Ring of Spies
Cover
Title Page
Characters
Prologue Cambridge, October 1933
Chapter 1 Nijmegen, Arnhem, the Netherlands, September 1944
Chapter 2 Berlin, August–October 1939
Chapter 3 London, January 1945
Chapter 4 England, March 1944
Chapter 5 England and Belgium, July 1944
Chapter 6 Berlin, August 1944
Chapter 7 Berlin and London, September 1944
Chapter 8 London, September 1944
Chapter 9 Berlin and London, August–September 1944
Chapter 10 London, November 1944
Chapter 11 London, January 1945
Chapter 12 London, January 1945
Chapter 13 St Vith, Belgium, January 1945
Chapter 14 Ravensbrück concentration camp, north of Berlin, January 1945
Chapter 15 London, January 1945
Chapter 16 London and Buckinghamshire, January 1945
Chapter 17 London, January 1945
Chapter 18 London, January 1945
Chapter 19 Berlin, February 1945
Chapter 20 London, February 1945
Chapter 21 Germany, March 1945
Chapter 22 Germany and London, February–March 1945
Chapter 23 London, April 1945
Chapter 24 Ravensbrück, April 1945
Chapter 25 London, April 1945
Chapter 26 Minsk, Nazi-occupied Soviet Union, August 1941
Chapter 27 Berlin, April–May 1945
Chapter 28 Germany, May 1945
Chapter 29 England, May 1945
Chapter 30 England, May 1945
Chapter 31 England, May 1945
Chapter 32 Ravensbrück and northern Germany, June 1945
Chapter 33 Germany and England, June–August 1945
Aftermath
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by Alex Gerlis
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Characters
Richard Prince British intelligence agent, detective superintendent
Tom Gilbey Senior MI6 officer, London
Hon. Hugh Harper Senior MI5 officer, London
Sir Roland Pearson Downing Street intelligence adviser
Lance King MI5 officer, London
Hanne Jakobsen Danish prisoner (and British agent), Ravensbrück
Second Lieutenant Andrew Reeves South Staffordshire Regiment
Franz Rauter RSHA officer, Berlin
The Colonel Deputy director at Latchmere House
White MI5 interrogator at Latchmere House
Bartholomew MI5 Disciple
Major Olszewski Polish intelligence officer
Hood MI5 officer at Huntercombe
Flying Officer Ted Palmer RAF pilot
Helmut Krüger Abwehr officer
Otto Prager Abwehr officer
Jim Maslin Agent Donne (John Morton)
Agent Milton Nazi agent in the UK
Brigadier Oakley Directorate of Military Intelligence
Jan Dabrowski Agent Dryden – Nazi agent in the UK
Agent Shelley Nazi agent in the UK
Agent Keats Nazi agent in the UK
Agent Byron Nazi agent in the UK
SS-Brigadeführe Walter Schellenberg Head of the RSHA
Hauptsturmführer Klaus Böhme Aide to Schellenberg
Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel Head of the OKW
General Alfred Jodl Chief of Staff of the OKW
General Heinz Guderian Chief of Staff of the OKH
Spencer Steward at Hugh Harper’s club
Joseph Jenkins Office of Strategic Services liaison officer
Major Mark B. Fine US Army 7th Armored Division
Audrey Former MI5 officer
Arthur Chapman-Collins Former Treasury civil servant, British Nazi
Lenny Fenton British fascist in Bermondsey
Sid McConnell British fascist in Bermondsey
Vince Curtis British fascist in Brixton Prison
Len Warder at Brixton Prison
Lieutenant General Cunnington British Army General Staff
Lieutenant Nate Markham US 9th Armored Division
Paulette Dubois French resistance fighter
Tom Bennet MI9 officer
Podpolkovnik Iosif Leonid Gurevich NKGB officer
Sturmbannführer Alfred Strasser SS officer
Boris Novikov NKVD officer at Ravensbrück
Hauptsturmführer Reeder SS officer at Ravensbrück
Heinrich Mohr Gestapo officer, Rostock
Myrtle Friend of Arthur Chapman-Collins
Mr Ridgeway Man at art gallery
Prologue
Cambridge, October 1933
‘Well I never, fancy bumping into you!’
He’d been struggling to attach his bicycle to the railings in the howling wind and near-horizontal rain, weather more like the deck of a ship in a storm than a cobbled street in Cambridge in early autumn. When he turned round to see who’d spoken, the man was standing just beyond the immediate glare of a street lamp, not quite in the shadows but close enough to them to be unrecognisable.
‘I’m sorry, were you talking to me?’
When the man stepped forward, the yellow light revealed him to be fair-skinned, perhaps in his forties, the fashionably wide brim of his trilby tilted downwards and the collar of his coat turned up. For the life of him he couldn’t place the man.
‘We met at the Fitzwilliam drinks in the summer; you may recall some dreadful classics bore introduced us. I do hope he’s not a chum of yours.’
