The Swiss Spy (12 page)

‘I remember you Franz. I guess it was you who’s been
asking about me here?’

Hermann nodded.

‘What’s it all about? You’ve given me a couple of
sleepless nights.’

‘I fear I’m about to give you many more. You see…’

He paused. A couple of Luftwaffe officers had come
into the bar and moved noisily towards them, looking for somewhere to sit. Franz
waited until they moved away.

‘Good, this is not a conversation we’d want them to
overhear. Stop looking so worried Gunter; you’ll draw attention to yourself. Just
relax and smile: we’re friends who’ve met in a bar. Don’t look like you’re
being interrogated by the Gestapo. When did you last hear from Rosa?’

Gunter frowned, trying to remember.

‘There was a letter from Paris in October. She sent
it at the beginning of October but I didn’t receive it until the end of the
month: it came via a friend of hers in Switzerland and then through my brother.

‘How come?’

‘I don’t know if you’re aware, but I remarried soon
after Rosa and I divorced. Far too soon, as it’s turned out. But we have
children and it’s a situation I’m stuck with. Gudrun won’t tolerate me having
any contact whatsoever with either Rosa or Alfred. As far as she’s concerned, I
have nothing to do with them. It’s safer she thinks that: she’s become a
devoted Nazi, like the rest of her family. The fact I was once married to a Jew
and had a son with her is a terrible thing in Gudrun’s eyes. I’ve had to
promise her I have no contact whatsoever with Rosa and Alfred, that I’ve
disowned them. Have you heard from her Franz: is everything alright? What about
Alfred?’

‘Gunter, unless you keep your voice down and act
normally, we’re going to have a serious problem. Do you understand? Drink some
of your beer. Try to look relaxed.’

Gunter nodded and composed himself. ‘I understand,
but is there any news?’

‘For the time being, they’re safe.’

‘And they’re still in Paris?’

Hermann lowered his head and talked a little more
quietly.

‘A smile please Gunter, you need to smile. We’re old
friends meeting for a relaxed drink. Good, that’s better. You need to prepare
yourself for what I’m about to say. They’re safe, for the time being: Rosa,
Alfred and little Sophia. But I don’t know for how long. They’re in hiding you
see. Here in Berlin.’

***

Gunter
Reinhart had to wait three days before he could see his son and his ex-wife,
along with her young daughter. Having to wait that long was bad enough, but
visiting them on a Sunday presented added problems. Sunday was the day his wife
demanded his undivided attention, but he insisted he had work commitments that
were none of her business and he was able to slip out of the house once they
returned from church.

‘They’re living with my mother in Dahlem: near the
Botanischer Garten,’ Hermann had told him at the bar. ‘My mother has become
quite unwell, unable to look after herself. She insists on staying in the old
family home. She needed someone to live in and look after her and, luckily,
with her qualifications and experience, Rosa is ideal. She’ll tell you the full
story. On Sundays, my brother-in-law drives over from Brandenburg and takes her
back to their house for lunch. She leaves at 11 in the morning and they bring
her back around four, so that doesn’t leave much time.’

Not much time.

 ‘There’s no reason to think anyone will suspect
what you are up to, Gunter,’ Franz had warned him, ‘but be careful. Assume you’re
being followed and take basic precautions: walk at an even pace, don’t keep
looking behind you – that kind of thing.’

So he walked at an even pace across Spandauer
Strasse and caught the S-Bahn at Westend. He did as Hermann had advised: making
sure he got onto the busiest carriage and watching out for anyone getting on at
the same time as him. The train worked its way south at a Sunday pace. At
Schmargendorf, he changed to the U-Bahn then headed south again, getting off at
Podbielski Allee.

He wasn’t far now: he had not seen his son or Rosa
for nearly six months. He had assumed they were out of the country. His
excitement at seeing them was mixed with the shock they were still in Germany.

From Podbielski Allee, he headed down Peter Lenne
Strasse towards the Botanischer Garten. He had memorised Hermann’s
instructions.
‘Write nothing down.’

At the end of the road, he turned left into
Königin-Luise-Strasse, across the square then continued along Grunewald
Strasse. ‘You know Kaiser Wilhelm Strasse, Gunter? Runs off Grunewald Strasse. Turn
into there: first right is Arno-Holz Strasse. The white house on the corner is
where my mother lives. I’ll be there from 12. If the curtains are drawn in
window directly above the front door, it’s safe to approach, but please only do
so if you believe you’ve not been followed. Otherwise, head down to the Botanischer
Garten at a leisurely pace.’

