The Berlin Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  Irma held up her hand in a ‘stop’ gesture and shook her head. ‘No, no Viktor, I have told you this before: I did not see the main file – Schäfer would never allow his senior clerk to have access to that. What happened was: I had permission to go to the Registry in the basement of the Embassy to look for some of Schäfer’s files and records there. They are kept in large, secure cupboards and a guard has to be present in the room whenever they’re open. I was keeping an eye out for anything interesting, and I noticed an old card index box, dated 1971, so I glanced through it. Sure enough, there was a card for “Goalkeeper” in there. Everything on the card was in Schäfer’s own handwriting. Mostly it was a series of numbers – file references and dates, going back to 1958 I think I recall. And alongside the last file reference were the letters BfV.’

  Viktor leaned forward and looked carefully at the Englishman, speaking in little more than a whisper. ‘You know what the BfV is, Edgar? The Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution – it is West Germany’s equivalent of your MI5.’

  ‘Of course I know what the BfV is,’ said Edgar.

  ‘So it seems that Goalkeeper works for the BfV. It would certainly fit with the type of intelligence we are getting from him.’

  ‘Why on earth are you telling me this Viktor? This is one of your own agents…’

  ‘Because there’s more Edgar, just listen. Carry on Irma.’

  ‘You know Viktor,’ she smiled and patted his arm. ‘This revelation was not enough for him. He insisted I went back for more intel. I only had another few days before Schäfer returned to work, but fortunately I had another opportunity to go to his secure cupboards in the Registry.’

  ‘From what I knew of him,’ said Viktor, ‘Schäfer would have kept any files relating to Goalkeeper in his own safe, to which only he would have access. The card index box being in the Registry was possibly an oversight, but they are very bulky, which is why I imagine this one was deposited there – and why others would be there too. So I told Irma to look through all the other card index boxes.’

  ‘When I returned to the Registry,’ said Irma, ‘there were two other clerks taking items from the cupboards and just the one guard, so it was a bit easier. In total Schäfer had eight card index boxes down there. The first one covered 1958 to1962, and the others either covered a few years or just single years. I looked through the box for 1958 to 1962 and, sure enough, there was a card for Goalkeeper, with everything in Schäfer’s handwriting like before. It seemed to be just file references, but on the reverse of the card, written in pencil, was “Wilhelm Richter, Dresden, November 1926”.’

  During the long silence that followed, Edgar closed his eyes to absorb this information. He was beginning to understand why he had been summoned to East Berlin.

  ‘So Goalkeeper is Wilhelm Richter. Wilhelm Richter is a Nazi war criminal. I failed to catch him in 1949. Looking for him almost cost me my career, maybe even my life.’ Viktor was now red in the face, his voice raised. ‘And now it all makes sense: the bastard is one of our agents, though I have no idea when he became one. And in case you’re wondering Edgar why I’m so worked up about this, I don’t like the fact of a Nazi war criminal working for a western intelligence agency any more than I imagine you do. That bastard may be one of our agents, and a good one too, but I don’t care. As far as I’m concerned he’s a Nazi war criminal who I’ve been trying to bring to justice since 1945. So, you know what I want you to do…?’

  ‘You want my help to find out his real identity out and expose him, eh?’

  Viktor started to speak then stopped, pausing to think carefully. ‘It’s not as straightforward as that, Edgar. I don’t want you to expose him – not yet at any rate.’ The Russian paused again. He appeared on edge as he filled his own brandy glass and hauled himself up once more to glance through the curtains, his face now flushed, beads of perspiration prominent on his forehead. ‘I could have killed you in Vienna in ’45 Edgar. You know that, don’t you?’

  Edgar nodded. It had been a clandestine mission, one borne out of desperation. If he had disappeared no-one would have known what happened to him. Viktor had unquestionably spared him.

