René Dupont tried to remain calm about this. He made a careful note of all the neighbours, along with the people at the local shops and the café where it was made clear he was no longer welcome. When the time was right, they’d be dealt with.

  Then they’d soon be knocking at his door.

  They’d soon want to be his friend again.

  Then it would be too late.

  At home the atmosphere deteriorated considerably. The children more or less ignored him and Jeanne seemed even more remote. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d made love other than that it had been such a tense business that it had all ended most unsatisfactorily. He’d even thought about mentioning it to the milice doctor, but couldn’t quite bring himself to discuss such an intimate matter with another man.

  And then there was his wife’s family.

  He knew full well they looked down on him and he didn’t think it was his imagination that they treated him as a figure of fun. More than once he sensed they were laughing at him behind his back and since he’d joined the milice this seemed to be a regular occurrence.

  His wife’s younger sister, Henriette, was married to a man who Dupont particularly resented. Marcel appeared to be everything René wasn’t: charming, good-looking and very successful. He was still in his mid-thirties and in his teens had been a successful athlete, even competing in the national trials in Paris, something which cropped up in conversation with an annoying regularity.

  Marcel had trained as a mechanic to work in his father’s garage in Brotteaux in Lyon’s 6th arrondissement. He was still in his twenties when he took over the business, transforming it from a solid little business to a highly successful one. They had a Citroën concession and Marcel had made the wise decision to concentrate on the best-selling Traction Avant. He also ensured they had the local Michelin dealership. When the war started, he compensated for the drop in sales of cars and the restrictions on driving by building up the repair side of the business.

  René Dupont found Marcel so irritating he generally tried to avoid conversation with him, but towards the end of July, not long after the Gestapo raid on the Resistance leaders, he found himself sitting opposite his brother-in-law at a family lunch for his wife’s birthday. Dupont grudgingly asked Marcel how business was.

  ‘Satisfactory, thank you, René: we sell very few cars, as you know, but people still wish to drive when they can and my mechanics have become very skilled at defying the laws of engineering!’

  He paused as the others round the table laughed at his wit and topped up René’s wine glass with far more than he’d intended to drink.

  ‘We could of course increase our business if I took on work for the occupying authorities, but so far… I’ve managed to avoid that. We get our hands dirty enough as it is!’

  More laughter around the table, René unsure whether to join in.

  ‘They could order you to service their vehicles, you know, Marcel.’

  ‘I know that, René: tell me, with your elevated position in the milice are you going to use your considerable influence and get that Klaus Barbie to order me to service his vehicles?’

  ‘He’s a busy man, Marcel: he has far more important things to do than worry about cars.’ René laughed at his own joke but no one else joined in.

  ‘I hear you work very closely with him, eh, René?’

  Dupont shrugged, hoping the conversation would peter out before it became too uncomfortable.

  ‘I was told you were at Caluire-et-Cuire?’

  ‘I work all over the city, Marcel.’

  ‘For the milice.’

  ‘For France.’

  And this time the others around the table did laugh at what he’d said, but it all felt very… bitter.

  ‘I hear,’ said his wife’s uncle, ‘that you took part in the raid at Doctor Dugoujon’s house Caluire-et-Cuire. The one where the resistants were captured. Is that true?’

  Jeanne turned to their children and suggested they go out to play and perhaps their cousins would care to join them. He waited until they’d left the room.

  ‘I’m unable to discuss my work, you should understand that. But please be assured that what I do – my sole motivation, I can promise you – is for the maintenance of law and order in our city. The military situation in France is beyond our control as citizens, but surely, we have an obligation as citizens to ensure that there is no trouble and no civil disorder. The people who cause trouble, the resistants as you call them, they’re just trouble-makers, left-wing agitators – you should know that!’

  There was an appalled silence around the table. A few people shook their heads and he heard some tutting and then his mother-in-law said she was far from being a socialist, heaven forbid, what about de Gaulle? Wasn’t he calling for people to support the Resistance and, surely, he was no socialist?

  ‘Let me ask you a question,’ said Dupont. He smiled at Marcel, hoping to reduce the tension. ‘Surely you agree that it is preferable that French people like my colleagues in the milice and the police are working with the Germans?’

  ‘Why?’ Marcel was looking at him with disdain.

  ‘Well, surely, you’d rather be arrested by a French person than by a German, wouldn’t you?’

  Marcel’s look of disdain hardened. ‘I think,’ he said, as if giving the matter serious consideration, ‘that on balance I’d rather not be arrested by any of you!’

  * * *

  Since the Mars network had met at the basement on Rue Ravat in the middle of July they had gone into hibernation, as Madame Madelaine put it.

  ‘We do nothing,’ she’d told them then. They were trying to contact the British through their contact in Switzerland. That could take some time. ‘And in any case,’ she’d said, ‘there is a traitor in Lyon.’

  One month later, in the middle of August, she’d met with her three closest comrades: Maurice, Marcel and Michel.

  ‘We’ve heard from Benoît Roux in Geneva,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what he’s been up to – he can be elusive. He’s sent a message to England: he’s told them he wants to meet with someone important. We’ll have to wait and see what happens.’

