Churchill's Secret Agent Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  PART ONE - THE BEGINNING

  ONE - Training

  TWO - The Hunt

  THREE - Learning to Parachute

  PART TWO - BEHIND ENEMY LINES

  FOUR - Spying in Africa

  FIVE - Motorcycling in Europe

  SIX - Youth Camps in France

  SEVEN - Courage on Parade

  EIGHT - Gold Bullion

  NINE - Maxim’s

  TEN - Jews for Sale

  ELEVEN - Josephine

  TWELVE - The Code of Combat

  THIRTEEN - Escape by Submarine

  FOURTEEN - Martinique

  FIFTEEN - Riding the Rails

  SIXTEEN - The Barber of Vienna

  SEVENTEEN - Saving Thousands of Jewish Children

  EIGHTEEN - The Vatican

  PART THREE - MARC, L’INGÉNIEUX

  NINETEEN - Crossing Europe on Foot

  TWENTY - Deliverance

  TWENTY-ONE - Christmas with Churchill

  TWENTY-TWO - Paying the French Communists

  TWENTY-THREE - Stealing a Submarine

  TWENTY-FOUR - The Bank Robbery

  TWENTY-FIVE - The Port of Saint-Nazaire

  TWENTY-SIX - Jailbreak

  TWENTY-SEVEN - Atomic Bomb

  TWENTY-EIGHT - Patton in North Africa

  PART FOUR - RETURN FROM HELL

  TWENTY-NINE - Captured

  THIRTY - Sanctuary

  THIRTY-ONE - Interrogation

  THIRTY-TWO - Torture

  THIRTY-THREE - Breakout

  THIRTY-FOUR - The Monastery

  THIRTY-FIVE - Convalescence

  THIRTY-SIX - Return to Combat

  THIRTY-SEVEN - Attack on l’Authion

  EPILOGUE

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  CHURCHILL’S SECRET AGENT

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the authors

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley premium edition / December 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Max Ciampoli and Linda Ciampoli.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-44559-4

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  Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  http://us.penguingroup.com

  I dedicate this book to my mother,

  who I never stopped loving

  and who I know never stopped loving me.

  I always wanted her to be proud of me.

  Had she known what I did, I believe she would have been.

  Max Ciampoli

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I especially would like to pay tribute to my wife, Linda, because without her my story would never have been written or translated.

  I am forever grateful to my dear tutor and all the Jesuit brothers who made of me the man I became.

  To my godfather, I express my appreciation for arranging my reintroduction to Winston Churchill.

  To Mr. Churchill, who afforded me the opportunity to do my part in bringing freedom back to the world.

  Finally, my heart is full of gratitude as I thank the Allies; the French, German, and all other European Resistance groups; the Freemasons; the Gypsies; and all those individuals who risked their lives to help defeat the Third Reich.

  —MAX CIAMPOLI

  I would like to thank my beloved Max, most importantly for his heroic efforts that contributed to the survival of the Jewish people and to civilization as we know it, and also for enduring my repeated questioning about the very things he wanted to forget but, of course, couldn’t.

  To Brian Davis, for his varied and creative contributions and enduring belief in Max and me since the mid-1990s. To Laurie Roberts, who never said “no” when we needed her computer advice or her point of view.

  Heartfelt thanks to Nancy Ellis, now our most cherished agent and friend, who has done so much more than could ever be expected of an agent. And to Natalee Rosenstein, vice president and senior executive editor; Michelle Vega, associate editor; and all those at The Berkley Publishing Group for breathing life into Max’s story.

  Particular thanks for Ed Breslin’s significant editorial contribution, and to my dear friend Victoria Branch for her valuable editing assistance.

  To CEO-Space, where we met Tim Trainor and Brad Scobey, who have encouraged us in our endeavors since 2007. It is also where we had the good fortune to meet publicist Jill Lublin and author Dina Dove, who kindly introduced us to our literary agent.

  Gratitude to Alex Kloske and Mick McGovern for their invaluable support and meaningful suggestions. Through their interviews of Max, I gained deeper insight into the ramifications of what Max had accomplished.

  To my friend Leo Hettich, to Brother Matthew Cunningham and Rev. Monsignor Roger Roensch, who all helped us procure a copy of Max’s baptismal certificate from the Vatican. A special thank-you to Sister Agnes Faleono of the Vatican, who was not only efficient but kind.

  To the Department of French at UCLA, whose professors taught me the basics of the language and made it possible for me to go to the University of Bordeaux.

