by Alex Gerlis
‘I say Lassiter… what have you…’
Lassiter stood in front of the other man, watching him closely. He saw his hands grip the armrests, as if trying to haul himself up, but he was too weak. He looked as if he was endeavouring to move his legs, but he couldn’t manage that either.
‘I think you’d better ring someone. Please…’
You say he’s around fourteen stone? Give or take? There’s ten grams there; more than enough.
Lassiter knew Canterbury would be confused and disoriented now, but he nonetheless managed to fix him with a pleading look. Lassiter glanced at his watch – it had been three minutes.
It can take up to ten minutes but I’d be surprised if it takes longer than five – a man that age and weight, with his history of heart problems.
It took a minute or two longer than that. Canterbury slumped further into his armchair, slipping in and out of consciousness, his skin turning a blue-grey and his breathing getting slower. He moaned loudly, moved both hands across his chest, and then it was over.
Potassium chloride causes the heart to stop beating, so will make this all look natural. No one will suspect a thing, especially given his history. Even if they bother with a post-mortem examination, they’ll just find potassium in the body, which occurs naturally anyway. And the puncture from the syringe will be so tiny…
Lassiter checked Canterbury’s pulse and, once he was satisfied, moved fast. He took a pair of thin gloves from his pocket, removed all the papers from the metal box, and stuffed them in his briefcase. He then replaced the box, putting the floorboard back in place and positioning the rug over it. He topped up the older man’s whisky glass and made sure it was on the table next to him, taking care to wipe the bottle. He took his own glass into the kitchen, emptied the contents down the sink, rinsed and dried it and placed it back in the cupboard. Nothing else was out of order, no signs that he’d been there.
He noticed Canterbury’s mouth was open, as if he were about to speak. Did that look suspicious? He felt no emotions other than satisfaction at a job well done, along with a sense of relief. With Canterbury and the other four now gone, it was almost all over. The strain, he was only just starting realise, had at times been unbearable. He would get the message to Berlin, and that would be that.
He left through the back door, standing by it for five minutes to acclimatise to the sounds outside, in case there was anything unexpected waiting for him. He felt sure he was being watched, so stood very still, scanning the garden with his eyes. Ahead of him, sat on a high crumbling wall and peering through the branches of an apple tree, was a large black cat, its yellow eyes assuring him it knew what he was up to.
Once he was sure it was safe he left through a gap in the overgrown hedge, into the field. He’d removed the gloves now and taken a cloth cap out of his jacket pocket, one which lay low over his face. He moved quickly round the field, sticking to what shadows he could find, then into the copse at the far end of it, through that and to the road where his car was parked in a lay-by. It was odd, he thought as he reversed the car and started his journey back. Canterbury could have led a privileged and comfortable life but chose instead the path of a fanatic. It was, in the end, a meaningless existence: a futile and dangerous one, unrewarding, always in the shadows.
That’s what happens when you sign up to an ideology. Or maybe it’s what happens when you start down a path and are simply unable to stop, however much you may want to – as he knew all too well himself.
***
They’d stopped after half an hour to fill the car with petrol and for each of them to telephone home. Urgent business.
They picked up the A350 at Blandford Forum and headed north. Around Warminster, Edgar suggested he’d be happy to drive, which Paget understood was a request rather than an offer. Edgar pushed the Rover 3500 hard, driving far too fast at times and then suddenly at a more leisurely pace. They spoke little for the first part of the journey. Around Newbury, Edgar opened the car up on the occasional stretches of dual carriageway and then slowed down after roundabouts, driving well within the speed limit. Paget noticed that Edgar was constantly glancing in the rear-view mirror, though his head was angled firmly ahead.
‘You think we’re being followed Edgar?’
Edgar did not reply at first, glancing constantly between the rear-view and the wing mirrors. ‘Well, if we were, we’re not now.’
They had made it to Gloucestershire and a series of winding and precarious roads through the Stroud Valleys, the lush green countryside sweeping above them to one side, below them to the other, any sign of habitation coming as something of a surprise.
