Agent in Berlin, page 7
Why is your government so tolerant of Bolshevism?
He drank the whole of his glass of a sour Bavarian white in one go – his father would have been appalled – and launched into a lengthy defence of England: people were not necessarily hostile to Herr Hitler, nor to Germany, but surely one should accept that different countries had different ways of doing things and as far as he knew the United Kingdom didn’t interfere in the domestic affairs of Germany.
And what about Jews, Herr Campion – and Bolsheviks?
There was a brief respite as the first course was cleared away and Sophia said she wanted no talking while the main course – roast goose – was served. To accompany it was a German red wine and Barney hoped to distract the others by asking about the wine. It was a Spätburgunder, he was told and it was quite pleasant, far better than the white. Not unlike a Burgundy, he commented.
‘German wine is at least as good as French wine, Herr Campion. You were going to give us your opinion on Jews and Bolsheviks?’
‘I have to be honest, I’m not a terribly… political… person. I’m not sure I have an opinion as such. Could I ask you to pass the potatoes, please?’
‘But this is more than politics, Herr Campion,’ said the Obersturmbannführer. ‘This is about the very future of our countries. Surely you are concerned about the influence and control of the Jews and the Bolsheviks?’
‘I understand you have clamped down pretty heavily on the Jews in this country, Karl-Heinrich. You’ve passed all sorts of laws stopping them going about their daily lives and tens of thousands of them are leaving this country. How many Jews are in your Olympic team? I read in The Times last week that you didn’t include a high jumper called Gretel Bergmann in your team just because she’s a Jew!’
‘My understanding, Herr Campion,’ said the man from the German Olympic Committee, ‘is that she was left out for under-performing.’
‘Hah!’ Barney Allen laughed. ‘Under-performing by holding your national record? Come on!’
‘Edward – please, let us not argue, not least because you are a guest in my house and indeed in our country. But you have to appreciate the threat posed to Germany by the Jews. They seek to provoke another war because they will then profit from it as they did from the last one. They control the banks and international finance and they consort with the Bolsheviks, half of whom are Jews anyway!’
‘Do you know how ridiculous that sounds, Karl-Heinrich? They either control the banks or are Bolsheviks: they can hardly be both. You need to make up your mind.’
At that point one of the other SS officers spoke for the first time. He saw no point in arguing and they would have to agree to disagree and he understood Herr Campion was interested in horses – was he intending to attend any of the events?
Barney Allen left as soon as he could after coffee. Karl-Heinrich said he’d ask the maid to show him out, but Sophia said she’d do so. He followed her silently down the stairs of the apartment block, the only sound that of their footsteps. It was still just about light as she followed him onto Potsdammer Strasse.
‘Where are you staying, Edward?’
‘The Kaiserhof on Wilhelmplatz.’
She nodded as she lit a cigarette and offered him one. ‘It’s a nice night to walk, but you’ll find a taxi on Schloss Strasse.’ She pointed to her right. He thanked her for a lovely evening…
‘It was a dreadful evening, Edward! I’m ashamed at the way my husband and the others speak about the Jews. I have no idea what to do or what to say. I’m in no position to argue with him, but it is too dreadful… to hear you speak like that was so… welcome!’
‘I am sorry, I—’
‘No – not at all! I cannot tell you how refreshing it was to hear you make them look like the fools they are. If only there was something I could do.’
She looked desperate; her shoulders drawn tight as she held the cigarette to her mouth.
‘There’s a family on the first floor here – the Goldmanns. Such decent people, their daughter Esther is my best friend. Karl-Heinrich makes their life hell.’
‘So, when you said you wish there was something you could do?’
‘I have no idea, Edward. What on earth could I do – an SS officer’s wife?’
‘May I have your telephone number perhaps, Sophia? I visit Berlin from time to time and perhaps I could call you once in a while – to see how you are or if there’s anything I could do to help, maybe?’
