The average man or woman has only a hazy idea what European Secret
Service and Espionage really means and accomplishes. Short stories
and novels, written in a background of diplomacy and secret agents,
have given the public vague impressions about the world of spies. But
this is the first real unvarnished account of the system; the class of
men and women employed; the means used to obtain the desired results
and the risks run by those connected with this service. Since the
days of Moses who employed spies in Canaan, to Napoleon Bonaparte, who
inaugurated the first thorough system of political espionage,
potentates, powerful ministers and heads of departments have found it
necessary to obtain early and correct information other than through
the usual official channels. To gain this knowledge they have to
employ persons unknown and unrecognized in official circles. A
recognized official such as an ambassador or a secretary of legation,
envoys plenipotentiary and consuls, would not be able to gain the
information sought, as naturally everybody is on their guard against
them. Moreover, official etiquette prevents an ambassador or consul
from acting in such a capacity.
In this age of rapid developments the need of quick and accurate
information is even more pressing. Europe to-day is a sort of armed
camp, composed of a number of nations of fairly equal strength, in
which the units are more or less afraid of each other. Mutual
distrust and conflicting interests compel Germany, England, France and
Russia to spend billions of money each year on armaments. Germany
builds one battleship; England lays down two; France adds ten
battalions to her army; Germany adds twenty. So the relative strength
keeps on a fair level. But with rapid constructions, new inventions
of weapons, armor, aerial craft, this apparent equality is constantly
disturbed. Here also enters the personal policy and ambitions and pet
schemes of the individual heads of nations and their cabinets.
Because there is a constant fear of being outdistanced, every
government in Europe is trying its utmost to get ahead of the other.
They, hence, keep a stringent watch on each other's movements. This
is possible only by an efficient system of espionage, by trained men
and women, willing to run the risks attached to this sort of work.
For risks there are. I have been imprisoned twice, once in the
Balkans at Belgrade, once in England. I have been attacked five times
and bear the marks of the wounds to this day. Escapes I have had by
the dozen. All my missions were not successes, more often, failures,
and the failures are often fatal. For instance:
Early in the morning of June 11, 1903, the plot which had been brewing
in Servia ended with the assassination of the king, queen, ministers
and members of the royal household of Servia. I shall not go into the
undercurrent political significance of these atrocities as I had no
active part in them, but I was sent down by my government later to
ascertain as far as possible the prime movers in the intrigue which
pointed to Colonel Mashin and a gang of officers of the Sixth
Regiment. All these regicides received Russian pay, for King
Alexander had become dangerous to Russia, because of his flirting with
Austria. Besides, his own idiotic behavior and the flagrant
indiscretions of Queen Draga had by no means endeared him to his
people.
I stuck my nose into a regular hornets' nest and soon found myself in
a most dangerous position. I was arrested by the provisional
government on the order of Lieutenant Colonel Niglitsch on a most
flimsy charge of traveling with false passports. In those times
arrests and executions were the order of the day. The old Servian
proverb of "Od Roba Ikad Iz Groba Nikad" (Out of prison, yes; out of
the grave, never) was fully acted upon. There were really no
incriminating papers of any description upon me, but my being seen and
associating with persons opposed to the provisional government was
quite enough to place me before a drumhead court-martial.
I was sitting in the Café Petit Parisien with Lieutenant Nikolevitch
and Mons Krastov, a merchant of Belgrade, when a file of soldiers in
charge of an officer pulled us out of our chairs and without any
further ado marched us to the Citadel. The next morning we were taken
separately into a small room where three men in the uniform of
colonels were seated at a small iron table. No questions were asked.
"You are found guilty of associating with revolutionary persons. You
were found possessing a passport not your own. You are sentenced to
be shot at sundown."
The whole thing appeared to me first as a joke, then as a bluff, but
looking closely into those high-cheekboned, narrow-eyed faces with the
characteristically close-cropped brutal heads, the humorous aspect
dwindled rapidly and I thought it about time to make a counter move.