He’d managed to secure his bicycle now and turned round to face the man properly. He was still none the wiser.
‘I’m shocking with names and I…’ He was aware that his stammer was more pronounced, as it always was when flustered like this.
‘Don’t worry, so am I. It’s Arthur: I seem to remember you were about to be interviewed for a job at Gonville and Caius, weren’t you – tutor in medieval literature, I think?’
‘Yes… that’s right.’
‘And did you get it?’
‘I’m afraid not, no…’
‘I say, shall we go into that pub for a drink – out of the rain, eh?’
Arthur clutched his elbow and steered him across the road. They bought their drinks at the bar and then Arthur said to follow him. They ended up in a narrow alcove tucked under the stairs at the back of the pub.
‘Good to be out of the storm, eh? Cheers!’
Even without the hat, he still couldn’t recognise the man. He’d normally remember either a face or a name, if not both, but this man was to all intents and purposes a complete stranger. He recalled the drinks party at Fitzwilliam, of course, but was sure he’d not met the man there, let alone discussed the job at Caius with him.
‘I’m sorry to hear you didn’t get the job.’
‘So am I. I had thought I—’
‘I hear a chap called Goldstein got it.’
‘Goldman, actually, but yes…’
‘Still, I imagine you can now push on with your doctorate – how’s that going, by the way?’
‘Slowly, but—’
‘I also heard,’ Arthur dropped his voice and leaned closer over the narrow table between them, the smell of warm bitter on his breath, ‘that you had a bit of bad luck with that grant you were hoping to get?’
‘The Sawston Award? Yes…’
‘A Professor Mendel made the decision, I understand?’
‘Amongst others, yes…’ He stopped and stared down at his half-pint of mild, which he’d barely touched. He was racking his brain for some memory of having met Arthur
but still drew a blank. Yet this stranger sitting opposite knew an awful lot about him. It wasn’t as if he’d exactly publicised his failure to get the job at Caius, and the outcome of the Sawston Award hadn’t even been officially announced yet.
‘Both Jews, you realise?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Goldman and Mendel – they’re both Jews.’ There was a glint in Arthur’s eyes, as if he was excited.
‘I assume so.’
‘And are you happy about it?’
‘Well of course not! I was the best-qualified person by a mile for the Caius job, and my paper for the Sawston Award was first class, but Professor Mendel treated me as if I was a primary school pupil. I’m sorry, but I’m angry, as you can see…’
Arthur leaned back, still smiling, and said nothing for a while, allowing the younger man opposite to talk at length, going red in the face as he did so, his voice stuttering as he became more angry.
‘Of course I know Goldman and Mendel are both Jews… I’d not felt able to mention that to anyone, not until now… Obviously I’m not prejudiced, but… I don’t need anyone to tell me about Jews and what they could get up to – I’m an expert in medieval literature, after all, especially German medieval literature, and even legends have some basis in fact…’
When he finished, he looked as if he was about to cry yet at the same time relieved to have unburdened himself. He muttered an apology as he drank his beer, and Arthur told him not to worry, of course he understood – in fact he’d also been the victim of Jews, as had so many people he knew.
‘Between you and me, I’ve heard that a wealthy relative of Goldman’s had promised money to the college funds.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Let’s just say that people I know are very well aware of these matters. Tell me, how much was the Sawston Award worth?’
‘One hundred and fifty pounds – it would have meant I could concentrate on my doctorate for an entire academic year and not have to take on anything else, like working in the library and writing essays for barely literate but very wealthy undergrads on closed scholarships.’
Arthur stood up. He was not a particularly imposing figure, but he looked confident – the kind of person who usually got his way. ‘There are some like-minded people I think you ought to meet. Could you come down to London for dinner one night next month?’
He said it depended on the day, but possibly, yes…
‘I’ll write to you at Jesus. Meanwhile, this will help with your expenses. Best not open it until you’re back in your rooms.’
* * *
The man left the pub without waiting for him. He finished his drink, composed himself and went back to his rooms. It was only later on, when the poetry of von Eschenbach became a bit too much that he remembered the envelope the man had given him.
For the next hour he stared at its contents scattered across his narrow bed.
White ten pound notes: ten of them.
One hundred pounds.
Chapter 1
Nijmegen, Arnhem, the Netherlands, September 1944
‘Is anyone else alive?’
None of those gathered around him replied. The room was dark and damp, with the smell of earth and disinfectant hanging heavy in the air. There were four or five others there: a couple of medics, an officer from Divisional Intelligence and another officer from Corps Headquarters, the ones who were supposed to have rescued them. None of them looked directly at him.
Second Lieutenant Andrew Reeves of the South Staffordshire Regiment was slumped on the floor, clutching a flask of water tightly with both hands to stop its contents spilling out. A doctor had already taken a quick look at him and said he was fine and told the medics to dress his wounds. In truth Reeves looked dreadful: his face and hands were filthy, he hadn’t shaved for days and his eyes were bloodshot. The parts of his face not covered in oil and soot were deathly white.
