End of Spies
Page 1
End of Spies
Cover
Title Page
Characters Principal characters:
Other characters:
Prologue Lincoln, England, September 1945
Chapter 1 London and Dijon, France, November 1943
Chapter 2 Nazi-Occupied Netherlands, May 1944
Chapter 3 Germany, March 1945
Chapter 4 Germany, July 1945
Chapter 5 Munich, August 1945
Chapter 6 London, September 1945
Chapter 7 England, September 1945
Chapter 8 Paris, September 1945
Chapter 9 Paris, September 1945
Chapter 10 London and Berlin, September 1945
Chapter 11 Berlin, September 1945
Chapter 12 Frankfurt, Germany, October 1945
Chapter 13 Germany, October 1945
Chapter 14 London, October 1945
Chapter 15 Germany, October 1945
Chapter 16 London, October 1945
Chapter 17 Berlin, November 1945
Chapter 18 England, November 1945
Chapter 19 Austria, November 1945
Chapter 20 Berlin, December 1945
Chapter 21 England, December 1945
Chapter 22 Austria, December 1945
Chapter 23 Germany, December 1945
Chapter 24 Austria and Italy, December 1945
Chapter 25 England, December 1945
Chapter 26 Trieste, Austria, and Berlin, December 1945
Chapter 27 Berlin and Austria, December 1945
Chapter 28 England, December 1945
Chapter 29 Italy, December 1945
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by Alex Gerlis
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
Characters
Principal characters:
Richard Prince British intelligence agent, detective superintendent
Hanne Jakobsen Danish police officer, British agent. Married to Richard Prince
Tom Gilbey Senior MI6 officer, London
Sir Roland Pearson Downing Street intelligence adviser
Kommissar Iosif Leonid Gurevich NKGB officer
Friedrich Steiner Gestapo officer, aka ‘the Ferret’,
Wolfgang Steiner Senior Nazi official, father of Friedrich
Other characters:
The Admiral British Nazi sympathiser
Major Tom Barrow US Counter Intelligence Corps, Munich
Bartholomew MI5 officer
Kenneth Bemrose British Liaison Office & MI6, Berlin
Benoît Officer at Fresnes prison near Paris
Roland Bentley Senior MI6 officer, London
Hauptsturmführer Klaus Böhme SS Officer, Berlin
Martin Bormann Head of the Nazi Part Chancellery, Berlin
Mr Bourne Owner of art gallery, London
Branka Slovenian partisan
Christine Butler SOE agent, Dijon (Thérèse Dufour)
Myrtle Carter British Nazi sympathiser
Peter Dean SOE agent, Enschede (Pieter de Vries)
Edvard Slovenian partisan
Frau Egger Housekeeper in Villach, Austria
Evans Field Security Section, Trieste
Charles Falmer Courier in Frankfurt
Kapitan Leonid Fyodorov NKVD officer, Berlin
Charles Girard Aka Alphonse Schweitzer, Gestapo Paris
Giuseppe port worker in Trieste
Hon. Hugh Harper Senior MI5 officer, London
Captain Wilf Hart Field Security Section, Austria
Paul Hoffman Berlin detective
Joseph Jenkins Intelligence officer, US Embassy, London
Jožef Slovenian partisan
Kiselyov Soviet officer at Hohenschönhausen prison
Willi Kühn Man in Berlin
Major Charles Lean F Section, SOE
Anna Lefebvre Prisoner at Fresnes near Paris
Ludwig Soviet agent working for Gurevich
Marguerite Former resistance fighter, Paris
Marija Slovenian partisan
Frieda Mooren (Julius) Resistance fighter, Enschede
Frau Moser farmer in Bavaria
Orlov Soviet officer at Hohenschönhausen prison
Edward Palmer (Agent Milton) Escaping British Nazi
Kenneth Plant SOE radio operator, Dijon (Hervé)
Franz Rauter former German intelligence officer
Mr Ridgeway Man at art gallery, London
Tim Sorensen US Counter Intelligence Corps officer
Captain Christopher Stephens F Section, SOE
Major Laurie Stewart Field Security Section, Austria
Ulrich Nazi in Frankfurt
Wilson MI6 officer, Paris
Frau Winkler Shopkeeper in Villach, Austria
Prologue
Lincoln, England, September 1945
Richard Prince stood nervously in the shadow of the Gothic splendour of Lincoln Cathedral, a flurry of leaves gathering around his feet in a premature burst of autumn. He glanced around uncomfortably and retreated to the canopy of the Judgement Porch, Jesus Christ and the angels looking down on him in a quizzical manner as if wondering what he was up to. He didn’t blame them. He wondered that too.
He’d never particularly liked the cathedral: it held a sense of foreboding and he’d always felt that for a place of worship it was too replete with imagery of the devil. As a small child he’d been told the cathedral’s grounds had been used as mass burial pits for the city’s victims of the Black Death, and the fear instilled then had lasted into adulthood. As a young police constable, he’d dreaded the night-time beat that took him anywhere near the darkened mass of the cathedral.
