The Berlin Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  Chapter 13

  Vienna, Austria and Budapest, Hungary

  May 1976

  ‘Next week!’

  ‘Yes dear, next week.’

  ‘Vienna, you say?’

  ‘Yes dear, I told you… for our anniversary.’ Edgar shuffled awkwardly in his chair as his wife stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘Other than our first, I cannot recall you remembering one wedding anniversary, certainly not before the event. And yet now, you suddenly… and in any case, our anniversary isn’t for another month!’

  ‘I know but I thought it would be a nice surprise. We’ll be staying at the Sacher and I’ve booked tickets for the opera.’

  ‘To see what?’

  ‘Something by Mozart… Cosi something or other. I thought you liked opera?’

  ‘I adore it, but just what precisely is this all about?’

  Edgar felt like a child who’d been caught lying. He leaned across the dining table and placed his hand on his wife’s. He was rarely disconcerted, other than on occasions such as this. ‘You complain we never go anywhere or do anything, yet now I have booked something and you seem unhappy.’

  His wife said nothing but studied him carefully. Edgar could tell she was suspicious. ‘Of course I’m not unhappy, but… is this connected in any way with work?’

  ‘I’m retired dear.’

  ‘Come on now,’ she said, pulling her hand away from his. ‘It’s to do with the Service, isn’t it? I insist you tell me the truth, otherwise I shall simply refuse to go.’

  Edgar placed his cutlery across the plate and folded his hands, almost in prayer. He trusted his wife, though he rarely confided in her. In the forty or so years since he had first worked for the Service he had only told her something about his missions on three or four occasions, and even then in only the briefest of detail. So now he told her his plans. She listened carefully. He was surprised how calmly she took it.

  ***

  Edgar not only managed to remain awake throughout the opera but had even made a perfectly plausible effort at appearing to enjoy it. He’d then allowed a whole day to be devoted to more culture: the Hofburg Palace in the morning and the Kunsthistorisches Museum in the afternoon. On their first day in Vienna they had gone to the office of a company that organised day trips, and left their passports with them. They returned the following morning, just before their visit to the Hofburg. All was in order. Their visas had been issued and they paid for their tickets. The following day, their third in Vienna, they arrived at Wien Westbahnhof at half seven in the morning. The Vienna-Budapest Express left on time, half an hour later. At nine thirty it cleared the Hungarian border, at Hegyeshalom, and after a brief stop at Gyor they arrived at Budapest Keleti at the scheduled time of twelve twenty. As they pulled in to the station, Edgar recalled what Viktor had told him when they met in March in Berlin.

  Hungary is the most relaxed of our Warsaw Pact countries at the moment – maybe they never quite managed to shake off the effect of ’56, maybe it’s because their economy is surprisingly strong, I don’t know… but it’s easier for Westerners to get in and out of than anywhere else in Eastern Europe. One week before you go, send a postcard to this address in Paris. Give birthday greetings to Otard for the date you will be in Budapest. I’ll make sure I’m there on that date.

  At Keleti station, on the Pest side of the city, they were met by a tourist guide and shepherded onto a coach which drove around for an hour, pausing outside various sights while their guide spoke in a quick monotone – German first, then English, followed by a few words in French. She extolled the progress Hungary had made since the defeat of fascism, and made one or two obligatory references to the fraternal aid and friendship of the Soviet Union, but by and large she stuck to the safe territory of the city’s buildings and its architecture, of which there was plenty. Ottoman this, Byzantine that…Baroque…Classical… Art Nouveau and, of course, Bauhaus. They were not allowed to take photographs, other than at designated spots where they were permitted to leave the coach for a few heavily-supervised minutes.

  At half past one the coach pulled up in Dohány Street outside an enormous synagogue – the largest in Europe, the guide told them in her monotone. They were permitted to go in briefly to take some photographs before being ushered out and informed that they were now going to lunch. They should not leave the restaurant, they were told. The coach would leave at two thirty promptly for their tour of Buda, on the other side of the Danube.

