by Alex Gerlis
‘You have a peephole in the door: observe us through that,’ said Edgar. ‘I’ll call out if I need you. But I promise you I’m very capable of looking after myself.’
The governor looked Edgar up and down: more than six feet tall and well-built. Alright.
Once they were alone, the two men sat on either side of the wooden table. Edgar glanced at his watch and removed a leather notebook and fountain pen from his jacket pocket. From another pocket he took out a silver cigarette case and offered one to the Austrian, who gratefully accepted. Edgar waited until they were both halfway through their cigarettes before he spoke. Until then he’d been carefully observing the other man through the blue-brown smoke.
‘Tell me your story, Baumgartner.’ Edgar spoke in German and when the Austrian replied in the same language he sounded more confident, his voice sounding more natural in the familiar Viennese sing-song accent.
‘I’m from Vienna, where I used to work for the von Rothschild Bank,’ he said. ‘I was an official in a department that handled the accounts of important private clients. The bank was owned by Jews and many of its clients were Jewish, but I was actually a member of the Nazi Party – I’d joined in 1934 after the failed putsch. I joined because I felt Austria needed firm direction and I was worried about the Communists, but I wasn’t a very active member. Naturally, I kept my membership secret; it wasn’t something my employers would have approved of.’
Baumgartner paused while Edgar lit another cigarette for him. He noticed the Austrian’s hands were trembling violently as he held it to the flame.
‘After the Anschluss in March 1938 the bank came under state control because of its Jewish ownership – and eventually it was sold to a German bank called Merck, Fink,’ Baumgartner continued. ‘Soon after that, I got a new job. Because of my membership of the Nazi Party I was appointed to what’s known as the Special Office, which is another name for Section lVB4 of the Gestapo – the section that deals with Jewish affairs. We were based in the Vienna Gestapo headquarters in the old Hotel Metropole on Morzinplatz. I don’t know if you know Vienna, but Morzinplatz is on the banks of the Danube Canal, a very agreeable location. My role was to assist in the confiscation of Jewish assets. I was in a very good position to identify them then arrange for them to be assigned to the state. May I have another cigarette please?’
Baumgartner had only half-finished his previous one, but as he’d been talking he’d jabbed it out in the tin ashtray in front of him. He leaned close to Edgar as the Englishman lit his cigarette. For a moment or two, the Austrian’s face was no more than an inch or two from his and Edgar was able to look into the unblinking eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot, full of fear but hard with determination.
‘I have to confess I retained some assets for myself – jewellery, gold, cash and details of accounts. Everyone in the Special Office seemed to be doing that, but the mistake I made was that I failed to be generous enough to my superiors. Eventually I was caught and given a stark choice: to face trial and a long prison sentence, or to co-operate. They told me I’d impressed them with my efficiency and manner, and with my ability to speak English they thought I’d be suitable for espionage work. This was how I became a Nazi spy.
‘I was given training and the identity of a Jew from Munich, can you believe? Arrangements were made for me to travel to Britain in early 1940. It was still possible then – the problem for Jews wishing to flee Germany was getting the papers to leave, which of course wasn’t a problem for me. I was able to secure a passage from France to England. But I’d no intention whatsoever of being a Nazi spy, that seemed to me to be far too dangerous an occupation and, in any case, I’d already made my own arrangements.’
There was a long silence. Edgar looked around the room, with its low bed, stained sink and chamber pot beneath it, the window set high in the wall; an appropriately miserable place to spend your last hours on earth. He knew better than to hurry the man sitting opposite him: it was a sight he was familiar with, the card player deciding when to reveal the rest of his hand.
‘The Gestapo had found me in possession of Jewish assets worth around 1,000 pounds in British money. But they didn’t know I’d also managed to hide a set of papers that belonged to a former client of mine; a Jewish businessman from Vienna called Leo Frankl. Frankl was a prominent figure in Vienna and he knew he was in danger. In late 1938 he planned to leave Austria under an Aryan identity and travel to Zürich, where I’d meet him and hand over the paperwork he’d entrusted to me – his passport and other documents, including proof of funds he’d deposited at the Lombard Street branch of Martins Bank in the City of London.’
