The Berlin Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  ‘And what – if anything – has this to do with me?’

  ‘All three – Möller, Schröder and Weber – describe a short man with thick glasses who was one of the key people organising their mission and training them for it. That man’s name was Erich Schäfer. I have good reason to believe you are that person: Erich Schäfer. I should add that very recently Horst Weber positively identified you.’

  Schäfer frowned, as if having trouble understanding Viktor.

  ‘And recently, I discovered that Wilhelm Richter is still alive. I think Richter and you are still… connected. Imagine that, Schäfer, a Nazi war criminal operating under the noses of the KGB?’

  Schäfer neither moved nor reacted, but just stared at the Russian opposite him, waiting to see if he had any more to say. ‘Oh Viktor, Viktor, Viktor,’ Schäfer was shaking his head, looking almost bemused. ‘You’ve got this so wrong, so wrong. You’re putting together some hearsay, a few bits of tenuous evidence and one or two coincidences, and coming up with some kind of conspiracy. If only you’d come into my office at the Embassy. I’d have closed the door, we’d have had a drink and a friendly chat, and I’d have explained everything to you. Instead, you bring me here – at gunpoint – and treat me like a traitor!’

  ‘It sounds to me as if you’re not even bothering to deny that the Erich Schäfer at Magdeburg and the Reinhard Schäfer sat in front of me are the same person?’

  Schäfer looked at Viktor in a genuinely puzzled manner. ‘Of course they are. I don’t deny it: if you’d bothered to asked me, I’d have told you! Hang on Viktor; you believe I’m a Nazi too, don’t you?’ He began to laugh, amused at the very thought of it. ‘I am what I’ve always said I was – a Communist. I was never a Nazi. I joined the KPD in 1928, when I was just 18, and was recruited into the police two years later. I was quite active in my branch in Wedding, not very far from where we’re sitting now in fact. Walter Ulbricht was KPD chairman in Berlin at the time and I knew him well. In fact, it was he who suggested I should leave the party in 1932. As the Nazis came to power he advised quite a few people to do that. He targeted people in positions like mine – not too prominent, that is, otherwise our political affiliations would have been public knowledge. He wanted us to remain in jobs he thought could be useful to the party in case it went underground: policemen, civil servants, doctors… Everything I did was at the instruction of the party. I applied for a transfer to the Kripo because the party felt they had enough covert members in the uniformed branch in Berlin, but not enough plainclothes. When senior party members started to flee Germany, others remained behind. Some went underground, others had good cover. Of course, thousands of comrades in Berlin were arrested and murdered. It was truly terrible. I’m afraid it also has to be acknowledged that many Communists, and particularly those to the left of the KPD, like the Trotskyists, became Nazis – in many cases they became the most enthusiastic Nazis. It turns out this was not too much of a political journey for them.’

  ‘Nor for you by the sounds of it, you...’

  ‘Shut up Viktor, and listen. If only you knew how wrong you are. I did everything I could to undermine the Nazi system, while being careful to give the impressions I was part of it. I rose through the ranks of the Kripo, I did well. My job was to investigate serious crime and I did what I could to overstate some crimes, understate others – at one time I’d arrest too many people, at other times I wouldn’t arrest anyone at all. Berlin was a mess during the war you know Viktor. There was so much crime around. Despite everything you read, under the Nazis there was a sense of lawlessness. You know what Berliners are like: they have an anarchic streak, and it was as if many of them believed they had a licence to break the law. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but between the autumn of 1940 and the summer of 1941 there was a serial killer at work in Berlin. Almost all of his victims were attacked on trains or near to stations. He sexually assaulted and murdered eight women and attacked dozens more. Everyone knew about it of course, despite attempts to suppress what was going on. It’s hard to keep a lid on something like that in Berlin. The Nazis’ instinct was to blame the Jews for everything and, if not them, people like the Poles. I was one of the lead investigators on the case and encouraged the general hysteria that the serial killer was a Jew – or a Pole. I cannot tell you how many hours we wasted interviewing Jews and Poles, but no-one was going to criticise me for trying to blame the Jews or for wasting hundreds of police hours by pulling in Polish labourers for questioning. In fact, all the evidence pointed in the opposite direction: what little we had to go on indicated the killer was a railway worker who spoke in a strong working-class Berlin accent. Sure enough the man we eventually caught was a railway worker, a Berliner and a Nazi Party member.

