A Time for Vengeance

by Geoffrey Osborne

  *

  London, 8.30 a.m.

  As the door closed behind James Dingle, Glyn Jones and the American, Jason Ritchie, the Director closed his eyes for a moment. The briefing had been a lengthy one, and he was tired; but it was over now and the three agents would be in Berlin before lunch-time.

  He thought back over the interview and felt satisfied that he had not allowed his personal interest to show.

  But now that he was alone… he saw the faces of Mueller and Kohner staring up at him from the photographs on his desk, and he remembered those faces as they had looked all those years ago, in 1941 in Berlin, when the two men were in the Gestapo, before their transfer to the SS.

  He remembered the shock of his own arrest, the anger he felt against the man who had betrayed him and, later, his understanding of his betrayal as he in his turn was tortured. The pain, the intolerable pain: the blessed relief when it stopped; and the dread as the time approached for it to start again.

  And he remembered the incredible escape, planned and daringly carried out by little Jamie Macleod, the man who had been his colleague and his closest friend. The Director, an agent in the field in those days, in charge of a section, had escaped.

  But Jamie had died.

  He had last seen the Scotsman lying on the ground, badly wounded, firing his revolver to cover the Englishman’s getaway. Later the Director heard that, when capture was inevitable, Jamie had shot himself… the only way he could be certain he never talked.

  Since that time, dying had become a way of life – but no man’s death had affected the Director as much as that of Jamie Macleod.

  He stared again at the photographs. Mueller and Kohner had been his torturers in the Gestapo headquarters. He remembered the method of interrogation. Mueller had been the hard man. Kohner was the soft sympathizer who had a weakness for treacle toffee, who always carried a bag of the sticky sweets with him – and who always offered to share them with his victim.

  Later, often when it was too late, the victim would discover that, unlike the toffee, there was nothing soft about Kohner. He could be just as hard and cruel as Mueller.

  Thinking about it, the Director could almost taste that treacle toffee which came at just the right moment, its insidious sweetness trickling down his throat to his ravenous stomach, sapping his will to resist… if only he could have some more.

  But he had resisted. And Kohner had grown angry. After all those years, there were still nights when the Director awoke in pain as a result of Kohner’s anger.

  During his escape, it was a bullet from Kohner’s gun that had wounded Macleod.

  The Director was glad that the time for vengeance was near.

  But there was other business to attend to first.

  He picked up the telephone that linked him to his control room.

  “Duty officer speaking.”

  “Mr. Williams, is there any news from Calcutta?”

  “Yes sir. The courier has made contact with our chap there and he’s booked on the next flight back. Due to take off at… just a minute… yes, ten-thirty our time sir.”

  “With the package?”

  “Oh yes, sir. He’s collected that all right.”

  “Good. Tomorrow I shall require a courier to take a parcel to Mr. Dingle in Berlin. Have one standing by, will you?”

  “Yes sir.”

  The Director was smiling with satisfaction when he replaced the receiver.

  Chapter Six

  The flight from Rostock took just over an hour, but Erich Mueller, huddled and silent in his seat, hardly noticed the passage of time.

  Gerhard Kohner, looking fatter than ever in his winter clothing, was at Schonefeld to meet him.

  Despite the thick woollen scarf and the ill-fitting overcoat that had been given to him before he left the ship, Mueller shivered as he descended the steps from the aircraft. He had forgotten how cold Berlin could be.

  “Welcome home Erich,” said Kohner, smiling. “Come, there is a car waiting, so let’s get out of the cold.”

  Mueller, still silent, allowed himself to be settled in the back of the large black saloon, beside the fat man.

  Kohner nodded at the two men in the front, and the car moved off smoothly towards the city.

  “I thought a little sight-seeing tour first, eh? I know how you loved Berlin in the old days.”

  Mueller stared blankly through the window as they sped past East Berlin’s mixture of green spaces and industrial areas. It was not until they had crossed the Spree and were traveling up Kopenicher Allee that interest sparked in his eyes.