Without betraying any of my inward qualms--and believe me, I began to
have some--I said quietly:
"I think you will find it advisable to inform M. Zolarevitch" (then
minister of War) "that Count Weringrode sends his regards."
I saw them looking rather curiously at each other and then the center
inquisitor fired a lot of questions at me, in answer to which I only
shrugged my shoulders.
"That's all I have to say, monsieur."
I was shoved back in my cell. About four that afternoon one of the
officers came to see me.
"Your message has not been sent. My comrades were against sending it,
but I am related to Zolarevitch. So if you can show me some reason, I
shall take your message."
I gave him some reason. So much so that he did not lose any time
getting under way. In fact, it was a very pale, perturbed officer who
rushed out of my cell. I didn't worry much, but when at about 7.30
the cell door opened and two sentries with fixed bayonets and
cartridge pouches entered, placed me in the center and marched me into
the courtyard, where ten more likewise equipped soldiers in charge of
an officer awaited me, I felt somewhat green. I know a firing squad
when I see one. I knew if my message ever reached responsible
quarters, nothing could happen to me; but these were motley times and
all sorts of delays may have happened to the officer.
"Right about wheel" and myself in the center, we marched out of the
courtyard to a little hill to the west of the Citadel.
An old stone building--probably a decayed monastery, for I noticed
several crumbled tombstones--was evidently selected for the place of
execution. On a little rough, four-foot, stone wall we halted, and
the officer, pulling out a document, began reading to me a rather
lengthy preamble in Servian.
Up to then not a word had been spoken. I let him finish and then
politely requested him, as I was not a Serb and consequently did not
understand his lingo, to translate it into a civilized language,
preferably German or French. He seemed somewhat startled and gave me
to understand that he was led to believe I was a Serb. I used some
very forcible German and French, both of which he was able to
understand, pointing out to him that someone, somewhere, made a
thundering big blunder which somehow would have to be paid for. He
was clearly ill at ease, but said, "I have to obey my instructions."
I had told him of my message to the minister, and although it was
quite obvious I was sparring for time he seemed in no way inclined to
rush the execution. Five minutes went; ten minutes went and looking
at his watch, which showed five minutes to eight (although it was fast
getting dusk, I could see that watch-dial distinctly), shrugging his
shoulders and saying, "I can delay no longer," he called a sergeant,
who placed me with my shoulders to the wall and offered me a
handkerchief. I didn't want a handkerchief. A few sharp orders and
twelve Mauser tubes pointed their ugly black snouts directly at me.
I hate to tell my sensation just then. Frankly, I felt nothing
clearly. The only thing I remember distinctly was the third man in
the second file held his gun in rather a slipshod manner, aiming it
first at my midriff, next pointing it at my nose--which strangely
enough caused me intense annoyance. How long we stood thus I don't
know. The next thing I remember was a rattle of grounding arms and
the sight of two other officers, excitedly gesticulating with the one
in charge of the firing squad. All three presently came towards me
and one pulling out a flask of cognac with a polite bow offered me a
drink. I needed it; but didn't take it. All this time I had been
standing motionless with my arms folded across my breast. I heard one
say to the other, "Nitchka Curacha" (no coward). If he had only
known.
Indeed, had I anticipated such an experience, had I known the things I
know now I doubt if I would have been so pleased with the results of
my first visit to Koenigergratzerstrasse 70, where the Intelligence
Department of the German Admiralty is quartered. Will the reader step
back with me in the narrative to the day of my officially joining the
Service? Returning to my hotel after my interview with Captain von
Tappken in his office, I began to reflect.
I had not entered the Service out of pure adventure or for monetary
reasons alone. Money has never appealed to me as the all-powerful
thing in life. I have always had enough for creature comforts and as
for adventure I had had my fill during the Boer War and my world
wanderings. No, I had joined the German Secret Service for quite a
different reason. I was thinking of the influences that had pressed
me out of my destined groove, by every human right my own. I remember
how sanguine Count Reitzenstein was that through the Service I ought
to gain the power I had lost. But as I sat in the hotel room had
occult powers been given me, I never would have taken up Secret
Service work. But one is not quite as wise at twenty-four as at
thirty-nine.
