by Alex Gerlis
‘You have something?’
‘Possibly sir. A very helpful lecturer at the university looked at the list and the names made sense to him as soon as he saw them.’
‘Go on.’
The younger man removed a notebook from his jacket pocket and thumbed through the pages. ‘They’re all rivers, sir.’
‘What are?’
‘Those words Frieda gave us: Lethe, Acheron, Cocytus and Styx. The lecturer recognised them straight away. He’s to be trusted by the way, sir – he’s a party member and he told me about a lecturer in the physics department he suspects may have a Jewish grandfather.’
Strobel shook his head as if he was missing something. ‘And where are these rivers, Strasser? They don’t sound like they’re anywhere in the Reich.’
‘Hell, sir. They’re all the rivers of Hades – the underworld. That must have been why Frieda said “Hades” just before she died.’
Chapter 3
Bern, May 1942
For Basil Remington-Barber, the first Monday of each month was sacrosanct. More to the point, lunchtime on the first Monday of each month was sacrosanct and, inevitably, what little remained of its afternoon.
So, a shade before 12.30 on that first Monday of May, MI6’s head of station at the British Embassy in Bern placed the papers on his desk in a safe and prepared to leave his office, ostensibly that of the Commercial attaché. He drew the blinds and carefully locked the door to his office before saying goodbye to his secretary in the outer office and walking down to the ground floor, a definite spring to his step. He’d leave the embassy in Thunstrasse in the east of the city and walk towards the Old Town, allowing plenty of time to ensure he wasn’t being followed. All being well, he’d then cross the River Aar on Kirchenfeldbrücke, his favourite bridge in Bern, which he never tired of pointing out to people was built by a British company (‘1883 – just a little before my time!’).
Once across the bridge it would be a short walk through the Old Town to Kreuzgasse where, in a basement deep beneath a magnificent medieval building, was the finest restaurant Remington-Barber had ever been to. It was more like a private dining club: customers were only admitted with a prior reservation and were required to ring a bell to be admitted by an elderly man in a heavy dark suit. A guest would then be escorted to a table, following the suited man through a network of low-ceilinged corridors. Each table was set into its own alcove from which it was impossible to either see or hear anything of any of the other tables.
The cuisine was French, ‘but better than anything you can get in France these days’, as his host never failed to remark. It was rare for Remington-Barber not to start with foie gras followed by either venison or veal for his main course. But the highlight of the meal was the wine, always a different red from one of the finest French vineyards. The wine was never ordered, as such. A bottle would appear before each course, invariably covered in a layer of dust testifying to its vintage. And after the dessert and coffee, a bottle of Bas Armagnac would be produced. It was quite the most perfect drink Remington-Barber had ever experienced: sharp enough at first for the full flavour to be appreciated then a warm sensation of wellbeing would spread through him and, for the next two or three hours, he’d oblige his generous host with as much information as he felt able to share, only just managing to stay on the safe side of discretion.
His host was an improbably young American called Jack J Clarke who ran what passed for the US intelligence operation out of its embassy in Bern. Jack J Clarke had arrived in the Swiss capital at the beginning of the year, just a month after the US had entered the war. He went about his role with an air of bemusement and confusion, his qualifications for the job apparently having more to do with his father’s generosity to President Roosevelt than any obvious skills or experience in intelligence. But his operation was a well-funded one and he did have a willingness to learn. He came to rely heavily on Remington-Barber: in return for lunch, the older man would throw titbits of intelligence to his younger counterpart. Whatever you do Basil, show willing, the Ambassador had told him soon after America joined the war and Jack J Clarke arrived in town. Co-operate with them: make them feel wanted. Winston absolutely insists on it.
But on this first Monday of May not one drop of Bas Armagnac passed his lips. Remington-Barber didn’t cross into the Old Town and got nowhere near the restaurant beneath the medieval building on Kreuzgasse. He didn’t even make it as far as the Kirchenfeldbrücke. In fact, Remington-Barber didn’t even leave the embassy. He was about to leave the secure part of the ground floor when he was approached by one of the security officers.
‘Someone to see you, sir. Insists on seeing you today.’
‘Impossible, Jarvis. I’ve an important meeting. Marjorie’s in the office. Ask her to come down and make an appointment with him.’
‘It’s a lady, sir. She said to tell you she’s from Germany, sir. She seems awfully nervous, sir.’
‘Has she given a name?’
‘She just said to say the word “Milo” to you, sir.’
Remington-Barber didn’t reply as he did his best to compose himself before gently pushing open the door that led into the reception just far enough for him to be able to see in. Sitting on a bench in the shadows to the side of the waiting area was a lady in her early thirties; elegant and composed, her gloved hands neatly folded on her lap. Though it was hard to make out her features, he had little doubt it was her. Remington-Barber stood back against the wall and breathed deeply. Until that moment he’d believed the person waiting for him in reception had been killed by the Gestapo in Stuttgart more than a year ago.
Five minutes later lunch had been cancelled and she was sitting opposite him in his office. ‘Milo,’ he said, repeating her code name a number of times as he reassured himself he wasn’t sitting in the same room as a ghost. ‘I thought you were dead, Milo. Tell me what happened.’
