by Alex Gerlis
‘What about Irma escaping to the west?’
‘I know nothing about that, comrade. I wasn’t with her. Our relationship has not been good for quite a while.’
‘Really, after all these years?’
‘Especially after all these years.’
‘And all these questions you’ve been asking about Goalkeeper?’
‘I was endeavouring to expose a Nazi war criminal, comrade.’
‘And your contacts with people in the west?’
‘Part of my job comrade, any good agent in the field has contacts and sources…’
The most Kozlov could get out of Viktor was an apology for any misunderstanding and a grudging acceptance that maybe he should have brought his suspicions – as unfounded as he now accepted they were – to his superior’s attention earlier. At the same time Viktor dropped heavy hints about Kozlov’s own shortcomings, and how they were part of the problem.
‘Perhaps the pressure of dealing with the… failings… of your department had a detrimental effect on my behaviour Piotr Vasilyevich, for which I apologise.’
It was enough to worry Kozlov. As far as he was concerned, he told Viktor, the matter was closed. It appeared no harm had been done. But in return for him doing nothing – for not telling Moscow – Viktor should leave Berlin, return to the Soviet Union and retire.
To Kozlov’s obvious relief, Viktor agreed. It was a good idea, he told him. He had been considering this for a while now. He wanted no trouble; he just wanted to see out his days at his dacha – he was too old for all this now.
‘And we understand each other Viktor Leonidovich, you won’t cause any trouble?’
‘Not if you don’t Piotr Vasilyevich, not if you don’t. I ought to mention that Irma took some files with her, just in case…’
Kozlov looked shocked, tugging hard at an earlobe. ‘I thought you said your relationship hadn’t been good?’
‘Let’s say, for old times’ sake,’ said Viktor, winking.
There was a strange atmosphere in the room as Viktor prepared to leave it. Both men appeared satisfied, as if they could not quite believe what they had got away with.
***
Wilhelm Richter headed west out of Cologne, embarking on one of three routes he had so carefully rehearsed in his mind over the years. On the outskirts of the city he pulled into the Königsdorfer Forest, cutting the engine of the BMW along a narrowing track, and then wheeling the bike deep into the forest. This was also the place he’d had in mind to bury her, he thought a van could just about get down the track. It would have been a peaceful resting place. When he was certain he hadn’t been followed, he unscrewed the front and rear number plates from the bike and snapped them into small pieces, which he then buried in the undergrowth. From the steel pannier he took out two new number plates and fixed them in place, rubbing them with earth to take away their sheen. There was nothing, as far as he could tell, to distinguish the bike from the other tens of thousands of dark BMW 900s on the roads of Germany.
It was peaceful in the forest so he allowed himself a few minutes to think and have a cigarette, sitting against a tree trunk, watched by a large audience of ravens gathered in the treetops above him. He had taken an enormous risk in killing the man who’d asked if he was Wilhelm Richter. He’d risked being caught, and he thought he may have been followed by an Audi 100 but he couldn’t be sure, and in any case he’d managed to lose it by going down a narrow alley.
And the risk of allowing man to walk away was even greater. He knew something. He’d tell people. He’d had to stop him.
Richter continued his journey, joining Autobahn 61 at Bergheim and staying on it as he headed south. Just before eleven he stopped at a petrol station outside Hockenheim and from there he made a call.
I’ll cross the border sometime this afternoon, possibly between two and three. Tell me where to meet you…
The land around the petrol station was flat, allowing a clear view: no vehicles had pulled in after him, none slowed down as they drove past. He was as certain as he could be that he wasn’t being followed. Soon after Hockenheim he picked up Autobahn 5.
He continued south, the Black Forest a looming presence to the east, the Rhine and France, both westwards. The roads and weather were clear and he made good progress so he stopped again, filling the bike with petrol and allowing himself a quick snack at a window table with a good view of the petrol station forecourt.
