by Alex Gerlis
‘I thought you were intruders so I pointed my pistol at you. I didn’t try to shoot myself; someone must have knocked my hand.’
The man ignored him and fired a series of questions at him.
Are you Agent Byron?
Were you a member of the Imperial Fascist League, using the name Gerald Andrews?
Did you attend dinners at the Abbey Hotel in Pimlico in 1939 using your real name?
Were you recruited as a German agent by Arthur Chapman-Collins?
Did you know Jim Maslin, also known as Agent Donne, and did you kill him on Wormwood Scrubs last week?
What can you tell us about Edward Palmer – Agent Milton – and do you know where he is?
In response to every question he gave what he thought was, in the circumstances, a reasonable display of ignorance. He either shook his head, even though that hurt what remained of his left ear, or said sorry but he had no idea what they were talking about. It was encouraging that they were asking where Milton was: it was a month now since he’d disappeared. Maybe they had no evidence on him after all. He was glad he’d got rid of the knife that he’d used to kill Jim.
‘I don’t know any of these people you’re talking about. I’m not a political person in any way. I’m a loyal and patriotic British citizen. I was wounded at the Somme. I wonder if this is a case of mistaken identity?’
He tried to ensure he didn’t sound too confident. But what happened next changed his life, or what little there was left of it. The man asking the questions said something and the lights turned on. Now he could see everything: three men at the table, one of whom was none other than the Honourable Hugh Harper from the club! Another man had removed a cloth from a smaller table and on it was displayed the radio transmitter – the aerial, the wiring, everything. He stared at it in disbelief: he’d gone to such trouble to stash it all away a few weeks previously: the aerial moved to the roof of another building and concealed in a disused chimney, the transmitter pushed on rollers under the floorboards until it would be well out of sight. Just another week: he’d already booked a few days’ leave to hire a van and dispose of the equipment. There wouldn’t be fingerprints; he always used gloves.
‘Agent Milton – Edward Palmer – left his apartment in Abbey Road on or around the twentieth of April. Where is he?’ It was the man in the middle, the one who’d asked most of the questions.
‘I haven’t got the faintest idea who or what you’re talking about.’
‘How do you begin to explain all this equipment, Spencer?’
He hesitated for far too long before muttering that he’d never seen it before. ‘Maybe it was in the flat before I moved in there?’
The man in the middle waited before replying. ‘Who said anything about it being found in the flat?’
Spencer’s ear throbbed and he was wincing with pain. He felt sick and dizzy and asked if he could have a break, and Hugh Harper said something about not being silly and he should be ashamed of himself. It went on for over an hour, during which time he threw up even though he couldn’t recall when he’d last eaten, and then wet himself, the humiliation of which was compounded by the three men falling silent as he did so, listening to what was going on. He tried to tell himself they had no evidence against him, but now it was apparent they did. He wondered whether to tell them something close to the truth – how he’d felt abandoned after the Great War, his life ruined; how he’d fallen in with the wrong crowd, who seemed to offer a solution, and by the time he tried to get out, it was too late – but he stopped himself. It would be tantamount to a confession.
He begged them to turn off the light shining into his face, but they ignored him and continued to fire the same questions at him. He realised he was crying; at first it was tears streaming down his face, but soon it was uncontrollable sobbing. He heard himself begging for them to stop.
Tell us when you met Agent Milton…
And so they continued until, as if by a prearranged signal, they fell silent and the bright light was turned off. He was aware of Hugh Harper standing next to him and giving him a glass of water, then patting him on the shoulder and telling him not to worry.
‘We know you were put up to all this, Spencer: just tell us where Milton is and you have my word you’ll be treated leniently. I know you’re a decent sort.’
Spencer hesitated. The only evidence they seemed to have against him was the equipment, but then he’d made sure his fingerprints weren’t on it and he’d burned all the code books, so maybe they didn’t have as strong a case against him as he feared. But he resolved to remain silent. When he heard his own voice, it was as if someone else was speaking for him. ‘If only I knew where he was, sir, I’d tell you, but he always treated me—’
He’d stopped himself at that point, but of course it was too late. He could only think of Jim Maslin, whose words had signed his own death warrant.
And now he had done the same.
Chapter 32
Ravensbrück and northern Germany, June 1945
She was the last prisoner to leave before the Red Army arrived.
On the Sunday morning, Hanne Jakobsen stepped over half a dozen bodies before curling up in a filthy corner of an abandoned hut to allow whatever was trying to consume her to run its course. As she covered herself with a ragged blanket and closed her eyes, she had no idea whether death or sleep was about to overwhelm her. She hadn’t eaten for days and no longer had the energy to care.
Ravensbrück concentration camp had been quiet for a few days now. At one stage the vast complex had housed tens of thousands of prisoners, but now just a few thousand remained, most of them too sick to be moved.
She was woken by heavy coughing and a boot prodding her ribs. She looked up, surprised she was still alive. In the gloom she couldn’t make out the figure standing above her, and for a brief, optimistic moment she wondered whether it was her Englishman, but the man who bent down with a look of disgust on his face was Mohr, the Gestapo officer. He threw some clean clothes at her and told her to get dressed.
