by Alex Gerlis
The Berlin Spies
Alex Gerlis
Other books by Alex Gerlis
Novels
The Best of Our Spies
The Swiss Spy
Vienna Spies
Kindle Singles
The Miracle of Normandy
The author
Alex Gerlis was a BBC journalist for nearly 30 years. His first novel, The Best of Our Spies (2012) was based on the espionage operation behind D-Day - in 1994 he had helped produce the BBC coverage from Normandy of the 50th anniversary of that event. His second and third novels, The Swiss Spy (2015) and Vienna Spies (2017) are also espionage thrillers based on true events in the Second World War. The three novels have sold in excess of 140,000 copies and featured prominently in the Amazon bestseller charts, with more than 1,500 Amazon reviews – over 90% being five or four star reviews. He is also the author of The Miracle of Normandy (2014) published as a non-fiction Kindle Single. Born in Lincolnshire, Alex Gerlis lives in London, is married with two daughters and is represented by Gordon Wise at the Curtis Brown literary agency.
Facebook.com/alexgerlisauthor
Twitter: @alex_gerlis
www.alexgerlis.com
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1: Kent: June 1976, Magdeburg: September 1944
Chapter 2: Moscow, 1949
Chapter 3: Frankfurt & Bonn, West Germany, 1969
Chapter 4: West Berlin, January 1970
Chapter 5: Paris, March 1970
Chapter 6: West Germany April & May 1972
Chapter 7: East Berlin, February 1976
Chapter 8: England & West Germany, March 1976
Chapter 9: East Berlin, March 1976
Chapter 10: England, April 1976
Chapter 11: Bernhard Krause Testimony
Chapter 12: England, April 1976
Chapter 13: Vienna, Austria & Budapest, Hungary May 1976
Chapter 14: London & West Berlin, May 1976
Chapter 15: London July 1976
Chapter 16: Lothar Meier’s Letter
Chapter 17: Vienna, Austria August 1976
Chapter 18: Düsseldorf, West Germany August 1976
Chapter 19: Vienna, Austria & West Berlin August 1976
Chapter 20: Georg Stern Testimony
Chapter 21: Cologne, West Germany & East Berlin August 1976
Chapter 22: England, September 1976: The Monday
Chapter 23: East Berlin: The Monday
Chapter 24: East Berlin: The Tuesday
Chapter 25: West Germany & East Berlin: The Tuesday
Chapter 26: Cologne: The Tuesday
Chapter 27: West Germany: The Wednesday
Chapter 28: West Germany: The Wednesday
Chapter 29: East Berlin: The Wednesday
Chapter 30: England: The Thursday
Chapter 31: London & West Berlin October 1976
Author’s Note
The Main Characters
(Where characters have an alias or change their names during the course of the story these names are shown in brackets)
The Recruits
Arnold Bauer (Tony Norton)
Mathias Hahn
Konrad Hartmann (Martin Page)
Lothar Meier (Christopher Vale)
Carsten Möller
Wilhelm Richter (Heinz Fleischhauer/Werner Pohl)
Christian Schäfer (Tom Hartley)
Otto Schröder (Bernhard Krause)
Horst Webber (Georg Stern)
Axel Werner
The Germans (Second World War)
Obersturmführer Feld –– SS lieutenant at Magdeburg
Obersturmbannführer Frank –– SS lieutenant Colonel, Freiburg
Obersturmführer Koch –– SS lieutenant at Magdeburg
Sturmbannführer Krüger –– SS major, Stutthof concentration camp
Obersturmbannführer Peters –– SS Lieutenant Colonel, Stutthof concentration camp
Brigadeführer Reinher –– SS Major General at Magdeburg
Obersturmführer Reiss –– SS lieutenant at Magdeburg
Sturmbannführer Rottgen –– SS major, 17th SS Panzergrenadier Division
Erich Schäfer –– Intelligence officer, Magdeburg
Manfred & Heike Weber –– couple in Berlin
