SS-GB - by Len Deighton

 

Chapter Twenty-four

Highgate Cemetery is like a film set. Overgrown by sooty trees and bushes, strangled by weeds, its narrow paths are lined with ancient tombstones leaning at all angles and pocked with mould and moss. Not even the efforts of a platoon of engineers had lessened the feeling that here was a location for a remake of ‘Frankenstein’.

And yet they tried. For this was the final gesture of German–Soviet Friendship Week, and today the ceremonies in Moscow and Berlin had to give pride of place to this ritualistic disinterment of the bones of Karl Marx from the wormy sod of dingy north London.

There was just room for the reduced size Army Group L (London District) brass band, if it stood well away behind the trees. Not all of the USSR delegation could be given a view of the grave, another hundred of them had to be content with a place at the saluting base erected on Highgate Hill.

Only the most important men were at the grave. Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop, in magnificent uniform, was talking to Molotov, the Russian Premier, who’d flown from Moscow just for the occasion. Dr Joseph Goebbels, for whom this whole week of internationally publicized events was a personal triumph, spoke briefly to the two men and held a silver trowel for Molotov to inspect. It was to be used when the new marble block, inscribed with intertwined Nazi and Communist symbols, and a lengthy declaration of amity, was lowered down upon the newly empty grave.

In Dartmouth Park Hill, the old hospital’s top floors provided staff and patients with a grandstand view of the ceremonies in the street below. The specially selected black horses teamed to a German army gun carriage moved restlessly and clattered their hooves on the cold road. Their groomed flanks shimmered and the fidgeting wheels made the brakes whimper. Postilions on the horses calmed them, and the escorting cavalry reined in tightly as the clock struck eleven. The commander of the honour guard, a Colonel of the prestigious 5 Kavallerie-Regiment, almost lost control of his fine bay when the motorcyclists wheeled into position, their polished steel helmets gleaming in the wintry sunlight.

The band played solemn music, as the army stewards made way for the last arrivals: Britain’s puppet Prime Minister accompanied by the newly appointed German Commissioner for the Bank of England. Behind them, Douglas recognized SS-Gruppenführer Professor Max Springer of the SD. Huth’s boss was the senior SS officer at the ceremony and was here as Himmler’s personal representative.

Six pallbearers – representing the army, navy, air force, SS, Nazi Party and SA stood ready to take the mortal remains of Karl Marx on the first stage of its journey to Red Square. Room had already been made for him in the Lenin Mausoleum, and by 7 November, the anniversary of the Russian revolution, more ceremonies would accompany the opening of the newly occupied tomb to the Moscow crowds.

Douglas did not have a very good view. He was standing near Kellerman, on the hospital side of the grave and downhill from it. The band was playing solemn martial music. Kellerman passed some banal remark. Douglas turned his head to answer as the shock wave of the explosion punched him in the face like a padded glove. Facing uphill he saw the earth round the grave shudder as it became first a mound, then a hill and finally a great cloud of smoke and dirt. And the earth showered upon him like a tidal wave, knocking him over and choking him with dirt.

As Douglas struggled to his feet, he saw Kellerman half-buried under a large tombstone. His mouth was moving but he made no noise. There was no sound anywhere, not even from the officer who was struggling to extricate himself from the bloody folds of an ornate military standard. He ripped the torn flag from an arm that was no more than a stump. It spurted blood and the man staggered drunkenly until, bloodless, he fell to the ground.

Now the noise was so great that it penetrated even Douglas’s blast-deafened skull. There was the concerted wail of agony and fear and the bells and hooters of ambulances trying to get past the frightened horses of the funeral cortège. The cavalry Colonel’s arab bay bolted. He stayed in the saddle, taking some gravestones with graceful strides until she went under some trees and low branches snapped her rider’s spine.

Near the Retcar Street gate, bandsmen were trying to rescue dead and bleeding comrades from mangled brass and broken drums. There were bodies everywhere and, to complicate the macabre scene further, corpses had broken from their ancient coffins and sprawled across the grassy tombs as if answering the herald horn of judgment day.

General Kellerman got out from the fallen stone with nothing worse than a torn ligament. Douglas helped him to his feet and supported him as far as two uniformed SS orderlies who carried their General to an ambulance. With remarkable foresight, Kellerman had included in his orders for the day an ambulance and medical team from the SS Hospital. Such teams had standing orders that SS personnel – however slight their needs and whatever their rank – had medical priority over all other casualties. Now Kellerman was to find himself the first casualty the SS team treated.

