End of Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  ‘We got our chance, though.’ Marija had moved out of the gloom too. ‘They handed over the city to us and we controlled it for forty days until it was given back to the British. We got our revenge, especially against the traitors.’

  ‘So we’ll be at home in Trieste, Hanne, we consider it to be our city. And you don’t want to worry about us being spotted. We know every shadow.’

  ‘And you never know – you may be grateful we’re there.’

  * * *

  It was one hundred miles from Villach in Austria to Trieste in Italy, all of it across territory controlled by the British Army. They crossed the Gailtal Alps into Slovenia just north of Kranjska Gora, heading south before entering Italy at Gorizia.

  The final part of the journey was over a stretch of rocky terrain called the Carso, and it was the middle of the afternoon when they arrived at the Field Security Section on Via San Lazzaro. Bartholomew was in a top-floor office with the windows wide open despite the cold. It was close to dusk, the twinkling lights of the Adriatic just visible through the mist.

  ‘They’re mercurial, this bloody pair, I can tell you that.’ Bartholomew looked as if he’d not slept in days. He was in the same raincoat he always seemed to wear. ‘They must be important, because they seem to have plenty of local help. I can’t believe we lost them in Paris, but fortunately we counted on them moving on and we’re not exactly short-staffed there so we had every station covered. We almost lost them in Geneva too, which would have been a disaster, but they were collected from the station in a green Renault and we were able to follow that to where they stayed overnight and from there to Turin, but I can tell you we’ve been stretched to the limit. This Italian coffee is remarkable, you should try it… you don’t need to sleep!’

  ‘What happened in Turin?’

  ‘The apartment they stayed in had links to fascists and we thought that was where they were going to stay…’

  ‘So did we.’

  ‘…but then they did a midnight flit: fortunately the FSS chaps in Turin were on the ball and we managed to track them to Verona. Following them to Trieste turned out to be the easiest part, actually. This place certainly makes sense: big port and easily accessible from Austria, and it’s full of all types, not just Italians. It’s the kind of place where it’s easy to be inconspicuous.’

  ‘Where are they now, Bartholomew?’

  ‘We followed them to a building in the south of the city. I’ve got the local Field Security Section chaps watching it now, and two of my men are there too. I’ll go down later. You’re welcome to join me.’

  ‘Is anyone else with them?’ Hanne asked.

  ‘That’s what we don’t know: I would recommend keeping an eye on the place for at least another twenty-four hours. By then we ought to have an idea.’

  ‘If this place is the end of the Kestrel Line, we need to know if Friedrich Steiner’s there too.’

  ‘And Martin Bormann.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘And the port – where could they sail to from it?’

  ‘I asked the same question of the senior FSS officer downstairs. He pointed to a map of the world and said to take my pick.’

  * * *

  ‘They’ve been in there all night, sir.’

  It was ten o’clock on the Monday morning. Hanne and Prince were huddled in the back of a Fiat truck with Bartholomew and a Field Security Section officer, a well-built Welshman called Evans who’d been on duty all night. The truck was parked next to a large cemetery on Via dell’Istria on the opposite side of the road from the building Myrtle Carter and Edward Palmer had been seen entering.

  ‘You’ve got the rear covered?’

  ‘Yes, sir – every angle is covered.’

  ‘And do we know what the building is?’

  ‘Are you a betting man, Mr Prince?’

  Prince shrugged. ‘The occasional flutter, I suppose: the Grand National, you know…’

  ‘Well I’d have bet a tidy sum on the Catholic Church being involved in a Nazi escape line: all the intelligence we’re getting is that they’re up to their ears in it – organising the fugitives’ passage into Italy, hiding them, arranging new identities and then helping them escape from Europe. And sure enough, this place belongs to the local Catholic diocese: apparently it’s some kind of hostel for people connected with the Church to stay in when they’re visiting or passing through Trieste. A couple of parish priests live here too. Carter and Palmer went in yesterday when they arrived in the city and haven’t been seen since.’

