Love is the death of me Read online

  After a short deliberation to consider the facts and implications, Franz offered his wise advice.

  “Ernst, there will be a formal enquiry and you need to present your account before they form their own conclusions. Right or wrong, the committee won’t change their minds. You also need to take the initiative. It is to your credit that you had arranged for the woman to be investigated, two days previous. If there were indications she was a threat, why had they not informed you?

  “Another tactic is to present a summation of the situation and a strategy for dealing with it. It has the effect of moving the focus from you onto the real issue, the security of the project. Done respectfully, but assertively, I believe you will be exonerated.

  “Finally, it is better for you that I do not intervene in any way, because it will work against you on your record.

  “I wish you luck and I want you to know I have every confidence in you.

  “That is all I can offer in the way of help and advice. Now it is up to you.

  “Goodbye Ernst, my thoughts are with you.” As was his way, Franz Huber abruptly ended the call.

  ***

  Later that afternoon Ernst Huber left the medical facility, heavily bandaged. Apparently there was nothing they could do to prevent disfiguring scars on his face.

  It was at that moment he was called, to attend the inquiry. Ernst knocked on the door and was summoned to enter.

  The assembly of six high ranking officers, all of whom he knew, looked stern as they sat at the long rectangular table. They were gathered at one end, either side of the chairman SS-Oberführer Wilhelm Keppler, who presided over the meeting.

  He asked Ernst to take a seat. The lonely chair at the far end of the table was a ridiculous distance away from the group and if he sat there, it was them against him. It looked as though he was too late; they had most likely made up their minds about blame. He had nothing to lose, and everything to gain, by taking the odd seat with the group. There were now three people each side of the chairman, everything was in balance and he was now one of them.

  The chairman spoke, “Ernst, we see you got caught in the blast, I hope you will heal quickly. Please tell us, being so close, why didn’t you prevent the woman from throwing the grenade? Surely you could have shot her?”

  “I was not close at all. The woman was not aware of me, or she would never have thrown it. The grenade exploded against a stone step and directed some of the blast in my direction. You may have observed that I flagged the woman for investigation two days ago, because she started following Karl Strom three days before that. On every occasion, except today, there were bystanders along the route. Had it not been for them, she would have thrown the grenade then.

  “Have you received any intelligence from the agents investigating the woman?”

  The chairman grunted and looked questioningly at the other members, but they looked down and shuffled papers. Ernst could see they were caught out and inadequately briefed for the inquiry.

  “There was no opportunity to shoot the woman and prevent the attack. She had her back to me when she positioned the shopping bag in front of her, so I had no way of seeing what was in her hand. The instant she lobbed the grenade, high in the air, she vanished up an alley. The best I could do was shout a warning to Karl, but by then, the grenade hit the ground and rolled past him, into the step. He dived into the roadside gutter to take cover.

  “Now that I have had a chance to examine the facts, I believe there is far more to this incident than the killing of one man. With respect sir, would you all care to hear what I have to say?”

  The group nodded their agreement and Ernst continued.

  “The attack on Karl Strom was not random, because in exchange for his death, the British have lost a valuable asset, the woman, and the opportunity to learn more about what we do here. That tells me at least two things; first, they are aware of what he is doing here, to some extent, and that they have no idea where exactly to drop bombs to cripple us. The recent bombing runs clearly indicate they are guessing. The next best thing is to eliminate the key man by killing him and thereby halt development for a while.

  “I questioned why they chose to blow him up, and that tells me they only have the woman on the outside, spying on us. The fact that she is a woman does not mean she cannot shoot, but she is unlikely to be good enough for a distant head shot. A body shot at close range is also risky, people often survive being shot by amateurs. It is better to blow the victim to pieces and ensure success.