The week of ceremonies had been organized by the staff of Army Group L (London District) without much reference to the Militärverwaltungschef (Head of Administration), to the British puppet government, or to Kellerman and his SS and police units. Tickets for most of the best viewpoints had gone to high-ranking army officers and political bigwigs from Moscow. And so it was that they took the brunt of the casualties, with the guard of honour, bandsmen, and those members of the Red Army Choir delegated to sing the new lyrics of the ‘Horst Wessel Song’.

The fierce upward blast of the explosion dealt its cruellest blow to a Propaganda-Kompanie film crew, positioned on the roof platform of their specially strengthened ‘A Type’ Steyr. Tracking forward, all four wheels in gear, and its aircooled V-8 engine’s highspeed fan humming loudly, they had been getting ‘mute’ close-ups of the inscription before the ceremony began. The bomb exploded as they moved away, gutting the heavy car and scattering bits of the dismembered film crew into nearby Waterlow Park. Sheltered by the temporary positioning of the PK car, the celebrities, Goebbels, Molotov and von Ribbentrop, suffered collectively no more than two ruptured eardrums, one twisted ankle and some drycleaning bills.

Standartenführer Huth had characteristically placed himself as near to an exit as he could get. He was at the Swains Lane gate when the bomb exploded. According to the officer standing next to him, Huth did not even flinch when the bang came. Harry Woods embellished this story to relate that Huth had calmly put his fingers in his ears some thirty seconds before the explosion. The joke went all round the Scotland Yard building. Even Kellerman laughed when he heard it. It was a defamatory joke, a dangerous jest, but both Huth and Kellerman found it difficult to conceal the satisfaction they felt at such a public demonstration of the German army’s security failure.

The army were quick to close ranks. Within fifteen minutes of the explosion, the six-ton mobile command centre – on hand for traffic control during the funeral procession – had been taken over for a high-level conference. The adjutant to the Army Group commander was talking with a Colonel of the Feldgendarmerie, a GFP officer still in civilian clothes and two military security advisers to the Militärverwaltung, one of them slightly wounded. Two Abwehr officers were there already and more were coming. The bus was parked in front of that weird Gothic folly that faces the cemetery gate in Swains Lane. There, with armed sentries round them, the soldiers rehearsed their answers for the military inquiry that was bound to end with some heads rolling – perhaps literally.

Huth looked at the big ten-wheel Krupp Befehlskraft-wagen, and the anxious soldiers inside it, dimly seen through the frosted glass windows. He smiled at Douglas, and brushed from his tunic some of the dirt and dust that had covered everyone and everything. Then he looked down at his dirty hand. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Huth with evident distaste. ‘I want to wash the mortal remains of Karl Marx out of my hair.’

Around them medical teams were applying tourniquets, stanching blood, lifting bodies on to stretchers and ripping uniforms to dress wounds. There were groans and screams. An Admiral who’d been standing near Douglas at the time of the explosion was receiving last rites from a German army chaplain.

‘The explosion came from the grave itself, wouldn’t you say?’ Huth asked Douglas.

‘There’s no doubt about that.’

‘Probably got in here last night. Got poor old Karl out of his nice new wooden overcoat and stuffed it with explosive.’ Huth sniffed and pulled a face. The disinterred bodies, and the disturbed earth of the graveyard, were making the whole place stink. ‘You can bet the army had no guards here.’ He started to move towards the gate, elbowing his way through the throng. He pushed past a wounded bandsman standing patiently, hand high in the air while twisting a string round his arm to stop the bleeding from a torn vein. The man’s tunic was covered in blood that had run down his arm, and Huth shrank away to avoid getting stains on his own tunic. Then, as if ashamed of his behaviour, he said, ‘Get along and find an ambulance. You’ll lose your arm if you stay here like that.’

‘I was ordered to stay here,’ said the youth.

Huth shrugged. His conscience satisfied, he continued on his way, as if his aside to the young bandsman had never happened.

Tucked away behind the gate-lodge was Huth’s favourite vehicle; his ‘Krad’ the BMW motorcycle combination. No doubt he’d hidden it here in the hope of being able to steal away from the ceremonies before they ended. There was a uniformed SS man guarding the machine. Now he wiped the dust from the saddle with his sleeve, before Huth climbed on to it.

Huth’s sinus trouble had been aggravated by dirt and vegetation flung up by the explosion. His eyes were watering, and he blew his nose loudly. ‘Do you know a man named George Mayhew?’ he asked Douglas and wiped his nose again.

