End of Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  So he’d not replied about how long he hoped he could stay there, because she was in one of those moods when her gaze was fixed on a point either side of him. She was also smoking: she could go days without touching a cigarette and then furiously smoke one after another, as if in a competition to see how quickly she could work her way through a packet.

  Life was like this with the woman he knew as Myrtle – utterly unpredictable. He’d first met her in December 1938, a largely silent but very passionate encounter that had lasted for two days, at the end of which she’d confided in him that it had taken place because ‘they wanted to be sure there wasn’t anything untoward about you’, which apparently there wasn’t. She’d then told him how much she admired him – ‘if only there were more men like you’ – and assured him that if he ever needed her help, he was to go to an art gallery in Cork Street called Bourne and Sons and ask if they had any paintings by an artist called Myrtle. But he was only to do this, she said, if it was a matter of life and death.

  In the third week of April, he’d realised the security services were closing in on him and the Nazi spy ring he’d been so carefully if reluctantly drawn into had all but collapsed. His career as Agent Milton was about to end. He calculated that as Major Edward Palmer of the Directorate of Military Intelligence at the War Office, he was enjoying his final hours of freedom, so he’d fled London and moved around the north of England.

  In Manchester he’d acquired the identity of Harold Hamilton, and then spent a few weeks working on a farm in Lincolnshire before he remembered Myrtle – he was surprised he’d not thought of her before – and reckoned his predicament now unquestionably qualified as a matter of life and death.

  And from there it had all somehow worked out. From the art gallery he’d been sent to Marylebone station, and thence to Gerrards Cross. When he’d left the station he’d followed his instructions and kept walking.

  Don’t look for Myrtle – she’ll find you.

  Five minutes later, she’d sidled up to him as he’d passed a chemist’s, slipping her arm through his and asking how his journey had been, and turn right here, that’s my car over there, the dark blue one – maybe you should smile.

  It was a small snub-nosed Standard Flying Eight with noisy brakes and a window on the passenger door that rattled in a worrying manner. They headed north for about thirty minutes: despite the war being over, there were still an absence of road signs and he knew better than to ask their destination. Soon after crossing a railway line, they turned off the road and headed up a long farm track, open fields to their left and woods to their right. Just before the track came to a dead end, she pulled up alongside a gate and told him to open it and then close it once the car was through. From there it was about a quarter of a mile along rough ground before they came to a small house, set back among the trees rather as he imagined the setting for a cottage in the Black Forest in a fairy tale.

  And that was where he’d remained. She told him they were in the Misbourne Valley in the Chiltern Hills and that was as much as he needed to know. He wasn’t to leave the house without her permission; he was to make sure no one saw him, though in his whole time there he’d never spotted another living soul.

  Edward Palmer – he preferred his true identity to that of Harold Hamilton – became a nocturnal creature, free to move around the house at night and walk in the woods surrounding the house, often for hours at a time. The house had two bedrooms: Myrtle slept in the larger one, and when the mood took her, she would summon him to join her. They would share the bed and each other’s bodies until such time as it was made clear he was no longer required.

  When Myrtle was in a good mood, life in the house could be quite agreeable: the atmosphere was pleasant and she would be attentive and interested in him. She was not exactly forthcoming about his predicament – how long he’d be staying there, what the plans were – but he put that down to her being unsure herself.

  But then for no apparent reason she’d change, becoming resentful at his presence, looking past him when she spoke, preferring to be on her own in the kitchen, staring through the window at the trees, all the while smoking.

  Once or twice a week she’d leave the house, usually returning with shopping. Sometimes she’d be away for a couple of hours, other times for most of the day.

  One day in October, she’d arrived back later than she’d ever done before. It was pitch dark by the time she returned, and as much as he enjoyed the solitude, Palmer was relieved to see her: he hadn’t even been able to light a fire, and the early-autumn chill had penetrated the house. She was smoking when she came in, which was always a bad sign, and ordered him to join her in the lounge. She checked the curtains were closed and told him to light the fire and bring her a cup of tea.