  “I have also tried to lob a grenade like she did, and it takes practice to become so accurate, which tells me the attack has been well planned for some time. I also wondered why she lobbed the grenade high in the air, and did not just throw it directly. I reasoned that she wanted the explosion to occur the moment it hit the ground so Karl had no time to take cover. If she just pulled the pin and counted off a few seconds before throwing, I or someone like me would have had time to shoot her. Several seconds passed when it was in the air, undetected by Karl and unstoppable.

  “This is the sort of thinking that would come from an expert. The same applies for the escape up the alley. I am convinced the woman did not know I was there, or she would have found another time or place to kill him.

  “I respectfully suggest we let the woman believe Karl is dead and she can report this back to SIS in England. It will get them off our back for a while, believing work here is halted. We can also feed misinformation to them, through her.”

  From their faces, Ernst could see he had their full attention and had impressed them with his presentation. What happened now was up to them.

  “Ernst, I want to discuss what you have said with my fellow officers, I will let you know what we decide, if it is relevant to you. However, I can put your mind at rest, we see no failing on your part and that will be stated clearly on your record. Thank you for your thoughts.

  “You can return to your duties.”

  Ernst saluted and left, greatly relieved that the matter was closed.

  The following afternoon he joined a small group of officers and staff at the village cemetery for Karl Strom’s funeral, a hasty affair, but understandable under the circumstances.

  A week later, he received a telephone call from SS-Oberführer Wilhelm Keppler.

  “Kriminalassistent Ernst Huber, I thought you would appreciate taking part in the arrest and interrogation of Ingrid Hine, known by the British as Rabbit, at her home in Karlshagen, for her part in the attack on yourself and Karl Strom. I have informed your superior, so report to him immediately. It will be good experience for you.”

  “Thank you Oberführer Keppler, I am honoured.”

  “Of course you are, Huber. Good day.” He laughed and hung up.

  ***

  That afternoon, Ingrid Hine (code name Rabbit) heard the commotion from the many soldiers running in her direction as she cleaned the sleeping and living quarters. This block was where the menial staff and general labour resided. She hastily removed from her pocket, a piece of hard chewing gum shaped like a tooth, and forced it into the gap left by an extracted upper molar.

  Surrounded by the soldiers, an officer pushed through them and stood close to her, face to face. Blood drained from her brain, her guts churned and her bowel contents turned to liquid, as adrenalin pumped through her system. Now her mouth and throat had become so dry, she could not speak.

  “Frau Ingrid Hine, I arrest you for acts of spying and other crimes against the Reich,” announced Kriminaldirektor Georg Koppe.

  Then two of the soldiers firmly grasped her arms and manhandled her away to be stripped and searched. It was a deliberately dramatic arrest, aimed at instilling terror into everyone who worked at Peenemünde and dissuading them from acts of sabotage and betrayal.

  That evening, Ingrid’s husband and five-year-old daughter were arrested. They were held in a room under guard, next to where Ingrid would be questioned.

  The interrogation room was cramped and intentionally dep
ressing, with a light grey painted concrete floor and neglected, bare white walls. The picture of the Führer, high up on the wall behind Georg Koppe, glared down at the prisoner. His expression said it all; you decided to go against me, now you pay the price.

  Koppe sat behind a simple wooden table with a small sheaf of papers in front of him, illuminated by a basic table lamp. Alongside, in the shadowy corner sat Ernst Huber; he was there to learn and, where necessary, assist and restrain. Both men looked cadaverous and sinister, as the single dim light hanging from the ceiling cast dark shadows across their features.

  Ingrid Hine noticed the freshly bruised and scabbed face of the man seated in the corner. Although she did not recognise him in uniform, she knew it was her grenade that had done the damage. Under different circumstances, she would have felt sympathy for the lad, such a handsome face disfigured for life, but at this moment, she felt nothing for him. Instead, her mind was filled with abject terror. Georg Koppe, the interrogator at the table, had a reputation for brutality and was staring dispassionately at her. She decided he had the cold detachment of a venomous snake, about to strike.

