The Gingerbread Spy Read online

  Table of Contents

  THE GINGERBREAD SPY

  Part 1 – London

  Part 2 – Ireland

  Part 3 – Lisbon

  Part 4 – London

  Part 5 – Gingerbread

  About JJ TONER

  Acknowledgements

  Other books by JJ Toner

  THE GINGERBREAD SPY

  A WW2 Spy Story

  (The Black Orchestra – Book 4)

  JJ TONER

  ~~~

  Cover designer: Anya Kelleye

  First published April 14, 2018

  Kindle edition

  ISBN 9781908519450

  Copyright JJ Toner 2018

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, business establishments, events or locales are entirely coincidental.

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  THE GINGERBREAD SPY

  Part 1 – London

  Chapter 1

  February 1944

  Major Robertson sat hunched over his desk. “We’ve got a problem, Kurt. The radio vans in north London picked up a rogue transmission last night. The boffins haven’t been able to decode it fully yet – the signal was a short one – but the call-sign is LBK.”

  Kurt Müller said, “That’s Lebkuchen – Gingerbread in English. It’s not a call-sign I recognise, sir.”

  The major attempted a sour smile. “The timing couldn’t be worse. This Gingerbread could easily derail Operation Overlord. And if Overlord fails, thousands of Allied servicemen will lose their lives.”

  Kurt was running one of the German agents in the Double Cross programme. As preparations for D-Day intensified, the British relied more and more on the programme to deceive the German high command about their invasion plans.

  The major sat back heavily in his chair, hands tucked under his armpits. “Until yesterday I was confident that we had rounded up every last Abwehr agent in Britain. They are all so ill-equipped and badly trained, picking them up is like shelling peas. I can’t see how we could have missed one.”

  And yet you have, thought Kurt.

  Chapter 2

  A few days earlier

  Kurt shivered in his leather jacket as he turned into Perrymead Street. Only one in every three of the street lamps in Fulham was lit. Blanketed in a thick London fog, everything looked grey – the lamp posts, the houses, the trees. Even the black cars appeared grey, sliding in and out of the pools of shimmering lamplight. Distant foghorns sounded from the river, while seagulls cried overhead, like the voices of dead children.

  He picked up a copy of the Daily Mirror from the newsagents, before following the stubs of the iron railings to number 12. He lifted the doorknocker.

  Harry Locke, the elderly guard, opened the door immediately. “That’s quite a peasouper, sir.”

  Kurt stepped inside, and Harry closed the door.

  “Is Arnold about?”

  Harry grinned toothlessly. “He’s in the bathroom. Been in there for hours. I expect he’s trying to scrub the swastikas from his hairy arse.”

  Kurt wasn’t in the humour for Harry’s wisecracks. That one wasn’t even original. Picking up on Kurt’s mood, the guard wiped the grin from his face. “The kettle’s on, sir.” He handed Kurt a brown envelope, sealed with wax, and returned to his station in the front parlour.

  Kurt took a book and a paper pad from a shelf in the kitchen and placed them on the table with the newspaper. He made coffee with milk. There was sugar. He took a spoonful. Then he cut himself a slice of fresh bread and added a generous sheen of salted butter. He sat at the table, opened the envelope, and read the outgoing signal for the day from the Wireless Board of the Double Cross ‘Twenty’ Committee.

  He found the code word for the day from the book – Gone With the Wind – and created the substitution matrix on his paper pad. Then he added Arnold’s Abwehr call-sign to the front of the signal and encoded it.

  Arnold made an appearance at 7:30 dressed in his red silk dressing gown, holding a lighted cigarette between his thumb and middle finger. He was a German to his hair roots, and clearly considered himself a cut above everyone in Britain. He picked up the newspaper. Propping himself against the sink, he spoke in heavily accented English. “I don’t know why you buy this rubbish, Kevin. Are there no better newspapers out there?”

  Arnold wore his lank hair swept across his forehead much like Hitler’s. He was ten years younger than his beloved Führer though, and sported a pencil moustache. The British had given him the working name of Arnold; his real name was Paul Hoffmeister. Kurt was pretty sure that everyone in this make-believe world had been given false names. Harry and Clarence, the two ancient guards, Hendriks the cleaner. He couldn’t even be sure that Partridge was the cook’s real name. Kurt went by the name Kevin O’Reilly.

  Arnold’s one and only job was to transmit signals to the Abwehr in Hamburg. Kurt could have transmitted these himself, but Arnold’s handler in Hamburg would know the ‘fist’ of his agent, and would recognize any attempt at transmission by another operator. This fact alone was keeping the double agent alive. Forced to operate against his own government every day, his continued existence hung on his usefulness to the British war effort. As the spymaster, Tar Robertson, was fond of saying, ‘His coat hung on a shoogly peg’.

  Kurt unlocked the door to the back parlour. He went inside, and switched on Arnold’s Telefunken r/t set.

  It took a few minutes to warm up. Normally, Arnold would fill this waiting period with mindless chatter, but today he had little to say. He sucked on his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I swear the cook must be Irish. Today’s meal was a miserable pork stew. It was mostly vegetables.”

