The Swiss Spy (17 page)

Manfred was moving the dial to the left, stations
momentarily bursting into life then fading away as he went through them. He
settled on one station and turned the volume very low, beckoning Henry to join
him crouched by the speaker.

 ‘The BBC,’ Manfred was pointing at the dial on the
radio. ‘We’ll listen to their German-language service. It’s excellent. If they
catch you listening to a foreign radio station you can end up in prison. Goebbels
clearly doesn’t like his own propaganda to be contaminated, so now I spend part
of my evenings knelt by the radio, with the volume so low I can only just hear
it.’

Henry didn’t sleep that night, wracked as his body
was with exhaustion and fear. Every time he began to drop off, he saw the
bulging eyes of the shop owner or would hear the resigned tone of Manfred, a
man who knew his fate. It was another face that would now haunt him, along with
Roza, who inevitably appeared before him in the very early hours, her fingers
holding his wrist and slowly tightening over the course of what felt like many
hours. There was a strong wind that night and the windows in the sitting room,
where Henry was trying to sleep on the sofa, rattled viciously. Worse than that
was the front door, which shook heavily when caught by the wind: each time it happened
he imagined the Gestapo had come for them.

The next morning Manfred was up at 6.30 and they sat
together eating black bread and jam, and drinking ersatz coffee.

‘I start work at eight o’clock. You should aim to
catch the quarter past nine train to Cologne. We’re going to go on a more
roundabout route to the station, but it’s one that’ll enable you to see much
more of Essen. It’s very busy at this time of the morning, so we should be alright,
but who knows? Keep an eye on me and make sure you memorise well what you see –
and, remember, if you see me remove my cap and put it in my pocket, we’re in
danger. If that happens, just ignore me and get away as soon as you can.’

Henry watched as Manfred packed his lunch neatly
into a tin box, leaving space for the detonators wrapped in the towel. ‘I’d
better be careful I don’t eat them!’ Both men laughed nervously, grateful for
the brief diversion of humour. They left the apartment just after seven and
Henry followed Manfred to Altendorf station. They travelled north, allowing
Henry ample opportunity to see yet more Krupps factories and the Maria and
Amalie mines. At Altenessen, they changed trains and took one south: anyone
following them would have been immediately suspicious that they were taking
such a circuitous route when a more direct one existed, but it was busy and
Henry was convinced no-one was watching them. Essen was like Stuttgart: people
avoided eye contact with each other. The next stage of the journey had the
added advantage of being painfully slow, as the train crawled down the track
past yet more factories to the North Passenger and Goods station. It was now a
quarter to eight and, as arranged, Manfred headed straight to the main station.
Henry had more time and walked slowly, taking a slightly longer route so as to
take in the power station and the electricity station around Viehofer Strasse.

As he headed towards the bahnhof, pleased with his
morning’s work and relieved to be beginning his journey back, he became aware
of a commotion ahead of him. Too late he realised he was very near Limbecker
Strasse, where the
Parfümerie
was. There were police everywhere, stopping all pedestrians and
coralling them into different lines. He thought of turning around, but soon
found himself being pointed to a queue. Ten minutes later he was at the front
of it. A policeman directed him towards a man in a long trenchcoat, who
beckoned him:
come here
. The man held out an oval metal warrant disc:
there was the Nazi eagle on one side and the words
Geheime Staatpolizei
on the other. Gestapo.

‘Papers.’

He handed over his identity card.

‘Where are you heading?’

‘The station.’

That seemed to satisfy the man, who did not press
him.

‘Open the suitcase.’

He rooted around in it for a moment or two but again
was satisfied.

‘Your watch.’

They’d be looking for the old man’s watch
. His was
fine.

The Gestapo officer seemed satisfied.

‘One last thing: let me see your wallet.’

Henry handed it over. He and Manfred had agreed it
would be best to dispose of the Reichsmarks he had taken from the till. ‘You
never know,’
Manfred had said, ‘some shopkeepers mark their notes or
there could be specks of blood on them.’
Henry was certain there was
nothing to worry about in the wallet, nothing that would arouse suspicion. He
did have the slip of paper, with the name and address in Altendorf of his aunt,
but that would appear as innocuous as all the other contents.