She swayed slowly, her arms still drawn tightly, staring at the ground and moving her head as if discussing something with herself. Then she looked at him knowingly, as if she had an inkling of something. ‘That is very thoughtful of you, Edward, but I imagine I’ll be fine.’
‘But you never know, Sophia, just a friendly call to see how you are: perhaps we could meet for coffee.’
She looked up at him and smiled. ‘It would be so nice to hear from you, Edward.’
Chapter 8
Berlin
August 1936
It was a warm and pleasant evening when Barney Allen left the von Naundorf’s apartment on Potsdammer Strasse. The hotel was on Wilhelmplatz which was probably too far to walk, but for the time being he was happy to take the night air as his mother would have put it. The unpleasant atmosphere at dinner had left him feeling tense and angry and he wanted to calm down.
At first he was annoyed with himself for being drawn into an argument. He worried he’d angered them and in so doing jeopardised his cover. But then he remembered Piers Devereux’s briefing for the trip – he called it a tutorial and even gave it a title: ‘How to behave in the field’.
Always behave as naturally as possible… Don’t be too rehearsed… or controlled.
On reflection he realised that he’d probably behaved very much as they’d have expected of Edward Campion: polite at first and even reluctant, but prepared to argue his case and far more likely to take the British position than a German one.
And then there was Sophia. It was always possible of course that this was a set-up, that her husband had spotted him as easy prey at the stadium and her role was to persuade him that she despised her husband’s views and he could confide in her. There was certainly something slightly implausible about her behaviour: at the Olympiastadion she’d been every inch the Nazi officer’s loyal wife. She’d even referred to her husband by his rank, Obersturmbannführer.
On the other hand, on the other hand… he’d caught sight of her a few times at the dinner table. She seemed to be trying hard not to react and he’d noticed her appearing to go red in the face and her knuckles were white as she gripped her cutlery. She seemed to be sincere when she spoke to him on the street, genuinely upset at what her husband and the others had said. And when he’d offered to call her – he felt it would have been a missed opportunity not to do so – she seemed to realise what he meant.
She may well be a likely source – he’d discuss it with Devereux. Maybe once he had Werner properly on board then he could check her out. She’d mentioned something about having Jewish neighbours – the Goldmanns. That could be verified easily enough, he imagined.
He’d headed east from Schloss Strasse and was now on Kauffmann Strasse, about to turn right into Richard Wagner Strasse. He paused to light a cigarette and stood by a shop window for a moment. The city was much quieter now, with the beginnings of a gentle breeze and the light dropping. He noticed a man standing some twenty metres behind him, just after the junction with Wilmersdorfer. He could have sworn that same man had walked past him earlier.
Barney Allen paused a little longer, allowing himself time to finish his cigarette, adopting the air of a man with all the time in the world. The man behind him was still looking at the shop window. As Barney Allen moved off he stopped suddenly after just a few metres and turned round. The man was closing in on him, now no more than five metres away.
The man smiled and waved his arm in a manner that indicated Allen should keep moving. By now he was alongside Allen and spoke quietly in English.
‘We’ll keep walking in the direction you were headed – towards Wilhelmplatz presumably? Long bloody way.’ Barney Allen had paused, but the man chivvied him along with a gentle pat on the back in a friendly manner. He wasn’t standing too close and was on Allen’s left-hand side – closer to the buildings; the least threatening position.
Always try and position yourself on the road side if you’re walking with someone, Barney: less likely to get boxed in, easier to get away if you need to.
‘Let’s cross here and head towards Berliner Strasse, eh? I say, can I cadge a cigarette from you?’ The man was obviously English, his accent middle class with a hint of the north to it. Grammar school, Barney Allen decided, definitely grammar school.
‘There’s a bench over there – shall we have a sit down and enjoy our cigarettes?’ It was only when they were seated that the man introduced himself, allowing a quick handshake as he did so.
‘Moore, in case you were wondering: Noel Moore. I work at the Passport Control Office on Tiergartenstrasse. I trust you understand what that means.’
