Faked Passports (55 page)

Two trains going north rolled in during the morning and both waited in the station for the best part of an hour before proceeding further, while the troops with which they were packed got out to stretch their legs and crowd the little buffet. Gregory's awful state, the pain behind his eyes and the evil taste in his mouth to some extent took his mind off his impatience to get started on his journey; which was just as well, since it was
nearly midday when the official came to fetch him. Many of the other people in the waiting-room went out on to the platform with them and a long train slowly chugged its way in.

Only one coach was allocated to the civilian passengers so there was a free fight among them for seats and many had to stand in the corridor, although some of them were proceeding upon journeys which would occupy a day and a night—or more. As Gregory had a military voucher he was able to get in with the soldiers. No sleepers were available but he considered himself lucky to secure a corner seat in one of the roomy carriages, which, owing to the broader gauge of the Russian railroads, were much larger than those on the railways in Western Europe. An hour passed before the train started and when it did it chugged out in such a hesitant manner that it seemed as though the driver had really not made up his mind if he intended to take it any further.

Gregory's companions were a mixed lot. A few of them had pleasant, open faces but the majority were almost brutish types and obviously conscripted from among the totally uneducated land-workers. They did not seem unhappy and apparently the simplest witticism could raise a laugh among them. It soon transpired that Gregory was deaf and dumb; a fact that provided matter for some crude fun, as he could judge from the way they looked at him. But it was not meant unkindly and after a few minutes they soon left him to himself, which was all that he desired.

The early coming of night soon shut out the dreary, snow-covered landscape. The train rumbled on, its top speed being not more than thirty miles an hour, and it halted from time to time for periods of from twenty minutes to an hour and a half without any apparent reason. Gregory made a snack meal with the soldiers, who exchanged some of their iron rations for a part of his biscuits and chocolate, then he dozed for a good portion of the night.

Twice during the following day the train stopped at stations where they were able to get hot soup or the substitute coffee and other food from buffets in addition to the meagre rations issued to the troops; and as Gregory had enough money to stand treat he became extremely popular with his companions. Since he had now slept as much as he was able the second night proved much worse than the first, particularly as he was intolerably tired of sitting in one position hour after hour in the crowded, smelly carriage; but early next morning the train at last steamed
into Leningrad. It had taken him forty-two hours to accomplish the seven-hundred-and-fifty-mile journey which, including the many halts, worked out at an average speed of eighteen miles per hour. Although it had proved a dreary and wearisome experience he felt that that was not at all bad going for a Russian train and that the railway people probably considered they were doing wonders to help on the Soviet war effort.

Gregory could not read the signs on the platform but he had no doubt at all that it was Leningrad since the station was a great terminus with a dozen or more platforms, where everyone left the train. Having arrived there he felt considerably easier in his mind. Britain was not at war with the Soviet Union so for an hour or two he could reassume his own identity without fear of running into immediate trouble. It is true that he had no Soviet visa on the British passport which had been faked for him by the German Foreign Office, but he did not propose to try to cross any frontiers for the time being so there was no purpose for which he was likely to be called upon to produce it.

He was just one inconspicuous person among two or three million who thronged the streets of the capital of the old Russian empire. Every other person that he could see was clad in some sort of fur—lamb, goat, seal, pony or rabbit—so there was nothing in his appearance to mark him as a foreigner and, as he was both extremely dirty and still wearing a beard, he did not look the least like an Englishman who normally wore clothes cut in Savile Row.

His first job was to find the British Consulate but he was much too wary to make his inquiries at the Intourist Bureau in the station, which was there for the convenience of foreign travellers. Instead he walked straight out of the station and along a broad boulevard.

