The Swiss Spy (14 page)

‘You’ve got everything Henry. All clear?’

‘Yes, though you say I’m going to be contacted by
this Milo. I’m still not sure how I’ll know it’s him?’

‘And I told you, don’t worry. Milo will find you:
you have memorised the codes so you will know. The less you know before you
meet up, the safer it is.’

‘In case I’m caught?’

‘Exactly, in case you’re caught. Remember, you do
whatever Milo tells you, understand?’

Henry said he did.

‘There are plenty of Swiss Francs in this envelope
here: change them into Reichsmarks as soon as you arrive – don’t risk hiding
any on you. Go back now to the
Schweizerhof and check out: there’s a direct
train to Geneva at 6.30. Before you leave the Schweizerhof, ask them to make
you a reservation at the
Hotel Victoria in Stuttgart, arriving on Tuesday the
16th, leaving on the Friday – the 19th. It looks better if you leave a couple
of weeks between the visa being granted and you actually travelling there:
makes it appear you’re not rushing. Understand?’

Henry nodded.

‘One other thing: be careful at night in Stuttgart. There’s
a curfew on and few places to eat, so you’re to stay in the hotel. On the first
night certainly you should order room service: in my experience that tends to
draw less attention to yourself.’

‘And how would you like me to get to Stuttgart?’

‘On the Monday morning, you take the train from
Geneva to Zürich: tell your mother you’ll be there all week. Give her this
address; we’ll cover any contacts there. Stay overnight at the Central Plaza
hotel by Oetenbachgasse, it’s very near the station: a room has been booked for
you there. On Tuesday morning there’s a Swissair flight from Zürich to
Stuttgart. It should only take 50 minutes, here’s hoping the RAF doesn’t shoot
you down!’

***

Early
in the afternoon of the last Tuesday in July, at the height of summer, half a
dozen men were doing their best to avoid each other in a stuffy room
overlooking the runway at Salzburg Airport. The men were all dressed in
uniforms denoting high rank in various branches of the German armed forces: two
stood by the large window but well apart from each other; another appeared to
be asleep; two others were leafing through their copies of the
Vőlkischer
Beobachter
and another was pacing the room, drawing hard on a cigarette.

A short while after the clock struck two a nervous
young Luftwaffe officer entered the room.
A delay: many apologies. The plane
was delayed after refuelling in Munich. Departure will now be at three o’clock
– four at the latest.

Much muttering and shaking of heads around the room:
the young Luftwaffe officer paused in the doorway just long enough to remember
to give a hurried
Heil Hitler
salute, which was ignored by all the
others.

The man who had appeared to be asleep stood up and
carefully straightened his
Kriegsmarine uniform before leaving the room. Outside
was a small lawn with flowers planted neatly around its edges. He strolled up
and down, and was soon joined by an army officer, one of the two men who had
been by the window. The admiral and the general walked in step alongside each
other in silence for a while. The general took his time lighting a large cigar
before addressing his companion.

‘I see we cannot even rely on the Luftwaffe to get
us back to Berlin on time! I imagine Jodl’s plane wasn’t delayed.’

‘He flew back last night, I understand: soon after
the briefing,’ said the admiral, looking around as he spoke. ‘He probably didn’t
want to hang around too long.’

‘Indeed. I assume he wanted to avoid our questions,’
said the general, speaking in a louder voice than his companion.

The admiral nodded and looked over each shoulder
before he spoke.
‘And how is your son?’

The Generalmajor paused, slightly surprised by the
question. In the circles he moved in, in Berlin, asking questions about an
acquaintance’s family, especially about sons in the armed forces, was a form of
code – a way of broaching the sensitive issue of what one really thought about
the war. It was the same as discussing food shortages with people: questions
only asked to people you could really trust.

‘Karl is well thank you; he’s an
Oberleutnant
now, based in Poland. And yours – you have two don’t you?’

‘One son, one daughter. Ernst joined the
Kriegsmarine
naturally, but unlike his father, uncles and grandfather, he seems to prefer to
be under the water rather than on its surface. He’s with the 7
^th
U-boat flotilla based in Kiel.’

The two men paused to watch a Luftwaffe
Junkers
passenger plane pass low overhead from the south, neatly framed against
Untersberg
mountain. The
plane banked to the left and began its noisy approach to the runway.

