by Alex Gerlis
‘I doubt he’d have told me. What if he suspects something is up? He could try and shoot me.’
‘I don’t imagine a wanted Nazi is going to shoot someone in the middle of Berlin, not even in the French sector. In the morning, you’ll show us where it was you met him, and then we can make arrangements. In the meantime, we’ll find you a bed for the night.’
‘Can’t I go home?’
Iosif Gurevich laughed. ‘No, Willi, that wouldn’t be a good idea.’
Chapter 27
Berlin and Austria, December 1945
According to the luminous dial on his bedside clock, it was around a quarter to three. It was pitch dark, and no sound crept into their hotel room from the ruined streets of Klagenfurt. Prince assumed he’d been woken by an inevitably complicated dream in which he’d been running with his son through the fields near their home in Lincoln and for some reason had hidden in a copse, ignoring Henry’s increasingly disturbed cries.
His absence from Henry was clearly on his mind, and he realised he ought to make his son his absolute priority. They’d soon be on their way home. He’d make sure they returned to Lincoln as soon as possible. No one would be able to accuse him of not having served his country.
But it soon became apparent that there was another reason why he’d woken. From the narrow landing outside their room came the creaking sound of movement on the uneven floorboards. There was only one other room on that landing, and the manager had assured them it was unoccupied. They were, he told them sadly, the only guests in his hotel.
Prince turned round to face Hanne. A tiny shaft of half-light caught her hair splayed over the pillow. He gently touched her face, and she moved as he slowly slipped his hand over her mouth and tapped her shoulder at the same time. Her eyes opened wide and he placed one finger on his lips before pointing to his ear and then to the door.
As Hanne turned over to face the door, there was the sound of a lock being turned. Both of them sat bolt upright, and as Richard rose from the bed, the door opened and a large figure squeezed into the room. He closed the door and stood with his back to it.
‘You don’t need to worry,’ he said in German.
Prince recognised the voice as the deep bass tones of Ludwig, the man he’d telephoned the previous evening in Vienna to send the message to Iosif.
‘Comrade Gurevich sent me to help you. Maybe put the small light on.’
When Prince turned on the bedside light, he recognised the heavily built man as the one he’d met in the woods when Gurevich had driven him from Vienna, who’d then taken him into Klagenfurt in his Daimler. The three of them looked at each other, Ludwig’s bloodshot eyes blinking from under his thick eyebrows.
‘You know they’re watching the hotel?’
‘Who are?’
‘Your people – the British.’ He shook his head in a derisory manner. ‘They’re not very good: two of them in a car at the front, one of them asleep. There’s a man in the alley at the back too – an amateur: all he does is smoke. He may as well be waving a torch around.’
‘How did you get in?’
‘It’s my job. In any case, your people paid the hotel owner to let them know if they heard anything or if you went anywhere. Once they do that, it’s easy: we just pay more. You’d better get ready.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Comrade Gurevich says he’s more or less sorted everything out, so you need to get back to Trieste. You’d better get a move on, or you’ll miss all the fun.’
* * *
The Allied Kommandatura met three times a day: at seven in the morning, noon and seven in the evening. The Kommandatura was the body that brought Berlin’s four governing powers together, and since July it had met at a building on Kaiserswerther Strasse in Dahlem, opposite Triestpark.
There was a certain predictability to the meetings. The Western Allies had four representatives each, the Soviet Union eight. The meetings would begin with discussions on non-controversial matters – power and water supplies, for example – although in the fetid atmosphere of December 1945 Berlin, nothing could be described as non-controversial. There had once been a lengthy and heated row over who was responsible for cleaning gutters. They would then move on to more difficult matters, and as the meeting came to an end, if any party wanted to raise a matter directly with another, they would then do so.
It was bitterly cold, with a wind building up, when they gathered for the meeting at seven o’clock that Wednesday evening. No one was in the mood for a long meeting, and in any case the evening meeting tended to be the least difficult one of the day.