Well satisfied with my prospects, I arose early the next morning and
walked briskly to Captain Tappken's office. Punctually at ten o'clock
I announced myself at the Admiralty and after the usual procedure with
the door man, I was received by Herr von Stammer, private secretary of
Captain Tappken. A very astute and calculating gentleman is Herr von
Stammer. Suave, genial, talkative, he has the plausible and unstudied
art of extracting information without committing himself in turn. A
marvelous encyclopædia of devious Secret Service facts, an ideal
tutor.
When we were alone in his office, von Stammer began by saying
abruptly:
"From now on, you must be entirely and absolutely at our Service. You
will report daily at twelve noon by telephoning a certain number. At
all times you must be accessible. You will pay close attention to the
following rules:
"Absolute silence in regard to your missions. No conversation with
minor officials but only with the respective heads of departments or
to whomever you are sent. You will make no memoranda nor carry
written documents. You will never discuss your affairs with any
employee in the Service whom you may meet. You are not likely to meet
many. It is strictly against the rules to become friendly or intimate
with any agent. You must abstain from intoxicating liquors. You are
not permitted to have any women associates. You will be known to us
by a number. You will sign all your reports by that number. Always
avoid telephoning, telegraphing and cabling as much as possible. In
urgent cases do so, but use the cipher that will be supplied to you."
He went on to give numerous other minor details and instructions,
elaborating the system, but which might prove wearisome here. I was
in his office all the forenoon, and when he ushered me out I half
expected to be called into von Tappken's presence to be sent on my
first mission. Instead of that, I had to wait five months before I
was given my first work and an exceedingly unimportant thing it was.
During those five months I was kept at a steady grind of schooling in
certain things. Day after day, week after week, I was grounded in
subjects that were essential to efficient Secret Service work.
Broadly, they could be divided into four classes--topography,
trigonometry, naval construction and drawing. The reasons for these
you will see from my missions. My tutors were all experts in the
Imperial Service. A Secret Service agent sent out to investigate and
report on the condition, situation, and armament of a fort like Verdun
in France must be able to make correct estimates of distances, height,
angles, conditions of the ground, etc. This can only be done by a man
of the correct scientific training. He must have the science of
topography at his finger tips; he must be able to make quick and
accurate calculations using trigonometry, as well as possessing skill
as a draftsman. In my mission to Port Arthur, where I had to report
on the defenses, I found this training invaluable.
The same applies to the subject of naval construction. Before
entering the German Secret Service, I certainly knew the difference
between a torpedo and a torpedo boat destroyer, but naturally could
not give an accurate description of the various types of destroyers
and torpedoes. My instructor in this subject was Lieutenant Captain
Kurt Steffens, torpedo expert of the Intelligence Department of the
Imperial Navy. After a month of tutelage under him, I was able to
tell the various types of torpedoes, submarines, and mines, etc., in
use by the principal Powers. I could even tell by the peculiar
whistle it made whether the torpedo that was being discharged was a
Whitehead or a Brennan.
I was also drilled in the construction of every known kind of naval
gun. Dozens of model war-crafts were shown to me and explained. I
saw the model of every warship in the world. For days at a time I was
made to sit before charts that hung from the walls of certain rooms in
the Intelligence Department and study the silhouettes of every known
varying type of war-craft. I was schooled in this until I could tell
at a glance what type of a battleship, cruiser, or destroyer it was,
whether it was peculiar to the English, French, Russian or United
States Navy. As I shall show in relating one of my missions to
England, I was brushed up on the silhouette study of British warships,
for I had to be able to discern and classify them at long range. The
different ranking officers of the navies of the world, their uniforms,
the personnel of battleships, the systems of flag signals, and codes,
were explained to me in detail. I was given large books in which were
colored plates of the uniforms and signal flags of every navy in the
world. I had to study these until at a glance I could tell the rank
and station of the officers and men of the principal navies. The same
with the signal flags. I pored over those books night after night
into the early hours of the morning. My regular hours for tuition
were from ten to twelve in the forenoon and from two until six in the
afternoon. But it was impossible to compress all the work into that
time. I was anxious to get my first mission, and I presume I did a
great deal of cramming.