But it was as the Gestapo man handed the wallet back
to him and told him he could go on his way that Henry had the most terrible
thought. He remembered the slip of paper was not in the wallet: he had
transferred it to his coat pocket just before he arrived in Essen the previous
day. For some reason, he’d decided it would be safer there. And now it was in
the blood-stained and perfume-soaked coat he’d abandoned and which there was
every chance would be discovered. They would find the piece of paper and go to
the apartment block in Ehrenzeller Strasse and start asking questions. The lady
with the filthy apron in the next-door apartment would happily tell them about
the man who had knocked on Gertraud Traugott’s door and who had been taken in
by Herr Erhard at number 19.

His legs were shaking as he hurried to the station. The
large station clock had edged past 9.10 and he could see steam billowing from
the Cologne train on platform three. There was a good chance they would find
the coat any moment now – maybe they had already found it and had already
spoken with the woman at the apartments. Maybe they were on their way to the
station. He knew he should go to the lost-property office to warn Manfred, but
he also knew if he did so then he’d almost certainly miss the train.

There was movement around platform three, the guard
was about to close the gate. Henry ran along and managed to squeeze through in
time. He hopped on board as the brakes were noisily released and the train
began to ease along the platform.

Every time he closed his eyes on the journey back to
Stuttgart he saw Manfred: he knew he could have warned him and given him a
chance to escape, but that would have delayed his own departure from Essen and
put himself at risk.

Poor Manfred, he thought: a decent enough man whose
remaining ambition in life was that he could take his suicide pill before the
Gestapo got to him.

 
I just hope he manages it.

***

Henry
travelled to Lausanne on Monday 5
^th
August, following the long
weekend to celebrate Swiss National Day the previous Friday. He took the early
morning paddle steamer from Geneva and, when the
Montreux
docked in Lausanne, a
gleaming black Traction Avant
was waiting for him.

On the 20-minute drive to Lutry, the Alps rose high
to his left, the lake sweeping below him to the right. That summed it up, he
thought: caught between two powerful forces. Not unlike serving two masters.

It took the Citroën a further ten minutes to climb
the steep road out of Lutry to an isolated villa high above the town. Henry was
led through to a magnificently appointed lounge, with large windows offering
sensational views of the lake. The furniture was of the best quality, along
with magnificent carpets and cabinets containing enough silver to fund a war
slightly smaller than the current one.

As with all his meetings with Viktor, it began with
an embrace. As Henry extricated himself, he turned round to admire the room.

‘Bit luxurious isn’t it Viktor?’

‘The location is very discreet: that’s what matters.’

‘Do you lot own this?’

‘We borrow it from a good friend,
synok
. We
have very little time for questions; we need to get to work.’

Henry ignored him and walked around the room,
genuinely admiring it. A pair of chairs on either side of the fireplace
appeared to be genuine Louis XV: Viktor told him he wasn’t permitted to sit on
them. Someone brought in a tray of what smelled like proper coffee and he
helped himself to a cup before sinking into a large armchair opposite Viktor,
who had his brown leather notebook on his lap and was sharpening his pencil
with a penknife, the shavings scattering on the precious carpet.

‘You’ve not heard from your Mr Remington-Barber yet?’

Henry shook his head. So did the Russian.

‘Strange. I’d have thought he’d have contacted you
by now. As far as we can tell, you’re not being watched. You certainly weren’t
followed today. He doesn’t seem to be very suspicious, does he?’

‘I’ve no idea, but maybe they’re unhappy about what
happened in Essen.’

Viktor raised his eyebrows momentarily and looked
up. ‘And what did happen in Essen, Henry?’

Henry took a deep breath. He had been dreading this
moment. He wasn’t sure who he feared telling most: Remington-Barber or Viktor. He
closed his eyes and carefully recounted the details of his trip to Germany. He
had decided to leave nothing out: the killing of the old man in the shop and
the fact his carelessness had almost certainly compromised Manfred. Viktor
allowed him to speak uninterrupted, carefully taking notes. When he finished,
there was a long silence, broken only by the sound of Viktor sharpening his
pencil. Henry leant forward in his seat, his elbows on his thighs, staring
down.

‘What’s the matter
synok
: you look bothered
about something?’