‘Hurry, the Russians are almost here.’ He didn’t take his eyes off her as she undressed and put on the clothes he’d brought with him.
When they left the hut, the camp seemed deserted: no guards in sight and just a few prisoners moving around uncertainly in the shadows like ghosts. He pushed her along and at the main entrance she recognised Hauptsturmführer Reeder waiting by Mohr’s car. He was one of the SS officers in charge of the uniform workshop.
‘You can go now,’ Mohr told him, pausing for a prolonged bout of coughing. ‘Remember, not a word.’ He shoved Hanne into the back of the car and pointed to a paper bag with bread and cheese in it. ‘Eat – there’s water in that flask. And here, make yourself presentable.’ He chucked a hairbrush onto the seat. ‘If we get stopped, you don’t say a fucking word, understand? We should be all right, we’re about a day ahead of the Russians, but in case you have any funny ideas…’ He waved a revolver in her direction.
For much of the journey he made her lie down on the back seat, so she had little idea where they were going, although she was sure they were heading north. From her prone position she could just make out the clock on the dashboard: the journey took a little over three hours.
In between bouts of coughing, Mohr spoke from time to time, mostly about the dreadful mistake the Allies had made, how awful the Russians would be, how at least the Jews had gone – well, most of them at any rate – and how he had a plan: he’d been an accountant before the war, he told her. People like him would be fine because they’d been smart.
She spotted a sign for Rostock, and soon after that they pulled off the main road and onto a narrower one. A few miles on he slowed down at the entrance to a narrow track and threw a blanket at her, telling her to put it over her head and keep it there until she was told otherwise. The next mile or so was over rough ground, the car bumping up and down and lurching from side to side, the undercarriage occasionally scraping the surface. When they eventually s
topped, Mohr sat in silence as the engine died down and breathed a sigh of relief, followed by a cough, which sounded as bad as ever.
‘Here at last. You’re part of the preparations I was telling you about, by the way: you’re going to be my insurance policy.’
* * *
‘One week, Prince, I’ll allow you one week over there and then I want you back here.’
‘I’m not sure a week will be enough, sir.’
Hugh Harper looked at Prince in a manner suggesting he regarded the last remark as impertinent.
‘You promised me I’d have an opportunity to return to Germany to find Hanne, sir. I’ve come to a dead end: MI9 have no more information on her and nor has the Danish government or the Swedish Red Cross. If I don’t go soon—’
‘I said you’d be able to go and look for her once we’d solved this case, which we haven’t done yet. Until we find Edward Palmer, then…’ Harper’s voice trailed off as he gently shook his head at the thought of not finding Milton.
‘Then what, sir?’
‘Then I’ve still got Sir Roland Pearson and Downing Street on my back, not to mention the vultures in MI5 waiting to pick over my corpse. Palmer’s a traitor: an officer who worked in the War Office. He can’t be allowed just to vanish as if he never existed.’
‘There is still my suggestion, sir: it could be our best chance of flushing him out.’
‘I doubt I’ll get approval for it. I’ve already run it past the Metropolitan Police: the commissioner won’t have it. He doesn’t think it’s even legal.’
‘What about if the request came from Downing Street?’
* * *
WANTED FOR MURDER
EDWARD PALMER (born 1907)
The Metropolitan Police Force urgently wishes to trace a (Major) Edward Palmer in connection with the murder of a seven-year-old girl in the Camden Town NW1 area of London on or about Thursday 19 April 1945.
Palmer was last seen in the Abbey Road NW8 area on the morning of Friday 20 April. The suspect is formerly of the York and Lancaster Regiment but is not believed to be in uniform. Palmer is approximately six foot tall and speaks with an English accent and an occasional stammer.
A REWARD OF £250 WILL BE PAID FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO HIS ARREST
Hugh Harper studied the poster carefully and then turned it round so Prince and Lance King could see it too.
‘Three photographs?’
‘Different angles, sir.’
‘Well let’s hope this flushes him out. Sir Roland’s ordered it to be displayed across the whole country: railway stations, bus stops.’
‘And he was all right with the ethics of it, sir? After all, there was no murder, no seven-year-old girl…’
‘One can never predict Sir Roland; he can be so enigmatic. As it happens, Prince, it rather appealed to his cunning nature. He asked whose idea it was and sounded very approving when I told him it was you. Wish I’d claimed the credit for it now. Of course the press will want to know all about the little girl, but hopefully we can deal with that.’
‘The reward should help. Shame it couldn’t be a bit more.’
‘More? Hang on, Lance, that’s coming from my budget as it is!’
* * *
Richard Prince arrived in Berlin on Friday 1 June with no intention of returning home until he’d found out what had happened to Hanne.
When he arrived at Behrenstrasse, Podpolkovnik Iosif Leonid Gurevich greeted him like an old friend. The Russian had a new box of much larger cigars and a crate of Italian wine they’d found in a basement.
‘Now that I’ve had my revenge, I sleep a bit better at night. I don’t have my family, but I have some… satisfaction. The German – Rauter – was he helpful to you?’
Prince said he was, thank you very much.