He did as instructed. In other circumstances he
would have enjoyed his walk on what had turned out to be an unseasonably warm
afternoon. The house was as Hermann had described it, the front garden deep and
heavy with trees, the walls white and in need of repainting and above the front
door, a window. The curtains were drawn.

He looked around him once more, but the streets were
deserted. He had not been followed. He unlatched a noisy iron gate and walked
down the path. As he approached the porch, the front door opened and behind it
he could see Franz Hermann, silently ushering him in.

They stood together in the dark hall of a silent
house.

‘Are they here Franz?’

‘Upstairs. Take your shoes off.’

Gunter ran up the stairs. On the landing, waiting
for him in the gloom, was his ex-wife and their son. Behind them, peering out
from behind a door was Sophia, Rosa’s daughter from her second marriage.

Alfred flung himself at his father, holding him
tight and burying his face in his chest. Gunter could feel the warm tears
seeping through his shirt and vest. Rosa came up to him and held his face,
kissing him tenderly on each cheek, her hand cupping the back of his neck. He
could feel tears welling in his eyes. Little Sophia waved at him. He waved
back.

He held both Rosa and Alfred, unsure of what to say.
The only family I ever wanted.

It was 2.30 by the time Gunter and Rosa were able to
be alone in a small room on the top floor of the house. Franz had told them he
would wait with the children and keep an eye on the front. Gunter would need to
be away by a quarter to four to be safe. He and Rosa sat quietly for a while,
holding hands.

‘I thought you were in Paris, Rosa? ‘

He was trying hard not to sound angry.

‘We were. I wrote to you at the beginning of
October. Did you get the letter?’

He nodded. She shrugged.

‘Harald was meant to join us in the middle of
October: he’d remained in Berlin because he needed to make a few arrangements. The
idea was he’d get what money he could out of the business, which wasn’t much,
and transfer it to Switzerland. Then we’d have something to live on and,
together with the money you gave us, we may be able to get to America.’

‘That was the idea.’

‘I promise you that was the plan. As you know,
Harald had been forced to sell the business to two of his managers for a
fraction of what it was worth. Both of them were men who were friends of his,
who he’d always helped in the past. They’d always said they’d help him and one
of them did, but the other refused. I don’t know exactly what happened, but
from what I can gather Harald was reported to the Gestapo for trying to get
money out of Germany, which is illegal for a Jew. I suspect the manager he’d
fallen out with reported him. So Harald was arrested and taken to Sachsenhausen
– it’s a special camp for prisoners of the Nazis. Have you heard of it?’

‘Of course I have – near Oranienburg. Are you sure he’s
there?’

‘Believe me, I’m sure. Terrible things happen there.
I don’t like to think about what he must be going through. I know he’s still
alive, or at least he was two weeks ago, but I don’t know what state he’s in.’

‘So why on earth did you come back here? What were
you thinking of, Rosa?’

‘I don’t know what I was thinking. Please don’t be
angry with me. I thought if my husband was in prison here then I should come
back to help him. I thought I could get him released.’

‘But Rosa, what about Alfred – and Sophia?’

‘I know Gunter. But remember, we left Germany for
France in July. I’d no idea how bad things had become. In Paris I borrowed some
money from my cousin and I sold all my jewellery. I thought I could pay a fine
or a bribe or something like that and get Harald released. But when I went to
the police station they confiscated my passport and wanted to know where I was
living. I gave them the address of the old flat in Pankow we were staying at
and they only let me go because I had papers showing I was registered there. I
knew they’d come for us, but fortunately, I’d left the children with my old
colleague Maria in Kreuzberg while I went to the police station. When I left, I
went straight to Kreuzberg, picked up Alfred and Sophia then contacted Franz. He
took us to his house for a few days then came up with this plan for us to move
in here with his mother. It’s worked out well: the old lady is almost deaf and can’t
climb the stairs, so as long as the children are quiet and stay upstairs they
are alright and she’s no idea they’re here.’

‘And she doesn’t suspect you?’

‘She’s been told I’m a nurse from the north whose
husband is in the Navy. Of course, I don’t let on I’m a doctor. I can use all
my skills to keep her alive: if she dies, we’ll have to leave the house. I have
some papers Franz managed to get showing I’m from Bremerhaven, but they’re not
good enough to travel with. Franz comes round most days. The old lady has very
few visitors other than that: one or two friends who pop in for an hour every
so often, but they always call first. Franz’s sister doesn’t know the truth
about me, and I think she’s just grateful someone is looking after her mother so
she doesn’t have to.’

