“Right, Horst,” said Kelly, switching to German, “if you’re ready, we’ll be on our way.”
“I’m ready, Colonel.”
Having deposited the release slip at the gate, Kelly and Manteufel walked briskly towards Kelly’s Morris Minor parked nearby. By the time they reached the car, Manteufel in his thin suit was shivering. Kelly guessed it was partly to do with the temperature—Berlin in February can be exceptionally cold—and partly to do with the excitement and relief he must feel on being released.
As they climbed into the car, Kelly started it and switched the heater to maximum. He drove away from the prison down Beusselstrasse and made his way across the city, eventually passing in front of Schloss Charlottenburg. As Kelly turned left into Königin-Elizabeth-Strasse, Manteufel glanced over to him.
“Where are we going, Colonel?”
“To Heer Strasse,” Kelly responded.
Manteufel studied him with a half-smile on his lips, his eyebrows raised in mock surprise, and his tone containing just a hint of sarcasm. “Colonel, I live in Berlin, I know we’re going to Heer Strasse, but where then?”
Kelly chuckled. Manteufel was a changed man. He imagined he could be good company after a few beers.
“I’m taking you to a safe house near the Olympic Stadium. There are a number of apartment blocks there, most of which are used as married quarters for British soldiers, but two blocks have been reserved for the families of German civilians in key military positions. You have been allocated one of the apartments temporarily, until you can get back on your feet. You’ll be safe there, surrounded by Senior Non-Commissioned Officers and their families.”
Manteufel shook his head. He was clearly shocked by what Kelly had told him. “But why are you doing this for me?”
“Well in the first place, I owe you, but don’t be deceived, my motives are not entirely altruistic. I need information—a lot of information—and I need your help to interpret that information.”
They both sat in silence as Kelly turned north off Heer Strasse before turning into a residential street and pulling up alongside one of the apartment blocks. Kelly was about to climb out of the car when a glance at Manteufel, who had made no effort to open the car door on his side, told him that something was wrong. He settled back into his seat.
“What’s the problem, Horst?”
“There are a number of things, Colonel. Please don’t think I’m ungrateful, but I’m worried about paying for this apartment,” Manteufel confessed. “What if I can’t get a job?”
“The rent will be taken out of your wages,” said Kelly matter-of-factly.
Manteufel stared at him, looking distinctly bemused. “What wages?” he asked, frowning.
“Ah! Sorry, Horst, I forgot to mention it. I have received a job offer for you from the CO of the RASC Squadron in Alexander Barracks. He’s desperate for good, well-qualified civilian drivers, and I noticed from your record that you qualified to drive heavy vehicles when you were serving in the Fallschirmjäger. Of course, you don’t have to take the job, if you can find something else which doesn’t involve the black market or moving people around Germany illegally.”
Again, Manteufel looked stunned.
“Anything else?” asked Kelly.
Manteufel hesitated. “The young soldiers I worked with in the bunker—privates and corporals—a few of them are still around in Berlin. We pretend not to recognise each other when we meet by chance. I couldn’t give then up, Colonel.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to, Horst. I’m after much bigger fish.”
“You mean Müller?”
“That’s precisely who I mean,” confirmed Kelly.
“I wouldn’t have a problem giving him up if I could,” said Manteufel. “Pure evil.”
“There is still something on your mind, I think.”
Manteufel sighed. “All that you have done for me is wonderful, but it means nothing without Gudrun and the children. I’m at my wits end wondering how I can get them out of the East. You know well that I can get in and out without too much trouble, but getting a woman and two children out past the Russians? That’s easier said than done.”
“You’ll think of a way, Horst, I’m sure of that. Come on, let’s look at this apartment.”
The apartment blocks were small, containing only four apartments, two on the ground floor and two on the first. Kelly led the way through the large central door and up the stairs, turning right at the top then fumbling in his pocket until he produced a key. Swinging the door open, he gestured to Manteufel to enter.