Katharina Hoch, the woman Remington-Barber was calling Milo, was sitting very still, a nervous smile on her face. Her dark hair was immaculate and she was wearing bright-red lipstick. When she spoke it was very quietly and in German: Remington-Barber had to lean across his desk to catch everything she said.
‘I very nearly was dead, but I managed to get out of Germany. May I smoke?’
‘Of course, please.’ Remington-Barber’s hands were shaking as he fumbled for a lighter and held the flame unsteadily in front of her. She’d removed her gloves now and one of her bare hands clasped the English diplomat’s as she lit her cigarette.
‘I managed to escape from Stuttgart that day. I came straight to Switzerland, by train.’
‘But that was over a year ago, Katharina. Why on earth did you wait till now to contact me?’ Where did you go once you got into Switzerland?’
‘I went to Lucerne,’ said Katharina. ‘I’ve a friend there, a very close friend I totally trust. She left Germany after ’33 and married a Swiss man. I’ve been staying with her ever since.’
‘But why didn’t you contact me?’
‘Because I didn’t want to do anything till I’d heard what’d happened to my brother. When we parted at Stuttgart station we agreed we’d head in separate directions. It was only last Friday I received a telegram from him in Barcelona. I don’t know all his circumstances, but he’s safe. Until I’d heard from him, I couldn’t trust anyone. Not even the British, Mr Remington-Barber.’
Katharina paused and took one final drag on her cigarette before stubbing it out in a heavy glass ashtray on the desk. ‘Do you consider it too early for a drink, Mr Remington-Barber? I know the English have rules about these things.’
He was grateful for the opportunity and poured two measures of whisky, his somewhat more generous than hers. It was as welcome as the Bas Armagnac he’d have been drinking that afternoon in more expected circumstances.
Katharina smiled for the first time, her teeth flashing behind the bright-red lipstick. When she’d finished speaking she held her arms out, as if to say, ‘And here I am.’
‘Do you need money?’
‘Well, I’ve obviously not been able to get a job and my friend…’
The diplomat stopped her speaking. ‘Naturally we owe you money. You’re not to worry. Are you willing to continue working for us?’
She nodded.
‘You’re sure, are you – after what you’ve been through?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Good. I’ll sort you out with some decent papers. We’d better get you a Swiss identity. You’ll appreciate that takes time.’
‘When would I start working for you?’
‘Possibly not for a while,’ said Remington-Barber. ‘But don’t worry. I’m sure something will crop up.’
‘In the meantime, I’d like to do something useful,’ said Katharina. ‘I’ve been so bored this past year.’
‘Am I correct in recalling that you trained as a nurse, Fraulein Hoch – before you worked at the hotel?’
‘That’s right, you’ve a good memory. I completed my training but only worked in a hospital for a few months. I decided I’d rather work in a hotel.’
‘I’ll sort your Swiss identity out as soon as possible and make sure it includes nursing accreditation. Get a job in a hospital: you never know when it’ll come in handy.’
Chapter 4
London, July 1943
The second Tuesday of July was just minutes old when the police car sent to collect him sped past Kings Cross station and turned left, accelerating hard as it headed north up the Caledonian Road. The little moon there was that night remained mostly hidden behind banks of cloud, the otherwise black sky punctuated by the searchlight beams tracking it. A few minutes earlier, as he’d waited outside his flat behind Victoria Street, he’d heard the sound of anti-aircraft fire in the far distance and the noise of heavy explosions to the north east.
The man sitting next to him in the back seat shifted uncomfortably close. He’d met him before, but he was the type of person whose name you easily forgot: Simons, or Simmond or something like that – a civil servant elevated way beyond his natural levels of competence thanks to the war. Now Simons or Simmond leaned even nearer, his sour breath an unpleasant mixture of stale milk, strong tobacco and poor hygiene.
‘Sorry about this Edgar. It may turn out to be a wild goose chase.’
‘Sorry about what?’ Edgar edged closer to the door but the man from the Home Office edged along with him.
‘About waking you and dragging you along here and all that.’
Edgar shrugged. He was used to the likes of Simons or Simmond and the way they acted with Edgar and others from MI6: a mixture of uncertainty and awe.
‘And apologies for asking you this, Edgar, but you’re fluent in German, aren’t you? Porter said you’d be just the chap.’
‘I’m fluent in German, yes.’
There was a pause, during which the man from the Home Office noisily wiped his nose first with one sleeve then the other. ‘How fluent, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Fluent,’ replied Edgar, angling his head towards the window, making it clear he was in no mood to be any more helpful than he needed to be.
‘I know, but there’s fluent… and fluent.’ The man from the Home Office wasn’t giving up.
‘Perhaps you could explain the difference between fluent and fluent, eh? They sound very much the same to me.’
‘What I mean… what I’m trying to say… is, well, are you fluent enough to understand every nuance of a native German speaker?’ He heavily emphasised the word ‘nuance’ as if especially pleased with it.
Edgar turned round to face Simons or Simmond, whose shoulder was now more or less touching his. ‘Yes.’
‘Good. Porter said you speak it like a native. When were you last there, if I may ask?’
