’d annoyed the authorities so much that they’d be thrown out.
Nonetheless he did discuss this with Edward Campion on one of his frequent visits to Berlin. Edward had become something of a mentor to him: Jack found he could discuss almost anything with him and he was proving to be a useful sounding board. Jack had mentioned to Edward that perhaps he ought to switch to politics and the activities of the Nazis, but Edward suggested – rather forcibly in fact – that he should stick to football.
So he did stick to football and then in November 1937 Edward had telephoned him and asked if he’d be his guest in London for a few days and he’d send him a first-class ticket and it would be a good opportunity to meet some of his editors.
* * *
‘Are you sure it isn’t too soon, Piers?’
‘Of course I’m sure, Barney: how long has he been on the books now?’
‘Well over a year.’
‘Well, there you are, that’s long enough without him doing anything useful from our point of view. Bring him over here and we’ll get him started. One thing though, Barney… you understand we’ll need to be absolutely sure and you know what that entails?’
Barney Allen said he had heard but was it really necessary in the case of someone like Jack Miller?
‘All the more necessary.’
So Jack Miller turned up in London on a filthy day in early November and for a week he had the time of his life: a bit of sightseeing, a couple of agreeable dinners with Edward Campion and daytrips to meet some of his editors, though for the Scotsman he had to stay overnight in Edinburgh, which seemed to be no imposition.
At dinner he broached with Edward the subject of why Edward had brought him to London and that was when Edward turned rather serious.
‘It may well be that I want you to do some work for me, Jack.’
‘But you’re nothing to do with newspapers, Edward.’
‘It may be work of a different nature, Jack.’
Jack was none the wiser and Edward was evidently not about to tell him but he did say that if Jack was interested in finding out more then he’d like him to meet a couple of his colleagues for a chat and after that all would become clear and Jack – who was of course most intrigued by now – said why not?
The following day a colleague of Edward’s picked him up from his hotel in Victoria and drove him to meet Edward’s colleagues. Jack had imagined this would be in London but it turned out to be a good hour and a bit’s drive. It was difficult to know where he was going but he did spot a sign for Oxford shortly before they came off a main road and then they turned into a road that seemed too narrow for the car and at the end of a bumpy lane there was a rather handsome house situated behind high gates.
Things moved very quickly after that. Jack was taken into a room on the first floor with the curtains drawn and asked to sit at a table with two men on the other side, who he assumed were the colleagues Edward had mentioned.
It was very business-like at first as they checked out where he was born, his family, his ex-wife, who he’d worked for and where he’d lived. He did feel that they knew far more about him than he’d ever told Edward and even then, it was information he’d told him in passing more than anything else. He did ask if they could explain what the work Edward had in mind was and why had he come out here to talk about it but they ignored him: A few more questions, if you don’t mind.
Jack did mind actually but it was becoming clear he wasn’t going to be able to do too much about it. He thought about getting up and walking out but when he turned around, he noticed a large man standing in front of the door very much like the men who’d stand guard at the Italian bars in South Philly where he’d go to follow up crime stories.
When he turned back the mood abruptly changed from business-like to threatening.
Who exactly was he…? How come he was just writing about sport…? Why did he avoid politics…? Which of his German friends were Nazis…? Which of his German friends weren’t Nazis…? What about Karl Hofmann… and Martin Köhler… and that woman Frieda Lehmann…?
‘It’s not Martin Köhler, it’s Matthias Köhler.’
‘Very well then, what about him?’
‘I’m not sure why you’re asking me all these questions? You’re treating me like a fucking Nazi spy!’
‘Matthias Köhler is a member of the Nazi Party, Mr Miller, and so is Karl Hofmann.’
‘Jesus Christ… I have no idea what the hell this is about and if you’ll excuse me I think I’d like to leave, but Matthias is a member of the Nazi Party because otherwise he’d lose his job as a sports reporter on the Berliner Morgenpost. He’s the least Nazi Nazi Party member I know. Karl Hofmann I had no idea was a member of the Party: he lives in the apartment below mine and we meet socially once in a while for him to help improve my German and for me to help improve his English.’
‘And Frieda Lehmann?’
‘I had no idea her surname is Lehmann, that’s how well I know her: she’s a woman I sleep with from time to time. Are you going to tell me she’s a Nazi?’
The men on the other side of the table looked slightly shocked at the American’s frankness but soon recovered their composure. Jack Miller had decided by now he wasn’t interested in whatever work Edward had in mind.
I’m a sports reporter… Berlin doesn’t need another American covering the Nazis… and none of this is any of your business anyway…
The questioning went on for half an hour: Jack Miller found it impertinent and intrusive but was intrigued to see what they knew about him and what this was all about. There were questions about his contacts in Berlin, trips he’d made out of the city, his social life, and then one of the men handed him a sheaf of papers, which turned out to be copies of his statements from the First National Bank in Philadelphia.
Perhaps Mr Miller could explain where some of the larger deposits had come from?
‘Some of these are to do with my divorce; this is back pay from the Philadelphia Bulletin and some of the more recent ones are because I bill newspapers every month or two rather than when my articles appear and… Look, I’ve had enough. I don’t know why the hell I’m telling you all this. I’d like to know how the hell you got hold of my financial details from the States and how you know everything else and if you don’t mind finding the man who drove me here I think I’ll head back to London.’