  ‘In September 1944 my boss told me he had been instructed to provide one of his top officers to work on a top secret intelligence programme, and had chosen me. Obviously I had very mixed feelings: I didn’t want to work on some Nazi intelligence programme, but then at least it meant I wasn’t being sent to fight on the eastern front, like so many of my colleagues. My secondment was to a highly secret intelligence unit. There was an understanding, after Normandy, that Germany’s defeat was inevitable, and so the purpose of this unit was to devise schemes to ensure the Nazi legacy lived on. My whole experience of this unit was how delusional everything was: people seemed to believe if we came up with a few hare-brained schemes then, after a few years, the Nazis would be back in power.

  ‘There were a number of operations. This one I worked on was especially farcical – you touched on it Viktor. The plan was to recruit around fifty seventeen or eighteen year olds who happened to speak English very well. They’d be trained and sent to SS units with instructions to be captured and, once in Britain, to escape and live undercover until we contacted them after a few years. I was happy to work on it because, firstly, it was so evidently doomed to failure and, secondly, it tied up resources which would otherwise be fighting the Red Army or the British and Americans.

  ‘As you say, we had a house near Magdeburg and we trained the recruits there. From the outset, it was hopeless – almost laughable. For a start, we’d only managed to find ten suitable recruits and one of them was killed on the first night. One of the team was a British prisoner of war, an extremely odd RAF officer called Arthur Bevan – he was a passionate Nazi who’d been working at the Foreign Ministry in Berlin. He was involved in the training, and the idea was that he’d be a contact for the boys once they made it to Britain. His code name was Captain Canterbury… you can see how crazy this whole business was.

  ‘We sent them off to their units in November or December 1944. To be frank, I thought most of them would be killed and that the others would abscond – I certainly would have done so had I been in their position.

  ‘After that I returned to Berlin. I went back to the Kripo and during the battle for the city I hid in a bunker, waiting for the arrival of the Red Army. I was arrested, of course, but as soon as the KPD leadership returned from Moscow I was able to establish my credentials, and quite quickly I ended up working in intelligence at the Soviet Embassy, where I’ve been ever since. Incidentally, you mentioned my name and implied that it was careless to only change my first name. Well, there’s no mystery there. I had always been Reinhard – certainly when I was in the KPD. I used the name Erich after I joined the Kripo, but reverted to Reinhard after the liberation. Think about it, Viktor: if I really was trying to conceal my identity, don’t you think I’d have changed my surname at least, eh?’

  ‘And Richter, what about Wilhelm Richter?’

  ‘What about him Viktor?’

  ‘What is your connection with him now?’

  ‘What makes you think I still have a connection with him?’

  ‘Is he Goalkeeper?’

  A long pause. ‘What did you say?’ Schäfer could not hide his shock: he turned around to check they were still alone and gestured with his hands for Viktor to keep his voice down.

  ‘Go
alkeeper. I asked if Richter is Goalkeeper.’

  ‘Shut up Krasotkin, you should know better than this. You have no idea how risky this is: you’re endangering an operation that’s been years in the planning…’

  ‘And Defender and Winger, Schäfer – who are they?’

  ‘Shut up.’ Schäfer was anxiously looking around. When he turned back to face the Russian he appeared panicked. ‘We can’t talk about this here, this is far too dangerous. I give you my word Viktor, if you let me go now we can meet in the Embassy tomorrow. I will have to tell Kozlov about our meeting, but I promise I won’t mention the way in which you invited me here.’

  Viktor stood up, putting his pistol away as he did so. It was his way of signalling agreement, but he nodded his assent too. ‘In any case, it’s getting dark now. We’ve probably outstayed our welcome here.’