‘Colonel Mayhew? Every policeman in London knows him. He was the best scrum-half the police rugby team ever had.’

Huth stared at Douglas as if suspecting that this was an evasive reply. ‘And has every policeman in London seen him during the past week?’

‘It’s highly likely. I certainly have.’

‘You know him well?’ He put a hand to his forehead. ‘Ever had sinus, Superintendent?’

‘No, fortunately not!…I mean, yes, I know Mayhew well but I don’t suffer from sinus.’

‘Sometimes I’m not sure you know what you mean.’ Huth had taken some papers from his pocket, and now he shuffled through them and passed a small photograph to Douglas. ‘Do you see Mayhew here?’

It looked like a very bad photograph, but had Douglas realized the problems of using a long tele-photo lens and getting enough light into a camera without having the result spoiled by the sort of movement which so easily affects such lenses, and had he known the chance that the photo-technician had taken, when processing the negative for over twice the normal time, he would have recognized it as being a very good photograph indeed.

‘It could well be Colonel Mayhew,’ admitted Douglas. ‘The man looking at the camera is Generalmajor Georg von Ruff, isn’t he?’

‘He saw the observation car, and my photographer in it,’ said Huth. ‘He’s a damned suspicious old swine. The third man is Professor Frick, of course.’

Huth had a sense of timing that any nightclub comedian might well envy, if not emulate. ‘Professor Frick!’ said Douglas with unconcealed surprise. ‘I thought he was dead long ago. I thought he died in the fighting last year?’

‘Then he has risen from the dead,’ said Huth. ‘What would you say those three had in common…apart from their obvious desire to avoid my cameraman?’

‘This atomic explosive?’

‘You should have been a detective,’ said Huth. ‘But you can do better than that, I’m sure.’

‘Can I?’

‘Generalmajor von Ruff is the senior Abwehr officer in Great Britain. Behind him, lost in the shadows, is a Colonel from the Heereswaffenamt. Obviously both of them talk to old Frick because they hope he’s going to make some kind of super bomb for the army. But what is Colonel Mayhew doing here with them?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘He’s doing business with them, that’s what he’s doing,’ said Huth.

The two men looked at each other for a long time. Finally Douglas said, ‘You think that Mayhew is selling them scientific research?’

‘He’s selling them carbon copies of those calculations that were burned in the fireplace at Shepherd Market. And I’d bet my life on it.’

‘For money?’

‘What would Colonel Mayhew want, more than anything in the whole world, Archer? Come on, you’re an Englishman, you know the answer to this one.’

‘The King, you mean?’

Huth patted Douglas’s shoulder in sardonic congratulation. Then he kicked his big motorcycle engine into life.

‘What do you want me to do about it?’ shouted Douglas over the din.

‘You tell Mayhew that I want those calculations.’

‘What about the other business?’ shouted Douglas.

‘What other business?’

Douglas snatched a glance over his shoulder. Huth throttled the engine back until it was making a noise like muffled drums. ‘The King,’ said Douglas.

Huth took back the photo from Douglas, and replaced it in the handful of envelopes, papers and memo sheets that he’d got from his pocket. He shuffled them again and found a small buff-coloured form, folded once. Without opening it, Huth creased it again so that it was narrow enough to slide easily into Douglas’s top pocket. Huth smiled his humourless smile. ‘Look at that, Archer,’ he said, standing up on the footrests of the motorcycle in order to see the chaos and carnage. ‘The Ivans will put the blame on us, and you’ll see that picture on the front page of tomorrow’s Pravda.’

Douglas turned to follow his gaze. Most of the dead and injured were at the top of the rise. The visiting Russians’ privileged position at the ceremony had exposed them to the fiercest danger. Wives, daughters and mistresses too – documented as secretaries – had accompanied this contingent of élite communists on their journey westwards. Bond Street silks, and Savile Row worsteds, were torn and bloody; and many of the Russians sprawling in the snowstorm of chipped marble would never get to their feet again.

But there would not be photos of it in the morning papers. Not in Pravda, or Völkischer Beobachter, The Times, Tribune or any other paper or magazine. At the Swains Lane entrance – and in the streets, park and hospital yard adjoining the cemetery – Feldgendarmerie units checked all cameras and searched everyone carrying press passes. At the gate there was a pile of 35mm film, taken from cameras, cassettes and even from unused packets; it shone brown and grey in the wintry sunshine, trembling, slithering and unrolling like a nest of vipers.

