Читать книгу Secrets of German Espionage - Bernard Newman - Страница 9

Expert knowledge is not essential to the espionage agent or sub-spy; it is sometimes to the advantage of his employers that he should work in the dark, not understanding what he does. An unconsidered trifle, meaningless to him, may be of vast importance to his headquarters. The mere news that a naval officer has paid a casual visit to a certain factory may lead to an espionage coup of high importance. Often the news that he gathers will be no more than a series of trifles, but by the German method all information is valuable: ninety per cent of it may never seem likely to be used, but it is carefully filed away against the time when a companion piece of information can be matched with it. You might liken espionage very conveniently to a jig-saw puzzle: a dozen of the pieces by themselves are valueless, but the day may come when they form the essential clues to a complete picture.

There is nothing romantic or spectacular in this kind of espionage, but it does yield definite results. The Nazi agents scattered throughout the world are generally German nationals: this has advantages and disadvantages. It ensures their loyalty, generally speaking, for even the Nazis have been hoodwinked in this respect more than once; but at the same time it makes the agents suspect in the countries in which they are working. Since the emergence of Hitler, at any rate, there has always been suspicion of a German, however honest and friendly he might appear.

These agents are not professional spies as such. Practically all of them have a full-time occupation, and undertake fragments of espionage work as a spare-time job—sometimes unpaid, sometimes for a small retaining fee, and sometimes payment by results. When there is a definite objective in view, it may be necessary to plant agents in positions of vantage. The German system, however, favours such a widespread espionage net that there are usually agents already on any spot which is likely to prove interesting. Many of them follow comparatively humble occupations; waiters and hotel employés have long provided favourite “cover” professions for spies. Ships’ stewards are perhaps even more favourably placed, for there is something in the atmosphere of a liner at sea that tends to ready confidences and indiscreet conversations. Commercial travellers hold many advantages because of their freedom of movement. Even more valuable as agents are journalists and press photographers; these men move freely in all parts of a country, and the magic name of the press is often sufficient to secure them entry to places from which the ordinary public are excluded. Their acquaintances are wide and varied, and if they know their job include many men of influence in the country to which they are accredited.

A new “cover” profession has recently developed, for pilots on commercial air-lines, together with members of their crews, have, of course, unique advantages for aerial observation. It is known that the Germans have made a photographic survey of a large portion of Kent through the medium of pilots flying ordinary routes to Croydon.

All these men go about their ordinary work with true German thoroughness, serving their civil employer efficiently and loyally; but they never forget that other loyalty, the overwhelming claim of their country. There is little drama in their lives; on the contrary, their career is often dull and colourless. Not for them the thrill of a direct attack upon the secrets of a potential enemy: necessarily they must be kept ignorant of the very idea prompting their existence—German secrets could not be spread abroad among so great a number of people. Working in the dark is wearisome and annoying, and the system has many disadvantages. If a spy does not know what his employers are aiming at, the information he sends may be positively misleading. I recall one German resident in Great Britain who was a spy, but who did not know that the British authorities knew that he was a spy. I used to meet this young man occasionally—he was charming company. My task was to give him casual information in confidential fashion. He certainly appeared to believe all I told him—there was no reason why he should not. If he passed on to Berlin one-tenth of the ideas I put into his head, then I am very content.

Sometimes the pieces of the jig-saw puzzle are fitted together by patient work over a long period: sometimes after a wearisome struggle, when nothing seems to fit, pieces fall into place almost by accident. The Germans favour the first method, and are willing to go to endless trouble and expense to ensure the fitting of two or three pieces—or even to ascertain that the relative pieces exist. I came across a good example some months ago. An English youth had been spending a holiday with a German family, arranged by one of those excellent organizations which promote the exchange of young people, with consequent benefits to ideas and ideals. This youth spent several months in Germany, and had a happy time with his friendly hosts. He saw many things which he appreciated—for, of course, it is ridiculous to imagine that everything in Germany is wicked merely because we don’t like Hitler. The holiday passed almost without a strained moment—it is very doubtful if, when the time came to return to England, the youth could recall the trifling incident which was to have considerable after effects. One evening after dinner the conversation in the family circle turned to an uncomfortable subject, the possibility of war. The German youth reassured his friend: there would be no war, he said: he was not arguing on moral but practical grounds, he claimed—England was so far behind Germany in her preparations that she could never catch up. Therefore there would be no war.

The English youth’s pride was naturally roused; he didn’t want war between England and Germany, he declared, but the Germans were quite wrong when they imagined they were so far ahead. Why, even in the air, before many months had passed, England would draw level with Germany. His father, he explained, was a designer in a famous aircraft factory, and had commented on the orders for thousands of aeroplane engines which had been received and which were already in hand.