  ‘Surely it would be quicker for him to go to Berne?’

  ‘He refuses to. He doesn’t like them.’

  They all sighed. Benoît Roux was not the easiest of characters and there was some resentment at how he’d left Lyon and was trying to call the shots from Switzerland. Refusing to go to Berne because of what seemed to be a personality clash with the head of British Intelligence there just seemed like an indulgence.

  But Madame Madelaine said they had no alternative but to go along with him. ‘He may be exasperating at times but there’s no question that we can trust him totally: he’s one of us. If we are to maintain our tight security then we cannot risk any other way of approaching the British. We must be patient.’

  That patience paid off, though not until later in September.

  Madame Madelaine called another meeting in the basement of her boutique, again just her and her closest confidantes. They met late on a Monday afternoon, the basement now beginning to feel chilly and slightly damp.

  ‘We’ve not had a problem for many years. I hope it remains that way. But I have news: I heard from Roux in Geneva this morning.’

  ‘It’s good news, I hope?’

  ‘He has heard back from the British: it appears that his insistence on meeting a top person has paid off. He is meeting someone tomorrow, in Geneva.’

  ‘Do we know who it is?’

  Madame Madelaine shrugged. ‘I don’t know their name. But they are very important, apparently.’

  * * *

  As August had turned into September life continued to look up for René Dupont. He was now based full time at the Gestapo headquarters in the former Ecole de Santé Militaire building on Avenue Berthelot.

  Klaus Barbie had recruited around thirty Frenchmen to work for the Gestapo: some had been members of the milice and others members of the Parti Populaire Français, which meant that Dupont was an obvious recruit. The section he belonged to was the Mouvement National Anti-terroriste, the National Anti-Terrorist Movement. It was run by Francis André, who Dupont had known before the war in the Parti Populaire Français.

  Dupont had little doubt that he was now part of Klaus Barbie’s inner circle. The German had a reputation for trusting few people, but René was pleased to say that he was one of them. He’d mentioned this to his wife one evening during one of the long silences that accompanied their meal times. He’d hoped, perhaps misguidedly, to impress her but as soon as he’d mentioned it, he realised it had been a mistake to do so.

  ‘So the head of the Gestapo in Lyon trusts you, does he, René? Is that something to be proud of or ashamed of?’

  He said she shouldn’t be so cynical.

  ‘And how do you know he trusts you?’

  Because Barbie had said so himself, he replied. Only earlier that week in fact. His section had carried out a series of raids on Resistance contacts and they’d arrested all the people on their lists and furthermore he’d started a programme of going into the secondary schools in the city to question children about the activities of their parents and Barbie had been impressed with his initiative.

  He didn’t mention all this detail to Jeanne but he did hope she’d be impressed with the fact that Klaus Barbie trusted him. She shrugged her shoulders as if she didn’t care and when he said she ought to be pleased with the extra rations she said nothing as she picked up the plates and headed to the kitchen, though he was sure that as she did so he heard her say that she’d rather starve.

  He did notice he was no longer invited to any events with his wife’s family, which suited him fine. But towards the end of September, he did see his brother-in-law, the charming and faultless Marcel.

  Except Marcel didn’t see him.

  Perhaps Marcel wasn’t nearly as smart as everyone seemed to think he was.

  It was a Monday afternoon and Dupont was returning from a meeting in a Gestapo staff car. As they drove up Cours Charlemagne the road was blocked and Dupont suggested they turn right and then left. They turned into Rue Ravat, which was when he saw his brother-in-law.

  There was no question it was him: the athletic build, the confident walk. He told the driver to slow down and watched as Marcel paused by a shop selling scarves and gloves and glanced at the window before entering.

  That was odd, he thought. Rue Ravat was a strange place for Marcel to be on a Monday afternoon. Indeed, it was a strange place for him to be at any time and in a ladies shop too. It was a long way from his garage in Brotteaux.

  He told the driver to carry on and wrote in his notebook, glancing at his wristwatch to check he’d made a note of the correct time.

  This was something he really must look into.

  Chapter 11

  Switzerland

  September 1943

  ‘We’ve only just moved in here, Barney, and now you want us to move again?’

  Barney nodded and said perhaps they ought to get used to calling him Arthur, though the more he thought about it the less he felt like an Arthur. ‘My mother had an uncle called Arthur. A bank manager – in Southampton.’ He shook his head and fell silent and Sophia and Jack looked at each other, unsure what was more of a problem: being a bank manager or in Southampton. ‘We’re going to Geneva. I’ll tell you more when we get there.’

  ‘And Basil – he’s all right about all this?’

  ‘Basil is… Basil is Basil, isn’t he? On the one hand he’s a bit put out and one can hardly blame him: you’re both first-class agents and who wouldn’t want to run agents like you? On the other hand, he’s got so much on his plate this is a probably a relief.’

  They all fell silent as the sun dropped low over the Aare and filled the lounge with a soft light. Barney looked at the pair in front of him with a good deal of pride. He’d been sent to Berlin in 1936 as a new MI6 officer on a mission to recruit his own spy ring. He’d met Sophia von Naundorf during the Berlin Olympics of that year, through her husband, Karl-Heinrich, a senior SS officer.