  They passed the Tier park, swung left into Alt-Friedrichsfelde, down Frankfurter Allee and into Karl Marx Allee.

  Mueller spoke at last.

  “So much I remember, but so much is new.”

  “We had to rebuild Berlin after the war Erich,” said Kohner. “It is the same in the West. Do you like our new buildings?”

  “I’m not sure. Those tall, concrete blocks… do people actually live in them?”

  “Of course.”

  “It seems so impersonal. They look like… like huge filing cabinets where people are filed away for the night after work.”

  Kohner laughed. “You will approve of this though,” he said, pointing through the window.

  They were moving down Unter den Linden and Mueller looked around with obvious pleasure at the fine buildings of the University, Zeughaus, Cathedral and Town Hall with the modern TV tower rising in the background. But the pleasure turned to shock as the car approached the Brandenburg Gate; for the area was suddenly drab and gray, like the chill January day – and he found himself gazing for the first time at the Berlin Wall.

  The car stopped. “Like a closer look?” Kohner got out and held the door.

  Mueller followed, and shivered again. This time it had nothing to do with the cold: he was staring at the grim notice which listed the number of people who had been shot trying to cross the wall into the West… a human scoreboard.

  “Sight-seeing finished for today, I think,” said Kohner. “It’s time for us to eat. How do you like being a VIP again? You’re getting the red carpet treatment today, eh!”

  “Red is the operative word,” replied Mueller bitterly. “You didn’t tell me I was being brought back to East Germany. And since when were VIP treated as prisoners?”

  “Prisoners? But my dear Erich…”

  “I was locked in my cabin on the ship; and do you think I don’t recognize those two men in the car for what they are?”

  “Purely for your protection.”

  “Don’t make me laugh! And this so-called sightseeing tour was carefully arranged to finish here so that I would see that notice, wasn’t it? You intended that as a warning to me… there will be no escape unless I give you what you want.”

  Kohner’s eyes narrowed. He was no longer smiling.

  “And what do I want, Erich?”

  “Oh, come on! Don’t let’s play silly games. You want the list.”

  The smile was back. “I’m so glad you’re going to be sensible. I was afraid you might try to deny all knowledge of it.”

  “You want the list, and I want to see my wife, Hilde.”

  “So you shall. I told you that in Ecuador.”

  “But she is over there, Gerhard…” Mueller jerked his head towards the wall. “…and I am here, in the East.”

  “As soon as we have finished our business, you will join her in the West. I promise you.”

  Mueller laughed without humor.

  “Just like the old days, eh, when we promised the Jews their freedom. And then, after they had paid us… do you think I’m like them, Kohner? Do you think I’m a fool?”

  Kohner put his hand inside his pocket, pulled out a treacle toffee which he unwrapped slowly and popped into his mouth.

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m telling you that during the long voyage, when I was locked i
n my cabin, I thought it all out. You forget, my friend, that I used to be in the business; you forget that I trained you. And I know that if I tell you where the list is hidden then my life won’t be worth that…” he snapped his fingers. “…unless I take precautions.”

  “Precautions?” The word came out indistinctly through the mouthful of toffee.

  “I told you, I’ve thought it all out. Before I talk, several conditions will have to be met.”

  The smile had deserted Kohner’s lips for good.

  “Get back in the car,” he said. “We’ll go straight to headquarters. You can forget about the meal I had laid on.”

  A ghost of a smile played about Mueller’s thin lips as he settled himself back in his seat and the car moved forward.

  “You can starve me, Gerhard, but you can’t kill me. Don’t forget that I’m the only person in the world who knows where the list is – the others in the party… er… died.”

  “I know. Their bodies were found – and I don’t suppose they were anywhere near where you left the list?”

  “Not within a hundred kilometers,” Mueller agreed.