‘I should have been more frank with you Martin,’ said Edgar. ‘You took a copy of the Meier letter and gave me the original – in case I wanted to have the type or paper checked. What you wouldn’t have spotted on the copy, of course, and I could only just see on the original was this, on the back of the last sheet. Here, have a look.’
Edgar had taken the letter from his jacket pocket and passed it over to Paget, the car veering slightly as he did so. The policeman took it all in. ‘And I imagine you checked out these names?’
‘All three – plus Christopher Vale of course – have died in the past month: one that looked like suicide, the other two apparently accidents. But unsatisfactory nonetheless.’
‘Jesus, I can see why you…’
‘On their own, perhaps not suspicious, but connected… and of course once we have the link with Captain Canterbury, and Lassiter’s interest in the case and knowledge of it…’
‘You think Lassiter is a Nazi?’
‘Nothing would surprise me at this stage. But if we can get to Canterbury, then I’m sure we’ll find out – assuming no-one else has got to him first.’
***
The village where Captain Canterbury – once Bramley Arthur Sefton Bevan, now Dennis Field – lived was halfway up the side of a valley, south of Stroud. The village was hidden behind a wood and was so isolated and quiet that Edgar and Paget agreed it reminded them of an abandoned film set.
They parked in the lane about fifty yards from the house, and watched it for ten minutes. The wind carried the sound of church bells from a few miles away striking ten o’clock, but otherwise the uncanny quiet in the village meant they could be sure of hearing any extraneous noise.
The doorbell wasn’t working but lights were on upstairs, and soon after they knocked the door opened, with much undoing of bolts and chains. A thin, elderly lady with a cardigan wrapped tightly round her despite the heat stood behind the half-open door. She was deathly pale, and her eyes were slightly red.
‘Mrs Field?’
She nodded.
Paget flashed his warrant card. ‘We have come to see Mr Field. Dennis Field.’
‘Have you now?’ She took half a step back into the doorway and allowed an unsmiling and bitter laugh to briefly pass her lips as she tried to close the door. ‘I have no idea what time it opens, but I can give you the address of the mortuary.’
***
He died this afternoon: heart attack. Why are you here? He has been under a lot of pressure recently.
What sort of pressure? That would be his business. Now if you don’t mind, tell me why you’re here. You’re sorry for my loss? I’m not sure I am…
They left after she asked them to do so for the fourth time.
‘Drop me in Bristol Paget, I need to be on the first train to London.’
Before they parted, Edgar extracted a promise from Paget that he’d do nothing until he heard from him. A day at the most. He’d promised Viktor he wouldn’t go to Bonn until he got word from him, but with the four men dead and now Canterbury, he couldn’t wait. Viktor would have to understand.
Chapter 23
East Berlin
The Monday
Viktor waited a week.
Reinhard Schäfer lived in Prenzlauer Berg in the northern part of East Berlin and Viktor – with the help of Irma – had been watching his
journeys home from the embassy. Surprisingly, Schäfer never varied his route and by the Monday – which was the sixth of September – Viktor was ready.
It was just after six thirty and although there was still a decided air of summer about the city, there were also the very early hints of the nights drawing in. Viktor watched as Schäfer walked up the east side of Schönhauser Allee, and fell in behind him. He was just a metre behind Schäfer when they came alongside the cemetery gates. He moved swiftly to the German’s left and put his large right arm around the other man’s shoulder, gripping it quite firmly. To anyone watching, it was the greeting of an old friend. His left hand held a pistol in the inside of his jacket, which he allowed to open just enough so that the gun was visible to Schäfer.