Baumgartner paused and looked up nervously at Edgar, unsure of whether to continue. He only did so after edging his chair away from the table, as if putting himself out of the Englishman’s reach.
‘I know you’ll think badly of me for what I’m about to say, but if nothing else then at least it should show I’m telling the truth – why else would I incriminate myself? I’m ashamed to say that before Frankl could escape to Switzerland, I told the Gestapo of his plans and he was arrested. Apparently he died soon after.’
‘On the boat to England I destroyed the identity the Nazis had given me and used that of Leo Frankl to enter the country. The Nazis never heard from me again. I kept to myself and avoided mixing with Jews. I had to report to the local police station twice a week, but I had no other obligations other than that. I even found myself a job as a bookkeeper at a department store in central London. Fortunately for me, Herr Frankl had no immediate family, so I was able to withdraw the money from Martins Bank and live a discreet but well-funded life as a Jewish refugee in London. That was how I lived for almost three years.
‘All this changed in March. One Sunday morning I was enjoying a pleasant stroll in Regents Park when, apparently, I was spotted by a former client of mine – a Jew I should add – from the von Rothschild Bank. He not only recognised me as Walter Baumgartner, but was also well aware I’d been working for the Gestapo. He followed me back to my apartment then went to the police. I was arrested and they were able to establish that, whoever I was, I wasn’t Leo Frankl. A former neighbour of his and a distant cousin lived in London, and they were brought along to disprove my identity, along with the former client from the bank. I admitted I was Walter Baumgartner and thought the matter wouldn’t be treated too seriously. I thought they’d charge me with having used a false identity. But, foolishly, I’d retained some of the espionage equipment the Germans had given me, including invisible ink and addresses in Sweden to write to, and when the police searched my apartment they found that. I was a fool. I don’t know why I kept those. If I hadn’t, they’d have had no evidence against me.
‘Even then, my solicitor assured me that, as I’d not actually committed any espionage in England, I’d only receive a prison sentence. Even after I was sentenced to death he was still optimistic I’d be reprieved. You can’t imagine the shock when I heard yesterday there was no chance of that. So now I’ve a proposal to make, in exchange for my life.’
Edgar leaned back in the small chair and nodded at the Austrian. Continue.
‘The Nazis didn’t recover all the assets I stole from the Jews. There are more in a strongbox hidden in Vienna. I can tell you where that is.’ He looked at Edgar, trying to gauge his reaction.
‘What assets?’
‘Cash and jewellery.’
‘Total value?’
Baumgartner closed his eyes, trying to calculate how much money he was talking about. ‘Approximately the equivalent of 950 pounds sterling, possibly closer to 1,000.’
‘In Reichsmarks?’
‘Mostly. A small amount in Swiss Francs.’
‘You’re offering a bit of money and jewellery in exchange for your life?’
The Austrian offered a thin smile, a theatrical shrug of the shoulders and shook his head. ‘I’m not naive; there’s more than that, much more. I have an acquaintance in Vienna with whom I was what you may call a
collaborator in various ventures. We believed in protecting ourselves and using any means to do so. My friend runs a specialised business: he procures people for his clients to sleep with. By 1939 most of his clientele were senior SS and Gestapo officers, and important Austrian Nazi officials. And their tastes were very extreme, if that’s the right word. The Nazis seemed to have a taste for younger people and my friend was able to provide those; girls and boys, mostly around the age of 15, 16 – some younger. Very unpleasant, please don’t get me wrong – it’s not something I was directly involved in or even approved of. But my friend was clever. He had an apartment on Schulerstrasse, behind the cathedral, where he arranged for his clients to meet with the boys and girls. And he took the precaution of installing hidden cameras there, so he was able to photograph many of the Nazis in the most compromising of positions. He called them his insurance policies. There are copies of these photographs in my strongbox. That’s valuable information, wouldn’t you agree?’