‘And the children?’

‘It’s terrible for them here; they just have to stay
upstairs all day. Poor Sophia has no idea what’s going on, other than her
father is in prison and she has to keep quiet all the time. Alfred understands,
of course. That makes it worse, I suppose. He misses you terribly Gunter.’

Gunter sat for a while with his head in his hands,
deep in thought.

‘Why didn’t you contact me before now – I mean, once
you got back to Berlin?’

Rosa looked at him long and hard.
You don’t know
why?

‘Gunter – you always said I wasn’t to contact you
directly. You said Gudrun doesn’t allow it. I didn’t know what your situation was,
whether it was safe. I also thought you’d be angry with me. I was hoping we’d find
a way back to France: Franz was going to see if he could find false papers, but
it’s impossible. We’re trapped here in Berlin.’

Rosa was weeping now, her trembling hand holding
Gunter’s.

‘I should never have divorced you Rosa, I was…’

‘Don’t blame yourself Gunter. We agreed it was for
the best.’

‘No, I was being selfish. The three of us should
have left after that damn law was passed.’

They sat in silence for a long while.

‘It’s 3.15 Gunter. Franz says you’re to leave soon. Please
spend some time with Alfred before you go. He misses you so much.’

‘I don’t know what to do Rosa. Do you need food or
money?’

‘Yes, but what we really need is to get out: even if
you can just save Alfred. As far as the Nazis are concerned, he’s only a half-Jew.
Could you take him, would Gudrun not understand?’

Gunter laughed. ‘Understand? Even if I said you’d
abandoned Alfred and I’d found him in the middle of Berlin, she wouldn’t want
to know. When we got married she made me promise I would never, ever have
anything to do with the two of you again. Frankly, I wouldn’t put it past her
to turn him in. Her brother, Norbert, who has all the intelligence of a field
mouse but with less of the personality – he’s now a big shot in the Nazi Party
in Bergdorf, which says everything you need to know about them. The fact I was
once married to a Jew is a terrible secret in that family. Gudrun insists the
children aren’t allowed to know about it.’

‘But what are we going to do, Gunter?’

‘I don’t know Rosa. Give me time, I’ll think of
something.’

***

‘Do
nothing unusual and certainly nothing that’s likely to draw attention to
yourself.’

For eight long months Henry had followed Edgar’s
advice, leading an unremarkable existence. The waiting to be contacted was
tedious and living with his mother even more so. The fact he was now in control
of the purse strings was more than she could bear. It was ‘intolerable’, she
announced during a dramatic argument on the night he returned. She could not
understand why he had returned with so little of the aunt’s money.

He explained their predicament once more, very
clearly and very slowly.

‘Remember it was your clever idea to bypass probate
and for me to attempt to bring all the money back here as soon as possible,’
said Henry. ‘That proved to be simply impossible – and illegal: I could have
ended up in prison. I’ve told you what happened: I had to go to London and stay
there for all that time to sort out the money. I was tangled up in reels and
reels of red tape, then war was declared at the beginning of September, which
made matters almost impossible. The British Government simply don’t want to
release money overseas, they say they can’t be sure whose hands it’ll end up
in. You ought to be grateful I managed to get anything out at all and return in
one piece.’

‘But it’s our money Henry!’

‘My money actually – and not all of it as it turned
out. In the end, the authorities accepted my explanation that there’d been a
misunderstanding over the Will. I was fortunate. Then it took a few more weeks
for probate to be granted. After that, I had to obtain agreement that the money
could be released, but, as I told you, I don’t get it in one sum. You were
advanced 200 pounds. I’ll be able to access a further 500 over the next few
days and the rest will come through at the rate of 100 pounds per month. It’s
not the amount we’d hoped for, mother, but it’s enough for us to be able to
live far more comfortably.’

Since the death of her second husband, Marlene
Hesse’s perfectly formed world had steadily unravelled. She now accepted the
changed situation with the minimum of grace. At least they had been able to
afford to rent a larger apartment in a much more respectable location just off
Quai du Mont Blanc, which was some consolation.

But the wait to be contacted was considerably more
trying than his mother. Two days after his return, Henry had gone as instructed
to the
Quai des Bergues
branch of
Credit Suisse and made an appointment to see Madame Ladnier later that morning.
In a small office in the basement she went through the details of the account,
before handing him a folded piece of paper.
My home telephone number: I only
give this to special clients and then only to be used in particular
circumstances. You understand?