  Her British contact, Whisky, had warned her of the risks when recruiting her nine months ago. She had got away with so much, spying right under the Gestapo noses, she thought she was too smart for the Germans. What could she do now?

  The British would have abandoned her already and covered their tracks. She had a daughter and loving husband to take care of, who knew nothing of her secret. She could hold out for a time, she imagined, but knew she would tell all in the end. What if they threatened her family? No, she could not bear that; she decided there were only two cards to play.

  Ernst Huber tried to imagine what was going on in the woman’s mind as she sat there, so tense. Rabbit, her code name, was very apt just now; this rabbit was caught in the proverbial headlights and had good reason to be tense.

  She had permanently disfigured him, and he hated her for that, even though he realised he was just collateral damage. As an interrogator, he had to supress emotion, or he would fail the task in hand. It calmed him to consider their differences, she had her beliefs and acted on them: He had his and would do the same. In war, the British kill Germans, and the Germans kill the British.

  He wondered what he would do as a spy if he were facing the interrogation. Ernst could not comprehend such terror, but knowing what awaited her, he was sure he would have been panicking. The woman was calm though, unaware of what she would have to endure before giving in or dying. It would be foolish to be brave and resist, but would she be brave when she saw her husband and child taking the pain? I doubt it, he decided.

  How would Koppe start the interrogation? It was common knowledge amongst the officers that Koppe hated the unpleasantness of torture; he only used it as a last resort, because he needed to win. He was fully aware of his terrifying reputation to outsiders, and would encourage that belief to more easily achieve results.

  “Ingrid, you have a husband called Josef, and a beautiful daughter Sophie, aged five. She looks very much like you.” Koppe smiled warmly.

  “Oh dear god, please don’t harm them, they know nothing of this. They are not involved in any way.” The sound of panic and alarm showed in her desperate plea. Until now, the spy had consciously pushed the consequences to her loved ones from her mind.

  “They are both here and their fate rests in your hands. You have been arrested because you are a British spy who has also attacked my staff. And for that, the penalty is death by firing squad.” Koppe looked deeply saddened.

  “The British have used you to gather intelligence about what we do here, but I want you to fully appreciate the word used, because that’s what they have done to you. Used you, and abandoned you, now that they have taken all you could give them. They have forgotten you already. I understand all this, and having regard for the young family that needs you, I can help you if you help me.

  “I can hold you, until the war is over, a year or so and then you can return to your family. As I said earlier, the alternative is the firing squad.

  “In exchange, I want to know everything you have told the British, so I can take countermeasures.

  “Is that what you want to do?

  “If it is, you can make a start and I will bring in Josef and Sophie to see you for a few minutes.”

  Georg looked up at her and with the facial expression of a kindly uncle, he reached forward and placed both palms on the table, in a gesture of sincerity.

  Ingrid’s eyes filled with tears. There was really only the one card she could play.

  In a fit of emotion, she bit hard on the softened gum in her mouth and attempted to swallow. The cyanide loaded saliva tasted like bitter salt for an instant, then her mouth and throat went numb. It took only a few seconds for the poison to be transferred through the mucosa into her blood. Then every cell in contact with it became deprived of oxygen.

  She fitted and fell forward onto the floor, gasping and writhing, her visible skin turning pink in an instant. Ingrid’s final gasp came fifteen seconds later.

  Ernst was shocked to the core, rooted to the chair.

  Koppe looked surprised, but it quickly turned to fury as he accepted she had thwarted him. He remained seated, checked the time and wrote a brief note in the file.

  Two days after her death, there were high level meetings amongst the Germans discussing the relocation of various sections of the Research Centre, to different countries.

  MI5 and Rabbit. 8th June 1943

  Sir Philip Stern in his office at MI5, leaned forward over his large mahogany desk, picked up the telephone and called John Caplin, one of his team leaders.

  “Good afternoon John, Sir Philip here,” he boomed, “how is Margaret? A little one on the way I understand, due in October, is that right?”

