Ring of Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  ‘I understand you speak German?’

  Prince nodded.

  ‘The spoils of war have been somewhat limited in Berlin, for which we only have ourselves to blame. I’m amazed they held out for so long. These cigars are very good… please.’

  Prince helped himself to one and the Russian came round to snip the end off and light it. He was about Prince’s height too, but his appearance was slightly darker than the Slavic or Asiatic looks so common amongst the Soviet troops he’d seen in Berlin. Prince noticed he was wearing a gold watch and there were two more on the desk.

  ‘Your name, please?’

  ‘Captain John Hadley of the Royal Dragoons: I’m a liaison officer with the British forces.’

  ‘And what can I do for you, Captain John Hadley?’

  Prince explained that the British forces urgently needed to interview a German intelligence officer based in Berlin called Rauter… No, we don’t know his first name… Possibly former Abwehr, now most likely to be working for the RSHA – maybe running agents outside the Reich, including in Britain.

  The Russian officer was making notes. ‘Any photographs?’

  ‘I’m afraid not: our information is that he’s in his mid forties.’

  ‘And you know for sure that he’s in Berlin?’

  ‘We know he was last July.’

  The Russian pulled a face. ‘So, just a surname, no proper description, no address and a suspicion that he worked at either Tirpitzufer or Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse – neither of which is standing.’

  ‘So I saw.’

  ‘Why do you need to find this man?’

  In the short time he’d been in the room, Prince had worked out that the Russian officer was smart. He knew he needed to be as honest as possible. ‘We believe he has information about German agents still operating in Britain.’

  ‘And if you – we – find him, what is in it for the Soviet Union?’

  Prince shrugged and coughed. The cigar was stronger than anything he’d smoked before. ‘We’re allies, aren’t we?’

  ‘So I’m told, Captain.’ The Russian closed his eyes and put his feet back on the desk, his cigar clamped between his teeth. From outside came the sound of shouting and screams, followed by a burst of machine-gun fire. The Russian didn’t even bat an eyelid. He remained in that position for a while before nodding his head in approval, a smile once again crossing his face.

  ‘Give me one day, Captain: I’ll tell your driver to bring you here tomorrow afternoon, perhaps at five o’clock.’

  ‘Can I ask your name?’

  ‘Iosif Leonid Gurevich – Podpolkovnik Iosif Leonid Gurevich.’

  * * *

  ‘From the way you describe him, I imagine he’ll be NKGB. You’ve heard of them?’

  Prince shook his head: he’d been telling a major from British Army intelligence about his encounter with the Russian.

  ‘The People’s Commissariat of State Security – they look after all aspects of security and intelligence, especially in areas they’ve taken over. Hard to know which Soviet organisation is what these days, but the NKGB seem to rule the roost wherever they end up. What was he like?’

  ‘Rather pleasant, actually.’

  ‘Not for me to ask you about your mission, of course, but you’ll know to be careful. Don’t trust any of these chaps as far as you can throw them. And what rank did you say he was?’

  ‘He said Podpolkovnik; I don’t know if I’ve pronounced that correctly.’

  ‘Well you certainly found the right chap: a podpolkovnik is more or less equivalent to our lieutenant colonel rank.’

  * * *

  Prince was keen to revisit places in Berlin that Sunday from when he’d been in the city some two and a half years previously. From what he could tell, the Hotel Excelsior was in ruins. He wanted to return to the Das Bayerischer Haus restaurant on Donhoff Strasse, although he doubted there’d be much to see there. But most of all he wanted to see Sophia, the German woman who’d appeared from nowhere to rescue him and had turned out to be such a formidable ally.

  He looked carefully at the few people out on the streets, those not hiding in the shadows: it was hard to catch their faces as most walked along stooped, looking at the ground. When they did glance up, they had a uniform expression of hunger and fear. Not one of them looked anything like Sophia.

  What was most noticeable about Berlin was how the ubiquitous and enormous swastika flags that had draped almost every building had disappeared – but then so had most of the buildings they’d hung from. It was as if the city he’d seen before was an illusion, a stage set revealed for what it really was once the props had been removed.