  “You’ll tell us where it is,” Kohner said savagely. “In the end you’ll tell us. Now get out,” he added as the car drew up outside SSD headquarters housed in one of the new buildings south of Karl Marx Allee.

  Chapter Seven

  The American FBI agent, Jason Ritchie sat next to the window, Dingle was in the middle, and Glyn Jones occupied the aisle seat.

  Ritchie, broad-shouldered and more than six feet tall, made the reclining chair seem too small for him. His alert brown eyes were set wide apart in a smooth, evenly tanned face beneath close-cropped dark brown hair: the chin was round and strong, the mouth wide and humorous. The only thing that prevented him from being unbearably handsome was his nose. It looked as if it had been broken six times and remodeled by a drunken tree surgeon.

  His jaws champed rhythmically on a wad of chewing gum as he looked out at the tops of clouds which rolled away into the distance like an unbroken snowfield.

  Suddenly, he turned away from the window and used a large elbow to dig Dingle in the ribs.

  “Say! What’s this idea of your chief’s? How are we going to get these guys over the Wall?”

  When the Englishman didn’t answer, he used the elbow again. “Hey! Did you hear me Jim? Don’t go to sleep on me. I said how are we…”

  Jones leaned across to speak with his exaggerated Welsh accent.

  “He’s not asleep boyo. But he won’t speak to you either. He’s sort of petrified, see. It’s always the same when he’s flying… scared stiff he is.”

  “You don’t say.” The American peered with interest at Dingle’s tightly-shut eyes.

  “Yes. Dates back to the war. Walked out of two plane crashes, he did, and now he thinks he’s used up all his luck.”

  “Is that so?”

  “So it’s no good talking to him. He’ll be like this until we land. He wouldn’t open his eyes even if the stewardesses were going around topless. I remember once we traveled all the way to Australia together. Not a peep out of him all the way, and…”

  Dingle’s eyelids flickered. “Will you two shut up,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

  “See what I mean?” the Welshman added before lapsing into a moody silence.

  The FBI agent sighed and stared through the window again.

  He wished the stewardesses would go topless. They would be more interesting to look at than cloud tops.

  *

  The landing at Tempelhof was not a smooth one. The aircraft hit the ground hard, jerking the passengers forwards and backwards repeatedly as the brakes were slammed on and off before turning to taxi over to the terminal.

  Dingle mopped his brow.

  “I thought we’d had it then. We pulled up a bit short, didn’t we?”

  “I think the pilot must have got caught short,” replied Jones. “He’s probably in a hurry to get to the lavatory.”

  “If he does any more landings like that with me aboard, I’ll race him there,” Ritchie commented, briefly interrupting his gum-chewing ritual.

  Dingle grinned, feeling suddenly better and anticipating with pleasure the cold, fresh air as he followed the Welshman towards the door at the rear.

  He watched him walk down the steps and marveled once more that the limp was so difficult to detect; it was hard to believe that Jones had a false foot, a legacy of his first mission with Dingle.

  The Welshman was forty-four, but he looked ten years older. Pain and worry had ploughed deep furrows across his brow, but had failed to erase the crinkles of good humor which fanned out from the corners of his steady gray eyes. A first-class man in a crisis, he didn’t seem to have a nerve in his body – except at the start of a mission, usually during the briefing, when his belly would rumble with nervous indigestion.

  Dingle couldn’t think of a man he’d rather work with, unless… he glanced back and smiled at Ritchie, remembering a particularly impressive display of marksmanship by the American in a very tight corner.

  The three men went through the Customs and immigration formalities without trouble, and then Dingle turned to the Welshman and said: “I’ll take your case to the hotel, Glyn. The flight to Hamburg has already been called, so you’d better hurry.”

  Jones nodded. “I’ve got another fifteen minutes yet. Are you sure you don’t want me to interview Frau Mueller?”

  Dingle hesitated. “No… I don’t think so. Not unless you feel there’s anything to be gained by it. I’ll leave it to your judgement – but I really just want you to have a general look around. Try to get a sight of her so that you’ll recognize her again, just in case she turns up here.”