  Kurt raised a questioning eyebrow. Mrs Partridge was pure cockney. Tapping his pencil impatiently on his pad, he sipped his coffee. Real coffee with sugar! Arnold was better fed than most Londoners.

  Arnold was hard to like, but Kurt felt sorry for him. Following capture and interrogation by Tin Eye Stephens in the London Cage, he had been given a stark choice: work for the British Secret Intelligence Service as a double agent, or go directly to the gallows.

  His life was comfortable. Two domestic servants came in daily to cook and clean for him. But he was guarded day and night, and he could never leave the building unaccompanied. 12 Perrymead Street may not have had barred windows, but it was still very much a prison.

  The transmitter hummed. When the clock on the wall reached 7:40, they received two incoming signals. Kurt wrote the Morse sequence on his pad. The terminating code, Ende, told him there was nothing more.

  Kurt yielded his stool to Arnold and watched as the agent keyed in the outgoing coded signal.

  “What was in that signal?” said Arnold.

  “A weather report.”

  Arnold curled his lip in disgust. “How many days is that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Arnold jumped to his feet, knocking his stool to the floor. He raised his voice, switching to German. “All I ever get to transmit is stupid weather reports. How long since I transmitted anything important?”

  Kurt was startled, but he replied in a quiet voice, designed to calm his agent, “
I’m sure weather reports are important.”

  Arnold took a step closer to Kurt, waving his arms about. “You think every captured Abwehr agent in London is sending signals about the weather? What sort of Dummkopf do you take me for? Don’t you think the high command in Berlin will want information about the positioning of British and American troops and equipment? How else will they know where and when the invasion of Europe will start?”

  “I’m sure the British know what they’re doing. Don’t you think the Abwehr would smell a rat if every agent in the programme sent details about troop movements every day?”

  “Why, how many agents have been turned like me?”

  “I have no idea, Arnold. There must be a few. There’s really nothing to worry about.”

  Arnold’s colour deepened. “You have no idea what my life is like, have you? Try to imagine what it feels like to be a puppet of a foreign power, a traitor to the Fatherland. I’m no better than a fly stuck to a flypaper. And what do I have to look forward to? What do you think the British will do with me when I’m no longer useful to them?” His voice rose with every beat.

  Harry appeared, brandishing his rifle.

  Kurt waved him away. “Lower your weapon, Harry. You’re liable to poke someone’s eye out with that.”

  “I heard raised voices, shouting – in German.”

  “Everything’s under control,” said Kurt.

  Harry returned to his station, mumbling under his breath.

  “I don’t have answers to any of your questions,” said Kurt to his smouldering double agent. “My advice to you is to carry on as you are. Take each day as a gift and be thankful that you’re still alive.”

  Arnold flounced out of the room. Kurt switched off the radio and set about deciphering the two incoming signals. The first informed Arnold that his Swiss bank account had been topped up by £100. MI5 would be pleased. The second signal translated:

  INVESTIGATE MOSQUITO AIRCRAFT PRODUCTION BELIEVED RELOCATED FROM HATFIELD

  The cover the Abwehr had given Arnold was as a Swedish ball bearing salesman. A field trip to an aircraft factory was a credible option.

  Kurt slid the sheet with the two signals into the newspaper before leaving the back parlour, locking the door carefully.

  The double agent was loitering in the hallway. Kurt showed him the first decoded signal.

  Arnold’s face was still red from his earlier tantrum, but he gave Kurt a watery smile. “My friends in Hamburg are happy with my work, at least.”

  “So it would seem.”

  Kurt stepped toward the front door, but Arnold moved into his path. “Could you ask our masters one question for me?”

  “What question?”

  “I’d like to know how many Abwehr men have been recruited by British Intelligence.”

  The question puzzled Kurt. “Why is that important?”

  Arnold’s wave of the hand suggested it was a trivial matter, but the tremor in his voice said otherwise. “The size of the deception operation might give me some notion how safe I am.”

  “You have the major’s assurances…”

  The tremor in Arnold’s voice intensified. “He gave me his word as a gentleman that I would be returned to Germany once the War is over. But how do I know I can trust him?”

  “I still don’t see how the number of Abwehr agents in the programme has any bearing on the endgame, but I will ask your question if the opportunity presents itself.”

  “That’s all I ask, thank you.” Arnold stepped aside.

  Kurt stuck his head into the front parlour to say goodbye to Harry.

  Harry gave him a 3-fingered scouts’ salute. “See you tomorrow, sir.”

  Chapter 3

  Princess Alexandra Military Hospital Millbank, London

  Lina Smit removed her coat and changed into her uniform. She stowed her clothes in her locker and took a last look in the mirror before leaving the changing room, and making her way to Matron’s office.

  Matron’s office was empty. Lina couldn’t recall a day when Matron was not at her desk, handing out assignments to the nurses at the start of the evening shift. Where could she be?

