Bade. ‘Owens has made her extravagant promises of reward. He said he would take her to Germany and, as far as
is known, they may be there at present, although Owens is supposed to be at the Golden Sands holiday camp, Great Yarmouth.’
In fact, Irene was no less devious than her husband, and no friend of MI5. Having informed the Branch that Snow ran a network of Nazi agents who worked to his orders, she found their names had
slipped her mind. ‘Mrs Snow has promised to communicate with me when she remembers them,’ Lansby noted patiently. ‘If she finds any correspondence or addresses which her husband
may have been left behind.’
Time was running out – for Owens, and for Europe. On 23 August came news of the Nazi-Soviet Pact, a bogus non-aggression treaty dividing Eastern Europe into German and Soviet spheres of
influence. That Poland would be the next chunk of
Lebensraum
seized by Hitler had long been abundantly clear, and already the troubled republic had secured firm guarantees from Britain and
France to defend her territorial integrity with military support. Five months later, the totalitarian accord between Hitler and Stalin signalled that war must inevitably follow, making the dog days
of August 1939 an uncertain timeto enjoy sand, sea and sunshine on Timmendorfer Strand. From Copenhagen to Cannes to Casablanca, holidaymakers hurriedly packed their bags and
scrambled for the ports, anxious to return home before the blue summer skies grew dark with bombers, perhaps eclipsing civilisation itself.
A driver from Stelle X collected Owens and Lily from their hotel and sped them to Flushing on the Dutch coast. From there the pair crossed the North Sea to Harwich on an overcrowded passenger
ferry, though without the new Afu suitcase transmitter. Other fascist fellow travellers hastened in the opposite direction, notably William Joyce, the oily Blackshirt luminary soon to become
infamous as radio propagandist ‘Lord Haw-Haw’.
As Owens and Lily hastened home from the Baltic, Irene twisted the knife still further. ‘Have received information that the two parties mentioned are now in Hamburg,’ she told
Scotland Yard in an unsigned letter. ‘No doubt they will return via Ostend, the latter part of the week. I also have the address of the man who is able to get any kind of passport, which a
certain party may be travelling on as man and wife . . . That is all for now. You will know who this is from.’
Among several enclosures was a visiting card for ‘passport agent’ Alex Myner, which confirmed his address as 12 Parklands, Surbiton. These details were noted, only to be overlooked
in the chaotic run-up to war. On arriving in London the previous day Owens and Lily went directly to Parklands, certain that hotel registrations would now be monitored. Rogue Agent Snow could, and
should, have been detained immediately by the Branch on behalf of MI5. Instead, at 04.30 on the morning of 28 August, his temperamental klamotten installed in the bathroom at Parklands, Colonel
Johnny made his debut test transmission to Germany. Trautmann and Wein, the wireless operators (‘
funkers
’) assigned to A.3504, stood by at Wohldorf, paying close attention as
this historic first signal buzzed in through the ether.
‘Ein Glas Bier!’
A glass of beer.
With these few frivolous words the Abwehr
’
s London stelle was finally on air. Ritter was ecstatic. ‘These were the only German words that Johnny knew off by heart. On
countless occasions Trautmann, Wein and myself had been amused to hear them uttered when drinking on the Reeperbahn, or in the Hofbräuhaus. Now the connection was established, and we were
ready for the imminent European emergency.’
Fortunately Owens followed his drinks order with a meaty main course.
‘Royal Navy reserve convoy leaving Portsmouth for Gibraltar today, seven-thirty.’
CONGRATULATIONS indeed.
As Agent Snow opened the batting, MI5 dropped the ball. Guy Liddell, the Deputy
is known, they may be there at present, although Owens is supposed to be at the Golden Sands holiday camp, Great Yarmouth.’
In fact, Irene was no less devious than her husband, and no friend of MI5. Having informed the Branch that Snow ran a network of Nazi agents who worked to his orders, she found their names had
slipped her mind. ‘Mrs Snow has promised to communicate with me when she remembers them,’ Lansby noted patiently. ‘If she finds any correspondence or addresses which her husband
may have been left behind.’
Time was running out – for Owens, and for Europe. On 23 August came news of the Nazi-Soviet Pact, a bogus non-aggression treaty dividing Eastern Europe into German and Soviet spheres of
influence. That Poland would be the next chunk of
Lebensraum
seized by Hitler had long been abundantly clear, and already the troubled republic had secured firm guarantees from Britain and
France to defend her territorial integrity with military support. Five months later, the totalitarian accord between Hitler and Stalin signalled that war must inevitably follow, making the dog days
of August 1939 an uncertain timeto enjoy sand, sea and sunshine on Timmendorfer Strand. From Copenhagen to Cannes to Casablanca, holidaymakers hurriedly packed their bags and
scrambled for the ports, anxious to return home before the blue summer skies grew dark with bombers, perhaps eclipsing civilisation itself.
A driver from Stelle X collected Owens and Lily from their hotel and sped them to Flushing on the Dutch coast. From there the pair crossed the North Sea to Harwich on an overcrowded passenger
ferry, though without the new Afu suitcase transmitter. Other fascist fellow travellers hastened in the opposite direction, notably William Joyce, the oily Blackshirt luminary soon to become
infamous as radio propagandist ‘Lord Haw-Haw’.
As Owens and Lily hastened home from the Baltic, Irene twisted the knife still further. ‘Have received information that the two parties mentioned are now in Hamburg,’ she told
Scotland Yard in an unsigned letter. ‘No doubt they will return via Ostend, the latter part of the week. I also have the address of the man who is able to get any kind of passport, which a
certain party may be travelling on as man and wife . . . That is all for now. You will know who this is from.’
Among several enclosures was a visiting card for ‘passport agent’ Alex Myner, which confirmed his address as 12 Parklands, Surbiton. These details were noted, only to be overlooked
in the chaotic run-up to war. On arriving in London the previous day Owens and Lily went directly to Parklands, certain that hotel registrations would now be monitored. Rogue Agent Snow could, and
should, have been detained immediately by the Branch on behalf of MI5. Instead, at 04.30 on the morning of 28 August, his temperamental klamotten installed in the bathroom at Parklands, Colonel
Johnny made his debut test transmission to Germany. Trautmann and Wein, the wireless operators (‘
funkers
’) assigned to A.3504, stood by at Wohldorf, paying close attention as
this historic first signal buzzed in through the ether.
‘Ein Glas Bier!’
A glass of beer.
With these few frivolous words the Abwehr
’
s London stelle was finally on air. Ritter was ecstatic. ‘These were the only German words that Johnny knew off by heart. On
countless occasions Trautmann, Wein and myself had been amused to hear them uttered when drinking on the Reeperbahn, or in the Hofbräuhaus. Now the connection was established, and we were
ready for the imminent European emergency.’
Fortunately Owens followed his drinks order with a meaty main course.
‘Royal Navy reserve convoy leaving Portsmouth for Gibraltar today, seven-thirty.’
CONGRATULATIONS indeed.
As Agent Snow opened the batting, MI5 dropped the ball. Guy Liddell, the Deputy
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