Authors: Michael Ridpath
Despite the slightly hurried departure, there was an air of gaiety in the saloon carriage and bottles of champagne were broken out. Fräulein Peters was given a glass by a handsome SS officer she hadn’t seen before, who proceeded to strike up a conversation. The Führer was in a good mood and Goebbels was making him laugh. The relief and the champagne made Fräulein Peters feel giddy, and she was enjoying the attentions of the SS officer.
The train pulled into Nuremberg and Goebbels climbed out to see whether there were any messages. Fräulein Peters saw him return a few minutes later with a grave expression. The carriage quietened to hear what he had to say. Fräulein Peters wondered if it was some military disaster: a battleship sunk, perhaps, or a surprise Allied offensive.
She was totally unprepared for what Goebbels did say. ‘My Führer, I have just heard that at nine-twenty this evening an enormous bomb went off in the beer hall. At least a dozen comrades were killed.’
The Führer didn’t seem to take this in. Fräulein Peters refused to believe it until he believed it. All eyes were on him, waiting for a lead.
‘It’s true, my Führer,’ said Goebbels. ‘If you had not left early you would be dead.’
There was silence in the carriage. Then Hitler nodded to himself. ‘Now I know,’ he said in a low voice full of grim satisfaction. ‘The fact that I left so soon shows that Providence
is
looking after me. Providence will ensure I fulfil my destiny.’
Fräulein Peters felt her whole body tingle. She knew that the Führer was right. She knew, right then, that she had just witnessed an important step in the destiny of the Führer, the destiny of the German people.
Her
destiny. She could feel her face flush with the emotion.
‘So, Joseph,’ he said, anger rising in his voice. ‘Who is it who tried to assassinate me?’
Düsseldorf
Somehow, in the depths of a heavy slumber, Schellenberg heard the insistent ringing of the telephone. His body was thick with sleep; he had taken a pill to make sure he was rested for the morning. He checked his watch – 3.30 a.m. He climbed out of bed in his pyjamas and picked up the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘What’s that?’
Schellenberg didn’t recognize the voice, but it sounded shaken. ‘I haven’t said anything,’ he said. ‘Who is speaking?’
The reply was clear and direct now, all nervousness gone. ‘This is Reichsführer Himmler. Finally you answer. Is that you, Schellenberg?’
‘Yes, Herr Reichsführer.’
‘Have you heard the news?’
‘No, Herr Reichsführer.’
‘There was an explosion at the beer hall in Munich. Miraculously the Führer had just left the room, but several Party comrades were murdered. There is no doubt that this is the work of the British secret service. The Führer is convinced of this. He orders you to arrest the two British agents you are meeting tomorrow in Holland and bring them back over the German border. Use the SS detachment that arrived to protect you today. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Herr Reichsführer, but—’
‘No buts. This is an order from the Führer. Do you understand now?’
Schellenberg realized there was no point arguing.
‘Yes, Herr Reichsführer!’
Schellenberg put the phone down. It was going to be a long and dangerous day.
The Hague, 9 November
Conrad was waiting in the small lobby of his hotel in his freshly crumpled suit. He was nervous. There were a number of things that bothered him: the fact Theo didn’t know this Major Schämmel, the leaks in the British operation in The Hague and how to get the message about the planned German offensive to Van. He hadn’t agreed a means of communicating with Van directly, and the date of the offensive was less than a week away. He had just lost a day; he couldn’t afford to lose another. After he had met Schämmel he would insist on returning to London to report to Van directly.
He had spent most of the last twenty-four hours kicking his heels in the hotel, lying low as Payne Best had suggested.
‘Mr de Lancey, I have a telephone message for you, from a Professor Hogendoorn,’ said the woman behind the reception desk in German, handing him a note. It too was in that language, with some spelling errors; not surprisingly, the hotel receptionist’s German was not perfect.
Please meet me on Sunday if you can. Prof. Madvig with me. Ask for me at the university.
That must be Theo, perhaps with some information on Schämmel. By ‘Sunday’, Theo meant that day, Thursday; he would be using the ‘subtract three’ code. But there was no chance of Conrad getting to Leiden that day. ‘Did Professor Hogendoorn leave a telephone number?’
‘I am afraid not, Mr de Lancey.’