‘Where?’
‘Germany.’
Edgar turned to face the Home Office man once again. ‘Two years ago.’
‘Good heavens!’
***
Pentonville Prison was set directly on the Caledonian Road, behind surprisingly low walls. Edgar and his escort were expected: a police officer at the gate waved the Jaguar through and directed it to an inner courtyard, where a man in a suit was waiting for them. They were taken to a narrow room on the ground floor of A Block, where half a dozen men were crammed around a narrow table, with two empty chairs waiting for them. The air was thick with smoke and in the yellow glow cast by the single lightbulb everyone appeared unnaturally pale. It reminded Edgar of one of those ghastly séances his mother had insisted on going to after his father died.
Fowler from MI5 did the introductions: MI5, MI6, Special Branch and the Home Office. The final man he introduced was the governor of the prison, who made a meal of coughing and clearing his throat before he spoke. ‘Walter Baumgartner was arrested in March this year as a German spy and tried in camera at the Old Bailey last month,’ he said. ‘He was found guilty of espionage on the 18th June and sentenced to death, after which he was transferred here. He’s due to be executed at 9.00 this morning.’ The governor paused, coughed nosily once more and peered at a fob watch on a chain he’d produced from his jacket pocket. ‘In a little more than eight hours’ time,’ he added.
A brief silence followed before Fowler from MI5 spoke. ‘And maybe you could tell us what’s happened in the past few hours that’s led to us all being assembled here?’
‘Baumgartner only heard yesterday afternoon that his final appeal for clemency had been turned down,’ said the governor. ‘His solicitor came to see him with the letter from the Home Secretary and explained there was nothing more that could be done. In my experience, at this point, most men resign themselves to their fate or at least withdraw into themselves. Not Baumgartner. He’s been no end of trouble and at one stage had to be restrained by the warders. He refused to see a priest and wouldn’t write any last letters. Then at around 7.00 last night he insisted on seeing me alone. He told me he’d important information to pass on to British intelligence and insisted on someone being brought to the prison to see him. I asked him to give me some idea of what he was on about, but he was adamant he’d only speak to someone from intelligence and he refuses to see anyone from either Special Branch or MI5 as he blames them for the predicament he’s in. He wants to see someone from MI6, which is why you’re here Edgar. I must say that these circumstances are really most unusual.’
‘I think there’s a rather crucial point you omitted?’ said Fowler.
‘You’re quite right, I’m sorry,’ said the governor. ‘Baumgartner says he’s important information to pass on to our intelligence service. His condition for this is he’s granted a reprieve.’
There was loud muttering around the table. The man from Home Office, who was clearly senior to Simons or Simmond, was red-faced with anger when he spoke. ‘That’s completely out of order and I can assure you it can’t possibly be permitted to happen. The judicial process had been followed and, unlike the Nazis, we’re bound by the rule of law. Once the Home Secretary has turned down an appeal for clemency then no grounds remain for it to be overturned. What’s more, his solicitor will know that and will undoubtedly advise him accordingly.’
‘But at the very least,’ said Fowler from MI5, ‘we need to hear what he has to say. It’s for us’ – he was now staring directly at the man from the Home Office – ‘to judge the value of what intelligence he may have to offer. I would remind you that good intelligence can save many thousands of lives and can have a significant impact on the outcome of the war. Edgar, you’ll need to go in and see him to hear what he has to say. Then we can form a view.’
The man from the Home Office was half out of his chair, his fists banging the table. ‘But this is ridiculous! Why’s this man decided to tell us this now? He’s so desperate to save his skin that he’s going to come up with some nonsense we’ll be expected to believe. I can’t believe we’re playing along with this charade!’
‘May I speak?’ Edgar’s voice wasn’t loud but it h
ad an unusual authority to it, one that caused everyone in the room to turn their attention to him. ‘My colleague from the Security Service is quite correct, good intelligence is worth its weight in gold, it’s hard to underestimate how vital it can be to the war effort. At the very least I need to assess what he has to say then we can decide what to do. And I can assure you…’ Edgar was now looking directly at the man from the Home Office, ‘… I’m most experienced at knowing when someone’s telling me the truth and when they’re lying.’
***
The governor escorted Edgar to the condemned cell on the first floor of A Block. Two dark-suited wardens were outside the cell and, on the governor’s instructions, unlocked it. Two more guards were at a table in the surprisingly large cell, both facing a man who was sitting on the bed, his head in his hands.
‘Get up, Baumgartner,’ said the governor. ‘You asked to see someone. Here he is.’
The man who rose from the bed was of medium height and an average build, his dark, lank hair not unlike that of his fellow Austrian Adolf Hitler, but he was clean-shaven. His complexion was almost white, as if fear had already taken a grip on him. His eyes, mouth, nose and even ears all had a red hue to them.
‘Thank you, you can all leave now,’ Edgar said to the governor.
‘I’m afraid we’re not allowed to leave a condemned man alone.’
‘He won’t be on his own. I’m here.’
‘It has to be just the two of us,’ said Baumgartner, his voice higher-pitched than Edgar had expected; his English heavily accented.