After that, nothing. As soon as they moved into
their new apartment he went to see Madame Ladnier to give her the details. She
assured him the matter would be dealt with. He was desperate to ask her if
there was any news, but managed to restrain himself.

He began to follow a routine, in the hope it would
make it easier for whoever would approach him: leaving the apartment at a
certain time, returning to it at a certain time, an afternoon walk, the shops…

Christmas came and went, celebrated mostly in
silence with his still-embittered mother, and January brought the snows down
from the Alps, but still no contact. By the end of the month, he’d started to
wonder if he would ever be contacted and decided this would be no bad thing. Perhaps
they’d forgotten about him: at least the money was still appearing in his
account. There was the occasional contact from Viktor and he always told him
the same: no news. Loyalty was proving to be a most complicated business.

At the end of February, he received a phone call
from Madame Ladnier. Could he come into the bank to sign a document?
You aren’t
to worry
, she assured him.
They’ve told me to tell you that you will be
contacted in due course, but it may take a few months. Remain patient – and discreet.

The same happened at the end of April:
they want
me to assure you that you’ve not been forgotten. Be patient. It shouldn’t be
too long now.
Viktor was not surprised when he told him:
there’s no rush
synok – that’s how people like us operate.

On the last Tuesday in June, Henry left the
apartment off Quai du Mont Blanc as usual at 9.30. It was already a warm
morning, with a light breeze skimming over the lake. As he headed south for a
brisk walk before breakfast a woman swept past him before slowing down and
studying a map. As he drew alongside her she looked surprised, then spoke in
French with a Provençal accent, much faster than the Swiss.

 ‘I’m sorry sir, I appear to be lost! I’m looking
for the Old Town. Do you know the way?’

It was so natural, so matter of fact, that Henry was
taken aback and thought this couldn’t possibly be the contact, who he’d
assumed, would be a man. It must be a coincidence, he thought, but then he
noticed she was carrying a copy of Monday’s
Tribune de Genève
. It took
him a moment to compose himself.

‘Of course. Would you prefer to walk or take the
tram?’

She smiled. ‘I’d prefer to walk if you are able to
show me the way to go.’

Another smile and a slight hesitation before Henry
replied.

‘Well, I’m walking to the Old Town myself now. If
you wish, you’re most welcome to follow me.’

She smiled and theatrically held out an elegantly
gloved hand.
Lead on.

‘Take any route to the Old Town.’

Henry tried to walk at a normal pace, unsure what a
normal pace felt like. He crossed the
Rhône at the Pont des Bergues,
allowing himself a glance behind to check the woman was still following. He
crossed the Rue de la Rôtisserie into the Old Town and soon after that the
woman overtook him: it was now his turn to follow her. She walked through
alleyways, crossed roads, waited on corners and eventually they emerged onto
Rue de l’Hôtel de Ville. Her pace did not change, other than when she paused
briefly at a shop window. Henry was wondering how long this would go on for,
but then they crossed into the Grand-Rue and there on the corner was the Brasserie
de Hôtel de Ville and outside it a waste-paper bin, into which she dropped her
copy of
Tribune de Genève
. She carried on walking, but Henry knew his
rendezvous would take place here. He entered the café.

You’re to enter the building and wait. If no-one has
approached you after five minutes, you are to leave and return home.

He glanced at his wristwatch and the clock on the
wall. Within two minutes a man entered the café, smoking a cigar and greeting
two people sat at a nearby table. He shook hands with the barman and walked
straight over to Henry.

‘I am Marc. Would you care to join me?’

If someone joins you and introduces themselves as
Marc you’re to go with him. He will take you to meet your main contact. At that
moment, your new career will have begun

Henry nodded. Beside the bar was a door that Marc
opened:
after you
.

A narrow staircase twisted and turned to the top of
the building. When they reached a small landing, Marc gestured for him to wait
then knocked three times on a polished oak door.

‘It’s me, Marc. I have the delivery.’

Henry heard a bolt being drawn then the door opened.
It was a corner room, expensively furnished with an ornate fireplace and a
thick carpet: one wall was taken up with a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, many of
the volumes leather-bound. On a French-polished sideboard there was an
exquisite cut-glass decanter with matching glasses on a silver tray. Next to
that was another tray, with a teapot and various cups.

The door was opened by a dapper man in his sixties
who was wearing a three-piece suit. His iron-grey hair, going white at the
sides, was slicked back, slightly longer than Henry would have expected.

‘Ah, Hunter: welcome! At long last. Welcome indeed. Sorry
about all this John Buchan stuff. Not really my idea: seems to be the form
these days. Apparently we can’t be too careful.’ It was a distinctly upper-class
drawl.