  Deep appreciation goes to Rev. Dr. Sandy Jacob, Rev. Liza Chapen, Circle’s Edge Center for Spiritual Living, Kathy Hunter, Michael Adler, and all of our cherished friends whose support never wavered throughout this incredible journey.

  Finally, profound thanks to my husband for always loving me unconditionally.

  —LINDA CIAMPOLI

  INTRODUCTION

  I was only a s
eventeen-year-old French boy at the time this story begins. Now I am well into my ninth decade, and a lifetime has passed since I helped strike down the greatest force for evil the world had ever known.

  A graduate of the Jesuit lycée in Nice, I had entered the university intending to become a dentist. Though I loved school, there were rumblings that war was imminent, and I wanted to defend my country. An influential friend was able to get me into the Chasseurs Alpins, even though I was underage. Because of a special military course that I had taken at the lycée, I soon found myself serving as a lieutenant in the French army’s elite Alpine infantry on skis. Then catastrophe struck.

  The Nazis invaded and overran my beloved country. The French military was swiftly crushed, resulting in unequivocal surrender. France lay prostrate and defeated. Chaos reigned. Collaboration was pervasive, something I could not comprehend. I told my men to find a way to Algeria or even to England if they could. I would never surrender nor consider defeat. Rather, I would find a way to fight the enemy until my beautiful country was free once more.

  I assessed my options and decided to return to the south of France where I’d grown up as the son of a successful Monte Carlo nightclub owner. Though I hated my Fascist, abusive father, my dear godfather, a brilliant architect, lived nearby in Cap d’Antibes. I decided to pay him a visit.

  As it happened, Winston Churchill used to vacation frequently on the Côte d’Azur in a villa close to my godfather’s house. During my boyhood, I often saw him sitting outdoors in front of his easel, paintbrush in hand and cigar between his lips. It was there we first met. Mr. Churchill had a great love for France: The climate, beauty, language, sophistication, cuisine, and nightlife provided a welcome respite from the hubbub of London and the stresses of politics.

  When I told my godfather how furious I was that France had lost the war before my troop even had the chance to do battle and how determined I was to defeat the Nazis, he not only listened—he took me seriously. Though I didn’t know where to go or what to do next, my godfather sat thinking. That was when the great idea came to him. He would call his friend Winston Churchill.

  Before I knew it, I was on my way to England, not even realizing how well prepared I already was for my destiny. Thanks to my childhood tutor, a retired Austrian colonel, I spoke fluent German and Italian. This strict but very kind man had also taught me to ski, ride a horse, fence, and wrestle Greco-Roman style. I was five when he showed me how to shoot with a special rifle that he had made especially for me. By his fine example, he also taught me ethics, morals, and manners. In short, thanks to my tutor and my subsequent studies at the Jesuit lycée, I was already a gentleman as well as an officer—though still so very young—when I arrived in England. Subsequently, Mr. Churchill and the British special forces training school would transform me into a spy, an operative, and a warrior.

  I spent the next four years as a secret agent, crisscrossing Europe, in and out of the shadowy world of espionage. I worked in an era when audacity, determination, and ingenuity counted more than age. I saved lives, and I took them. I was determined to liberate France and do my part in the fight for world freedom.

  I was a spy.

  What follows is my story.

  PART ONE

  THE BEGINNING

  Never, never, never quit.

  —WINSTON CHURCHILL

  ONE

  Training

  Mr. Churchill’s secretary greeted me at the door. The driver took my luggage inside. “Mr. Churchill is not here to welcome you and asked me to get you settled in. Your godfather has called several times asking that we call him when you arrive. Mr. Churchill has suggested that you select one of two rooms on the ground level with a view of the pond. He’ll return within the next few days. He said to make yourself at home and to ask me for anything you need or want.”

  Her French was quite good. She was a short, plain woman who looked to be in her sixties. She seemed kind though rather reserved. She escorted me to the rooms. I selected the room on the left, which had more character and already had a bed in place. It looked to have been an artist’s studio before. I later found paintbrushes and a palette in a storage trunk. The other room was a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Both rooms had lovely fireplaces made of brick.

  After I put my things away, I went upstairs to the secretary’s office. “Would it be possible to have some logs for the fireplace? The room is damp and a little musty.”

  “Of course, I’ll have someone take care of it.”

  “If you don’t mind, madame, I’m rather hungry. Would you have something to eat, perhaps some soup and bread?”

  She stood up from her desk. “Certainly. Just follow me to the kitchen.”

  The kitchen was large but very gloomy and had a large, rustic rough-hewn table in the center. There was a bench on one side and chairs on the other. The room was cold, though not as cold as the rest of the house. When anyone spoke, their voice resounded off the walls. I was extremely tired but hungry, as usual.

