Orders came through from London as unexpectedly as ever. The ‘firm’ solicits my availability as a matter of protocol, but the implication is unspoken and my instructions cryptic and brief.
PROCEED BERLIN IMMEDIATELY -STOP- COLLECT PACKAGE PROCEED COPENHAGEN ASAP -STOP- AVOID DETECTION AT ALL COSTS
I deploy to Berlin as inconspicuously as possible. This is often achieved by simply travelling in plain sight and I book a business class fare to the brand new Berlin Tegel airport undercover as a portly travel journalist on a mundane assignment to write about luxury cars and hotels. Perfectly plausible.
My contact in chauffeur uniform meets me under the ‘Ankunft’ sign, his tablet bearing the name of a random travel writer plucked from a Google search.
“Welcome sir, I trust you won’t be uncomfortable travelling under this name? It seemed unusual enough to be convincing.”
We chat innocuously, chiefly about our mutual lament for the recent passing of the historic Templehof airport where, during the famous Berlin Airlift of 1949, flights landed every few minutes with supplies for the city, besieged by the Soviets for a full month as a show of Cold War obstinance.
My driver, who only identifies himself as Manfred, discreetly slips me an unmarked envelope.
The weather is bright and inviting as we arrive at Sammlung Boros, a WWII, above ground air raid bunker that now houses the impressive art collection of Christian Boros behind its two-metre thick concrete-reinforced walls. During a tour I mingle with art experts inspecting works by Ai Weiwei, Thea Djordjadze, Klara Liden, Wolfgang Tillmans and Cerith Wyn Evans. While the group is transfixed by rubber car tyre in a slowly self-disintegrating kinetic installation by Michael Sailstorfer, I open the envelope.
Identify ‘Alfie’ with ‘I bet that’s not a Michelin’
Feeling a little self-conscious, I do as instructed and from the wall of staring, incredulous faces emerges a petite young woman with a fetching boy cut and piercing eyes. Her natural smile and impeccable complexion is of the type Americans pay thousands for.
“You clearly have no idea about art, do you?” she observes bluntly, showing little sympathy for my predicament as I try unsuccessfully to dissolve back into the small group.
Alfie shows considerable restraint and continues to engage me in prescribed conversation that expands her cover as a premium lifestyle editor from Southeast Asia. Her English and diction is immaculate and her deportment flawless. Clearly, she has infiltrated her network very successfully and I dare not speculate on what necessitated her rapid extrication from Berlin.
Posing as wealthy tourists, we’re shuttled by plush minivan to the exclusive Design Hotels collection property, Das Stue, in Berlin’s leafy Tiergarten district. Pre-war, this palatial manor housed the Royal Danish Embassy and the new owners, with acclaimed Spanish architect and designer Patricia Urquiola, have restored the structure in a glorious homage reflecting the grandeur and pomp that once typified this exclusive diplomatic neighbourhood.
The rooms are really over-sized suites of 70m² with five metre high ceilings. A gleaming brass bathtub sits imperiously as a centrepiece in the ample room. Just as I’m thinking I could become accustomed to this ‘travel writer’ ruse, another envelope slides almost silently under my door. I peer through the spy hole, but the mysterious messenger is long gone.
Accept J’s invitation for dinner in ‘Cinco’, Michelin-starred Catalan chef Paco Pérez’s restaurant downstairs at 8pm sharp.
J, aka Julia the firm’s London station chief, hosts us in amazing style demonstrating her prowess for creating a seamless cover. Just as I’m finishing my Fruchte cocktail, another note has appeared under my napkin. I slide it surreptitiously into my jacket for later inspection.
08:30 engage St James red Bentley Continental GT Speed Coupe with package to Schloss Ludwigslust via E26. Contact Hildegarde.
After breakfast, there is no mistaking this supreme English automobile parked in full view at the entrance of Das Stue. Bentley’s superb Continental GT (or ‘Contie’ for short) is powered by the mammoth six litre W12 twin turbo engine in ‘Speed’ configuration and linked to an 8-speed close-ratio transmission and an advanced All-Wheel-Drive (AWD) system. The powerplant one might expect to find in a Spitfire or Hurricane fighter plane. We’ll be limited to a modest 130kmh so as not to attract undue attention, but should the necessity arise, we could propel ourselves beyond double that speed in a matter of seconds.
I go to leap into the driver’s seat, upholstered in pure, delightfully aromatic hide and trimmed with walnut when my enthusiasm is interrupted.
“Do you mind?”
Alfie, as diminutive as she may be, has confidently installed herself at the helm. Those eyes, framed by eyebrows that could have been etched by Da Vinci himself, clearly indicate my station.
Without a minute to lose, we’re away into the Berlin traffic, the red beast murmuring ominously at traffic lights and growling with intimidation as Alfie applies the throttle with her calf skin boots.
We blast down the expressway on the verge of legal limit, effortlessly dispatching lumbering lorries and rising to the challenge against lesser contenders. The GT can reach 100kmh from a standing start in a smidgen over four seconds, so there’s no hanging around.
We arrive at the imposing 220 year old Schloss Ludwiglust, our massive 21-inch alloy wheels noisily crushing the ornamental gravel as we park in courtyard. Once home to the Mecklenburg-Schwerin family who resided here until evicted by the Soviets in 1945, the palace now houses the State Museum of Schwerin/Ludwigslust/Güstrow, with paintings by Jean-Baptiste Oudry and busts by Jean Antoine Houdon forming the collection.
Hildegard greets us curtly in German. Having spent her entire life in what was East Germany, she never learned English and never needed to. I go to take the envelope she discreetly holds under a brochure but Alfie snatches it, saunters nonchalantly off past a gallery of Prussian dukes and promptly resumes her position behind the hand-stitched Mulliner steering wheel.
“Get in, we’re late.” Yes, ma’am.
With an overnight at the funky East Hotel (separate rooms, thank you) in Hamburg and a lavish dinner at Clouds, 105 metres above the red-lit Reeperbahn at the top of Tanzende Türme (tower), our cover seems to be holding remarkably well. Alfie politely keeps the conversation to topics to which she thinks I might have some insight, like power output and torque. (The W12 has, by the way, 472kW and 840Nm respectively)
We keep up appearances with coffee and cake at Schlosskeller Glucksburg before the final run into Copenhagen via Nybord. Julia has transported herself ahead of time and, with much aplomb, is there to offer us champagne in Balthazar at our ultimate destination, Copenhagen’s historic Hotel d’Angleterre. Visibly relieved at our successful avoidance of inquisitive border guards and overzealous Bundespolizei, both Julia and Alfie indulge in flutes of sparkling Bollinger laced with jokes at my expense.
Now that my ‘package’ has safely delivered herself from whatever bedevilled her in Berlin, all that remains is for me to complete my undercover assignment and find some way to convincingly relate this most incredible journey. Not sure where to start really.
