Cover

Principal Characters

Richard Prince: Lincolnshire detective superintendent recruited to MI6, code name Agent Laertes

Aliases in Denmark:

Hans Olsen (from Esbjerg)

Jesper Holm (first ID in Copenhagen)

Peter Rasmussen (second ID in Copenhagen)

Ulrich Leuschner (German identity)

Pierre Breton (French slave labourer at Peenemünde)

Hanne Jakobsen: Agent Osric

Otto Knudsen: Danish businessman, code name Agent Horatio

Sophia von Naundorf: British agent in Berlin, code name Agent Blackbird

England

Tom Gilbey: Senior MI6 officer, recruits and runs Prince

Hendrie/Douglas: British intelligence officer, introduces Prince to Gilbey

Roland Bentley: MI6, Hendrie’s boss

Sir Roland Pearson: Downing Street intelligence chief

Lord Swalcliffe: Government scientific adviser

Frank Hamilton: Air vice marshal, head of RAF intelligence branch

Tim Carter: Wing commander, RAF intelligence branch

Long: From the Ministry

Wolfgang Scholz: ‘Andrew Martin’, German spy, code name Poacher

Lillian Abbott: Fascist in Peascombe St Mary

Oberleutnant Hofmann: U-boat officer

Llewellyn Tindall: SOE Danish section

Robert Webster: Lieutenant colonel, head of SOE Danish section

Greta Poulsen: Secretary to Tindall at SOE Danish section

Martin: MI6 trainer

Lieutenant Jack Shaw: Royal Navy escort

Bert Trent: Skipper, Northern Hawk

Sid Oliver: First mate, Northern Hawk

Jane Prince: Richard Prince’s late wife (d.1940)

Grace Prince: Richard Prince’s late daughter (d.1940)

Henry Prince: Richard Prince’s son

Evelyn: Richard Prince’s sister-in-law

Treslake: MI5/6 watcher

Group Captain Hanson: Commanding officer at RAF Tempsford

Flight Lieutenant Green: Halifax pilot

Prudence: Woman at safe house

Denmark

Niels: Danish resistance, Esbjerg

Marius: Danish resistance, Odense

Egon: Danish resistance on ferry

Jensen: Cycle shop owner

Browning: Ferdinand Rudolf von Buhler, German diplomat

Margrethe: Danish police officer at Kastrup airport

Jens: Danish police officer at Polititorvet HQ

Peder: Sailor on ferry to Rostock

Julius Oppenheim: Doctor in Copenhagen

George Weston: MI6 Stockholm (Sweden)

Germany

Bruno Bergmann: Horatio’s contact in Berlin

Albert Kampmann: Luftwaffe Oberst in Berlin, alias: Kurt

Frau Henlein: Old lady on train

Hans Hinkler: Waiter at Das Bayerischer Haus

Rudolf Hoffmann: Owner of Das Bayerischer Haus

Gruppenführer von Helldorf: President of the police in Berlin

Manfred Lange: Gestapo officer

Gunther Frank: Kriminaldirektor, Berlin Kripo

August: German communist at Neuengamme and Peenemünde

Émile: French slave labourer at Peenemünde

Alain: French slave labourer at Peenemünde

Karl-Heinrich von Naundorf: SS Brigadeführer, husband of Sophia

Konrad: SS Brigadeführer, friend of Karl-Heinrich von Naundorf

Chapter 1

Lincolnshire, September 1942

‘Come up now, get a move on… we can’t hang around here forever!’

It was Hofmann, the young Oberleutnant who’d been in charge of him with ill-disguised resentment ever since they’d left Kiel three long days before. For most of that time he’d been confined to a cramped bunk area next to the captain’s tiny cabin, not allowed any contact with the rest of the crew. When he was half asleep the previous night, he’d overheard a half-whispered conversation between the Oberleutnant and his captain.

‘We should be hunting Allied ships, Kapitänleutnant, not acting like a taxi service.’

‘Stop complaining, Hofmann. We have our orders.’

‘I know, Kapitänleutnant, but this is a waste of our time. How long do these people last in England before they’re caught? One day… two? That’s assuming he even makes it ashore.’

When he finally reached the top of the conning tower, he was surprised how near to the coast the U-boat had surfaced. Dawn was still a good hour away and there wasn’t much moonlight, but nor was it cloudy, so he had a reasonable view of the land, his first ever sight of England: the blurred silhouette of a cluster of buildings behind what looked like sand dunes and the very faint outline of what he took to be a church spire beyond them. He was relieved he wouldn’t have to paddle the dinghy as far as he’d feared, but he was concerned the U-boat could have been spotted from this distance and they’d be waiting for him.