My study was not all in Berlin. I spent most of my time there at
Koenigergratzerstrasse 70 and at the Zeughaus, the great museum of the
German General Staff. But there were side trips to the big government
works at Kiel and Wilhelmshafen. There I was taught every detail of
the mechanics of naval construction and I was not pronounced equipped
until I could talk intelligently about every unassembled part of a
gun, torpedo tube, or mine.
In the course of my five months' instruction under the various experts
of the Prussian Service I had many opportunities to observe the
exhaustive thoroughness and the minuteness of detail which the German
General Staff possesses. I did not lose the chance of this
opportunity. I really did observe and see more than was intended for
me to see. Of the amazing amount of labor, time and money that has
been spent to gather the information contained in the secret archives
of the German General Staff, the marvelous system of war that has been
perfected in the German Empire, I shall tell when I consider the
secrets of the War Machine.
Naturally, I soon came to know still other things than what they
taught me. I began to consider the whole proposition of Secret
Service, and before relating my first important mission for Germany I
shall tell you some of the general secrets of the System.
There are four systems of Secret Service in Europe, the four leading
powers each possessing one. First in systematic efficiency is the
German, next comes the Russian, then the French, and English. England
has a very efficient service in India and her Asiatic possessions, but
has only lately entered the European field. Last but not least comes
the International Secret Service Bureau with headquarters in Belgium,
a semi-private concern which procures reliable information for anyone
who will pay for it. This service is generally entrusted with the
procuring of technical details, such as the plans of a new kind of gun
or data on a new and minor fortification. Mr. Vance Thompson has also
cited special missions like this one that follows.
Not often does the chance come to leave the regular channels of
espionage and go forth upon a mission out of the ordinary. That
chance came a few years ago to the Russian agents in Brussels. In
St. Petersburg the chiefs were desirous of knowing the identity and
names of a group of revolutionists who had formed a sort of colony in
Montreux, Switzerland. A French woman, known sometimes as Theresa
Prevost (the last I heard of her she was in prison) was detailed to
the mission. Young and clever was Theresa; likewise the man who was
ordered to accompany her, posing as a "brother," Charles Prevost.
The chief of these Russian fugitives, who were down around the lake of
Geneva, brewing their dark plans, was known. He was Goluckoffsky, and
he had a son twenty-two years of age--an impressionable Russian son.
Hence the young and pretty Theresa.
It was decided by her Brussels chiefs that she assume the role of an
heiress from Canada. Five thousand francs for preliminary expenses
were handed over to her and with Charles, the brother, she descended
upon Montreux. If you were there at the time you will recall the
social triumph made by the young Canadian heiress. You may even
remember that she seemed to be infatuated with the young
impressionable son of old Goluckoffsky. The day long they were
together. They were going to be married, and Charles Prevost the
"brother," stood in the background, chatted amiably with old
Goluckoffsky and his friends and smiled.
Then as an heiress should, Theresa and her "brother" invited
Goluckoffsky, his family and friends, to a pre-nuptial luncheon. No
expense was spared, for the wires had moaned with requests sent to
Brussels for money. Young Goluckoffsky was delighted with his
fiancée. She was insistent that _all_ his friends should be there,
all the revolutionaries--although of course his dear Theresa did not
know that. How the spelling of their names puzzled her. With gay
heart young Goluckoffsky wrote out all their names on a slip of paper
so she could send their invitations properly--the names St. Petersburg
wanted to know.
Came the day of the luncheon, a gala affair in the banquet room of the
hotel. Theresa looked charming; even the grimmest of the old
revolutionists were taken with her. Old Goluckoffsky beamed upon this
sparkling febrile woman, rich too, who was to marry his son.
