Agent in Berlin, page 28
‘But how long can I stay here? I’m endangering Ludo by being here. If I have the opportunity to leave Berlin and get to England… Can you really help me like that?’
Jack said it was certainly possible but they’d need to come up with a plan and that may take a few weeks.
‘It’s in your interests to get me to England, isn’t it? Once I’m there then Tadashi will start supplying you with intelligence, so you have an incentive.’
Jack said that was true and all the more reason why they’d get a move on. ‘I want you to write a letter to Tadashi. Tell him you’re well and put in something personal so he’ll know it is genuine. Don’t give any details about where you are or names, obviously. I’ll take the letter to him and then bring his reply. I’m afraid that’s the only contact you’ll have with him.’
* * *
‘Either you’re mad, Sophia, or a genius: I can’t decide which.’
She smiled and smoothed out the map on the table between them. She’d come to Jack’s apartment on Sächsische Strasse for only the second time. They were plotting Arno’s escape.
‘Are you sure London won’t let us try and get him out through Switzerland? It’s the most obvious route… I’m not sure what the best alternative is if they’re still not keen.’
‘Their concern is not getting him into Switzerland but out of it and then to England. Personally, I don’t see what the problem would be with Arno staying in Switzerland: he’d be sorted out with a safe house and he could get the message he’s agreed with Kimura back to him, but apparently it has to be England – and London are desperate for Kimura to resume his activities. That’s why they’re insisting on getting him to France. Your plan’s a very clever one.’
* * *
When Karl-Heinrich von Naundorf left his job as a lawyer in 1934 and joined the SS his rank for the first few months had been that of a Hauptsturmführer, which equated to a captain in the regular army. He’d soon been promoted to a Sturmbannführer but his Hauptsturmführer’s uniform remained in a wardrobe in their apartment. With each promotion, Karl-Heinrich insisted on keeping his old uniforms. He also kept his old SS identity cards, a neat pile of them in a desk drawer he rarely opened.
These were at the core of Sophia’s plan, along with another document, which would be essential for the journey. Once they got the go-ahead from London and the dates were agreed she moved fast.
On the first Monday in February Jack took the papers to the kiosk on Budapester Strasse. Reinhard winked at Jack and said ‘Friday’ without his lips appearing to move. The next morning Harald Mettler collected the identity card and the following day took it with him on his courier trip to Bern. At the airport he walked past Noel Phillips and, in an encounter lasting no more than a couple of seconds, slipped an envelope to him. The same happened the following morning – the Thursday – when he returned to the airport for his trip back to Berlin. By the Friday Jack had the documents, and that afternoon he was showing them to Sophia in his apartment.
‘I cannot believe how good they look!’
‘Apparently they use the best forger in Switzerland. They brought him to Bern and he worked on them right through the Wednesday night. You’re sure Karl-Heinrich won’t miss them?’
‘I doubt it; he has four other identity cards in that drawer and never looks at them. The travel permit – there’s no reason why he’d think we even still had it. We used it last summer when we went to Aachen for a few days.’
‘And now it permits you both to travel to Strasbourg by car and back to Berlin on one return trip during February. And the identity card… the photograph looks convincing, you agree?’
‘Completely. He looks smart in that uniform and cap. It’s a good job Karl-Heinrich insisted on keeping them. He’ll never know how helpful he’s been! And the date of birth…’
‘They’ve changed it from Karl-Heinrich’s birthday in 1900 to the exact date of Arno’s birthday in 1914. Apparently it’s safer if he’s ever asked, people tend not to forget their own birthday.’
Sophia’s preparation for the journey left nothing to chance. She told her husband she was planning to drive to Mainz to visit her late mother’s aunt.
‘That old cow – I thought you couldn’t stand her?’
‘I can’t, Karl-Heinrich, but she doesn’t have long left. I feel it’s the right thing to do. She’s got plenty of money and I don’t want her to forget me!’
