by Alex Gerlis
‘And this is genuine, is it?’
‘It’s quite genuine, Mr Hayfield-Smyth. The Home Secretary himself signed the letter less than an hour ago. What you’ll need to do is accompany myself and the governor up to see Herr Baumgartner, where you’ll assure him of the veracity of this letter and that his life has been reprieved.’
The solicitor read the letter once more then allowed his head to drop in a resigned manner. He started to speak, then shook his head.
‘The point is,’ said Edgar, leaning over to Hayfield-Smyth, ‘your client has been able to indicate he can be of considerable help to us. But he’ll only do so when he’s satisfied he’ll not be executed.’
***
It was a little after 8.30 when they entered the condemned cell. It was already a warm July morning and blades of sunlight were piercing through the high window, giving the room an ethereal quality. Baumgartner was sitting at the table, playing cards with one of the three wardens in the room. He sat up with a start when the governor entered the room, Edgar and Hayfield-Smyth in his wake. Edgar noticed the prisoner was peering behind them, clearly concerned at whoever may be following. The governor instructed the warders to leave the cell and wait in the corridor. Edgar had to nudge Hayfield-Smyth to sit down in front of his client. When he finally did so, he removed the letter from the Home Secretary and showed it to the man sitting opposite him.
‘It’s a letter granting you a reprieve, Herr Baumgartner.’
Edgar wasn’t sure how convincing Hayfield-Smyth sounded. The Austrian said little, but he did lean over to the small table beside his bed to collect a dictionary. For a few minutes he carefully read the letter, from time to time checking the translation.
‘And this is official?’
The solicitor hesitated before nodding.
‘It couldn’t be more official, Herr Baumgartner,’ added Edgar. From his pocket he removed a magnifying glass and handed it to the Austrian.
‘Ah, you remembered. Good. Mr Hayfield-Smyth, please could I see the letter you showed me yesterday?’
For a few minutes Baumgartner examined both letters, nodding silently to himself. ‘What I’d not told you was I’m an expert in checking documents. When I worked for the von Rothschild Bank I was often the person who examined documents in case they were forgeries. Not only can I distinguish a fake signature from a genuine one, but I can also tell if a letter has been typed on the same machine. These two letters have been typed on the same machine, on the same paper and signed by the same person.’
‘So you’re satisfied, Herr Baumgartner?’
‘What is the time please? I cannot understand why I’m not allowed a watch or why there’s no clock in here.’
‘I’m afraid it’s our practice not to have clocks or watches in a condemned cell,’ said the governor.
‘So I’m still a condemned man?’
‘No,’ said Edgar calmly. ‘That letter makes it clear you’ve been reprieved, does it not Mr Hayfield-Smyth?’
Hayfield-Smyth nodded slowly.
‘So what’s the time?’
‘Ten to nine.’
‘I need more time to think. Come back in an hour.’
***
An hour later Edgar was on his own in the condemned cell with the Austrian, who no longer looked as if he was consumed by fear. ‘For some reason, I trust you,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ said Edgar.
‘But then, it’s not as if I have much alternative, is it?’
Edgar said nothing. His experience told him that when the fish had the bait in its mouth, he should stop pulling.
‘You’ve still got your notebook?’ asked Baumgartner.
Edgar nodded and removed it from his pocket then placed it on the table between them, his pen poised.
‘Good, listen carefully. The friend I told you about is called Wilhelm. To make contact with him, go to the Café Demel on Kohlmarkt, very near the Hofburg Palace. Wilhelm breakfasts at Demel every morning: he never arrives before 9.00 but is always there by 9.30. He sits at a small table that’s on its own towards the back, in front of the kitchen where they prepare the pastries – which you can see through the glass windows. He’s a tall man, about your height but much thinner and he wears round spectacles. He’s around 35, but looks younger. He’ll drink a lot of coffee – or whatever they’re calling coffee these days – and smoke non-stop. Can I have a piece of paper, please?’