  ‘We may have a problem.’ She paused to sip the tea and pulled a face indicating it wasn’t quite to her liking. ‘I went to London – to the gallery.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘A man called Anthony Hawke was there earlier in the week, and from what I can gather, he sounded very sympathetic to our cause and arranged to return today to purchase a painting. The Admiral considers Ridgeway to be far too trusting and instructed me to be there today with Bourne to see what I made of the man.’

  She lit another cigarette, carefully watching the match as it faded. ‘I found him rather plausible, and in fact when I raised the subject of the cause and our need for funds, he was most sympathetic and gave us a cheque for twenty-five pounds. My instincts about people are usually very acute, as they were with you. But it was only afterwards that I said to Bourne that I wondered if I too had been too trusting – seduced by his generosity, if you like. On reflection, there was something about him that could have been too good to be true.’

  ‘Did he give an address – surely he can be checked out?’

  ‘Our ability to do these things is limited, Edward, I keep telling you that. We are very few in number now: we have to be extremely careful. The Admiral is adamant we do nothing that arouses suspicion. Checking this man out could do just that. We’re struggling as it is to get money over to the Continent, and that has to be our priority.’

  ‘So when you say we may have a problem…’

  ‘I’m being cautious. I told Bourne that for the next few weeks both he and Ridgeway are to keep their heads down: they’re not to meet with anyone, no cash withdrawals, nothing to arouse suspicion. I’ll not go into London for a while.’

  Her announcement that he couldn’t stay there for ever came three weeks after that. He wasn’t sure whether it was apropos of anything in particular, so he left it, but two nights later she called him to her room. In the morning, he made her a cup of tea and brought it back to bed. He noticed that she nodded approvingly as she sipped it, so decided to raise the matter.

  ‘I was wondering what caused you to say I couldn’t stay here indefinitely?’

  She turned to look at him, weighing up whether to answer. She finished her tea and plumped her pillow. ‘We heard from Germany, from someone in Frankfurt. You remember I told you about the English couple who turned up there?’ She moved closer and placed her hand on his stomach. ‘Well, it seems that the man is almost certainly the same one who was hunting for you earlier this year, and who so nearly found you. We think his name is Prince.’

  ‘The one you encountered in Gerrards Cross?’

  ‘Yes – and who I identified at the pub in London. If he’s involved in this case, then there could be a problem.’

  ‘So what is going to happen?’

  ‘The Admiral is of the view – which I share – that it’s too dangerous for you to remain in this country. We can get you on the Kestrel Line and away from Europe, and you’ll be able to take money over with you.’

  He edged away from her. ‘But how will I get there… and when?’

  ‘I’m sorting things out at the moment, Edward. I’ll probably travel with you.’ She was talking as if they were planning a Sunday-afternoon outing, and now she pressed
her warm body against his colder one.

  * * *

  ‘That’s rather put the cat amongst the pigeons, hasn’t it, Tom?’

  ‘In what sense, Roly?’

  ‘Oh do come off it… A few weeks ago you were all for giving up looking for this Friedrich chap, ready to file it under “too much trouble”, but now – judging by this august gathering – it would seem to be a matter of the utmost urgency.’

  Sir Roland Pearson swept his arm round to indicate all the people present, like a conductor preparing his orchestra. They were in a secure room in the basement of the MI6 offices. Roland Bentley was there, along with Hugh Harper from MI5 and a man called Bartholomew. Prince and Hanne were sitting at the end of the table.

  ‘I think one has to recognise that the rules of the game have rather changed,’ said Gilbey. He was looking in the direction of Prince and Hanne. Prince glanced at his wife. He could sense she was confused by the language and the unspoken tension in the room.

