The gingerbread spy, p.21
The Gingerbread Spy, page 21
part #4 of The Black Orchestra Series
“I got the black eye in Dublin. You know what Irish pubs are like. And I volunteered to transport a diplomatic bag from the German embassy in Dublin for the regular courier, who was ill.”
Underwood frowned. “Why on earth would you do such a thing?”
Kurt shrugged. “I was doing the man a favour. In exchange I got a free plane ride, a night in a fancy hotel, and a chance to visit a country I hadn’t seen before.”
The inspector blinked. “One more question. Who or what was Clarence Newton guarding in the house at Perrymead Street, and what was your reason for visiting there regularly?”
“I’d love to answer those questions, Inspector, but I’m prohibited from doing so under the Official Secrets Act.”
Inspector Underwood grunted. He terminated the interview and left Kurt alone with his thoughts.
Pollinger was still at large, after 14 days! Kurt had first-hand experience of the abysmal training that the Abwehr gave to its agents. Left to his own devices, Pollinger would have been captured within hours. He must have had help, and a place to hide.
Thirty minutes later, they released him, and he took the Tube to Walham Green in Fulham, knowing that Lina’s debriefing would be much more thorough than any Scotland Yard could come up with.
Chapter 57
Saturday March 11 – Sunday March 12, 1944
Kurt used the time on the Tube to work on his story. He planned to give Lina an edited version of his adventures, but experience had taught him that he needed to stick as close to the truth as possible in order to avoid tripping himself up later.
He arrived at their flat at 11:45 p.m. Lina was working late. Seizing his opportunity, he undressed and got into bed. Within minutes, he was sound asleep.
#
She woke him in the morning with a peck on the cheek. She made breakfast. And soon, they were sitting face to face tucking in to streaky bacon and scrambled egg made from powder.
“How did you get the black eye?” was her first question.
He gave her the same answer he’d given the police. “I got involved in a pub brawl in Dublin.”
She rolled her eyes. “Why am I not surprised? How was your mother?”
“She’s well.”
“And Anna?”
“As lively as ever. She tired me out.”
“And Gudrun?”
“Gudrun was fine. She’s working as a translator in the German legation in Dublin.”
“Why did your trip take so long? I expected you back a week ago.”
“I was delayed. It’s a long story.”
“You spent the time with Gudrun?”
“Just one night.”
“Just one night? Why? Where else did you sleep?”
“I stayed with Professor Hirsch in his college rooms.”
“Oh, why?”
Kurt struggled to answer that question. “I had some business to attend to. I didn’t want to get her involved.”
She seemed unconvinced by that reply, but she pressed on. “Was your ‘business’ successful?”
“Yes, but I had to travel to Lisbon to get what I needed.”
“You flew to Portugal? When?”
“On Monday last.”
“So, how many days were you in Ireland?”
“About a week.”
“And you spent only one night with Gudrun?”
“I was in hospital for three days after the pub fight.”
“Okay, so what happened in Lisbon?”
“Nothing much. I went to a couple of meetings, met a couple of contacts. It was pretty dull.”
She pulled his US identity card from the pocket of her apron and waved it in his face. “What is this? Where’s your passport, where did you get those sandals, and what did you do with your jacket and your other clothes?”
Kurt backtracked rapidly. “I ran into some bother with the Russians. They seemed intent on killing me.”
“Why would the Russians want to kill you?”
“I never got close enough to ask.”
“So how did you lose your clothes?”
“I had to wear a disguise to get away from them. The staff at the US legation gave me some new clothes.”
“The British embassy was closed, I suppose?”
“The Russians had put a watch on the British embassy. A friend suggested trying the US legation.”
“A female friend?”
“Yes, an American woman called Tammi. She gave me the disguise that enabled me to escape from the hotel. She took me to her embassy.”
Kurt could feel the hole he’d dug for himself getting deeper and deeper.
Lina stood up, facing him. “What a dull, boring time you had in Lisbon! Tell me more about this disguise and your American friend, Tammi.”
The conversation continued in that vein for 30 minutes. It was like dodging bullets, but he was pretty sure she hadn’t caught him in an actual lie. She laughed at the thought of him dressed as a woman, wearing a wig.
She told him about the break-in.
Kurt examined the damaged window. “Did they steal anything?”
“Nothing.”
Kurt filed the information away for later consideration. He was sure the break-in was somehow related to the Gingerbread affair.
When he asked how she’d been getting on at the hospital, she told him about the bomb and how she’d had to nurse the porter on her own for a morning.
“Are the other nurses still freezing you out?” he asked.
“Well, no. I think they’re starting to thaw,” she replied, and she told him about the episode in the canteen. “They seemed to be trying to make peace with me, but I’m not entirely convinced.”
“That sounds good. We should celebrate.”
“How about a meal in a restaurant tomorrow evening? You must have some spare coupons in your ration book. We could celebrate your successful return.”
“Good idea,” he said. “Where and what time?”
“Chez Phillipe’s at 6 p.m., and don’t be late this time.”
