Agent in Berlin, page 34
On the long walk back to the cemetery he realised how bad his cough now was. It was one of those that could be sorted by a hot bath, a hot drink and whisky and a good night’s sleep, none of which were likely to be found in the cemetery.
He found another patch of undergrowth in the centre of the cemetery; this one had been hollowed out and someone had clearly been there before. As it got dark a man appeared a few feet alongside him, nodding at Jack. They said nothing all night: silent companions, unspoken conspirators, each deliberately ignorant of the other’s predicament. The man offered Jack his flask of schnapps and the only time he appeared animated was when Jack handed him a chunk of sausage.
He must have slept for a couple of hours because when he woke it was seven-thirty and he was alone. He brushed himself down and headed back to Charlottenburg. The curtains were still drawn and all seemed quiet outside. The Mercedes wasn’t in the street where it was usually parked when Karl-Heinrich was home and he could see the maid in the front room wiping the windows.
He was about to find a telephone box when he saw Sophia leave the building. He crossed the road and came alongside her.
‘I’m in trouble, Sophia, I need your help.’
‘I didn’t recognise you!’
‘That’s the idea. Are you safe – no problems?’
‘Are you being followed?’
‘No, but they’re after me.’
She stopped and allowed herself a moment or two to think. ‘You look dreadful… let me think… I’ll have to wait a while: I’ll tell the maid she can have the rest of the day off and won’t need to return until Sunday night. Fortunately, Karl-Heinrich isn’t home this weekend. Here…’
She opened her handbag and made a play of giving him some coins, at the same time slipping her car keys into his hand. ‘Hide in the car. There’s a rug on the backseat. Stay on the floor and cover yourself with it. I’ll come for you around four.’
* * *
Tadashi Kimura’s world came crashing down that Friday morning.
On the Wednesday night he suspected he was followed from the embassy to Brücken Allee. Back in his apartment he picked up the telephone to call the American but there were odd clicking noises he’d not heard before so he put the phone down.
The following morning, he was certain he was followed to work. When he arrived, he was told he was needed in the consular department for a day or two. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d been sent there – something to do with a problem over the issuing of passports, though he couldn’t quite work out what the problem was or what he needed to deal with. He spent the day sitting opposite a clerk recently arrived from Tokyo, a man called Kuzumi Kobayashi. They hardly spoke, but whenever he looked up Kobayashi was staring at him.
It was the same on the Thursday night: a suspicion of being followed and when he arrived home, he suspected someone had been in his apartment. He’d always been meticulous about where he kept things and he was certain the fountain pen on his desk had been moved, as had the books on his bedside table.
He slept fitfully that night, getting up to check the road outside and then to write a long letter to his wife, the first he’d written for a month. He explained his life had been complicated and whatever happened she mustn’t think badly of him.
But on Friday morning he was sure no one was watching him and when he arrived at Graf Spree Strasse he bumped into Kuzumi Kobayashi in reception who told him he was no longer needed in the consular department. He was to go to the ambassador’s office. It was only as he entered it that he realised Kobayashi was behind him and before he had time to react, he was ushered into a side room, where the blinds were drawn and the head of security at the embassy was sitting at the front next to Ambassador Ōshima. Tadashi was told to stand at the other end of the table and noticed two security officers appear either side of him. Kuzumi Kobayashi was now next to the ambassador and he spoke first.
…under suspicion… access to sensitive, top-secret material… being passed to the British… possibly the Americans too… do you know this man…?
At which point Kobayashi showed him a photograph of the American, Jack. Kimura was too shocked to react: he knew he ought to deny all knowledge immediately but he was so paralysed with fear he couldn’t even shake his head. At one point he felt himself sway and a security guard grabbed his elbow.
When he tried to speak, he struggled to form his words: he was aware of standing there with his mouth open.
‘Well then, Kimura, what do you say?’
For a few more moments, nothing. Then it was as if someone else had taken control of his body. He felt his knees buckle and heard himself sobbing, so loud at first it was impossible to talk, but then he heard himself: ‘I’m so sorry… I apologise for my indiscretions, for all of them. What I did was wrong, I wanted to prevent a war. I…’
He managed to stop himself at this point, though of course by then it was far too late. He had absolutely no idea what had come over him. Events moved fast after that: the ambassador came over and told him he was a disgrace and then he was marched out of the room and down to a small room in the basement where he was strapped to a chair and the lights were turned out before the door was locked.
When the door opened a few hours later Kuzumi Kobayashi told him he had a choice. ‘If you give a full confession now, you’ll be taken back to Japan to face justice. If you don’t co-operate, you’ll be handed over to the Gestapo. Would you like some time to think about it?’
Minutes later he was telling them what he hoped they’d believe was a full confession. It was actually a very partial confession – he was determined not to mention Arno. From their questions it was clear they didn’t know where Jack Miller was so he concentrated on him, not mentioning the woman or Doctor Vogt, the man who’d hidden Arno. Kobayashi also asked him about the kind of clubs he visited: where any of them the kind of places where only men went?
