Agent in berlin, p.15
Agent in Berlin, page 15
Barney said the name rang a bell.
‘Chilvers contacted me because this is someone possibly of interest to us, which is decent of him, and he wanted to know if I’d like to meet her but when I heard the word Berlin, I thought of you and… here we are!’
Barney said he was certainly interested and perhaps if Tom put him in touch with Chilvers then he’d take it from there.
* * *
‘Of course I remember you, Barney – weren’t you cross-country champion? My brother Arthur was in the year below you. Good that the old school connection transcends the unfortunate tension between our two organisations. Never completely understood them myself.’
Barney said he didn’t either and maybe Chilvers could tell him about Maureen Holland.
‘One of my juniors interviewed her and he thinks she’s worth talking to further, which was also Special Branch’s view. I would suggest we bring her in for a chat then we can see what we both make of her.’
Maureen Holland was asked to come to a large office block in Clerkenwell. It was a building MI5 used from time to time – it contained various government departments of an imprecise nature and had enough floors and endless corridors to ensure the necessary degree of anonymity. When Maureen Holland was shown into the room, Chilvers said his name was Mr Purcell and introduced Barney as Mr Walton and perhaps Miss Holland could start from the beginning.
She told her story and Chilvers then went through the details and asked about her life, checking dates, schools, home addresses, parents, former colleagues – an interminable amount of information, which Barney felt wasn’t completely necessary. When Chilvers finished, he asked if Barney had any questions?
‘Can I just clarify something, Miss Holland: you’re currently working for Reichs-Rundfunk-Gesellschaft?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And do you intend to remain there?’
‘Oh yes, indeed.’
‘Why did you not approach the British embassy in Berlin?’
‘Because I understand the Gestapo watch the place the whole time as they also do the Passport Control Office in Tiergartenstrasse.’
‘You could have been going in on consular matters.’
‘One didn’t want to take the risk. I was here on leave and thought it would be safer to make an approach away from Berlin.’
She was what Barney Allen’s wife would describe as a sour sort, a face unused to smiling, a minimum amount of make-up applied to it, and dressed formally but not very well. Drab would have been another word Mrs Allen would have used.
He carried on for a while – what kind of confidential material did she have access to and had she brought any with her? She said of course she’d not brought anything with her, but some of it was very sensitive indeed, even military material.
Barney had wanted to push her on this but Chilvers thanked her very much for her time and said they’d be in touch. Once she’d been escorted out of the building Chilvers asked Barney what he made of her.
‘I’d want to know more. I’d have appreciated more time with her, to be frank.’
‘I understand, but we find in these circumstances it’s best we pause to take stock. If we decide she’s a plant there’s a risk in exposing ourselves by showing we may be interested. Personally, I’m not sure I trust her. She’s too rehearsed, had all her facts and dates right there, not a moment’s hesitation: who remembers the exact dates they were at school unless they’ve planned it? My instinct is she’s not genuine. Her story seems too convenient and there’s no sign of any… how can I put this… motivation there. If she was a passionate anti-Nazi she’d have said so and if she wanted money then she’d have found a way of bringing that up, but how long were we with her – an hour – and during that time there was no hint of why she wants to work for us.’
‘She said she was a patriot.’
‘That sounded rehearsed, I’m afraid: one assumes a British citizen is a patriot. If she’s such a patriot why is she working for German radio, which I understand takes a strong anti-British line?’
‘Having someone already in Berlin… working there at the radio station, it would be terribly useful. You’re not suggesting we drop her, are you?’
‘I’d suggest setting Miss Holland a test to see how genuine she is. Do you have someone in Berlin who could be potentially sacrificed in the cause of testing her?’
Barney Allen moved his head in a non-committal manner, which Chilvers nonetheless took as confirmation.
* * *
Maureen Holland was clearly very pleased with herself when she arrived at another anonymous building, this one on the Gray’s Inn Road. She looked slightly more relaxed than two days previously and seemed to have made more of an effort with herself, the most notable feature of which was bright red lipstick.
‘I’d very much like to take you up on your offer to work for us in Berlin, Miss Holland,’ said Barney Allen. ‘We appreciate it is a patriotic gesture and one which you have not taken lightly.’
Maureen Holland allowed a brief, thin smile accompanied by a slight bow of the head. Her handbag had been on her lap but now she placed it on the floor and folded her hands and patted her hair as if to ensure it was in place.
‘I would like you to return to Berlin. Am I correct in thinking you work at the main Reichs-Rundfunk-Gesellschaft studios in Westend, on Masurenallee?’
‘Indeed.’
‘I have to tell you we already have a very trusted agent working there and it would be splendid for you to work with him. I have here an envelope for him. It contains some money along with some instructions. Say it’s from Walton in London. You’re to follow whatever instructions he gives you. There’s another envelope here for you, which contains five pounds to cover your expenses. I’m sorry it’s not an awful lot but we will make those payments on a regular basis.’
