Chapter Seven
There was order and peace in England, during that winter of 1910. Yet it was not so in other European countries. Churchill’s comments to Giles Railton were far from unfounded. Below the placid, ordered surface of life, there was ferment, like the first sure signs of the onset of a giant earthquake.
During February of that year, the German Military Attaché in Paris, and his assistant – Klaus von Hirsch – had a visitor.
The current arrival from the German capital was a military man – a captain by the name of Walter Nicolai who was greeted with polite protocol, given a private audience with the Ambassador, Baron Wilhelm von Schoen, followed by a official luncheon. He was then left to the mercies of his military counterparts.
So it happened that, early in the evening following his arrival in Paris, Nicolai found himself sitting, over a bottle of schnapps, with the Military Attaché and his assistant.
‘You’ve landed yourself a pleasant duty, then, Walter,’ the Attaché lifted his glass. ‘Travel a little. A tour of our foreign embassies, so? Sounds like a holiday.’
‘It is not a holiday. It is a waste of time,’ Walter Nicolai tossed back his schnapps. ‘How do you like bowing and scraping with foreign diplomats? Would you not rather be getting on with soldier’s work?’
‘Ah, you soon get used to the bowing and scraping,’ von Hirsch laughed. ‘I assure you there are many compensations. Here, whatever is at our disposal is yours, and there is plenty of fun in the City of Lights. Wine, women and song. You will not find it such a free and easy life in London. You said London was your next call of duty, yes?’
Captain Nicolai gave an exaggerated sigh, ‘Yes, all those tilted noses and frigid women.’
‘And the greasy food,’ von Hirsch wrinkled his nose.
The Military Attaché lifted an eyebrow, glancing towards Nicolai. ‘Klaus is enamoured of a most attractive Englishwoman, here, in Paris.’
‘And, unfortunately, she is married to a Frenchman,’ von Hirsch reminded him.
The Military Attaché chuckled, then turned to Captain Nicolai, ‘But, Walter, tell us – why this good-will tour around the embassies? Rome last week, now Paris, then London.’
‘A fool’s errand. Oh, work, work.’ The Captain held out his glass for more schnapps. ‘I’m a soldier, not a pen-pusher. However… he hesitated, ‘Well, now I’m here, I suppose it’s best done with. Let’s get the unpleasant talking over.’
‘You bring unpleasantness from Berlin?’ The Military Attaché sat bolt upright.
Nicolai waved a hand, ‘Oh, not really. Not for you. Just the stupidity of generals – the High Command – who are of the opinion that, if we must have an intelligence network, that organization will be solely military: run by the Army for the Army. Military Intelligence. No civilians…’
‘Except as agents, of course.’
The Attaché intended the remark to be sarcastic, but Nicolai dismissed it as obvious. ‘It seems we have quite a number of agents already. England and France are well covered.’ He paused, as though the subject wearied him. ‘They are talking about making me Head of Military Intelligence – hence the Embassy visits. I am supposed to instruct you…’
‘Instruct us?’ The Military Attaché’s voice was heavy with warning.
Nicolai made a gesture of apology. ‘I’m not yet appointed as head of this new Military Intelligence. But I am supposed to instruct you – ask you – to relay possible names back to Berlin: to the High Command.’
‘Possible traitors? Agents?’
‘So it would seem.’
‘That is neither a soldier’s job, nor the duty of a Military Attaché.’
‘I wonder?’ Nicolai left the question mark hanging in the air. ‘Look, I’ve told you. There’s an end.’
‘Why all this?’ von Hirsch asked. ‘In time of war I could understand. But all is calm. Who would want intelligence at a time when peace is on everyone’s lips?’
The Military Attaché grunted again. ‘It is when people begin to tell you war is impossible that you should look to your sword, Klaus.’
‘Yes.’ All lightness had disappeared from Captain Walter Nicolai’s voice now. ‘Expansion, but not war, one hopes. However, there is still the question of that beloved old man in Austria…’
‘Franz-Joseph?’
‘Old, frail, sick, never leaves his own four walls. Soon Franz-Joseph will die, and who’ll take his place?’