Chapter 58
Sunday March 12, 1944
Kurt took the Tube to Charing Cross and walked to Bedford Street. He pressed the intercom on the door of Overseas Logistics Limited, and was buzzed inside straight away.
The building was like an icebox. The heating was off for the weekend. He climbed the stairs.
A tight-lipped Madge Butterworth sat at her desk wearing a houndstooth check overcoat. She blew on her hands. “Go straight in. He’s expecting you.”
He threw her a smile, but she wasn’t looking in his direction.
“In here,” from the open door of Major Robertson’s office.
Tar Robertson, wearing a greatcoat, was seated behind his desk, his chair swivelled 90 degrees to the right so that he could watch the street outside. Kim Philby sat facing the desk, dressed in a suit, and looking thoroughly miserable.
“Pull up a chair, Kevin,” said the major. “You will remember Philby from the London Controlling Section.”
Kurt nodded to Philby, who ignored him.
He took a seat, and the major turned away from the window. “I try to keep Sundays free, but I couldn’t wait to hear your explanation for recent events, and why you disobeyed a direct order.”
There was no rancour in the major’s voice, but Kurt was instantly on his guard. “Mr Philby gave me a 7-day pass. I didn’t think there were any conditions attached. I went to Ireland to visit my mother and my girlfriend.”
Kurt glanced at a tight-lipped Philby, who continued to stare straight ahead at the major.
“Before you left, you attempted to send an unauthorized signal from your man’s radio transmitter. I received a short report from one of the guards at Perrymead Street.”
“I tried to make contact with the Abwehr.”
“In defiance of a direct order not to do so. You do realise I could have you court-martialled for that?”
Kurt adjusted his seating. “Yes, I apologise for that, Major.”
“And while you were in Ireland, what did you do?”
Kurt reckoned it was a rhetorical question. “I made contact with my friends in the Black Orchestra.”
“Didn’t I leave strict instructions forbidding any such contact? Perhaps Philby wasn’t clear in his instructions?” The major’s eyes blazed.
Again, Kurt glanced at Philby, who remained impassive.
“He was, but I thought as long as I was on a pass, I could do what I wanted.” Kurt’s voice hardened. “Put yourself in my shoes, Major. If you were wrongfully accused of working for the enemy, wouldn’t you do whatever you could to clear your name?”
The major said, “You have a lot to learn about the army and following orders, soldier.”
Finally, Philby spoke. “Was it worth it?”
“I think so. I arranged to meet Generalmajor von Neumann in Lisbon. He was most helpful. He sent a courier, a member of his staff with the complete list of Abwehr agents in London.”
Robertson leaned forward across his desk. “You have the list?”
“No, Major. She gave me the number of agents: 122, but unfortunately, she was shot before she could hand over the list.”
The major wrote the number on his desk pad. “Who was this woman?”
“Her name was Sofia Beckman. I had never met her before.”
“And yet you were satisfied that she was from the Abwehr?” said Philby.
“We used a recognition sequence.”
The major said, “She was shot, you say. Who shot her?”
“A Russian sniper. It was a messy business. He used a dum-dum bullet. I was lucky to escape with my own life.”
“That explains the shiner,” said Philby.
“No, I picked that up earlier, in Dublin.”
Philby snorted.
The major picked up a paperweight from his desk and hefted it in his hand. “What has all this to do with the Russians?”
“Generalmajor von Neumann told me that the Abwehr first learned about Operation Fortitude from a German spy in the Russian embassy in Madrid. He reckoned the information originated here, in London.”
Philby raised an eyebrow. “How does that make any sense?”
“His theory is that the NKVD have a source within the Intelligence Services in London.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said the major. “When it first got out, the code word Fortitude was known only to a handful of people in our innermost Intelligence circles, and if there was a mole in London, why would he send the information to Madrid?”
“General von Neumann reckons the mole must have worked in Madrid before the War.”
“I see, but that doesn’t explain why the Russians had to shoot this Abwehr woman? What was her name again?”
“Sofia Beckman. That was my fault, I’m afraid, Major. She mentioned that she’d worked in the British embassy in Madrid before the War. I asked her to compile a list of British who worked in Madrid while she was there. She agreed to make some telephone calls and provide such a list.”
Philby said, “You never got that list either, I suppose.”
Kurt directed his reply to Major Robertson. “No, I’m afraid not, but I thought knowledge of the Madrid connection might help you to identify the mole.”
The major gave this some thought. Then he said, “I’ll let you handle the Russian connection, Philby. You spent some time in Madrid, writing for The Times, if I’m not mistaken.”
Philby looked at his watch and stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, Major, I have a luncheon appointment at the War Office.”
Major Robertson nodded curtly. “Thanks for coming in. Keep me posted.”
Chapter 59
Major Robertson waited until Philby had left the room before continuing. “We’ve had a report from our American friends about your exploits in Lisbon. It makes astonishing reading. They say you turned up at their legation dressed as a woman and with no passport. You claimed to be under lethal attack from the Russians.”