  Chapter 24

  East Berlin

  The Tuesday

  ‘Can you hear that Viktor?’

  Irma was prodding him in the ribs, but it was unnecessary: Viktor had long been awake. In fact he’d hardly slept at all, despite the now almost empty bottle of brandy by the bed. He’d been propped up on his pillows all night, going over and over in his mind what Schäfer had told him the previous evening. He was worried he’d accepted Schäfer’s version of events far too readily and regretted letting Schäfer control matters before they left the cemetery. He was worried his intuition and sure touch was no longer as sharp as it had been. He was trying hard to think through the possible consequences of what he had done. As dawn approached, so too the gravity of the situation loomed larger.

  ‘I hear nothing sova: only the plumbing.’ Sova was his nickname for Irma. It was Russian for owl and a tribute to her hearing, which was so acute he used to joke she should work at one of the listening posts in Siberia. They’d save money on equipment!

  ‘I heard a car door close very quietly, at the top of the street, then footsteps approaching our building. Two people, both quite heavy. They’re inside now, coming upstairs, one behind the other. Is this anything to do with last night Viktor?’

  So this is how it will be, after all these years.

  He glanced at his wristwatch: it was a minute or two before six o’clock. Typical, obeying their instructions to the letter – the only way they’d know how to do things. Knock on the door at six – not before, not after. Sure enough, moments later, the knocking at the door. Quite, loud and persistent but not as heavy as it could have been, and at least no shouting or breaking the door down.

  It was Kozlov’s driver, a thickset Georgian called Giorgi who undertook his master’s especially dirty work. Behind him was another Georgian, called Dmitry. Dmitry was Kozlov’s bodyguard and rarely left his side. Dmitry was even more thickset than Giorgi.

  You’re to come to the embassy now. You have a minute to get dressed. Dmitry will stay with you while I bring the car to the front.

  ***

  Piotr Vasilyevich Kozlov had been waiting for him, in the corridor outside his office on the fifth floor. The KGB Head of Station looked as if he hadn’t slept all night either. Viktor assumed Schäfer had had to interrupt some of his boss’s specialist activities to fill him in.

  Dmitry accompanied him up to the fifth floor and followed Viktor and Kozlov into the latter’s office. He stood in the doorway, taking up most of it.

  ‘Wait outside Dmitry,’ said Kozlov. He held off speaking again until the door had closed. Three chairs had been arranged in front of the desk, around a low table with cups and a teapot on it. Reinhard Schäfer was in one of the chairs, looking quite comfortable. Kozlov indicated which chair Viktor should sit in. Everything appeared, to all intents and purposes, quite cosy.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Kozlov hadn’t sat down yet. He was walking towards the chairs.

  ‘When?’ Viktor was trying to get a better feel of Kozlov’s mood, gauging quite how much trouble he was in. It was best to assume Schäfer had told him everything.

  Kozlov sat down, sighed, and leant back towards his desk to get his cigarettes, which he then offered around. The flame from Schäfer’s lighter was unnecessarily high, causing the two Russians to pull back. Somehow Kozlov managed to speak in his usual loud voice, despite the cigarette wedged in the corner of his mouth.

  ‘When you came to see me the other week Viktor Leonidovich – that’s when. You made these ridiculous allegations about Comrade Schäfer. You told me some fairy tale about Nazi plots, saying that it was all hypothetical, but you nevertheless wanted to interview Comrade Schäfer. I said you’d have to bring me evidence first, didn’t I?’

  The thick carpets and heavy drape curtains in Kozlov’s office didn’t prevent his very loud voice sounding as loud as ever louder. The word ’evidence’ had been given particular emphasis. The conversation was in Russian: Schäfer’s command of it was far better than Kozlov’s German.

  Viktor nodded as if he’d only just remembered, grateful to Kozlov for having jogged his memory. Ah yes.