“In you go, soldier,” he said as he followed the German. A long hallway led to the living room with a bedroom and bathroom on one side, and another bedroom and kitchen on the other. Manteufel opened the door of the living room and stepped through, then stopped dead as if rooted to the spot. There in front of him stood Gudrun and the two children.
“How … why …” he began as he tried to talk, but gave up as his eyes filled with tears and he rushed into the arms of his wife, trying to embrace her and the two children at the same time.
Kelly started back down the corridor. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon, Horst,” he called over his shoulder, but he doubted if anyone heard.
The Wolf at the Door
Rahn and Sybilla drove away from the pottery in silence, travelling back around the riverside road. Glancing across at her, Rahn said, “You look pensive. Problem?”
“Fournier is suspicious. I don’t think he believes our account of events.”
Rahn chuckled. “Paul is a good man. He is also an excellent detective. I have no doubt that he knows exactly what went down at the pottery.”
“Doesn’t that bother you? Why did you not just tell the truth, that I fired the shot?”
Rahn shook his head. “Think about it. You are an alien in an extremely sensitive French protectorate. You have used a firearm to kill a man. Faced with that admission, Paul would have had no alternative but to initiate a full enquiry. This would have involved numerous telephone calls and letters to your security chiefs in London, plus formal written exchanges at embassy level, and all that time you would have been held in custody. At the end of it, you probably would have been exonerated, have received a perfunctory apology and a rather terse request to leave the protectorate.
“Me, on the other hand, I am a registered member of SDECE, known to the police and with authority to use lethal force in order to protect myself, or anyone else in the vicinity. Paul is well aware of that, and no action is required on his part other than a brief hearing before a magistrate.”
“Thank you,” said Sybilla, sounding thoroughly depressed. “You have certainly saved me a pile of trouble. I owe you one.”
“With the greatest respect, Agent Skadi, you owe me two!” Rahn said, laughing. Sybilla joined in, remembering the time in Berques during the war when she was undercover and posing as a German spy. Rahn had had the opportunity of shooting her but had deliberately fired wide to allow her time to escape.
“There’s a place up ahead where we can get a quick meal, which is usually edible, before we go on to the gendarmerie,” said Rahn, then added as an afterthought, “And remember, tell the same story you told at the pottery, and all will be well.”
When they arrived at the gendarmerie, Fournier was already there.
“We’ll have you in separate rooms, I think. I want all staff to see that the correct protocols are being followed.”
Sybilla was ushered into a small room with no windows, the only furnishing being a table and two wooden chairs. A young detective entered and sat opposite. He began by taking her details and raised his eyebrows when handed her MI5 section IIA credentials. Sybilla kept her answers short and to the point:
Yes, she was working with the French SDECE on this investigation, also the Protectorate Security Chief was aware of her presence in the Saarland. Sybilla wasn’t entirely sure about the latter, but her mission had been cleared at the highest level, so it was very likely
that he was aware.
Yes, she had witnessed the shooting.
Yes, Agent Rahn had fired the shot.
Yes, she had thought her life and that of Agent Rahn were in danger. The gunman had fired two shots before Agent Rahn fired back in self-defence.
The whole interview had taken no more than fifteen minutes and Sybilla was escorted back to the waiting area where she found Rahn and Fournier chatting.
“Have you been ‘done’ already?” she asked Rahn. Rahn glowered at Fournier from under his eyebrows.
“Yes, and this monster used thumbscrews and needles under the nails!”
Fournier, with a half-smile, replied, “Wolf, I think I would rather interview a chimpanzee.”
Rahn looked thoughtful for a moment. “Yes, I can understand that point of view.”
“Right!” said Fournier, becoming serious. “I have already telephoned a magistrate I know who is always extremely accommodating, and he will convene a hearing tomorrow morning. There is no need for either of you to attend. I will deliver your statements myself. However, please do not leave town until the hearing is concluded.”
“In any case,” he said, addressing Rahn, “I assume you will want to interrogate our other friend in the cells?”
