The Swiss Spy (33 page)

The undercroft was deserted and she sat quietly on a
narrow wooden bench set back in the shadows. After a few minutes she heard
gentle footsteps echoing towards her. Without acknowledging her but looking all
around him Father Josef walked to the furthest chapel and beckoned her to
follow.

‘Are we safe here?’ she asked him when they were
alone.

‘For a few minutes, with any luck. I rarely see
people down here after evening Mass. What’s the problem?’

‘I have something urgent for Hugo.’

‘Very well: I’ll send a message for him to come to
confession tomorrow: then you can meet him on Friday.’

‘No Father! I can’t wait that long, it may be too
dangerous. I’m returning to Portugal on Monday and I fear for my safety. After
today, I can’t do anything else.’

‘So what do you want me to do?’ Father Josef looked
terrified.
A messenger, I’ll be no more than a messenger.
That’s what he
had said in the beginning.

Dona Maria removed the envelope from her handbag and
pushed it into the priest’s hands.

‘Here, please give this to Hugo, Father.’

 ‘No, I can’t do that.’

‘You have to Father.’ At that moment, they both
heard the sound of heavy footsteps walking towards them. The priest started to
say something then slipped the envelope into the folds of his cassock and sunk
to his knees in prayer. By the time he had finished, Dona Maria had slipped
away.

***

Henry
Hunter arrived in Zürich on the Saturday afternoon and all through the weekend
was briefed by Edgar and Remington-Barber on what was expected of him in
Berlin. If all went well, he was assured, he would be in the city for little
more than 24 hours.

Henry tried hard not to show he was pleased he was
to be returning to Berlin. He felt more relaxed than he had for more than ten
years: he was going on his own mission, as well as theirs.

He left Zürich airport on the first leg of the
journey early on the Monday morning and by the time he landed in Stuttgart it
was a clear day. It was a year and a month since he had last been at the
airport and this time the plane taxied to an even more remote section, well
away from any buildings and the few Luftwaffe planes he could make out in the
distance.
When all the passengers had disembarked, they were counted on
the tarmac then divided into two groups. Those remaining in Stuttgart were to
board a bus that would take them to the terminal building; those flying on to
Berlin were to transfer to the waiting Junkers Ju-52 plane.

The flight for Berlin took off half an hour after
they had landed in Stuttgart and two hours and 20 minutes later they had landed
at Tempelhof: getting through security took almost as long. For the first hour
after he landed he was kept in a small room with the three other non-German passengers.
One by one, they were taken into a room to be questioned and he was the third
to go in. He was in there for just under an hour, during which time he was
searched, as was his case, then he was thoroughly questioned.
How many times
have you been to Berlin?; what do you do when you’re here?; where do you eat?;
do you meet anyone not connected with your work?; why have you flown into
Berlin on this occasion?; what views do you have on the policies of our
government?; have you met any Jews while in Germany?; or communists?; please
tell me again, how many times have you been to Berlin?; what do you do when you’re
here…?

Then another wait, this time on his own at the end
of an overlit corridor, followed by a few more questions and finally he was
able to leave the airport. On Edgar’s advice, he walked over to Flughafen
station, from where he took the U-Bahn north for three stops as far as Koch
Strasse. From there it was a short walk across Wilhelm Strasse to the Excelsior
on Askanischer Platz, where a room had been reserved for him. It was an
enormous hotel, with well over 500 rooms and, as far as Henry could tell, eight
or nine restaurants. Both Edgar and Remington-Barber felt the anonymity of the
hotel would be more suitable for this visit.

It was 2.30 by the time he checked into his narrow
room on the third floor, overlooking Saarland Strasse. The room was overheated,
but when he opened the window the noise of the city flooded in and he found
himself unable to think properly.

‘Stay there until the next morning,’ Edgar had told
him, which was all very well but that left no time for anything. Tuesday was
going to be very tight as it was: meeting Hugo at nine o’clock to collect the
document then to the Reichsbank to exchange papers with Gunter Reinhart. After
that, he was supposed to go to Tempelhof in good time to catch the 12.30 flight
to Stuttgart.

Maybe.

