Agent in Berlin, page 33
Jack asked him to be more specific about that date.
‘I was in the outer office and the door was shut some of the time but I did catch a glimpse of them looking at a map and I think I heard the Naval attaché say that was when the fleet would change direction.’
‘To where?’
‘I don’t know: but I do know that the emperor has already approved the attack and that Japan will certainly declare war on the United States.’
‘But what about all these talks to reach a diplomatic solution?’
Tadashi Kimura pulled a face. ‘Japan wants the Americans to believe there’s the possibility of a diplomatic solution. We all know Ambassador Kichisaburō Nomura has been putting various proposals to the United States government – ending the war with China, withdrawing our troops, supplying us with oil, more troop withdrawals in Indochina… I could go on, but all this diplomacy, it’s just designed to buy us time. Maybe the Americans know this because on the same day Yamamoto’s fleet set sail the Americans demanded Japan withdraw all its troops from China and Indochina, which they must know we’d never agree to.’
‘So war is inevitable?’
‘Absolutely. You must tell the British about the fleet and they must inform the Americans. Who knows where it’s headed, but maybe they can work it out? My guess – it’s only a guess, but remember I was an officer in the Imperial Navy – is that if the fleet changes direction on the fourth of December it could well head south to the Midway Islands or west to Wake Island or even Guam though of course, they could…’
He hesitated and then shook his head as if dismissing the thought.
‘They could what?’
‘They could of course head south east towards Hawaii and to Pearl Harbor on Oahu Island which is where the main US Navy Pacific Fleet is based but… no… even with four hundred planes that’s far too ambitious a target given the distance and the fact it’s very heavily defended. The Americans are bound to spot them way before they get there.’
A feeling of fear fell over Jack Miller as he recalled the letter from his brother he’d received a few months before. Tom told him he was being transferred to Pearl Harbor. ‘Come and visit me in Hawaii!’ He wondered whether to push Tadashi on this but thought better of it. After all, hadn’t he just said it was too difficult a target?
* * *
The atmosphere in Ambassador Hiroshi Ōshima’s office was heavy with suspicion.
The head of the Gestapo unit that had been investigating Tadashi Kimura was there and to the ambassador’s left sat Kuzumi Kobayashi with the restrained disposition of someone confident they’ve been proved right.
It was the Monday morning – the first day of December – and the ambassador was looking at the Gestapo officer suspiciously. ‘Go on then.’
‘At your request, sir, we put Tadashi Kimura under observation, which included following him after he left the embassy, watching his apartment and questioning the neighbours. One of the neighbours is a Frau Sauer who lives two floors below him in Brücken Allee. She told us that on a number of occasions in 1939 she saw a younger man – a German – entering and leaving Kimura’s apartment and she believes he may have been staying there. Frau Sauer says there have been one or two other visitors too, but she was unclear about who or when. She told us that around two weeks ago a German woman knocked at her door to give her a copy of Frauen-Warte. She then noticed the woman knock on your colleague’s door on the fourth floor and enter his apartment and remain there for at least ten minutes. She was unable to give us a useful description of the woman other than she was smartly dressed and wore a hat, which made it hard to make out her face.
‘We gave Frau Sauer our telephone number and asked her to contact us if she noticed anything suspicious. She rang on Saturday morning to report that the previous night she’d heard someone on the stairs and when she looked out a man perhaps in his thirties was climbing to Kimura’s floor. He remained in Kimura’s apartment for over an hour.’
‘She’s sure of that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And she didn’t think to call you that night?’
‘Apparently she didn’t think anyone would be there. However, two of my officers were watching Kimura’s apartment when they spotted a man matching that description leaving his apartment block. They thought it odd as they’d not seen him enter so they questioned him. He said he’d been to visit a friend called Hans – he didn’t know his surname – who wasn’t in and he thought he may have got the wrong address. They asked how come they’d not seen him enter and he said he didn’t know as it had only been a few minutes before. They asked to see his papers and it turns out he’s an American journalist called Jack Miller with an address in Sächsische Strasse in Wilmersdorf. You don’t know of him, I suppose?’
The ambassador shook his head.
Kuzumi Kobayashi coughed before speaking. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, when I was informed about this earlier this morning, I did speak with our press attaché who assures me neither he nor anyone in his department have ever had any dealings with this gentleman.’
‘Why have you not arrested him? And surely we should bring Kimura in for questioning?’
‘A colleague of mine was asked to investigate Herr Miller and earlier this month he concluded there was no need to proceed with the investigation. However, things change as new information comes to light. My advice is to wait for a few more days if we can, during which time we will have the opportunity to investigate this man further.’
‘And we will be able to take a closer look at Kimura.’
‘Exactly: it may be that other people are involved – I’d be most surprised if they aren’t – and this will give us an opportunity to spot them: we’ve learnt that arresting people too soon can be a mistake.’
Ambassador Ōshima impatiently tapped his pen on his desk. ‘How many more days?’
‘Ideally another week, sir.’
‘No, no… no – today is Monday: the latest I can agree to is Thursday.’
‘The fourth of December, sir?’
