The Berlin Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  ‘He was arrested, brought back here and court-martialled at RAF Uxbridge in the December of that year. Now, at the time the RAF was unaware of the claims of what Bevan had been up to with the SS and Nazis. The only evidence they had against him was his behaviour in the camp, and working for the Germans in Berlin. He was charged with acting contrary to Section 40 of the Air Force Act – in my opinion he was bloody lucky not to be facing a treason charge. Frankly, he ought to have swung for what he did, like Joyce and Amery. As it was, he was found guilty and sentenced to twelve years in prison. He served his time in civilian prisons and was released from Wormwood Scrubs in June 1956, which ties in with what Christopher Vale said in his letter. Everything points to Canterbury being this chap Sefton: age, physical description, important dates. There are no other renegades matching that description.’

  Edgar nodded enthusiastically, genuinely interested. ‘And what has Bevan been up to since 1956?’

  ‘Well, there’s the thing Edgar. No-one knows.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Within days of being released from prison, he disappeared. His wife was living somewhere in Kent in rented accommodation and she moved out the day after his release. Bevan was, rather strangely, entitled to some kind of pension from the RAF, but he’s never drawn it. There has been no sign of him at any of the addresses with which he was previously associated. His name appears on no records anywhere. The reason we know this is because in 1961 – which is when the name Captain Canterbury is first linked with Bevan – allegations were made against him that he had joined the Waffen SS. Efforts were made to find him to interview him about this, but there was no trace of him anywhere…’

  ‘Family?’

  ‘Parents were dead by then, he was an only child, and he had no children of his own. His wife had a brother, but he insists he’s not heard from her since 1956.’

  ‘They could have emigrated… I imagine South Africa would have appealed to them?’

  ‘Nothing in any records – they must have assumed new identity. It’s expensive Edgar, building a new life from scratch, or at least one that will withstand some scrutiny. His wife had taken most of her cash from their bank account, but there wasn’t much there. He must have had money from somewhere.’

  ‘And help.’

  ‘Indeed. I say Edgar, I know I’m being a bit jumpy but did you see something moving down the lane?’

  ‘I can hardly see anything through the trees, surprised you can.’

  ‘Like a vehicle. I’m sure I saw something.’

  ‘Could be a tractor, we get those in the country you know. It’s interesting about the real identity of Captain Canterbury, but it doesn’t get us anywhere near finding him, does it? If he’s been living under a different identity since 1956, all I can say is it must be a damn robust identity to have kept him safe for twenty years. Can’t see how we would crack it now.’

  Paget did not appear to have heard what Edgar was saying. He was looking nervously around, peering through the trees and cupping his ears to pick up any sound. ‘You are correct of course; all this is academic if we have no idea where Bevan is now and what name he goes under. But this is where I had a lucky break: there was a note on Bevan’s file – it had been requested two years ago by our colleagues in Gloucestershire. A woman had turned up at the police station in Cinderford and made allegations against her husband, claiming he’d beaten her up; she was very distressed. She also told the police that her husband had been a Nazi, and his real name was Bramley Arthur Sefton Bevan, which is why they approached Special Branch. The file was returned a week later with a “no action” note against it. I telephoned the officer who dealt with the case at the time and he told me the woman had withdrawn her allegations, so there didn’t seem to be any point in pursuing the matter. Of course, someone should have followed it up.'

  'I don’t suppose you…

  Paget took a wallet out of his trouser pocket, extracted a slip of paper and handed it to Edgar, who looked at it carefully and then took a road atlas out of the passenger door compartment.

  ‘It will take us three hours if we set off now, you’ll need to put your foot down. If we can stop at a call box I’ll tell my wife I’ve been called away on an urgent matter. I imagine you will need to do the same.’

  ‘Tonight Edgar, really? It will be getting on for ten o’clock by the time we get there. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?’

  ‘No, it can’t. From what you’ve told me, it seems Lassiter knows a lot more about this business than he’s letting on. It’s as if he’s involved in it. He was far too interested in Captain Canterbury, and the fact that he never asked about Meier’s death is significant. We need to get to Gloucestershire before anyone else does.’

