The Swiss Spy (43 page)

Author’s
note

The
Swiss Spy is
a work of fiction and, with a few obvious exceptions,
all the characters in the book are fictional. Having said that, the book is
based on actual historical events and in that respect I have endeavoured to be
as authentic and accurate as possible.

There was indeed a high-level meeting of senior
German military figures in the Bavarian town of Bad Reichenhall in July 1940,
where plans to invade the Soviet Union were first discussed, notwithstanding
the fact the two countries were supposedly bound by a Non-Aggression Pact at
the time. Hitler’s Directive no 21 referred to in the book is genuine: it was
released on 18
^th
December that year and outlined plans for Operation
Barbarossa, the invasion of the Soviet Union. The Rostock Report featured in
the book is a work of fiction.

Operation Barbarossa began on 22
^nd
June
1941 and Hitler expected to conclude it within just a few months. In the event,
it ended in disaster for Germany. They failed to reach Moscow by the time the
Russian winter took hold, allowing the Red Army to regroup and push the Germans
back. The Germans suffered a crushing defeat in the Battle of Stalingrad in
February 1943 and Operation Bagration in June 1944 was the start of Germany’s
defeat on the eastern front.

There is a good deal of evidence to show the Soviet
Union ignored dozens of credible intelligence reports about the planned German
invasion. Many of these came from their own intelligence services, including a
copy of a handbook to be used by German troops in the Soviet Union, which was
passed on to the Soviet Embassy in Berlin by a German Communist printer. As for
the British intelligence, Stalin was convinced these reports were
disinformation, designed to provoke a war between the Soviet Union and Germany.
He described them as ‘English provocation’. So though the missions at the core
of
The Swiss Spy
are fictional ones, the idea of British intelligence
using other sources to inform the Soviet Union would be quite in keeping with
what was happening at the time.

I have done my best to ensure details such as street
names, the locations of embassies, railway stations, airports and other named
buildings and places are accurate. Many of the hotels referred to in the book
existed and, in some cases, still do. The Adlon in Berlin seems to be the
preferred hotel in most Second World War espionage novels, but in fact both the
Excelsior
and the Kaiserhof, where Henry Hunter stayed, were equally prominent at the
time. Both were destroyed by Allied bombing, as was the Hotel Victoria in
Stuttgart, which had been the main hotel in the city.

Readers may wonder whether it really was possible to
fly on commercial routes in Europe during the Second World War. The answer is
that it was, most commonly if the departure or destination airports were in
neutral countries. Muntadas Airport in Barcelona was a major hub for travel
around Europe, as was Portela Airport in Lisbon and Zürich Airport. During the
war, Whitchurch Airport in Bristol replaced Croydon Airport as Great Britain’s
main commercial terminal: the site is now a housing estate. In June 1943 a BOAC
flight from Lisbon to Bristol was shot down by the Luftwaffe over the Bay of
Biscay. All four crew and 13 passengers were killed, including the famous
British actor Leslie Howard. It was one of very few attacks on civilian flights
in Europe during the war. The names of the airlines, the type of aircraft used
and the flight details in the book are, to the best of my knowledge, accurate.

The Roman Catholic cathedral of St Hedwig was
destroyed in an Allied air raid in March 1943 (it has since been
reconstructed). Although Father Josef is fictional, a priest at St Hedwig, Bernhard
Lichtenberg, was arrested for publicly protesting at Nazi policies towards Jews
and the euthanasia programme. He died while being transported to Dachau in
November 1943.

This is probably not the place to go into detail
about the considerable complicity of the Swiss banks in the Nazi war effort. However,
it is well established there was an active relationship, to say the least,
between the Reichsbank and most of the major Swiss banks, including Bank Leu. Bank
Leu was an independent bank until it became part of Credit Suisse in 1990.

To save fellow football fans the effort I had to go
to, I can assure you the match between Sporting Lisbon and Barreirense that
features in Chapter 15 did actually take place on the 9
^th
February
1941 – and Sporting did indeed win 2-0.