‘He’ll be dead now, won’t he?’

‘Who?’

‘Manfred – Lido: do you think the Germans would have
found him?’

Viktor shrugged. ‘I’d imagine so. Whatever we think
of them, we can’t accuse them of not being thorough, can we? I’d be most
surprised if they didn’t find the coat and that would have led to Manfred.’

Henry shook his head.

‘You seem to be upset?’ Viktor looked confused.

‘Well, I am actually, yes. He was a decent chap and
it was my mistake that probably did it for him.’

‘He was a social democrat, Henry: their fate is to
end up dead. And now he’s a victim of war. How do you feel about killing the
man in shop? Has that upset you as much?’

‘Of course not: he was clearly a bad sort – a Nazi. I
had no alternative.’

‘Indeed. I imagine it was somewhat easier than with
the boy in Interlaken, or the puppy. That’s why we train you like that Henry,
so you’re used to killing. As far as your Mr Remington-Barber is concerned, it’s
your first.’

‘You think I should tell him then?’

‘Of course! It’s always good to have an agent who’s
killed in the field. I’m not sure whether an English gentleman will approve or
not, but he ought to be impressed with it. In any case, he may already be aware
of it and it won’t look good if you don’t tell him.’

It was six o’clock now. Viktor checked back through
his notebook, nodding his head at various points. He seemed pleased, though
Henry knew better than to expect him to actually say he was. It was now
Viktor’s turn to speak, in his deliberate and concise manner.

Listen carefully Henry: this is what’s expected of
you.

We’re satisfied so far Henry, but there are many
difficult days ahead.

It’s too risky for us to meet on a regular basis. We
can keep an eye on you but we must keep these meetings to a minimum.

You must learn to operate on your own but to do
exactly what we want you to.

It was a quarter to seven when Viktor finished.

‘I think we can risk driving you back to Geneva,
synok
.
We now need to wait until Remington-Barber contacts you: I imagine that’ll be
soon
.’

Viktor stood up and embraced Henry once more. The
two men who had brought Henry to the villa had come back into the room.
Time
to go.

‘Before I go Viktor, there’s something I need to get
off my chest.’

Viktor raised his eyebrows and looked at his watch,
clearly irritated. ‘If you must: go on then.’

‘I just wanted to say I’m risking my life now. I’ve
told you what happened in Essen. I’m not playing games. I know what I let
myself in for, I realise all that. But there is something that’s made me very
unhappy and I need to talk about it.’

Viktor shifted uncomfortably and looked at the two
other men in the room. He nodded at them and they both left.

‘Go on, but make it quick Henry.’

‘I agreed to work with you – for you – because I
believe in your cause: I see it as my cause too. You know that.’

Viktor nodded in agreement, unsure what was going to
come next. Henry paused to compose himself.

‘I agreed to work for you because I was
ideologically committed.’

‘We know that.’

‘And I still am. But now I’ve started to lay my life
on the line, I can’t understand why we signed that bloody pact with them last
year. I mean, they were meant to be our sworn enemy, they stood for everything
we despise and now I have to get used to the fact they’re our allies, our
friends even. That seems wrong to me. Whose side am I meant to be on now?’

Viktor sank back into his chair and motioned for
Henry to do the same. He leant forward, placed his enormous hands on Henry’s
knees, gripping them quite tightly.

‘What you must understand
synok
is that they’re
not our friends. There is no question of that.’

‘But our allies? That’s bad enough… Perhaps even
worse!’

‘Hardly even that. It’s a non-aggression pact Henry;
that’s all – a matter of expediency. I shouldn’t quote Trotsky of course, but a
couple of years ago he said “the
end may justify the
means as long as there is something that justifies the end.” That end is the
victory over fascism and the triumph of communism.
The pact
is to buy us time to achieve that. Our feelings about them haven’t changed, but
we need to be ready and this pact allows us to do that. It’s not meant to make
us feel comfortable; it’s meant to protect us.’

‘Well, I do feel uncomfortable Viktor.’

‘And do you think you’re the only one?’ He gripped
Henry’s knee so hard he winced in pain. His raised voice meant one of the men
who had been sent out of the room popped his head round the door to check all
was in order. Viktor stood up and leant over Henry, his hot breath was moist
and smelt of alcohol.