  Paget had started the car and turned into the lane. Both men looked around them to see if they were being observed.

  ‘There’s another reason to get a move on.’

  ‘What’s that Edgar?’

  ‘I fear you were right. We may have been watched.’

  ***

  As soon as they caught wind of what was going on, Lassiter was summoned.

  The day before he was to meet Paget he’d taken his normal route home: the Central Line as far as Holland Park, turning left out of the station and left again into Lansdowne Road, apparently en route to his flat. But he’d made half a dozen checks since leaving the train and, as he was sure he hadn’t been followed, turned right and crossed the main road into Holland Park. They’d be watching over him now, able to tell whether he was being followed. He walked at his normal pace, which was quite brisk, through the park and out at the southern end, into Ilchester Place. There was a wooden bench covered in peeling green paint just by the exit and on it a copy of the Evening News. Lassiter paused to adjust his shoelaces and glanced at the masthead. The newspaper was from two days previously. All was well. He hadn’t been followed. The meeting was on.

  He crossed Kensington High Street and from there walked through a warren of side streets until he came out at Cromwell Road, where he hopped on a bus, staying on it only as far as the next stop and then walking towards the Natural History Museum.

  He’ll have a camera hanging round his neck and a big blue camera bag over his shoulders. He’ll ask you where the Science Museum is. You’ll say you are going in that direction, and offer to take him. That will give you five minutes together, more than enough.

  ‘We have just five minutes. Perhaps we walk a bit slower.’

  Lassiter dropped his pace. Why did they always send someone with such a pronounced foreign accent? He felt nervous. Everything was as he’d been told to expect, apart from the foreign accent and the fact that the man was wearing sunglasses, which ought to have been mentioned. Small details mattered. So Lassiter walked a bit slower, as the man suggested. Despite this they were already turning into Exhibition Road. It was too quick.

  ‘You have the package for me?’ Lassiter made it look like he was giving directions and pointed ahead.

  The man nodded, patting his camera bag.

  ‘And it’s straightforward?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the man, gazing up at the entrance of the Science Museum. ‘He is quite old, I understand?’

  ‘Seventies.’

  ‘And with a history of heart problems?’

  ‘So I believe.’

  ‘Well then,’ said the man with the camera, smiling. ‘As I say: straightforward.’ The man explained how it worked.

  As Lassiter made to leave, the man held him by his elbow. Wait. ‘There’s one other thing: they want to know if you’re definitely meeting Paget tomorrow?’

  Lassiter moved closer to the man with the camera, appalled that he’d seen fit to use a name in public. He was, he replied.

  ‘They say you should deal with this matter as soon as possible after that,’ patting the briefcase. ‘The same day.’

  ***

  Lassiter sat opposite Captain Canterbury in what the latter described as his ‘library’: a few uneven shelves of boo
ks in no particular order – cheap novels, plenty of P.G. Wodehouse and G.K Chesterton, and a worn “Shakespeare’s Tragedies”.

  A silence had descended heavily onto the room, in keeping with the tense atmosphere which had greeted his arrival at this rather run-down house on the edge of an isolated village. The older man had appeared put out when he’d turned up. He was busy, and couldn’t understand why the younger man hadn’t told him he was coming. ‘Not even a telephone call! Fortunately my wife’s in Bristol and won’t be back until late.’

  Now the older man’s mood switched from annoyance to being quite courteous, even friendly. His eyes brightened when Lassiter produced a bottle from his briefcase. He held the bottle carefully in front of him with a twinkle in his eye, turning it slowly, admiring its qualities.

  ‘A pure malt eh? Twelve years old!’

  Lassiter went into the kitchen and returned with a couple of glasses, pouring a much larger measure for Captain Canterbury, who downed it in one go. Lassiter offered him an immediate refill.

  ‘Why the hell not, eh?’