‘Have some wine: I think Italian white wine is better than French white wine. I’m becoming a connoisseur! So you’ve returned to Berlin just to see how I am?’
‘You remember I asked you to find out about a prisoner at Ravensbrück concentration camp – a Hanne Jakobsen?’
Gurevich nodded behind a thick cloud of cigar smoke.
‘I know there was no news then, but I’d like to go there myself to try and trace her. Would you be able to help with any papers I’ll need, and maybe transport?’
The Russian had swung his booted legs onto the desk and was toying with the end of his cigar. He watched Prince for a while. ‘Do you love her?’
‘How do you…?’
‘I loved a woman in Moscow, before the war: Frida. She worked at the Foreign Ministry as a translator and was arrested on some nonsense charge – reading the foreign press, which was part of her job. To my everlasting shame I didn’t intervene, which I could have done. When I was questioned about her, I admitted she was someone I slept with occasionally but said I found her too bourgeois. She was sent to Siberia; I’ve no idea if she’s still alive. I could probably have saved her if I’d vouched for her, but that would have had a detrimental effect on my career. I’ve regretted it ever since: she was the love of my life and I behaved so badly. That is why I ask if you love this Hanne.’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Then I shall come with you!’
* * *
The commissar in charge at Ravensbrück was Boris Novikov, a fat NKVD major with an enormous head and a face raddled by drink and battle. He was considerably older than Gurevich and barely managed to conceal his resentment of him.
‘The prisoners have all gone, Comrade Podpolkovnik: there were only around three and a half thousand when we liberated the camp on May Day. Some of those have since died; the others have been repatriated by now.’
‘And no record of a Hanne Jakobsen?’
‘I told you before: there’s a record of her having been a prisoner here but no record of what happened to her.’
‘Could she be dead?’ It was the first time Prince had spoken. Gurevich was translating.
‘There’s no record of that, but then in the last few days the camp was in chaos, so it’s possible.’
Novikov stepped back from them, his arms folded in front of him and a blank expression on his face, as if he had no more to say. ‘My job here, Comrade, is to investigate war crimes. We captured some of the camp’s SS officers. I think one of them might be able to help you.’
Hauptsturmführer Reeder was a wreck of a man, possibly over six feet but now stooped and trembling as he kept touching a face covered in cuts and bruises. He’d been dragged into Novikov’s office and thrown to the floor. It took him a couple of minutes to climb painfully to his feet.
‘Tell the colonel here what you told me. They understand German.’
‘About the Gestapo man?’
‘Get on with it.’
Reeder turned slowly to face Prince and Gurevich, a pleading look in his eyes. He held his shackled hands as if in prayer. ‘I’m just a junior officer, believe me, sirs. Before the war I was a manager at a clothing factory in Leipzig, and that is how I ended up in the SS, to help run their clothing workshops.’
‘So you’re telling us you’re just a tailor, eh? I imagine you’re also going to tell us you’re not a Nazi?’
Tears filled Reeder’s eyes. ‘I was obliged, sir: everyone was obliged. Please believe me: I have a wife and three children and I am God-fearing and—’
‘He’s wasting our time.’ Gurevich had drawn his revolver. ‘Don’t you understand that saying you’re God-fearing doesn’t impress us?’
‘Please – let me tell you what I told the other officer. I could have left the camp earlier; everyone was leaving it that weekend before your army arrived. In fact I was about to leave when a Gestapo officer arrived. He’d been here a few times before and said I was to remain until he’d finished. He wanted to know where a Danish prisoner was, Hanne Jakobsen.’
‘So she was alive then?’ Prince moved closer to the German, who recoiled as he approached. ‘What day was this?’
‘Either the Saturday or Sunda
y – the very end of April. She was definitely alive; we found her in a hut. She was asleep. I thought she was dead at first but he woke her, and when I saw them next they were marching to his car, where he’d told me to wait. He’d given her ordinary clothes to change into.’
‘How did she look?’
Reeder shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, what can I say? She was walking, if that means anything, but she’d been a prisoner here for some time. That Gestapo officer had taken a special interest in her, from what I understand. He’d been here before to question her. If it’s any consolation, he had food and water in the car for her. I don’t think he intended to kill her.’
‘And where were they going?’
‘I don’t know. I tell you, I’m just a junior officer and—’
He stopped when Gurevich released the safety catch of his revolver. ‘I think you know more than you’re saying, Reeder.’
‘I beg you, I have a family… All I know about him is that he’s called Heinrich Mohr and he’s deputy head of the Gestapo in Rostock – a large port maybe one hundred miles north of here.’ Reeder looked nervously at Gurevich’s revolver. ‘And one other thing. I remember now what car he was driving: a black Mercedes-Benz, a 320 – my boss in Leipzig had the same model. That’s everything I remember, please, sir, believe me.’
Gurevich nodded at the other Russian officer as he made to leave the room and beckoned for Prince to follow him. Moments later, they heard a brief cry followed by a gunshot.
* * *
‘You want a Gestapo officer, do you, Comrade? I can do you all sorts of Gestapo officers: old, young, fat, thin, alive or dead. You have a choice.’ The man laughed loudly and the half-dozen officers sitting around him obediently joined in.