‘That must be our plane; we could well be back in
Berlin this evening after all. Tell me Ernst: what do you make of what Jodl had
to say…?’

Generalmajor Ernst turned to face his companion,
carefully studying his face. He wanted to be sure he was not being led into a
trap.

‘You mean about…?’ It was clear he wanted the
admiral to say it first.

‘The invasion plans: what else were we there for?’

‘He only wants us to
plan
for an invasion of
the Soviet Union, Hans. That’s probably prudent don’t you think – to make
contingency plans, in case…?’

‘Come on Ernst: we’ve known each other for years! I
was watching you yesterday during Jodl’s briefing, you hardly looked
enthusiastic. It’s madness, you must know that better than me. Just imagine for
a moment you were a British general rather than a German one and you’d found
out the Fuhrer had ordered his high command to turn up in Bad Reichenhall
yesterday to be instructed to plan for an invasion of the Soviet Union. You’d
be delighted, wouldn’t you?’

The Generalmajor shrugged. Behind them a plane was
noisily taxiing in front of the building where they had been waiting. ‘I think
our flight will be ready soon, Hans.’

‘Come on Ernst, answer my question. If you were a
British general you’d be very pleased to hear Germany was planning to break its
alliance with the Soviet Union and fight on two fronts, would you not?’

‘I think that more than anything, Hans, I would be
surprised. So surprised in fact that I’d struggle to believe it.’

***

‘I
was only asking what business it is you have in Zürich, Henry. Surely I have a
right to ask? One minute you’re off to Basle, then Zürich… wherever next?’

Marlene Hesse had little choice but to accept her
son’s imminent and largely unexplained departure with her customary lack of
grace. Henry had come to learn that, these days, all he needed to do was tell
her what he was doing then leave it at that.

He arrived in Zürich on the Monday and spent the night
in a hotel on Oetenbachgasse where his flight tickets were waiting for him. He
left the hotel early the next morning and took the airport bus from
Hauptbahnhof
station at seven o’clock.

The flight left on time at 8.15, the Swissair DC-3
banking heavily to the east before climbing noisily through the cloud then
appearing to float as they headed north and crossed the border.
The plane
landed at Stuttgart Echterdingen just after 9.30; a few minutes before they had
begun their descent, the two stewardesses had come round and drawn all the
curtains. Henry was in a single seat, but he heard a man across the aisle from
him explain to his neighbour in French that they always did this: ‘It’s a
military airport now. They don’t want us to spy on the Luftwaffe!’

The captain welcomed them to Germany, with a
noticeable lack of enthusiasm. ‘Please respect all the special security rules
in place at the airport. Please follow all instructions. Passengers for the
onward flight to Berlin should remain in their seats. Passengers disembarking
here in Stuttgart should ensure they have all their belongings with them. We
hope you have enjoyed flying with Swissair. We wish you a pleasant stay in Stuttgart.’

The plane taxied to a remote part of the airport:
outside they could hear shouting and the noise of engines. The passengers were
led down the steps to a bus with blacked-out windows that had drawn up
alongside. Henry had no more than 30 seconds to glance around as they were led
onto the bus: he could see very little, other than a ring of troops around the
plane and a couple of oil tankers nearby.

There were few other passengers in the vast terminal
building, although at the far end Henry could see groups of men in uniform
hurrying along. At the other end of the terminal were the airline desks, most
of which appeared to be abandoned. There were a few people waiting by one of
the Deutsche Lufthansa desks but the only other airline desks that seemed to be
operating were Swissair and Ala Littoria. While he waited, there were a few
announcements made by a woman just managing to suppress her Swabian accent: ‘Arriving
passengers should wait until they are called; any passengers for the Swissair
flight to Berlin are to proceed to the departure gate immediately; a further
delay is announced on the Deutsche Lufthansa flight to Lisbon, Portugal.’

Henry was questioned by two men stood behind the
desk; one in SS uniform, the other in a cheap suit with a swastika badge on
each lapel. Behind them was a large clock with enormous swastika banners draped
on either side.

They each checked the visa, silently. The man in
civilian clothes left the desk at one stage with Henry’s passport, but returned
a minute later.