  Lassiter limited himself to a few sips from his glass. He wasn’t really a whisky man, but at least this helped steady his nerves. The older man’s mood had changed again, Lassiter was unsure if this was in spite of the whisky or because of it. Lassiter had seen the drink do this to him before. He became maudlin and had a tendency to express his thoughts a bit too frankly. It was one of a number of reasons why Lassiter had come to distrust him.

  ‘We were right you know. We were always right. I never doubted it for one minute, even when they locked me away for all those years. The bastards would never accept I was a political prisoner.’

  ‘What makes you bring this up now?’

  ‘Now, Lassiter? I’ve never stopped believing in the cause, and I hope you haven’t either.’ He looked at Lassiter accusingly.

  ‘No, of course not…’

  ‘Earlier in the year I had to take my wife to Bristol for a hospital appointment, you know – stomach.’ He was patting his own ample stomach in case Lassiter was unsure of where the stomach was. ‘And do you know what? The clinic she attended had four doctors: two Jews and two blacks.’

  He spread his arms in front of him in the manner of a barrister resting an unanswerable case. ‘Even in this village there’s a family of bloody Indians, and as for Stroud, well… And that chap who’s just taken over from Harold Wilson – James Callaghan – wouldn’t surprise me if he’s a Jew. Marvellous isn’t it, a Communist replaced by a Jew. This is why our cause is so important, and why I have never failed to believe in it and have dedicated my life to it, even though that life has been difficult and stressful. I’ll have a drop more whisky please Lassiter… it will all work out, won’t it Lassiter? Bit more than that please… I know it’s been a long time now, more than thirty years, but even so…’

  But now the mood had changed again. Lassiter waited until there was a pause in Canterbury’s rant, and started his questions. He was forceful, making the older man defensive, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, fiddling with his frayed cuff, removing his watch and then putting it back on. A band of perspiration had gathered across his bald head and his hands were shaking.

  When the older man finally replied to Lassiter’s questions it was in such a weak and uncertain voice that the younger man had to urge him to speak up.

  ‘I said I had no idea how Edgar found all this out. Clearly if I knew he knew I’d have…’ He paused, unsure of what to say, unsure of what he’d have done. He coughed noisily. The very early signs of fear were beginning to appear about him, like a heavy suit weighing him down.

  ‘How the hell did you allow things to slip so much?’

  ‘Haven’t we been through all this? The breach of security was at not at my end Lassiter. I’ve kept things under control for more than twenty years now, and I can’t tell you what a strain it’s been. The breach of security came with the appearance of the Otto Schröder document in Frankfurt in 1969, which was quite evidently not my fault. I know Edgar’s been sniffing around again recently but I have no idea what got him onto things after all these years. Jesus Christ, Lassiter… we managed to dispose of all four of them without arousing any suspicion. Do you not appreciate what an effort that was?’

  ‘You didn’t do it all on your own.’

  ‘Which I have acknowledged and thanked you for. But how the hell was I to know Meier had written a bloody letter? Jesus Christ…’

  ‘In which,’ Lassiter was once again waving it in front of Canterbury, ‘he said you had been menacing and making all kinds of threats.’

  The older man shrugged. ‘That was six years ago, soon after we’d found out about Schröder’s document. Things were a bit… tense at the time.’

  Lassiter leaned over and poured another generous measure into Canterbury’s glass. He seemed too distracted to notice how much he’d been given.

  ‘And from the enquiries I’ve been able to make,’ said Lassiter, ‘in the short time since I got this bloody letter from Paget and first came to see you, it appears Edgar has been asking questions about the others. How the hell does he know about them? They’re not even named in the bloody letter! And yet he somehow seems to have discovered that Christian Schäfer was living as Tom Hartley in Huddersfield – we know because he approached the police there. Likewise with Bauer, he’s on to that one. The only one I’m unsure about is Hartmann. The Kent police haven’t come back to me yet and I can’t afford to be too pushy: don’t want to alert them. This is a precarious enough situation as it is.’