Edgar had been making notes. He continued to write for a while before looking up at the Austrian. ‘And what else?’
‘How do you know there’s anything else?’
‘Because you’re negotiating with me for your life, Herr Baumgartner, and in my considerable experience people in your position don’t offer everything all at once.’
‘Have I not offered enough?’
Edgar shrugged. ‘Some money, a bit of jewellery and a few dirty photographs? That’s not enough to save your life, I’m afraid.’
‘There are two guns in the strongbox as well.’
‘What type?’
‘Semi-automatic pistols, Steyr-Hahns: Austrian army issue, from when we still had an army of our own. They’re less than five years old and in excellent condition.’
‘Ammunition?’
The Austrian nodded.
‘Describe it.’
‘Eight-round magazines, more than a hundred of them.’
Edgar said nothing while he lit another cigarette, this time not offering one to the man opposite him, who was beginning to look and sound desperate. ‘Just say we were interested, Herr Baumgartner – how would we get our hands on the strongbox?’
Baumgartner shifted uncomfortably in his chair then lowered his head to the table, between his handcuffed hands. When he eventually peered up, his eyes were even more bloodshot and his lips were quivering. He nodded towards Edgar’s cigarettes and allowed the Englishman to light another one for him.
‘The strongbox has been hidden for us by a mutual acquaintance, a man called Johann,’ he said. ‘In return for hiding the box, we deposited a large sum of money for him in a safety deposit box at the Creditanstalt bank in the 1st District, the main branch in Schottengasse. That box contains the equivalent of some 300 pounds sterling in Reichsmarks and requires four keys to open it. I have one, my friend has one and Johann has one. When someone presents themselves at Creditanstalt with the three keys, the bank will produce the fourth: that’s the only way they’ll allow access to the box. Apparently, it’s a system they’ve devised over many years because of Viennese families arguing with each other.’
‘Hang on,’ said Edgar. ‘Why didn’t you simply put everything in this safety deposit box in the bank, rather than involving Johann?’
‘Once the Nazis came to power the banks were required to be much stricter about what was being kept in their deposit boxes. Managers had to show they were aware of their contents. It’s alright for them to say a box contains cash or papers, but clearly guns…’
‘So where’s your key, Herr Baumgartner?’
The Austrian shrugged his shoulders. ‘If I’m reprieved I’ll tell you.’
‘And how do I know you’ll be telling the truth, Herr Baumgartner? You’re six hours from your execution; surely you’ll do anything you can just to save your life?’
‘That’s true, but if you act on the information I give you and find it’s not true then the deal will be null and void, and no doubt you’ll wish to proceed with the execution at some point in the future. You’ll know where I am.’
‘And how will you know to trust us?’
‘The letter telling me I wasn’t being reprieved was personally signed by the Home Secretary, Mr Morrison. I want a letter signed by him saying I am now reprieved. And I want one other thing with it, Mr Edgar: a magnifying glass.’
***
It was 3.15 when Edgar returned to the room on the ground floor of A Block and explained what Baumgartner had told him. The men from the Home Office shook their heads while Fowler from MI5 nodded appreciatively. The officer from Special Branch and the prison governor remained impassive. The Home Office man was the first to speak.
‘I can’t see any possible grounds for commuting the death sentence, certainly not now the Home Secretary has rejected Baumgartner’s plea for clemency. Even if there were grounds for considering it, what’s he offered – some money, jewellery, a couple of pistols and some filthy photographs? We can’t advise the Home Secretary to issue such a letter on those grounds. We may as well dispense with the courts and run things like the Nazis do.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure I remember your name?’ Edgar was addressing the Home Office man, the one who was the superior of Simons or Simmond. Edgar peered at him as if he’d only just noticed he was in the room.
‘Otter. Martin Otter.’
‘I take it, Mr Otter, that you’ve never served in the field of intelligence?’