‘How long are you intending to stay in Stuttgart,
Herr Hesse?’

‘Until Friday.’

‘You have a return ticket?’

Henry handed it to them and they both studied it.

And the purpose of your visit? Where are you
staying? With whom will you be meeting? Are you aware of the restrictions of
your visa?

All questions that had already been asked at the
embassy in Bern: Remington-Barber had warned him of this.
Routine: they’ll
just trying to catch you out: they’ll be looking to compare your answers:
nothing to worry about
.
Just play a straight bat. Don’t smile too much. Don’t
get impatient.

‘We would like to know more about your business
affairs in Stuttgart, Herr Hesse,’ said the civilian.

An unnecessarily detailed and complicated account of
his step-father’s business affairs in Stuttgart followed. Henry told them how
he suspected they had been mishandled by a man called Heinz Bermann – at the
mention of which there was a knowing look between the two Germans – and how
following his step-father’s death, which was probably hastened by the
activities of this Heinz Bermann, it was taking time to unravel everything but
he felt it was his duty to come here and see what was going on… and so on. It
had the desired effect of making the two officials look bored. Henry hoped to
God that poor old Heinz Bermann had managed to get out of Stuttgart: he was a
decent man and always very charming. It would be a shame if Henry had just
added to his woes.

After ten minutes, Henry was taken through to a
small side room where he and his bags were thoroughly searched by two
policemen. His copy of that morning’s
Neue Zürcher Zeitung
was removed
from his briefcase and thrown away. Everything else was carefully examined. Nothing
else aroused their suspicion, other than the Swiss Francs.

‘Are you changing all of these here?’ the official
in charge of the search asked.

Henry nodded.

‘Wait here while I count them.’

The official left the room, returning with the
Francs five minutes later. Later, Henry would discover he’d helped himself to
some of the money.

He emerged from the side room into the queue in
front of yet another desk, but this was a much quicker process. His passport
was stamped again and he was now in Germany.

‘You are now permitted to cross the border, Herr
Hesse. Please go the cashier’s window over there and change all money into
Reichsmarks. Welcome to Germany.’

Henry changed his money then joined a queue which
had formed just outside the terminal for the bus into the city. It took half an
hour. Again, the curtains were drawn and it was difficult to make out where
they were, other than by occasional glimpses through the front window. Henry
thought he recognised one or two familiar sights and, as far as he could tell,
there were few signs of the war, other than a good deal of military traffic on
the road. They passed through two road-blocks, and at the final one three
policemen climbed on board and checked everyone’s papers.

‘Stuttgart-Mitte’
announced the driver: The bus pulled into F
ü
rstenstrasse, just off the
enormous Schlossplatz.

It was no more than three or four minutes’ walk to
the hotel and Henry knew the area well, but somehow the city centre did not
feel familiar. The buildings were the same and he recognised the street names
and knew exactly where he was. But, for him, the city had always had a unique
atmosphere, which was hard to describe but he knew it when he was there. Stuttgart
today did not feel like somewhere he had been to before, it felt as though he’d
only ever seen it on film. It now had an undoubted military edge; so many of
the people on the streets seemed to be wearing a uniform of one type or another
and there were anti-aircraft batteries on the Schlossplatz. Most of the
buildings were draped in large red-and-black swastika flags.

By the time he reached the Hotel Victoria on the
corner of
Friedrichstrasse and Keplerstrasse
and walked through its ornate entrance he had a better idea why Stuttgart felt
so unfamiliar. It was the people and how they behaved; they were moving around
in silence, avoiding eye contact and with hardly anyone speaking to anyone
else. A city he had once found friendly now had a distinctly menacing air to
it. Germans had always struck him as being smartly dressed but now, compared to
the relative sophistication of the Swiss, they looked drab.

The man
behind the reception desk did at least look him in the eye.
‘Yes, we
have a reservation for you Herr Hesse,’ he said, holding up the telegram from
the
Schweizerhof
in Bern. ‘You’re staying for three nights, correct?’