  The smell was noticeable too: the dust was all-pervading, seeming to choke the city, and the air was pungent with the smell of burning and explosives.

  He was back at the building – which he’d worked out was on Behrenstrasse – by five o’clock, and was taken straight in to see Podpolkovnik Gurevich. The Russian seemed more on edge than the previous day, no booted legs on the table, no smile, no cigars.

  ‘Come with me, Captain.’

  He led Prince along a series of corridors and down a twisting flight of stairs until they came to what appeared to be the basement. He was searched before a series of steel doors were unlocked, and both men had to stoop as they walked down a narrow corridor. At the end, Gurevich had what sounded like a tense conversation with a guard, after which they were let through another locked door. Moments later, a cell door was opened. Crouched on the floor at the end of the tiny room next to a bucket was an unshaven middle-aged man wearing a ragged pullover and stained trousers. His shoes had no laces. He appeared gaunt and frightened and was shaking.

  ‘Stand up.’

  He stood up quickly. Prince noticed that his feet were shackled.

  ‘Do you recognise him?’ Gurevich had turned to Prince.

  ‘No.’

  The Russian took some papers from his pocket and waved them at the man. ‘These are yours, yes?’

  The man nodded, trying to smile but only managing to look more terrified.

  ‘They were on you when you were caught.’ He nodded again. ‘Tell me your name.’

  ‘Rauter: Franz Rauter, sir… Look, I want you to know that I—’

  ‘Shut up and listen! I understand you were seen killing an SS officer, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but he—’

  ‘That, as far as I can make out, is the only reason you’re still alive. It was a wise move on your part.’ Gurevich turned to Prince and smiled. ‘You’re lucky: fortunately Rauter’s name was put on a list when he was captured, so finding him was not as difficult as I feared. He was being held in a barracks in Spandau and I had him brought here. Rauter, tell my comrade here where you worked.’

  ‘I was a professional intelligence officer, a police officer really. I was never a Nazi. I—’

  ‘You know, the funny thing about this city is that no one in it now was a Nazi! Please tell him exactly where you worked.’

  Rauter hesitated, clearly unwilling to say anything. Gurevich waved the papers in front of him. ‘Don’t forget I have these – unless you want me to treat you as Gestapo, of course. I’m not sure there’s much difference.’

  ‘But there is, sir! I worked for the Abwehr until it became part of the Reich Security Office last year. I worked on purely military matters, nothing whatsoever to do with the Gestapo. In fact I—’

  Prince stepped forward. ‘Perhaps if I could ask—’

  Gurevich cut him short. ‘Not now. Hopefully you’ll have an opportunity to question him soon.’

  ‘But when?’

  ‘That, Captain Hadley, will be up to you. He’ll be kept safe until then. I’ll tell the guards to give him more clothes and some food. Come with me to my office.’

  * * *

  The box of cigars on the desk had been joined by an oval bottle. Gurevich pushed a glass towards Prince and indicated he should fill it. ‘It’s cognac – Baron Otard, a par
ticularly good one. We found two crates of it in the basement.’

  Prince sipped the cognac and soon finished the glass. Gurevich refilled it for him and handed him a cigar.

  ‘I’m very grateful you found Rauter, but I must question him, it’s urgent!’

  ‘I have a proposition for you, Captain John Hadley.’ Gurevich leaned back and spent a while lighting his cigar before running his hands through his thick hair. When he looked up, his demeanour had changed: he no longer looked composed. ‘I’m from Minsk: have you heard of it?’

  ‘I think so, possibly…’

  ‘It’s in Byelorussia, west of Moscow. I left the city in 1925, when I was just seventeen. I was a committed communist and had been selected for a military academy in Moscow. I’ve not lived in Minsk since then. But my family, they stayed.’ He paused to fill his glass and compose himself. ‘My family are Jewish, and after the German invasion in June 1941…’ He waved a hand in front of him and coughed, turning his chair slightly away from Prince. ‘I will keep it brief because this is a difficult story for me to tell. Following on behind the German forces were what is called Einsatzgruppen – mobile death squads whose purpose was to kill as many Jews, partisans and communist party officials as they could find. I am afraid to say they were very efficient. They murdered hundreds of thousands of people – men, women and children. It is possible they killed well over one million. My parents were murdered and so was my sister and her family – her children were both under eight: aunts and uncles too – all my family. All I have left is my brother Zelik, who is also in the Red Army.