‘Who indeed?’ the Attaché agreed. ‘Franz Ferdinand, the Archduke?’ he gave a nervous laugh. ‘Yes, the Arch-dupe. I’ve yet to meet a diplomat or politician who likes him. But these things are no cause for war.’
Klaus von Hirsch, already slightly tipsy, raised his glass. ‘We shall have a century of peace.’
‘Let us hope so,’ Nicolai had become his benign self again.
They drank to peace, and the Military Attaché said that it was time to go out and sample the delights of Paris. As they left the room, Nicolai put a hand on von Hirsch’s shoulder. ‘About this English lady of yours…?’ he began.
*
Monique had rented a small apartment almost directly across the street from where the Grenots lived, near the Place de L’Opera.
From her window, or even strolling nearby, she could log the comings and goings at the elegant building in which the Grenots occupied the stylish second two floors.
She posed as a young, middle-class widow, who wished to live quietly (‘And without a hint of scandal,’ – so the concierge), and was able to pass the days keeping an eye on the movements of the Grenots and their friends.
Monique certainly had suspicions regarding Madame Grenot’s fidelity. Madame Grenot entertained – during the day, usually in the afternoon, and always at home. Her callers were men; and one in particular interested Monique – a fine-looking Prussian officer, tall, fit and with the stride and confidence of an athlete – the Assistant to the Military Attaché. He always arrived at three in the afternoon, each Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. Wickedly, Monique wondered what kind of athleticism went on inside the Grenots’ apartment on those three weekday afternoons.
She was not to know that – until now – Marie Grenot kept young Klaus von Hirsch very much under control.
‘But why can’t we, Marie?’ The question had been asked many times. Now Klaus held her close, attempting to run a hand across her buttocks.
Marie Grenot twisted from him, walking to the sofa and sitting. She was surprisingly neat for a woman so long in the body, yet all her movements were sparse, economical. There was no sound to her footfall, no exaggeration when she poured tea. Her husband could verify that when she made love, his tall striking wife became feather light, as though by some strange magic she was able to melt into her partner’s body. Now, there was no mockery in her eyes as she said, ‘You stay over there, Klaus. Last week it went too far.’ Then, more kindly, ‘Give me time, my dear. You know what I’m like…’
Klaus grunted – a schoolboy deprived of his favourite game.
‘Oh, come along. Yes, Klaus, of course I wish to go to bed with you; but I know I would be plagued by remorse.’ She paused. ‘Do you think it possible for a woman to love two men at the same time?’
‘A man can love two women, so I see no problem.’ Klaus knew this to be the right answer; just as he knew how much he desired her. He rose, as if to cross to the sofa.
‘No, Marie held up a warning hand. ‘No, Klaus. In a moment. I promise. Truly. Let’s talk. Maybe we can find somewhere on Thursday. Somewhere to be alone together…’
‘I cannot see you on Thursday.’
‘Friday then. Why can’t you see me on Thursday? You always come here on Thursdays.’
Klaus said they had this important visitor at the Embassy. On Thursday he was detailed to accompany him to Calais. ‘He’s going on to London.’
‘Lucky man. Imperial German Army, I suppose?’
Klaus nodded, ‘You must tell nobody, but this man is to be the new chief of Military
Intelligence.’
‘Intelligence? Spies?’ As though thrilled by the glamour.
Klaus spread his fingers, pushing the palms downwards, as if telling her to lower her voice. ‘It’s not yet official, but there’s little doubt. They wish to get rid of any civilian influence, so Captain Nicolai has the appointment.’
‘Goodness, how exciting. It must be important work.’
‘In wartime, yes. But in this peaceful world…’
She laughed – lightly, like a small glass bell, ‘In this peaceful world, Klaus, you have a war plan. You told me so yourself.’
‘All countries have war plans. The High Command has an old one. Old von Schlieffen’s plan. But there will be no wars – it was decided last night, his head jerked back as he laughed, though Marie had the impression that there was little humour in him.
‘Who decided?’
