by Alex Gerlis
‘At least we now know who the Ferret is, so we should be able to pick him up soon enough. Now that his name’s on our watch lists, it should only be a matter of time before we find him.’
Both Hanne and Prince looked surprised at his optimism.
‘What do you make of the note on the file about the Kestrel escape line?’ Prince asked.
‘May be something in it – but then where on earth do you start?’
‘Frankfurt? That seems to be the first place mentioned. Perhaps we should…’ Prince stopped himself.
‘Perhaps you should what?’
‘Nothing, sir, just a thought.’
‘Which was?’
‘I was going to suggest that maybe Hanne and I ought to go to Frankfurt; there might be some kind of clue there about Steiner and the Kestrel escape line.’
‘I think that’s a good idea.’ Hanne looked interested. ‘We came over here to find the Ferret: I never like leaving a case only half investigated for someone else to solve.’
‘Very well then: you can go to Frankfurt – but only for a few days, and then that’s it. I’d imagine you’d want to be getting home anyway, eh?’
Chapter 12
Frankfurt, Germany, October 1945
‘How much longer am I expected to remain in this prison?’
‘It’s hardly a prison, Friedrich – how many prisons have carpets, and pictures on the wall? Before the war this was a smart guest house.’
‘So you keep telling me, Ulrich – and one frequented by Jews: I imagine you chose it as some kind of joke?’
‘I know we had to get you out of Munich in a hurry, and Frankfurt didn’t feel much safer, to be honest, but this place does. And it’s ideal: it’s set apart from the neighbouring houses, so no one can see what’s going on, and because of the damage to the roof, the Americans won’t requisition it. Can you please take your feet off that table? People eat from it.’
The younger man gave the older one a dirty look, clearly resentful at being told what to do. ‘People! What, you’re planning to hold a dinner party, eh? At least I’d then have someone else to talk to. Maybe you could even invite a woman. Apart from you, I’ve not seen a soul for weeks.’
Ulrich asked Friedrich to light him a cigarette: it was an action he still struggled over with one arm. Friedrich lit one for himself first and took a few drags from Ulrich’s before passing it to him.
‘I keep telling you, Friedrich, you don’t appreciate how ideal this place is. Even though we’re just, what, ten, twelve miles north of Frankfurt, no one’s going to think of looking for Nazi fugitives here in Königstein. These Taunus mountain resorts have a reputation for being quiet and healthy.’
‘Great – so I can go and enjoy the town then, take a bracing walk maybe?’
‘Yes, wander round the place and visit bars just like you did in Munich. And while you’re at it, don’t forget to tell whoever’s listening that you were in the Gestapo, and that you were known as the Ferret: I’m sure they will admire you all the more.’ Ulrich paused and pointed his cigarette at the younger man. ‘I don’t think you have any idea how dangerous things are for us now in Europe. We are all at great risk. Just because the Americans and the British aren’t quite as brutal as the Soviets doesn’t mean the situation is any less perilous. They may not rape our women, but… Why are you laughing?’
‘Because it sounds as if they’ve made rape legal. Maybe there’s something to be said for them after all!’
‘For heaven’s sake, Friedrich, you’re impossible. I was trying to explain that we’re still in great danger here. If you’re caught, they’ll throw the book at you. I doubt your father will be able to come to your rescue then. You don’t appreciate how fortunate you are that he’s sorting out an escape line for you. Very few are able to get on one of those. You need to be grateful he’s made arrangements. And you need to be patient too.’
Friedrich walked over to the window and opened the shutters to peer onto the quiet tree-lined avenue in front of the house. The previous day had been notable because five vehicles had driven past during the morning. Today he’d heard none. He closed the shutters and returned to the sofa, determined to be more conciliatory with Ulrich. He lit another cigarette for him and poured a beer; it was the only alcohol Ulrich would allow him to have, and even then he restricted him to three bottles a day.
‘I’ve been here how long now, Ulrich – at least two months? And nothing’s happened. I’m going to be forgotten about. I thought you were meant to be making plans – I mean, does my father know I’m still here?’
‘Of course he does, and yes, I am making plans, but these things take time. I have to be very careful – it’s not something we can rush into.’
‘But in Munich I heard all these stories about organised escape routes from the Reich.’
‘I’m afraid the Reich no longer exists.’
‘You know what I mean – escape routes through Europe into Italy. I met a man in Munich who told me he was an SS Obersturmbannführer and that he was going to Genoa, from where a boat would take him to South America and—’
‘I very much doubt that a genuine SS Obersturmbannführer would confide in a stranger like that, in Munich or anywhere else for that matter.’
‘He told me in confidence, Ulrich.’
‘Even if it’s true, Obersturmbannführer is a very senior rank. The escape line that exist are for senior Nazis – SS, party officials, people suspected of major war crimes… To be blunt, Friedrich, you don’t qualify on any of those grounds, which is why you’re so lucky your father’s sorting something out for you. What’s the highest rank you reached in the Gestapo?’