  Lassiter paused to catch his breath and calm down. The moment was approaching. He needed to find out one thing first. ‘Drink up, here…’ he poured another measure, not as big as before, the whisky was clearly beginning to have the desired effect. Canterbury had slumped a bit in his armchair and his eyelids drooped. There was a wistful smile on his face for no apparent reason.

  ‘Look, I’m not blaming you…’

  ‘Rather sounds as if you are Lassiter.’

  ‘I just want to be sure we’ve got matters as tight as possible. Tell me, do you have any paperwork to do with all this. You must have some documents, some notes, things you’ve written down over the years…’

  ‘A few papers and suchlike – no need to worry though, they are as secure as possible.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  Captain Canterbury sat more upright and looked at Lassiter suspiciously. ‘I said they’re safe Lassiter. You don’t need to worry.’

  ‘But I need to be sure: just tell me where they are and then I can tell ‘them’ that all is in order. One other thing. I’ve agreed that we will transfer a special payment to you, a one off for all the trouble you’ve been put to recently.’

  ‘Really? That would be splendid. May I ask how much?’

  Lassiter hesitated for a moment longer than he ought to have done. He’d noticed how run-down the house was. The carpets were threadbare, some of the window panes were cracked and the sills rotting, the wallpaper peeled at the edges and the garden was overgrown. Canterbury’s shoes were scuffed, with holes in the soles. The cuffs of his shirt were frayed and his trousers looked shiny, well-worn.

  ‘A thousand, we can have one thousand pounds in your account tomorrow. How does that sound?’

  There was a long enough pause to show Lassiter how desperate Canterbury was. ‘Very acceptable Lassiter, thank you very much. I was thinking though – without wanting to appear in any way ungrateful – whether there could perhaps possibly be a little bit more, to cover some incidental expenses, you understand?’

  ‘Another five hundred – but I want to check those papers.’

  Captain Canterbury hauled himself out of the armchair and dropped slowly to his knees next to a patterned rug that covered much of the empty space in the room. He pulled the rug away, liberating a number of flies.

  He had now exposed the floorboards and asked Lassiter to pass him a large pewter tankard from one of the shelves. It was stuffed with
pens, pencils and a ruler which had snapped at the ten inches mark. He removed a long screwdriver from the tankard and pushed it into a gap between two of the floorboards. There was a click, and the floorboard sprang up.

  ‘You’re younger than me, Lassiter. Reach under there and grab the metal box, you’ll need to stretch.’

  The box was no more than three inches high but a good eighteen inches square, and jammed full of documents: identity papers, photographs, bank details, a couple of passports, a dozen pocket diaries, and notebooks bound together by rubber bands.

  ‘There you are. Satisfied?’

  Lassiter said he was. He was ready now. His heart beat hard in his chest. ‘Yes – it all seems safe enough to me. And this is all there is?’

  Canterbury nodded. Lassiter knew that this was his opportunity. As Canterbury put the papers back in the box, Lassiter went to the small table and reached down into his briefcase next to it.

  It’s a special syringe. It’s just been developed but we have used it a couple of times already to great effect. Very straightforward: just push it in and it will do the rest itself.

  Captain Canterbury was on his knees, returning the box to its place under the floorboard. Lassiter went to help him up and led him over to his armchair, keeping hold of his left arm.

  Potassium chloride is ideal, but you need to inject it into a vein. The hands are good, older people’s veins tend to stand out in them.

  Lassiter acted fast: he clamped Canterbury’s left arm to the side of the chair and jabbed the special syringe into one of the veins standing out like a piece of gnarled string across his hand. By the time the older man realised what was happening, it was too late.

  ‘I say Lassiter. What the hell are you doing?’

  Lassiter said nothing, still holding Canterbury down by the arm. The older man tried to stand up but it was a forlorn attempt. He was flushed and breathing rapidly, his eyes having trouble focussing. After a few more seconds Lassiter felt the other man’s body slump into the chair, and he stepped back. Canterbury’s eyes were now glazed over, beads of perspiration pouring from his forehead. His flushed appearance had been replaced by a pale, grey demeanour, and his shirt collar was turning dark with sweat.