‘We are not permitted the luxury of personal
feelings or opinions: they are mere indulgences. Do you understand that?’

Henry edged back in his chair.

‘We do as we are instructed, all of us.
Maybe we
permit you too many bourgeois indulgences,
synok.
Have you
forgotten?
Never question; never discuss; never hesitate.
You would
do well to remember that more often than you evidently do. Otherwise,
synok
,
you’ll be in a lot of trouble.’

***

Henry’s
journey from Essen to Stuttgart had been uneventful and when he arrived at the
Hotel Victoria late on the Thursday afternoon Katharina Hoch had not yet come
on duty. She came up to his room later that night to collect her brother’s
clothes and papers. She insisted he was not to tell her any details of the
Essen trip.
I don’t need to know anything else. Save that for Bern. They’ll want
to know everything.
He couldn’t decide whether she had any inkling of what
had gone on in Essen, but if she did she gave no hint of it.

He had removed the Nazi Party membership badge he
had taken from the dead man in the perfume shop from his lapel before arriving
at the hotel.
You never know,
he thought. He hid it in the lining of his
washbag.

She was right – Bern would want to know everything,
though he could not understand why it was taking quite so long. Before the
mission, Remington-Barber had told him he was not to initiate any contact when
he got back to Switzerland. ‘Just wait, I’ll be in touch. Be patient. Apparently
it’s a virtue.’

Henry had taken the Swissair flight from Stuttgart,
which landed in Zürich just before 4.30 on the Friday afternoon, and had
managed to catch a train straight back to Geneva. He was utterly exhausted. He
had hardly slept for the past week: his plan now was to catch up on sleep that
weekend. He assumed Remington-Barber would be in touch on the Monday, if not
before.

But nothing: nothing on the Monday nor the following
day. Nor the rest of that week nor, indeed, the following one. His visit to
Viktor in the hills above Lausanne came and went, and it was the middle of
August when he returned from his morning walk to be told by his mother that a
messenger had come round from Credit Suisse. There was a letter.

‘Whatever can be the problem, Henry?’

It was from Madame Ladnier. Henry tried to read it
away from the prying eyes of his mother, who was trying to move behind him.

‘
I would like to meet with you today to review
recent transactions. Two o’clock this afternoon, Quai
des Bergues. Giselle
Ladnier
(Madame).’

At last.
He felt relieved. His mother was
looking at him anxiously, her eyebrows raised high.

‘What’s the problem Henry?’

‘There’s no problem mother, none at all. I have a
meeting to review my account. It’s just routine.’

 Madame
Ladnier was calm and businesslike. Henry had arrived at the branch in Quai
des Bergues at five to two and as the clock struck the
hour above the cashiers’ counters Madame Ladnier emerged from a door and
ushered Henry into a small office down a long corridor.

‘How are you, Herr Hesse?’

‘Very well, thank you.’
Do
I ask about the delay, why I’ve not been contacted? Do I mention anything about
Germany?

‘Good. Your account is in
order. Please now take a few minutes to check your statements and initial each
page to indicate you’ve read them.’

He scanned through the
statements, initialling each page. There was no message for him on any of the
pages as he thought there may be. He kept glancing up at Madame Ladnier, hoping
for a smile or a nod or some acknowledgement of the situation, but she remained
as impassive as one would expect of a Swiss bank official.

When he had finished, he
returned the papers to her. She checked them and placed them neatly in a folder
marked with his name.

‘Thank you very much for
coming in, Herr Hesse. I’m pleased your account is all in order. I’d also ask
you to take this pamphlet with you: it explains the various options should you
wish to invest any of your funds with Credit Suisse.’

She had stood up now,
preparing to leave the room. As Henry rose, she came around to his side of the
desk and bent to pick up a piece of paper from the floor.

‘You appear to have dropped
this paper, Herr Hesse.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Henry
replied.

She handed him the small
piece of paper, her gaze making it clear it was for him. It was a receipt from
the cobblers in Bern where he had met Remington-Barber before the trip to
Germany. Scrawled underneath the price of a shoe repair were the words:
‘Collection Friday 16
^th
August, 1pm.’