It hadn’t been his idea to get married here. In truth it hadn’t been his idea to get married at all: it seemed so rushed and unnecessary, and they’d hardly had an opportunity to get to know each other in normal circumstances. But Hanne was keen, and young Henry in particular was thrilled at the idea. He had no memory of his mother, and the prospect of his father marrying excited him. Only two weeks after Hanne had moved in with them, Prince had overheard his son call her ‘Mummy’.
But the person who seemed most keen was Tom Gilbey, his erstwhile boss at MI6. ‘You’ll be able to make a decent woman of her, Richard.’ He only called him ‘Richard’ when he was trying to flatter him, when he was about to ask a favour or make a demand of him.
‘You don’t think she’s decent enough already, sir? She risked her life for this country – she spied for us in Copenhagen, was arrested by the Gestapo and ended up in a concentration camp. I’d say that’s the mark of a pretty decent person.’
‘Just a turn of phrase, Prince, you know that. But on balance, perhaps the right thing to do, eh?’
Prince would have been happy with a discreet ceremony in a register office, or if it had to be in a church, then one of the smaller ones dotted around the city would have been fine. But from the first moment Hanne saw the cathedral, she’d been captivated by it, and when he’d told her – in the way one does when showing your home town to a visitor – how in medieval times it had been the tallest building in the world for more than two centuries, she’d announced that that was where they’d have their wedding. Prince had told her it was highly unlikely they’d get permission.
‘Ask Mr Gilbey then – he seems so keen on us getting married.’
So he’d asked Tom Gilbey, more in passing than anything else, the question preceded by an ‘I don’t suppose…’
He ought to have known better, because inevitably it turned out that Gilbey had been at school with the bishop. ‘I’ll telephone him now!’
Prince had said it seemed quite unnecessary
to go to that effort and it was only an idea, but Gilbey said not at all, and within a matter of minutes he was speaking to a man he called ‘Bunny’, which seemed an odd way to address a bishop. He spoke quietly, so Prince only picked up snatches. ‘Heroes, both of them… absolutely… almost died… Berlin… unimaginable… tragic… enormous favour… if anyone deserves it…’
When the call ended, he’d turned round to face Prince, a satisfied look on his face. ‘Many congratulations, Richard, you’re getting married at Lincoln Cathedral. Apparently you need a special licence to do so, but Bunny said it would be an honour to grant it, and you can even hold the reception in the Chapter House.’
The bishop’s office couldn’t have been more accommodating, and the dean gave them a choice of chapels for the ceremony. There was some paperwork to sort out, and the Danish Embassy in London was required to come up with a letter confirming that its citizen Hanne Jakobsen was free to marry. They were a bit dilatory at first, but again, Gilbey managed to sort it.
Now, as Prince stood under the Judgement Porch listening to Henry playing with his nanny, he became aware of a silent presence behind him, like a victim of the Black Death risen from the grave where they had lain for six hundred years. He knew who it was without needing to turn round.
‘Good morning, Mr Gilbey. I’m surprised to see you here.’
Tom Gilbey was elegantly dressed in a formal black suit, a fawn-coloured cashmere coat folded over one arm and a white carnation in his buttonhole.
‘You were generous enough to invite me, Richard.’
‘I assumed you’d be too busy, sir.’
Gilbey patted Prince on the shoulder and wished him many congratulations, then shook his hand with a tight grip. ‘It’s my way of thanking you both.’
The wedding party was preparing to move into the cathedral, and Prince turned to join them.
‘I wouldn’t mind a few words with you after the ceremony, Richard,’ and with that Gilbey moved away.
Prince stopped: he had little doubt what that meant. It would account for why Tom Gilbey had come all the way up to Lincoln for the wedding of two of his agents. It no doubt also explained why he had been so keen for them to marry in the first place.
* * *
There weren’t many of them, easily fitting into the Soldiers’ Chapel in the north transept, where the dean himself performed the ceremony. Prince and Hanne were joined by Henry, who acted as pageboy, his nanny, Prince’s elderly father and a few relatives. In addition, there were various colleagues from the police force, a couple who’d been very friendly with Prince and his late wife Jane, and two sets of neighbours. And then of course Tom Gilbey, at the rear of the chapel, as if there to ensure everything was carried out to his satisfaction.
For a few minutes during the ceremony, Prince was calm and at peace with himself. He was marrying a woman with whom he was deeply in love and who until a few months ago he had feared was dead.
Afterwards, they moved into the Chapter House for a buffet lunch. Prince found Gilbey studying a painting of a seventeenth-century bishop whose beady eyes appeared to be surveying the room.
‘You said you wanted a few words with me after the ceremony, sir?’
‘I didn’t mean straight after, Prince. Don’t want to spoil your big day.’
‘You already have.’
‘Come on, now…’
‘I know the way you work, sir. You’ve come here to sign me up for another job.’
Tom Gilbey said nothing as he lit a cigarette and watched his protégé through the smoke.
‘Are you taking a honeymoon?’
‘No, sir. Henry starts school next week.’
‘Come down and see me later in the week, then. Oh, and Prince…’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Do bring Hanne with you.’