Just then Payne Best’s long low car drew up outside the hotel. Conrad had no time to find a Leiden telephone directory and leave a message with the professor that Conrad would be unable to see Theo that morning. It was a shame: it would have been extremely useful to hear what Theo had to say about Schämmel before Conrad met him for the first time.
Conrad folded the note, stuffed it in his pocket, and went outside to greet Payne Best.
‘Not cancelled again?’ he said.
‘No. We’re on. Hop in.’
They drove through the centre of The Hague. The city was full of peacetime bustle: trams, cars and swarms of bicycles fighting for road space, with policemen expertly directing things. The frantic traffic contrasted with the sedate, quietly opulent mansions that lined the city’s streets. They passed the old Binnenhof, a complex of brown turrets and courtyards that housed the Dutch Parliament, and headed north through narrow streets to a peaceful little canal lined with bare trees and elegant townhouses.
Payne Best pulled up outside one of these, bearing a brass plate on which Conrad read the words
Handelsdienst voor het Continent
. They entered the building, which seemed to be a discreet office. Payne Best nodded to the man at reception, said something in Dutch to him, and led Conrad up a flight of stairs. ‘This is my business in Holland,’ Payne Best said. ‘Continental Trading Services. Pharmaceuticals mostly these days.’
He greeted a secretary sitting at a desk outside an open door. Payne Best’s office was large and comfortable with a good view down on to the canal and its little bridge outside. Bookcases and traditional Dutch landscapes lined the wall, together with a striking portrait of Payne Best himself.
A mild man with a trim, greying moustache was sitting in a leather chair by Payne Best’s desk, reading
The Times
. He put down the newspaper and rose to his feet.
‘De Lancey? I’m Major Stevens, the Passport Control Officer here in The Hague.’
Conrad shook Stevens’s proffered hand. So this was the head of the British secret service in Holland Theo had warned him about.
‘Major Stevens will be joining us,’ said Payne Best. ‘Isn’t Klop here yet?’
‘No sign of him,’ Stevens said. ‘In the meantime, I’ve got something for you, Best.’ Stevens produce two Browning automatic pistols from a briefcase at his feet, and gave one to Payne Best, keeping the other for himself. ‘Sorry, de Lancey, I don’t have one for you.’
‘We won’t need them, will we?’ Conrad said.
‘We shouldn’t,’ said Payne Best. ‘But we are going to be very close to the frontier, so it makes sense to be careful. Mind you, during the last show I used to meet people in a café in Limburg that was half in Holland and half in Germany. Can’t get closer than that.’
Payne Best’s secretary stuck her head around the door and said something to her boss. A moment later a tall, dashing Dutchman of about thirty appeared: Lieutenant Klop. Payne Best introduced him to Conrad in English. Klop’s accent was indeed very good; he could easily pass for a British Army captain to a non-native speaker.
The four men climbed into the Zephyr and set off for Venlo, a small town 180 kilometres away on the German border. Payne Best was driving, and he drove fast. But there was a whole series of checkpoint and tank barriers to pass through. Given what Theo had told him, Conrad was pleased to see that the Dutch were expecting visitors. Klop sat in the front with Payne Best, and Conrad in the back with Major Stevens.
‘I have a question for you, de Lancey,’ Stevens said.
‘Yes?’ said Conrad. There was something about Major Stevens’s tone that made him wary.
‘Where did you go after Best dropped you off on Tuesday?’
‘Leiden,’ said Conrad.
‘And why did you go there?’ Stevens asked.
‘To see an old friend.’
‘An old friend?’
‘Yes,’ said Conrad, keeping his voice as natural as possible.
‘And who was this old friend?’
‘Someone I went to university with. I’d rather not say his name.’
‘That’s tosh,’ said Stevens, staring hard at Conrad. ‘His name is Lieutenant von Hertenberg of the German secret service.’
So that explained the man with the long nose Conrad had spotted in the Diefsteeg. On balance Conrad was happier that it was the British and not the Germans who had been following them. But there was no point now in trying to claim that Theo was a Luftwaffe officer.
‘It’s not tosh, actually. Hertenberg and I were good friends at Oxford.’
‘You were seeing an enemy agent, de Lancey.’
‘I’d rather not say any more.’
‘In that case I’ll get Best to stop the car at the next railway station and you can take the train back to The Hague.’
Conrad realized Stevens wasn’t bluffing. He would have to give him something. ‘All right. I saw Hertenberg when I was in Berlin last year.’