‘We’ll go in here Reinhard. Here we can talk, no-one will disturb us.’ Viktor was using his height and weight to steer the much smaller German into the Jewish cemetery. They exchanged not a word as Viktor led the German past the damaged building at the entrance, and along a network of paths. He had reconnoitred the cemetery twice in the previous week and knew precisely where to go. Every small strip of land between the graves seemed to be taken up by a tree, giving the sense of being in a forest. Viktor had found an area in the middle of the cemetery which appeared like a small clearing. It was a family plot, long neglected. Somewhat incongruously, a pair of park benches had been placed on either side of a large black tomb, covered in moss and with faded writing in Hebrew on the top, rather than a headstone like the others around it. Viktor pointed at the bench Schäfer was to sit on. He had chosen it carefully. From the other bench, where he’d sit, he had a good view of where they’d come from, the only way in or out.
Schäfer had chosen to sit in the middle of the bench, and appeared dwarfed by his surroundings. The linden trees stretched high into the Berlin sky, their canopies allowing little light in, meaning the two men were facing each other in the graveyard in a premature gloom.
All this time – since being stopped in Schönhauser Allee, forced into the cemetery and marched to this spot at gunpoint – Schäfer had said nothing and nor had Viktor, other than his initial instructions. The Russian now leaned forward, and was able to make out Schäfer’s face surprisingly well. The little light which did permeate the trees came in the form of bright shafts, which dappled the graves, and one of them was illuminating Schäfer. He seemed remarkably calm, almost relaxed about his predicament. He removed his glasses and polished the thick lenses, breathing heavily on them to help him in his task.
‘Are you carrying anything?’ Schäfer shook his head. Viktor had patted him down as they entered the graveyard, but he wanted to check. ‘Open your jacket so I can see... and your waistband.’ He held his own pistol up and showed it to Schäfer.
‘I’ve been in here a few times recently, looking for somewhere we could chat. This was one of the first Jewish cemeteries in Berlin, you know, more than twenty-five thousand graves. Not many new graves here for around a hundred years. Somehow, it survived more or less intact during the war. Apparently a gang of deserters hid here but the Nazis caught them and hung them from the trees. You probably knew that.’
‘You’ve abducted me in the street to bring me here to deliver a history lesson?’
‘I brought you here so we wouldn’t be disturbed, although when I came yesterday afternoon there was a woman tending a grave at the front. Apparently they did bury a few people here after the liberation. You don’t mind me using that word?’
‘What word?’
‘The liberation… of Berlin.’
Schäfer looked confused. ‘Why on earth would I mind?’
‘Maybe you didn’t see it as a liberation?’
Schäfer frowned and adjusted his glasses as if to improve his view of Viktor. He had what looked like a genuinely puzzled expression on his face. ‘Stop being so ridiculous Krasotkin. I have no idea what you’re talking about. All this… grabbing me in the street – with a gun – and bringing me here and then rambling on about Jews and graves. If you are unwell then I am prepared not to make a fuss about this and have a quiet word with Piotr Vasilyevich instead: I am sure he’ll arrange treatment for you. Our sanatoriums for senior party members are really very good – and most discreet. I’m not an unsympathetic man, Viktor, I’ve seen it before. Men feel under pressure, then they crack.’
‘You’re not even asking me what all this is about? You don’t feel… angry?’
‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me, as soon as you calm down.’
Viktor was unsettled, not a feeling he was used to and certainly not one he expected to have now. He should have been in control of the situation, but Schäfer was so calm it disconcerted him. He took a deep breath and loosened his tie. He wondered how much he should tell Schäfer, how much he should reveal. ‘You won’t interrupt me Schäfer, let me finish what I have to say and then I promise you’ll be able to respond. You understand?’
‘Is this an interrogation?’
‘Keep quiet and listen to me.’ Viktor paused as he heard a rustle somewhere behind Schäfer. ‘Rats: this place is teeming with them, like in the rest of this city. After the war Schäfer I investigated Nazi war criminals. It was a job which lasted for years – well into the ’50s. I came across many war crimes that remained unsolved, but there was one which kept coming back to me. Cigar?’
The German shook his head.
‘In June 1946 I was called to Gdansk, where the Poles were holding a series of trials for SS officers and others who’d been involved with the Stutthof concentration camp. They executed quite a few of the bastards.