  ‘So we don’t know if Friedrich Steiner’s in there, or anyone else?’

  ‘No idea, sir.’

  ‘You know about Martin Bormann?’

  Evans nodded and pointed to a photograph of Bormann taped to the side of the truck. ‘No sign of him either, sir.’

  They watched and waited for the rest of Monday and into the night. The uneasy silence was broken only by the occasional sound of other vehicles passing. There was a discussion about whether to raid the hostel, but they agreed to wait until they saw Friedrich or anyone else of interest in the building.

  At midnight, Hanne and Prince slipped away to a hotel the FSS had taken over on Via San Nicolò. They’d only been asleep a few minutes when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘I’m sorry to wake you, but they’re on the move,’ said Bartholomew.

  Evans met them outside the hotel. He’d been on duty when a van had pulled up in front of the hostel on Via dell’Istria and a small group had hurried from the building into the back of the vehicle.

  ‘Carter and Palmer were definitely among them, and I’d say from the description you’ve given me that Steiner was too. One of the men could have had just one arm, but it was difficult to tell. There was another man too.’

  ‘Who do you think he was?’

  ‘Could have been Bormann: he was dressed as a priest. I’ve been staring at his bloody photo all day, but I can’t be sure it was him, but neither could I be sure it wasn’t him, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Do we know where they are?’

  ‘Fortunately two of our motorcyclists were able to follow them: this is quite an easy city to find your way around, as it’s laid out in a grid pattern. They’re not far from here – at the port. Jump in.’

  They drove to a warehouse on Porto Vecchio. It appeared to be deserted, but Evans said one of his motorcyclists had spotted movement in the first-floor offices when they first arrived.

  They waited huddled in the back of the truck as the port came to life. A salty wind whipped in from the Adriatic, but other than a rusty sign swaying in the wind, there was no movement in the warehouse.

  ‘Do we know anything about the building?’

  ‘The sign on the door says De Luca e Figli – De Luca and Sons.’ Evans was looking at the building through binoculars. ‘And underneath that it says Fornitore Navale, whatever that means.’

  ‘Ship’s chandlers,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘I think we should go in now,’ Prince said.

  ‘No, not yet,’ replied Hanne. ‘If we have the place surrounded, we can afford to wait and see what’s going on.’

  Bartholomew agreed. In his experience, he said, it would be better all round to wait for them to come out rather than raid the place too soon.

  ‘I must say, though, it’s a damn clever location: close to the port and the railway station, and there’s even a seaplane base over there,’ said Evans.

  They agreed to wait until the morning. In the meantime, the Field Security Section said they’d check all the ships in the port and see if any had imminent plans to set sail.

  * * *

  Hanne woke before dawn and left the room without waking Richard. She spotted Jožef in a doorway in a side street with a view of the hotel. He stepped back into the shadows and nodded to her, and she spoke quietly, avoiding looking in his direction.

  When she returned to the hotel, her husband was waiting for her looking agitated.

  ‘
Where’ve you been?’

  ‘I wanted some fresh air, our room’s so stuffy. Is something the matter?’

  ‘I’m not sure… Bartholomew’s called: something’s up. We’re wanted immediately at the FSS place on Via San Lazzaro.’

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, they were in an office in the Field Security Section, the two of them looking at each other, stunned, before Hanne glared at Bartholomew in an almost accusing manner.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry – I’m as surprised at this as you are. Please understand this is London’s decision, not mine. You know how it is, orders are orders.’

  Prince held up the telegram once more, he and Hanne reading it at the same time, both shaking their heads angrily as they did so.

  LONDON, TUESDAY

  FOR: RP/HJ, TRIESTE – THROUGH BARTHOLOMEW

  BE ADVISED OF NEW ORDERS: OPERATION TO ARREST STEINER TO CEASE FORTHWITH. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES IS HE TO BE APPREHENDED. INVESTIGATION INTO KESTREL LINE TO END NOW. PLEASE ACKNOWLEDGE RECEIPT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN TO LONDON. STOP.