Arno & Eva Stern –– parents of Georg
The British
Edgar –– retired British Intelligence officer
Andy –– MI6 officer, St Albans
Captain Canterbury –– (Dennis Field/ Bramley Arthur Sefton Bevan)
Ronnie Castle –– MI6 officer
Clive Cowley –– MI6 agent, Bonn (Julius)
Ken & Linda Frost –– Nazi sympathisers, London (1945)
Charles Kemp –– MI6 station chief, Bonn
Hugh Lassiter –– MI6 officer
Edward Law –– MI6 officer
Martin Paget –– Special Branch (police) superintendent
Christopher Porter –– retired MI6 officer
Richard –– MI6 officer
Walker –– MI6 Registry clerk
Williams –– Security Officer, British Embassy East Berlin
Martin Winter –– Diplomat, British Embassy East Berlin
The Russians
Viktor Leonidovich Krasotkin –– veteran KGB agent, based East Berlin
Irma –– KGB East Berlin, partner of Viktor
Piotr Vasilyevich Kozlov –– KGB station chief, East Berlin
Yevgeny Yefimovich Mironov –– KGB station chief, Vienna
Andrei Volkov –– KGB Paris
Samuel –– KGB assassin, West Germany
Reinhard Schäfer –– KGB officer, East Berlin
The Germans (post Second World War)
Andreas –– homeless man, Cologne
Dieter Braun –– Red Army Faction member, Rome
Dr Manfred Berger –– Doctor at the Uni-Klinik, Frankfurt
Elke –– BfV officer
Sabine Falkenberg –– (Ute von Morsbach) Red Army Faction member
Franz –– BfV officer
Frederick –– Red Army Faction contact, West Berlin
Frieda –– BfV officer
Hans –– Red Army Faction member, West Berlin
Max Lazerowitz –– friend of Viktor, East Berlin
Father Carl Lehmann –– Roman Catholic chaplain at the Uni-Klinik, Frankfurt
Peter –– Viktor’s former agent, now in Frankfurt
Konrad –– BfV officer
The Saxon –– senior man at BfV
Alois Schmidt –– lawyer, Frankfurt
Red Army Faction (Baader Meinhoff) members
Andreas Baader (d October 1977)
Gudrun Ensslin (d October 1977)
Ulrike Meinhof (d May 1976)
Holger Meins (d November 1974)
Gerhard Müller (fate unknown)
Jan-Carl Raspe (d October 1977)
Prologue
Kent
June 1976
‘Good morning, Mr Hartmann.’ A pause followed, during which time the caller abruptly cleared his throat. ‘Will you kill yourself today, Mr Hartmann?’
Another pause, longer this time and lingering with all the menace it intended. The words ricocheted around the room with the velocity of a bullet. The man listening at the other end of the phone had neither the time nor breath to reply. He began to say ‘I beg your pardon,’ but all that came out was a silent gasp.
The caller repeated the message, this time even more slowly. ‘Will you kill yourself today, Mr Hartmann?’
It was a male voice, speaking precisely, as if reading the message to ensure its accuracy. If pressed, the listener would have said the speaker was young rather than old, educated, and what th
e English called ‘upper class’. He noted the perfect pronunciation of his surname, despite the obvious English accent. Two clear syllables: Hart-mann.
The line went dead, followed by a dialling tone for a few seconds and then a continuous electronic noise which went on for what must have been a good minute. During that time the listener found himself staring in disbelief at the telephone, and swaying. His mouth became very dry, his throat painfully parched. He placed the handset back on the phone which in turn sat on a neat little shelf on the wall, next to a calendar with photos of cottages in various seasons. He had to steady himself against the wall for another minute, before slowly edging across the kitchen to the table, as if balancing on ice.