  The restaurant they use is a five minute walk from the Dohány synagogue, on Károly. It’s very large, has two floors and a large internal courtyard, which is typical of Pest – not unlike Paris. Once you’re inside the restaurant they won’t worry about you because you won’t be able to leave. Ask for a table on the first floor. The manager on duty there is called Bartos –he’ll come and introduce himself to you. He’ll ask you where you’re from. Tell him you’re from England, and then he will ask you which football team you support…

  ‘Tottenham Hotspur,’ replied Edgar, as instructed by Viktor.

  ‘Ah! The English team I love is Manchester United,’ said Bartos, pulling a chair up so he could talk more intimately with his new friends.

  ‘I’ve been to Old Trafford,’ replied Edgar, showing an interest in football his wife was unaware of. ‘Tell me Bartos, which Hungarian team do you support?’

  ‘Honvéd,’ answered Bartos, looking very slightly offended that Edgar even needed to ask the question. ‘The team of Puskás: you’ve heard of Puskás?’

  They had established that the other was who each expected him to be. Lunch was served, but Edgar waited until a quarter to two, forty-five minutes before they had to leave the restaurant. He called Bartos over. Would he be so kind as to show him to the bathroom?

  The Hungarian led Edgar to the back of the restaurant and through a door, which opened onto a small landing. He unlocked another door and bolted it as soon as they had entered. They went three floors up a winding staircase and there, in a room opening from a small landing, was Viktor, sitting behind a table with a plate of steaming goulash.

  His mouth was full as he gestured with his fork for Edgar to sit opposite him. Drops of gravy fell onto the table. Through his food he muttered something to Bartos in Russian.

  ‘He’ll come back in half an hour Edgar. That will have to be enough time. Do you like Budapest?’ He heaped another large forkful of goulash into his mouth as he spoke. Edgar nodded.

  ‘I like it too. It is, in my opinion, the most handsome city in all of Europe,’ said Viktor, wiping bits of goulash from his mouth with an enormous serviette. ‘Not the prettiest, like Paris or Prague. But it’s a dramatic city, eh? The Danube, the hills, the buildings…’

  Viktor stopped speaking as he concentrated on emptying his plate. When he had, he wiped his mouth. ‘So tell me Edgar, have you got me a name for Herr Richter?’ He was still chewing as he spoke, flecks of meat spraying towards the Englishman.

  ‘In 1969,’ said Edgar, ‘I was asked to read a document relating to allegations about war crimes committed at the end of the Second World War. At the time I attached little significance to it and it was soon forgotten. However, after we met in Berlin I recalled this report and managed to have a look at it once more. In light of what you told me in Berlin I now realise the person who wrote the document – it’s his testimony – was another of the young Nazis recruited with Wilhelm Richter. He says he witnessed Richter carry out war crimes, and admits he did too. It backs up what you were told by Carsten Möller and the SS prisoner in Gdansk. At the end of the war the person who wrote this testimony managed to escape and change his identity.’

  Edgar paused, expecting some reaction from the Russian. Viktor looked impassive and said nothing, but waved his fork: carry on.

  ‘He is convinced he saw Richter in 1968.’ Edgar paused to allow Viktor to take in what he had just revealed. ‘Apparently Richter didn’t recognise him.’

  Viktor at last showed some interest an
d held up his fork to indicate that Edgar should pause. He removed a brown leather notebook from his pocket, and sharpened a pencil with a knife.

  ‘What name was Richter using?’

  ‘He never got that, Viktor…’

  The Russian struck the table hard with his knife. ‘Come on Edgar. You tell me you have something, we go to all this effort – for you to tell me… what? That a man you won’t name thinks he saw Richter somewhere – you don’t say where – in 1968, but didn’t find out his name?’

  ‘Let me finish Viktor, be patient. This man worked at a lawyer’s office in Frankfurt. He was asked to stay late one night – this would be April 1968 – to let in a new client for his boss. Apparently he handled many sensitive matrimonial cases: clients from out of town liked to consult him, usually because they were in sensitive positions. This is how he saw Richter, he was one of those clients.’