‘The Military Attaché, Captain Nicolai, and myself. We decided over much schnapps and champagne. So, my dear, there will be no war. Certainly not with England, because your King Edward’s kinsmen rule most of Europe. Our countries are too close. No war. No great plan, with the Imperial Army marching through Belgium, and catching France by surprise.’
‘Belgium is neutral.’ Marie Grenot felt her stomach turn over, and the nape of her neck go cold.
‘All’s fair in war – and love,’ he stood, then crouched, teasing. ‘I shall make an encircling movement,’ approaching her so that she gave her glass bell laugh, called him a fool, and then surrendered to his kisses.
Before Klaus left, he extracted a promise from Marie. On Friday they would meet at a discreet ‘hotel of convenience’, where, he assured her, they would be safe from prying eyes.
Between Klaus’ leaving, and her husband’s return, Marie wrote a private letter to her father. There was no reason to believe that any letters would be intercepted, so she wrote in plain language telling him, first, of Captain Nicolai’s arrival in England, and his proposed new duties for the Imperial Army; then of the long-suspected element within the Schlieffen War Plan – the attack on France through neutral Belgium.
Across the street, in her little apartment, Monique logged Klaus’ entrance and exit. An hour later she noted the exit of a maid carrying a letter. Later that evening she also sat down and wrote to Giles Railton. Her letter, however, was penned in careful cipher.
She did this twice weekly; and the weeks flew past. Soon it would be spring.
Two days later, Giles received both letters and thought how best to use the information. He spent many hours, hunched over his map board, moving small soldiers and contemplating Napoleon’s strategy at Austerlitz, as he allowed his mind to run free with the secrets it contained. His beloved daughter, Marie, and his agent, Monique, were not the only people from whom he had recently received word. At last his daughter-in-law, Bridget, seemed to have taken the bait and sent him a report from Ireland. Giles revelled in the intrigue, but his sixth sense told him of danger ahead. The games he played, with maps and soldiers, in the Hide, were in his other life translated into real games which meddled with the politics of nations. Some sailed near to the wind of self-deception, and there were times, like now, when he smelled catastrophe in the air.
*
On instructions from his new military masters, Gustav Steinhauer left Berlin to visit the main agents already active in England. His duty was to indicate to them that they should be prepared to accept orders from another source as well as himself.
He went to Scotland, spending a few days along the south coast naval bases. Then he returned to London, to visit the barber in the Caledonian Road, whose shop was the hub of their work in England – the ‘Post Office’ through which all instructions were routed.
Steinhauer was then able to lose a few days. His masters would never know it, for he had covered his tracks well; and the Embassy in London were kept in the dark about his real date of arrival and departure.
He arranged certain meetings, saw to the possibility of caching items which his man would need – explosives, detonators and the like – then he crossed to Ireland where he met a representative of the Fenians in a Dublin café.
The man was useful, a cut-out between the Fenian leadership and the rank and file followers, and therefore most pliable. Steinhauer fed him pleasant ideas, such as the definite probability of arms being supplied through interested dealers in Germany. But, as ever, there was a price to be paid – assistance in covert action.
‘In the event of, er… unlikely problems between Prussia and Great Britain,’ Steinhauer spelled it out very carefully, ‘we feel it only sensible to prepare ways to use Ireland to advantage – from a naval viewpoint, you understand.’
‘Oh, I follow you.’ Padraig O’Connell nodded enthusiastically.
‘I shall send a friend soon. You can talk to him freely. If there is anything you wish to tell him – about British military or naval operations here – we will reward you. This man will be prepared to do anything, shall we say, unpleasant? for you. Understand?’
O’Connell grinned, and said it was quite possible they could use such a man. Then Steinhauer left, returning to Berlin to find Ulhurt straining at the leash.
‘I want to do something useful.’
‘In good time. Soon. Arrangements are in hand, but first, I wish to talk to you of code names.’
The giant gazed at him blankly.
‘You will be known by two separate code names, but I’m going to call you “The Fisherman” because you will be trawling the seas for souls… Like St Peter, in the Bible.’