All this time, Radio Three was on in the background, the closing bars of a Mozart overture suggesting a cheerful day ahead. The man sat very still at the table, watching the sun stream through the narrow window set high in the kitchen wall, picking out countless tiny flecks of dust before illuminating the breakfast table, neatly laid the night before. A few beams of early morning sun broke through the drawn blind on the door, locked tightly against intrusions from the garden. He looked at his breakfast, meticulously arranged on the chequered tablecloth. The teapot, covered in one of the many cosies his wife had knitted; the three slices of toast in the china rack they had bought in Cornwall;, the milk in an old chipped jug commemorating a doomed royal marriage; and the large packet of cereal, with a tiger grinning at him.
He needed to think, and leant across the table to turn down the radio to help his concentration. He noticed that his hands were trembling. His breathing was heavy and a cold sweat spread from his head down his back.
Think carefully... probably a terrible mistake... maybe my imagination... perhaps the new blood pressure tablets.
He had trouble removing his reading glasses from their case and when he finally got them out, his shaking hands dropped them on the table. They caught the side of the Royal Wedding milk jug, causing one of the little pads that rest on the nose to snap off. He put them on anyway.
Write it down.
That is what his wife had always said. If you need to remember an important conversation, write it down as soon as possible. Makes it easier to complain later – she would say, though she had long become used to the fact that it was not in his nature to complain, and he knew it was certainly not in his interest to draw attention to himself. He knew now that he couldn’t possibly risk writing down what the man had said.
‘Good morning, Mr Hartmann. Will you kill yourself today, Mr Hartmann?’
He was sure that was what the caller had said – and then said again.
‘Will you kill yourself today, Mr Hartmann?’
He repeated the words to himself, trying hard to memorise them because despite how profound they were, he feared he would soon forget them. This was his life: important things he needed to remember would all too easily be forgotten, while memories whose sole purpose was to haunt him sat on his shoulder, a constant whispering reminder in his ear. He was damned.
He was in his fiftieth year though he knew he looked considerably older. He certainly felt older. He’d lived on his own since his wife died seven years previously and had no-one to confide in, no job to go to since his redundancy two years ago. For days on end, sometimes even weeks, he had no real conversations and that suited him: it was safer that way. Recently, though, he had begun to worry about the effect this isolation was having on him. Maybe this is a trick of the mind. The thought failed to reassure him.
Ringing the police was, of course, not an option. So he sat and deliberated, even though no clear ideas came into his head.
I thought I had got away with it!
The noisy kitchen clock showed that it was nearly a quarter to ten. His routine was completely disrupted, but he was unable to move. His tea was stone cold, with an unpleasant film now gathered on its surface. The toast remained untouched in its chipped china rack and the cereal remained in the box, still guarded by the tiger.
Although he couldn’t remember doing so, he had smoked four cigarettes and a fifth was alight in his trembling hand. He normally wouldn’t touch his first until he sat down for his coffee after his morning walk. Even when he was getting through a packet a day he wouldn’t have smoked five before ten o’clock.
He had once read in the Daily Mail how all the words and sounds ever made in the world did not disappear, but remained suspended silently in the atmosphere.
The words spoken on the phone had certainly remained in the room, clinging to the cornices and staring down at him like medieval gargoyles. They were there when he closed his eyes tight and even when he covered his ears. He turned the radio back on, but rather than the music drowning out the words, it only made them louder.
‘Will you kill yourself today?’ There was no doubt that was what the voice had said, twice. If that had been all the caller had said … well, he could just about have coped with that, even tried to dismiss it as a prank.
But: ‘Mr Hartmann …’
No-one had called him Mr Hartmann for over thirty years.
***
He walked into the front room as if in a trance. The room was reserved for special occasions, though there had been precious few of those. He couldn’t recall when he’d last sat there but he came in every evening to draw the curtains just before it got dark, and the ritual was reversed every morning after breakfast. On Thursday mornings he would dust and vacuum the room, which meant it was the one time of the week when he could not avoid looking at the photos neatly arranged on the sideboard and the mantelpiece. It was the most painful moment of his week, each of them looking accusingly at him, reminding him of sins of which he was already well aware.