Ices had been served when Theresa, her pretty face in smiles, declared
that she had a surprise for her guests. To her it was the day of
days. What better than a group photograph of her dear and new
friends? How she would treasure it! Strangely enough this did not
please the guests. Photographs were dangerous. Suppose, in some way,
the _Okrana_ got hold of them. They breathed easier, though, when
Theresa, calling in the photographer--the best in Lausanne, she
assured them--instructed him to deliver all copies to
Mr. Goluckoffsky, her dear father-in-law to be. So the revolutionists
grouped themselves on the hotel lawn; the photographer pressed the
bulb; and everybody laughed.
As quickly as the photographer could print his proofs they were
delivered to Theresa; that night she and her "brother" left Montreux.
In two days the names of all the revolutionists in young
Goluckoffsky's handwriting and their pictures were delivered to the
chief in Brussels. A substantial fee was paid Theresa, besides, and
she must have smiled; some of those young Russians are delightful.
So much for an example of the clever work done by Brussels. The
German Service, in which I served on and off for twelve years, has
three distinct branches--the Army, Navy and Personal, each branch
having its own chief and its own corps of men and women agents. The
Army and Navy division is controlled by the General Staff of Berlin
(Grosser General Stabe), the most marvelous organization in the world.
The Political and Personal branch is controlled from the
Wilhelmstrasse, the German Foreign Office, the Emperor in person, or
his immediate Privy Councilor. The Army and Navy divisions confine
themselves to the procuring of hidden and secret information as
regards armaments, plans, discoveries, etc. The political branch
concerns itself with the supervision of meetings between potentates,
cabinet ministers and so forth. The Personal branch, under the direct
control of the Privy Councilor, is used by the Emperor for his own
special purposes and service in this branch is the _sine qua non_ of
the service.
The Personal consists of all classes of men and women. Princes and
counts, lawyers and doctors, actors and actresses, mondaines of the
great world, demi-mondaines of the half world, waiters and porters,
all are made use of as occasion arises. It may well happen that your
interesting acquaintance in the salon of an express steamer or your
charming companion in the tearoom of the Ritz is the paid agent of
some government. Great singers, dancers and artists, especially of
Russian and Austrian origin, are often spies. Notably Anna Pavlowa,
famous for light feet and nimble wit, said wit being retained by the
Russian government at 50,000 rubles per annum. When Mlle. Pavlowa
travels in Germany, she has the honor of a very unostentatious
bodyguard, the government being anxious that nothing should happen to
_them_. Perhaps Mademoiselle may remember a little incident at the
Palais de Dance in Berlin--Anna _vs._ He of Lichtenstein.
Or perhaps Mademoiselle will recall a little episode in the Eis Arena
in Berlin during a certain New Year's Eve carnival when the
restoration--not the loss--of her magnificent gold chatelaine bag
caused her much embarrassment. The chatelaine in question being
dexterously commandeered by an expert in such matters of the Secret
Service squad.
It happened that the Personal Branch of the German Secret Service was
exceedingly interested in that gold bag. Mademoiselle had been
carrying on an affair with a young ordnance officer of the Potsdam
garrison. Now the Service does not like to see officers, especially
those of the ordnance, becoming involved with ladies like the Pavlowa.
On this particular night he had presented her with the new bag and she
had been injudicious enough to have kept in the golden receptacle a
dangerously compromising letter that he had enclosed. Injudicious,
dear lady! Corsage or stockings, Mademoiselle; but vanity
bags--never!
I have reason to believe that the following incident cost the Pavlowa
a rather remunerative engagement in Berlin.
Celebrating the coming of the New Year, Mademoiselle and her party
were feasting in the Ice Arena. I happened to be at near-by table,
and saw everything; as well as later hearing the inside of it.
The gold chatelaine lay on the table at her elbow. Upon observing its
position, the waiter--a secret agent on the case--deliberately tipped
over a champagne glass that stood within a few inches of the bag. Of
course, Mademoiselle was worried lest the wine run over on her gown
and while thus preoccupied, the waiter, stammering apologies, mopped
up the table cloth with his serviette--mopped up the wine and cleverly
covering the bag folded it in the napkin and hurried away. In two
minutes he had opened it, abstracted the letter from the young
ordnance officer; and was back, apologizing to the Pavlowa.