‘Now do come in and make yourself at home. My name
is Basil by the way, like in the Swiss city.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Basle, Hunter. The Swiss seems to find it amusing,
or at least they would do if they allowed themselves the indulgence of a sense
of humour. Basil Remington-Barber. There’s an ‘Hon’ that goes in front of the
name if you’re a stickler for that kind of thing. As far as the Swiss are
concerned, I’m a commercial attaché at the British Embassy in Bern. As far as you’re
concerned, I run the station out here in Switzerland and if you’re still
confused that means I look after all intelligence matters from our place on
Thunstrasse
. Thought it’d
be a quiet place to wind up my career. Had rather expected to have retired by
now, but I’m told there’s a war on and someone in London has decided I’m
indispensible: helps I speak the lingo I suppose, all of them as it happens. Had
hoped to be hacking my way round some of Scotland’s easier links courses by
now, but there we go.’

With that, he switched to Swiss-German, alternating
between it and German. ‘Now, tell me Hunter, are you raring to go or had you
been hoping we’d forgotten all about you?’

‘Well, I can’t really say. I imagine that…’

‘Bit of both probably, perfectly understandable –
not knowing is the worst part. Sorry about the delay, but the good news is – the
waiting’s over. The fall of France has rather spurred London into action as far
as I can gather. We have a little errand for you. But first of all, let’s have
some tea: milk and sugar?’

Henry relaxed a bit now. The civilised serving of
tea and the promise of a little errand sounded quite acceptable, perhaps even
fun. What was it Edgar had promised?
Chances are the first job will be
something relatively straightforward, probably within Switzerland. Shouldn’t be
anything too dangerous; a warm-up, if you like.

The Hon Basil Remington-Barber took a while to serve
tea, fussing first that Henry’s and then his own tea was neither too weak nor
too strong. When he was satisfied everything was just right, he leaned back in
his armchair and addressed Henry through the steam rising from his china
teacup. Henry was beginning to enjoy his morning. His pleasure was to be short-lived.

‘We understand you’re very familiar with Stuttgart,
Hunter?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Henry felt his throat
tightening.

‘Stuttgart, the German city?’

Henry placed his teacup down on the side table next
to him. His hands were beginning to shake and he needed to cover that up, so he
folded them on his lap, crossing and then un-crossing his legs as he did so.

‘Yes, I know it.’

‘Been there often?’

‘Once or twice.’

‘Really?’

Henry shrugged.
Not sure.

‘
Quite
a few times, we understand Hunter.’

‘Well, possibly…’

‘Something you omitted to tell any of my colleagues
back in England?’

Henry hesitated for longer than he knew he should. ‘Forgot
rather than omitted, I’d say.’ He was not convinced by his own answer. Nor was
Basil Remington-Barber, who shook his head in mild disapproval. ‘I rather know
the feeling; I seem to forget the odd thing these days. My wife tells me I’m
starting to remind her of how her father was just before he went completely
potty! The old boy had to be locked up after he shot one of his gamekeepers:
thought he was a pheasant, apparently. The point is, though, that not
mentioning Stuttgart is a rather important omission. Perhaps you’d like to tell
me about it now?’

Henry tried to sound as casual as possible, hoping
to convey the impression that his knowledge of Stuttgart was really nothing
very important, the kind of thing one could so easily forget.

‘There’s not an awful lot to say. My stepfather had
some property in Stuttgart. I used to pop up there every so often to keep an
eye on things for him.’

‘How often would ‘every so often’ be, Hunter?’

‘I really couldn’t say. Once or twice a year, maybe.’

‘My very strong advice, Hunter,’ Remington-Barber
had now dispensed with the bonhomie, ‘would be you’re totally honest from now
on. You see, your first mission is to go up to Stuttgart and the more we know
about your familiarity with the city, the better. I do hope you understand
that.’

Shouldn’t be anything too dangerous; a warm-up, if
you like.

‘Edgar implied my first mission would be within
Switzerland.’

‘Did he now? Well, that’s Edgar for you: an officer
but not quite a gentleman. Grammar school, I’m told. Now, tell me all about
Stuttgart.’

‘My step-father had a fair amount of residential
property in Stuttgart, in the best areas: quite a lot in Gänseheide to the east
of the city centre and more in the north, Azenberg and Killesberg mostly. He
had local agents that looked after them, but he liked me to go up there once a
quarter to check everything was in order and to oversee the transfer of his
rental income back to Switzerland.’