“Let me interview him,” interposed Sybilla authoritatively. “I think I can get him to tell me what we want to know.”
Fournier looked quizzically at Rahn, who thought for a moment then nodded.
“Yes, I think that would be a good strategy,” he said.
“Paul, I wonder if I can ask you to do something for me, as way of preparation?” Sybilla asked.
“If it’s within my remit, then of course I will.”
“What is he likely to be charged with?” she asked.
“The best we can do is possession of an unlicensed firearm. He didn’t fire a shot and did not actually assault anyone, so that’s probably the best we can hope for.”
“Does he know that yet?” asked Sybilla.
“Not yet, I was just on my way to tell him.”
“Could you tell him that he is to be charged with the attempted murder of a policeman and the harbouring of a Nazi war criminal? Not actually charge him of course, just tell him that is what you intend to do once you’ve seen the magistrate tomorrow afternoon. Would that be stretching your remit too far?”
“It probably would, but I can see where you’re going with this. You want him to sweat?”
“I want him to sweat, and I don’t want him to sleep tonight. I want him to be tired, hungry and frightened when I meet with him tomorrow, so no food until I finish tomorrow afternoon. Water only, no coffee and no cigarettes.”
“Very well, Agent Skadi, I will ensure your instructions are followed to the letter,” said Fournier smiling. “I’ll now go and tell him the good news.”
Sybilla arrived at the gendarmerie promptly at 9.30 a.m. the following morning. Rahn had not yet arrived, and Fournier was at the law courts with the magistrate. She was greeted by the young detective she had met the previous night, who, being a Saarlander, carried the very German name of Hans Schuster. He informed her that he had received instructions from Fournier that she was to have access to the prisoner whenever she wished … and would she like a cup of coffee?
Sybilla sipped her coffee slowly then sat at a vacant desk and made notes in a folder.
A couple of hours later, she indicated to Schuster that she was ready to interview the prisoner. Motioning to a gendarme to follow, Schuster escorted Sybilla to the interview room, leaving her there while he and the gendarme unlocked the prisoner’s cell and escorted him to the interview room. Once Sybilla and the prisoner were sitting either side of the small wooden table, the detective left them, closing, but not locking, the door and instructing the gendarme to take up a position just outside, but not to enter unless called for by Agent Skadi.
Sybilla’s method was slow, deliberate and low key. She would ask a question, look up and try to make eye contact, pause, look down at her notes, then ask another question. She never raised her voice and kept it well modulated. The fact that she received no answers to any of her questions appeared a matter of indifference to her.
She started by asking the prisoner which language he preferred. She asked this in French, German and finally English. Receiving no response, she spoke to him thereafter in French. Sybilla then introduced herself as Agent Skadi of the Intelligence Service—she didn’t mention which—and proceeded to ask a series of mundane questions:
“What is your name?”
“Where do you live?”
“How old are you?”
“What nationality do you claim?”
“What was your deceased friend’s name?”
“What were you doing in the pottery?”
“Who did you expect to meet?”
And so on … she received no answer to any of the questions.
Having exhausted all her questions, she stared up at him, trying to make eye contact. Whenever their eyes met, he would look away immediately. Sybilla sat silently, staring for a full five minutes. The prisoner was clearly tired and, she sensed, a little fearful. He frequently fidgeted in his seat. Unhappy and uncomfortable, Sybilla thought. Good!
After the pause, she looked down at her notes and started asking exactly the same questions again, this time in German. As before, she received no answers. Having exhausted her questions a second time, she stood up.
“I’m going for something to eat now,” she said, turning towards the door. “I’ll see you again after lunch.”
“What about my lunch?” the prisoner asked. He spoke in German and sounded aggrieved and angry. “I haven’t eaten since midday yesterday!”
She turned back towards him. A breakthrough, contact, progress!
Sybilla assumed her unhappy, concerned face and body language, shaking her head as she spoke. “I’m sorry, ‘The Wolf’ has ordered that you are not to be fed.”