He was helped – more like pushed and hauled – out of the conning tower and onto the deck. The dinghy had already been launched and was held tight by a rope, his rucksack and suitcase strapped to the little wooden bench. Hofmann took him by the elbow, his tone now less hostile. Perhaps he was relieved the mission he so clearly resented was over. Or maybe he was just feeling sorry for him. How long do these people last in England… one day… two?

‘You’ll climb down this rope ladder and start paddling straight away. We can only stay on the surface for another minute or two, and you want to be well away from us when we submerge.’

He nodded, well aware of his instructions.

‘And remember, there’s a strong north-to-south current here. Concentrate on rowing hard to the shore, and let the current take you south. That’s the village called Saltfleet over there: you remember it from your map?’

He nodded again. He was beginning to feel quite sick, between the nerves and the swell.

‘You’ll need to get a move on. With some luck you should land where you’re meant to, just north of Mablethorpe, seven miles due south of here. The cutters for the barbed wire are in the box at the front of the dinghy. Remember, as soon as you land, release the air valves on the dinghy and push it out to sea. It should go out with the tide and sink. Good luck.’

Hofmann hurriedly shook his hand and guided him to the rope ladder. He hesitated, but he wasn’t sure why. In his training they impressed on him how important it was to get away from the U-boat quickly. You don’t want to be dragged down by it, do you?

The village of Peascombe St Mary was arranged around a series of narrow lanes winding through the fields between the Lincolnshire Wolds and the North Sea coast. It was adjacent to its smaller neighbour, Peascombe St Thomas, a hotchpotch of ploughed fields separating the two. Between them, the villages mustered barely five hundred souls, though they did have the comfort of two churches and the convenience of a railway station at which the occasional train stopped en route to either Mablethorpe or Louth. Although smaller, Peascombe St Thomas did have a pub, the Ship Inn, whose improbably low ceilings, protruding beams and dimly lit interior were proof, as far as the landlord was concerned, of its origins in the fourteenth century.

Peascombe St Mary was just a few miles north of Mablethorpe and a mile inland from the sea, which lay to the east. Apart from the blackout, barbed wire on the beach and a few troops billeted in the village, the war had not made too much of an intrusion. True, a dozen or so villagers had been conscripted, but many more were exempt, as farming was a protected occupation. The nation, after all, did need to eat and the two villages adequately met their obligations in that regard.

Peascombe St Mary was a place where people minded their own business: for reasons locals didn’t bother to dwell on, it was not one of those villages that thrived on gossip. That was regarded as the preserve of folk who lived in Mablethorpe and other metropolitan centres.

That preference for privacy could well have been one of the attractions Peascombe St Mary held for Lillian Abbott, a lady perhaps in her early fifties who’d moved to the village in the early 1930s when she found employment as a schoolteacher in Mablethorpe.

Having lived in the village for just a dozen years, she was still regarded as a newcomer, but she was a newcomer who understood the unspoken rules: she kept to herself, she minded her own business and she never indulged in gossip.

Villagers were aware that she’d been widowed after her husband was killed at Passchendaele in 1917 and had no children. Before moving to the area she’d lived in London for a while, and possibly Birmingham, though people couldn’t be sure, and of course it was not something they’d discuss.

Lillian Abbott lived in a small cottage on Pasture Lane on the eastern edge of the village, close to the coast and with the sound of the sea ever present. To one side of her was an outbuilding belonging to a neighbouring farm, and she was separated from the house on the other side by an unused paddock where six-foot-high weeds shot up through the cinder and provided a welcome curtain to add to her privacy. Behind her cottage were fields, through which a narrow track led to the beach.

In the early hours of the previous Saturday morning, she had left her cottage before dawn. She had received the message four days before: Not before Saturday, not after Wednesday. Wait there from three to six every morning until he arrives.

That message had terrified her out of her wits. She couldn’t sleep, lying motionless in bed, too frightened to move, bitterly regretting having been persuaded to do something against her better judgement years previously. She’d spent the years since first hoping and then assuming it had all been forgotten, leading as inconspicuous a life as possible: moving to a part of the country that felt close to the end of the earth, visiting the village church often enough for any absences not to be remarked upon.

He’d not turned up on the Saturday morning, nor on Sunday, and when it passed five o’clock on the Monday and she’d only have to wait another hour, she even allowed herself to think it was possible he might not arrive at all. If that was the case, she’d leave the area. She’d find another job easily enough and move somewhere they wouldn’t find her. One of those cities that had been bombed. There were plenty of them.