  ‘So you owe me this Edgar. First, try to find out what you can about Richter and what name he is operating under now. Then…’ Viktor paused. ‘Irma, please would you go and make Edgar a hot drink before he leaves?’ He waited until she’d left the room and then dropped his voice, leaning over to grip Edgar’s forearm. ‘But then tell no-one, please Edgar: you tell me first. Find out Richter’s identity and who he really works for, and then tell me. You can promise me that?’

  Edgar felt a shiver run down his back. The fear in Viktor’s voice was unmistakeable. ‘But I thought you wanted him exposed? If I inform our people that one of the top men in the BfV is a Soviet agent, they’ll ensure the book is thrown at him.’

  ‘No Edgar, no! There’s a reason for being discreet, which I will tell you in due course, but not now. Don’t tell your people before you tell me! Trust me: you’ll soon realise I’m about the only person you can trust. I can’t trust anyone on my side, Edgar, and I’m sorry to tell you but you can’t trust anyone on yours. In due course you’ll understand why I’m asking you for your help. In time, it will all make sense.’

  ‘But…?’

  ‘I’m not telling you any more now. Once you’ve found out Goalkeeper’s identity, and told me – and no-one else – give me a month. If nothing happens in that time then he’s all yours. Promise me that?’

  Chapter 10

  England

  April 1976

  Edgar was waiting at Waterloo station for his train to Dorset when a seven year old memory suddenly struck him.

  Christopher Porter had been his immediate superior throughout most of the war, and had remained in the Service long after it, not least because he had nowhere else to go. Porter had never been much of a practitioner, as such, in the world of espionage. He was more of a manager in it: the person who uncomplainingly went to all the meetings, who managed budgets, found funds and other resources for various operations, who covered up Edgar’s mistakes and indulgences and who would read and analyse the interminable detail of countless reports. Porter was good at reports, at reading them as well as writing his own. This all meant that Edgar had always rather taken him for granted. He had often been, to his regret, less than polite to Porter – even disobedient. He recognised that he must have been a difficult underling, possibly even arrogant on occasion.

  As a consequence, once Edgar left the Service he resolved to be as pleasant as possible to Porter, a man who seemed to bear no grudges and was keen to meet for lunch on a regular basis. These lunches were also Edgar’s way of staying in touch with the Service.

  They took place every three or four months and had an alternating pattern to them: one month in the House of Commons, the next time at Porter’s club, the Oxford and Cambridge in Pall Mall. The two men had been meeting like that for years, and more often than not Porter would bring a file with him for Edgar to have a look at. Do you remember this chap? Ever come across this outfit? Does this place ring a bell? Read through this and see what you think… Have a good look at this and tell me if we’re on the right track… Could do with a fresh pair of eyes on this…

  But the meeting in 1969 – he seemed to recollect it was in November – was different. Porter had telephoned him at home, on a Sunday. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of booking a table at Wiltons, in Jermyn Street,’ he said. ‘On Tuesday. I hope you’re free then. In that private area at the back – table’s booked in the name of Mason.’

  Over lunch the talk was about their mutual impending retirements, punctuated by long periods of silence. Edgar noticed Porter did not appear to have his usual enthusiastic appetite: he pushed the oysters around on his plate, waved away the carving trolley and drank most of a bottle of Côte de Beaune. He paid the bill before Edgar had a chance even to look at the desert menu, let alone order coffee, and insisted they go for a walk. They h
eaded south down Duke Street, towards St James’s Park. There was a light drizzle and both men turned their collars up against the chill.

  ‘There’s a report I want you to have a look at,’ Porter said eventually.

  ‘There usually is, isn’t there Christopher?’

  ‘This one’s a bit different, I’m not sure…’ They had stopped by the large window of an art dealer and both men were peering at a bronze sculpture which appeared to be of a woman with multiple breasts, only one of which was even approximately in an anatomically correct position. ‘Is this what they call modern art, Edgar?’

  ‘I’m really not sure: you’re younger than me, you ought to know!’

  Both men laughed. ‘Only by a year or two, Edgar. Anyway, I always imagined you were a bit more “with it” than me, eh?’