An SS officer hurried towards them. ‘It’s Gruppenführer Springer, sir,’ he said to Huth. ‘Would you come quickly.’

Left alone, Douglas took from his pocket the folded buff form. He had recognized it already as one of the new abbreviated arrest warrants. Little more than an abstract from the Primary Arrest Sheet, it simply gave George Mayhew’s name and address, and the reason for arrest: Schutzhaft (Protective Custody), a catch-all word whereby men, women and children disappeared and were never seen again. There was an insolent callousness to the way that Huth had legalized it with a scrawling illegible signature in pencil. Douglas tucked the form into his wallet. There was a loud scream. He turned and saw an army engineer unit winching a slab of stone off a man who was dying noisily.

Douglas hurried through Waterlow Park and found a public telephone box on Highgate Hill. Colonel Mayhew’s manservant answered the phone. Douglas knew him, a retired police Constable who had taken the heavyweight boxing trophy two years in succession and missed the third by only the narrowest of margins. He got Mayhew to the phone without delay. ‘This is Detective Superintendent Archer,’ said Douglas formally, ‘and I am holding a warrant for your arrest.’

‘Can you speak?’

‘I’m in a call-box. Standartenführer Huth just gave me the form. He’s signed it himself. There’s no charge; it’s a protective custody order.’

‘What now?’

‘The traffic is terrible…’

‘I heard the official statement on the news. The Germans must be regretting that they gave the BBC facilities for a live broadcast…very well, you won’t be able to get here for at least an hour.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Thanks, Archer. I’ll see if I can pull a few strings. In any case I’ll contact you at the girl’s flat.’

Douglas had the feeling that Colonel Mayhew did not understand the danger he was in. Perhaps Mayhew believed all that propaganda about concentration camps being no worse than hard beds, cold showers and physical training. If so, he’d be in for a terrible surprise. ‘Colonel,’ said Douglas, ‘there might be other warrants that I’ve not seen. There might be orders that would apply to your family.’

Mayhew remained unruffled. ‘Yes, I understand. It doesn’t come as a complete surprise, Archer. But thank you all the same.’

‘Goodbye, Colonel,’ said Douglas and hung up the phone.

Douglas’s visit to Colonel George Mayhew’s fine town house at the Grosvenor Square end of Upper Brook Street, Mayfair, was no more than a formality. Mayhew’s manservant had the right answers all prepared, as might be expected of a police Constable who’d served his time. He showed Douglas through all the rooms and even opened the cupboards.

‘If Colonel Mayhew returns, you’ll phone me immediately,’ said Douglas.

‘I will indeed, Superintendent,’ said the manservant. The two men both smiled and Douglas took his leave.

It was only when Douglas got back to Pip Piper’s darkroom, and put the strips of negatives on the lightbox, that his theories were confirmed. Here was frame after frame of closely typed calculations, some of them with scribbled annotation and changes. Pip remained well back from the lightbox as Douglas leaned over it. ‘What do you think of them, Pip?’

‘About one stop overexposed, but that’s not a bad fault with this copying work. There will be no trouble reading it. Want a magnifying glass?’

Douglas took the glass and studied the negative. The words and figures were in focus and with this powerful glass there was no great difficulty in reading them. ‘It doesn’t mean a thing to me,’ said Douglas.

‘Don’t look at me,’ said Pip. ‘I was never much good at sums.’

‘Thank God that jazz band has stopped rehearsing,’ said Douglas. Why the devil doesn’t Huth guess that there are negatives, he thought. He was looking for carbon copies, and that would mean a search for something as large as a briefcase. But then he realized that Huth’s men had found nothing that would suggest the use of a camera. The only clue in the Shepherd Market flat was the position of the desk light and the bulb that had been removed from it. Douglas had replaced the bulb and moved the light’s position. Young Spode must have taken the special photo-flood bulb and thrown it away. As for Spode’s lodgings, the Leica camera and the bag of accessories had all been removed.

The rain had started again. Douglas stared out of the window at the hunchbacked roofs and crippled chimneys. The wind gusted enough to send a cloud of smoke to darken this dormer window. Douglas smelled the soot, and the dirt irritated his eyes.

‘Are you all right?’ said Pip.