‘Yes, the fourth of December.’
* * *
It was almost as if Basil Remington-Barber had known what could happen.
Not that one is saying you’re going to be arrested, Jack, but of course in this business one never knows so my advice is to always have an escape plan up your sleeve. Keep in mind where you can go in an emergency and – and this is terribly important, Jack – have a bag!
There were times when he wondered what on earth the Englishman was talking about.
‘Not much you can do if you’re arrested, of course, but sometimes agents catch wind that they’re being hunted. If you have somewhere to go and – importantly – a bag stashed away with some essentials in it then that can make all the difference: it means you’ll have the resources you need to escape. Wolves do that, you know; they have different dens they use when they need to hide. Remember to have new papers because your identity will most likely have been compromised, otherwise you wouldn’t be on the run, would you? Use a smallish rucksack and if you can hide a spare coat and hat: that’s terribly useful, you’ll be surprised how effective changing your outer clothing can be.’
* * *
Jack first wondered if he was being watched again when he left his apartment on the Monday morning. He’d been on his way to leave the envelope with the film in at Reinhard’s kiosk on Budapester Strasse when he noticed a couple behind him. He’d turned round rather suddenly and was surprised at how close they were.
He’d smiled and carried on and when he next turned round an overweight man was walking breathlessly behind him, struggling to keep up.
He’d dismissed the idea he was being followed at first: he’d decided he was worrying too much and nothing had come of his suspicions before and it didn’t help matters by worrying so much.
But as he was on Ranke Strasse and not far from the kiosk on Budapester Strasse he turned round once more and spotted the couple again, this time talking to a tall man and appearing to gesture in his direction. Jack was convinced the tall man was one of those he’d thought had been following him earlier in November. He didn’t go anywhere near the kiosk, instead carrying on into the Zoologischer Garten.
He bought a cheese roll from a vendor at the entrance and then sat on a bench and took his time over eating it. During that period the same couple walked past twice, as did the overweight man and the tall man.
He took a tram to the Propaganda Ministry for the daily briefing – events on the Soviet front were not worthy of comment, apparently – and then returned to his apartment. He didn’t think he was followed back and nothing in the apartment appeared to have been disturbed, though that was hard to tell.
But the next day – the Tuesday – was the same and he again had to abandon his visit to Reinhard’s kiosk. This time he was followed back from the Propaganda Ministry and that night he was certain his apartment was being watched from the street. He composed a coded communication telling London he was in trouble and slipped it into the same envelope as Kimura’s film and his report on what the diplomat had told him on the Friday night.
He left Sächsische Strasse just before ten on the Wednesday morning and instead of heading north went in the opposite direction. As he passed the apartment building next to his he wished the old lady sweeping the pavement a good morning.
‘Be careful,’ she said in a hoarse whisper, ‘I heard them asking about you.’
Before he could ask her who she’d turned her back, hunched over her broom. He headed to Berliner Strasse and stopped at his favourite cafe, the first time he’d been there for a few days. The owner wasn’t nearly as jolly as he normally was: just giving him the briefest of nods as he entered and sending the waitress over instead of himself.
Jack Miller wasn’t too surprised: he’d noticed in recent months how fickle Berliners had become. The city seemed to live increasingly on its nerves and one consequence was people could be unpredictable: friendly one day, quite distant the next. At eleven o’clock he decided it was time to move on and slipped into the back of the cafe to use the toilet. In the narrow corridor he was aware of the door into the cafe closing and a large figure following him.
It was the owner.
‘Upstairs, quick.’
He hurried up the narrow staircase to a tiny room on the top floor, most of it taken up by an untidy desk. The owner beckoned Jack in and closed the door.
‘The Gestapo are asking about you. They came a month ago and wanted to know if you ever discussed politics and I said no but I thought better than to say anything to you, I thought it was just routine, you know – with you being a foreigner. But on Monday they came back and wanted to know more: were you ever in here with anyone else, did you ever leave anything here for someone else to collect, did you ever talk to any other customers… I don’t want to get involved in anything but I’ve always liked you and I just wanted to warn you. You’d better leave now. And can I ask you a favour?’
Jack said of course.
‘Please don’t come back.’
He moved quickly after that. He left the cafe and headed south to Schmargendorf to catch the U-Bahn and changed trains three times. An hour later he finally exited at Wittenberg Platz and although he was as certain as he could be that he’d lost whoever was following him he still took a longer route on to Budapester Strasse. Reinhard was closing up as he arrived at the kiosk and gave him an anxious look, as if to ask whether there was a problem.
Jack used the code to indicate he was in trouble.
‘Matches, please, I’ve run out of matches.’
Reinhard didn’t react as he handed a box to him. Jack had meanwhile placed the envelope under a magazine and tapped it, telling Reinhard ‘this is urgent’.
‘You mustn’t look so worried; I could tell something was up. I’ll get this to the courier but if you’re in that much danger my advice is to not hang around. You should get the hell out of this damn city.’