He managed to stay in the hotel room for 20 minutes,
pacing up and down, still not fully decided on his course of action. There were
too many flaws to his plan; it depended too much on chance and it meant
ignoring everything he had been trained to do over the past ten years. He was
truly caught between a rock and a hard place.

His mind still unresolved, he left the hotel through
a side entrance and from Stadt Mitte caught the U-Bahn north as far as Leopold
Platz. He was in Wedding and he was about to use the favour he had asked of
Viktor. Depending on how that went would help make up his mind.

Carefully following Viktor’s instructions he turned
into Wannitz Strasse and spotted the small parade of shops with the hardware
shop in the middle. He walked past it from the opposite side of the road and,
when he noticed a woman leaving, crossed the road and entered.

The shop was empty: behind the counter was a well-built
woman, in her late thirties or possibly older. She had an untidy nest of hair
that was turning grey and a face noticeable mainly for the thick mascara around
her bright-green eyes and the dark lipstick, which was closer to black than
red. On the wall behind her
was a small framed photograph of Hitler, next
to a shelf-full of white candles.
They smiled at each other and he
spent a minute or two showing undue interest in a copper saucepan. He checked
the inside pocket of his jacket: Viktor’s note was there, in an envelope from
the hotel.
You don’t need to worry about the message by the way, there’ll
be nothing incriminating in it: it will look like a shopping list.

‘Can I help you?’ The woman had come out from behind
the counter and was alongside him. She pointed to the copper saucepan he was
holding. ‘This is best quality: a company in Magdeburg manufactures them.’

‘I’ve come from Dresden,’ said Henry, aware his
voice sounded uncertain. He was trying to speak quietly. ‘I’ve something for
Frau
Schreiner
in apartment
12: please could I leave it here?’

The woman glanced anxiously towards the door then
edged slowly back towards the counter. ‘Of course: my sister is from Dresden.’

Kato.

The woman casually walked back behind the counter,
smiling at Henry, who smiled back at her. There was silence as she looked at him,
waiting for him to speak.

‘You have something for me, maybe?’

 ‘I’m sorry, yes, I forgot.’ He handed the envelope
to her.

She removed the note from the envelope and
momentarily gasped as she began to read it. The hand holding the note was
shaking, while her other steadied herself on the counter. He heard her quietly
say, ‘Viktor’. When she had finished reading, she indicated for him to wait and
went to a room behind the counter. There was a brief smell of burning. She back
came out with two lit cigarettes, and handed one to Henry.

‘No thank you. I don’t smoke.’

‘Smoke it please: in case anyone comes in. It’s
better to disguise the smell. So, you are a comrade?’

Henry nodded.
A comrade.

‘I never thought I’d hear from Viktor again, never. I
know I’m not supposed to ask any questions, but just tell me this – is he well?’
Her eyes were moist and the hand holding the cigarette was shaking, so much so
she used her other hand to steady it.

She loved him. She still does.

‘Yes.’

She looked at him quizzically, hoping he would say
more, but he just smiled and nodded his head.

‘He says you’re to be trusted and I’m to help you,’
said Kato. ‘I’ve heard nothing from anyone for over a year. There were five of
us, all loyal to Viktor. He told us not to trust anyone at the embassy. Two
comrades managed to escape to Sweden, another was arrested and died at
Sachsenhausen and one disappeared: she’s a Jew and I suspect she’s gone
underground. I’m fortunate none of our cell went over to the Nazis: that
happened with a number of comrades. What do you need – somewhere to stay, some
money?’

‘Is it safe to talk here?’

‘Of course! Do you think I’d be doing it if it
wasn’t? There’s no-one in the back and I can see whoever comes in. Take the
saucepan from the stand, and one or two others – we can make it look as if you can’t
decide which one to buy: men never can anyway. Tell me what you need.’ Her
hands still shook as she inhaled deeply on the cigarette, and her green eyes
danced with a mixture of fear and excitement.

When he had finished telling Kato what he needed, he
expected her to say it was impossible, but she acted no more surprised than if
he had ordered a new dining set.

‘You want this for tomorrow morning you say?’

‘Yes please.’

‘What time?’

 ‘Around 11 o’clock, possibly a bit later, but
certainly by noon. From here?’