It was only just after six o'clock in the morning so the streets were still dark, but there were plenty of people moving in them. Gregory waited for a few moments under a big lamp-standard, watching the passing crowd, until he saw a man who was better-dressed than the rest coming along. He then tackled him in French, German and English. The man did not understand any of these languages, so this first attempt was a failure, but at his third trial a tall young man in a smart black-leather jerkin responded with a cheerful smile and answered him in halting German. Gregory explained what he wanted. The young man did not know the whereabouts of the British Consulate but he led Gregory down the street to a rank which contained three
ancient taxis and, after a voluble discussion in which all the drivers took part, he was put in the leading vehicle and driven away.

He knew quite well that, as a British Secret Agent, he had no right whatever to involve the Consul in his affairs but, strictly speaking, he was no longer a British Secret Agent. His original mission had been given him through an unofficial channel and he had completed it early in November, so for the best part of three months he had been off the record. That was to some extent begging the question, but as he could not speak Russian and did not know a soul in Leningrad he felt that he had a very adequate excuse for going to the Consul.

The taxi pulled up in front of an old, stone-faced building in the Krasnaya Ulitza. Gregory got out and, displaying some loose change in the palm of his hand, trusted to the honesty of the cabman to take the fare due.

A Russian dvornik who was standing at the door eyed Gregory suspiciously as he entered the building and went upstairs to the first-floor flat in which the Consulate was situated. His ring at the door was answered by a Russian maid, who smiled brightly at him but informed him in hesitant English that the Consul did not live there and the Vice-Consul, Mr. Hills, was not yet up.

On Gregory's asking if he could write a note she led him across a small hall straight into an office, where he scribbled a few lines which ran:

“
In return for breakfast this morning I can only offer you lunch at Boodle's on some future date, but as I have a train to catch we must do our business over the eggs and bacon.
”

This cryptic message gave nothing away but it conveyed two facts. One, that the writer had urgent business to transact. Two, that as he was a member of one of London's most exclusive clubs he was a person of some standing and therefore his business was presumably of importance.

A few minutes later the maid returned and led him along to a sitting-room, where a tall, beaky-nosed, fair-haired man was standing in a dressing-gown. He had evidently only just got out of bed and he regarded his dirty, bearded visitor with a by no means friendly eye; but Gregory apologised with his most charming smile for having got him up so early and without waiting for an invitation to do so began to remove his furs.

“In the ordinary way I should have sent the girl to tell you to wait until the office opens,” Mr. Hills confessed, “but, quite frankly, your note intrigued me. One doesn't often receive an invitation to lunch at Boodle's in this godforsaken city. Not that I am likely to be able to accept it until the war is over, but it was a clever way of making me curious to find out what you want at once.”

“As you've probably guessed,” Gregory said, “I'm a British Agent.”

Hills frowned. “Then you know quite well that you ought not to be here.”

“Dont worry. I'm not being hunted by the Ogpu—at least, not for the moment—and I don't want you to hide me, or anything of that kind, but I had to come to you because several people's lives are hanging on my time and I can't afford to waste a moment. I want to get rid of this beard and I'd be immensely grateful for a bath. Will you be a good chap and save me a precious half-hour by listening to my story while I'm shaving and tidying up?”

“Well if it's as urgent as all that …” Hills smiled, and leading Gregory to the bathroom he produced clean towels, scissors and a razor.

As Gregory went to work to make himself a little more presentable he gave the Vice-Consul an outline of his doings in the last few months, then he passed him the pencilled translation of the typescript that had come out of Goering's safe.

“Amazing!” muttered the beaky-nosed Vice-Consul when he had finished reading. “And you're quite right about this thing. It proves up to the hilt just what so many of us have been afraid of. Germany never meant to fight over Czechoslovakia or Poland but, if she had to, her game was to make the war as short as possible, and localise the conflict; get a negotiated peace as soon as she could, then gobble up another slice of Europe a few months later.”