She was crouched behind a shrub just below the beach in the area where she’d been instructed to wait. Just in case anyone questioned her, she’d laid a trap to catch rabbits. It wasn’t much of a trap, and predictably no rabbits had been tempted by it, but with some luck it would allow her to explain her unlikely presence there in the early hours of the morning.

He appeared in front of her like an apparition. She’d assumed she’d hear him approaching – footsteps, perhaps, or breathing. But one moment she was crouched behind the shrub wondering what she would change her name to, and the next a wet and exhausted man was standing in front of her, a rucksack on his back and a dripping suitcase in his hand. Her first thought was how ridiculous the suitcase looked and how it would be impossible to explain away trudging across the fields with a man carrying one.

‘Could you tell me how to get to Lincoln?’ He had a strong German accent. She hadn’t expected it to be quite so marked.

‘Go to the village and by the church you can catch a bus.’ She couldn’t believe how farcical this exchange sounded, but she understood they needed to identify each other correctly. One more question from him, one more reply from her.

‘My name is Andrew Martin. I am from Liver Pool.’ Liverpool as if it were two words, with a long gap in between.

‘I haven’t visited Liverpool since I was a child.’ They nodded at each other and he smiled. She realised she was trembling. ‘We’d better hurry. Follow me – the path is narrow. Is that case absolutely necessary?’

‘Four days ago, you say?’

The man with the hint of a Scottish accent nodded. He’d deftly ignored more than one invitation to give his full name and say exactly who he worked for, and was now clearly irritated at having to answer the same question yet again.

From the top pocket of his dinner jacket, the Chief Constable, the man who’d asked the question, removed a handkerchief so long he gave the impression of a magician performing a trick. He wiped his face and then ran the handkerchief under his collar, causing his bow tie to become crooked.

‘Well I’d have thought that if he came ashore four days ago, he’d be in your neck of the woods by now.’ He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his large stomach, his smug look indicating the answer was an obvious one.

‘And where would that be?’ The Scottish accent was a bit more pronounced now.

‘Where would what be?’

‘My neck of the woods, as you put it. You seem to know where it is.’

The Chief Constable hesitated. It was apparent the other man outranked him in more ways than one, even though he knew next to nothing about him. It was Scotland Yard’s fault: they’d insisted he meet him, even ordering him to interrupt an important Masonic Lodge dinner to do so. You need to see him as a matter of urgency. Just don’t pry too much. Answer his questions rather than ask too many of your own. That’s how they work.

‘A figure of speech, that’s all. Obviously, we’ll do all we can to help, but in my experience – going back very many years, I can assure you – criminals do not hang around the scene of their crimes.’

‘That may well be the case with house burglars and the like, Chief Constable. In this case, no crime has been committed per se – at least not in the sense you deal with on a day-to-day basis.’

‘Even so, I doubt he’d have stayed in the area for long. I’d be most surprised if he was even still in Lincolnshire. Assuming he actually came ashore, of course; we can’t even be certain of that. There are no witnesses, after all, and the shore patrol saw nothing—’

‘No, Chief Constable. The shore patrol saw no one, but they didn’t see nothing, as you put it. They found the barbed wire had been cut on the Town Beach, just north of Mablethorpe. Plus the contact in London received the correct coded message to say he’d arrived.’

The door opened and a man hurried into the room, muttering what could possibly have been an apology had it been at all clear before taking a seat alongside the Chief Constable, opposite the Scotsman.

‘Ah… at last. This is Detective Superintendent Prince. Richard Prince. I was telling you about him. Perhaps, for his benefit, you could tell us again about the purpose of your visit?’

The man caught the gaze of Detective Superintendent Prince. He was notably younger than he’d expected, probably no more than his mid-thirties, and with what his wife would insist on describing as matinee idol looks. He certainly had a presence about him, and a purposeful stare. He sat quite still, with a very slight air of superiority about him. The Chief Constable had already told him Richard Prince was the best detective on his force – indeed, by far the best one he had ever worked with.

‘Very well then, Prince: you will of course respect the very confidential nature of what I am about to say.’

The Scotsman leaned forward in his chair, and as he did so, his face caught the light above him, showing the ruddy, lined appearance of someone who’d spent a considerable time out of doors.

‘Some eight months ago, we arrested a Dutch national in south London. Let’s call him Laurens. We’d been on his track and knew he’d been sent over as a Nazi spy, specifically to be a point of contact between other Nazi agents in this country and their controllers back in Germany: a radioman. It has been our policy – where appropriate – to turn such spies to our advantage. Where we think it is feasible, we offer them a choice: they can stand trial for espionage and if found guilty expect the inevitable death sentence. Or they can allow themselves to become double agents, to work for us. We don’t offer this to every Nazi spy, and it’s not without its risks. But in the case of Laurens, it made sense.

