End of Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  ‘How?’

  ‘Iosif will think of something.’

  ‘Won’t Gilbey realise we’re behind it?’

  ‘How could he prove it?’

  Hanne nodded: what Prince said made sense. In the distance they saw the large figure of Evans ambling towards them, a handkerchief pressed to his face.

  ‘Bad news, I’m afraid.’ He was struggling to light a cigarette in the wind while still clutching his large white handkerchief, which was blowing horizontally from one hand like a flag of surrender. ‘The plan was to take you straight to the airport for this afternoon’s flight to Munich, but apparently the area’s cloaked in fog and all flights are cancelled until tomorrow: damned shame.’

  They agreed it was indeed a terrible shame, and when Evans said they’d have to stay in Klagenfurt, Prince said that was a pity but not the end of the world. Evans replied that he wasn’t sure, Klagenfurt seemed very much like the end of the world, and the car rocked as he laughed out loud. He repeated the joke periodically until they arrived in the town. They could see what he meant.

  Major Stewart couldn’t hide his annoyance at having unexpected charges thrust upon him. He adopted the manner of a schoolteacher who’d had a disruptive pupil brought before him once again.

  ‘I suppose we’ll have to find somewhere for you to spend the night. Just do me a favour and stay inside Innere Stadt. I know you’re both prone to wandering off, but not here, please. The town’s still a bloody mess and there’s a good deal of resentment towards the Eighth Army.’

  Half an hour later, they were in a small hotel just off the Alter Platz. As soon as they were alone, they left by a rear door and hurried through the narrow streets. Dusk was beginning to fall on the old town centre, and with half the buildings damaged and empty, it felt like a journey into the dark. Some of the streets were impassable, blocked with piles of rubble that reached as high as the first floor of those buildings still standing. In the shadow of the cathedral they turned a corner and spotted a pharmacy with its lights on: Wörthersee Apotheke.

  ‘You speak, Hanne, your German’s much better than mine. Remember to say that—’

  Hanne stopped and turned to face her husband. ‘You asked me to speak, Richard, didn’t you? So leave it to me!’

  There was almost an apologetic air to Wörthersee Apotheke, as if the shop was embarrassed to be the only one left unscathed on the street. An elderly couple stood behind the counter, clearly grateful at the prospect of customers.

  Hanne stepped forward to the counter and Prince closed the door, standing in front of it. The couple looked at her expectantly.

  ‘We are sorry to disturb you, but we need to know if you have a telephone?’

  They nodded, their heads moving in unison.

  ‘We need a telephone for a private matter, and if we could use yours, that would be very much appreciated.’

  The pair looked anxiously at each other, trying to work out whether there was a catch.

  ‘Of course it goes without saying that we would pay for any inconvenience.’

  The man began to say of course, but the woman stopped him. ‘How much?’

  Prince stepped forward and spread some Alliance schillings on the countertop. The occupation currency was much in demand, and he had calculated he was offering them a generous sum. The wife raised her eyes in surprise and quickly gathered up the notes.

  ‘The telephone is here in the back, in our little office.’

  ‘When do you close?’

  ‘In ten minutes,’ said the husband.

  ‘Close now,’ said Hanne, clearly giving an order. ‘Lock the door and turn out the lights. I’d be grateful if you could allow us some privacy.’

  They left them alone in the office, explaining that they’d be upstairs in their apartment.

  Prince rang the Vienna number he’d memorised.

  ‘Ludwig.’

  The deep voice had answered far more quickly than he was expecting. He hesitated slightly before giving the response Iosif had instructed him to. ‘It’s Horst: I need to talk with Joachim about a problem with a package.’

  ‘Is this to do with the watches?’

  He hesitated once more. He knew that unless he replied correctly, the man would terminate the call. ‘No, the boots.’

  ‘Very well – and you can be reached on this number?’

  ‘Yes, but not for very long.’