  They carried on walking. ‘This report you wanted to tell me about?’

  Porter glanced around before he replied. ‘A few weeks ago, end of September to be a bit more precise, a Catholic priest turned up at our embassy in Bonn. He had a parcel with him, and insisted on personally handing it over to someone who worked in intelligence. All a bit tricky really – the chap was a priest after all.’ They were in St James’s Park now, heading towards the lake. ‘I mean, it’s hardly as if we advertise the fact that we have intelligence people in the Embassy, let alone call them down when someone asks to see them. It’s not a bank, is it? Eventually they got one of the chaps in the military attaché’s office down and the priest was persuaded to hand over the parcel to him. The priest told him the parcel had been given to him by a dying man. I ought to mention, by the way, that the priest was indeed who he said he was: a Roman Catholic chaplain at the University Hospital in Frankfurt. Shall we see if this is dry enough for us to sit on, eh?’

  They’d paused by a bench and Porter ran his hands over it. ‘Should be alright, sit down Edgar – it’s only a bit of water. Now, this is where there was something of a breach of protocol. The military attaché opened the parcel and found that it contained a rather large document. Of course he should have passed it straight on to the MI6 station there in Bonn; they are after all in the same bloody building. But most of our chaps there were away from Bonn dealing with some operation that had gone wrong. So, for whatever reason, rather than taking it down the corridor they popped it in the diplomatic bag and it ended up with us. Oh Christ, that’s Milne from the FCO, wait until he’s passed.’

  A squat man wearing a long black overcoat and a bowler hat walked slowly by and nodded at Porter, eyeing him suspiciously.

  ‘Miserable chap, Milne,’ said Porter once the other man was out of earshot. ‘Terribly well thought of when he joined the FCO: fluent in Arabic, first-class mind – you know the type. Then he rather disgraced himself in Tunis and now he’s permanently gated. Stuck in a basement at the FCO, writing papers no-one reads. Now then: that report. It ended up with us, and young Lassiter on the German desk was the recipient. He’s typical of the new breed Edgar, you’d absolutely detest him. Disagreeable type. Talent spotted at Balliol before he’d even finished his second year, and has a very high opinion of himself, one which is, I’m afraid, shared by some of the fools he reports to. Wears aftershave and ties with flowers on them and, would you believe it, brown shoes with a dark suit!’

  Edgar joined Porter in shaking his head in utter disbelief.

  ‘The thing about Lassiter though is he’s lazy and when he heard the report was the result of a walk-in from a priest he asked me to look at it instead, which is what tends to happen these days. ’

  He paused while a brace of ducks waddled past them. ‘Fair enough really, chap like me approaching retirement, kept away from the more sensitive stuff. No doubt they wish I’d gone years ago. Now then Edgar, let me pause a moment and tell you how I work these days. I no longer get up before dawn to travel into London, work ten to twelve hours and go home after the rush hour. Not like it used to be. I take things much easier now. I put in a couple of long days and stay at my club for a night or two during the week, but I tend not to come in Fridays and don’t arrive until lunchtime on Mondays. And these days I do take some work home with me. Nothing too sensitive, but anyway they seem to be keeping the more sensitive stuff away from me, so I’m not doing much harm. I can tell you, I’m not the only one doing it. We have one of these new-fangled copier machines in the office and if a report is quite long and doesn’t have Level One, Two or Three classification I tend to copy it, leave the original in London and take the copy home to read over my long weekend. It works fine and, as I say, there seems to be some tacit understanding that this goes on.

  ‘I was given the document in question on the Tuesday or Wednesday. Even though he hadn’t read it, Lassiter had given it a Level Four classification, which as you know means “not very secret but don’t go and pin it up on a bus shelter and do let us have something back within a week or so if that’s not putting you out too much.” I copied it, put the copy in the drawer where I keep the papers I’m taking home, and locked the original away. I took the copy home that weekend, read it, and left the copy at home when I returned to London. My procedure, for want of a better word, is to keep the copy in case I have to do any more with it and, if not, burn it after a while. So I returned the original to Lassiter on the Monday afternoon, with a note summarising what it was about – no more than a few lines really –my conclusion being the source was too unreliable and that the information had no impact on current operations and plans – you know the score Edgar. Marked it “not for action”, which as you’re aware is a Service euphemism for “file and forget”.’