‘Obersturmführer, but I was due to be—’
‘Well there we are then – a lieutenant. Look, you’re not the only one in this position. I ended up as a Sturmbannführer, and even I’m not deemed important enough. I’m fortunate your father has asked me to look after you; that’s my chance of escape.’
‘So you owe me then?’
‘Don’t be so cocky.’
Friedrich fell silent and for a while appeared to be uncharacteristically reflective. ‘So when?’ he said eventually.
‘Hopefully soon. The most pressing thing we need is money – we’re running out of funds – but some will be arriving any day now.’
* * *
Charles Falmer was a long way from being the best qualified person for the job, but then it wasn’t as if those who’d recruited him were exactly spoilt for choice.
For a start, it had to be someone they trusted, which certainly narrowed it down, and then they needed to be able to move around Europe, particularly Allied-occupied Germany, and that narrowed it down even further, so much so that they’d drawn a blank. Then Ridgeway remembered that his nephew Charles was working for the Royal Army Pay Corps in Cologne, and there was a lively discussion about how easy it was to get from Cologne to Frankfurt.
‘It’s around a hundred miles: shouldn’t be difficult.’
‘Yes, but one’s in the American zone and the other’s in the British: you need all kind of permits to move around.’
‘But we’re on the same bloody side; it’s not as if we’re expecting him to crawl under barbed wire!’
The discussion then turned to whether nephew Charles was up to it.
‘Didn’t you mention before that he was asthmatic and a rather nervous type?’
Ridgeway said that yes, he was asthmatic and generally not someone who enjoyed the best of health – he always seemed to have a stomach problem of one kind or another – but he was sympathetic to the cause and in any case who else did they have?
There was a bit of an argument at that point until the woman, who’d remained silent until now, said to stop acting like children and obviously it would have to be Ridgeway’s nephew because there was no one else, and they’d just have to hope his stomach didn’t play up. In any case, she said, she’d discussed the matter with the Admiral and he’d approve: the priority was to
get the package to Germany, and he took a dim view of how long this was taking.
At first it had gone rather well. Falmer had managed to grab a few days’ home leave, and once in London he came to collect the package and his instructions. It was larger than he’d anticipated.
‘What were you expecting, Charles – a cheque?’
‘No, but I thought maybe… an envelope?’ They were in the tiny office in the West End art gallery, and his uncle and his business partner and the woman were all smoking, which he worried was going to trigger his asthma, but he didn’t like to say anything. He stared at the package on his uncle’s desk. It was just over a foot long and possibly nine inches deep; certainly not the kind of thing you could slip into your pocket. It was wrapped in brown paper and secured with string and tape. On the front was the stamp of a pharmacy in London, and the word ‘medicine’ was written on the front and the back in English and German.
No one had so much as glanced at it when he took it back to Cologne, where he kept it in a case under his bed at night and carried it round in his briefcase all day, every day, until he managed to get a pass to go to Frankfurt for the weekend. The officer who issued the passes gave him a knowing wink and said if he had any plans – another wink – to take care, and if he didn’t take care then to enjoy it, but remember to see the medical officer as soon as he returned.
By the time Falmer arrived in Frankfurt, he was in a terrible state. He’d not slept for two nights and his stomach was playing up quite badly. As sympathetic as he was to the cause, he wasn’t sure he was the right man for this job. The journey to Frankfurt had been painfully slow. The bus had had to negotiate its way through the damaged streets of the city, stopping frequently as carts carrying rubble moved out of its path. It stopped at the railway station, or at least what remained of it, and when Falmer asked an American soldier where the nearest public toilets were, he laughed at him and said about a hundred miles away.
He walked from the station to the small hotel on Allerheiligenstrasse that was reserved for Americans and other Allied officials. It was the only building in the street that appeared unscathed, and seemed pleasant enough. As he was checking in, an American officer told him that as long as he had dollars, there were a couple of decent cafés near the remains of the main post office, and gave him directions.
The handover was planned for ten o’clock the following morning, the Sunday. As Falmer washed in the stained basin in his room, he wondered what to do with the package in the meantime, eventually deciding to take it with him in his briefcase.
His downfall came in a small bar in an alley opposite the post office. He was in the alley because of what had been on his mind since a colleague had told him that the whole of the centre of Frankfurt was a red-light district, due to the fact that people were so desperate. ‘It’s about the only way they can earn dollars – women and men, even children!’
The first bar was noisy and full of American troops and women old enough to be their mothers, and the second felt so menacing he only glanced into it from the doorway. He spotted the third bar down a cutting off the alley, and it was just what he’d had in mind. It seemed much quieter, and more to the point, it had only men in it. As he edged nervously to the bar, teenage boys began to gather around him. Are you American, sir? Do you have dollars? Buy me a drink, I will let you have whatever you want…
He wasn’t sure what to do. He felt intimidated and thought he ought to leave, but on the other hand… It was at that moment that a large man wearing a vest and smoking an enormous cigar sidled up to him. ‘This is my place: you give me five dollars and choose a boy, then you go upstairs. When you’re in the room, you pay the boy.’