  ‘There’ll be a call from Joachim within the hour. Make sure you’re there.’

  Hanne called up to the couple, who quickly emerged onto the first-floor landing. There was a family problem, she explained, quite a distressing one and of a confidential nature, and her husband had to wait to be called back. Would it be possible to have use of the office and the telephone for another hour – and of course we will pay for your troubles?

  Iosif Gurevich rang back within half an hour. Through the static it sounded as if he was shouting into the phone from the other side of a room.

  ‘I’m in Berlin – this call is being connected via Vienna. I’m not sure how it works and nor am I sure how secure it is, so you’d better be quick.’

  Prince explained everything: how they’d tracked the Kestrel Line to Trieste, where they were convinced Friedrich Steiner was hiding in a warehouse by the port, and how they’d been instructed to call off the operation and had been driven to Klagenfurt, where they were waiting to be flown back to England.

  ‘Who is with Steiner?’

  ‘Another German – we think he escorted Steiner from Frankfurt – and an English couple, one of whom is an important Nazi spy I was hunting last year: a traitor. It’s outrageous that they’re being allowed to escape just to please the Americans.’

  ‘It doesn’t surprise me.’

  ‘You don’t sound too shocked, Iosif.’

  ‘Of course I’m not shocked, my friend – we’re up to it too! It’s only you British who are shocked by this kind of thing. What about Bormann?’

  ‘He could be with them, we’re not sure.’

  ‘So what are you asking me to do?’

  ‘Tell the Slovenians they can do what they want with Friedrich Steiner, but we don’t want the others to get away: they must be detained somehow.’

  There was no immediate response from Iosif, just the static down the line, but then he came back and asked how long they’d be in Klagenfurt, and when Prince replied until the next day, Iosif said something that was hard to make out and then told him to leave it with him. He couldn’t promise, but… and then the line went dead.

  * * *

  Kommissar Iosif Gurevich put the phone down and gazed out of his office window high on Behrenstrasse over the jagged and ruined roofscape of Berlin. The few minutes between the end of dusk and the start of night were now ticking past, and he knew he had little time. The prospect – however remote – of capturing Bormann was a tantalising one: it would certainly secure his next promotion. Apprehending the English spies would be a good career move too, Moscow liked the idea of having the British in their debt. And the fact that he’d be helping his English friend was pleasing, though only a secondary consideration.

  He shouted for his assistant to come through. ‘You look as if you’re ready to leave.’

  ‘I was hoping to, sir, but if you—’

  ‘We’re going to be here all night, Yegorov. It will be like the old days. Get hold of Fyodorov, I think he’s still based at Hohenschönhausen prison.’

  ‘And what should I say to him, sir?’

  ‘Tell him I want to see him now, immediately. Oh, and get a pot of coffee, the stronger the better.’

  Kapitan Fyodorov was a bag of nerves when he knocked tentatively on Gurevich’s door just half an hour later. It was best to assume a summons from a commissar was something to worry about, though for the young NKVD officer, almost everything was something to worry about these days. Gurevich shouted for him to come in and sit down and not look so nervous.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Fyodorov, take your coat off.
You’re not cold, are you? Here, have some coffee.’

  He waited as Fyodorov sorted himself out. He noticed that the younger man held his coffee cup with both hands, and he remembered the days when he too would shake in the presence of such a senior officer. He didn’t think he came across as that harsh.

  ‘I hear very good reports about you, Leonid.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. It is an honour to serve the Soviet Union and to—’

  Gurevich held up his hand to stop him. ‘I’m sure. There is an urgent matter that needs to be dealt with. You remember Willi Kühn?’

  ‘You mean Paul Hoffman’s contact?’

  ‘That’s him, the schoolteacher – former KPD member. I need him to do something for us, but I’m not sure how far we can trust him.’

  Gurevich swivelled his chair round, and when he’d completed a full circle to face Fyodorov once more, he lifted his feet onto the desk and closed his eyes in thought.