Otter nodded tentatively.
‘So you’ll have no idea of the extremely perilous and exposed nature of operating in enemy territory,’ Edgar continued. ‘The agents we have operating inside Occupied Europe have very few resources they can rely upon, but at least they do get some help from resistance groups and sympathetic members of the local population. But the few agents we have operating inside the German Reich – which Austria is now part of – are in an even more dangerous predicament because they can’t rely on any assistance from the civilian population and there’s no resistance to speak of. If what Herr Baumgartner has told us is true, then I can’t tell you how valuable the contents of this strongbox would be. Agents need money, they need weapons and, above all, they need intelligence. You can’t appreciate unless you’ve worked in this area how hard these are to come by in hostile territory. Taking large sums of money and weapons into Austria is risky in the extreme: knowing where they’re stashed away would make an enormous difference.’
They argued until the clock behind the governor edged past 4.00: the Home Office adamant no reprieve could be offered, the two intelligence services insisting it was in British interests to do so. At 4.05, Edgar asked the governor if he could use a telephone. Twenty minutes later he returned to the room.
‘Mr Otter? The Home Secretary would like a word with you.’
A palpably crestfallen Otter returned to the room less than five minutes later, with all the appearance of a defeated man.
‘The letter from the Home Secretary will be ready within the hour I’m assured,’ he said. ‘A police car will collect it from the Home Office.’
The least surprised person in the room was Edgar. ‘We need to get Baumgartner’s solicitor along here as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘And a magnifying glass.’
***
Walter Baumgartner’s solicitor padded into the meeting room at 5.45 – around the time the first hints of the early morning sun were beginning to break through the fast-disappearing night clouds. Geoffrey Hayfield-Smyth was an extraordinary looking man: at least as tall as Edgar, but his painfully thin frame was quite hunched. He was bald apart from two wild tufts of hair on either side of his head and his eyes were sunk deep into their sockets, which in turn were overhung with thick eyebrows. His chin, which was specked with shaving rashes, merged into a long neck. This all contributed to a startled appearance. When he spoke it was in the kind of well-educated voice keen for the listener to understand the speaker’s innate superiority.
‘Why have I been brought here at this time?
The execution is not until 9.00. My instructions had been to arrive at 8.00.’ Hayfield-Smyth had been speaking to the governor, but it was Edgar who replied.
‘Mr Hayfield-Smyth, my name is Edgar and I represent a Government intelligence agency. Since you last saw Herr Baumgartner yesterday he’s been in touch with us to offer some important information.’
‘You mean you saw him without me being present?’
‘Under wartime regulations, Mr Hayfield-Smyth, you do not have the right to be present when a prisoner is being questioned by either of the intelligence services, I’m sure you’re aware of that. Can I ask, do you have with you the letter from Mr Morrison informing you the appeal for clemency has been rejected?’
The solicitor rummaged around in his briefcase and handed an envelope to Edgar, who opened it and read the letter. From another envelope, Edgar produced another letter and handed it to Hayfield-Smyth.
‘Would you care to read this please?’
‘Out loud?’
‘If you please.’
The solicitor glanced at the letter with a growing look of shock on his face then cleared his throat before reading at what sounded like dictation speed.
‘Dear Mr Hayfield-Smyth,
‘I am writing subsequent to my letter of the 12th, informing you that I saw no grounds to justify not proceeding with the execution of your client, Walter Baumgartner. It has since come to the attention of the Home Office that your client has been able to be of very considerable assistance to His Majesty’s Government and, in light of this development I am pleased to inform you that I have reviewed my original decision and am now able to commute the original sentence from one of death to a term of 18 years imprisonment. I would be grateful if you could inform your client of this decision without delay.
Yours sincerely,
Herbert Morrison
Home Secretary
Long after he’d finished reading the letter, Hayfield-Smyth continued to stare at it in apparent disbelief. He looked around the room: at Edgar, at the prison governor, the two men from the Home Office and the man from MI5.
