Agent in Berlin, page 22
He’d come to doubt the time was ever going to be right.
* * *
It had been a couple of weeks before the start of the war – August 1939 – when Jack had been to see Tadashi Kimura to tell him about Werner’s death – and when the Japanese diplomat informed him about Arno’s disappearance.
Kimura had been very clear: he’d only help the British if Jack found Arno and got him from Berlin to England. Jack knew getting Arno out of Berlin and then out of Germany and to England would be quite the most perilous thing he’d ever attempted. But he couldn’t even begin to think about that until he found Arno and he had no idea of where to start.
In March he’d risked another trip to see Tadashi Kimura. He waited across the road and when he appeared in Brücken Allee just before six Jack followed him into the apartment, the diplomat acknowledging him with a brief nod of the head and a gesture indicating he should climb the stairs before him.
‘Have you found Arno?’
‘No, not yet I’m—’
‘I said you were to only come back when you’ve found him. Until then I won’t co-operate. It’s too dangerous for you to be here.’
‘I want to know if you’ve thought of anything that could help me find him? I need something to work on.’
Kimura shook his head and said he often stayed awake all night going over and over in his mind whether there was something Arno may have said that would be a clue. He walked over to the window, which looked out over Brücken Allee.
‘You see this black vase? I always keep it here. If I ever think of anything or have any news, I’ll move it from the window. Then you know to come and see me. Otherwise, I only ever want to see you again when you have news on Arno.’
* * *
Ernst Scholz – Oberstleutnant Ernst Scholz – was proving to be as elusive.
It had started promisingly enough that August when Barney had brought another Englishman to Jack’s apartment on Sächsische Strasse, a man he introduced as Noel. Noel explained at great length – far too great a length actually – about this very agreeable Luftwaffe officer he’d become awfully pally with and how this officer’s wife had turned out to have a Jewish grandparent and as a result they’d got divorced while they tried to sort it all out and it had all gone terribly wrong and she’d killed herself and of course he was bereft and as a consequence had determined to help the British but only if there was a war.
He’d delivered this in what sounded like one long sentence and paused to catch his breath.
‘Which there will be, of course.’
‘Will be what?’
‘A war: which means yours truly will have to leave Germany, though I can assure you I won’t need much asking. But that does rather leave poor Ernst finally willing to hand intelligence over to us but with no one to hand it to. Which is where you come in.’
‘And we trust him?’
‘Yes: I’ve known him for two years now and if he was going to do the dirty on me, he’d have done so by now. Everything he’s told me turns out to be true, we were even able to confirm that his wife’s paternal grandmother was Jewish – that took some digging, I can tell you. You’re a sports journalist, I hear, Jack?’
The American nodded.
‘Golf by any chance?’
‘Not really, I don’t have the patience.’
‘Well Ernst lives for his golf. A little enthusiasm for it would be helpful.’
* * *
Noel Moore introduced Jack to Oberstleutnant Ernst Scholz the following evening. Scholz lived in a grand apartment block on Düsseldorfer Strasse, close to the junction with Brandenburgische Strasse. He suggested they meet in the cellar. It’s just used for storage and people rarely go down there. I’ll leave it unlocked and wait for you.
Scholz was waiting in a far corner of the cellar, standing back in the shadows of the low-ceilinged and poorly lit space. He stepped out of the shadows to shake the hands of the two visitors and then back into them.
‘If anyone comes down just go to the crate there, pretend to be looking for something. You won’t look out of place; it’s a big block and people keep to themselves.’
Noel introduced Jack and said Jack was to be trusted just as much as him, in fact possibly more so because he was American – and then had to explain to the bemused German that was a joke.
‘And you work for the same people as, Noel?’
Jack nodded.
‘Good. And Noel’s told you the arrangement – that I’m only prepared to help once war starts?’
‘He mentioned that, yes. But we need to agree a way you can let me know when you’re ready to start.’
‘I was thinking about that too. Here – take my key for the cellar and this other key – the smaller one – is for my storage locker, just here. I’ve had another set made.’
He gestured behind him to a cage covered in steel mesh. It was about seven-foot high and full of boxes and old pieces of carpet.
‘You see that box on the floor with old cans of paint in it? I’ll cover it with some carpet. Come in here on a weekday – I rarely see anyone down here then – and even if you see someone, they’ll ignore you. Maybe if you make a point of coming in here once a week or so. When I’m ready for us to meet I’ll leave a message for you in an old envelope underneath one of the cans of paint. The message will simply give a place and time where we should meet. So I know you’ve seen the message and will be there, take the carpet off the box and replace it with that piece of tarpaulin. You understand all that?’
‘I do.’
‘Very professional, Ernst: sounds like you’ve done this type of thing before.’
The Luftwaffe officer moved forward, away from the shadows. Even in the dim light he looked nervous, beads of perspiration forming on his forehead. ‘I’ve had plenty of time to think about it, Noel.’