I
would like to thank my agent, Gordon Wise at Curtis Brown and his colleague
Richard Pike for their help, encouragement and sound advice. Gordon rightly has
an outstanding reputation as an agent and I realise how fortunate I am to be
one of his clients. I would also like to thank my publishers, Studio 28, and
especially its editors Rufus Purdy and Alice Lutyens. Rufus first saw
The
Swiss Spy
when I mistakenly thought it was the finished article: the fact
he has contributed so significantly to its current state is testament to his
editorial brilliance.

And, finally, my thanks and love to my daughters Amy
and Nicole and my wife, Sonia. It cannot be easy living with a writer, not
least one who wonders aloud how to kill someone and who, at times, lives
exclusively in a world that existed more than 70 years ago. As a teacher, Sonia
is a very astute and frank reader: draft chapters are returned with plenty of
annotations in red biro, the occasional tick compensating for the more frequent
exclamation marks.

Alex
Gerlis

London,
February 2015

Also
available

The Best of Our Spies

Alex Gerlis’s thrilling debut novel

France,
July 1944: a month after the Allied landings in Normandy and the liberation of
Europe is underway. In the Pas de Calais, Nathalie Mercier, a young British
Special Operations Executive secret agent working with the French Resistance,
disappears. In London, her husband Owen Quinn, an officer with Royal Navy
Intelligence, discovers the truth about her role in the Allies’ sophisticated
deception at the heart of D-Day. Appalled but determined, Quinn sets off on a
perilous hunt through France in search of his wife. With the help of the
Resistance he finds Nathalie, but then the bitterness of war and its insatiable
appetite for revenge, catch up with them in dramatic fashion.

Based
on real events of the Second World War,
The Best of Our Spies
is a
thrilling tale of international intrigue, love, deception and espionage.

Read
an excerpt now:

Chapter
1: Northern France, May 1940

The
first time they saw German troops was around eight hours after they had left
Amiens.

Fear had swept through the 20 of them, mostly
strangers who had silently come together by happening to be on the same road at
the same time and moving in the same direction. ‘
Don’t head north
,’ they
had been warned in Amiens. ‘
You’re walking into a battle
.’

Some of the original group had heeded that advice
and stayed in the town. A dozen of them had carried on. They were refugees now,
so they kept moving. It had quickly become a habit, they couldn’t stop
themselves.

A tall, stooped man called Marcel had assumed the
role of leader and guide. He was a dentist, from Chartres, he told them. The
rest of the group nodded and were happy to follow him.

Marcel decided the main road would be too dangerous,
so they dropped down to follow the path of the Somme, passing through the small
villages that hugged the river as it twisted through Picardy. The villages were
unnaturally silent, apart from the angry barking of dogs that took turns to
escort them through their territory. Anxious villagers peered from behind
partially drawn curtains or half-closed shutters.

Occasionally, a child would venture out to stare at
them, but would quickly be called home by an urgent shout. Some villagers would
come out and offer them water and a little food, but were relieved to see them
move on. Refugees meant war and no-one wanted the war to linger in their
village. In a couple of the places, one or two more refugees joined them.
No-one asked to join, no-one was refused. They just tagged along, swelling
their numbers.

On the outskirts of the village of Ailly-sur-Somme a
middle-aged couple came out from their cottage and offered the group water and
fruit. They sat on the grass verge while the couple appeared to argue quietly
in their doorway. And that’s when they called her out.

‘Madame, please can we have a word with you?’

She was sitting nearest to the house, but wasn’t
sure if they meant her. She looked around in case they were addressing someone
else.

‘Please, could we speak with you?’ the man asked
again.

She walked slowly over to the doorway. Maybe they
had taken pity on her and were going to offer a meal. Or a bed. She smiled at
the couple. Behind them, in the gloom of the hallway, she could make out a pair
of piercing eyes.

‘Madame. You seem a decent lady. Please help us.’
The man sounded desperate. ‘A lady passed through the village last week.’

There was a pause.

‘From Paris,’ his wife added.

‘Yes, she was from Paris. She said she had to find
somewhere in the area to hide and asked us to look after her daughter. She
promised she’d be back for her in a day or two. She said she’d pay us then. She
promised to be generous. But that was a week ago. We can’t look after the girl
any longer. The Germans could arrive any day now. You must take her!’