  ‘This was in 1968, you say?’ Viktor wiped the plate with a forefinger and licked the gravy off it.

  ‘Yes, the April. And there’s something else I picked up from this report…’

  ‘Go on,’ said Viktor, glancing at his watch. ‘You’d better get a move on.’

  ‘The German intelligence officer at your embassy in East Berlin, the one running Goalkeeper…’

  ‘You mean Reinhard Schäfer?’

  Edgar nodded. ‘Describe him… his physical appearance.’

  The Russian shrugged as if he couldn’t quite see the point of the question. ‘I don’t know… short, always wears suits too large for him, and his glasses are very thick, so much so that it’s hard to make out his eyes. Does that help?’

  ‘You said he was a police officer in Berlin during the war?’

  ‘Yes, criminal police – a detective with the Kripo apparently. It seems that Schäfer was a Communist in the early thirties: he held a KPD card until ’31 or ’32. Tell me why you’re asking Edgar – and you need to get a move on, you’ll be leaving soon.’

  ‘My source describes one of the men behind the recruitment of himself, Richter and the others. His description matches that of Schäfer.’

  Viktor snorted, unimpressed. ‘You mean short?’

  ‘If it was just a physical description Viktor I’d be sceptical too. But his name then was Erich Schäfer.’

  ‘Schäfer is a common name.’

  ‘I know, but surely this is more than a coincidence?’

  ‘You say this man is in Frankfurt?’

  ‘Was – he died soon after writing his testimony.’

  Viktor looked concerned. ‘There must be a way of finding out Richter’s identity. You say this was in April 1968… do you have the name of the law firm?’

  Edgar nodded.

  ‘Well, that’s something I suppose. I presume you have brought a copy of the document with you?’

  Edgar took an envelope out of his jacket packet and hesitated for a moment before passing it to the Russian, as if he was having second thoughts. ‘I thought long and hard about giving this to you Viktor. I don’t have to tell you what a risk I’m taking, do I?’

  ‘And you think I’m taking no risks? Remember, we’re in this together Edgar.’

  ‘Just promise me you’ll be careful when you act on what you read and don’t do anything that would provide a link to me. If we can find out Richter’s name now and if he has any connection with the BfV or any of the security services of the Federal Republic, we’ll pass it on – usual channels, they’ll soon sort him out. Meanwhile, you let your people know that rather than being a secret Communist during the war, Reinhard Schäfer could actually be Erich Schäfer and involved in some crazy Nazi plot. I’m sure they’ll be able to verify it. We just need to get our timing right, make sure they’re both investigated at the same time and…’

  ‘No Edgar, no!’ Viktor had banged his fork hard on the table. ‘I told you in Berlin, trust no-one. I’ve survived over the years by trusting my side no more than I trust the other side. And as I tried to suggest to you in Berlin, you have very good reason not to trust your own side.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I believe Schäfer has a mole in MI6.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe I should have told you before, but I wanted you to concentrate on Richter. Clearly one of the reasons Schäfer is so well regarded at Unter den Linden is that he has such a good network of agents. I know he has at least one in MI6, possibly more. I have no more details, just tiny clues I have picked up. The agent in MI6 is called “Winger”. Irma thinks he has another person who is connected to “Winger” but is not inside any of your agencies. He is called “Defender”. It would seem they’re part of the same network, controlled by Schäfer. Tell me Edgar, is anyone in Six aware of your enquiries? You need to tell me. Our lives could depend on this. And there’s one other thing…’

  Viktor hesitated, unsure whether to tell the Englishman one more thing after all. ‘You also need to be careful if you go anywhere near Bonn, which you may well have to. In the last couple of years your embassy there has been the source of very high-grade intelligence.’

  ‘How high grade?’

  ‘High enough for the source to quite possibly be MI6. I can’t be sure, but it is someone there who has links to Goalkeeper. I shouldn’t really be telling you this because it’s not connected directly with Schäfer, the source is handled out of our Paris station and we get intel through them. But I need you to be very careful, that’s why I’m telling you.’