‘No, most certainly not. When you leave here, we’ll
never see each other again. You should avoid Wedding anyway, the Gestapo have
too many people around here. What you want will be ready from 11 o’clock. Will
you be around the centre of Berlin?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know
Ku’damm?’

He shook his head.

‘It is actually called Kurfürstendamm, but everyone
knows it as Ku’damm. It’s a very well-known street in the south of
Charlottenburg: before the war it was very fashionable. Now, nowhere is
fashionable. Go to Uhland Strasse U-Bahn and come out on the Kurfürstendamm
exit, then cross the road and head west for two or three blocks – not far. On
the corner of Kurfürstendamm and
Bleibtreustrasse, you’ll see a
kiosk set back in the wall; it sells newspapers, cigarettes, that kind of
thing. Don’t be put off by the swastikas and the pictures of Hitler. Tell the
old lady in the kiosk you’ve come to collect Magda’s cigarettes: she’ll hand
you a pack of Juno. What you need will be inside the packet, but put it
straight in your pocket, buy a newspaper and leave. Carry on up
Bleibtreustrasse and take the second left, Niebuhr Strasse. Open the packet
when you get into Niebuhr Strasse, there’ll be a note there telling you where
to go. Now, I need to check you’ve remembered all that.’

***

At
six o’clock on the morning of Tuesday 25
^th
March, Henry finally gave
up trying to force himself back to sleep, as he had been attempting to do for
most of the night. They had all come to visit him during his brief spells of
sleep: Roza, of course, but also her brother and the man in the perfume shop in
Essen. Even Foxi the dog. They’d all been shouting at him. Rosa had appeared
and for a brief moment she sat on the end of the bed alongside Roza.

Henry had a bath then sat on the floor, with maps
spread out before him. He had been absorbed in these since returning to the
Excelsior late the previous afternoon. He could see the routes; there was no doubt
about that. He wandered over to the window. Down on Saarland Strasse a group of
Waffen SS were happily chatting away and slapping each other on the back. Not
for the first time since he arrived in Berlin, he felt real fear. His chest
tightened and the maps shook as his hands trembled.

 I don’t have to do this. I’m not committed to
anything. If I abandon my plans now, no-one will know.

Back to the maps: during his training by the British
he had been told he was a natural map reader: he could study a map and its
contents would come to life; he was immediately able to picture the area as if he
were observing it from above and could envisage different routes and all the
options available to him.

First of all there was the map of Berlin, then that
of Germany. It appeared straightforward; he knew where he had to be and how to
get there, but he could not foresee the hazards and he knew there would be
plenty of those.

He checked out of the Excelsior at 8.30 that
morning, assuring one of the over-attentive managers on duty he had indeed
enjoyed his stay, everything had indeed been to his satisfaction and he would
most certainly consider staying at the Excelsior when he returned to Berlin.

There was a light drizzle as he walked to the
Opernplatz, where the expanse of St Hedwig’s Cathedral rose before him. He
reminded himself of Edgar’s instructions.

Don’t enter the cathedral before five to nine.

He paused at the entrance to Opernplatz. It was 8.50
and, realising it was too early, he found a stone bench to sit on, despite the
rain. He waited, steeling himself to go in. He had a passionate dislike of
churches, buoyed by a fear he had first encountered in his childhood, that
churches were the one place where secrets weren’t safe; even the statues and
gargoyles seemed to know all about him.

Five to nine.

Enter the cathedral through the main entrance.

A few people were coming down the steps after the
eight o’clock Mass.

And don’t forget to cross yourself.

Find a seat about halfway along, between the
entrance and main altar.

The cathedral was enormous and there must have been
no more than two dozen people dotted around it, sitting alone or in pairs, all
in silent prayer.

If he’s seen all is clear, Hugo will appear on the
same row as you and sit two or three seats away. Don’t expect to see him before
9.10. But if he hasn’t appeared by 9.20, leave the church and walk back to
Unter den Linden. Don’t look around for him.

Ten past nine. The cathedral was much emptier now as
the last Mass worshippers had left and made their way to work. He tried hard to
close his eyes and hope some spiritual feeling would come to him, something to reassure
him and tell him everything would turn out right. Nothing, but at least the
ghost of Roza did not appear. He became aware of a scrape of chairs alongside
him as someone moved down his row.