* * *
They left the cathedral an hour later. Gilbey had long gone, and Prince and Hanne walked through the Angel Choir arm in arm, Henry holding Hanne’s hand.
‘What is that, Richard?’ She was pointing to a carving of a strange creature perched high on top of a stone column. A sunbeam piercing through the south transept window caught its face sneering at them.
‘That’s the Lincoln Imp. He’s famous around these parts.’
‘And why’s he here?’
‘According to a fourteenth-century legend, two imps were sent by the devil to cause trouble. They created chaos in the cathedral until one of the angels up there turned this imp to stone while the other one escaped.’
‘He looks as if he’s alive.’
Prince nodded. ‘Apparently it’s to remind us that evil is never far away, even in a place as holy as this.’
Chapter 1
London and Dijon, France, November 1943
‘No news, I imagine?’
‘No, sir: I did promise to let you know as soon we hear anything.’
‘I know you did, Forster, but it’s getting late and—’
‘Why don’t you go home, Major Lean, and I’ll call you if we hear anything.’
‘Remind me how late the circuits transmit these days, Forster?’ Lean was speaking from the corridor as if afraid to enter the room. Because of his height – he was taller than the door frame – he bent low to address the man sitting at a desk laden with radio equipment.
‘It varies from circuit to circuit: Tractor tends not to transmit as late as some others, but who knows, sir.’
Lean remained in the corridor, glancing hesitantly into the room but without saying a word for a while, instead watching the tiny lights blinking on the equipment in the gloom and listening to the bleeps from the radio, which sounded like dripping taps.
‘I tell you what, Forster, I’m going to put up the camp bed in my office. Call me as soon as you hear anything.’
He climbed the two floors to his office, gingerly feeling his way along the darkened corridors of Orchard Court on Portman Square in central London, the headquarters of the Special Operations Executive’s F Section. He noticed the lights on in the office opposite his. A man a good decade and a bit younger than him was sitting in an easy chair with his feet stretched out onto his desk. He was wearing a waistcoat, and his sleeves and tie were both undone.
‘No news, Major?’
‘I’m afraid not, Stephens. How long is it now since we last heard from them?’
‘Just over forty-eight hours, sir.’
‘Remind me what the message said again?’
The other man closed his eyes as if trying to recall it. ‘The decoded version, sir, was that the whole circuit had been compromised and they were expecting to be caught any minute. Hervé used the word “thunder” three times in the one message, sir, which means things are about as serious as they can get.’ He shook his head, his eyes still closed.
Neither man said a word. It was just over an hour before midnight and the building was cloaked in silence. Not a sound penetrated from outside. They could have been in the middle of the countryside but for the absence of the calls of wild animals.
‘A message like that doesn’t hold out much hope, does it, Stephens?’
‘I’m afraid it doesn’t, sir.’
‘Does her husband know?’
‘Of course not, Major.’
‘Shouldn’t he be told?’ Even though he was the younger man’s superior officer, Major Lean had recently found himself deferring to him. He’d noticed that as the war went on, older men such as himself – those in their mid-forties and beyond – seemed permanently exhausted. The younger ones like Christopher Stephens seemed to have picked up a second wind from somewhere. Perhaps the course of the war invigorated them. And Stephens was so bright: a double first from Cambridge, Lord knows how many languages, and three missions into occupied France to his name. Lean was convinced Stephens would one day end up as his superior. A commission in a Guards regiment and being distantly related to Churchill’s wife wasn’t doing him any harm either.
‘I don’t see why we should tell him,
sir; after all, we don’t know what’s happened yet, do we?’
‘Surely we have a reasonable idea. I knew we shouldn’t have sent a woman.’
Stephens finally opened his eyes and sat up, looking disapprovingly at the major. ‘She’s the best man for the job, sir. If it wasn’t for our female agents, the SOE would struggle to get enough half-decent people to send over. Her French is excellent and she’s as brave as a lion.’
Lean sighed. ‘She’s going to need to be. The thought of what the Germans will be doing to her absolutely terrifies me.’
* * *
There were a number of things that bothered Christine Butler, or Thérèse as she was now known. ‘Annoyances’, her mother had called them; dérangements in her native French. Her mother’s life was accompanied by a considerable number of annoyances. Thérèse knew she shouldn’t let these things bother her, because they were proving to be a distraction, and the very last thing a British agent in occupied France needed was a distraction. There was enough to worry about as it was.
The first annoyance was an extremely petty one – it was more of a superstition than anything else. Really it ought to have been the opposite of an annoyance, because it was to do with her journey to France and how well it had gone. They’d left RAF Tangmere in Sussex just before midnight, and it was a perfect flight over the Channel in the Lysander. It hadn’t been nearly as uncomfortable as she’d been warned it would be, the landing in a field near Chaumont had been incident-free, and within half an hour of her climbing down from the plane she was safe in a farmhouse, surrounded by the members of the resistance cell she’d be working with. But from an early age her father had instilled in her an irrational notion that the easier the journey, the more things were likely to go wrong upon arrival. During her three weeks in France, she hadn’t been able to get that out of her mind. Something’s bound to go wrong.