Henry said that he was and completed the various
forms handed to him by the receptionist. He was then escorted to his room on
the third floor by an elderly and evidently arthritic porter. Once he had
unpacked, he decided to
go for a walk in the afternoon. As tempting as it
was to remain in the relative safety of his room, he knew that would draw
attention to himself and would not allow Milo the opportunity to approach him,
though he was still none the wiser how that was going to happen. Back in Bern, Remington-Barber
had been decidedly cryptic in that respect.

‘You’ll be approached by someone using the phrase “We
usually have some rain in Stuttgart at this time of year,”’ Remington-Barber
had said. ‘You are to reply, “That must be the case all over Europe.” In
response they’ll say, “Surely there must be rain over the Alps.” You’ll reply,
“There is always rain around the Alps even in summer,” and when they say “How wonderful,”
then you’ll know it’s Milo and that it’s safe.’

Remington-Barber had asked him to repeat it, many
times.

‘Good: you’re to do precisely what Milo tells you. If
they send you somewhere, you go.’

So Henry wandered around the centre of Stuttgart for
the best part of an hour and a half and, as far as he could tell, he was not
being followed. From Schlossplatz he walked down the Planie, which had now
become Adolf Hitler Strasse and then into Charlottenplatz, which was now
Danziger-Freiheit.
A different city
. He sat on benches, paused by shop
windows – noticing there seemed to be far less in the shops than on previous
visits. He crossed the road and back again, allowing anyone wanting to approach
him plenty of opportunity to do so. He was beginning to get a sense of what a
country at war felt like: it was as if the horizon was diminished and there was
less air to breathe. Less colour, so much quieter and the ubiquitous slogans on
buildings and flags hanging from them. From Danziger-Freiheit, he headed north
to Neckarstrasse, where one of his step-father’s property agents had their
offices. He decided to go in, just in case he was being followed: it was good
to be able to show the reasons he had given for visiting Stuttgart appeared to
be genuine. Herr Langhoff took him into his office and was happy to talk for a
while: times were very hard; many people had joined the military; Jewish
property was being given away which meant less business for them; no, as Herr
Hesse was surely aware, all of his step-father’s properties had been disposed
of.

He left the office after half an hour, satisfied
that anyone watching would feel he had indeed been there to conduct business. A
few doors along he found a small basement bar. The barmaid knew better than to
ask too many questions, especially when she realised he was Swiss. From the bar
he walked back across the Schlossplatz to the hotel, concerned at how and when
Milo was going to approach him: he could hardly spend the next few days hanging
around the hotel, going for the occasional walk and eating in his room.

He wandered around the lobby for a while then
returned to his room. He closed the heavy curtains then ran a hot bath, rested,
read a little before telephoning reception to order his evening meal. There
were three dishes on the menu, only one of which was available: sausages and
potatoes.

After his meal he left the tray, as instructed, in
the corridor outside his room. It was only eight o’clock, but he began to think
about settling down for the night. He was beginning to think this trip was no
more than a test by British Intelligence to see how he coped – whether he could
get in and out of Germany and no more than that. The more he thought about it,
the more sense it made. After all, hadn’t Edgar more or less told him his first
mission would be something relatively straightforward? Whichever way you looked
at it, he told himself, travelling into Germany and meeting with another agent
was hardly straightforward. The British were unlikely to risk a novice agent’s
first assignment on anything too dangerous. Surely they would simply want to
see whether he had the nerves to go there and return in one piece?

But what was it Viktor had told him at the weekend?
Don’t
think too much synok: they’ll know what they are doing.

There was an easy chair near a radiator by the
window and he sat on it, kicking off his shoes and putting his feet on the
small table. He began to recall another conversation with Edgar, when he had
implied they may advance five hundred pounds of his aunt’s money on successful
completion of a mission. Would this count as a successful mission? Maybe he
could now afford a car. He watched the patterns forming on the ceiling by the
lampshade by the bed when a firm knock on the door disturbed his train of
thought. He was annoyed, assuming they had come to collect his dinner tray when
in fact he had left it in the corridor.

‘The tray is out there for you,’ he called out.

A female voice replied. ‘Thank you, Herr Hesse. Please
could I come in? We have managed to locate your missing case.’

‘I think there must be some mistake, I…’

A car door slammed on Keplerstrasse below, followed
by the sound of a lorry moving down the road.

‘There’s no need to worry sir, I am the duty
manager: if you could open the door please?’