Agent in Berlin, page 4
‘We’ll pay you fifteen pounds a week along with all your expenses and we’ll allow you to continue with your other work so you’ll have that income too. What do you think?’
‘Fifteen pounds a week – you’ll pay that much?’
Barney nodded.
‘And what would the expenses include?’
‘Rent, travel…’
‘Rent?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s certainly an interesting idea, Barnaby, let me think about it.’
‘And there’s one other thing to mention, Werner: the Olympics start in Berlin on the first of August. Think of it – more than two weeks of the best sport in the world! What a wonderful time for you to be in Berlin, eh? The principal at the college has very good contacts. We’ll be able to get you tickets to as many events as you want. Apparently it’s going to be quite a spectacle.’
Werner nodded. ‘If I go, Barnaby, there is one condition.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘I can be in Hamburg in July?’
‘I don’t think that’s a problem, but why Hamburg in July?’
‘The Deutsches Derby, Barnaby – at the Horner Rennbahn: the biggest horse race in Germany!’
* * *
‘I agreed you should sound him out, Barney, but from the sounds of it you’ve gone and actually signed him up!’
‘I thought I’d better get on with it, Piers. I haven’t signed him up as such but I’d certainly say Werner’s very interested and I’ve told you before, I think he’ll make an ideal agent.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, Piers, really. He’s a German citizen with no criminal record and no politics, he’s bright and very personable and has no ties so is able to move around the country. My only reservation as I mentioned before is that he’s…’ Barney Allen paused and coughed.
‘A homosexual?’
‘Yes, Piers.’
‘I’m not sure why that in itself should preclude him.’
‘I thought maybe you would—’
‘Would what – disapprove? Well obviously I don’t approve but the point surely, Barney, is that we’re recruiting a spy, not someone to go on holiday with. Half the tutors I knew at Oxford were homosexual and that didn’t prevent them being bloody good at their job and I fought with a cavalry major at Ypres who we all knew was that way inclined and he was the bravest man in his regiment. In any case, I think it could count in his favour.’
‘How on earth do you come up with that?’
‘From what you say, Werner is used to concealing a big part of his life: he’s clearly done so for many years and has managed it very successfully. That requires a degree of guile and, I’d have thought, not a little courage. We had a chap like that in Vienna for a while. Bloody good at his job, recruited some first-class agents and ran them very effectively. Things rather went wrong when he came back here and had to resign after a most unfortunate incident in Piccadilly Circus.’
‘And the betting scam Werner was involved in – is that a problem?’
‘On the contrary, his willingness to be involved in it shows he’s prepared to break the rules, that he’s got some bottle. We can’t have agents who are shrinking violets, can we? Look, Barney, when you’ve been around spies for as long as I have you’ll appreciate that they’re all flawed characters in some way, otherwise they wouldn’t be in this game. Ordinary people with blameless and straightforward lives tend not to become spies. The best ones are people who’ve been tested by life in one way or the other. People with complications in their lives, who’ve had to live and survive in what I call the shadows of life – they’re the type we’re after. The more I think about him, the more I think Werner would be a good recruit. Has he bought your cover story?’
‘He certainly seemed to. It sounds so mundane I don’t think too many people are going to question it. Even my wife believes it.’
‘And you’ve not told him yet about what he’s been recruited for?’
Barney Allen shook his head. ‘As far as he’s concerned, he’s going over to Germany to drum up new business for the college – potential partners.’
‘And he seemed happy with that?’
‘Happy enough – he certainly likes the salary and the fact we’ll cover his expenses.’
‘And he wasn’t suspicious at all, Barney? I think I’d be, wouldn’t you? Chap I’ve only known for a few weeks suddenly offers me a job I’m not really qualified for on a very generous salary… he bought all that?’