As the meeting closed, one of the Soviet representatives asked to meet with an American representative about a delicate matter. The senior American officer present was a colonel, who carefully studied the Red Army officer who’d made the request. He was a one-star NKGB commissar, young for such a senior rank, and the colonel had met him before but couldn’t recall his name. The colonel nodded to one of his colleagues, an affable Italian American in civilian clothes who was responsible for what were euphemistically called ‘sensitive issues’.
The commissar was smiling and seemed relaxed. ‘I need to give you a message and I wanted to be sure you received it and understood it.’
The colonel didn’t like the way the Russian behaved, as if he were at a social event. He narrowed his eyes, resisting the urge to tell him to get on with it. The man looked like a Jew: he was amazed how many of them there were in the Red Army in Berlin. It was as if they’d come there to gloat. He nodded for him to continue.
‘I would be grateful if you could pass this message on to a Major Barrow of the Counter Intelligence Corps in Munich.’
The Italian American began to cough.
‘I am not sure if you’d wish to write this down. Major Barrow recently established a relationship with a Wolfgang Steiner. That’s W-O-L—’
‘I know how the hell to spell Wolfgang, thank you.’
‘Wolfgang Steiner would like you to know that he has reflected on his decision to work for the United States. He has decided that peace in Europe is best served by cooperating with the Soviet Union. He is now resident in the Soviet sector, where he intends to remain.’ Iosif Gurevich smiled and removed a pack of cigars from his pocket, offering them to the two Americans. It took all the colonel’s willpower not to accept one.
The Italian American said very well, he’d pass the message on just in case anyone had had any dealings with this gentleman, whom he’d never heard of.
‘You think we’re fools, do you?’ The colonel was red-faced, squaring up the Russian, who was noticeably taller than him.
‘In what way, Colonel?’
‘You think we’ll believe that crap about this guy deciding to work for you? You abducted him, didn’t you?’
The commissar smiled and lit his cigar, blowing a cloud of brown-tinged smoke above the American’s head as he announced that the meeting was over and he hoped they’d have a good evening.
* * *
Wolfgang Steiner had turned up at the patch of wasteland in Wedding close to four thirty that afternoon.
Willi Kühn had been in a terrible state: at one stage on the Wednesday morning he had refused to go through with it, and Gurevich had told him that in that case he would be arrested for assisting the escape of a Nazi. It had all turned very unpleasant until Kühn said he’d do it if they told him what precautions they’d be taking.
Gurevich had decided not to risk sending too many Russians into a western sector of the city. Fyodorov would be there to keep an eye on things from a distance, but otherwise they were relying on one of their German teams.
He’d very much enjoyed Fyodorov’s subsequent account of what had happened. Kühn had been so nervous as he paced around the wasteland that at one point he’d stumbled over, and Fyodorov had been worried he might leave. Two of their German team were disguised as old ladies collecting firewood in the distance. When they’d checked the patch of ground that morning, the
y’d discovered a cellar in the middle of it covered in rubble, and had managed to clear it enough to conceal three of their men there.
Wolfgang Steiner had emerged from the east and walked slowly towards Kühn, who looked terrified, frozen to the spot. From where Fyodorov was, he could tell how nervous Kühn was and he was convinced Steiner would realise something was up, but the German carried on oblivious, holding out his hand in greeting as he approached the schoolteacher.
The two men were standing close to the cellar, and Fyodorov thought Steiner must have heard something, because he peered over towards it. That was when he gave the order, and in a matter of seconds two men had leapt out of their hiding place and bundled Steiner into it.
From then on it was very straightforward. After a brief struggle, Steiner was subdued and searched before being given an injection to knock him out. His coat was replaced with a shabby one that smelt of alcohol, and he was carried to a car that had pulled up nearby. If they were stopped, he’d be a drunk being helped home by his friends.