  The secretary talked to the two women who were in the kitchen, apparently asking one of them about something to eat for me.

  “Monsieur, there is potato soup, a beef pot-au-feu, goat cheese, and of course, fresh bread. For dinner, they plan to prepare chicken in cream sauce over rice. They usually prepare a formal dinner because we never know when the prime minister will arrive unexpectedly from London. I think you’ll find that we are always well stocked with excellent food.”

  Changing the subject, she said, “I’ll send someone down to light the fireplaces in both rooms and leave you extra logs. That will take care of the humidity problem.”

  “Thank you, madame. Will you tell the servants that I would like the pot-au-feu, goat cheese, and bread? And will you please thank them for me?” Feeling intense hunger pangs, I added, “And tell them that I will be pleased to have the chicken in cream sauce as soon as it’s ready.”

  She relayed to them what I said, and the three women chuckled, I’m sure, at my youthful appetite. “I’d like to go change and get comfortable in my new surroundings. Would someone be so kind as to bring me the meal in my room?”

  “Certainly, monsieur,” the secretary replied.

  I went downstairs, and a few minutes later there was a knock on the door. The younger of the two servants had arrived already with a tray of food that she placed on the table in the library. As soon as she left, I sat down and devoured it all. Though the beef was boiled and under-seasoned, it was good to have something hot to eat. The cheese was rich and creamy, and the bread was fresh and crusty. I wanted to finish eating so that I could sleep a little.

  I hadn’t slept since leaving France. I had waited half a day in Geneva for the airplane to Casablanca, then waited endlessly in the Casablanca airport for the plane to England. Once in England, I waited a long time yet again for the car to pick me up. The journey had been lengthy and sleepless.

  After eating, I collapsed on top of the bed and fell asleep. I slept soundly for three or four hours and woke up refreshed. The room was warm and cozy now. It must be time for dinner, I thought, as I put on my uniform jacket and climbed the stairs. I didn’t want to miss dinner. I loved chicken prepared in fresh cream sauce with mushrooms. I appreciated the time and effort it took to prepare this dish.

  As I passed the secretary’s office, I saw her still working at her desk. “Excuse me, madame. Since Mr. Churchill apparently will not be here for dinner this evening, would you care to join me?”

  “Thank you, but no, monsieur,” she said. “The prime minister would not approve of that. Anyway, I have so much work to complete while he is away. When he’s here, he’s often dictating letters to catch up with the mountains of correspondence that pile up during his absence.”

  She paused and smiled, then continued, “You’ll see what a wonderful man he is. He has already told me about you. Just so you’ll know, when he’s here, he often follows a certain routine. He gets up before dawn every day and goes out to talk to the hor
ses. Then he comes back to his office where he reads his correspondence and several newspapers. He loves to take long walks in the forest. He appreciates the beauty of nature and the fresh country air. This place gives him the quiet he needs. He goes for walks even when it’s foggy or rainy. When he returns, he goes to his office to write notes and make calls. Sometimes, he nods off while writing. You’ll see that he basically follows this routine every day when he’s here, but most of the time he stays in London.”

  One of the servants came to her office to tell her they would be serving my dinner in the small library next to my room and that the gardener had rebuilt the fires in both rooms. I bid her good evening and went downstairs to have dinner.

  The guest library was spacious. There was a small table with four chairs, a tufted brown leather couch and armchair next to which sat a wooden radio and a gramophone. On the other side of the couch was an end table holding a lamp with a large oval green lampshade under which a big ashtray nestled. An area rug covered the center of the room on top of the parquet floor. Dark draperies framed the window that looked out over the pond. Had I chosen this room, they probably would have brought the bed in from the adjacent room, or perhaps there were extra beds in another part of the house. Dinner was on the table, and everything was under bell. Since the only heating in the house was from fireplaces, the rooms remained cold unless the fireplaces were lit.

  Before I sat down, I lifted up one bell, and to my great surprise, the whole chicken, sprinkled with paprika, was swimming in the cream. Hmm. I had expected it to be cut in pieces and served over rice. And the chicken looked small. Would it be enough? I lifted another bell and found what smelled so good—the rice in cream sauce with wild mushrooms. On another plate, I found Jerusalem artichokes and on the last were baked Rennet apples. I couldn’t resist and took a bite of apple right away. Savoring the taste, I sat down. There was a half loaf of country bread and a bottle of white wine on the table. By the time I was finished, nothing was left. There was clearly an excellent cook in the kitchen.