‘And you really want to drive there?’
‘It’s more peaceful than the train, they’re so crowded these days, Karl-Heinrich – and the bombing.’
‘Telephone me when you return – you promise?’
She left Potsdammer Strasse at six on a Wednesday morning, 12 February. She’d moved the Mercedes from the basement garage the night before and parked it in the street. She told the maid she’d be back late the following day, desperately hoping she’d not miscalculated the journey.
It was still dark when she pulled into the prearranged spot on Reichenhaller Strasse. Within moments a dark figure stepped out of the shadows and slipped into the passenger seat. He looked terrified; sweat dripping down his face and his hands shaking.
She slipped the car into gear and started off, turning right to drive past Doctor Vogt’s house on Kolberger Platz. She slowed down enough for the two figures at an upper floor window to see that Arno had made it safely to the car.
Jack Miller had come to the house the previous morning and stayed to see everything went to plan: that Arno was ready in time, that he knew what his story was, that his uniform was right, and at exactly the right time – not too early, not too late – he slipped out of the back of the house and through the side gate and to his rendezvous with Sophia.
* * *
Just after Wannsee, Sophia pulled in to the side of the road. She’d been explaining as they drove along as much as she could about the car to Arno. She was conscious that an SS officer being driven by his wife looked suspicious and she wanted him to be driving by the time they reached Potsdam.
Potsdam was quiet, just one checkpoint, which they were waved through, and they were in Leipzig before ten. There was very little traffic on the road other than military vehicles and most of them were heading east, in the opposite direction. It was another four hours to Würzburg, which included a long wait to fill up the car with fuel. They ate sandwiches in the car as they waited.
The next stage of the journey was to Heidelberg. There was a checkpoint outside the town and it was half past three when they reached the front of the queue and the questioning was more rigorous than they were expecting.
You realise you’ll arrive in Strasbourg after dark, sir?
Would it not be an idea to stay over in Heidelberg?
Where is your regiment based, sir?
How long is your leave?
When they were eventually allowed through the tension in the car could be cut with a knife.
‘It was crazy to attempt this journey in one day.’
‘We’re doing it for you, Arno: don’t worry, we should be in Strasbourg by six.’
‘We still have the border to cross.’
‘It’s not really a border, I’m told: Strasbourg is now part of the Reich – it’s no longer in France.’
* * *
They headed for the medieval centre of Strasbourg. At the checkpoint on the outskirts of the city a Wehrmacht officer asked if they needed help finding their destination and Arno – who to Sophia’s surprise had rather grown into the persona of an SS officer – said that really wasn’t necessary and when the policeman muttered something about the Resistance and the city not always being safe, Arno snapped back and said he was surprised the Wehrmacht didn’t have these matters under control.
They found the small hotel just off Place du Temple Neuf. As they approached it down a narrow-cobbled street two large doors opened and they drove straight into a covered courtyard. It was only when he stepped out of the car that Arno realised quite how exhausted he was.
* * *
The hotel was run by a couple who worked for the Resistance and the other four rooms were all occupied by members of the same group. Sophia left Strasbourg early the following morning. She planned to stay in Mainz just long enough for her aunt to realise she’d been there and then head back to Berlin.
Arno Marcus remained in Strasbourg until lunchtime that Thursday. ‘It’s a full moon and the weather is clear so the collection is on for tonight. But we have to time our journey carefully: we don’t want to be hanging around near the pick-up zone, but nor do we want to be out on the road when it’s getting dark.’
Arno was dressed as a farm worker as the van headed west out of Strasbourg, through Alsace and towards Troyes. Just before the town they pulled into a farmyard where they parked in a barn. As Arno was transferred to the boot of a car, the man who’d driven the van explained he was now being looked after by another group.
‘They’ll take you to the pick-up point. You’ll be hiding in the woods for five or six hours. Stay close to Hervé all the time. Good luck.’