Half an hour later, he was strapped to a metal chair in a cellar in Behrenstrasse, the effects of the injection now wearing off. Gurevich was sitting in front of him assuring him he’d be fine, though he understood he might have a headache for a while.
When Steiner asked where he was, Gurevich said he was surprised that he hadn’t worked it out. ‘The main thing, though, is that you’re no longer working for the Americans!’
Steiner looked stunned as the truth dawned, then he burst into tears, sobbing for quite a while, which Gurevich found disconcerting at first, though when it came to men realising their fate was sealed and their days were numbered, it was quite unpredictable how they’d react.
He’d left the German in his cell and returned to his office, where he rang the general in charge of that evening’s meeting with the Western Allies on Kaiserswerther Strasse and said he’d very much like to attend.
He had, he said, an important message for the Americans.
Chapter 28
England, December 1945
It was noticeable how unwell Joseph Jenkins looked. His normally florid complexion had been replaced by a greyish pallor, and he appeared to have lost weight, though Tom Gilbey thought that could have been a trick of the lighting. He thought it best in what were obviously awkward circumstances not to remark on Jenkins’ appearance as they gathered in a low-ceilinged windowless room at the American embassy in Grosvenor Square.
But Sir Roland Pearson showed no such inhibitions. ‘Are you under the weather, Joe?’
Jenkins glared at him. He was sitting between a young officer clearly there to take notes and the deputy head of station for the Office of Strategic Services, a man Sir Roland had met on numerous occasions over the past two or three years but whose name he couldn’t for the life of him remember.
‘I’ve brought you here to share a very serious development.’ Jenkins’ voice trembled, adding an odd timbre to his Southern accent. Neither Pearson nor Gilbey replied. They waited for the American to continue.
‘A few days ago I came to your office to inform you that the Counter Intelligence Corps had recruited a Wolfgang Steiner as an agent. I also informed you that a condition of Steiner’s recruitment was that the British abandon the hunt for his son Friedrich and stop investigating the Kestrel Line. You remember this – it was just a day or so ago?’
Neither Englishman reacted.
‘I requested that you issue an immediate instruction to your agents in Trieste to drop everything. This had been authorised at the highest level: Ambassador Winant discussed the matter with your Foreign Secretary.’
Still no reaction from Tom Gilbey, but Sir Roland said that all this rang a bell and he hoped they were getting some decent intelligence from this Steiner chap after going to so much trouble.
Jenkins slammed the table so hard that the young officer’s notebook fell to the floor. ‘I’m sure there are some people who find your boarding school sarcasm amusing, but I’m not one of them. I’m here to tell you that Steiner has gone missing. Maybe “missing” is the wrong word. To be more precise, we were informed last night by the Soviets that he was now working for them: he’s apparently in their sector of Berlin.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘We want to know what the hell you guys have to do with this, Gilbey. One day we tell you about Steiner, the next he defects to the Russians.’
‘Defected may not be quite accurate.’ It was the man from the Office of Strategic Services. ‘My feeling is that Steiner was lured to Berlin and then abducted by the Soviets. There is no way he’d have gone over to them voluntarily: it was in his interest to work with us. He had nothing to gain from becoming a Soviet agent. My guess is he won’t be in East Berlin for very long. The bastards will take him to Moscow and finish him off there.’
‘Well I’m obviously sorry to hear all this; it’s a damn shame.’ Gilbey was sitting up straight and doing his best to sound genuinely concerned. ‘But I do hope you’re not implying we were somehow involved.’
‘I’m saying,’ said Jenkins, some of the colour now returning to his cheeks, ‘that it’s one hell of a coincidence.’
‘Well it’s nothing to do with us, I can assure you, Joseph. I fear it is just that, a coincidence. Maybe Steiner was careless, who knows?’
‘According to our guys in Berlin, an NKGB commissar called Iosif Gurevich came to the Allied Kommandatura last night to tell them about Steiner. Does that name ring a bell?’