Edgar tore a sheet out of his notebook and passed it to the Austrian, who wrote a few words on it and handed it back to Edgar.
‘When you see him, ask one of the waitresses to pass this note to him. He’ll know then he’s to trust you, or whoever you send. Follow him from the restaurant and arrange when to go to the location of the strongbox, each with your own key.’
‘And where’s your key?’
‘May I have another sheet of paper?’
From his briefcase Edgar found a large plain sheet of paper and a pencil. He placed both on the table in front of Baumgartner.
‘In the 10th District there’s a church called St Anton of Padua. It’s a Catholic church – most of them in Vienna are. The church is just off Favoriten Strasse and is easy to find, it’s a simple tram ride from the centre. The church has rather attractive gardens surrounding it and towards the rear, close to Antonsplatz, is a statue of St Anton. Now, look at my diagram, here – about one yard in this line from the statue, I’ve buried the key. It’s wrapped in oilskin and buried in a small tin. Poke a spike down until you hit the tin then dig it out with a trowel. Because of its position near the statue, the person retrieving the key can kneel down and look as if they’re praying. There’ll be another key in the tin, for a padlock that’s on the strongbox.’
Baumgartner finished the diagram and pushed the sheet of paper towards Edgar.
‘The strongbox itself is hidden somewhere in a hat shop on Wiedner Hauptstrasse in the 4th District, just to the south of the Opern Ring – just a block or two away from the naschmarkt. Wilhelm will accompany you or your representative, but I ask there are no more than two of you. The store opens at 8.30 in the morning, but for the first hour Johann is alone, every day apart from Wednesdays. He’s short and rather fat, and walks with a very bad limp – an injury from the Great War – so there’s no chance he’s been conscripted. Johann knows he’s only to allow access to the strongbox if Wilhelm is present; it’s another measure we’ve agreed to ensure one of us doesn’t take the box without the other being there. Wilhelm should introduce the other person as his friend from Gleisdorf, which is a town near Graz. Johann will ask what kind of a hat they’d like and they must respond by saying they’d like a hat that’s suitable for both church and hunting. You have all that?’
Edgar glanced up from his note-taking, his cigarette still lit between his lips.
‘Johann will then show Wilhelm and the other person to where the strongbox is. At this point you hand over the two bank keys to him. He’ll go back into the shop and you and Wilhelm can open the box, remove the contents then leave.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘That’s it: money, gold, jewellery, the photographs, guns… is that not enough?’ Baumgartner leaned back in his chair. ‘Do you have the time?’
Edgar checked his watch. ‘It’s just gone 10.20.’
The Austrian chuckled. ‘I should have been dead over an hour ago!’
Edgar smiled.
‘I’d be relieved if they could move me out of this cell as soon as possible. You’ll understand I feel rather uncomfortable here.’
***
In the room on the ground floor Edgar was brief and to the point, and when he’d finished the man called Otter from the Home Office sounded affronted.
‘So you won’t tell us what he actually said?’
Edgar shook his head.
‘In the world of intelligence it’s a case of who needs to know, Mr Otter,’ said Fowler from MI5. ‘And I’m afraid you don’t. The point is Edgar’s satisfied. That’s eno
ugh.’
‘Right then,’ said the governor, rising slowly from his chair and gathering his papers from in front of him. ‘I think we all know what needs to happen now. Edgar, will you be joining us?’
Edgar shrugged. ‘I think I’d better.’
Edgar, Fowler and Otter followed the governor as he left the room, and waited in a corridor while he entered a small office, emerging minutes later with a shocked-looking Hayfield-Smyth. The five of them silently climbed the stairs to the first floor and through a series of doors until they found themselves in the narrow corridor outside the condemned cell. Edgar noticed Otter had a hand on the solicitor’s elbow, as if supporting him. There they waited for a few minutes, the governor looking at his watch throughout. At 10.59 a door at the end of the corridor opened and a warden led two men in civilian clothes towards them. The first man was short and dapper, the man behind him much taller and thicker-set. The first man nodded to the governor, who looked once more at his watch and waited a few seconds before nodding.
