by Alex Gerlis
‘Your papers tell me you’re Sturmbannführer Alfred Strasser of the 17th SS Panzergrenadier Division. According to my information, your division was formed in October 1943, so I’d be grateful if you could tell me what you did before that date.’
Strasser shrugged as if he couldn’t quite remember. ‘I am only obliged to give you my name, rank and serial number – isn’t that correct?’
‘It is indeed. I just thought you might want to tell me what you were up to before October 1943.’
He watched as an ‘I’m not sure what you mean’ expression crossed the German’s face.
‘You see, Strasser, there are allegations that you may have been involved in war crimes prior to October 1943, and I’m sure you’ll realise it’s in your interests to clear that up.’
‘I served in the Wehrmacht, mostly in France and Belgium. I was an administrator.’ Strasser spoke with an Austrian accent and Prince had to concentrate hard to understand him.
‘So you never served in the east?’
The German shook his head, still managing to look confident.
‘You know the war’s over now, don’t you, Strasser? Your General Jodl signed an unconditional surrender a few hours ago. Unconditional…’
Strasser stared straight, determined not to allow the Englishman the pleasure of a reaction.
‘Despite what you say, I believe you served in Einsatzgruppen B.’
He shook his head once more, but only after a brief hesitation. His confident demeanour was now fading and he was beginning to look worried.
‘I told you, I was only in France and Belgium – and Luxembourg too for a while.’
‘So if someone said you were in Minsk in August 1941, it would be a case of mistaken identity?’
Strasser’s mouth opened in shock and beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead. He swayed slightly and his fists clenched.
Prince closed the file in front of him. ‘But we don’t need to go into all that now, do we? I was just checking I have the right man. You’ll be taken back to your cell and we will leave first thing in the morning.’
‘To go where?’
‘To Berlin, Herr Strasser, where a Red Army officer is very much looking forward to meeting you.’
* * *
They left the camp at Münster at dawn and drove through the day to Berlin. Strasser was silent for most of the journey: he looked as if he’d had no sleep and dozed off occasionally, each time woken up by the jolting of the jeep and his handcuffs pulling on the frame of the vehicle.
It was a gruelling journey but they had no trouble getting through the British and American checkpoints. Prince thought it would be trickier once they passed into territory controlled by the Red Army, but if anything it was easier: the paperwork provided by Gurevich seemed to so impress the Soviet checkpoints, Prince got the impression they’d have been able to get into the Kremlin with it.
At a checkpoint in Potsdam late that afternoon, he showed a NKVD commissar a letter Gurevich had given him. The officer said he’d call his comrade immediately to let him know they were on their way. Indeed, it would be his honour to provide an escort.
* * *
They arrived at the NKGB headquarters on Behrenstrasse early that Tuesday evening and drove straight into the courtyard where Podpolkovnik Iosif Leonid Gurevich was waiting for them impatiently. He barely acknowledged Prince as two of his men dragged Strasser from the jeep before the driver had even put the brake on. Prince watched as the German was pushed against the wall and saw for the first time real fear in his eyes. Gurevich said nothing; just moved forward until his face was an inch or two from the German’s. Then he stepped back and shouted a command, and Strasser was dragged away. The NKGB man turned round and shook Prince’s hand.
‘Tonight I will deal with Strasser to be certain he was the man who murdered my family. Tomorrow you will get Rauter. Be here for seven o’clock. Is something the matter?’
‘Do you remember I asked you to find out what you could about a Danish prisoner at Ravensbrück concentration camp – a Hanne Jakobsen?’
The Russian nodded. ‘I was going to wait until tomorrow, my friend: it’s not good news, I’m afraid. Don’t look so worried; it’s not bad news either – it’s just there’s no trace of her. I was able to speak with one of our commissars up there. As far as they can tell, a few thousand prisoners were rescued by the Swedish Red Cross and taken to Denmark, but she wasn’t on that list. Nor was she on the list of survivors at the camp, or listed as dead. Now that I have the commissar involved, we should get news soon.’
That evening, Prince was able to move around the city without a Soviet escort. He was desperate to see if he could find Sophia, but he had no idea where she lived and realised it would be too dangerous to give the Russians her name. He discovered the RAF had turned the Excelsior Hotel into a hollow shell. He found the Das Bayerischer Haus restaurant, the place where she’d saved him from the Gestapo. Its windows were missing and wooden boards only partially covered the gap, through which he could see the glint of a dozen eyes staring at him, but when he stepped closer and said hello, he heard the sound of children scurrying away. Nearby, on Kommandahtenstrasse, he spotted a pile of rags huddled in the doorway of what appeared to have been an elegant office building. The rags moved as he approached and a terrified face peered at him. The eyes and the once stylish hat could have belonged to Sophia, but when he called her name, the woman edged further into the doorway, holding out a hand to keep him away from her.
* * *
He slept little that night, the silence of the city punctuated by the occasional burst of gunfire or the rumble of Soviet tanks. But what really kept him awake was the thought of Hanne and the news – or lack of it – Gurevich had brought him. Not alive, but not dead either. And then there was a growing worry that he’d been fooled. He’d found Franz Rauter but then left Berlin without him on the word of a Red Army officer. He should have insisted on exchanging the two Germans somewhere near Potsdam: Gurevich coming out with Rauter to meet him and Strasser.