He stayed on the Autobahn for only a couple more miles, exiting to drive through the suburb of Weil am Rhein before coming to the border crossing at Weilstrasse, which tended to be quieter than the main crossing on the Autobahn from Germany into Switzerland. The single German police officer waved him through while two Swiss policemen on the other side were preoccupied with a truck from Yugoslavia.
It was a quarter to three and he was now in Basel, less than eight hours after fleeing Cologne. His journey was almost over. He crossed the river on Wettsteinbrücke and drove down Binningerstrasse to the zoo. He found the car park off Tiergartenrain and soon spotted what he was looking for: a fawn-coloured Mercedes van with Zurich plates.
Twenty minutes later he was watching the lions as they watched him, when an older man with the build of a weightlifter appeared close to him. Richter was so relieved to see him that he had to restrain himself from embracing his old friend. The other man looked bored, concentrating on taking photographs and not looking at Richter for a full five minutes.
‘We’ve been watching: you’re clean.’ He’d waited until an elderly couple and what looked like their grandson walked away, moving closer to Richter and speaking quietly, his Berlin accent evident even after all these years.
‘I know, I wasn’t followed, I’m certain of that.’ Richter knew that had they so much as suspected he’d been followed, he’d have been abandoned at the zoo.
‘You saw my van, yes?’
Richter said he had: he’d parked within sight of it.
‘So I saw. Give yourself until half four to look around– and don’t forget to appear interested. Then go back to your bike. When you set off, I will too, so allow me to overtake you and then follow me. I’ll wait until we’re away from the city and pull in when I think it’s safe, then we’ll get your bike in the back of the van. We’ll be at the farm by ten o’clock tonight, possibly earlier – the roads in Obwalden are good at the moment. You’ll finally be able to relax Wilhelm, after all these years. You’ll never need to worry again. Your war’s over, at last.’
Wilhelm Richter turned round. He knew they were on their own, but wanted to be certain. He inched closer to the man next to him. ‘Heil Hitler!’
***
By ten o’clock on the Wednesday morning, Franz and Konrad had been in the Saxon’s top floor office for more than an hour. This time they had been permitted to sit and were doing so around an elegant table along with the President of the BfV, one of his Vice Presidents, two heads of Department and of course the Saxon.
But by far the most important people in the room were two women, the BfV’s experts on tracing the movement of money. Elke was the younger of the pair, a nervous and intense type with three pairs of spectacles which she switched between as she selected different documents from a large stack in front of her. Her boss was perhaps in her fifties, an elegant woman referred to as Frieda, who did most of the talking, checking as she did so the paperwork and notes passed to her by Elke.
‘Ever since you called us in yesterday at,’ she glanced at her watch, ‘noon I think it was sir, we have been working on finding out what we can about this Werner Pohl. Of course there is no doubt that he was using a false identity, which took just a few minutes to establish.’ With the word ‘minutes’ she flicked her hand to convey how simple that had been.
‘But our expertise is in investigating financial matters, as you know, and in this respect we have made some significant progress. Please pass that document Elke, yes, that one… here we are. We know this Werner Pohl rented an apartment in Jesuit
enstrasse in Aachen.’ She paused as she spread three sheets of paper in front of her and checked one of them.