Even Edgar marvelled at the speed and efficiency of what happened next. The governor opened the cell door and the two men in suits entered very fast, the others following.
Walter Baumgartner appeared to have just stood up. Two of the guards moved to either side of him and the short, dapper man walked smartly behind a clearly startled Baumgartner with a leather strap in his hand. He quickly tied the Austrian’s hands behind his back and said, ‘Follow me’. While this was going on, a door on a side wall had been opened and Baumgartner was now being marched through it. Edgar, along with the governor, Hayfield-Smyth and Otter from the Home Office followed. They were now in a large room, most of which was taken up with a wooden platform, around which there was room for people to stand behind wooden railings. Edgar noticed a few people already there. Above the platform, hung from a beam, was a gleaming white rope with a stiff noose at its end.
Only then, when he saw the rope, did Baumgartner react. Nein! Sie liegen Bastarde! Verdammt nochmal!
The two wardens positioned the Austrian on a ‘T’ chalked on the floor. As they did that, the tall man in a suit was strapping Baumgartner’s ankles together. He was still shouting ‘nein’, and looking around the room and beginning to struggle. For a second, no more than that, his eyes locked on Edgar’s, furious with loathing. The shorter man now produced a white hood from his pocket and pulled it over Baumgartner’s head. In what seemed like the same move, he placed the noose over the man’s head, tightening its knot below the left ear. Within a second the hangman sprang back, reached over to a lever and pulled it hard. There was a bang as the trapdoors opened and the body of Walter Baumgartner shot from sight. All that remained visible was the white rope, now taut and slowly swaying.
For a few seconds there was complete silence. The short man broke it when he spoke to the governor. ‘How long?’
‘Twenty-three seconds.’
The hangman shook his head. ‘Longer than usual I’m afraid sir: that two-hour delay didn’t help. Anyone know what he was saying?’
‘Gist is he wasn’t altogether happy with us,’ said Edgar, his voice less confident than usual. ‘Called us bastards. And liars.’
***
Ten minutes later in the governor’s office the small group who’d witnessed the execution sat in silence; glasses of whisky trembling gently in their hands and spirals of cigarette smoke rising above them.
‘Well, he was right, wasn’t he?’
‘Who was, Otter?’
‘Baumgartner. You said he called us liars and bastards. We were.’
Edgar looked nonplussed. ‘Well, that’s our line of work, is it not? End justifies the means and all that. It was the only way of getting the information he was offering, you know that Otter. Even the Home Secretary understood what we were doing, which is why he agreed to the letter. It could result in saving many British lives. What Baumgartner had to tell us could turn out to be of the most enormous help to our network in Vienna.’
Everyone had now stood up, ready to leave. Edgar walked over to the solicitor. ‘One thing, Mr Hayfield-Smyth: that letter from the Home Secretary, about the reprieve…’
‘What about it?’
‘Could you give it to me please?’
***
Edgar and Fowler left the prison together, the glorious sunshine bouncing off Pentonville’s walls. ‘Unnaturally quiet, isn’t it Fowler?’
‘Always like this on the day of an execution apparently, Edgar: no doubt gets the prisoners thinking about their own mortality.’
‘Not just the prisoners,’ said Edgar. ‘Come on, we ought to find a taxi on the Caledonian Road. That chap from the Home Office offered me a lift back but I couldn’t bear the thought of another minute in his company.’
‘Quite understand, but no need for a taxi,’ said Fowler. ‘The number 14 bus goes direct to Piccadilly Circus. Look Edgar, I’m not questioning what happened, but I presume it was absolutely necessary to go ahead with the execution? I’m just worried if this gets out, somehow. Baumgartner did give us all that information, after all.’