It was, he decided, another example of him being less alert. When he’d been operating in Nazi Europe, it had been on the edge of his existence, knowing one small mistake could cost him his life. Every sense had been finely tuned. He’d survived three trips into Germany and countless other incidents. He’d evaded the Gestapo, escaped from a concentration camp and made his way back to Britain not once but twice. But he worried he’d not been nearly as sharp hunting for Milton in England, and now he felt his naïvety could keep Rauter from him. Gurevich was no fool: he knew he had someone the British wanted. He could still ask for something else in return. Prince lay on the lumpy camp bed with his jacket as a pillow, staring at the ceiling and wondering how on earth he was going to explain this to Hugh Harper.
He was back at Behrenstrasse by seven o’clock, and Gurevich met him in the entrance. He looked as if he hadn’t slept all night and appeared agitated.
‘Strasser confessed, eventually.’
‘Good – but what about Rauter? You promised…’
The Russian stopped and placed an arm round Prince’s shoulder. ‘You’re worried I won’t let you have him, aren’t you? It sounds as if you’ve been told not to trust the Russians, yes? Don’t worry; he’s all ready for you. But first, please come with me.’
He led Prince to a small courtyard at the rear of the building. One of its brick walls had collapsed and they had to step over the rubble, eventually coming to a group of men. Strasser was shoved out from the midst of them: he’d lost any vestige of the arrogance and assurance that came from being an SS officer. He looked petrified, shuffling with a limp, and his face was covered in bruises.
‘Do you think I should treat him with some dignity and finish him off quickly, or do to him what he did to my family?’
‘That’s really not for me to say.’
‘Isn’t it? You’re English; you’re so good at rules.’
Prince shook his head.
‘
If you want Rauter, my friend, tell me what to do.’
‘If you’re asking about rules, then he is a prisoner of war and—’
‘Not any more; he’s now a war criminal.’
Prince looked at Strasser, hunched against the wall, dark eyes imploring him and his cuffed hands clasped together as if in prayer. He started to speak, and Prince saw that most of his teeth were missing.
‘Please, I beg you to let me write one letter, that’s all I ask.’
‘What would you do if it was your family?’ Gurevich had turned to face Prince, keenly interested in how he was going to respond. ‘Give me an answer and I’ll give you Rauter; if not…’
‘If it was my family, I’d make him suffer in the same way.’
Gurevich’s first shot hit the German in the ankle, the second one in the thigh. Prince realised he was working his way up Strasser’s body, which was now writhing in agony amongst the rubble. A Red Army soldier looked anxiously at Gurevich and raised his sub-machine gun. Gurevich shook his head: not yet. The third shot hit Strasser in the stomach and was followed by howls of pain. Gurevich stared at him for a while, tears forming in his eyes. As they streamed down his face, he nodded at the man with the machine gun.
They stood in silence as the echo of the gunfire faded, watching a pool of blood spread around Strasser’s body. As they moved away, Gurevich beckoned Prince over and pointed to a first-floor window overlooking the courtyard.
‘You see that man at the window?’
‘Yes.’
‘I gave orders that Franz Rauter be made to watch Strasser’s execution. That should ensure his cooperation with you.’
* * *
‘I take it you’re a British officer?’
Prince couldn’t help but be impressed at Franz Rauter’s demeanour. For someone who was a prisoner of the Red Army and had just watched a fellow German executed in a brutal manner, he appeared calm. He also displayed some of the characteristics Prince had noticed among intelligence officers: an ability to take control of a situation without it being obvious. Asking the first question and attempting to dictate the course of a conversation was a classic example of this.
He watched Rauter carefully, in no hurry to reply. Since learning his name in March, he’d imagined what Milton’s handler in Berlin would be like. He’d built up a picture of someone who’d be hostile and difficult, an older man with the bearing of a Prussian officer and something of the fanaticism of a Nazi.
But the man opposite him was nothing like this. He came across as urbane, perhaps in his mid forties, and despite the state of his clothing and his dishevelled appearance, he seemed like someone who in other circumstances might be described as elegant. He reminded Prince of some of the solicitors he came across in Lincoln, men who exuded a certain charm and assurance – some of whom he’d become friendly with.
‘I am a British officer, yes.’
‘May I ask your name?’ Franz Rauter held up his hands in case Prince hadn’t realised he was wearing handcuffs. Prince called in a guard and indicated he should remove the cuffs, and was wondering which name he should use when he realised Rauter had subtly gained control of the questioning.
‘We’ll come to that. Can you confirm your name, please?’ Prince tapped the small pile of papers he had in front of him.
‘Franz Rauter.’
‘And you work for…?’