Tadashi Kimura admitted he’d been to those clubs – out of curiosity, he insisted, he’d never felt comfortable in them but unfortunately, he wasn’t sure what happened, but he may well have got drunk and one thing led to another and that’s when he met the American and… after that the American started to blackmail him and soon it was too late and he was trapped and he was so ashamed and…
Kobayashi asked him where they met and he said in his apartment or the American’s – he gave him the address.
They kept him in the basement for a few more days. Kimura lost track of days but sensed he was handling the questioning well. Each day Kobayashi returned with more questions – usually a variation on ones he’d asked before – and Kimura kept his story simple and resisted any temptation to elaborate on it. As long as he didn’t mention Arno. He had little doubt about the fate that awaited him in Tokyo but he felt he could handle it, not least because he deserved it.
Anything would be preferable to ending his days in Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse.
* * *
Jack Miller remembered little after Sophia shepherded him to her apartment that Friday afternoon. He recalled her saying that Karl-Heinrich rarely came home these days and the maid would be back on Monday morning and he had a high temperature and a terrible cough and perhaps he should rest and take some of the very strong medicine her husband swore by.
His next memory was waking up in a dark room, unsure of where he was or whether it was day or night. He was covered in sweat and felt as if he’d been drugged. It was not an altogether unpleasant experience.
He must have drifted off again because when he next awoke thin shafts of bright light speared the room. He sat up and as soon as he started coughing the door opened and Sophia came in. It was nearly ten o’clock in the morning, she said: Saturday. He’d been asleep since five o’clock the previous afternoon, she said: Karl-Heinrich’s medicine had obviously worked – it contained morphine and cocaine and Jack said they ought to bottle it.
He had a hot bath and when he sat down to eat he told Sophia the whole story – his suspicion on the Monday that he was being followed turning into a certainty on the Wednesday; how he’d managed to lose them, dropping a message at the kiosk and then changing his clothes and picking up his rucksack in Düsseldorfer Strasse before spending two nights in the cemetery. He told her how he’d watched her apartment on the Thursday and only returned the following day because it seemed safe and now…
He shrugged and then quite without warning felt tears well in his eyes and roll down his cheeks and soon he was sobbing uncontrollably. He felt Sophia stroking his forearm and then touch his shoulders, telling him not to worry, this was quite natural and the medicine made him less inhibited and he’d been under so much pressure…
And then she was silent. When he looked up and smiled apologetically, she smiled too, a sweet smile full of affection, and she used her thumb to wipe away the tears under his eyes and gently brushed her hand across his face and he assumed it was either his imagination or the medication, but there seemed to be an intimacy to her touch. When he stopped crying, they remained sitting together at the table, moving their chairs closer to each other and he took her hand and that’s how they sat for a long while, saying nothing until they heard the clock in the sitting room strike twelve.
‘I need to leave Berlin, Sophia.’
‘My maid will be back around eight-thirty Monday morning: you’ll have to be gone by then. Where can you go?’
‘I have Swiss papers and currency in my rucksack. If I can get over the border, I’ll be fine. But…’
For the next hour they pored over a large map. The Swiss border was at least five hundred miles from Berlin, which meant the drive there and back would take her at least three days. They agreed that travelling by train would be the best way, though still a dangerous one.
At six-thirty on the Monday morning Sophia drove the Mercedes from the basement garage and headed towards the centre of the city. At the end of the road, she told Jack Miller it was safe and he got up from the floor and sat on the back seat. He was dressed in a smart black overcoat, a suit and shoes, all belonging to Karl-Heinrich. In his small suitcase was the rucksack and the clothing belonging to Hans Klein: they’d agreed this was more suitable attire if he got as far as the border.
The short journey was conducted in silence: there was too much to be said and both knew now wasn’t the right time, though whether there ever would be a right time seemed unlikely and both of them clearly sensed that too.
When the car stopped on Viktoria Strasse, she told him where Potsdamer station was and he said he knew and told her to take care and they would see each other soon and she bit her lip and said that was her hope too and he’d better hurry. Moments later he was crossing the road and by the time he reached the other side the Mercedes was a dark blur.
The train to Nuremberg left at seven and his papers were only checked once on the journey. It was the fastest train of the day on that route and it pulled into Nuremberg on time at noon. He’d decided not to buy a through ticket just in case the Gestapo picked up his trail in Berlin.
The next stage of the journey was more difficult: twice he was asked why he was going to Stuttgart and on the second occasion he was pressed as to which factory he was being sent to work at. The policeman looked unimpressed when he replied he’d only been told to report to the city’s labour office.
They arrived in Stuttgart just before five that Monday afternoon. The ticket office was about to close but he was just in time to buy a ticket for his journey the following day.
He found a small hotel off Königstrasse run by a mother and daughter who seemed to be so grateful to have a guest that when he appeared flustered at all the forms he needed to fill in they said not to worry, just fill in the name, address and identity-card number and they’d do the rest and he said he was most grateful and gave them a generous tip and they asked if he’d like a meal brought up to his room, which he said sounded wonderful.