  ‘Let me put this another way: if we were to approach Kühn, how do you think he’d react?’

  ‘He’s not the trusting type, sir.’

  ‘What’s Hoffman up to these days?’

  ‘Since the Volkspolizei was formed in October, he’s become a very effective officer in it, sir: I understand he is even trusted to investigate political crimes.’

  ‘So we could use him to approach Kühn?’

  ‘That would be a better approach, sir.’

  ‘I thought so. Very good, get Hoffman here now.’

  An hour later, Paul Hoffman swaggered into Gurevich’s office without any of the nervousness shown by Fyodorov.

  ‘I want you to bring Willi Kühn here, Hoffman.’

  ‘When, sir?’

  ‘Ideally, an hour ago, but I’ll settle for some time tonight.’

  Hoffman coughed and looked less confident now. ‘There is a slight problem with that, sir.’

  Gurevich looked up in the manner of a man who had enough problems already. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He’s in Wedding, sir, in the western part of the city. I think that’s in the French sector.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll allow you two hours to bring him here.’

  * * *

  The war had been over for more than seven months, but that didn’t stop Willi Kühn breaking out in a cold sweat and his heart missing a beat or two when he heard knocking on his door so late at night.

  At least he was alone. His daughter was working as a nurse at the French hospital, and his son-in-law was in a Soviet prisoner-of-war camp, where frankly Kühn hoped he would remain. Through the frosted glass he saw the shadows of two still figures.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘You don’t need to sound so worried, Willi. It’s me, Paul – Paul Hoffman.’

  Kühn undid the chain. Hoffman’s face was just inches from his. He couldn’t make out the slightly shorter figure standing behind him.

  ‘What is it – am I in trouble?’

  ‘You will be if you don’t let us in,’ said the other figure. It spoke with a Russian accent. ‘It’s fucking cold out here.’

  The three of them stood in the doorway, the light from the lounge spilling into the hall. Kühn peered at the Russian, trying to work out whether he recognised him. Fyodorov held a card in front of him and said he was NKVD.

  ‘Get your coat on, you’re coming with us.’

  ‘I can’t, I…’ His heart beat faster and he felt nauseous.

  ‘Really? It must be a very important social occasion if it’s preventing you from doing what you’re told.’

  Hoffman cleared his throat. ‘You’re not in trouble, Willi, but your cooperation would be very much appreciated.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  The Russian reached into his inside coat pocket and Kühn backed against the wall. He relaxed when some papers were handed to him. ‘If we get stopped, this is the pass you show, but let Paul do the talking. We should be all right, though; we’ll take a longer route, but it’s a safer one.’

  ‘I need to know where you’re taking me.’

  ‘You’re going on a trip to the east, Willi.’

  * * *

  The events that night in his office on Behrenstrasse reminded Iosif Gurevich of a play he’d seen in Moscow before the war. He remembered little of it other than that it was predictably earnest, with long periods of silence punctuated by speeches that sounded like editorials from Izvestiya, though without the jokes.

  A recurring scene saw a series of workers at a collective farm summoned to the party chairman’s office, each eager to take the blame for some unspecified misdemeanour. The succession of people coming through his door that evening reminded him of those hapless workers: the put-upon Yegorov; Fyodorov; Hoffman, and now Willi Kühn, who stood in front of him blinking in the bright light. Gurevich felt like the party chairman on the collective farm, studying his most recent visitor as he stood nervously in front of him, twirling his hat round against his chest.

  ‘Kühn, I understand that when you met Wolfgang Steiner in October, he gave you a telephone number to contact him in the event of you having a message from Bormann. That is correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir and I gave that number to Herr Hoffman when I met him and a very charming lady colleague of his on Kurfürstendamm. Do you not remember, Paul?’

  ‘I know you gave him the number, Kühn, I’m not disputing that: I have it here in front of me. What I want to know is whether Steiner gave you any idea as to where he was?’

