David M Thomas - The Schneider Papers

He then gave them their travel documents; airline tickets for Mason, booked return to Berlin, changeable, if needs must. Train tickets for Matthews.

‘What’s this?’ said Mason in mock indignation, ‘I’m to travel by Deutsche Lufthansa via Amsterdam. Doesn’t Imperial Airways fly to Berlin?’

‘No, it doesn’t. Imperial flies only on Monday, Wednesdays and Fridays and only to Cologne,’ was the testy reply from Wilkinson. ‘Air France flies Paris – Cologne – Berlin, but none of our commercial carriers service Berlin. There was talk of a direct service for the Olympics but nothing came of it.’ Wilkinson looked at Mason and said with a wry smile, ‘look at this as experience flying in the Junkers Ju52. I assume you’ve not travelled in one?’

Mason shook his head, actually pleased with the turn of events; he had wanted to, ever since the Ju52 came into service, but the opportunity had not arisen. Until now.

Wilkinson reached into his left hand desk drawer, ‘Please check.’ Each were given a large brown envelope, ‘Please count it, and sign here and here.’ Each received one hundred pounds in sterling, and five thousand Reichsmarks in cash. ‘The exchange rate for the RM is twelve to our pound. The mark has improved somewhat since I was last there!’ smiled the Adjutant.

‘Actually, it’s 12.4 marks to the pound,’ corrected Matthews, the pedant and economist who knew the consequence of inaccurate currency exchange rates.

That was it.

Matthews said that he would gladly go for a drink but he had a pressing engagement in west London, and was hoping to start the journey before the rush-hour. Plan was to meet in Berlin, with this Lefoy chap as ringmaster. They shook hands warmly and parted outside the building.

Mason had a lot to think about. He thought the briefing and this passport business a bit amateurish. Like putting on a show, but for whom? Just for him? His instructions from Starling lacked detail and were, well, frankly, cloudy and ambiguous. The new passport thing was just silly. We are not at war with Germany. The false passport just raises the stakes if we’re caught. Then a cold conclusion gripped him like a vice, and stopped him in his tracks: are we meant to be caught?

Where was he going to get plans on future aircraft design? Just pop in to Bayerische Flugzeogwerke in Augsburg head office and ask if he could have the latest design plans and performance report on their new Bf109 fighter? Introduce himself as representative of a potential South American buyer ready for a state-of-the-art air force?! He hoped that Lefoy, the Air Attaché in Berlin, would be the bricklayer to cement this brick wall he was being asked to build. On reflection, Lefoy would also have to supply the bricks! He smiled, and laughed out loud at the mental image of himself on a building site somewhere wearing a flat cap, dressed as a labourer with a trowel in one hand, walking around looking for cement and bricks. He had a spring in his step as he walked towards Charing Cross railway station.

Mason decided to return to London the day before his departure and stay at the flat in Henrietta Street. It would be from there he would leave for Croydon aerodrome and his trip in the famous Junkers Ju52.

Chapter 7: Monday, 21st September 1936

German Wehrmacht begins its largest war game manoeuvers since the Great War.

It was late afternoon wen he arrived at the flat. Henrietta Street was very convenient. He had inherited it from a maiden aunt, God bless her, and with him now living on the south coast, it was very handy for Charing Cross railway station. He liked the flat and the location.

Mason ate early. He decided to go to Simpson’s-in-the-Strand, an old favourite. His parents first took him there when he was about nine or ten years old, when Pa was a visiting chemistry lecturer, and he remembered how overawed he was by the setting, the woodpanelled walls, the fascinating chess memorabilia on display, the views over the Thames and the attentive army of white aproned waiters. And when one of the waiters spoke to him personally about choice of vegetables, well it had made his day. Yes, Simpson’s was a nostalgic favourite.

It was not hunger that drove him out of the flat, but the excitement of the future unknown, and he needed to be occupied. Spending time in a restaurant was not a bad option. He ordered a half a bottle of the house Bordeaux to accompany the mushroom omelette and tomato salad. He smelt rain in the air as he mingled with office workers hurrying to catch buses and ones heading for Charing Cross railway station and its southbound rail tracks to suburbia and all stops to the south coast. He enjoyed the short stroll back through the now empty Covent Garden to the flat. He opened the building’s front door and walked up the two flights of stairs to the first floor. The apartment door was to the left. He turned the key in the Yale lock and moved sideways to enter.

‘Good evening Mason,’ said a gruff authoritative voice to his right. He froze, key in hand. A sharp tingle of electricity ran up his arms and shoulders. The small entrance hall was in darkness, and so was the little kitchen in front of him, and his bedroom to the left, but he saw that a table lamp was switched on in the sitting room. ‘Come on through, nothing to worry about,’ instructed a calm, deep voice. Mason walked slowly in to the sitting room and stood staring at the shadow sitting in his armchair close to the window, with the table lamp between his uninvited guest and the window.

His mind raced, thinking of attack and defence options. He moved quickly, two paces to his right to get a better view of this intruder. He stood legs apart, body balanced and fists clenched, sitting room ornaments already identified as weapons to use on this intruder. In the armchair sat, and quite comfortably so, a middle aged man, his black overcoat open, revealing a three piece brown suit, with his hat resting on his right knee. ‘I am not a burglar, Mason,’ he said reassuringly and with a chortle.

The front door had been left open, and Mason sensed another person now in the hall. He turned sharply. ‘Alright Johnson, it’s perfectly alright, stay outside,’ commanded the sitting figure. Johnson wordlessly retreated, and closed the front door with a locking click sound behind him.

‘So Mason, good evening again. Do you mind if we have a little chat?’

‘Who are you? And what do you want?’ protested Mason quietly, realising there was no threat; he sensed a Civil Service bureaucrat or perhaps a policeman.

‘Shall we have a drink? I see you have a bottle of Springbank in the sideboard. Your Isle of Bute malt is a particular favourite of mine, and always a pleasure, don’t you agree? Why don’t you pour us both a glass? Or shall I be host?’ The confrontation was over.

The intruder was, Mason reckoned, in his sixties, with thinning, well-oiled light brown hair, sporting a chevron mustache below a prominent aquiline nose. ‘We’re on the same side, name’s Cartwright, Foreign Office. Sorry but I won’t give you my card.’

Mason wordlessly went to the kitchen, opened a top cupboard next to the Belling oven and picked two from a row of crystal whisky glasses, a long forgotten Christmas or birthday present. He returned and poured both a drink, and following Cartwright’s gesture, sat on the sofa.

‘Now Mason,’ Cartwright began. ‘You were summoned last week to a meeting with Group Captain Starling of Air Intelligence. The meeting started at eleven thirty or thereabouts and finished officially at three. You and Matthews stayed and Starling gave you both assignments. This would involve your liaising with Group Captain Lefoy, the Deputy Air Attaché at our Berlin Embassy. Okay so far?’

They both held and stared at their drinks.