The Spy with 29 Names (9 page)

And now Pujol had a passport. It was a first and important step, using guile and imagination – his key strengths – to get past a seemingly impassable bureaucratic hurdle. He was soon to use them many times over in the face of similar obstacles.

Away from Spain, the world war had moved into a more active phase: over the previous months France, Holland, Belgium, Denmark and Norway had fallen to Hitler. Pujol began to link his ideas about leaving Spain with a desire to help Britain, then standing alone against the Nazis, in whatever way he could. He was approaching a Rubicon, the crossing of which would determine the course of the rest of his life. How great a role was played in his decision by the shadow of his father, urging him to act from beyond the grave?

Pujol was no hesitating Hamlet, however. In January 1941 he made his first move: an approach to the British in Madrid offering to work for them.

The details of this first contact are hazy: Pujol later claimed that he had gone to the British himself. The MI5 account of his story, however, written just after the war and based on the interrogations Pujol underwent on his arrival in London, states clearly that his wife went to the British Embassy on his behalf. Pujol’s domestic situation when he wrote his autobiography, in the mid-1980s, after more than thirty years of estrangement from Araceli, can account for the discrepancy. What Araceli told the British on her husband’s behalf, however, remains unclear. Was he actually offering to spy for them, as the MI5 version has it? Or was he thinking more in terms of a job with the BBC, as Pujol later claimed?

‘I wasn’t thinking about spying at the beginning. Not at all.’

Whatever Araceli’s exact message was, the response from the British was a resounding ‘no’.

Questions over Pujol’s motives and reasoning, particularly at this crucial first stage of his career, have never quite gone away. In his autobiography he would later say that his ideals, his father’s moral values, drove him to help Britain in her time of greatest need. Fascism appeared all-conquering in Europe, and Pujol, who had suffered under both communism and fascism during the Spanish Civil War, was determined to do what he could to stop it.

Is that believable? There are inconsistencies in Pujol’s story, as well as details that differ between his own account and the MI5 version.
In his memoirs, Desmond Bristow said that Pujol justified his desire to work against the Nazis because once, while in France, his brother had witnessed atrocities being carried out by the Gestapo. Years later, Bristow learned that Pujol’s brother had never crossed into France, and could never have seen such an event. Much of this, however, can be seen merely as an attempt to give believable explanations to the British – not to dupe them, but to convince them of his loyalties. Pujol had a subtler understanding of lies, where an untruth, on occasion, may be told to get closer to the real truth.

But what was driving Pujol? What of his motives? He himself later wrote that his plans at this stage were ‘fairly confused’.

He thought about becoming a spy because he was a dreamer. But unlike many dreamers, he was also practical, a problem-solver and someone who could play the system – attributes that had helped him survive the Civil War. His imagination conjured up the ideas, the visions, but his guile meant that he could navigate his way through the world in order to make those dreams manifest. In time he would make an excellent double agent, the most important in history. For the time being, his mind filled with stories from films and novels, espionage seemed a perfect way to combine an urge to get out of Spain with a general desire to do some good – however vague that idea might be.

Later he said that the possibility of espionage emerged in his mind as a result of his initial rejection. The British might not want him, he thought, but what about the Germans? If they took him on in some capacity, then perhaps it would be easier to return to the British and persuade them that he was serious: he could spy for them from inside German diplomatic circles. He was stubborn, and his
amour propre
had been stung by the rejection. It seemed an obvious step to take.

This time he made the approach himself. After putting through a number of calls to the German Embassy, insisting that they listen to him, after several weeks he was eventually told to visit the Café Lyon on Calle Alcalá at 4.30 the following afternoon, where a man wearing a light-coloured suit and with a raincoat over his arm would be waiting for him.

It was February 1941. Pujol gave his name as Señor López.