  ‘We liberated Minsk last July and I was able to travel there to see what had happened to my family. There was a neighbour – Ivan, a non-Jew – who’d been a good friend of my father, and he told me the whole story.

  ‘What happened to them was truly awful and since then I’ve not slept a night without dreadful nightmares. I wish Ivan hadn’t told me in the detail he did, but then if he hadn’t I wouldn’t have found out the name of the man responsible for murdering my family. Have some more cognac, please… Hauptsturmführer Alfred Strasser, that’s his name. I’ll write it down for you. I’ve since discovered that in 1941, Strasser was an SS officer attached to Einsatzgruppen B, but in 1943 he joined the 17th SS Panzergrenadier Division when it was formed. You’ll understand I’ve done my best to find out what I can about him. He has also been promoted to Sturmbannführer – a major. I want you to bring Alfred Strasser to me and in return I’ll give you Franz Rauter. It’s a fair exchange.’

  ‘But where am I meant to find him in the whole of Europe – assuming he’s still alive?’

  ‘Oh, he’s still alive all right. In fact, two days ago I found out he’s in one of your prisoner-of-war camps, in Münster. Bring him here as soon as you can and Rauter’s all yours.’

  Prince said he’d certainly try, even though he had no idea where Münster was. ‘I’ll leave Berlin tomorrow morning and go and find this…’

  ‘…Strasser: but you should leave now. I’ll ensure you’ll have an escort as far as your forces on the Elbe, and all the papers you need.’

  Despite the cigar and the cognac, Prince now felt very clear-headed. So clear-headed, in fact, that he felt able to broach something else with Gurevich. ‘May I ask you a favour?’

  ‘Another one?’

  ‘There’s a German concentration camp just north of Berlin, a place called Ravensbrück: do you know if it’s been liberated yet?’

  ‘I will need to check, but my understanding is that our forces liberated it maybe one week ago. Why do you ask?’

  Prince leaned over the desk and wrote on a sheet of paper, pushing it back to the Russian. ‘Hanne Jakobsen is a friend of mine: she is Danish and a committed anti-Nazi. She was there, certainly in February. By the time I return with Strasser, can you see what you can find out about her?’

  Chapter 28

  Germany, May 1945

  ‘It’s completely out of the question, I’m afraid. You can forget it. Now if you don’t mind, I need to—’

  ‘But I told you, it’s urgent.’

  ‘And I told you that you simply cannot turn up here like some Johnny-come-lately demanding I hand over a prisoner to you. Prisoners of war are governed by the Geneva Convention and there are strict protocols with regard to what one can and cannot do with them. And one of the things you most certainly cannot do is hand them over to some chap who turns up unannounced. And not just any prisoner: an officer.’

  ‘An SS officer.’

  ‘He’s still an officer, Captain…’

  ‘Hadley: Captain John Hadley of the Royal Dragoons. I’m a liaison officer with the British forces in Berlin and it is a matter of national importance that Sturmbannführer Alfred Strasser is handed over to me now.’

  ‘So you have told me, Captain, and more than once, but with the greatest of respect, I’d need considerably more than a verbal request from a junior officer to do that.’

  ‘What would you need then?’

  Richard Prince was at the British Army camp in Münster. He’d left Berlin on the Sunday evening and with the help of a Red Army escort made it back to the US base by nightfall. The senior British officer there had somewhat reluctantly agreed that he could have the use of a jeep and a driver the next day. They’d left the camp on the banks of the Elbe at six o’clock on the Monday morning and arrived in Münster later that afternoon. For the past hour, an increasingly red-faced major had been refusing permission for him to take Sturmbannführer Alfred Strasser back to Berlin. He’d only reluctantly admitted that the German was even being held at the camp.