  His instincts told him she was a potential British agent but each time he’d approached her over the following years she was clearly sympathetic and hadn’t said no, but nor had she said yes. She’d intimated that there may be a time and he said when that time comes, here’s the address of an Annemarie in Interlaken, in Switzerland. If and when she sent a letter, then he’d know she was willing to start.

  And on the same trip to Berlin that August 1936 he’d met a young American reporter, Jack Miller. Miller was there to cover the Olympics but was looking to remain in Germany, so fascinated was he by the country. Barney arranged for him to get freelance work from British newspapers and allowed him to develop the perfect cover. It wasn’t until the following year, on a visit to England, that Jack realised he’d been recruited as a British spy.

  And then in October 1940 a letter arrived at Annemarie’s address in Interlaken from her old penfriend, Sophia in Berlin.

  She was ready.

  Since then, she and Jack had become two of MI6’s finest agents in Nazi-occupied Europe. And somewhere along the line they’d become a couple. Barney felt like a matchmaker. He was looking at them with pride when he realised Sophia was talking to him.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Sophia?’

  ‘You seemed miles away, Barney.’

  ‘The journey here rather took it out of me.’

  ‘I was saying: did Basil mention Siegfried to you – Siegfried Schroth?’

  ‘He didn’t, no. Name rings a bell though.’

  ‘It ought to, Barney,’ said Jack. ‘When you came to see me in Berlin at the end of 1938 you suggested I look him up when I was next in Düsseldorf.’

  ‘Beginning to ring a bell – an actor, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Correct, with the Stadt-Theater.’

  ‘I remember now: MI5 had spotted him when they were touring England earlier that year: overheard criticising the Nazis. MI5 tipped us off and Tom Gilbey met up with him. Wasn’t too keen, felt he could be prone to indiscretion.’

  ‘You asked me to look him up when I was next in Düsseldorf, which I did. I liked him, he was good company and clearly no Nazi but I agreed with your colleague’s view: seemed a bit too keen on gossip.’

  Jack Miller went on to explain how he’d been desperate when they were in Düsseldorf on their last mission. With Sophia in prison and about to be handed over to the Gestapo, he had to do something and so he approached Siegfried Schroth. The actor had risen to the occasion and thanks to him they managed to escape from Düsseldorf.

  ‘And you brought Siegfried back with you? I recall hearing that.’

  ‘He was quite magnificent, Barney.’ Sophia smiled sweetly. ‘He was totally convincing as a police officer and as a Rhine boatman. He played a part, as if he was on stage – as an actor he’s a natural secret agent. But Basil’s not keen on him. He’s put him up in a hotel somewhere while he says he’s checking him out and won’t let us have any contact with him.’

  ‘Sophia’s quite right, Barney. He’s magnificent. If you’re going to send us somewhere, we want Siegfried along too.’

  ‘Another member of the Wolf Pack then? It sounds like I’d better meet him!’

  * * *

  By the end of September Sophia and Jack had moved to Geneva. Barney had found an apartment block on Rue François-Bonivard, overlooking Place de Mont Blanc, away from the Old Town and where they’d lived before. He’d chosen the apartment carefully. It was on the top floor of a block, with Lac Léman just visible over the rooftops on the other side of the square. The top floor had three one-bedroom apartments and Barney had been able to rent them all. The war, said the landlord, had been bad for business. He’d been hoping for more refugees – wealthy ones.

  The third apartment was for Siegfried Schroth. The actor had been the subject of an argument between Barney and Basil, with the latter insisting he was yet to be convinced that Siegfried could be trusted. He was still checking him out.

  ‘How, Basil?’

  ‘How what?’

  ‘How are you checking him out, as you say? As far as I can see you’ve put him in a hotel. If you were that concerned about him, you’d be watching him in a safe house, surely?’

  Basil muttered something about there being a limit on the number of safe houses he had access to.

  ‘Sophia and Jack speak very highly of him. They say they owe their lives to him.’

  ‘Sophia and Jack don’t have the same type of responsibilities as I have, Barney. You ought to know that.’

  ‘I would say that the judgement of two agents who’ve operated so successfully inside Germany for years is impeccable, wouldn’t you?’

  Basil shrugged, evidently finding the conversation uncomfortable.

  ‘Look, Basil, if Siegfried weren’t to be trusted then, surely, he’d have informed on Sophia and Jack when they were in Düsseldorf, or as they were about to cross the Rhine back into Switzerland?’

  ‘Maybe the idea was for him to come here, Barney, and find out what he could about our operation – and become involved in other missions. It could be a sophisticated trap by the Germans.’

  ‘I doubt they’d have let Sophia and Jack get away like that.’

  Basil said he could see Barney’s point and maybe he was being too cautious and if Barney was happy to take the risk, then as far as he was concerned Siegfried was all his, though he still wasn’t sure how much he trusted him.

  ‘You’ll take him to Geneva then?’

  Barney nodded.

  ‘And then into France?’

  Barney didn’t respond.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33