  GILBEY

  ‘It’s ridiculous: if we let Steiner go, then the same will apply to the others… Carter and Palmer, bloody traitors… And Bormann, what about if he’s there?’ Prince looked on the verge of tears.

  ‘But if we don’t acknowledge receipt, there’s nothing to stop us going ahead and arresting Steiner and the others, is there? We could just say we didn’t see it until it was too late.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not as easy as that, Hanne.’ Bartholomew looked awkward, loosening his tie as he spoke.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because I’ve already told London we’ve seen it.’

  Chapter 25

  England, December 1945

  ‘Good try, Jenkins, but I’m afraid what you ask is completely out of the question.’

  Tom Gilbey stared long and hard at the overweight American sitting opposite him in his office in St James’s. He barely knew Joseph Jenkins, so had asked Sir Roland Pearson to join him. In his role as Churchill’s intelligence adviser, Pearson had enjoyed many dealings with Jenkins during the war, though neither man would have chosen the word ‘enjoyed’ to describe their encounters.

  Joseph was a senior liaison officer in London for the Office of Strategic Services, the American version of MI6. Except that it seemed he no longer was. He’d been the one to request the meeting, and he began it by looking quizzically at Sir Roland.

  ‘I thought you’d been sacked, Roly?’

  Pearson bristled, not least at the presumption of the American in calling him ‘Roly’. Jenkins was not in one of the limited categories of people he permitted to use that name.

  ‘I was most certainly not sacked. Mine was a personal appointment by Winston Churchill, so when he left Number Ten, I quite properly tendered my resignation. In fact I had always intended to leave once the war was over.’

  ‘And now you’re working for Mr Gilbey here?’

  ‘Not for, with: I’m working with Tom. I was also at school with Tom.’ He emphasised the word as if he was instructing the American in the correct use of a preposition.

  ‘All you guys seem to have been at the same school. If I meet someone else from Missouri, it’s a big deal. I have some news for you: I have a new job!’

  ‘Many congratulations, Joe,’ said Pearson after a short period of hesitation. It was now Jenkins’ turn to bristle: he hated being called Joe – he didn’t want people to associate him with Stalin. ‘Does this mean a move away from London, perhaps?’

  ‘Ha! If I didn’t know you better, Roly, I’d think you wanted me to leave. No, for the time being, I’m going to continue to be based here at the embassy. Have you heard of the Counter Intelligence Corps?’

  ‘It’s an intelligence section within the United States Army, isn’t it?’

  The American nodded his head, and Pearson asked him if that meant he was now a soldier.

  ‘No, I’m still with the Office of Strategic Services, but I’m attached to the Counter Intelligence Corps for a few months. They want to use my expertise.’

  ‘Do you get to wear a uniform now, Joe? I can recommend an excellent tailor in Jermyn Street if you have difficulty in finding one the right size.’

  Jenkins glared at Sir Roland.

  ‘Well, jolly well done,’ said Tom Gilbey. ‘It’s always nice to be wanted, to have one’s achievements recognised. After all, you’ve been in the same post for an awfully long time as I understand it, eh?’

  Jenkins bristled once more.

  ‘And it’s so nice you came all the way here from Grosvenor Square to give us the good news in person.’

  ‘That’s not the sole reason I came, Tom. It’s connected with it, though.’ The American pushed his chair back and smiled at both the men opposite him.

  ‘Do please tell us.’

  ‘One of the current operations of the Counter Intelligence Corps is to identify senior German officials who are wanted by various Allied countries but who in our estimation can in the long run be of assistance to the United States of America.’

  ‘I think you may need to explain that more clearly, Joe.’