A long silence followed and Jack Miller could hear his heart pounding and realised he was perspiring profusely. He noticed the two men glance at each other and both nodded before one picked up the telephone and muttered something and moments later a door opened in the wood panelling behind him and through it emerged Edward Campion who greeted Jack with a sheepish smile and then came to join the two men at the table.
‘I imagine you’ve been wondering what on earth that was all about, Jack?’
‘Well, it had momentarily crossed my mind, yes.’
‘I’m an officer with British Intelligence. We’ve had our eyes on you for a while Jack and—’
‘You seriously think I’m a Nazi, Edward – really?’
‘Goodness gracious, no, Jack, quite the opposite: what I mean is we’ve had our eyes on you for a while as someone who may be suitable to come and work for us. We recently came to the conclusion that you would be suitable, but the final part of the process was to subject you to the somewhat rigorous questioning you’ve just undergone with my two colleagues. Please be assured that we just needed to be sure we could trust you, which I personally never doubted and—’
‘You mean you want me to be a British spy?’
‘Well, yes… I—’
‘I’m a journalist, Edward.’
‘Indeed.’
Jack Miller was unsure what to say. His instinct was to tell Edward – he now doubted that was his real name – to go to hell and he’d stay as a freelance journalist in Berlin thank you very much but then he realised all the British newspaper contacts had come from Edward and now he knew why. He had no doubt if he turned them down all those commissions would dry up.
But there was something else stopping him telling Edward to go to hell. He’d felt increasingly compromised in Germany just covering sport and travel. He’d been deeply affected by everything he saw going on as the Nazi’s implemented their terrible policies. One reason he’d remained in Germany was that he was fascinated by it, but he was doing nothing about it. He was not covering it as a journalist, he was just a bystander. Now he was being offered the chance to be more than that.
He began to speak and then stopped himself. He knew that from the moment he said ‘yes’ there’d be no going back.
‘Take your time, by all means, Jack.’
‘I’ll do it, Edward.’
‘Really?’
‘But I stay in Germany, yes? Spying against the Nazis, that’s what I’m signing up for… not helping you run your empire.’
Edward said of course. He looked relieved and delighted and got up to come over and shake Jack’s hand.
‘Now you see why I steered you away from covering anything controversial, eh, Jack? Didn’t want you coming to their attention, did we?’
Chapter 14
London and Berlin
April 1939
From their earliest schooldays Tom Gilbey had always rather looked up to Barney Allen.
Barney had been one of those boys who excelled both academically and at sport, which would have been annoying had he not also possessed the kind of charm that caused others to want to be his friend, which had continued into adulthood. Tom had been only too pleased when Barney had approached him some three years earlier to ask about the possibility of him joining MI6. He’d been happy to make the introductions and was delighted when Barney joined the Service. He was even more delighted at what a success Barney was evidently turning out to be: he couldn’t help thinking this ought to reflect in some small way on him.
The two men were walking through St James’s together, heading towards Pall Mall and a mutual friend’s birthday dinner. They were walking in step, their umbrellas swinging in unison.
‘I hear it’s all going splendidly, Barney.’
‘Thank you, Tom, yes…’
‘I was covering for Pearson at the Europe heads meeting the other day and Piers was singing your praises.’
‘Good of him.’
‘He said you’ve set up a network in Germany, independent of the Berlin station. He said that it raised eyebrows when you started out but appears to have been vindicated what with events out there…’
Barney grunted something but was reluctant to say more, even though Gilbey had full clearance.
‘And you have some decent agents, I hear?’
Half a nod from Barney, as if to show he’d heard that too.
‘Do you have a full team?’
‘I beg your pardon, Tom?’
‘I meant are you looking for more agents, or do you have all you need?’
‘Always on the lookout for the right recruits, Tom, you should know that.’
‘It’s just that I may have someone for you… she’s a walk-in though.’
‘I thought we weren’t touching walk-ins these days?’
‘I think we’re taking the view that we should be very sceptical of them but not dismiss them outright. Want to hear more?’
‘Go on.’
‘An English woman in her forties walked into Kensington police station a fortnight ago and asked to see a senior officer about a matter of national importance, as she put it. Happens quite often, so I’m told, particularly women who are having problems… you know, the type that think people are following them and all that. However, she seemed to be perfectly sane and told an inspector her name is Maureen Holland and she’s lived in Berlin for four years and now works for the English language section of German radio.’
They were turning into Pall Mall now and their pace slowed down.
‘She said she was appalled at what the Nazis were up to and horrified at the thought that this country and Germany could go to war so she wanted to offer her services to this country.’
‘In what capacity?’
‘She wasn’t specific but talked about her contacts in Berlin, how in the course of her work she came across a lot of confidential material and she felt it was her duty as a patriotic English woman to do what she could to help this country, despite any risk that may pose for herself. The inspector took the view that as she did not seem to be certifiably insane, he ought to refer the matter to Special Branch and when they sent a couple of chaps to interview her at Kensington police station they were rather impressed with her. They checked her out and as far as they could tell every aspect of her story appeared to be true so they passed the matter on to our colleagues in MI5 and it happened to land on the desk of Chilvers – don’t know if you remember him from school, year above us, terribly useful medium-pace bowler, bit of a stutter?’