* * *
He’d hidden his rucksack in the basement under the apartment block on Düsseldorfer Strasse where the Luftwaffe man Scholz lived. He’d not had contact with him since June when he’d spotted a red rug on top of the box of paint cans and knew that was the warning sign to stay away.
But he’d found a perfect hiding spot there in a part of the basement well away from Scholz’s storage cage – a tunnel connected two parts of the basement, a dark area where the wall was caked in a thick layer of soot and on the ground a metal grate appeared to lead to a foul-smelling and noisy sewer just a few feet below. It wasn’t somewhere people would choose to pry around and Jack had found a loose block at the foot of the wall and had hollowed out enough space to hide a rucksack and a bag containing a change of clothing, both wrapped in tarpaulin.
He hurried there from Budapester Strasse: fortunately, the basement was deserted, and he went to his hiding place, crouching down opposite it for a while to be sure he’d not been followed.
He waited a few minutes before crawling over to the wall and prising away the block he’d loosened and sure enough, behind it was the tarpaulin and in that his rucksack and the change of clothing. He quickly removed his light brown raincoat, trilby and smart shoes and wrapped them in the tarpaulin before stuffing it in the void and replacing the block.
He put on a heavy black workman’s jacket, a dirty cloth cap and workman’s boots. They matched his new identity papers, which Basil had supplied: Hans Klein, a manual worker from Brandenburg, exempt from military service due to poor hearing.
It will get you through most checks, Jack… but if they’re looking for you it won’t stand up to an awful lot of scrutiny: they rarely do.
He checked his watch. It was four o’clock now and soon the curfew would begin. He toyed with the idea of remaining in the basement overnight but decided he couldn’t risk Scholz spotting him if there was an air raid.
Then he remembered how Arno had mentioned he’d hidden in the Jewish cemetery on Schönhauser Allee when he was on the run. He couldn’t think of anywhere better to go and it would only be for one night.
On Thursday he’d make contact with Sophia.
For now, he headed to Prenzlauer Berg, the burdens of being an exhausted, manual worker coming naturally to him.
Chapter 36
Germany
December 1941
It was a wonder what two nights in a cemetery could do for one’s appearance – and to one’s chest.
Jack Miller had left the basement on Düsseldorfer Strasse just after four o’clock on the Wednesday afternoon. At the end of Pariser Strasse, he took a tram as far as Tiergartenstrasse, from where he walked a couple more blocks and then caught the U-Bahn.
Half an hour later he got out at Horst-Wessel Platz and walked up Prenzlauer Strasse. It was just before five-thirty and fortuitously this part of his journey coincided with people travelling home from work. He was certainly not the only worker trudging along exhausted and dirty from the day’s exertions. He turned left into Treskow Strasse, which took him to the north-east tip of the Jewish cemetery, away from the main entrance on Schönhauser Allee.
Without pausing he turned into a small alley, beyond which were low railings in front of a tall row of trees. He glanced round: with no one in sight he climbed over the railings and hurried into the cemetery. If he was stopped, he’d decided, he’d say he urgently needed to use the toilet.
The Jews can hardly object!
But no one stopped him. It felt more like a wood than a conventional cemetery, with individual graves set between the trees, small rows crammed together where the space allowed. He headed to the centre and found an area with thick undergrowth and settled down in it. He remained there until the following morning. He hardly slept thanks to the cold and the sounds – real and imagined – around him. At one stage he was convinced he caught sight of two figures passing a few feet in front of him and around four in the morning he heard what sounded like laughter nearby.
He left the cemetery just after six on the Thursday morning. He was filthy and coughing heavily, but his instinct was not to remain in the cemetery during the day. He found a cafe on Wiesenberger Strasse which looked down on its luck, but evidently not as much as him because the woman behind the counter seemed appalled when she saw the state of him and said he’d have to sit at the back, in a draughty space next to the toilets, which suited him fine. He had plenty of money on him, which meant he was able to remain there for a good hour and before he left, he bought a large sausage and some bread. He’d had a good look at himself in the mirror and was impressed at how his appearance had already changed. His face was filthy, stained with dirt, and as he’d not shaved the previous day the stubble made him look older. Not only did he not look much like Jack Miller, he didn’t feel like him either. He was, he reminded himself, Hans Klein.
He left the cafe and headed south, arriving in Sächsische Strasse around ten-thirty, driven by an urge to see if his apartment was being watched. It was an obvious risk, but from a block away he could see Gestapo cars parked in front of his building and plainclothes officers and uniformed policemen milling. He moved just far enough forward to spot more activity down the alley, by the entrance to his apartment.
He decided not to hang around, vindicated he’d made the right call the previous day, that he’d acted on the danger signs. He’d needed to be sure. He headed north to Potsdamer Strasse, which he tentatively entered from the east, relieved to see no sign of activity outside Sophia’s apartment building. He walked past it on the opposite side of the road, glancing up at the small window and saw that the curtains were drawn, Sophia’s signal that all was safe. But it wasn’t a fool-proof signal – if she’d been suddenly arrested, she wouldn’t have had time to open the curtains. And it was a Thursday, there was always the possibility Karl-Heinrich could come home for the weekend.