  “Alright. I’ll see you tonight then. I’ll get the nine o’clock plane from Hamburg, so I should be back here by about ten.”

  Jason Ritchie raised a hand in a laconic farewell as he and Dingle watched the Welshman push through the barrier and head for the Hamburg departure lounge.

  The two agents picked up their luggage and moved along the length of the vast, crowded hall with its shops and bookstalls before climbing the steps to the exit. Outside, they ordered a taxi to take them to The Bristol, where their rooms were reserved.

  Dingle smiled to himself as he settled in his seat. The Bristol was considerably higher than his usual expenses bracket – but he guessed that the Director had booked them in there in order to impress the Americans. He didn’t want SS(0)S to look like a poor relation of the FBI.

  *

  Jones picked up a self-drive hire car at Hamburg airport and drove south, crossing the Kennedybrücke, with the Aussen-Alster on his left, before getting lost near the Hauptbahnhof. He went around the station twice, eventually found himself on the Kurt-Schumacher-Allee, and headed for the Heidenkampsweg. Soon afterwards, he joined the autobahn, leaving it at Maschen and traveling east through Stelle to Winsen, on the Lüneburg road.

  Winsen was not a large place and the SS(0)S agent, who was fluent in German as well as several other languages, had to enquire only once before finding the road where Hilde Mueller had lived since 1956.

  Leaving the car around the corner, he walked the rest of the way and discovered that Frau Mueller’s residence was a large, detached bungalow set well back from the wide, tree-lined road.

  He had an impression of wealth – and this was followed by a stronger and decidedly unpleasant impression: he was not the only person interested in the house. There were other watchers.

  Jones knew he was not mistaken. He was too experienced to be wrong about a thing like that. A car was parked on the other side of the road with a man at the wheel. Further along, a road sweeper was busy.

  The Welshman walked straight past the bungalow without looking at it and turned into the drive of the house next door. He rang the front door bell, and waited until a plump, gray-haired woman answered.

  “Frau Kieler?”

 
; “No.”

  “This is number seven?”

  “Yes, number seven.”

  “Oh. Is Frau Kieler at home then?”

  “I’m sorry, there’s no one of that name here. I work for Frau Schreiber.”

  “This is Kirchenweg?”

  The woman smiled. “No, that’s round the corner. Turn left when you go through the gate.”

  Jones thanked her and left. When he reached the gate, the road sweeper was outside, clearing the gutter. The man glanced at him casually and then got on with his work. The other man was still sitting in his car – but Jones didn’t look at him. He walked quickly back to his own car, got in and drove off to find a roadhouse where he could buy a good lunch.

  He decided he would go back to Frau Mueller’s house after dark.

  *

  Dingle and Jason Ritchie had a full day making contact with their own people and paying a courtesy call at the headquarters of Abteilung Eins – “Department One”; in effect, a political police of the West Berlin Police, separate from the West German Police and mainly under Allied control. In addition, the Englishman visited the British Military Hospital, where he had a long talk with a top specialist, Colonel Roger Barrett.

  When he returned to the hotel, he was greeted by a message from the Director and an impatient Ritchie.

  “Where the hell have you been?” the American demanded.

  “To the BMH to see a man about an escape route,” replied Dingle, screwing up the Director’s message and putting it in his pocket.

  “And what’s that?”

  “Just a note from the boss telling me to stay in tomorrow until I receive a package from London. A courier is bringing it on the morning plane.”

  “Okay, okay.” The FBI man had steered the British agent to the lift. Now he pushed him inside and stabbed a thick finger at the button for the third floor. “So now you and me are going to have a quiet little chat. I’ve got some bourbon and ice laid on in my room, and while we spill that down our throats, you’re going to spill the beans. See?”

  Ritchie led the way into his room, walked straight across to the cocktail cabinet and poured out two generous measures.