  Sounds of activity drew Lina to the hospital’s main concourse, where she found three nurses and the two porters rushing about in frenzied activity. Matron stood at the centre, directing operations like a traffic policeman.

  Lina stopped Julie Parker, one of the nurses, as she passed. “What’s happening?”

  “Talk to Matron.” And Julie was gone.

  Lina approached Matron.

  Matron said, “We’ve had instructions from the Emergency Medical Service to get ready for an influx of new casualties. A serious bombing raid is expected over the weekend. We’re reorganizing the hospital. Help the porters.”

  Dan and Martin, the two porters, were busy wheeling occupied beds about. Dan said, “We’re moving patients from two orthopaedic wards into the psych wards. I need you to fetch empty beds from the basement.”

  The basement. This was the one part of the hospital that Lina hated. It scared her. It gave her the shivers just thinking about it. The morgue was down there, and sometimes she thought it might be haunted by evil spirits, but that wasn’t the complete explanation for her fear of the place. During the German invasion of Holland in 1940, she had been trapped for three days in a basement in Rhenen. She still bore the mental scars of those three days.

  Dan was old enough to be her father, but she fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Couldn’t I help move the patients?”

  “Martin and I can handle that,” said Dan. “We need empty beds for St Mary’s and St Mark’s. Shake a leg.”

  Dragging her feet, she headed down the corridor toward the service elevator. She grabbed Julie by the arm as she rushed past. “Where are you going, Julie? Can I help you with whatever you’re doing?”

  “I’m fetching new beds from the basement,” said Julie.

  Lina groaned. “I don’t want to go down there.”

  Julie knew how Lina felt about the basement. She gave a hollow laugh. “Remember the first rule of nursing.”

  “I know I should do what I’m told, but I really hate the basement.”

  “Come with me,” said Julie. “We’ll go together.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Of course you can.” Julie pulled her toward the elevator. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  Lina shuddered, but she allowed Julie to steer her inside the elevator. “Why are we doing this, Julie?”

  “Because we’ve been told to.”

  “No, I mean I don’t understand why they need our little hospital. None of it makes any sense. Millbank is too small to handle a large number of casualties. We don’t even have an emergency department, for heaven’s sake.”

  Julie replied, “There’s been talk of big numbers of bombers on the way from Germany over the weekend. We have to be able to take in some of the less seriously injured.” She pressed the button on the panel, and then, as the doors swung closed, she stepped out, leaving Lina on her own in the elevator.

  Lina stifled a scream. She stabbed at the buttons, but the elevator was already on its way down…

  The elevator doors slid open. She stayed where she was, hoping the doors would close, but they remained open. She stepped forward and peered into the corridor. A ripple of cold air, like a ghostly breath, caressed her cheeks. A murmur of distant voices reached her ears, but she couldn’t make out any words. Were the dead awake, and talking amongst themselves? Worst of all was the smell, not the usual hospital mixture of disinfectant and cleaner; this was a faint smell unique to the basement, a smell of death and despair.

  Rattling sounds and footsteps echoed along the corridor, coming toward her. Terrified, she stabbed at the buttons again, and shrank back into the elevator. The doors began to close, but, before they came together, a hand reached in, forcing them open again.

  Julie’s friend, Nurse Kathy Benson, pushed an empty bed into the elevator. “Hold the doo
rs open while I fetch another bed.”

  Lina held the bed across the line of the doors while Kathy hurried away up the corridor. When she arrived back with a second bed, the two of them took the elevator up to the ground floor.

  “Where’s Julie?” said Kathy.

  “She played a trick on me. She sent me down in the elevator on my own.”

  Kathy’s response to that was a deliberate lie. “I expect she had something more important to do.”

  “Who else is down there?” said Lina.

  “What do you mean? There was only me.”

  “I heard voices.”

  Kathy smiled her wicked smile. “You must have imagined it.”

  Lina shivered.

  At the ground floor, they rolled the two beds out of the elevator. Lina would have been happy to wheel hers to one of the wards, but Dan took it from her. “Go back down and bring up some more,” he said.

  This time, Lina held the elevator doors open until Kathy joined her. They rode down together. In the basement, they left the elevator together, and made their way along the corridor to a storage area where Lina found a figure in a white coat.

  It was Joost van Dijk, the hospital’s clinical psychologist, preparing beds for deployment in the wards.

  Relief flooded Lina’s mind. Joost was Dutch, like Lina. She considered him a friend, perhaps her only friend in the hospital. She laughed out loud, and the sound of her laughter, like the braying of a donkey, echoed from the walls.

  Kathy smirked, but Joost smiled at Lina, and her fears receded. “Goede middag, Lina.”

  “Goede middag, Doctor.”

  He switched back to English. “Take these two beds and come back for two more. That should be enough.”