  ‘I could not have been clearer, Viktor Leonidovich. You were to get the evidence and then come back to me. But what do you do? You pull a gun on Comrade Schäfer in the street and then march him into a cemetery and proceed to interrogate him. Are you mad Viktor Leonidovich, literally – mad? This isn’t Berlin in 1944 you know. You don’t treat fellow KGB officers like that. Officers more senior than you have been shot for doing half of what you’ve done…’ Kozlov was now tugging his earlobe and pulling hard on his cigarette, his hands trembling. ‘Comrade Schäfer is going to ask you some questions Viktor Leonidovich: you will tell him everything you know. Understand?’

  You will tell him everything you know. So Kozlov and Schäfer were unsure how much he knew – otherwise Giorgi and Dmitry would have broken down his door at midnight rather than knocking on it six hours later. And it was almost certainly the only reason they’d brought him here, rather than straight to Schönefeld where he’d have been bundled onto a military flight to Moscow with no return ticket.

  ‘Last night,’ said Schäfer, ‘you asked me if Richter is Goalkeeper. You also asked me if I had a connection with him during the war.’

  Viktor nodded with a slight frown, again conveying the impression he was only just about managing to recall what Schäfer said he’d asked.

  ‘You need to tell us how you know that Richter is Goalkeeper.’

  You need to tell us. A long silence. A wisp of steam lifted from the teapot and Kozlov shuffled nervously in his chair. Schäfer didn’t move.

  ‘I just said: you need to tell us how you know that Richter is Goalkeeper. And you also asked me who Defender and Winger are. I need to know how you know all this.’

  Viktor allowed another silence to reign for a while before replying. ‘I have no idea who Winger and Defender are.’

  Schäfer looked confused at Viktor’s response, and annoyed by his blatant obfuscation. ‘Don’t treat us like fucking fools, we’re not amateurs. I asked you: how do you know that Richter is Goalkeeper?’

  ‘So you are confirming he is Goalkeeper?’

  Kozlov slammed the side of his chair. ‘Answer the fucking question Krasotkin. This is going to be one of those rare occasions in your charmed life when you answer questions rather than ask them, you understand?’

  ‘A source, that’s how I know. From a source.’

  A loud sigh from Kozlov, followed by a muttered, ‘this is ridiculous.’

  ‘I’ll tell you again what I told you last night,’ said Viktor, ‘and some of this may be news to you Piotr Vasilyevich. I became aware of Wilhelm Richter’s war crimes as early as 1946. In 1949 I discovered he’d been in the Soviet Union. So, from my point of view, this is a case I never closed, and one I’m perfectly entitled to be pursuing. A few months ago it came to my attention that Richter was almost certainly alive and in the Federal Republic in 1968, so I stepped up my search for him again. I believe now he goes by the name of Heinz Fleischhauer, and works for the BfV in Cologne. I also believe he is an agent of yo
urs, Schäfer, codename Goalkeeper. I believe he’s still a Nazi and, if you are indeed running him Schäfer, that you’re picking up where you left off in 1944, when you were involved in a Nazi plot,. How about that, Piotr Vasilyevich – a Nazi war criminal working for the KGB, here in East Berlin? I imagine Andropov will love that. When it all comes out it’s going to do your career no end of good.’

  Kozlov was turning red and glancing anxiously between Viktor and Schäfer, a panicked expression building on his face. The German was very calm though, leaning forward to pour tea for all three of them before he spoke. ‘Of course Fleischhauer’s a Nazi alright, and Carsten Möller was correct, he was – is – one of the most evil men you could ever have the misfortune to meet. As Wilhelm Richter he was a committed and dedicated Nazi and as Heinz Fleischhauer he remains one. He’s convinced he is still serving his cause, believe it or not.’

  He sipped at his tea, taking one of the cigarettes Kozlov had offered. Schäfer smoked in the manner of someone who found cigarettes distasteful, but nonetheless smoked them as low as possible. ‘My main role here at the Embassy has been to recruit Germans we can infiltrate into West Germany as agents, and run them. In the early 1950s I used to fly to Moscow every few months, to meet German prisoners of war who’d been identified as possible KGB agents. I’d interrogate them, assess them and if they were suitable – very, very few were – then they’d be set up as agents. Would either of you like more tea?’