“That’s all true, Major. It was pretty hairy. They used a dog to track me through the streets above Lisbon. That’s when I lost my passport.”
“And yet you survived.”
“I had help.”
“From one of their OSS operatives. They mentioned the name Tammi.”
Kurt nodded. “She helped with the disguise, but I also owe a great debt to a local man, called Flavio, who got me through the night.”
“Let’s hope the Russians have lost interest in you, now that you’re safely home in London.”
Kurt considered telling the major about the attack on the train from Poole. He decided to keep that to himself. He said, “Inspector Underwood of Scotland Yard tells me they have a new suspect for the double murder.”
The major snorted. “Clarence Newton. Yes, I heard that, but I don’t believe it for a moment. Could you imagine Clarence slitting someone’s throat?”
“Why do they suspect him?” said Kurt.
“Apparently the first murder victim, James Dennison, was invalided out of the army. Clarence’s wife was a nurse at the hospital. She and Dennison had an affair while Clarence was still fighting in Africa. The two men met up again in the hospital last year.”
“Why wait until now to kill him?”
“I suppose he didn’t find out about the affair until recently,” said the major. “But I find the whole theory very thin.”
“Is he under arrest?”
“For the moment, yes. They’re holding him under the emergency legislation.”
“Generalmajor von Neumann gave me a message for you. He said to tell you you’re doing a fine job.”
The major recoiled in his seat. “I don’t think I’m interested in any messages from the enemy. Does he know who I am?”
“Oh yes, sir. He said you should concentrate on Fortitude South. He says no one in Berlin believes Fortitude North or the plan to invade the Bay of Biscay or the other one, through the south of France.”
“The impertinence of the man!”
“He made it clear that the Abwehr – or rather the Black Orchestra, within the Abwehr – is well aware of the Double Cross programme.”
“He mentioned it by name?”
“Yes, sir. He mentioned your name, the London Controlling Section, and the Twenty Committee. He said they are fully aware that you are feeding them misinformation. He and his team pass on every scrap that they receive to the OKW. He also said that he hoped and expected that you have turned every single agent they have placed in Britain over the years.”
Major Robertson slammed his paperweight onto his desk, making Kurt nearly jump from his skin. “I don’t understand. Why would he act like that? And why would he hope for such a thing?”
“I’ve told you, Major, the Black Orchestra is committed to the downfall of the Third Reich. They are not our enemies. They are allies, working secretly behind enemy lines to ensure the outcome of the War.”
Major Robertson got up from his desk. He stood at the window looking out at the Sunday shoppers moving past the rubble of what was once their homes, shops and department stores. “If what you say is true, we will have to come to grips with the fact that not all Germans are Nazis, an unpalatable notion for many in Whitehall.”
Kurt said nothing.
The major returned to his seat. “The Double Cross programme will continue until the War is won and the Nazis are removed from the face of the earth. No one in Britain must ever suspect that the Abwehr knows what we are doing. We must continue to transmit false information until the day of the invasion – and beyond. That means that you must keep this knowledge to yourself. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.
“It may be necessary to keep this secret for many years even long after the War has been won. Can I rely on you to do that?”
“Yes, Major.”
Major Robertson placed his elbows on his desk and clasped his hands together. “The PM is aware of our difficulty with this business. His personal secretary has been hounding me every second day for news about our search for Gingerbread. I was hoping you would return with something more definitive to report.”
“I have something that may help,” said Kurt. “Generalmajor von Neumann suggested that the rogue spy may not be a member of the Abwehr. He could be an agent of the SD. And there was something else, something Walter Schellenberg said.”
The major straightened his back. “You spoke with Walter Schellenberg in Lisbon? How is that possible?”
“He called himself Hauptmann Schämmel, but I knew who he was. I recognised him.”
“That was Schellenberg, no question about it. In 1939, two of MI6’s finest men were lured to a trap in Venlo, Holland. Schellenberg posed as a disaffected German officer looking to negotiate a peace with Britain. He called himself Hauptmann Schämmel. What did he say?”
“He asked me what I was doing in Portugal. I convinced him that I am still working for the Abwehr, and that I needed the list in order to identify all the Abwehr agents in London who have been turned.”
“He swallowed that story?”
“Yes, sir. He released me on condition that I transmit my findings to him 24 hours before reporting to the Abwehr. I think he’s desperate for that information. It will give him the ammunition he needs to discredit the Abwehr.”
“Did he give you any clue to the identity of the Gingerbread spy?”
“I think he did. He referred to Paul Hoffmeister as Arnold Hoffmeister.”
“And the significance of that?” said the major.
“Arnold is a name used only in the safe house at Perrymead Street. Letting that name slip suggests to me that his spy must be someone from the house. I recommend that you check out everyone in the house: Arnold, the two guards, the cook, the cleaner. We should check on Greg Ellis too.”
“Nonsense,” said the major. “Greg Ellis was not involved in the programme at the critical period.”
Kurt didn’t agree, but he said nothing. When he’d met Ellis outside the murder house, he had let slip Kurt’s real name. Kurt had no explanation for that.