‘I think I’ve got the measure of him to an extent, Piers. For all his bonhomie Werner seems to be rather lonely: he’s probably got used to not trusting people. I think he sees me as a friend, certainly as someone he trusts – otherwise I doubt he’d have confided in me about his private life. I think he probably sees my offer as an act of friendship.’
‘Well, let’s hope so, Barney, let’s hope so. Just hope he doesn’t smell a rat, eh?’
‘When do we tell him what he’s been recruited for?’
‘Not until he’s been in Germany for a while, Barney. We don’t want to scare him off. Once he’s been over there and he’s started to work for us – that’s the time to tell him, by which time of course it will be too late for him to change his mind. Whether he likes it or not by then he’ll be a British agent. He’ll know that the consequences of him pulling out then will be too serious; you’ll make that clear to him. You look uneasy about it, Barney?’
‘Yes and no, Piers – it just seems like we’re press-ganging him into being an agent for us. Is that the best way?’
‘It’s the way it is, Barney. The longer you work in this business the more you’ll appreciate how unpleasant it can be. We exploit people, we trick them, we put their lives in danger and then we often discard them. But always bear in mind we do so for a reason – to protect this country. As I told you when you joined us, there are many in positions of power in this country who don’t fully approve of what we do – as if espionage is not quite the done thing. They can look down their noses at us for all they want but I know that we can’t afford the luxury of being sensitive to people’s feelings. Good intelligence can prevent or shorten wars and save thousands of lives. Always remember that. You’d better get Herr Lustenberger over to Germany, hadn’t you?’
‘Of course, but there is one other thing, Piers.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Any chance you could find him some tickets for the Olympics?’
Chapter 4
Philadelphia and New York City, USA
April 1936
‘Would you like me to pretend I didn’t hear what you said, Jack?’
Joe Walsh was twirling a pencil through his fingers with the well-practised skill of a drum majorette, all the time glaring at Jack Miller on the other side of the desk – daring him to repeat what he’d just said.
Jack said nothing for a while. He knew the charm and quick wit he normally relied on would be wasted on the man sitting opposite him. He also knew his editor wouldn’t take kindly to what he’d just told him. Walsh sat with his back to the large window, the bustle of Filbert Street below him, the enormous edifice of the City Hall just visible beyond that. Jack could feel the movement and drama of the newsroom through the glass wall behind him.
‘I said I’d like to leave, Joe, and that I’m sorry and it’s not personal.’
‘Which bastard has hired you, Jack?’
‘No bastard has hired me, Joe, I told you that.’
‘Because if it’s the Inquirer or the Daily News we’ll go over to the crime desk and together we’ll wake up Mancini, tell him we’re about to give him an exclusive: “Editor kills reporter in case of justifiable homicide”!’
‘There’ll be no need for that, but if it was the case, I’d like the opportunity to write the story myself. What would be the cause of death?’
Joe Walsh laughed and pushed his spectacles to the top of his head and pulled his tie down. ‘Something unpleasant, Jack, possibly involving cement.’
‘Like that case in Bella Vista last year?’
Joe Walsh nodded and looked interested in the idea. ‘Wet cement, wasn’t it, Jack?’
‘It was wet when they poured it down his throat. Apparently it was quick drying. Look, Joe, if I was going to another paper, it wouldn’t be in Philly, you know that. I wouldn’t do that to you.’
‘So what is then, Jack? You’re not yet thirty and everyone knows you’re the best writer on the best paper in the state. You’re not doing news desk shifts any more, you’re not doing earlies – you get the best stories and the opportunity to write news features. No one can write the way you write, the way you capture the atmosphere of a hard news story, your turn of phrase.’
‘Come on, Joe… I’ve never heard you being so nice to anyone, I’ve certainly never heard you being so nice to me!’
‘I’ve never had you hand in your notice before, Jack, that’s why. Just don’t tell anyone though, it’ll be no good for my reputation. How many journalists are out there in the newsroom at the moment?’
Jack Miller turned round and shrugged. ‘I don’t know, maybe a hundred?’