  Kühn shook his head. ‘I did ask him where he was based – I think that’s how I put it – but he didn’t tell me. That’s when he gave me the telephone number. Why don’t you try and trace it?’

  ‘Thank you very much, Kühn, I had no idea you’d make such a brilliant detective – maybe you could join Hoffman in the Volkspolizei. Yes of course we’ve tried to trace that number. Fyodorov…’

  ‘It’s untraceable sir: obviously we checked it out as soon as we got it. The Nazis had a sophisticated telephone system in many respects, and it seems they were able to set up numbers and then remove any record of where they were located. Our engineers suspect they may have used some kind of shadow system, where a property has a primary telephone number and then a secondary number operating from the same line that no one knows about.’

  ‘And there’s still no way of tracing it?’

  ‘The only possible way is if we were to intercept the number on an outgoing call, but the chances of that happening are so remote as to be impossible.’

  ‘Thank you, Leonid – I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that makes sense. So you see what our problem is, Kühn? We want to discuss some matters with Herr Steiner and it looks like the only way we can make contact with him is through you. So take your coat off and come over here – in fact, you can sit at my desk.’

  ‘And what do you want me to do?’

  ‘To make a bloody telephone call!’

  * * *

  Frau Moser was on the landing before him, standing by her bedroom door in her enormous flannelette bed dress with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

  ‘It’s all right, Frau Moser, let me answer it.’

  ‘Who calls at eleven o’clock at night?’

  Wolfgang Steiner told her – a bit too sharply on reflection – to go back into her room, and hurried downstairs into the draughty hall.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello… it’s Willi.’

  Steiner rubbed his brow. He’d been woken from a deep sleep and was still a bit dazed. When it suddenly registered who Willi was, he was shocked, not least that he was using his proper name. He should have agreed a code name. ‘Willi, yes… Don’t use my name… Is everything all right? Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in Berlin. Look, I’m sorry to call you so late, but I thought you ought to know I’ve heard from your friend Graf – you’ll recall he was a former colleague of mine… Graf?’

  ‘Yes, yes, Graf… I know… Where is he?’

  A pause: Steiner wondered wh
ether Bormann could be with Kühn. It sounded as if someone was.

  ‘He’s here in Berlin – he made contact with me yesterday and I saw him today and he instructed me to contact you: he wants you to come and rescue him. He says you have to, only you, and—’

  ‘How do I know this is true? Is there any proof?’

  ‘Do you think I’d have called you if it wasn’t true? Our friend – Graf – is desperate: he was seriously injured in May and has been recovering, but the place where he was staying is no longer safe and now he feels well enough to travel. He insisted I call you. Where he is now, he can only stay for another day or two.’

  Steiner felt all his anxieties sweep back. He leaned against the wall and tried to gather his thoughts. This was either a trap and he should ignore it, or it was true and at last he had an opportunity – an honour indeed – to rescue the Reichsleiter. If only this had happened before he’d gone to Munich. If he hurried, there’d be time to get Bormann on the boat from Trieste to South Africa: it would be the most enormous act of service to the cause. But he realised that whatever he decided, he needed to do it now. He took a deep breath.

  ‘I’ll set out for Berlin first thing in the morning. You remember the place we met in October?’

  ‘Yes. You mean the—’

  ‘Don’t say where it was: be there at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Wait for half an hour, and if I don’t show up, return at eight o’clock the following morning. Again wait for half an hour, and if you’ve not seen me by then, return at two that afternoon.’

  ‘And if you’re not there then?’

  ‘Then I won’t be there at all.’

  * * *

  When Willi Kühn replaced the receiver, sweat was pouring from his brow and his hand felt quite numb from gripping the phone so tightly. He breathed an enormous sigh of relief and looked up at the Russian, who nodded and said well done.

  ‘And what happens now?’

  ‘We wait to see if he shows up at four o’clock tomorrow. You could have asked him where he was coming from.’