Pujol had been exposed to enough fascist rhetoric while serving on the Francoist side in the Civil War. Now he studied the Nazi version
of it, learning the set phrases and formulae, before heading off for his café rendezvous. The German who greeted him wore a double-breasted grey suit and spoke perfect, unaccented Spanish. Blond-haired and with blue eyes – a ‘classic Aryan’ in Pujol’s mind – he gave his name as ‘Federico’. In fact he was Friedrich Knappe-Ratey, a member of the German Abwehr working under Karl-Erich Kühlenthal.

Pujol later remembered the first meeting between himself and Knappe as being a little strained. Getting into character, he started ranting in the manner that he had perfected, talking of a ‘New Europe’ under the glory of the Führer and the Third Reich. Knappe was happy to hear of his enthusiasm, but kept trying to bring Pujol round to what he was actually offering them. Finally, Pujol said he wanted to work for them, inventing off the cuff some ‘contacts’ in diplomatic circles with access to ‘information’. Knappe said he would talk it over with his superiors, and get back to him.

Knappe was friendlier at their next meeting, two days later at the Café Correos. Pujol took it as a good sign: he knew that everything depended on him being able to convince the Germans that he was genuine. Knappe told him, however, that they were not interested in extending their network of collaborators inside Spain. If Pujol really wanted to be of use to them, he would have to get himself to Britain.

Pujol did not bat an eyelid and accepted the challenge. Britain had, after all, been in his mind as a possible destination in his attempts to leave Francoist Spain. But he knew that such a move was highly complicated – not only because of the war, but because of the paperwork that he would need from both the Spanish and British authorities: he had a passport, but the Spanish would have to provide an exit visa with permission to travel to Britain, while the British would have to issue a visa allowing him entry. Knappe made it clear that Pujol was on his own, that he would have to sort these matters out for himself.

Over the next few weeks they met several times in the cafés of Madrid – the Aquarium, the Maison Dorée and others – as Pujol’s imagination produced another story. He had a contact in the section of the police that dealt with currency scams, he said. This policeman wanted him to go to Lisbon, and then to London on his behalf, chasing a supposed lead. That way, Pujol told Knappe, he would be able to get the right paperwork. But the Germans did not like the sound of
this complicated story. He should try to get an accreditation with a newspaper and get sent to London as a journalist, they said.

Meanwhile, behind the Germans’ backs, Pujol attempted to get a visa through legitimate means from the British Consulate. He was told that none was likely to be forthcoming.

There were further meetings with Knappe, each man sticking to his position, Pujol with his story of working for the police, the German insisting on journalism being the better route. Eventually they came to a compromise: Pujol should leave for Portugal, where he was to continue his attempts to get the right paperwork for travelling to London.

Again, there are differences between Pujol’s account and MI5’s. According to the official report Knappe handed over 1,000 pesetas for expenses; Pujol claimed that he travelled to Lisbon with a gold chain smuggled on his person, selling it and using the money to keep himself alive. What is clear is that on 26 April 1941, he left Madrid for the Portuguese capital.

Once there he registered at the Spanish Consulate as a resident, his occupation given as writer. This was not entirely false: within a short time he had met another Spanish ex-patriot, a poet by the name of Luances, and between them they wrote a number of pamphlets in support of the Allied cause which were distributed for propaganda purposes at various embassies. Pujol did not sign them, however, not wanting his name to be spread around.

He also went to the British Consulate to try to secure a visa. He was not surprised by the subsequent refusal, but he felt it important to keep up pretences, in case the Germans were watching him. He was stuck, however. He had sold a lie to the Germans, and now he was in Lisbon with no way of backing up his story, let alone of getting to London.

Then luck played a hand. A fellow guest at the Hotel Suisso-Atlántico was a Spaniard called Jaime Souza. Pujol fell in with him, and one evening, Souza happened to show him his diplomatic passport, which he was intending to use to carry out an official mission in Argentina. He was in Lisbon waiting for a seat on the flying boat to become available.

Pujol was very interested in this special passport – with something like that he could not only travel much more easily, but also impress
the Germans. A new plan quickly formed in his mind. One night, as he and Souza were gambling at the Estoril casino, just outside the city, Pujol faked stomach cramps and went back to their shared room, where he took photographs of the passport.