‘The reason I was called there was to meet a prisoner, an SS officer called Werner Krüger who’d been sentenced to death. One of the offences he was convicted for was his involvement in the massacre of some five thousand Jews on the Baltic coast – they were prisoners who were being marched away from Stutthof ahead of the Red Army. Krüger had accepted his fate, but what he wanted to tell me was he had had a young SS Untersturmführer under his command and this man had defied his orders, and was responsible for the murder of all these women and children. This Untersturmführer had somehow avoided being put on trial, but instead had been taken to the Soviet Union as a prisoner of war. He wanted me to know about him. I think he felt it was unfair that the person responsible for this war crime was, in effect, getting away with it.’
‘You mean he was trying to save his own skin perhaps Viktor?’
‘Possibly, but I have a lot of experience of prisoners trying to do that, and I do believe this man was resigned to his fate. He simply wanted us to be aware of this other officer. Krüger told me something else very interesting about this young Untersturmführer. Their commanding officer was Obersturmbannführer Peters. Peters and Krüger were very friendly, both were from Bremen. Peters told him that the young man was meant to be on a top secret mission, in that he meant to be captured by the British or Americans and sent to Britain, where he’d later be part of a Nazi resistance, or something like that. Peters was supposed to arrange this, but it was too late. They were captured at Poznan, where apparently Peters killed himself, and the young officer was taken to the Soviet Union, rather than arrested as a war criminal like the others.’
‘What was this Untersturmführer’s name?’
‘Wilhelm Richter.’
Viktor stopped speaking after saying the name, carefully watching Schäfer’s face. There was no flicker of recognition or emotion, as far as Viktor could tell, though Schäfer looked away from him and removed his glasses briefly, putting them back on almost straight away.
‘To my shame, I forgot about this case. There were so many others. But in 1949 I was called to a prisoner of war camp near Rostov, where a young SS prisoner had an unusual request. He wanted to be repatriated to the DDR rather than to the Federal Republic. He told me a familiar story: of how he and a group of other young men had been recruited to the SS for a special mission, the aim of which was for them to be taken prisoner, sent to Britain, the
n to escape and wait until they could take part in a new Nazi movement. They were trained at an isolated house near Magdeburg in 1944. This prisoner’s name was Carsten Möller, and he also admitted that they had carried out some war crimes during their training.’
Viktor paused again, studying Schäfer in vain for any reaction.
‘Möller gave me the name of one recruit in particular, who he said had been worse than the others and had murdered one of their fellow recruits. He described him as the most evil man he had ever met. That man’s name was Wilhelm Richter, the same name given to me by the condemned SS officer in Gdansk. He also told me how, a few months previously, he had been taken to a special camp which he thought was just near Kazan, the purpose of which was to assess prisoners to see if they could work for the Soviet Union. He was only there for a week or two: he was deemed unsuitable but while he was there he caught a glimpse through a fence of Wilhelm Richter.’
Viktor paused to select another cigar. As he lit and smoked it he said nothing, instead observing the other man. Schäfer sat quietly, impassive, acting as if the Russian were still rambling on about the history of the cemetery.
‘So I tried to find this Richter…’
For the first time Schäfer began to appear uneasy, crossing and uncrossing his legs, running his hands through his hair.
‘I discovered that Richter had definitely been held at a prisoner of war camp near Kazan in 1948. But before I could continue investigating I was summoned to Moscow, where I was ordered to drop the case. I was told that Richter had died in 1947, despite my having evidence that he was alive in 1948 and possibly in 1949. So I did what I was told. Don’t forget, this was 1949; I was in a precarious position. I could have fallen out of favour at any time.
‘I did nothing about Richter for twenty-five years, but recently he came to my attention again. I have now come across testimonies from two more of the recruits who were at Magdeburg: an Otto Schröder, who died in Frankfurt in 1969 under a different identity, and a Horst Weber, who is alive today and living in the Federal Republic, also under another name. They both tell the same story, they corroborate each other and the account Carsten Möller gave me in 1949, as well as tallying with what the SS prisoner told me in Gdansk.’