* * *
Once the war started Jack Miller did visit the cellar underneath the Luftwaffe officer’s apartment block once a week. Düsseldorfer Strasse was located between where Jack lived on Sächsische Strasse and Kurfürstendamm, making it perfectly feasible for him to be in that area.
But he knew he needed a credible reason for being in the cellar so devised a story about how a friend had rented an apartment there for a short while in 1937 and now lived in Vienna and had asked Jack to check if a suitcase he’d left behind was still in the cellar by any chance – and if anyone asked, he’d say he found the cellar door unlocked.
He varied the days and times of his visits to Düsseldorfer Strasse but no letter appeared in the box of old paint cans. In early December he had a close shave when he used the key to enter the cellar only to find the door was unlocked and a man in his fifties asked him if he could help.
Jack replied with the story about the friend and the suitcase.
‘What is your friend called – I may know him?’
‘Hans.’
‘And his surname?’
Jack said he was terribly sorry but Hans was more of an acquaintance than a friend and he’d momentarily forgotten his surname but as he lived nearby – which he immediately regretted saying, such a basic error – he asked him to pop by.
‘How come you had a key – I heard it in the lock?’
He wasn’t sure how to respond and at that moment the man started to walk towards him to get a better look in the dim light. Jack said he was sorry and hurried away, the man calling after him demanding to know his name.
He didn’t return to Düsseldorfer Strasse until the middle of January, angry with himself for being so ill prepared before. He took some consolation from the fact he’d not given his name and the man wouldn’t have had a good look at him.
It was a bitterly cold Tuesday morning when he next went, the snow compacted into ice making the pavements treacherous and the sky so grey that even though it was approaching noon it felt like the end of the afternoon.
There was now a light on above the steps down to the cellar, which he couldn’t recall having seen before. Something else was different too, a large sign attached to the door: luftschutzkeller – air raid shelter. This time the door was locked.
The cellar seemed different. The lighting was much better and along one wall was a large pile of mattresses and a pile of blankets. There was also a metal crate with a red cross on it.
He waited a minute to be sure no one else was there and hurried over to Scholz’s storage locker. He opened the steel mesh door and moved the carpet from on top of the box of old paint. There was a used envelope under the largest can. A slip of paper showed the details of when and where they should meet. He folded the envelope into his pocket and shut the door, only to open it again when he remembered he had to cover the box with the tarpaulin as a sign he’d received the message.
* * *
The Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church – known to everyone in Berlin as the Gedächtniskirche – was on Auguste-Viktoria-Platz, close to where Budapester Strasse opened onto it. It was where Oberstleutnant Ernst Scholz wanted to meet Jack:
Gedächtniskirche, Thursday, one thirty.
Auguste-Viktoria-Platz wasn’t too far from Jack’s own apartment so he took the long route there, approaching the square from Ranke Strasse, the opposite direction he’d be expected to come from. The large church dominated the square, with four small spires on each corner leading to a high one above the building. He walked round the square, carefully taking in any side doors or other parts of the church where someone could lay in wait. Looking out for men in uniform was a pointless task given that half the men one came across were wearing one kind of uniform, but he watched to see where they were going and where they were looking. He wandered up and down the smaller streets spanning off the square but couldn’t see anything suspicious.
He entered the church at exactly one thirty. He’d spotted two elderly ladies shuffle uncertainly across the ice and approach the church on its north side before ringing a bell above a side door. He hurried over and was able to follow them in.
The church was even larger inside than he’d imagined: almost like a cathedral but without the ornate designs and general sense of grandeur. This church felt cavernous, poorly lit and with a musty smell of damp and sawdust. A service was underway with the sparse congregation spread out across the benches. He avoided looking around too obviously, but as far as he could tell Ernst Scholz wasn’t there.
He found a place on a bench towards the back of the church and picked up a prayer book, flicking through it until he came to what he hoped was the right page, and listened as the man taking the service from a pulpit far in the distance appeared to be shouting about victory.
If it was a sermon then it was lasting even longer than the ones Jack Miller remembered from his childhood in Philadelphia. He wrapped his coat tightly round himself and thrust his hands deep into the pockets. It felt even colder inside the church than outside, the air still, apart from the clouds of breath rising from the worshippers.
The sermon came to an end – the preacher speaking so softly now even the people in the front row bent forward to catch what he was saying. When the congregation stood up in prayer Jack Miller became aware of someone moving into the bench behind him, just to his right. As a prayer started among the worshippers the man leaned forward.
‘I thought you’d given up on me!’
Jack Miller turned round to check who it was and mutter ‘sorry’ to Ernst Scholz.
‘I’ve left messages for you for three weeks now. I was getting concerned something may have happened to you. Is everything in order?’
Jack said it was and asked Scholz how things were with him.
‘Everything is in order too. I have some information for you to pass on to your friends. In fact, I have compiled a detailed report including photographs and technical drawings. Will you be able to get that to the people who need to see it?’
Jack said that wouldn’t be a problem. ‘Is this really the best place for us to talk?’