Soon after, Souza was gone, bound for South America, but Pujol used enlargements of the photos to produce his own fake version of his valuable travel document, posing as a member of the Spanish Embassy and asking a Lisbon printer to produce 200 copies for him. Such a large order meant that the printer suspected nothing, and by May, Pujol was back in Madrid, having smuggled several copies in with him and discarded the rest.

On his arrival, he called the German Embassy to ask for a meeting. At the subsequent rendezvous Knappe was angry – Pujol should never call the embassy, he said. Pujol excused himself, saying the matter was urgent, as he had managed to obtain the necessary paperwork to travel to London.

By this time Pujol had left the Hotel Majestic, establishing himself in a small
pensión
on the Gran Vía. Araceli was also heavily pregnant with their first son.

Several more meetings followed with Knappe. Pujol insisted on his story about working for a Spanish policeman in Lisbon, called Varela, who was trying to bust international currency scams. Slowly, Knappe began to believe the tale. Then Pujol offered him some ‘proof’. Telling a friend in Lisbon that he wanted to return to Portugal to visit a mistress there, but without arousing his wife’s suspicions, he asked him to send a telegram with the following message: ‘You must come here urgently. The affair has been arranged. Signed: VARELA.’

Pujol duly showed the telegram to Knappe at their next meeting. Knappe kept the note and when they saw each other the next day, he told Pujol that he should go immediately to Lisbon as ‘Varela’ asked, handing him 500 pesetas and telling him to contact the Abwehr in Portugal when he arrived. This Pujol did, getting more funds from Knappe’s Lisbon-based counterparts, before returning once again to Madrid.

He now told Knappe that ‘Varela’ had made all the arrangements, and that soon he would have his final paperwork for travelling to London, all issued though the police. They agreed to meet again the following afternoon. Early the next morning, however, Pujol
telephoned Knappe in an excited state, saying that he had to meet him immediately. Annoyed, Knappe agreed. At the café Pujol told him that he had finally been given his new passport and that he had to go immediately to the Foreign Ministry for it to be stamped. The fact was, Pujol’s fake diplomatic passport lacked the necessary stamps to be taken as genuine, and it was a ruse to let Knappe see his travel documents without giving him the time to inspect them properly. It worked. On seeing the passport Knappe’s mood quickly changed and he slapped Pujol on the back to congratulate him. Pujol then hurriedly bid him goodbye and dashed off in a taxi, asking in a loud voice to be taken to the Foreign Ministry.

The Germans were now convinced by Pujol and his story. They asked for instructions from Berlin, and over the next few days gave him a crash course in how to become a spy, teaching him about secret inks and handing over questionnaires for him to study, giving him an idea of the kind of intelligence from Britain that they were expecting him to provide.

At the last meeting, Knappe’s Abwehr superior appeared – Karl-Erich Kühlenthal. He gave Pujol his final instructions: he was to try to pick up as much information as possible, Kühlenthal said, and to recruit sub-agents to build up an espionage network. In addition, Kühlenthal handed over some more money and cover addresses for Pujol’s letters, within which his messages were to be written using the secret inks.

Knappe told Pujol that he envied him, that he would like to be in his position, travelling on a dangerous mission into enemy territory.

Kühlenthal was more circumspect. Pujol should not, he said, underestimate the British. They were a formidable enemy.

Four years would pass before Pujol would see either Knappe or Kühlenthal again. By then the war would be over and their circumstances would be very different. But for now, armed with the Germans’ inks and funded by their money, he picked up Araceli from her parents’ home in Galicia before travelling on to Lisbon.

Scheming, rejected and alone, Juan Pujol was now a fully fledged Nazi spy.

IT WAS JULY.
Pujol was in Lisbon, pretending to the Germans that he was in London.

Living in the city centre was risky – people knew him there and might threaten his cover story, so he took a small fisherman’s cottage along the coast in Cascais, where Araceli gave birth to their first son, Juan, shortly after. A few weeks later they moved into another, larger villa in nearby Estoril, at Rua do Porto 14, close to the casino.