‘And I guarantee you that if I went out there now and got them all to shut up for a minute and said “who wants to do the same job as Jack Miller” I’d get crushed in the stampede. So what is it, Jack – the divorce?’
‘I guess so, Joe. I thought I’d gotten over it but last week was the first-year anniversary – if that’s the right word – and it hit me hard. We’d only been married three years.’
‘At least there were no kids, Jack.’
‘That doesn’t feel like a consolation, Joe. Maybe if we’d had kids she wouldn’t have gone for lunch with the lawyer she worked for and—’
‘It’s happened, Jack. You can’t beat yourself up about it. I told you at the time, the only way to cope is to throw yourself into your work and look forward. You’ve turned out your best articles in recent months, really excellent writing. Look how much we’ve syndicated!’
‘I know, and I appreciate everything, Joe, but I just feel I need to step back from things. Journalism absorbs you too much; it only allows you time to think about the stories you’re working on. I need to find time to think about my life.’
‘So, what are you going to do, join a monastery?’
Both men laughed. ‘I’m not the monastic type, am I? No more than you, Joe.’
‘When I was about seventeen, I thought about the priesthood.’
‘How long did that last?’
‘A couple of months, until I met a girl who was five years older than me. I reckoned I was disqualified after that.’
‘I was thinking of going to California.’ Jack Miller nodded at the window. Despite it being spring, Philadelphia still looked cold and grey.
‘And then what?’
Jack Miller shrugged. ‘My kid brother’s in the Navy. He’s doing his officer training in San Diego. Our mom died five years ago and Dad last year and—’
‘I know Jack.’
‘I feel responsible for Tom – I’m all he has and I feel I ought to spend some time with him, you know?’
‘So you’ll join the US Navy too?’
‘No – I get seasick.’
‘That doesn’t sound like much of a plan, Jack. Look, do me a favour – give me a week to see what I can come up with.’
* * *
What Joe Walsh had come up with was a trip to New York City. He’d even said Jack could travel up the day before and stay overnight in a hotel, but Jack had always disliked the city: too cold in winter and too hot in the summer and he’d never experienced anything in between. And the people: Philly was busy enough but in New York everyone was in a hurry, as if they’d been told to flee the city ahead of an alien invasion.
So he took the first train of the day from 30th Street station and by the time he emerged from Penn station onto 8th Avenue he was pleasantly surprised. It was neither too hot nor too cold, the sidewalks weren’t crowded and a couple of people even smiled as he made his way in the direction of Times Square to West 43rd Street, the headquarters of Associated Newspapers.
Jack Miller’s own newspaper – the Philadelphia Bulletin – was one of four newspapers making up Associated. The other papers were the Chicago Daily News, the Boston Globe and the New York Globe and together they formed something between a co-operative and a syndicate, which looked after the publication of each other’s articles, syndicated the best of them to other papers and more recently, organised joint coverage of major events outside of the four cities.
‘Ted Morris is a New York Jew,’ Joe Walsh had said. ‘He may come across as being short with you, as if he’s angry. Don’t worry about it – it’s just the way he is.’
‘I’m used to it from you, Joe.’
‘He talks fast and is very smart and you have to listen carefully because when he cracks jokes he doesn’t smile.’
‘I can’t wait to meet him.’
‘He’s now in charge of organising coverage of major events for Associated Newspapers. The group think this is the way of the future and are attaching a lot of importance to it. Ted knows who you are: he likes your articles and he has something in mind for you.’
‘What is it, Joe?’
‘I’ve promised I’ll let him tell you. Just make sure you don’t say no!’
* * *
Ted Morris looked Jack Miller up and down as he entered his office with views over the Manhattan skyline. He told him to shut the door and sit down and that he could leave his coat on the other chair.
‘Joe says you want to leave to go to California.’ He shook his head, appalled. ‘Are you mad, Miller?’