  ‘Prince, perhaps you and Hanne would care to give us your assessment of the situation,’ said Bentley. ‘We need to know how seriously we ought to take this Bormann business. If we believe it is true, then we need to up our game. Because of the gravity of the matter, I have referred it to the very highest levels, and I can tell you, the view of His Majesty’s Government is that because Bormann is arguably the most prominent Nazi apparently still at liberty, capturing him should be regarded as a priority.’

  Prince looked at Hanne and gestured for her to speak. The others in the room seemed surprised.

  ‘I think the truth is we cannot be certain about what happened to Martin Bormann: I think we should regard him as unaccounted for rather than being at liberty.’

  ‘Nonetheless—’

  ‘My personal view is that had he been killed, we would have known about it by now. Commissar Gurevich, with whom we’ve been dealing, does not seem to think Bormann is dead. Through him I met Willi Kühn, who told me how Wolfgang Steiner had recently been to see him. I – we – think that the people running the Kestrel Line believe Bormann is still alive and are therefore anxious to help him escape. Who knows – it is possible Steiner found Bormann after he met Kühn: we just don’t know.’

  ‘You agree, Prince?’

  ‘Of course I do, sir. Until we have proof that Bormann is dead or captured, we must assume he’s alive and pursue this. I think we must keep up the hunt for Friedrich Steiner: find him and we’ll find Bormann.’

  ‘And how would you propose we go about that?’

  ‘If I may say, I think we are messing around.’ Hanne sounded annoyed. ‘Since I have been in this country, I notice how many meetings you have – meetings to decide everything. Meetings take up too much time and get in the way of an investigation. We know from Willi Kühn that Villach in Austria is a key place on the Kestrel Line. We ought to be there now rather than wasting our time talking about whether we think Bormann is alive or not.’

  ‘Hanne…’ Prince had placed his hand on his wife’s arm.

  Tom Gilbey looked angry and started to speak, but Roland Bentley stopped him. ‘I don’t know what you were about to say, Tom, but I happen to very much agree with Hanne. We should be showing a far greater sense of urgency in pursuing Bormann. It would be an enormous feather in this country’s cap if we’re the ones to capture him. We wouldn’t want the Russians to have that honour, would we?’

  ‘Or the Americans.’

  ‘Absolutely, Roly.’

  ‘Or the French.’

  ‘I’d have thought that’s highly unlikely, Tom.’ There was a ripple of laughter around the table. ‘You two need to get to Villach as soon as possible. I find it hard to believe two agents as experienced as you won’t pick up the trail. Do we know whose zone Villach is in?’

  ‘Ours, sir.’

  ‘Jolly good – there ought to be a FSS in the town. Tom, have a word in the right ears to make sure they cooperate – remember it’s them working for us, not the other way round.’

  ‘Can I ask what FSS stands for?’ Hanne asked.

  ‘Of course – Field Security Section. They’re part of our military intelligence: we put them into areas we’re running. Tom, we’d better get a move on with getting these two out there, hadn’t we?’

  ‘May I ask about the London end of things – this art gallery: is that still of interest?’ Hugh Harper gave the impression he was hoping he’d be told the services of MI5 would no longer be required.

  Gilbey turned to his two agents at the end of the table. ‘We’ve not got anywhere on that, have we, Prince?’

  ‘No, sir, we haven’t. With the help of Mr Harper and Bartholomew, we’ve been watching the gallery and keeping an eye on Bourne and Ridgeway, but so far nothing.’

  ‘And nor did a thorough look at their various bank accounts turn anything up, other than evidence of a higher-than-normal incidence of cash transactions’ said Harper. ‘We’ve got telephone-tapping and mail-opening warrants, but no joy there either.’

  ‘Well perhaps it was a long shot anyway,’ said Gilbey. ‘Let’s concentrate on Austria, eh?’

  ‘I think that would be a mistake.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Roly?’

  ‘I think it would be a mistake to concentrate on Austria and forget about this end of things. Remember, I’m the one who went into the gallery: I’ve met both Bourne and Ridgeway, and the woman too. There’s little doubt in my mind that there’s something fishy going on there, and we know for a fact that they were the ones who sent Charles Falmer over to Frankfurt with all that money, which was almost certainly for the Kestrel Line. We simply cannot afford to ignore that.’