‘Yes, I’m all right.’ Thoughtfully Douglas fingered the elbow pivot in his pocket. It had been modified to provide a secret chamber. The young Spode was obviously some kind of courier. This space was just big enough to take the 35mm film cassette but the alteration deprived the fixture of a quarter of an inch of screw thread. It weakened its hold enough for a little extra exertion – shooting, or more probably turning over sheet after sheet of paper for the photography – to cause it to come loose. Well, people always made some mistake or other. ‘Pip,’ said Douglas, ‘there was a Leica camera, and four thin metal legs…’

‘A copying stand. Yes, that’s the simplest way to do a job like this. The legs screw into a heavy ring, and that clips to the lens mount. In that way the camera is held exactly the right distance away from the subject for the supplementary lens in use…focusing is extremely critical at such short distances –’

Douglas reached forward and touched his friend’s arm to cut the explanation short. ‘If you saw this copying stand and so on, Pip, would you know that it was intended for such work? Or could it be used for other purposes?’

‘No, you can’t use the copying stand and supplementary lens for any other purpose.’

‘I see,’ said Douglas. He turned back to the window. The electric kettle boiled. Pip made tea in a tiny red enamel teapot. It was strong tea, the strongest Douglas had tasted for a long time.

‘Are you sure you’re all right, Douglas?’

‘Why?’ said Douglas, still staring at rain hitting the wet slates. There was a curious feeling of isolation living up here where the only view was of the sky and other people’s rooftops. Douglas decided he liked it; it gave him a chance to catch his breath. Perhaps old Pip was luckier than he knew.

‘Well this is obviously something you want to keep to yourself,’ said Pip, ‘so it’s not a police matter. I know you too well to think that you’re on the take from one of the mobs. And that only leaves one thing.’

‘And what’s that?’ Douglas held tight to the cup of tea so that it warmed the palms of his hands. He wished his father was alive. The memory came suddenly and without warning, as it had done at other crisis times in his life. He tried to dismiss the thought but it persisted.

‘You’re working against the bloody Herberts,’ said Pip softly.

‘I can smell more fog coming,’ said Douglas. ‘People are burning so much wood and rubbish to keep warm. That’s what does it.’

‘Tobacco you mean,’ said Pip. ‘I remember a time when only men smoked. Now I see kids and old ladies puffing away, even at the fantastic prices you have to pay for cigarettes.’

‘Solace,’ said Douglas. ‘People who are cold and wet and miserable get a lot of comfort from it.’ He could remember little else of his father, a huge man with a cheerful laugh, and clothes that always smelled of pipe tobacco.

‘But it’s the Herberts too. Every damn one of them seems to have a bloody great cigar in his mouth.’

‘The soldiers get harsh punishments for drunkenness,’ said Douglas. It was the sort of conversation he’d had before many times, and while he spoke his mind was partly occupied with the business of the film.

‘You are, aren’t you? You are working against the Herberts?’ Douglas didn’t reply. He craned his neck to see down into the street where a coalman was leaning forward slowly tilting a sack of coal over his shoulder so that the pieces crashed to the ground through the circular hole in the pavement, and into the coal cellar. In spite of the rain, the man and his sack disappeared behind a cloud of coal-dust. Douglas continued to watch.

Pip said, ‘You have it your way, Douglas. But your secrets are safe with me.’

Douglas shook his head. ‘No secret is safe with anyone.’ He kept going over and over the same thing in his mind. Huth’s ignorance he could understand. If Hesse, and the Abwehr people, had taken possession of young Spode’s Leica and the copying stand and the supplementary lens and so on, why didn’t they realize that the documents had been copied by photography? Why were they still asking Mayhew about papers? ‘It’s better you know as little as possible, Pip,’ Douglas told him. ‘If the worst comes to the worst tell them you developed a film for me. It’s easier for me to invent lies and excuses.’

‘I’ll just say I was drunk,’ said Pip.

And then suddenly it came to Douglas. The Abwehr were every bit as cunning and devious as any of the rest of them. They did know about the negatives – and that was why they were still talking to Mayhew – but by keeping it a secret they would be able to verify, to some extent, the bona fides of the other side. They’d talk to Mayhew, and anyone else about documents but they were waiting for someone to say the magic words ‘35mm film negatives’. Douglas drank the hot tea greedily. Then he switched off the lightbox, rolled the dried film back into a cassette and put it in his pocket.

‘Here, that’s the way to get scratches,’ objected his friend.

‘I’m not planning to do exhibition prints for the Royal Photographic Society exhibition,’ said Douglas, using a favourite remark of Pip’s. He drained his tea and put the cup on the window-ledge. ‘Thanks for everything, Pip.’ In the street below, the coalman had the circular cast-iron cover in his hand as he kicked the last few pieces of coal down into the dark cellar.