It was freezing in the wood and deathly silent: Arno and Hervé huddled close, a sheet of tarpaulin covering them. Not long after midnight Arno was aware of someone crouched by the tarpaulin and speaking with Hervé, who stood up and indicated Arno should too. He was in the middle of a small armed group creeping through the wood until it came to a sudden end. Ahead of them was a long field with torches lit along its perimeter. Almost immediately he heard the sound of an aircraft approaching and moments later he saw it, a small plane swaying in the air as it seemed to drop rather than descend and when it landed it appeared to accelerate before coming to a sudden stop, turning round quickly to face the direction from which it had come.
Arno was aware of being hurried towards the plane, its propellers on the nose still running. He waited as cannisters were unloaded and then he was pushed towards a metal ladder fixed to the port side of the fuselage. A pair of hands reached out from inside the plane and hauled him in headfirst as the plane started to taxi down the field.
He found himself slumped in the cramped rear compartment. Opposite him was a smiling man who leaned over and shook his hand warmly.
‘I’m delighted to meet you, Arno. My name is Barnaby Allen, but please do call me Barney.’
Chapter 29
Berlin
February 1941
Friday, 14 February
My dearest T
I arrived safely yesterday. The journey went well, though it is not one I would wish to undertake too often!
I am being very well looked after and arrangements have been made for me to resume my studies soon. Everyone here is being very kind and treating me like an important guest.
I recall you telling me about your much-loved black cat, Kaguya – what a fine old age he lived to! You clearly loved him very much and I thought of my dog, Hansi: he died when I was ten, but I remember him as clearly as if he was sitting beside me now, I can even hear him panting and feel his warm flank against my leg.
Please be assured all is well with me and I hope with you. I look forward to a time when we shall be together again.
A
* * *
Arranging meetings with Tadashi Kimura was always a fraught matter. Tadashi was one of a handful of obviously non-Europeans in the Berlin. Wherever he went heads turned and although Berlin being Berlin meant people avoided gawping at him too blatantly, it was nevertheless obvious he was noticed wherever he went.
Jack Miller tried to avoid visiting Tadashi’s apartment on Brücken Allee: it was a quiet street, the kind where comings and goings were noticed, and although the side entrance to the apartments helped, it was a still a risk. The safest place – or the least dangerous one – was Miller’s own apartment on Sächsische Strasse. This was a far busier street and on the next block was a specialist stationer, which sold the best-quality writing paper in Berlin. Tadashi had been a customer there for years.
Jack’s apartment had its own entrance at the back of his building, reached through a small alley, which ran from the street. And that is where they met on the last Tuesday in February, the 25th.
It was late in the afternoon, an unseasonably warm day where people had overdressed in anticipation of the cold. Tadashi let himself in through the unlocked entrance and Jack’s front door.
‘You look hot and flustered, Tadashi: have you been running?’
‘No, it’s turned very warm. May I take my coat off?’ He’d already removed his shoes even though Jack told him he needn’t bother, a suggestion that clearly horrified his visitor.
‘You said you have something, Jack?’
He handed Tadashi a brown envelope that the diplomat opened carefully as if it were something fragile. He put on his reading glasses and Jack watched as Tadashi read the letter without showing any apparent emotion. When he’d finished, he nodded and folded the letter the up.
‘Are you satisfied with it, Tadashi?’
Tadashi unfolded the letter and read it once more, and this time there was a trace of emotion as he read, a hint of a sad smile, and when he’d finished, he touched the corner of one eye with his thumb.
‘The talk about cats and dogs, that was the agreed code to tell me everything really is fine.’ He placed the letter in his pocket.
‘I’ll need the letter please, Tadashi.’
‘I can’t keep it?’
‘Absolutely not, it’s far too dangerous.’
He handed the letter to Jack who tore it into shreds and then dropped it in an ashtray before setting it alight. The two of them said nothing as they watched the letter curl into black ashes.