Barney Allen passed the two envelopes to her. ‘His name’s written on the first one. I presume you know him?’
The wide-eyed and shocked look on Maureen Holland’s face assured him she did indeed know the man.
The trap had been set.
* * *
Maureen Holland returned to Berlin two days later. Special Branch had followed her in London and reported she did nothing to arouse their suspicion other than a shopping spree at Dickins and Jones in Regent Street, which included the purchase of an expensive coat.
The day after her return to Berlin she woke early, made a call from a telephone box and then went to the Witzleben Park. She walked along the perimeter of the lake until she spotted the man she knew as Karl, his raincoat folded over his arm meaning she could approach him.
‘I thought you were coming back yesterday.’
‘I was – I mean, I did.’
‘So why did you only call this morning?’
‘I was tired when I got back and I didn’t think you’d want to meet up so late and—’
‘In future you’ll let me decide that. How did you get on?’
Maureen told the man everything, apart from the five pounds the British had given her, with which she’d bought a good coat and some leather gloves that would help her get through the Berlin winter. She told him how she’d gone into a police station and then met various people – all the time sticking to the story they’d agreed. Eventually she met two men who seemed to be important and who believed her story. At their second meeting the man calling himself Walton said they’d very much like her to work for them and told her they had a very trusted agent working inside Berlin Radio and he gave her an envelope to give to him.
‘You have the envelope?’
She removed it from her handbag and handed it to him. ‘His name’s on the envelope.’
‘I can see that. But we know of this man – they say he’s a British agent?’
‘Yes.’
Karl spent another hour going through her story, trying to find out as much as he could about the people she’d met and where she’d met them. He pushed her on the one called Mr Walton and she said it was difficult to describe him but said she’d know him again if she saw him.
Karl told her to leave matters with him but to say nothing and certainly not approach the man – the British agent in the radio station.
‘I’ll deal with him.’
* * *
They arrested Ken Ridley – the man known to colleagues as Fritz – at their favoured time of six o’clock the following morning, which in Berlin had become known as Gestapo Time.
A dozen of them arrived at Ridley’s rooms on Forcheimer Strasse in Pankow and broke down his door. Ridley was still in bed and looked terrified as he was dragged from it and made to stand against the door. A small puddle emerged from his pyjama trousers.
He was taken to a dungeon on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse and kept there for much of the morning, dressed only in his urine-soaked pyjamas and no shoes. Early in the afternoon Ridley was brought to one of the interrogation rooms where the guards beat him up for a couple of minutes, nothing too serious but enough to ensure he was in no doubt about the seriousness of his predicament.
Karl had used the time between meeting Maureen and the arrest to check matters out. The Abwehr station in London confirmed the addresses in London were ones they believed British Intelligence occasionally used to meet people, but they said they had no idea who Mr Purcell or Mr Walton were. Karl had checked Ken Ridley’s file: he claimed to be a Nazi sympathiser and had been offering his services around Berlin, but no one trusted him. The Gestapo view was that he was an unreliable drunk.
The evidence though appeared to be damning. He’d been named in London – presumably by someone from MI6 – as a trusted British spy. The envelope the woman had handed over contained instructions about where to meet other agents, a letter saying how delighted they were with him, some questions on a previous intelligence report he’d submitted, some names and another note that said although he was to keep up the pretence of being a drunk, he was to be careful about overdoing it. There was also a considerable amount of money in the envelope.
They interrogated Ridley for the rest of the day and well into the night. Karl told him it was obvious his being a Nazi and a drunk was an act, a charade, a façade – whichever word he preferred. If he was honest and told them everything then he’d be dealt with more leniently.
Ridley denied everything and was far more resolute than Karl imagined he’d be. He was thrown back in the dungeon and they resumed the interrogation the following morning. Ridley stuck to his story: I have no idea what you’re talking about… these notes and documents mean nothing… I have no idea who Walton is… I’m a committed Nazi and would never think of working for the British…
At lunchtime Ridley was allowed a meal and then subjected to an afternoon of torture. Every hour or so he was given the opportunity to confess but each time he insisted he had nothing to confess to.
‘If I did I promise I would tell you everything!’
They broke him some time in the early hours of the following morning. By now Ridley was hanging naked by his fingertips and subject to bouts of electric shocks. He was brought down, wrapped in a coarse blanket and brought back to the interrogation room where he sobbed like a child.
‘What is it you wanted me to tell you?’ he looked at Karl through badly bruised eyes, blood and phlegm dripping from his face and his whole body shaking. Dried vomit covered his torso.
‘I want you to tell me the truth, Ken.’
‘Then you’ll stop?’
Karl nodded.
‘Then I’m a British spy. It’s all true.’
They shot Ken Ridley, nickname Fritz, at dawn two days later, Gestapo Time. But something which he couldn’t put his finger on made Karl uncomfortable. Maybe subconsciously he wasn’t sure about the confession, but his boss had been delighted with it and was very pleased with Karl and Karl – who was up for promotion – was hardly going to argue with that.
