Number 70, Berlin: A Story of Britain's Peril

A few moments later he tapped out the letters G.S.F.A. – the code pass-word which automatically by the calendar was so often changed. He received the answer G.L.G.S. Then, according to rule, he gave his own registered number – that of “0740.” Every spy of Germany is registered by number in the department presided over by Dr Steinhauer.

Fully five minutes elapsed before he received the permission to proceed.

Then, finding himself in direct communication with the headquarters of the Imperial Secret Service, that argus-eyed bureau known as “Number 70 Berlin,” he began his report with the usual preamble, as follows:

“On Imperial War Service. Most Urgent. Naval. From 0740, to Berlin 70. Transmitted Personally. February 22nd, 1915.

“Source of information G.27, British Admiralty. American liners Ellenborough and Desborough leave Plymouth to-day with drafts for Alexandria. Four troop-ships also leave Plymouth for Dardanelles on Friday next, and three leave Southampton to-day. Names of latter are Cardigan, Lamberhead, and Turleigh. All are escorted to Gibraltar, but not farther. In future all drafts for Mediterranean ports embark at Plymouth. Suggest Pola be informed by wireless, if none of our submarines are in Mediterranean. Are there any? Await reply. Burchardt Number 6503 left for Amsterdam with important information last night. Grossman 3684 was arrested in Hartlepool yesterday. Nothing found upon him. Will probably be released. Expecting visit of B – shortly. Tell him to call in secret upon 0740 in London. End of message.”

Then he sat back and waited for the reply to his inquiry regarding the submarines of the Fatherland. He knew that even at that early hour the great bureau in the Koeniger-gratzerstrasse, the eyes and ears of the German nation, was all agog, and that one of the sub-directors would certainly be on duty. They never failed to answer any question put to them.

Old Small entered with the news that the bacon was ready, therefore he ordered it to be brought in, and as he sat at the table of the old sewing-machine awaiting the response, he ate the homely breakfast with a distinct relish. He did not notice the look of hatred in old Small’s eyes.

Suddenly Stendel, on Wangeroog, asked if he had finished with Berlin, to which message he answered that he was waiting for a reply.

“I have another message,” Stendel tapped out. “Will you take it? – very short.”

“G.G.F.,” replied Rodwell, which in the war-code meant “Am ready to receive message.”

Then came the following from beneath the cold waters which divided the two nations at war, a combination of German words and the numerical code —

“J.S.F.: 26378: Möwe: (sea-gull) J.S.J.J: schimpflich (infamous) Ozstc: 32; Schandfleck (blot) tollkühn (foolhardy).”

And it was followed by the affix of the sender, “10,111, and the word zerren” (pull).

Again Rodwell tore off the piece of pale green “tape” and placed it carefully in his pocket, in order to decode it later on.

Then he leisurely finished his bacon and declared to Tom that he felt the better for it.

“I ’ear as ’ow the pay-pers are a sayin’ that the German submarines are a torpedoin’ our ships ’olesale, sir,” remarked old Tom, when the recorder was silent again. “It’s a great shame, surely. That ain’t war – to kill women an’ children on board ship. Why, the most brutal of all foreigners in the world would go out and rescue women an’ children from a sinkin’ ship!”

“It’s war, my dear man – war?” replied Rodwell. “You people, living on the shores of England, don’t yet know what war means. It means that, at all hazards and at all costs, you must vanquish your enemy. No kid-glove or polite speeches. The silly peace ideas of humanity, and all that rubbish, don’t count nowadays. The German super-man does not understand such silly manoeuvres when he is out to vanquish his enemy. Why, you and your daughter and Ted would be far better off under our own Kaiser than you are to-day, with all this shuttlecock policy of your out-of-date rule-of-thumb Government, and your strangulating taxation consequent upon it. Your English sovereign is only worth fifteen shillings to-day.”

“Yes, but I don’t understand how it is that you German people have put us under your thumbs, as you have done.”

“Merely because you British people are trustful fools,” laughed Rodwell merrily. “You never listened to Lord Roberts, a great soldier and strategist greater than any we have to-day in Germany. You all laughed at his warnings. And now you’ll have to laugh on the other side of your mouths. That’s the real, plain, brutal truth of it all. You can’t conceal it. If you English had taken the advice of your popular hero ‘Bobs,’ there would have been no war to-day. You would have been far too strong for our Fatherland.”

“But why should we sacrifice our lives any further?” asked the toiler of the sea. “I’m sick and tired of the whole affair, as I said to Ted only this morning.”

“I quite appreciate that,” was Rodwell’s reply. “But – ”

A click sounded upon the instrument, and Rodwell, breaking off, bent eagerly to read the tape.

The words, in German, which came out upon it were: “Reply to 0740. Eight undersea boats are in Mediterranean. Message will be sent by wireless to Trieste and Pola for re-transmission. Any report from 6839? Await reply.”

Rodwell hesitated. The number quoted was that of his friend Mrs Kirby.

In a few moments he tapped out the reply.