  ‘I prefer Joseph, if that’s all right with you. There are thousands of senior Germans in custody in Germany and elsewhere in Europe, with many more still at liberty. Some are war criminals and must face Allied justice. But at the same time we’d be foolish to ignore the fact that there are some amongst them who can be of better use to the United States by working for us.’

  ‘You mean you’re recruiting Nazis?’

  ‘They’re not all Nazis, Roly.’

  ‘Well who are these new recruits of yours then?’

  ‘You know as well as I do that the focus in Europe has shifted dramatically. We now have to turn our attention to the Soviet Union, which is already extending its influence in eastern and central Europe in a way that represents a threat to the United States. One way of combating this is by having an effective intelligence operation in Europe, and there will be a small number of Germans who may be ideal operatives for us in this respect. Likewise we should acknowledge that the Germans have a considerable degree of expertise in many areas. For example, their tanks were superior to ours, their aircraft technology was first class, and the V1 and V2 rockets they developed meant that their scientists are the top guys in this field.’

  ‘So you want to recruit them?’

  ‘In a word, yes.’

  ‘And how many people are we talking about?’

  ‘Hundreds rather than thousands.’

  ‘Hundreds! You want to release hundreds of Nazis from prison and give them some kind of amnesty just because it helps the United States?’

  ‘It would be the low hundreds, Tom, but yes – and I’m surprised that you’re so surprised. In fact I’d imagine you guys are doing the same. It makes sense, don’t you agree? Sure, we can let some well-placed former general rot in prison for a few years, or sentence a brilliant rocket scientist to hard labour, but wouldn’t that be cutting off our nose to spite our face when we can harness their expertise to help us?’

  ‘I’m not sure I—’

  ‘Look, Roly, hundreds of years ago, one country would conquer another and they’d sack their cities and help themselves to whatever they could find – including the women. This is a modern-day version of that.’

  ‘From what I understand, the Soviets are doing just that, and transporting whatever they can lay their hands on in Germany back to Russia. Even whole factories, I’m told, right down to the light switches, would you believe!’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Jenkins. ‘So the Soviets are helping themselves to factories and we’re helping ourselves to spies and scientists. I think we’ll benefit more in the long run. Meanwhile, you guys are thumbing through the rule book to check if this is cricket!’

  ‘Well do keep us in touch with how it goes, Joe. Presumably at some stage we’ll have sight of a list of who you’ve recruited?’

  ‘That’s why I a
sked to see you today, Tom.’

  ‘You’ve brought a list, have you?’

  The American shook his head and looked from Gilbey to Pearson and the back again, deciding which man to address his remarks to.

  ‘There’s a Counter Intelligence Corps section in Munich run by a Major Tom Barrow. A few days ago, Tom had a walk-in and…’

  Sir Roland Pearson sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Roly – you don’t trust walk-ins. You don’t need to worry, we’re quite aware that they can be set-ups. We’re as sceptical about them as you are, but some of our best intelligence has come from walk-ins; they just need to be checked out even more thoroughly.’

  ‘So do tell us about the chap who walked into your office in Munich.’

  Jenkins put on a pair of thick-lensed spectacles and looked at his notebook. ‘According to Barrow, an American officer was approached by a German man outside the US Army officers’ club on Neuhauser Strasse. He handed him an envelope that he said contained information our intelligence people would want to see and said he’d turn up the next day at our headquarters.

  ‘The officer handed the envelope to our intelligence people first thing the next morning. It contained four rolls of film, which they had developed straight away. What they saw was so interesting the photographs were handed to Major Barrow, and when the man arrived in the morning, he was brought to see him. He was able to show he’d been a senior official at the Nazi Party headquarters, and had been photographing important files since sometime in 1941. We’ve checked him out and he is who he says he is.’

  ‘Why would a senior Nazi do that?’

  ‘Self-interest: to give himself some kind of protection once the war was over. Barrow realised straight away how important the material was, and the man gave him another four rolls of film and said he had a further two hundred and ten hidden away.’