You don’t need to remind me. And you don’t even know the half of it!
That was his defence.
At least the room no longer contained the photos his wife had kept of him, from when they first met. He had destroyed those the very day she died. He’d looked so young in his late twenties. The photos had haunted him from the moment they were taken, his discomfort all too obvious in his reluctant pose, inching towards the shadows. Now that younger self no longer existed.
At least not until three hours ago ‘… Mr Hartmann …’
I thought I had got away with it!
For the past thirty years he’d lived in a state of constant fear. He fully expected every knock at the door or police car approaching to mean that he had finally been found out. Most weeks, there had been two or three occasions when he had been scared to death. What was it he had heard in a Shakespeare play on the radio a month or so back?
‘Cowards die many times before their deaths.’
He went upstairs and, in the bathroom, turned on the small transistor radio which started playing something by Schubert. He thought he recognised the piece and if he wasn’t in such a state he’d have been able to name it. After he finished shaving he opened the medicine cabinet and looked at the two shelves stuffed with his wife’s medication. For seven years he had been meaning to take it all down to the doctor’s surgery. That medication could solve everything now: he would lay down on the bed he’d last slept in the night before his wife died, listen to a cassette of Bach and wash a bottle of the strongest painkillers down with a large glass of whisky and water. It was not as if he hadn’t thought about it before, many times.
But he began to rally. He was now having his doubts about the phone call. If someone was trying to scare him like this, why had they not rung back in the intervening three hours? Maybe, maybe … it was all a mistake after all, a hallucination … the blood pressure tablets?
At eleven o’clock, way behind schedule, he left the house for his daily shopping trip. Leaving the newsagent, he caught his reflection in the large window. For the first time in many years, it was Konrad Hartmann rather than Martin Page he saw staring back at him. He glanced round in case anyone else had seen that too, but the small parade of shops was deserted apart from an old man shuffling alon
g, his head bowed with age and effort.
It was gone twelve when he arrived back home, and although he didn’t normally eat his lunch until one he felt light-headed, having missed breakfast, and was unsure what to do. Stick to my routine he decided, though he did allow himself a digestive biscuit.
He carefully put the lid back on the biscuit tin, a souvenir from a silent holiday in Scotland more than a decade ago. He then put on the light anorak he wore for the garden, and removed his slippers to replace them with the garden shoes he kept by the back door.
He had chosen this house so carefully all those years ago. It was at the end of a row, so with neighbours on just the one side. The roads to the front and side of the house were neither too busy nor too quiet. A garden with walls high enough to provide extra privacy, and a gate into the rear wall that opened into an alley. His wife had not questioned why these things mattered so much; she was more bothered by what was inside.
The garden was overgrown when they moved in and within months he had transformed it. Then, when there was suddenly no longer a need for the swing he had hurriedly removed it and turned the little lawn into a vegetable patch that soon took over most of the garden. One day, a work colleague of his wife’s and her husband had visited and as his wife showed them round the garden he overheard the husband remark: ‘it’s all vegetables! Like those gardens people have on the continent.’
Evidently, turning the whole garden over to vegetables was not English, so within a matter of days the carrots were replaced by red roses, the rhubarb by white roses and the potato patch under the kitchen window became home to a large yellow rose bush. He disliked roses, he thought they were just one notch above weeds and certainly not worth all the trouble, but they served their purpose: they couldn’t, he had decided, be more English. Never again would his garden be a cause of suspicion.
There was a large shed at the end of it. He unlocked the windowless shed door, along with two heavy duty padlocks. He closed the door carefully behind him then turned on the light. The inside of the shed was neat, but with little space between the garden tools and the dozens of boxes, all different sizes. He started to remove boxes from a stack at the back of the shed, half hidden behind a large deckchair and an old parasol. At the bottom of the stack was a wooden trunk: his heart beat fast as he opened it.