Falmer looked at the boys watching him, all smiling expectantly. He was now wishing he wasn’t there; he’d not expected it to be so blatant and so sudden. He’d somehow assumed he’d have time to assess the situation and make up his mind; he’d been hoping for something more discreet. Another couple of boys had gathered round, including one who looked no older than twelve. The man pushed up against him and spoke in a menacing tone.
‘You choose a boy now and don’t waste my time: five dollars.’
‘I’d like to leave now… please.’ Falmer was doing his best to sound authoritative, but he was aware he came across as anything but. He pushed past the man and headed towards a door he assumed was an exit, but instead found himself in a narrow corridor with a staircase at one end.
‘To leave now, you pay ten dollars.’
He couldn’t remember exactly what happened next and in what order, but he did recall the briefcase being wrenched from his grasp and his wallet being taken from his jacket pocket, and then being punched in the ribs as he was dragged to the exit and pushed onto the wet cobbles, which were so slippery he felt as if he were sliding on ice. He picked himself up and realised he wasn’t hurt, but when he turned round, the door of the bar was shut. At that moment, half a dozen American troops appeared and he blurted out what had happened.
They told him not to worry and to wait outside. He heard much shouting from inside, and watched as everyone in the bar was thrown out and sent on their way. One of the Americans emerged carrying the briefcase.
The relief that swept over Charles Falmer didn’t last long.
He was asked whether this was the briefcase and he said yes, and then the American opened it and peered inside.
‘This is definitely your briefcase?’
Falmer said it was and he was terribly grateful, and it was only then that he noticed that the American – an officer – was looking at him suspiciously as he angled the briefcase for him to peer into. The parcel had been torn open and the case was full of American dollar bills and pound notes. He was so shocked that when the officer said you’d better come with me, Charles Falmer said yes, of course.
* * *
Frankfurt hadn’t started well for Hanne and Prince. The Americans had taken over the IG Farben building off Fürstenbergerstrasse as their headquarters – it was one of the few large buildings left standing, and the rumour was that the Allied air forces had avoided hitting it so they’d have somewhere to use as a base.
Hanne and Prince went from office to office, from department to department and from floor to floor looking for someone who’d help. But no one had heard of a Friedrich Steiner, nor of der Fluchtweg Falke or anything to do with kestrels or any other bird, or of Nazi escape lines for that matter.
After two days they were inclined to give up, and telephoned Gilbey, who told them he was confident they’d get Steiner sooner or later and felt they’d done their best so should return to England. When they managed to telephone Henry that evening, he sounded upset, worried that his father wouldn’t be coming home. They found the British liaison office in the building and arranged to get on a flight that was leaving in two days from RAF Wahn, just outside Cologne. The liaison officer – he’d introduced himself as Gibson – couldn’t have been more helpful. They told him about their mission and how they’d hit a dead end in Frankfurt and couldn’t find anyone to help them. He walked to the window, looking over the ruined landscape, then turned and spoke quietly.
‘Something you said just then…’
‘About the German – Steiner?’
‘No, about Nazi escape lines: what was it?’
‘We think Friedrich Steiner could have a possible connection to something called der Fluchtweg Falke – the Kestrel escape line.’
‘This could be a total coincidence, of course, but a couple of days ago, the Americans arrested an Englishman found in a bar with a briefcase containing nearly one thousand dollars and five hundred British pounds.’
‘That’s an awful lot of money,’ said Prince, ‘but I’m not sure I see the connection with what we’ve been asking about.’
‘His name is Charles Falmer and he’s a clerk with the British Army in Cologne. As far as I can tell from our chaps there, he’s not very important and wouldn’t be earning much – probably no more than a hundred pounds
a year. The only explanation he offered was that he was in Frankfurt for a weekend off and this was his spending money, which as explanations go was about as unconvincing as you can get. You’ve seen this place – who’d come to a bombsite like this to relax? With that amount of money he could have bought half the city. They asked us to have a word with him. According to the Americans, he was caught in one of those bars where men go to meet other men, and at first I thought that was why he was so reluctant to tell us anything, but it still didn’t explain the money.
‘The Americans were minded to charge him with currency violation – they’re very anxious about their zone being flooded with dollars from the black market – and once I explained to him that this was a serious crime, he changed his tune and came up with a complicated story about how his uncle is an important art dealer in London and had given him the money to buy a painting from a man in Frankfurt. He said he was to meet the man in a small square called Elsa-Brändström-Platz, on Guiollettstrasse, where they have a flea market.’
Hanne and Prince looked at each other, still unsure of the point of the story.
‘Frankly, his tale sounded ridiculous, like some cheap detective thriller: he said he was to meet a one-armed man who’d answer to the name “Kestrel”. To be honest with you, I assumed he’d made it up. My commanding officer said we were wasting our time with him and we should allow the Americans to confiscate the dollars and then send him back to Cologne and let our chaps there deal with him. But when you mentioned Kestrel, I put two and two together, though I could be wrong, of course, it could just be a coincidence.’
Prince had been making notes in his little black book. ‘Remind me of his name?’