  ‘So your point is…’

  ‘My point is we should still watch the gallery: it may give us a lead to the Kestrel Line and thus to Bormann. Do remember, the woman in Bourne’s office admitted they were providing funds and said that there are people in this country they wish to send on the same route too – that was the phrase she used, if I recall correctly.’

  Hugh Harper said he could still have Bartholomew watch the gallery, but Prince said he foresaw a problem with that.

  ‘From everything Sir Roland has said, I’m sure the woman at the gallery was the same one I saw in Gerrards Cross and at the pub. My instinct is she’s probably more important than Bourne and Ridgeway. But I’m the only one who can identify her.’

  ‘And you can hardly be both here and in Austria.’

  ‘Not at the same time Mr Gilbey, no.’

  ‘In that case’ said Gilbey ‘perhaps the best thing would be for Hanne to go over to Austria and Prince to stay here? That way we could cover both bases.’

  Chapter 19

  Austria, November 1945

  ‘This really isn’t a matter for discussion, Wilf – it’s an order. It came from the War Office in London to Eighth Army headquarters, and from there to me, and now I’m passing it on to you. I would add that as orders from London go, this one is notably unambiguous. Is there any part of it you’re unclear about?’

  Wilf Hart rolled his eyes and replied in a resigned manner. ‘The woman flies into Klagenfurt later this afternoon and I’m to escort her back to Villach, where I’m to afford her every assistance in an operation I’ve yet to be told about.’

  Major Laurie Stewart leaned back in his chair, contemplating not for the first time whether he should replace the man sitting in front of him. Stewart commanded the British Army’s Field Security Sections in Carinthia in southern Austria, and Captain Wilf Hart ran the FSS unit in Villach. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was actually very efficient and spoke good German, he’d certainly move him elsewhere. Hart was somewhat older than his commanding officer, and Stewart had long detected a degree of resentment from him. He was now detecting that resentment over the orders he’d just been given.

  ‘That is not quite true, though, is it, Wilf? I told you the woman is an MI6 agent with what I’m told is an outstanding record of service during the war. Her mission is to be regarded as your pr
iority and you’re to do as she requests. She’s on the trail of escaping Nazis and is acting on information that some may be in or passing through Villach.’

  ‘I’ve not picked up so much as a hint of that.’

  ‘Which doesn’t mean it’s not happening, does it? In my experience, MI6 aren’t in the habit of dispatching agents around Europe on a whim.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know…’

  ‘What is the problem, Wilf? Is it that I’m asking you to take orders from a woman?’

  Captain Hart appeared uncomfortable and avoided looking at his commanding officer.

  ‘Not in so many words, sir. You said she isn’t English – one wonders…’

  ‘I’m not English, Hart.’

  ‘I meant British: I would have thought that was self-evident.’

  ‘I can move you back here to Klagenfurt if you prefer: you’d no longer be running your own little unit, but we do have a building full of captured documents here, and going through them would keep you more than busy.’

  Captain Hart apologised and said no, of course not, he was sorry for any misunderstanding, and maybe the exhaustion was getting to him. ‘Not stopped since Italy, have we, sir?’

  * * *

  Hanne Jakobsen was met at Klagenfurt airbase by both Major Stewart and Captain Hart, the former assuring her of the full cooperation of the Field Security Section. When he finished shaking her hand, he introduced her to Hart, who was very polite and said it would take a little over an hour to get to Villach.

  Hanne said in that case they’d better get a move on, and thank you very much but she could carry her own case.

  The Field Security Section had taken over a building on Hauptplatz in the centre of Villach, halfway between the Drava river and St Jakob’s church. It served as their base and their living quarters, and when Captain Hart came down for breakfast the following morning, the Danish woman was waiting for him, clearly impatient to get started.