‘And this gave us our lead, from which we have built our investigation. We were able to establish that the rent for the apartment was paid from an account in the name of Herr Pohl. This was paid from a branch of Commerzbank in Aachen, though the account itself was at their main branch in Frankfurt. I’ll need the second Zurich file please Elke…
‘We managed to speak with the security department at the head office of Commerzbank yesterday afternoon, and through him have followed a number of leads. It is a very complicated and convoluted trail sir, quite the most difficult one we have come across for some time, especially given how little time we’ve had. We were able to establish… no, the other Zurich file Elke, that’s it… we established that Commerzbank in Frankfurt provided Werner Pohl with official proof of identification to present at Bank Leu in Zurich. It was the kind of proof of identity that one bank issues to another bank. Normally a Swiss bank would not divulge any information but, through our colleagues in the Swiss security services, we did find out which account Werner Pohl had access to at Bank Leu. This account was opened in May 1970 and remained active until June 1972, when it was closed down. During that period large sums of money were transferred into it from the VP Bank in Vaduz, in Liechtenstein. Elke, perhaps you can explain now…’
Elke coughed and spoke quickly, in a confident voice. ‘We have a source within VP Bank who we also contacted last night. They went into the bank first thing this morning and were able to access details of the account at VP Bank. This account was opened in 1969 and remains active. It is a numbered account; our source has so far been unable to associate any names with it. However, between April 1970 and June 1972 – the period when Pohl’s Bank Leu account was active – large sums of money, almost identical to the sums transferred to Zurich, were paid into the VP Bank account. Frieda, maybe…’
‘These funds were transferred to the VP Bank account from Centro Internationale Handelsbank in Vienna. So we have Pohl’s Commerzbank account, associated with a Bank Leu account, which was fed by a VP bank account, which was in turn fed by an account at Centro Internationale Handelsbank,’ Frieda paused and there was some muttering around the table. ‘Some of you may be aware this last bank has strong links with the Polish state. We believe it is one of a number of banks in Western Europe and the Middle East which the Soviet Union uses to disperse funds, which they channel through Gosbank, the Soviet State Bank. I am confident that the man calling himself Werner Pohl was facilitating the transfer of Soviet funds to the Red Army Faction.’
‘So we have established an unbroken trail,’ said Elke, ‘starting with Werner Pohl in Aachen, leading to an account in his name in Frankfurt and directly from there to Zurich, Liechtenstein, Vienna, Poland and the Soviet Union.’ She brought her hands together, as if in muted applause.
‘But to what accounts,’ said the Vice President, ‘were the funds transferred to from Bank Leu?’
‘A good question: all of them were one-off accounts here in the Federal Republic. They seem to have been opened for the sole purpose of receiving one large payment. When that payment arrived the money was withdrawn as cash, and the account closed down. To be frank with you, I don’t know why we allow this to happen, especially in the current climate. We are far too liberal in this respect.’
As those round the table considered Frieda’s views about the country’s liberal banking laws, the telephone rang on the Saxon’s desk. He said little other than: ‘when… who…where…’
When the call ended he returned to the table and spoke very calmly. ‘There’s been a shooting here in Cologne this morning. We’d better adjourn.’
***
When they reconvened an hour later there was much muttering in the room – a sense of confusion and anticipation.
‘This is what we know for certain,’ said the Saxon. ‘At approximately seven twenty this morning a man was shot dead on Kuenstrasse. The state police are unable to confirm his identity. They say they believe he was shot by a man on a BMW motorbike, who sped off. There is nothing to connect the shooting at this stage with the Red Army Faction. However, in the last few minutes there appears to have been a significant development. Konrad has been speaking with the North Rhine Westphalia state police, so perhaps you can update us – when you’re ready?’
Konrad had come into the room just before the Saxon began speaking and appeared flustered, catching his breath and flicking through his notebook. ‘Apologies sir, I’ve only just come off the phone with the State Police, as you say. Franz is making further enquiries at the moment. The shooting took place at seven twenty. At nine fifty the department of the state police in Bonn which deals with foreign embassies received a call from a diplomat at the British Embassy in Bonn, he…’
‘Name?’ It was one of the heads of department.
Konrad turned a page in his notebook. ‘Charles Kemp. He’s a First Secretary.’
‘And he runs the MI6 operation in Bonn. Carry on.’
‘According to Charles Kemp, they have a man visiting Cologne, called Edgar. Kemp was somewhat apologetic and explained he hadn’t known Edgar was actually in Cologne, let alone the Federal Republic. He said Edgar was making what Kemp described as “unofficial enquiries” about an officer here at the BfV. Apparently Edgar had identified one of our officers as a being Soviet agent run from East Berlin, who also happened to be a former SS officer called Wilhelm Richter, linked with war crimes in Poland…’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, not another Nazi story: is there going to be a point to this?’
‘There is sir. Edgar arrived here early this morning to locate this agent, at which point we were to be informed…’
‘I’m sure. I don’t suppose you have a name for this agent do you?’