“Who or what is ‘The Wolf’?” he responded angrily. “I have the right to receive my meals!”
“You remember ‘The Wolf’? He was the one who captured you in the pottery.”
Oh yes! She could tell by the look on his face that he remembered ‘The Wolf’: the wild white mane, glowering eyes, long livid scar, mouth wide with the lips curled back in a snarl of fury. Yes! He remembered ‘The Wolf’, and probably would for a long time to come.
In a more subdued tone he asked, “Why can’t I eat, why doesn’t he want me to have a meal?”
Sybilla dropped her eyes and hesitated before she spoke, at one point half turning towards the door before turning back towards him. She spoke quietly, barely audible. “It’s just that … well, he may have to interview you himself this afternoon.”
“So?”
Sybilla was working her hands together. “The people he interviews usually end up vomiting, and he wants to try to avoid that.” Without another word she turned to the door and walked out of the cell, but not before glimpsing the look of naked fear that crossed the prisoner’s face!
When she entered the squad room, she found Fournier at his desk with Rahn sat opposite, conversing.
Pointing to the still empty desk she had used earlier, she asked, “Alright if I use this, Paul?”
“Of course, Agent Skadi, or may I call you Sybilla?”
“‘Billa’ will do, Paul. ‘Agent Skadi’ is so formal.”
“Well?” insisted Rahn, unable to control his impatience.
“Well, what?” asked Sybilla, looking puzzled.
“You know very well what! How goes the interview?”
“Quite good,” Sybilla responded. “I’ve scored three hits. I don’t think it will take much more.”
“By the way, Wolf,” she added as an afterthought, “you certainly make an impression on the people you meet.”
“Why, thank you,” said Rahn looking smug and brushing and imaginary speck of dust from his lapel.
“I didn’t mean it that way!” retorted S
ybilla while Fournier tried to stifle a snigger.
“I have good news for you, Billa,” said Fournier, composing himself. “Agent Rahn has been cleared of any wrongdoing in the shooting of the gunman at the Sarreguemines pottery factory. The magistrate has returned a finding of lawful homicide, so …” Fishing in his drawer, Fournier produced the Browning pistol. “I can now return this to its rightful owner,” he finished, and started walking towards Sybilla. Stopping suddenly, he threw his hand over his mouth and spun about. “Oh! I nearly forgot, this is your pistol, isn’t it, Wolf?”
“You know very well it is, Paul,” said Rahn, arching an eyebrow and wagging a finger at the detective.
Suppressing a smile as best she could, Sybilla rose. “Would either of you gallants be prepared to face the arctic blasts and escort a defenceless maiden to the nearest café for coffee and croissants?”
“Defenceless my—” Rahn began to say.
Smiling sadly, Fournier excused himself because of the backlog of paperwork. “It would help me greatly if you would take this creature opposite me with you,” he complained. “He’s a constant distraction.”
Rahn rose to his feet, placing one hand on his hip and the back of the other hand on his forehead, his head held high. “Very well, I go! I can no longer endure the taunts and abuse!” he said in a heroic voice, then half turning towards Fournier he held up a hand. “No! Do not try to stop me, Paul. I must go and face whatever is out there. Come, child!” he said, linking Sybilla’s arm. “We go!”
The two walked out of the door arm in arm, leaving Fournier at his desk smiling and shaking his head.
Sybilla was already sat at the table when the prisoner was escorted into the interview room a little after 2.30 p.m. She had left instruction that the prisoner should not be allowed to sleep during the midday break. He looked ghastly; tired, hungry and afraid.
As he had done earlier, the escorting gendarme closed but did not lock the door, taking up a position just outside. Sybilla glanced behind as if checking it was closed, reached across the table and placed her hand on the prisoner’s. He flinched slightly but did not draw it away.
Shadow Of Evil: Cold War Espionage Thriller (Dragan Kelly Book 2) Page 4