‘No, I—’
‘They treat you like a prince in Philly, you’re twenty-nine and the best writer on the paper and from what Joe tells me you have a free hand in choosing what stories you write and – do your articles ever get cut, Miller?’
‘Well my articles get subbed and—’
‘No! You know what I mean, do they tell you to write fifteen hundred words on something and when you turn it in they say they now want it in five hundred and get a drunk sub to edit it – does that ever happen to you?’
‘No, but—’
‘Look, Miller, I know Walsh told you how much he thinks of you and he’s almost as grumpy a bastard as I am. But I feel the same. We don’t want to lose you. We have no trouble getting your articles into other papers in the group and we can easily syndicate them around the country. You have the ability to write clearly and simply yet still manage to bring out the atmosphere and colour in a story. Not many journalists twice your age can do that as well as you do, it usually comes with experience. And you also manage to have the sharpness of a news reporter with the insight and depth of a features writer.’
Ted Morris stopped talking and smiled – which Jack wasn’t expecting – before lighting a cigarette. He threw the packet to him. ‘You like Camel?’
‘It’s all I smoke.’
‘So we do have something in common then. Have you ever covered sport?’
‘I tend to keep that for leisure.’
‘And you want to give all this up to watch your kid brother playing with boats in California?’
‘I had a nasty divorce last year and it’s hit me hard. I just wanted to take some time to think about things.’
Ted Morris shook his head and leaned forward.
‘You speak German.’
‘Some, enough to get by, I guess.’
‘How come you speak German?’
‘It’s easier than Irish.’
‘Don’t mess me around Miller…’
‘My great-grandfather was from Germany… my grandfather spoke it with me, I seem to have an ear for languages.’
‘Any family there?’
‘None that I know of…’
‘You Jewish, by any chance?’
‘I wasn’t the last time I looked.’
‘I make the jokes here, Miller, especially the Jewish ones.’
‘I’m a good Catholic, don’t worry.’
‘What kind of a Catholic.’
‘Roman.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Miller… Have you ever been to Germany?’
‘I’ve never left the United States, sir. And I’m not a practising Catholic, if that’s what you were after. I had too much practice when I was younger.’
‘We have something in mind for you, Miller, but I’ll need you to give me an answer today and then commit to it. I asked you about sport… you know what’s happening in Germany in August?’
‘The Olympics?’
‘You’ve got it in one. We – Associated Newspapers – would like you to go out there for us. We’re looking for a series of articles in the weeks leading up to Games, colour pieces – what Germany’s really like, the stories behind the news reports and then once the Games start we want at least one feature a day – not sports reports as such because we can get that from the agencies and the wire services, but more articles on people and the atmosphere. What do you think?’
‘How long do the Games last?’
‘Two-and-a-bit weeks.’
‘A feature article each day, you say?’
Morris nodded. ‘Is that a problem?’
‘Not at all.’
‘I don’t want to see politics, Miller, steer well away from that. Keep away from all the Nazi stuff as much as you can. That’s why I asked if you’re Jewish: the Germans don’t like the Jews; most of them are trying to get out of the country, not into it. Wouldn’t want to send you somewhere you’re not welcome. So what do you think?’
‘I thought you wanted the answer today?’
‘Now will do fine.’
Chapter 5
Berlin
June 1936
‘I tell you, my dearest, it was the most wonderful sight to behold, absolutely marvellous. I am almost speechless!’
Sophia von Naundorf sighed as she carried her husband’s boots into the hall before returning to sit opposite him in the bay window of their well-appointed apartment on Potsdammer Strasse. They were close to the junction with Schloss Strasse, in the heart of Charlottenburg, and even though they’d been there for nearly two years Sophia still found it hard to believe she was living in such opulence: elegant wood-panelling, four bedrooms for the two of them, along with a dressing room for her, a study for Karl-Heinrich, a library, a dining room and a lounge – and separate living quarters for their maid.