‘I was going to come on to that sir. He is Heinz Fleischhauer: he’s on the Rotation Team here.’
‘Goodness,’ said one of the heads of department. ‘He was due to move to the Military Liaison Office next week, I seem to recall.’
‘Edgar revealed that he’d paid a young homeless man to confront Heinz Fleischhauer early this morning at his apartment, which is on the corner of Niehler Strasse and Kuenstrasse. Edgar was watching the apartment and claims he followed Fleischhauer as he left the building on a BMW motorbike, and watched him shoot the homeless man further down the street. He tried to chase him but he got away. He then rang Charles Kemp, who rang the state police and…’
The door opened and a white-faced Franz entered the room, just as the Saxon began to speak.
‘None of which, of course, proves that Fleischhauer was a spy. And as for this Nazi nonsense I…’
‘If I may interrupt sir?’ Franz was speaking quietly but all eyes turned towards him. ‘I think you need to hear the latest on this case. Once the state police were given Fleischhauer’s name they entered his apartment. Ute von Morsbach’s body was there, wrapped in a sheet. The initial assessment is that she’s been dead for less than twenty-four hours.’
‘At least,’ said Konrad, sounding quite pleased with himself, ‘we now know the identity of Werner Pohl.’
The Saxon shot him a dirty look before turning to the President. ‘You seem to have a serious problem, Herr President: not only has one of your officers been assisting the Red Army Faction, but it would appear they may also have been spying for the Soviet Union. And a Nazi, for good measure.’ The Saxon was gathering his papers as he said this, already distancing himself in more ways than one from the BfV. ‘If I were you I’d make sure this Edgar character doesn’t hang around.’
Chapter 30
England
The Thursday
‘We don’t approve of freelance operations Edgar.’
That was it. After a lengthy and doom-laden silence, the hooded men of the Inquisition had finally pronounced: we don’t approve of freelance operations.
After he’d witnessed the shooting of Andreas and telephoned Cha
rles Kemp, Edgar had spent a very uncomfortable few hours. The first hour was with Kemp, who was so angry Edgar genuinely feared the young man was about to have a stroke: Kemp seemed to be taking the whole business personally. Then he spent a couple of even more uncomfortable hours, first with the state police and then with the BfV. ‘Be as helpful as possible Edgar, Kemp had advised ‘but whatever you do please don’t land us in the shit: make them realise this was all your mad idea. In fact, while you’re at it let them think you actually are mad. Things are bad enough as it is.’
Then it was back to Kemp, who’d now set up a safe house in Cologne. ‘I’m not having you anyway near Bonn, Edgar. You’ve done enough damage already.’
Edgar shrugged. He could cope with being banned from Bonn.
‘You met with Cowley yesterday, I hear?’ The angrier Kemp became, the higher the pitch of his voice.
‘Indeed.’
‘And now Clive’s dead. Stabbed to death – throat cut.’ Kemp moved his fingers across his neck in a rather aggressive manner. ‘Blood everywhere.’
‘So you keep telling me. I say, you’re not accusing me of killing him, are you?’
‘Of course not. Apart from anything else, you have an alibi. You were here in Cologne. Jesus Christ Edgar, what is this all about?’
‘London’s ears only I’m afraid.’
‘But you saw Cowley for Christ’s sake Edgar, you…’
‘London, Kemp. They’ll hear all about it.’
A few hours later Edgar was driven straight onto the apron of the military section of Cologne Bonn airport, where an RAF plane was waiting for him. It was dark when they landed at RAF Benson in Oxfordshire, and Edgar spent the night in the officers’ quarters. He was woken the following morning at seven: an RAF sergeant unlocked his door, handed him a cup of tea and told him to be ready to leave in half an hour.
It was only a short flight on the RAF Wessex helicopter. Edgar could tell they were flying west-southwest: he spotted the M4 motorway appearing and disappearing under them. Not long after they flew over Marlborough before descending, heading south-east, over Savernake Forest, and landing in the grounds of a large house on the edge of the forest.