‘Tadashi, now you’ve been assured Arno is safe I hope you’ll…’
The diplomat looked up. ‘I gave you my word, didn’t I? Do you imagine that for a moment I won’t keep it?’
Jack said of course not and if Tadashi was ready, he’d tell him about the dead letter box he’d set up for the handover of documents. They talked it through for the best part of an hour, consulting a map, and by now it was dark outside and Tadashi said he’d better get a move on.
In the hall he put on his shoes and coat and turned to face Jack, standing in an almost formal manner. He appeared to be deep in thought and it was a while before he spoke. ‘This is a very serious matter for me, you understand, Jack: even though I am doing it for Arno, the information I will be passing on to you, it could change the outcome of the war… and I will be committing treason.’
He half turned towards the door and hesitated again before turning back to face Jack. ‘You know, we did have a black cat called Kaguya; the name means shining night. In our culture we believe black cats protect you against misfortune.’
He paused briefly, then bowed his head and left.
* * *
Tadashi Kimura’s standing at the Japanese embassy on Graf Spree Strasse received a significant boost in February 1941 when Hiroshi Ōshima was reappointed as the country’s ambassador to Berlin.
Tadashi had been posted to the embassy early in 1938 and Ōshima had arrived as the ambassador later that year. Even in Berlin it would have been hard to find a more hierarchical institution than the Japanese embassy: everyone knew their place and formality ruled. But despite this there was a connection between the new ambassador and his second secretary. The connection lay within the labyrinthine structure of Samurai clans and the obligations those connected to the clans felt to other members of it.
Hiroshi Ōshima belonged to a prominent Samurai clan from the Chūbu area in Honshu, which Tadashi’s mother’s family had been prominent members of. The families knew each other. There was a mutual respect. Ōshima soon spotted the younger man’s abilities. He was impressed Tadashi was one of the few diplomats in his embassy fluent in German. He found him hard working and unlike many of the other junior diplomats, more independent thinking, more likely to question the official line in meetings.
But Ōshima’s spell as ambassador ended abruptly at the end of 1939. The Japanese government was furious it hadn’t known of the Nazi–Soviet pact in advance and their ambassador in Berlin took the blame for it. As Tadashi had acquired a reputation as Ōshima’s man he did less well under Ōshima’s successor, Saburō Kurusu. But to his delight Ōshima was reappointed in February 1941. Ōshima was highly regarded by the Nazi leadership – including Hitler. He was known as a hardliner and an enthusiast for Nazi policies. The word in Berlin was that Germany had requested Ōshima’s return.
He was soon making himself comfortable in Graf Spree Strasse. One of his first actions was to reorganise his personal office. He was surprised, he told his chief of staff, that a man of Tadashi Kimura’s ability was still a second secretary. He wanted Tadashi working directly to him – and he was to be promoted to first secretary.
Ōshima soon resumed his close relationships with German officials. Tadashi Kimura often accompanied his ambassador to meetings with senior officials, sitting quietly behind him, taking notes, sometimes passing one to Ōshima to prompt him, occasionally helping with translation.
When he returned to the embassy, he always typed up a detailed account of the meeting. Often this would take him late into the night and colleagues would urge him to go home but he insisted on finishing his report: the ambassador would always find a neatly typed report waiting on his desk in the morning.
There’d be other meetings too important for a first secretary to attend – often with Hitler and his foreign minister, von Ribbentrop – where Ōshima would be on his own. These tended to take place later in the day or even at night. They were often informal – more conversations than meetings, and all the more revealing for that. First thing in the morning after any of these encounters Tadashi Kimura or one of the other first secretaries would sit opposite the ambassador as he read out loud from his notes, adding an observation here or a thought there. These would then be written up into a report and as with the others, transmitted to Tokyo after one of the embassy’s intelligence clerks had encoded it using the impregnable Type B Cipher Machine.