‘Is he an agent of ours?’ Stevens asked. ‘A double agent?’
‘No, he’s not,’ said Conrad. ‘I can’t tell you the details of our discussions. It was related to Schämmel.’
‘Look here, de Lancey. If we are going to work together, we are going to have to trust each other.’
Stevens had a point, but then so did Theo. ‘Do you know the other British Passport Control Officers in Europe?’ Conrad asked.
‘Yes,’ said Stevens. ‘I visited a number of them last year before I took up this post.’
‘So you know Captain Foley who used to be in Berlin?’
‘I do.’
‘Ask him,’ said Conrad. ‘He can confirm my relationship with Lieutenant von Hertenberg.’
Stevens stared at Conrad. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘That will do for now. But I will get in touch with Foley as soon as we are back in The Hague.’
‘Thank you,’ said Conrad.
They drove on in silence for a minute or so.
‘Do you know Charles Bedaux?’ Stevens asked.
Conrad shook his head. ‘No, I’ve never heard of him. Who is he?’
‘He’s an American businessman based in France with operations in Amsterdam. A distinctly shady customer. Hertenberg has met him at least twice since the war began – we don’t know why.’
‘I have no idea why either,’ Conrad said. ‘But if Hertenberg has been meeting him, it is probably as part of his work for the Abwehr. He is a loyal German.’
‘Yet you are talking to him?’
Conrad nodded.
‘Well, if you happen to bump into your German friend again, could you ask him about Mr Bedaux? And tell me what he says? There’s a good fellow.’
‘I can ask him,’ said Conrad. Although that would mean explaining that Stevens had spotted Conrad with Theo, which would not please Theo at all. Things were getting complicated.
Payne Best made such good time that they stopped for a quick lunch at a roadside café-restaurant near ‘s-Hertogenbosch. The atmosphere warmed over food, and the four men were in better spirits as they took to the road again. Stevens sat in the front with Payne Best, and they discussed what to do if the Germans invaded Holland imminently, an eventuality that Payne Best suggested was prudent to anticipate. Stevens jotted down a list of names of people to be evacuated to England. Conrad was a little surprised at their willingness to discuss the people working for them in Holland in front of himself and Klop. But he was also interested to note that Payne Best’s fears tallied so closely with Theo’s warning of an imminent offensive.
Conrad
had
to get that information to Van quickly. If he couldn’t get back to England himself very soon, perhaps he could ask Payne Best for an unofficial way of communicating with London without using the embassy or the Passport Control Office. Payne Best gave the impression of operating with some degree of independence from Major Stevens and the Passport Control Office. Conrad was reluctant to trust him... but he might not have any choice.
The clouds were thickening and it looked as if it would soon start to rain. They passed a road sign: nine kilometres to Venlo.
Berlin
Charles Bedaux stood outside the Adlon Hotel and breathed in the crisp clear
Berliner Luft
. Across the Pariser Platz, the weathered bronze chariot atop the Brandenburg Gate gleamed green in the low November sun. Bedaux liked Berlin. It was the most modern city in Europe, with its powerful motor cars, its sleek buildings, its swish department stores, its broad, clean streets and above all its air of bustle, energy and efficiency.
Bedaux was the world expert on efficiency. He had made millions of dollars from the Bedaux System, which revolutionized the productivity of factory workers. He had hundreds of clients all over the world: Ford, General Motors, Standard Oil, ITT and DuPont in the United States; Anglo-Iranian Oil and Imperial Chemical Industries in Britain; Fiat in Italy and Philips and Unilever in Holland. In France his company had been appointed as consultants to the Ministry of Armaments, where he had doubled productivity, ironically by recommending more rest for the munitions workers. Germany, which in many ways was the ideal market for his ideas given the ability of its populace to take orders and its respect for efficiency, had been a difficult nut to crack. Robert Ley, the Nazi head of the Labour Front, viewed Bedaux as competition and had succeeded in keeping his system out of the country.
Bedaux was a consummate businessman. To him upheaval signalled opportunity and there was no greater upheaval than a world war. As an American citizen – he had been born in France, but moved to the United States in 1906 at the age of twenty – he was not wedded to the victory of one side or the other. But he was impressed with Germany’s economic power, and determined to ensure that if Germany did come out on top, Bedaux International would be well positioned to benefit. So he needed to find a way to bypass Ley and win the Germans round.