She looked around. The group was getting up now,
preparing to move on.

‘Why me?’ she asked.

‘Because you look decent and maybe if you’re from a
city you’ll understand her ways. Are you from a city?’

She nodded, which they took as some kind of assent.
The woman ushered the girl from inside the cottage. She looked no more than six
years old, with dark eyes and long curly hair. She was dressed in a well-made
blue coat and her shoes were smart and polished. A pale-brown leather satchel
hung across her shoulders.

‘Her name’s Sylvie,’ the man said. His wife took
Sylvie’s hand and placed it in the woman’s.

‘But what about when her mother returns?’

The wife was already retreating into the dark
interior of the cottage.

‘Are you coming?’ It was Marcel, calling out to her
as he started to lead the group off. His voice sounded almost jolly, as if they
were on a weekend ramble.

The man leaned towards her, speaking directly into
her ear so the little girl could not hear. ‘She won’t be back,’ he said. He
glanced around at the girl and lowered his voice. ‘They’re Jews. You must take
her.’

With that, he quickly followed his wife into the
cottage and slammed the door behind them.

She hesitated on the doorstep, still holding the
little girl’s hand. She could hear the door being bolted. She knocked on it two
or three times, but there was no response.

She thought of trying to go around to the rear of
the cottage, but she was losing sight of her group now. Sylvie was still
holding her hand, glancing up at her anxiously. She knelt down to speak to the
little girl.

‘Are you all right?’ She tried to sound reassuring.
Sylvie nodded.

‘Do you want to come with me?’

The little girl nodded again and muttered ‘Yes.’

This is the last thing I need
.

She thought of leaving her there, on the doorstep.
They’ll have to take her back in. She paused. I need to decide quickly. Maybe
as far as the town, there’ll be somewhere she can go there.

By the time they had walked down the path and
started to follow the group, the shutters in the cottage had closed.

It was as they left the next village that they came
across the Germans. They emerged from behind the trees one by one, with their
grey uniforms, black boots and oddly shaped helmets, not saying a word. Slowly,
they circled the group, which had come to a halt, too frightened to move. The
German soldiers moved into position like pieces on a chessboard. They waved
their machine guns to herd the group into the middle of the road.

She was terrified.
They’re going to shoot us
.
The little girl clutched her hand.

She breathed in and out deeply. Remember the
training they gave you, she told herself:

When you’re in a potentially dangerous situation,
don’t try to be anonymous
.

Never look away, or at the ground. Don’t avoid eye
contact.

If you’re in a group or a crowd, avoid standing in
the middle, which is where they’d expect you to hide.

If you fear you’re about to be found out, resist the
temptation to own up. It’s a fair assumption that the person questioning you or
searching you will miss the obvious
.

She heard shouting from behind the trees and over
the shoulder of the soldier nearest to her she spotted two officers emerging.
One of them was speaking loudly in bad French.

‘We’re going to search you then you can move on. Are
any of you carrying weapons?’

Everyone around her was shaking their head. She
noticed Sylvie shook hers too.

He waited a while in case anyone changed their mind.
‘Are there any Jews in this group?’

There was silence. People glanced suspiciously at
those stood around them. At the word ‘
Jews
’ the little girl’s hand
tightened its grip on hers with a strength she could not have imagined. She
looked down and saw Sylvie had her head bowed and appeared to be sobbing. She
realised the extent of her predicament. If they caught her looking after a
Jewish child, she would have no excuses.

‘My men will come and search you now. I’m sure
you’ll all co-operate.’

Too late.

The soldiers spread the group out along the road and
began searching people. Marcel was close and was searched before her. The
soldier searching him gestured to him to remove his wristwatch. Marcel started
to protest, until one of the officers walked over. He smiled, looked at the
watch that had been passed to him, nodded approvingly and slipped it into his
jacket pocket. Along the line, members of the group were being relieved of
possessions: watches, pieces of jewellery – even a bottle of cognac.

The soldier who came to search her appeared to be in
his teens. His hands shook as he took her identity card. She noticed his lips
moved silently as he tried to read what it said. One of the officers appeared
behind him and took the card.

‘You’ve come a long way.’ He handed it back to her.

She nodded.