  Edgar said nothing. Viktor could tell he was worried, and was unsure what to do.

  ‘Edgar, my friend… we are in the same boat. This may feel like treason, telling the enemy something. I feel the same too, but we’re not really enemies, are we? For me, I realise we are dealing with Nazis, and that justifies anything. Over the years I have experienced so many ideologies. You and the Americans and the rest of them in Western Europe – you believe in democracy and you’ll fight for it. In the Soviet Union and elsewhere… well, many of the people I have worked with have been committed Communists. They believe in Marxism-Leninism and will fight for it. But I have never, ever encountered such blind fanaticism as I did with the Nazis. You have experienced it too. This is what we’re up against.’

  ‘Two men came to see me,’ said Edgar after a while. ‘From MI6, a few weeks ago. They knew I had been to see my source and knew I had been asking about the report from 1969, the one written by the man who knew Richter. They wanted to know who, why, what, when… the usual. They had nothing other than the rather incoherent recollections of my source.’

  ‘Did you know these men?’

  ‘One of them I did: he joined the service shortly before I left it. The other I know of: looks after the Germany desk, not sure which one. They came away empty-handed and I doubt they suspect me.’

  ‘Before you go, write down the names of the two men you’ve just told me about.’ Viktor pushed his notebook towards Edgar.’

  ‘You haven’t been followed in Vienna, if that’s any consolation,’ said Viktor. ‘Nor here, as far as we can tell.’

  ‘What should we do now?’

  ‘Give me some time, a couple of weeks possibly. I need to see if I can find out more about Schäfer’s agents. We need to know who “Winger” and “Defender” are.’

  ‘And Richter?’

  ‘I have a plan… write down the name of the law firm in Frankfurt, which will help.’ Edgar was already through the doorway when Viktor called him back.

  ‘There is something you can do in the meantime actually Edgar. If these people are asking questions of you, there’s a chance there may be something else going on. Say some of these SS recruits really did make it to England? Unlikely, I know, but I’m sure you have some contacts you could ask questions of. You never know.’

  ***

  The coach left the restaurant on Károly at two thirty. Edgar had reappeared at his table five minutes before that, not saying a word to his wife and acting for the entire world as if he’d been detained in
the bathroom for a minute or two longer than he’d planned.

  The coach crossed the Danube on the Chain Bridge and drove around the hills of Buda for a couple of hours before depositing its passengers at Keleti station at four thirty. Only once they’d crossed the border did Edgar feel it was safe to acknowledge the situation with his wife.

  That was a very successful day. Thank you for your help.

  His wife smiled and told him it was no problem. In fact, she said, she had rather enjoyed it. It’s been quite exciting! But then the look in his eyes told her to be quiet. She had said enough.

  Chapter 14

  London and West Berlin

  May 1976

  The two men met in the Princess Louise on High Holborn, just south of Bloomsbury where the West End of London gets close to City. It had been raining heavily all day: puddles of water rising to the kerb, the pavements slippery. Most of the customers had come in drenched, resulting in an unpleasant fug about the place.

  Lassiter and his elderly companion were sitting at the back of the pub in a carefully chosen alcove which allowed some privacy along with a view of the entrance. Just in case anyone tried to be sociable, they’d spread briefcases and coats on the seats either side of them. The man sitting next to Lassiter was perhaps in his mid-seventies, his almost unhealthily pale face clean shaven, and his watery eyes firmly fixed on the younger man next to him. Had anyone looked closely at them they would have observed that both men seemed particularly distracted and bothered. Had they sat close enough they may have noticed Lassiter’s hands trembling as he lifted the pint glass towards his mouth, and they’d have seen and possibly even smelt the sweat gathering on the older man’s bald head, settling on the few strands of hair stretched across it. Both men spoke so quietly that each had to lean close to hear what the other was saying.

  ‘You sounded terrified on the telephone, Lassiter. This had better be important, you know I worry about the possibility of people listening in… and bringing me to London – meeting up like this, you know it’s for real emergencies only.’