Barney Allen understood full well that meant the MI6 station in Berlin but he was damned if he was going to admit that to a stranger who’d found him on the street. He shrugged in a manner to suggest no he didn’t know what that meant.
‘You’re Devereux’s chap, aren’t you? Don’t look so worried, we’re on the same bloody side. Barnaby Allen, room 476 at the Kaiserhof – pleased to see Devereux’s got a budget for the Kaiserhof – here under the name of Edward Campion. Marks out of ten?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘How did I do, Barney… correct names… right room number? Looks like you’re not playing my little game… I don’t expect you to trust me at the moment but how about you hear me out and then when you speak with Devereux you say you bumped into someone who knows him called Osbourne who works with Walker. He’ll soon tell you we’re in the same team. Your dinner at von Naundorf’s – I presume it was unpleasant, eh? I detest the Nazis, absolutely hate the bastards.’
He said that with such venom that Barney Allen suddenly found him utterly plausible. ‘It was quite unpleasant, yes… Do you know him?’
‘Know of him, that’s part of my job – Frank wants us to compile a who’s who in the Nazi Party and Frank being Frank he thinks we need to concentrate on the up-and-coming types – those in their thirties, quick promotions et cetera: he calls it talent-spotting. Von Naundorf was made a lieutenant colonel in June so he’s very much in our sights. Anything interesting, or just the usual anti-Jew and Hitler hero-worshipping nonsense?’
‘Much as you say. When you mention Frank, do you mean—’
‘Foley, Frank Foley – Major Frank Foley: head of station here, as you no doubt know but quite rightly won’t acknowledge. I’m his number two or three, never quite sure – hierarchies aren’t one of his strong points. Frank’s absolutely marvellous, quite how he puts up with those bastards at the embassy I have no idea. I hope you’ll excuse my language, but they’re a bunch of shits, each and every one of them. They’d rather we weren’t here and they go out of their way to make it as difficult as possible for us to operate properly. You know they won’t allow us diplomatic status?’
‘So I hear.’
‘Not even for Frank, which is frankly an insult, if you’ll excuse the pun. And then they require us to actually run the Passport Control Office, which I can assure you is a full-time job on top of everything else we have to do, but there’s the twist – could I cadge another cigarette?’
He waited until they’d both lit their cigarettes. ‘They thought squirreling us away on Tiergartenstrasse would be a way of hiding us but in fact it’s been damn helpful because it allows Frank to run his own operation, away from those prying eyes at the embassy. Out of interest, who was it you saw there?’
‘Summers.’
Noel Moore laughed. ‘Odd sort, can’t even speak German properly. Probably bullied at school. Anyway, you’re probably wondering why have I accosted you in the street?’
‘It had crossed my mind, yes.’
‘Frank’s a genius, knows everything that’s going on in this city despite the best efforts of the embassy. He also knows what’s going on back at base, hence he knew about you coming over here. He’s asked me to be the messenger and the message is two-fold: firstly, welcome to Berlin – willkommen as they say in these parts; secondly, don’t approach him or come anywhere near our place on Tiergartenstrasse, please – too dangerous, they watch us like hawks and that’s just the embassy! And finally, of course he doesn’t expect you to tell us anything or give us even a hint of what your brief is but he suspects Devereux may be setting up his own operation and Frank just wants you to know that he thinks that’s a bloody good idea, though Frank wouldn’t say bloody – church and all that.’
‘Thank you, Noel.’
‘Don’t mention it. Come to think of it, that was three things. And here’s a fourth one while I’m at it. Is there anything we can do to help?’
‘There is actually, Noel, seeing as you mention it. Could you see if the von Naundorfs have any Jewish neighbours in their block – and if so their names?’
Noel Moore nodded. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me, Charlottenburg is a very Jewish area, though lots of them trying to get out now and I can’t say I blame them, Frank sees it as a priority to help them. I’ll check it out and get a note to you. Oh – there is one other thing.’