‘I think it would be more accurate to say worked for, don’t you think? I’m assuming I’ve lost my job!’ Rauter laughed: he’d switched to English, another way of controlling how things were going. ‘I am a professional intelligence officer – I really have nothing to hide. I was a police officer; I joined the Abwehr in 1932 and moved to Berlin, I’ve been here ever since. Last year the Abwehr was merged into the RSHA because we were regarded as not Nazi enough. I was attached to Section 6B, which looks after foreign espionage. I was involved exclusively in military espionage. I had no role at all in any political activities. We are completely separate from the Gestapo. And I’m not a Nazi.’
Rauter paused. Two weeks previously, he’d burned his Mitgliedskarte, his Nazi Party membership card. He’d lit a celebratory cigar with it. He knew it was possible his name might still exist on a list somewhere, but he was counting on the Englishman not being aware of that.
‘And as part of your work as a professional intelligence officer, have you been running agents in Britain?’
The German paused, certainly for longer than Prince was expecting. It was as if he hadn’t anticipated this question. Prince concentrated on not showing he was pleased. His old inspector, who’d shown him how to interrogate suspects, would have been proud.
Keep your questions short and to the point… Ask one question at a time: that way they can’t pick and choose which one to answer.
When Rauter replied, he was no longer as assured and articulate as he had been. ‘My role was more… complicated. I looked after a number of operations and I—’
‘My question was very specific, Herr Rauter: have you been running agents in Britain?’
‘I had agents in the east, in Poland and—’
‘That doesn’t answer my question, but it’s not a problem. If you’re admitting to running agents in the east, I can hand you back to my Russian friends. As you witnessed this morning, they have a very different method of dealing with suspects than we do.’
Prince waited, the only sounds being Rauter’s increasingly heavy breathing and some shouting outside. A door slammed down the corridor and in the distance came the sound of gunfire, a single rifle shot. Prince toyed with the idea of gathering up the papers and making to leave, but he knew he could only do that the once, and he didn’t think the time had come yet.
‘One.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘One: I ran one agent in your country. Just one – and not an important one.’
‘And the name of this agent?’
Rauter shook his head. ‘It was some time ago.’
‘I can leave, Herr Rauter: of course I’ll be disappointed, but think about this – I’ll be leaving you with the Russians. If you tell me who your agent is in Britain, then I will take you with me back to England. You’ll be treated fairly there, I can promise you that.’
Rauter stared at his lace-less shoes and adjusted the frayed cuffs of his dirty pullover. ‘How can I believe you?’
‘You’ll have to take my word for it, but of course you don’t know for sure. What you do know for sure, though, is how the Russians will treat you if I leave you with them. Tell me the code name of your agent in Britain.’
Rauter didn’t reply, now looking up at the ceiling.
‘My patience is running thin, Herr Rauter. I have to leave Berlin soon. I understand your reluctance to give me this information, but you must realise that the war is over. Who’s going to thank you for your misguided loyalty? After all, you tell me you’re not a Nazi. I’m giving you an opportunity to save yourself. How about if I give you the code name of the agent I believe you’ve been running in London.’
The very slightest of nods from the German.
‘Milton.’
Rauter’s eyes widened and he turned pale. He became agitated, shifting around in his chair and running a hand across his brow and through his hair.
‘Is it Milton?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what is Milton’s real name?’
‘Palmer, Edward Palmer. But I didn’t recruit him.’
‘And the other agents that work with him – Byron and Donne: who are they?’
Rauter appeared to regain his composure. He asked for some water and drank it slowly. He was buying himself time to think.
‘I promise you that when I am in England I will tell you, I’ll tell you everything. But first get me away from here. Let me ask you something, though: how the hell did you know about me?’
‘Edward Palmer was a suspect, but then we heard about your being brought to Brussels to interrogate an RAF pilot with the same na
me. I put two and two together. But now you tell me something: how come the Gestapo in Brussels thought a young RAF pilot could be one of your spies?’
‘Because they’re fools, that’s why. When Palmer told us he was being sent to fight in Normandy, I had his name put on a watch list in case he was captured by us. I wanted him brought to me. The watch list details were clear enough: they gave his age and said he was British Army. Those idiots in Brussels… The RAF officer looked like a teenager.’ He shook his head.
‘Do you have any idea where Palmer is now?’
‘I assumed you’d arrested him.’
Prince shook his head.
‘So where is he then?’
Prince stood up and straightened his uniform. ‘That, Herr Rauter, is what I very much hope you’ll be able to help us with.’
Chapter 29
England, May 1945
It was a glorious afternoon, a pleasant breeze drifting in from the nearby low hills across neatly arranged and seemingly perfectly square fields and in through the open doors of the house.
Prince’s state of exhaustion was all too familiar: he’d experienced it often enough on his clandestine missions in Europe, and before that as a police detective working through the day and night to solve a case. It was the kind of tiredness where one moved beyond exhaustion into an odd kind of light-headed euphoria, slightly drunk without having touched any alcohol. In occupied Europe, it had induced a degree of courage that bordered on the reckless. He’d last slept – though only fitfully – on the Tuesday night in Berlin, before going to Behrenstrasse to collect Franz Rauter on the Wednesday morning. They’d made their way to Hamburg, where the British had captured the airport intact, and left on an RAF flight early on the Thursday morning.