The conversation passed on without any emphasis on this feature of the discussion. But the German host, as in duty bound, reported the English youth’s remark to his local party-chief, and in due course it was then filed in Berlin. Instantly the vast espionage machine began to function. In most countries the casual remark of a youth stung to boastful reply by a hint of his country’s helplessness would hardly be counted of high moment. But in Germany everything is worthy of investigation: in this case the method was simple. When the English youth left for home, his German friend accompanied him: by some large-sighted vision on behalf of the authorities, who apparently appreciated British cultural influences, he had been able to secure the necessary grant of foreign currency to make an extended stay in the English youth’s home!

Naturally he was not expected to come back with plans of aeroplane engines; but by careful attention to the casual gossip of the English home—where spies are unknown and the freest speech flourishes—he was at least able to confirm that the English boy’s remark had been no mere boast, but that a programme of aeroplane construction of greater magnitude than had been imagined was actually in progress. Further agents were sent over, endeavouring to gather some fragments of information that would add towards the completion of the picture. Actually the air staff at Berlin found themselves facing something of a poser. If their reports were correct, then the British were constructing ahead of personnel—within a few months they would have more machines than pilots to man them!

The next section of the jig-saw puzzle came from a totally different source—from one of the army of eavesdroppers who may pass a lifetime in petty espionage without recording a single salient fact. Sometimes, however, a mere phrase will be useful. There is no doubt that in democratic countries many people do talk too freely (in totalitarian states, too, when they are certain that no member of the secret police is within earshot!). It is a human failing—a man likes it to be thought that he is “in the know,” and very often he will talk more freely than he ought to do in order to obtain the respect of authority from his friends. This is quite a common failing in Britain, and even more usual in France. The generation of statesmen who ruled France during the decade prior to 1914 were notoriously careless in conversation, and German espionage has since boasted of the ease with which information could be gathered in Paris.

A military mission from a Balkan country was scheduled to visit London: the Germans were naturally anxious to know its purpose, which presumably differed considerably from that announced. The agents detailed to the task, however (most of them were German newspapermen resident in London), reported that the conversations seemed to be of the most innocuous description. Far more interesting was a report from a “Swiss” waiter, working in a famous hotel in Paris—one of the quieter but more substantial hotels favoured by people of means and culture.

This waiter, a gifted linguist, as all good waiters should be, noticed that two or three men from the particular Balkan country had registered in the hotel, and that they held long meetings with two or three English visitors. Naturally they did not discuss their business openly in his hearing, but he did hear references to aeroplane engines—apparently the bodies were to be built in the Balkans. The “Swiss” waiter was working completely in the dark—he knew nothing of the visit of the Balkan mission to London, but he passed on his scrap of information for what it was worth—which was a good deal. It became obvious to the Germans that while the political side of the mission—with its military authorities—had gone to London to exchange polite courtesies, the actual practical work was being conducted in Paris. The British officers were shadowed as they left their hotel to return to England. One of them, after reporting to the Air Ministry, made his way to a Midland factory. And one of the technical designers in that factory was the father of the English youth who had protested that England was not entirely unprepared.

The designer commanded a good salary, and ran a middle-class establishment of considerable comfort, employing a cook and two maids. Suddenly one of the maids was offered a better job. Very conveniently the designer’s wife was told of an agency which provided Austrian maids. “Such good workers, my dear—only ask twelve-and-sixpence a week, and most moderate in nights off.” The designer may have had some hesitation, but after all, his home was his home, not his factory—he was not one of those misguided men who try to carry the atmosphere of their work to their fireside. Besides, the girl was Austrian, not German.

At this point factual narration must halt for a moment and conjecture take its place. It is doubtful whether the Austrian maid secured any information of value; it was not known if she had any connection with a mysterious fire which ravaged a section of the aeroplane factory a few weeks later—fortunately damaging only stores which could be replaced. The fire was so fortuitous that sabotage was suspected: widespread inquiries led the British authorities to believe that it was a deliberate attempt to hold up production in the factory. It might be that the Germans imagined that they had some monopoly of trade in the Balkans, and were jealous of British intrusion.

In the course of the investigation the police naturally made inquiries about the Austrian maid; their inquiries led them to the domestic agency which had placed the girl in the job. It was a most efficient agency, well patronized by prospective employers. Every girl sent out was German or Austrian, and employers were delighted with their hard-working qualities and pleasant manners. And every girl was a spy.

The agents sent servants and children’s nurses to dozens of homes: naturally, many of them were wasted as agents—the average English household has no military secrets to reveal. But one girl in twenty might find herself in a house where the owner was a key man in British industry—and her report might be worth the subsidy paid to the other nineteen.

The Special Branch of Scotland Yard acted rapidly and efficiently. There was insufficient proof to stage a trial, which in any case might not have been diplomatic. The licence of the agency was discreetly withdrawn, and the lady who ran it was given the hint that the sooner she returned to Germany the better. A few days later all the German and Austrian maids who had been placed by the agency received a general recall—Hitler wanted more labour in the Fatherland.

It would have been nice to round off the story, and to place all the pieces in position to demonstrate the complete picture: but unfortunately I am unable to do this—at the moment. My purpose in presenting this story, it will be recalled, was only to show by what a variety of methods the jig-saw fragments are gathered together for the assembly.