  ‘What you need to do is to fill in this form.’ He pushed a sheaf of papers across his desk towards Prince. It was a questionnaire that ran to half a dozen closely typed pages.

  ‘And then I can collect him?’

  ‘No, no, no…’ The major laughed, his face turning redder. ‘Good Lord, no. Once you’ve completed the form, I’ll submit it up the chain of command and eventually it will find its way to a committee, which will make a decision.’

  ‘And how long might that take?’

  Major Edwards shrugged and began to stand up, straightening himself in an effort to appear taller than he actually was. ‘I’ll mark it as urgent so it will go to the top of the pile.’

  ‘So how long then?’

  ‘One week, with a fair wind.’

  Prince looked carefully at the major: a pompous man whom he doubted had seen active service during the war but who now clearly relished the opportunity to be as officious as possible. He realised he wasn’t getting anywhere with him so didn’t feel he should risk pursuing it.

  ‘Very well then, thank you for your help. Perhaps if I could take the form and go and fill it in somewhere?’

  The major directed him to the officers’ mess, where it felt as if he’d gatecrashed a party: officers were slapping each other on the back and the stewards were handing out glasses of champagne. Someone thrust one into Prince’s hand. A young lieutenant came over and said, ‘Cheers – we did it!’

  ‘I’m sorry, I…’

  ‘You’ve not heard the news, sir? The war’s over – we’ve only gone and won it! Apparently the German chief of staff signed an unconditional surrender a few hours ago in Reims.’

  ‘That’s marvellous news! Splendid!’ Prince asked if the lieutenant could point out someone to do with communications. Five minutes later, he was in the radio room and talking to the young officer in charge. ‘I need to get a message through to someone in London: it’s really very urgent. Are you able to help?’

  ‘I can get a message through to our headquarters in London and they can pass it on, though only in what they’d regard as extenuating circumstances. Write it down here and I’ll see what I can do.’

  Prince wrote down Hugh Harper’s name and telephone number, followed by the message. Have tracked down FR in Berlin but first need permission to collect a Sturmbannführer Alfred Strasser from British Army camp Münster. Please author
ise this with Major Edwards here, with instruction for him to expedite as a matter of urgency.

  The radio officer promised to deal with it straight away and suggested Prince wait in the officers’ mess and he’d find him once he had a response. Prince assumed it would take a few hours for the message to get through and for Hugh Harper to deal with it. He was dozing in an easy chair when he realised someone was standing in front of him, coughing nervously to attract his attention. It was the major. He couldn’t have been more contrite.

  ‘I had no idea quite how important this was… If only you’d said.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘If I’d realised then, of course, I’d have dealt with your request immediately… Didn’t know you were… Anyway, the chap’s all yours. Just need you to sign this form.’

  They were hurrying over to the prisoners’ compound, Prince now very much in charge. ‘I’ll need all the paperwork you have on the prisoner, his papers, interrogation notes, everything…’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Tell me about the circumstances of his arrest.’

  ‘As far as we can gather, back in March the 17th SS Panzergrenadiers were routed by the Americans in the Pfaelzer Forest, south of here. Some of them managed to escape and headed north. When we captured Münster at the beginning of April, Strasser was in the uniform of a Wehrmacht sergeant and would probably have got away with being treated as an ordinary prisoner of war had not other Germans denounced him. Apparently they took exception to his shooting some of their wounded men, accusing them of desertion.’

  Sturmbannführer Alfred Strasser was brought before him: shorter than Prince had somehow expected, and older too, perhaps in his late forties. Despite his dishevelled appearance, he strutted in with all the arrogance of an SS officer, the hint of a grin on his face masking any sense of confusion. Prince quickly realised he was someone who was used to getting his way. He told the guards to keeps Strasser’s handcuffs on and asked the major to leave. He’d already ensured there was no chair in the bleak room, so the German stood awkwardly in front of the table Prince was sitting at.