When he left in the morning, he asked for directions to the labour office and took some time carefully writing them down. The mother and daughter waved him off and only when he’d turned the corner did he turn in the other direction to the station. His first stop was the ticket office and after that the kiosk selling confectionary.
The journey from Stuttgart on the Gäu line took the best part of the day and became more fraught each mile they headed south. In other circumstances it would have been a pleasant journey: the train not as crowded as he was used to and the scenery was spectacular. But he spent the whole journey picking holes in his cover story, which was not too difficult.
The biggest flaw as he saw it – apart from the lack of papers – was how come a manual worker had travelled from Berlin to Stuttgart dressed so smartly: one railway policeman had mentioned it and he’d insisted he was a manager now, no longer a manual worker. And now he was heading towards the Swiss border, the most closely guarded one in the country. What was Hans Klein doing there?
The first check came between Herrenberg and Bondorf and was straightforward enough but at Sulz am Neckar the railway policeman wanted to know if he had papers allowing him to travel that far and he said of course not, this was a journey he did regularly and it was the first time he’d been asked for them.
The next check came after the train left Rottweil. A policeman in plainclothes, probably not Gestapo but he was in a mood to have a discussion about his career path.
‘Papers, please.’
He looked at Jack then at the papers then back again and nodded. ‘And you’re travelling where?’
‘Engen.’
‘Purpose of visit.’
‘A job interview, sir: I work in specialist areas – to do with defence.’
‘And you have no letter or permit relating to that?’
Jack Miller apologised and said of course he did but like a fool had left it in his hotel in Stuttgart and he was damned if he could remember the name of it, though it was around Königstrasse if that was of any help and the policeman said it wasn’t, it would have been of more help if the hotel hadn’t been around Königstrasse.
‘You don’t sound as if you’re from these parts?’
‘I’m from Brandenburg.’
‘So I see: but you don’t have the accent.’
Jack said that was probably because he’d lived in the Netherlands for a long while and then for the second time that journey slipped into his mouth one of the strong mints he’d bought at the kiosk in Stuttgart and it quickly had the desired effect. Mints always caused him to cough, usually quite violently: it was a trick he’d used since his schooldays. This time the cough was so violent tears streamed from his eyes. The policeman looked uncomfortable and stepped back from him, evidently in a hurry to move on.
‘I’m not satisfied with you having no papers about being in Engen. Where are you staying there?’
‘I’m being met at the station apparently.’
‘I’ll contact our office in Engen and make sure they also meet you when you arrive. They can verify everything then.’
Jack said he quite understood and he was very sorry for any inconvenience.
* * *
At his training in England, he’d been taught how railway staff were trained to examine tickets closely to spot someone leaving a journey early. This was why the previous night he’d bought a ticket from Stuttgart to Engen and if all had gone well, he’d have then taken the branch line to Singen, right on the Swiss border. But that morning he’d bought another ticket, this one to Tuttlingen, in case he needed to leave the train early. He took care as they approached the station: as far as he could tell the policemen were further up the train, so he headed to the rear and removed his overcoat and took out the workman’s jacket and cap and put them on. He waited until the train started to pull out of Tuttlingen before jumping off.
The station was quiet as he left it. He half expected a shout to call him back but the town was quiet too and he hurried along, anxious to put as much distance as possible between himself and the station. He found a small park and sat on a bench to take stock. He was some twenty-five miles from the Swiss border and it was getting dark and any time now the police at Engen would realise a Hans Klein hadn’t arrived at their station. He needed to keep moving.
Under cover of the trees in the park he changed into the rest of his workman’s outfit and hid the case containing the smart clothes in the undergrowth. He felt more comfortable as a manual worker and the boots were certainly more suited to his plans. The Swiss border was to the south-west and he headed in that direction with a vague plan to walk until it was dark and then hide until daylight. He’d been walking for ten minutes when he came across a Daimler lorry parked on the verge. It was caked in mud, as was the driver who was sitting in the open cabin enjoying a cigarette. He called out as Jack walked past.
‘Where’re you heading at this time of the day – out for a stroll?’
Jack said he was in the area looking for work but had been let down by a farmer and was hoping to find somewhere that would take him on.
‘Don’t trust any of the farmers round here. Do you want a lift?’
‘Where are you heading?’
‘Back to my depot in Tengen. You’re more than welcome to have a lift there but you’ll struggle to get work: they’re very fussy about who can work round there.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Tengen’s right on the Swiss border, isn’t it?’
Chapter 37
England, Germany and Switzerland
December 1941 and January 1942
‘Not like him to cut up so rough, is it, Barney?’
Barney Allen looked across the table at Piers Devereux and allowed himself a few moments before responding. He recalled Tom Gilbey’s initial description of Piers: disobliging. Sometimes that was very much to the fore, like now.
‘I think in the circumstances Jack can be excused for behaving so emotionally. I’m sure I would.’
‘But he’s in Switzerland now, isn’t he? He ought to relax – take the air or whatever it is one’s supposed to do there. What are the chances of him staying on our books?’