Tom Gilbey shook his head and said he was awfully sorry and only wished he could be more help.
* * *
‘You know him, don’t you, Tom?’
‘Know who, Roly?’
They were back in Gilbey’s office in St James’s. The departure from the US Embassy had been a swift and uncomfortable one. The man from the Office of Strategic Services had ended the meeting by saying they’d not heard the last of this matter. He’d be discussing it later that day with the ambassador.
‘The Russian commissar he mentioned.’
‘Gurevich?’
‘Exactly – I noticed you didn’t even write the name down. Who is he?’
‘He’s the NKGB officer who helped Prince in Berlin back in May, when he was looking for Hanne. Prince has kept in touch with him and he was the source for the information that gave us the Steiners.’
‘So…’
‘So it’s entirely possible that Prince somehow got a message to Gurevich and he organised Steiner’s abduction.’
‘So quickly?’
‘It would be a big error, Roly, to underestimate Prince’s resourcefulness. Do remember that he operated in Nazi-occupied Europe. He and Hanne are first-class agents.’
‘Good Lord.’
‘My view is that they were so appalled at being ordered to let the Nazis go that they took this course of action.’
‘But that’s appalling, Tom: disobeying orders like that… working with the Russians!’
‘That’s as may be, but knowing Prince and Hanne, I doubt there’ll be any evidence of that. I’m not sure if Bartholomew’s still in Trieste: I’ll have to see if the Field Security Section chaps there can resume the operation and arrest the Germans. Talk about shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted. Bloody hell, Roly – and to think I took the view life would be less complicated after the war, eh!’
They were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Bentley, Gilbey’s boss, who nodded his head by way of greeting and glided into the room as if there was someone he didn’t want to wake up.
‘You’ve heard the news, I imagine.’
Gilbey said they had; in fact they’d only just returned from the American embassy, where an irate Joseph Jenkins had told them about the disappearance of Wolfgang Steiner into the Soviet sector.
‘I think we may be talking at cross-purposes here, Tom. I didn’t mean that news – which is news to me, in fact. I meant about Prince.’
‘He and his wife are on their way back
here.’
Bentley shook his head. ‘That’s the thing, you see. They arrived in Klagenfurt on Tuesday afternoon and were due on a flight to Munich yesterday.’
‘Please don’t tell me they’ve been causing trouble?’
‘I’m afraid they have. As far as we can gather, they disappeared from their hotel in Klagenfurt early yesterday morning and there’s been no sign of them since.’
‘Yesterday morning – and we’re only being told now?’
‘I think the FSS chaps who were meant to be keeping an eye on them rather hoped they’d turn up before they had to break the bad news to London.’
* * *
It had been a particularly busy morning at the Bourne and Sons art gallery in Cork Street. Since the end of the war, business had been picking up, and that very morning they’d had a most promising meeting with an RAF officer who’d brought in a seventeenth-century Flemish baroque painting he’d inherited from an aunt. The impression gained by both Bourne and Ridgeway was that he wanted to sell it quickly and had little appreciation of its real value, aesthetic or financial. Ridgeway – who knew more about Flemish painting than Bourne – thought it was certainly from the Antwerp school, and with some judicious wording they could attribute it to a student of van Dyck.
By the time the man left and Bourne and Ridgeway had worked out the considerable profit they could make on the painting, it was close to one thirty. They decided they would close the gallery until three o’clock and have a decent lunch. Their plans were thwarted by a rapping at the steel-reinforced door that led on to the alley at the back of the gallery. Bourne peered through the security glass and it took him a moment to realise that the man in the bowler hat with a scarf wrapped round the lower half of his face was the Admiral.
He stepped back in shock: it went without saying that the Admiral had not been expected. In fact he hadn’t visited the gallery since before the war. After his release from internment two years earlier, he’d rarely left his home in the country, and had even given up his rooms in London.