They found nothing incriminating in Ridley’s rooms in Pankow, which was unusual. He was obviously a very smart agent.
There was the question of what to do with the woman Maureen. Karl hadn’t been too sure about her but she had brought him Ridley. On the other hand, when the British found out that Ridley had been arrested so soon after Maureen’s return to Berlin they would assume she’d betrayed him.
Maybe he’d made a mistake arresting Ridley so quickly.
Maureen would be discarded, he decided. They’d put her in cold storage as they called it in the Gestapo: keep an eye on her and wait to see if the British contacted her and tried to activate her as an agent, which he very much doubted.
* * *
A week after Ken Ridley’s death Werner Lustenberger took the U-Bahn to Pankow Vinetastrasse and walked from there to Forcheimer Strasse. Barnaby had been insistent: find out what had happened to Ken Ridley.
Finding that out was surprisingly easy. Ridley had lived in a large house with around a dozen rooms to rent, three of which were vacant and the landlady was eager to show a prospective tenant round. They came to one set of rooms, which still looked occupied.
‘Isn’t this taken?’
She shook her head and then closed the door and took him further into the room. ‘It was an Englishman here. I thought he was a good man, he always paid his rent on time. But you know what? The other week the Gestapo came for him – he was a spy!’
‘What was the man’s name?’
‘I shouldn’t really be telling you this but he was called… Herr Ridley though he liked people to call him Fritz. My brother was called Fritz.’
‘And what happened to him?’
‘What do you imagine they do to spies?’
She ran her finger slowly across her throat in case her potential lodger was in any doubt.
Chapter 15
Bern, Switzerland and Berlin
May 1939
Barney Allen had only met Basil Remington-Barber once before, in the late autumn of 1938 when the MI6 director Sir Hugh Sinclair had started to think seriously about the prospect of war with Germany and had called all the European heads of station to London for an emergency meeting. Most of the senior officers from 54 Broadway were there too, which meant that along with a few Foreign Office types and people described by Piers Devereux as hangers-on there were well over fifty people present. They met next door to Head Office, in St Ermin’s Hotel, and it was a chaotic affair with people talking over each other and too much shouting.
After a particularly ill-tempered session just before lunch Barney found himself in a corner of the dining room with Tom Gilbey. It was a buffet lunch and both men were struggling to eat from their plates while holding drinks and generally complaining about the event. At that point an older man strode up to them. Barney had spotted him in the meeting but hadn’t caught his name. He was stylishly dressed in a three-piece suit and looked like he could do with a haircut. Barney took him to be one of the hangers-on.
‘Ah, Basil – how are you – do you know Barney – Barney Allen? He’s working with me. Barney, this is Basil Remington-Barber, he runs our operation in Bern.’
‘I don’t think I do, I’m glad to meet you, Barney.’ Basil Remington-Barber allowed a pleasant smile and carried on eating. He seemed altogether more relaxed than most others in the room, with his quiet voice and calm manner. Barney now recalled Piers talking highly of him: Basil’s very reliable… no side to him… been in Bern a long time and knows the place inside out… comes across as a bit too clubbable but actually he’s razor-sharp.
He’d very much taken to Basil that day at St Ermin’s Hotel. When he did speak in the afternoon it was noticeable that he did so with a quiet authority and even a sense of humour and they had a long chat over drinks that evening and again at lunch during the session the next day.
‘Do let me know if there’s anything I can ever do to help, Barney. Switzerland may seem to be a backwater but I can assure you that if we go to war with Germany, it will become terribly important.’
* * *
Barney Allen had travelled to Paris on the Monday and stayed there for a couple of days, supposedly to liaise with Paris station but they seemed to resent how little he could tell them about his own work and he left the city with the feeling that he really need not have bothered. On the Wednesday he took an early train from Gare de Lyon, arriving in Geneva at one o’clock to allow a nostalgic couple of hours in a city he’d first visited as a seventeen-year-old: an encounter with a considerably older woman who was staying in the same guest house as him ensured the city would always occupy a place in his heart.
He walked around the Old Town for a couple of hours, stopping to eat in one of the cheap cafes he frequented and particularly enjoyed because his mother would have been appalled to see him eating in places like that – but then his mother would have been appalled at much of what he got up to in Geneva.
He found Cour de Saint-Pierre and from there worked out where the narrow road was but the guest house had been replaced by a lady’s hairdresser. Barney stood for a while on the cobbled street staring wistfully at the top floor window and for the briefest of moments wondered if one of the women in the salon was the woman herself but then snapped out of it and took a circular route back to the station to allow him to walk past the lake.
He caught the three o’clock train to Lausanne and waited an hour for the connection to Bern. He should have spent the journey admiring the spectacular scenery but his thoughts remained in the narrowed cobbled street in Geneva’s Old Town.