  Porter edged closer to Edgar on the damp bench. ‘The next day, young Lassiter comes bursting into my office Edgar – barely knocking on the door, if you please – demanding to know if I had a copy. Well I’m no fool Edgar, I wasn’t going to admit to him there was a copy in my desk drawer at home. So I said no, don’t be ridiculous, how dare he et cetera, et cetera and he was getting quite agitated, refusing to take “no” for an answer. He demanded to look in my filing cabinet, would you believe. More than forty years in the Service, Edgar, getting on for three times his age and he thinks he can address me like that, as if I’m an office junior! I unlocked the filing cabinet and let him root through it. He stormed out when he didn’t find anything, and told me to forget about the report. I’ll tell you Edgar, had Lassiter been more relaxed and less offensive about the whole business I would indeed have forgotten about that damn report, but after the way he behaved I decided it merited a bit more interest.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘That’s the thing Edgar. I’m not sure there is an “and”. I couldn’t see what Lassiter was getting so het up about. The way he was acting I assumed there was something in the report he didn’t want me to see, but for the life of me I couldn’t spot it. Lots of Nazi fantasy stuff and some vague allegations about someone who may or may not be a West German spook having been a Nazi, which is hardly a surprise eh, aren’t they all… and that’s it really.’

  ‘So you want me…’

  ‘… to read it. Yes please, Edgar – if only to put my mind at ease, reassure me I’m not going doolally. Marjorie says I’m forgetting too many things these days, didn’t manage to complete The Times crossword last Wednesday. You have a sharp mind still, you’re naturally more…’

  ‘Devious?’

  Both men laughed.

  ‘’You were always more cut out for espionage than me Edgar. I’m just a bureaucrat. If you’d stayed on in the Service you could have been running it by now.’

  Porter paused while a group of schoolchildren silently filed past them. A flock of ducks landed noisily on the lake and swam towards the bridge. Porter leaned down, undid the top of his briefcase and patted a large manila envelope.

  ‘There you are Edgar: the report’s in this envelope. Take it out when the coast is clear and let me know what you think, tell me if I’ve missed the blindingly obvious.’

  ***

  By the time Edgar fin
ished reading the report that weekend, he found himself agreeing with Porter. In his time he had come across many Nazi conspiracies and allegations about former Nazis in senior positions in both West and East Germany. It was all hard to prove and, even if it were true, the establishment’s reaction would be: ‘so what?’

  But now, as he waited for his train, fleeting memories of the report came back to him, small details which seemed to tie in with what Viktor had told him. He’d have to read the report again. But he’d returned it to Porter, seven years before.

  ***

  Christopher Porter lived just outside Cambridge, in a modern house on the ring road near the village of Trumpington. The house was at the end of a long drive, its interior bathed in light from large windows that reflected off pale wood-panelled walls. Edgar was let in by Porter’s wife Marjorie, to the aroma of baking, and had his ankles nipped by two dirty white terriers. Porter, it seemed, was now a disgruntled and confused old man who only wanted to talk about his pension. Edgar sat patiently for an hour listening to Porter’s complicated calculations which he claimed showed he was not receiving enough money. Edgar was sure he was wrong, but didn’t have the heart to tell him.

  ‘Well, as I say… Type all that up and send it to them. I’m sure they’ll have a proper look at it.’ Only then did he feel able to broach the crucial subject: the report.

  ‘Do I keep any reports from the Service? Of course not Edgar! We weren’t allowed to remove them from the office. You should know that!’

  ‘I seem to remember,’ said Edgar patiently, nervously eying the open door, ‘you telling me you sometimes took copies of reports, Level Four and Five ones. Apparently it was becoming common practice.’