‘So all the others are dead – I’m the only one left?’
‘No, of course not, Reeves. Look, we just need to debrief you, then you can have a hot meal and a rest. I bet you’re looking forward to that, eh?’ It was the officer from Corps Headquarters doing his best to sound jolly while trying to muffle a hacking cough. Somewhere in the distance came the sound of artillery fire, and Reeves jumped at the sound.
‘What about my platoon? Last time I counted them, there were still a dozen alive.’
‘I fear it may be fewer than that now.’
Second Lieutenant Reeves nodded as if he was expecting as much. ‘And B Company? I assumed command of it when Captain Hall was killed: there were ninety men when I took over.’
The officer from Divisional Intelligence shook his head. ‘Perhaps a dozen were evacuated. Look, how about you have that nice hot meal first and then a rest, and we can ask you a few questions afterwards?’
‘And the rest of the brigade?’
‘We’re still working that out. We know the 1st Airlanding Brigade sent in two and a half thousand men, and we estimate fewer than five hundred have been evacuated. But that doesn’t mean the rest are dead by any means. The majority would have been taken prisoner.’
No one said anything for a while. The screams of the wounded from down the corridor seemed to be getting closer.
‘It was a bloodbath, you know… a fucking bloodbath.’
The shocked silence in the room was interrupted by a rolling crump-crump of artillery fire.
‘We understand that, Andrew, we—’
‘Well you don’t, actually. If you weren’t there, you won’t understand.’
Reeves looked at the two officers accusingly, as if they were to blame. Then he hauled himself up from the floor and moved slowly to a chair. He was tall, well over six foot, and when he stood under the single light, it was clear he was younger than he looked hunched in the shadows: probably still in his early twenties. He sat up straight and ran his hand though his hair.
‘It felt… it felt like half the fucking German army were there waiting for us. We were told we’d be catching them by surprise. Instead they caught us by surprise.’
One of the officers asked the medics to leave, and the two men drew up chairs in front of Reeves. One of them patted his knee.
‘Obviously the operation didn’t go quite to plan, Andrew, and I think—’
‘Didn’t go quite to plan? You don’t need to tell me, I was there! And I’ll tell you something else, sir…’ The ‘sir’ had a hint of sarcasm to it.
‘What’s that, Andrew?’
‘They were expecting us, sir. The fucking Germans were expecting us. They knew we were coming.’
* * *
A fortnight earlier, he’d been at the battalion’s final briefing, given by a colonel from Corps Headquarters. The tension in the room was palpable. Faces seemed to be drained of colour.
‘This is an ambitious and extremely well-planned operation that aims to invade the Netherlands through Belgium and then, using a combination of land and airborne forces – and not forgetting air support, of course – capture a corridor of land over key rivers and canals, enabling us to advance north-west to the German border, thus outflanking the Nazis.’
The colonel looked rather pleased with himself. ‘Along with four parachute brigades, your 1st Airlanding Brigade will be part of the 1st Airborne Division. Other units will advance by land across the border and through Eindhoven, while airborne units will seek to capture and establish bridgeheads, in particular here and here – the Meuse at Grave and the Waal at Nijmegen.’
He had paused to sip from his glass of water and attempted a joke about it being too early in the morning for whisky. Only one or two people in the room bothered to laugh with him.
‘The objective of the 1st Airborne will be the town of Arnhem. We aim to capture and secure these two bridges over the Rhine: the railway bridge here – to the west of the town – and the main road bridge here through the centre. The town itself is located on the north bank of the river, so
we will drop the majority of our forces around there. The idea is that once we have secured these crossings, our forces moving up from Eindhoven will be able to continue their advance towards Germany.’
Their commanding officer had then taken over. He didn’t speak with quite the same degree of confidence as the colonel. ‘The 2nd Battalion the South Staffs will be landed here, around Landing Zone S: the Airlanding Brigade’s job is to secure the drop and landing zones around Arnhem so the parachute brigades have a clear run to the two bridges.’
He’d stood for a while staring at the map, a look of mild incredulity on his face, as if he didn’t quite believe what he was looking at. The room had become restless during the silence, before someone said they’d better get a move on, they had a busy few days ahead.
* * *
Months later, Andrew Reeves was very clear in his mind that his life was now in two quite distinct parts: before Arnhem and after Arnhem. The nine days in between had been no kind of life at all.
It wasn’t as if things had gone terribly wrong at first. The South Staffs had landed in their gliders close to LZS – Landing Zone S – and had made their positions secure around Wolfheze. The parachute brigades had arrived in the various drop and landing zones and made their way to the bridges. He was commanding a platoon of twenty-seven men, part of B Company, which had landed with a hundred and forty men in total.