‘Is this your sister?’ He was staring intently at
the little girl.

She gave the faintest of nods.

‘She’s your sister, then?’

She hesitated. She hadn’t said anything yet. She
could do now. They wouldn’t harm a child. The little girl now placed her other
hand around her wrist, stroking her forearm as she did so.

‘Yes. She’s my sister.’ She replied in German,
speaking quietly and hoping no-one else in the group heard her. Trying to
appear as relaxed as possible, she smiled sweetly at the officer who was
probably in his mid-twenties, the same age as her. She threw her head back,
allowing her long hair to settle over her shoulders.

If you’re an attractive woman
– at that
point the instructor had been looking directly at her, along with the rest of
them –
don’t hesitate to use your charms on men
.

The officer raised his eyebrows approvingly and
nodded.

‘And where did you learn to speak German?’

‘At school.’

‘A good school then. And does your sister have an
identity card?’

It was too late. She should have realised this would
happen. Does he suspect something?
She doesn’t look anything like me. Her
complexion is so much darker
. She had lost the chance to tell them the
truth.

‘She lost it.’

‘Where?’

‘In Amiens. A Gypsy stole it from her.’

The officer nodded knowingly. He understood. What do
you expect? Gypsies. Don’t we warn people about them? Thieves. Almost as bad as
the Jews. Almost.

He lowered himself down on his haunches so he was at
eye level with the little girl.

‘And what’s your name?’

There was a pause. The little girl peered up at her
for approval. She nodded and smiled.

Tell him.

‘Sylvie.’

‘Sylvie is a nice name. Sylvie what?’

‘Sylvie.’

‘What is your surname – your full name?’

‘Sylvie.’

‘So, your name is ‘Sylvie Sylvie?’ The officer was
beginning to sound exasperated. Sylvie was whimpering.

‘I’m sorry, sir. She’s frightened. It’s the guns.
She’s never seen any before.’

‘Well, she’d better get used to them, hadn’t she?’
The officer was standing up now. Not satisfied.

From the east there was a series of explosions
followed by an exchange of rifle fire.

The officer hesitated. He wanted to continue with
the interrogation, but the other officer was shouting out urgent instructions
to the soldiers.

‘All right, move on,’ he said to her.

It was only when the soldiers disappeared back into
the woods and the group moved on that she realised how petrified she was. Her
heart was ramming against her ribs and cold sweat was running down her back.
The little girl walked on obediently beside her, but she could feel and see her
body trembling.

As the group walked slowly along the road, she
realised she was stroking Sylvie’s hair, her trembling hand cupping the child’s
cheeks, wiping away the tears with her thumb.

Not for the first time and certainly not for the
last, she had surprised herself.

***

They
had walked for another hour. Marcel dropped back at one stage and sidled up to
her.

‘And where did she come from?’ He gestured at
Sylvie, who was still clutching her hand.

‘The couple who gave us water and fruit outside
their cottage. The last village but one. They made me take her.’

‘You realise…?’

‘Of course I do!’

‘Aren’t you taking a bit of a risk?’

‘Aren’t we all?’

Marcel had spotted a forest ahead of them and said
that the deeper they got into it, the safer they’d be. But, as she was
beginning to realise was the case in the countryside, distances were hard to
judge and the forest was not quite as near as it seemed. By the time they found
a clearing, everyone was exhausted.

That night she found herself with Sylvie on the edge
of the group, resting next to an old man and his wife. As the rest of the group
slept the old man gave her his blanket, assuring her he wasn’t cold. Sylvie was
curled up alongside her under the blanket, fast asleep.

The old man had also given her the last of his
water. He wasn’t thirsty, he assured her. The moonlight poked through the
canopy of the forest, the tops of some of the trees swaying very gently despite
the absence of any breeze. The old man moved closer to her and spoke quietly:
he and his wife had lost both their sons at Verdun and had prayed they would
never see another war. He had tried to lead a decent life. He went to church,
he paid his taxes, he had never voted for the communists. He worked on the
railways, but was now retired. They could not stand the thought of being in
Paris when it was occupied, so now they were heading to the town where his
wife’s sister lived, he explained. It was bound to be peaceful there.