  “Oh! Hello Sir Philip.” Caplin injected false enthusiasm into his voice as a substitute for alertness. “I was about to call you, we have officially lost contact with Rabbit, just as you expected. As you said, that proverbial well was running dry.

  “I have reviewed all she sent us, and everything up to June 2nd seems reliable.

  “I am not convinced one way or the other whether Rabbit succeeded in killing Karl Strom. If I were ‘jerry’, I would say he was dead, even if he wasn’t, just to keep the other side quiet. The funeral was a simple affair, but nothing we wouldn’t do.

  “Operations Whitebait and Hydra will go ahead anyway on August 17th. The maps and sketches Rabbit sent from the two Polish janitors she knew, are authentic, according to IMINT.”

  “Spot on my boy, just what I needed to know. Thanks!” That final word, thanks, contained all the hollow sincerity of a backstreet car salesman clutching the punter’s money in his fist.

  John Caplin knew Stern would never call to enquire after his family, it was just his way of appearing friendly and if you weren’t up to speed with your case load, he would cut you off at the knees. The man had an uncanny way of knowing breaking news, before it actually broke. He knew the questions to ask and the answers to expect. It occurred to Caplin and others in MI5 that Stern had his own spies outside the department, probably British or turned Germans who kept him informed. However he performed his party trick, it worked. His team leaders had to be on top of their game or they were history.

  John Caplin often wondered how long his luck would hold in the job. Perhaps the nasty rumour about Stern, 18 months ago, was true after all. It was Caplin’s testimony alone that had quashed all charges against the man. As far as he knew, Stern had been in his office on the night in question, and that is all Caplin claimed. Never being privy to Stern’s conversations with other staff, he supposed the man favoured him to some extent. Stern wielded immense power within MI5 and keeping on the right side of him was a career maker. So far, Caplin had hidden his self-assumed incompetence with a string of lucky breaks.

  Arrival in Alderney. 1st December 1943

  The driving rain had only one upside for Karl Strom; it
flattened the dark water of Braye Bay, allowing a smoother landing for the Blohm & Voss BV 138 flying boat. He was its only passenger. Even the wind was paralysed by the freezing cold air on this vile night.

  The sudden hiss, jerk and bounce as the hull briefly kissed the unruffled sea, roused Strom from his ruminations. Relief swept over him as the water sprayed loudly against the thin metal hull, and he felt the prolonged deceleration of a perfect water landing. The trimotor Junkers Jumo aircraft diesel engines spluttered lumpily, vibrating the whole aircraft, as it taxied up to the floating pontoon.

  For Strom, this long flight from Germany was all he could have hoped for. Although his tired body ached, where it still had feeling, his joy came from knowing his fragile, top secret equipment was likely to have survived the smooth journey. He was also a step closer to resolving a personal matter, close to his heart, that this mission had made possible.

  The engines stopped and their noise was replaced by the roar in his head, from assaulted eardrums. It would be some time before they returned to normal and he could enjoy silence again. He tried to move, but his muscles and joints had seized, it was the equivalent of rigor mortise, for the living. Clicking open his seatbelt, it slipped away, the ends rattling against the seat frame. Screwing up his face as he forced himself through the agony, to stand, he walked through the plane. Past injuries had healed, but the lasting damage was done. Rabbit’s grenade attack had also left him mentally scarred; he was not the resilient and relentless man he once was. Fortunately only he knew his limitations, but then he was a master at keeping secrets. What was one more?

  Strom thanked the young pilot for a smooth flight and was not too surprised when the man suggested there were safer explosives to transport by plane than bottles of nitro-glycerine. Strom smiled in agreement and left the aircraft. He was confident the soldiers handling the crate marked ‘explosives’, addressed to Herr Oberst Dedrick Schwalm, would treat it with consummate care, so he strode purposefully towards shelter from the rapidly changing weather.