"Your pardon, Mademoiselle," he said, handing her the gold
chatelaine." In my haste I picked up this bag by mistake. I suppose
it is yours."
With a slight start she said "yes," took the bag and hurriedly opening
it felt for the letter. To her dismay it was gone. I saw her eyes
narrow a little and then I marveled at time cleverness of the woman.
"No," she suddenly said, "that is not my bag. I never saw it before.
I advise you to find the owner."
Clever Anna! You sacrificed the costly gift, but you went over the
frontier just the same.
The necessary qualifications of an agent vary of course with the class
of work to be done. We can dismiss the waiter and porter class, as
they never receive independent commands and work only under direct
supervision on minor details without knowing why. The trusted agent
handling important matters and documents must needs be a person of
intelligence, tact and address. He must be a linguist and, above all,
a man of resource and a close student of his fellow men. In the woman
agent charm and tact, beauty and manners, _Ã la grande dame_,
knowledge of the world and men are essential. The pay varies, but is
always good. Expenses are never questioned, the money being no
object. For instance, I spent on a mission through the Riviera 20,000
marks in fourteen days. My fixed salary towards the end was 10,000
marks a year, besides twenty marks a day living expenses when not at
work, which was automatically tripled irrespective of expenses when
out on work. Besides, there is a bonus set out for each piece of
work, the amount of which varies with the importance of the case in
hand. I received as much as 30,000 marks ($7,500) for a single
mission performed successfully.
The risks are great, so are the rewards--if successful. If not, then
one pays the usual price of failures, in this case only more so. For
in the event of disaster no official help or protection could or would
be granted and quarter is neither asked nor given. The work is
interesting and fascinating to those of an adventurous turn of mind
and not overly nervous about their health or squeamish in regards to
established ethics. I would not suggest the Secret Service as a means
of livelihood for a nervous person. At times it is arduous and
strenuous work and mostly undertaken by men and women who fear neither
man nor devil. It is not compatible to longevity. As a rule, the
constant strain of being on the _qui vive_, playing a lone hand
against the most powerful influences often unknown, having one's plans
upset at the last moment and continually pitting one's own brain
against some of the acutest and shrewdest minds of the world, the
knowledge that the slightest blunder means loss of liberty, often of
life, is wearing, to say the least.
I have known men and women, courageous to a degree, who have broken
dowm under the strain; sooner or later one is bound to succumb. I
have known of a dozen men and women who have mysteriously disappeared,
"dropped out of sight," caught or killed--_not always by their
opponents_.
To cite but two cases, one of a woman, the other of a man.
Olga Bruder was a spy. She worked for Germany and for the Service
Bureau in Brussels. A few years ago it was announced in the European
newspapers that a woman known as Olga Bruder had committed suicide in
a hotel at Memel on the Russian border. Fraulein Bruder had been sent
after the plans of a Russian fort. In Berlin they learned that she
had obtained them, but becoming involved in a love affair with a
Russian officer was holding them out, planning to restore them to him.
Also, contrary to the service regulations, she knew four foreign
agents well. Later reports from Danzig revealed the fact that she had
become enamored with a sectional chief of the Russian Service and that
she was about to give up everything to him. So Olga Bruder committed
suicide. _She was poisoned_.
As for Lieutenant von Zastrov, an ex-army officer in the German Secret
Service, he was killed in a duel. Zastrov was suspected of flirting
with Russian agents--only suspected. He knew too much to be
imprisoned. He was a civilian and under the German law entitled to a
public hearing. Had he still been a military man, a secret tribunal
would have been possible, but being the scion of an old aristocratic
house and knowing official secrets, it was not wise to put him in
against the regular machinery of elimination. So Zastrov was
challenged to a duel. He killed the first man the Service chiefs sent
against him, yet no sooner was that duel over than he was challenged
again. In half an hour Zastrov was dead.
Yes, your own employers often think it advisable at times to eliminate
a too clever or knowing member of their service, unless that same
member has procured for himself a solid good "life insurance" in the
nature of documentary evidence of such character that to meddle with
him brings danger of disclosure. Of late there have been no attempts
on my life.