“That's it,” Gregory agreed, “and the devil of it is, the plan still holds. There's a strong party among the Nazi leaders who're for changing it now that a major war is actually on. They want to overrun Belgium and Holland in order to have a slap at Britain, or to go down into Rumania and collar the oil; but the really clever boys are for keeping a stalemate going and their Army and Air Force virtually intact. Goering himself told me that and, although he didn't say it, there's no doubt now that he's hoping that Britain and France will get bored with the war
and worried by its financial strain; so that through the mediation of Roosevelt or Mussolini they'll agree to a round-table conference. Hitler will just give way a little bit but hang on to most of what he's got and after a nice breather be all ready to jump a new and bigger claim this time next year.”

“Well, what d'you want me to do?” Hills asked.

“As time is such a vital factor and I can't speak Russian there are several ways in which you can help me,” Gregory replied and, over breakfast, he went into details.

When they had finished the meal they went into Hills' office and Gregory sat down to a typewriter on which he drafted a letter in German. It was headed: “Karinhall, 27.11.39,” addressed to Marshal Voroshilov, Commissar for Defence of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and ran:

“
My dear Marshal
,

“
This is to introduce to you Colonel-Baron von Lutz. The Colonel-Baron is not a member of the Nazi Party and unfortunately some of his criticisms have given great offence to certain of our Party Chiefs, particularly Herr Himmler. The affair will, I hope, blow over in due course but it is most desirable that the Colonel-Baron and three friends of his should leave Germany for a time
.

“
As he is an old war comrade of mine, and a very dear personal friend, I should naturally afford him my protection; since there is no question at all of his being a traitor to the Fatherland; but I do not wish to enter into a quarrel with my colleagues if this can be avoided
.

“
He is a most able officer so it occurred to me to send him to you as he may prove of assistance should the Finns maintain their resistance to the Soviet demands and it becomes necessary to launch a campaign against them
.

“
If you would receive him kindly and enable him to arrange accommodation in the Soviet Union for the other members of his party, which includes two ladies
—
or, if they wish, give them facilities to travel to one of the Scandinavian States
—
I should consider it a personal kindness
.

“
Heartfelt greetings and, in the event of a campaign, all success to your Arms.
”

Having addressed an envelope for the letter Gregory took from his pocket Goering's original letter of introduction to Wuolijoki.

With great care he proceeded to trace the signature, Hermann Goering, in pencil, again and again upon a thin sheet of paper. Then taking a pen he wrote over each signature until, after a hundred or more trials, he was satisfied that he could do this with a bold, flowing hand. He next traced one more signature on a clean piece of paper, blacked its back with his pencil and, writing over the name, got a faint rubbing of it at the bottom of the letter. When he had inked this in it would have taken an expert in caligraphy to tell that it was a forgery.

Having completed his preparations he asked Hills to accompany him to the station for Helsinki, as the line to Finland now terminated at the Russian rail-head on the Karelian Isthmus, and the Vice-Consul would be able to inquire about trains for him and see him off. It was still only nine o'clock in the morning when they left the house and Gregory, bathed and clean-shaven once more, felt that in the last two and a half hours he had accomplished some most satisfactory work.

They visited several shops, in which Hills purchased a fibre suitcase, shaving-tackle and other necessities for Gregory, then proceeded to the station, where no difficulties arose. Gregory's railway warrant was made out to carry him to the Soviet G.H.Q. and as the Karelian Isthmus was the major front of the war, which was raging less than seventy miles away, trains were leaving for it with troops or supplies every half-hour. After seeing Gregory into his carriage and having received his heartiest thanks Hills departed. Ten minutes later, just as day was breaking, the train moved out.

For the first few miles there was little of interest to be seen; the creeks around which Leningrad is built were frozen over and once they had left the city behind the panorama was the same snow-covered landscape that Gregory had known for many days, except that it was broken by many more buildings. The train travelled no faster than the one on which he had come south from Kandalaksha and it halted just as frequently; but after an hour it reached the pre-war Russo-Finnish frontier and half an hour later entered the southern part of the Mannerheim Line from which the Finns had been forced back.