“Number 6839 is in close touch with Minister, as reported by me a week ago. She will make cable report as soon as accurate information can be obtained. Our activity on the Clyde is progressing. The engineers are out and other branches of labour are threatening to strike. Unrest also in South Wales. Good work in progress there.”

Then, for some minutes, the instruments were silent, and he watched the receiver intently.

At last it again clicked, and the green tape once more began to unwind.

“To 0740. – From O. Meiszner – Headquarters Imperial Intelligence Staff. Order 0213 to do utmost possible with Clyde workers. Information will reach him from Holland by Route Number 6 regarding South Wales and dockers. Report all movements of troops to Dardanelles, also movements from Aldershot to Flanders. Nothing from 0802 at Portsmouth. Please inquire reason and reply: urgent. Are you on good terms with G.27 British Admiralty? Reply.”

The number “G.27” meant Charles Trustram, for as such he had been reported by Rodwell, and duly registered in the dossiers of the great spy-bureau in Berlin.

“Yes. On excellent terms with G.27. But he is not yet indebted to us,” he replied, swiftly tapping the instrument.

“He should be. Please see to it. His information is always good, and may be as extremely useful as that regarding the plot to entrap our Navy. I am sending Number 0324 to you as an American citizen. He bears urgent instructions, and is travelling via New York, and due in Liverpool about March 10th. He will report personally on arrival in London. End of message.”

“SS.” were the letters tapped out – three dots, succeeded by three more dots – and by it Dr Otto Meiszner, seated at the headquarters of German espionage in Berlin, knew that his friend had received and understood what he had transmitted from the heart of the Fatherland.

Rodwell, having replaced the cover over the instruments, lay back for a moment to think.

He knew that ere long the unseen rays of wireless would flash in code the news from Hanover away across Europe, to the Austrian station at Pola, on the Adriatic, reporting the departure of those troop-ships, which, after passing through the Straits of Gibraltar, would be at the mercy of the German submarines lurking in readiness in the Mediterranean.

Upon his hard mouth was an evil grin, as he rose, pushed the old chair aside and, striding into the adjoining room, joined the weatherbeaten old fisherman – the man who was held so dumb and powerless in the far-reaching tentacles of that terrible Teuton octopus, that was slowly, but surely, strangling all civilisation.

Chapter Eighteen.

Tom Small Receives Visitors

The super-spy, having concluded his work, sat with the old fisherman beside the wood-fire in the little low-pitched living-room that smelt so strongly of fish and tar.

Old Tom Small presented a picturesque figure in his long sea-boots, on which the salt stood in grey crystals, and his tanned blouse; for, only an hour ago, he had helped Ted to haul up the boat in which, on the previous night, they had been out baiting their crab-pots. Ruddy and cheery-looking, his grey hair was scanty on top, and his knotty hands, hardened by the sea, were brown and hairy. He was a fine specimen of the North Sea fishermen, and, being one of “nature’s gentlemen,” he was always polite to his visitor, though at heart he entertained the deepest and undying contempt for the man by whose craft and cunning the enemy were being kept informed of the movements of Britain’s defensive forces, both on land and at sea.

Now that it was too late, he had at last awakened to the subtle manner in which he had been inveigled into the net so cleverly-spread to catch both his son and himself. Ted, his son, had been sent to the cable-school at Glasgow and there instructed, while, at the same time, he and his father had fallen into the moneylender’s spider-web, stretched purposely to entrap him.

What could the old fellow do to extricate himself? He and Ted often, in the evening hours, before their fire, while the storm howled and tore about that lonely cottage on the beach, had discussed the situation. They had both, in their half-hearted way, sought to discover a means out of the impasse. Yet with the threat of Rodwell – that they would both be prosecuted and shot as traitors – hanging over them, the result of their deliberation was always the same. They were compelled to remain silent, and to suffer.

They cursed their visitor who came there so constantly and sent his mysterious messages under the sea. Yet they were compelled to accept the ten pounds a week which he paid them so regularly, with a frequent extra sovereign to the younger man. Both father and son hesitated about taking the tainted money. Yet they dared not raise a word of protest. Besides, in the event of an invasion by Germany, had not Rodwell promised that they should be protected, and receive ample reward for their services?

Old Small and Rodwell were talking, the latter stretching forth his white hands towards the welcome warmth of the flaming logs.

“You must continue to still keep your daughter Mary away from here, Tom,” the visitor was saying. “Send her anywhere you like. But I don’t want her prying about here just now. You understand! You’ve got a married daughter at Bristol, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, send her down there for a long stay. I’ll pay all expenses. So book the whole of it down to me. Here’s twenty pounds to go on with;” and, taking his banknote case from his pocket, he drew forth four five-pound notes.

“Yes, sir; but she may think it funny – and – ”

“Funny!” cried his visitor. “Remember that you’re paid to see that she doesn’t think it funny. Have her back here, say next Tuesday, for a couple of days, and then send her off on a visit down to Bristol. You and Ted are able to rub along together very well without her.”

“Well – we feels the miss o’ the girl,” replied the old fellow, who, though honest and loyal, had fallen hopelessly into the trap which German double-dealing had prepared for him.