‘It’s as good or as bad as anywhere else but you’ll need to listen carefully. The service ends in a couple of minutes so I’ll have to be quick. Everything you need to know is in my report, but very briefly, this all goes back to the autumn of 1937 when I was seconded as a Luftwaffe liaison officer to work on a top-secret project at the Ministry of Aviation. It’s called Project Shrike and—’
‘Shrike?’
‘It’s a bird. The Ministry of Aviation was concerned that in the event of a war the Luftwaffe would be relying too much on the Messerschmitt 109 as its principal fighter aircraft. The aim of Project Shrike is to develop an alternative fighter aircraft for the 109. The aircraft is being developed by Focke-Wulf and it’s known as the Focke-Wulf 190. A designer was appointed – a man called Kurt Tank.
‘We are still at the development stage – we’re on version five of the prototype at the moment and it’s improving all the time. Even so, it’s likely to be at least another year before the aircraft is operational. The service is ending now… let me tell you how to get the document.’
* * *
Ernst Scholz had told Jack to remain seated and allow ten minutes for him to get away. A few other people also stayed, some reading from the prayer book, others just sitting on their own, looking around and giving the impression they had nothing else to do.
Jack Miller pretended to read from the prayer book and after fifteen minutes stood up and headed to the side of the church.
The door next to the bookcase – it leads down to the crypt. When you get to the bottom of the stairs turn right and go through the swing doors. You’ll see a corridor on your left: at the end of that is a door.
When he opened the door it was as Scholz had described, a storeroom with chairs stacked against one wall and boxes covering the floor and surrounding a small desk behind which sat a thin young man wearing a work coat who looked up at Jack as he entered and asked if he could help.
‘I was looking for the toilet – someone told me it was here; I must have misunderstood them.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said the man as he stood up and moved to the front of the desk. ‘That happens all the time, I keep telling them they need to put up proper signs but do you know what they tell me?’
‘That there’s a war on?’
‘How did you know?’
Because Ernst Scholz told me to say it. ‘Because that’s the excuse everyone uses these days!’
The younger man smiled and then indicated to Jack that he should close the door. He beckoned him over. ‘This is the envelope, here.’ He reached into one of the boxes on the floor and took out a large, thick envelope and handed Jack a black cloth bag with the words Kaiser Wilhelm Gedächtniskirche in white lettering. Jack removed his scarf and wrapped the package in it and then took two prayer books to place on top.
All he had to do now was find a way of getting this package to London.
Chapter 22
New York and Hamburg
April 1940
Ted Morris wasn’t surprised, at least not at first. The telephone call from his old friend Herschel Applebaum – he’d always called him Hersh – had come in the middle of 1939 and suggested they meet for lunch, something they did from time to time.
He and Hersh had grown up together in Brooklyn and still kept in touch. Hersh had done particularly well for himself: he’d become a successful district attorney and now ran his own law firm on Wall Street and while Ted Morris had only moved as far as Flatbush, Hersh now lived in a very smart apartment on the Upper West Side. He was also involved with the Democrats and there was even talk of him running for Congress: Hersh Applebaum now wore tailored suits made from Italian cloth – and had changed his name to Henry Adams.
They met in the club-like dining room of a very good restaurant a few blocks from Ted Morris’s office on West 43rd Street. It was dimly lit and smelled of leather and wealth.
‘It’s good to see you, Ted. Take a seat.’
‘A seat of this quality I am tempted to take it. It’s good to see you too, Hersh.’
‘It’s Henry now, Ted, you know that.’
‘Yeah – and I’m Ted Roosevelt. Come on, Hersh, you can be Henry to your clients and colleagues but to me you’ll always be Hersh. Who do they imagine you are anyway, the great-grandson of John Quincy Adams?’
The other man laughed politely and said they should order. The menu Ted Morris had been given showed no prices. It was his kind of menu.
They asked after each other’s families and Ted said he’d been to a mutual friend’s grandson’s bar mitzvah and Hersh asked him to keep his voice down. Do me a favour, Ted, not here.
When the waiter next appeared, Henry told him to leave them alone for a few minutes and dropped his voice and told Ted he had something very important to say and would appreciate it if he heard him out.
‘So, no wisecracks, all right? One of my firm’s clients is the British Consulate here in New York. If there are ever any particularly sensitive matters, we look after them.’
‘What kind of sensitive matters?’
‘The kind they don’t want to see in newspapers like yours, Ted. Matters that they want to be handled in a discreet manner, matters they know we can sort out without anything coming back to the British government. This is all confidential, you understand, Ted?’
‘Now you tell me?’
‘I’m being serious, Ted – listen. I take personal charge of these cases and we have a very good relationship. Last month they asked me to meet one of their officials, a man calling himself Royd.’
‘What kind of a name is Royd?’
‘An English one – look, I’m going to come straight to the point, Ted, and I’m going to insist you hear me out. You have a reporter called Jack Miller, is that correct?’