Noel Moore looked around and then stood up. He told Barney Allen they should walk.
‘Heard of the Reichs-Rundfunk-Gesellschaft?’
‘Something to do with radio?’
‘It’s the main radio outfit here in Berlin, broadcasts in German, of course, through national and regional stations and now they’re starting to put out programmes in other languages including English. Based in a rather magnificent purpose-built studios not terribly far from here in Westend, on Masurenallee – you may have passed it on the way to the stadium. It used to be run by the Interior Ministry but now it comes under Goebbels’ rather ridiculously named Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda. The Nazis are putting a lot of money into it, they see radio as one of their main propaganda weapons and one has to be honest and say they’re terribly good at that type of thing, even though of course one despises their message.’
They were on Berliner Strasse now, close to the junction with March Strasse. It was surprisingly busy for the time of night, lots of couples out for walks, half of the men in uniform.
‘You may want to pick up a taxi soon, but let me get to the point I was making first – I do realise that I tend to give rather a lot of background, Frank says I need to be more concise. Reichs-Rundfunk-Gesellschaft is conveniently abbreviated to RRG, rather like the BBC, eh? Now the point I’m coming to is this. Recently they seem to have attracted quite a number of odd types to work for them from abroad and we’ve spotted a few of them are British. As far as we can gather some of them are here because they’re Nazi sympathisers, others because they happen to be in Berlin – married to Germans, that kind of thing – and for them it’s a job.
‘Frank thinks they’re interesting but we’re absolutely not to go within a mile of them – if the embassy found out they’d have the station closed down overnight. As far as they’re concerned, we’re to have nothing whatsoever to do with British subjects here in Germany, but Frank thinks there’s nothing to stop you going to have a look at them.’
‘Do you mean going into the radio station?’
‘No, no… the radio station’s an enormous triangular structure surrounded by three roads, the main one’s Masurenallee as I told you. Off Masurenallee is a smaller road called Soor Strasse where there’s a bar called Der Grüner Baum and they tend to congregate there. One of them in particular has come to our attention – big chap with a florid complexion and a moustache rather like Hitler’s. He’s as English as you and me but calls himself Fritz and we have no idea who he really is. Many of the others defer to him and we think he may be important there or it could just be bragging. He seems to have difficulty keeping his opinions to himself once he’s had a couple of drinks: he’s been heard being very pro-Nazi and we’d like to know more about him, find out who he is. If he turns out to be on our side then he’s all yours. How does that sound?’
Barney Allen said that sounded like rather a good idea and he may well do as Noel suggested and then he asked Noel how he could contact him and Noel said not to worry, he’d find him easily enough, and they both laughed. By now they were on the corner of Sophien Strasse and Noel said he’d better get a taxi before it was too late and could he have one more cigarette?
* * *
As soon as he was back in room 476 at the Kaiserhof, Barney Allen sat at the small desk with one hand on the telephone. He’d been amazed to find that every bedroom at the hotel had its own telephone – he’d not heard of that before and wasn’t sure he could see the point of it, but now he was grateful. He asked the operator to connect him with a London number.
If you have to call me, Barney, please only do so if it’s important – not for a chat about the weather or to see how the test match is going.
‘Hello… hello? It’s Edward in Berlin. Did I wake you?’
Piers Devereux sounded as if he had indeed been woken and was moving around. ‘Hang on a tick. There we are. All well, Edward?’
‘Yes, all splendid, thank you, sorry – I hadn’t realised it was quite so late.’
‘No problem: and how are the Games?’
‘Wonderful: these Germans certainly know how to organise big events. Every detail has been thought of, most impressive.’
Assume the Germans are listening in to every word of every call.
‘I just thought you’d like to know I bumped into a chap this evening who says he knows you. Goes by the name of Osbourne – he works here with Walker who you apparently know too.’
A slight pause. Piers Devereux would be putting two and two together to work out that Osbourne and Walker were Noel Moore and Frank Foley. His response would be critical.