Ulhurt gave a short laugh which lacked conviction, so Steinhauer continued, ‘Your wireless cipher names will be “Saint” – for St Peter – and “Angler”. You understand me?’
‘You think me an idiot?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then. Of course I understand you. Ciphers, code names, you seem to live in a world of ghosts and goblins, my friend.’ Ulhurt laughed again, this time rather unpleasantly.
Steinhauer’s face froze into a stony look, ‘And you, my friend, do not know how close to the truth you are sailing.’
*
The lights burned late in the Hide, on the second floor of Giles Railton’s house in Eccleston Square.
Tonight there was no time for the maps or soldiers. Giles bent low over his table, strewn with papers, making notes for the next day’s work. As he worked, part of his mind dwelt on the perils of the future. Everyone, he presumed, wanted to believe in a lasting, long summer of peaceful years; but wanting was not enough.
One name spelled out the dangers – Kaiser Wilhelm II.
Edward – the ‘Uncle of Europe’ – was suspect to the Kaiser. The Encircler, the Plotter was how the German Emperor saw him, and if the Kaiser had his way, his heel would be on his Uncle Edward’s neck: while France would lie passively, her legs spread wide to accept his rape.
Nobody, Giles often argued, could doubt what the Kaiser really wanted: recognition of Imperial Germany as the one true Power in Europe.
Tomorrow he had much to do. There was another meeting of his Sub-Committee For Review of Intelligence Structure, and only late that afternoon, Giles had received permission to pass on the information he had already put before the CID Secretariat that day. He had doubts as to members of the sub-committee either believing, or acting on, his information.
His nephew, John, was to join his sub-committee as representative from the Cabinet the following afternoon, and Giles had been relieved to learn, two days before, that his son, Andrew, would not have to find more excuses to duck accompanying the DID. For Lieutenant-Commander Andrew Railton had now been promoted to a more sensitive post within the Intelligence Division’s structure.
He put his notes to one side, and pulled another batch of papers into the glow from the green-shaded ‘student lamp’. First, the letter to Mr Harding, from Bridget Railton. That was moving well. Next, his daughter Marie Grenot’s letters, together with the reports from Monique. They added up – Mon
ique’s reports and Marie’s sources read like well-kept account books. Tomorrow he would act on what had been given to him – indeed he had acted already over the business of Captain Walter Nicolai.
On the following morning, Giles took a cab to the War Office, and within half an hour was sitting opposite Vernon Kell.
Kell was alone except for the clerk, Sprogitt. Charles was working. ‘Like a Trojan,’ Kell said.
‘You’ll find him a much-changed man. Really hard at it. I’m running him around like a donkey engine. Crash courses in everything. Paddy Quinn’s fixing up driving lessons with the Branch.’
Giles wondered how long his nephew would remain so dedicated. Not many months, he thought. Briskly he turned the conversation to the object of his visit. ‘You’ll guess what I’ve come to talk about?’
‘Walter Nicolai?’
Giles nodded.
‘You certainly have good sources of information, sir. Arrived exactly as you predicted.’
‘And how did the visit turn out?’ Giles had left the whole business of Captain Nicolai’s London visit in Kell’s hands.
‘Quinn’s people took care of it. No personal details. Prussian Officer Corps. Military family. Young, more enthusiastic than most, rising junior staff officer.’ Kell gave him a mock-sly look. ‘It seems there’s recently been a battle over intelligence matters, between the Berlin Foreign Office and the Imperial Army. Apparently the Army’s won the day. Captain Nicolai has an important patron. He’s under the protection of Colonel Ludendorff – head of Section Two of the Great General Staff. They are to form their own Intelligence department. From your information it would seem that Nicolai’s got the top job.’
Apparently Nicolai had remained in the Embassy during his entire visit to London, though he had received one interesting visitor – a civilian named Gustav Steinhauer. The Branch had taken a peep at the register of the hotel where Steinhauer was staying. He had given a false address in Berlin. The name of the street did not show on any map, so Kell took some expert advice from one of his many contacts – a Berliner.