‘In the early part of the war, the Germans did send over quite a number of agents, but they were a pretty second-rate bunch and we’re confident we captured all of them. Since late 1940, early 1941, the number being sent over has dropped off noticeably, and in the eight months that Laurens has been with us, no agents have been in contact with him.

‘We were beginning to think that maybe he’d pulled a fast one on us – by which I mean that despite our best endeavours he’d somehow managed to slip a warning signal in one of his messages to the Germans. In fact, we were considering giving up on him and handing him over for trial. Then one week ago, he was contacted by Berlin. An agent called Poacher would be arriving in England in the next few days. A U-boat would drop him off the Lincolnshire coast, and once safely ashore, Laurens would receive a telephone call with an agreed code word. He was then to let Berlin know Poacher had landed safely and wait for him to arrive in London.

‘Laurens was told Poacher would reach London within forty-eight hours of his initial telephone call, at which point he’d contact him and they’d meet at a pub called the Thornhill Arms. It’s on the Caledonian Road, only a few minutes’ walk from King’s Cross, which is the mainline station you’d arrive at from Lincolnshire, so that all fits. Laurens was then to bring Poacher back to his house in Clapham, keep him there for a few days, make sure he had enough money and the right documentation – ration cards and the like – and drive him down to Portsmouth. We think he may have a contact there, so it was essential for us to let him get there. If there is indeed a Nazi cell operating in our largest naval port, we’d rather like Poacher to introduce us to it.’

The man with the Scottish accent paused and looked at Prince, who’d clearly absorbed the information in a way the Chief Constable hadn’t. He smiled, indicating he was finding the story interesting rather than one he felt he had to pick holes in.

‘And Poacher has disappeared?’ He was well-spoken, his voice strong.

‘Why that presumption, Prince?’

‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be visiting us, would you?’

‘We know Poacher must have arrived in the early hours of Monday morning because Laurens received a telephone call that lunchtime with the correct code word to indicate his safe arrival. And at low tide that evening the shore patrol spotted a section of barbed wire that had been cut on the beach just north of Mablethorpe. Do you know the place?’

‘I do, actually.’

‘The actual point was at the northern end of what I understand is called the Town Beach. On the other side of the beach are sand hills and then open fields. The assumption has to be that Poacher landed on the early-morning low tide; the subsequent high tide then washed away his footprints and whatever he landed in. Since then – nothing. Not a whisper.’

‘He’s probably miles away by now. I told our—’

Prince interrupted his Chief Constable. ‘There’s not much around there apart from fields and sand dunes – and it’s very open, nowhere for him to hide. But I don’t think he’d have got far. He must have had some help; he’s most likely to be in a safe house.’

‘We need to find him. Can’t have a German spy wandering around, can we? Until now we’ve been reluctant to do anything that would attract attention. We gave him the benefit of the doubt: perhaps he was exhausted after coming ashore, maybe he needed to keep his head down for longer than planned, possibly his journey to London was not as straightforward as he’d hoped. It’s even possible he was injured, who knows? But it’s Thursday now, he’s been in this country for the best part of four days and we want to know where the hell he is, not to put too fine a point on it. My sense is that for whatever reason, he has not got very far. He may well be too frightened to move from his safe house. But we need to be careful; we don’t want word getting out that a Nazi spy is on the loose, do we?’

There was a long silence. From somewhere in the room a clock ticked noisily; the only other sound was the Chief Constable clearing his throat. Richard Prince stood up and walked over to a large framed map slightly askew on the oak panelled wall. The man with the Scottish accent joined him, the Chief Constable eventually moving in behind them. Prince studied the map carefully before speaking.

‘There are two obvious ways out of the Mablethorpe area: by road or by rail. Even by road it’s a long way to anywhere and I’d have thought it risky. The area’s teeming with army camps and RAF stations; there are roadblocks and patrols everywhere. He’d be exposing himself for far too long going that way. You say you think the plan was to arrive in London by train?’

‘Only because it makes sense with the pub on the Caledonian Road being the rendezvous point.’

‘It would certainly be wise for him to use the rail network. There’s a station at Mablethorpe, on what they call the Mablethorpe Loop. There are four or five trains a day in either direction. He could either have gone north to Louth and from there connected to a mainline station such as Lincoln, or – which I think more likely – gone south to Willoughby, where at least one train a day connects with the Cleethorpes to King’s Cross service.’

‘How long’s the journey?’

‘From Mablethorpe to Willoughby? A quarter of an hour.’

‘And what would security be like?’

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