‘Completely necessary: assuming what he told us was true, we could hardly risk having him alive and jeopardising that information, could we? Who knows who he’d tell? Too many fascists in the prison system.’
They’d now reached the bus stop. ‘Well, let’s hope he was telling the truth,’ said Fowler.
A number 14 bus showing Putney as its destination was pulling in.
‘Oh, he was telling the truth alright.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Gut instinct – I’ve learnt to sense when someone’s lying. Must be the same with you, Fowler. Plus his reaction when he realised he was about to die: he was genuinely aggrieved. And also, if he was lying, I think he’d have embellished a lot more – offered us the crown jewels, so to speak.’
‘Well, so long as it’s of some help. Every little bit counts, eh? One other thing Edgar: you mentioned about our network in Vienna. I didn’t realise we still have one there?’
Edgar waited until they’d seated themselves on the top deck, out of the earshot of other passengers, before replying.
‘That’s the thing Fowler: we don’t.’ Edgar removed his wide-brimmed trilby and placed it carefully on his lap. ‘Not yet, at any rate.’
Chapter 5
Vienna and the Vatican, December 1943
In the second half of 1943, somewhere between the fourth full summer of the war and its fifth winter, Sister Ursula was overwhelmed with such a profound sense of fear and self-doubt that she abandoned her resistance work.
She would, she decided, avoid any contact with the British: she’d not go anywhere near the dead-letter drops, she’d keep away from the other places where messages might be passed on to her and she’d ignore the one or two remaining contacts she’d been nurturing. The best course of action, she concluded, was to do nothing and hopefully they’d forget about her and leave her alone. She had, she reasoned, done her bit. No one could accuse her of cowardice.
Until she stopped working for the British she’d not quite appreciated the impact doing so had been having on her. The fear that overwhelmed her had been easier to deal with because it was more understandable, more tangible. She was working as an agent for British intelligence in a city that rivalled and possibly outdid Munich in its enthusiasm for the Nazis. Her nun’s habits offered little protection: since their arrival in 1938 the Nazis had been increasingly hostile to the Catholic Church. At best it was something of a disguise; people still associated nuns with innocence and treated them with a degree of respect. It would have been more worrying had she not been fearful.
But the self-doubt was far more difficult for her to understand and cope with. She wondered why she was risking her life and possibly putting colleagues in danger. She reached the stage where she was constantly questioning her own motives. She asked her Mother Superior whether it was possible for a person to be truly altruistic. ‘If someone devotes their life to others,’ Moth
er Superior had told her, ‘then we can’t deny that somewhere in their soul they’re getting some kind of satisfaction from that. Maybe that’s God’s reward. We shouldn’t question it.’
She was assured, too, at confession. ‘Ah, is it an indulgence to help others because in doing so one gets a sense of having done good? I’m asked that question many times.’
The confession box had a musty, unpleasant odour to it and the priest on the other side of the grille was elderly and had kept blowing his nose loudly. She’d an urge to tell him the good she was doing went far beyond her devotion to prayer and charity, and exceeded her tireless nursing of the sick. He’d have been horrified if she’d confided in him just a small amount of her activities: how she helped people escape from the Nazis, how she carried messages and even weapons. How some of the people she helped were probably communists, certainly atheists. But she’d have no more confided in him than she would have written to the Vienna Gestapo to inform them of her activities. She simply said nothing more other than how she felt her soul was in torment.
‘Remember the wise words of Silouan of Athos,’ the priest told her. He sounded as if he was chewing as he spoke. ‘Keep thy mind in hell and despair not.’
And by December she felt better: her appetite had returned, she was sleeping better in the little time she had for it and she felt more fulfilled by her work at the hospital. She was, she realised, a very good nurse. Perhaps a better nurse than she was a nun, certainly a better nurse than a spy.
But if at any time during those three months she’d allowed herself to be honest with herself she’d have perhaps admitted that as good as she was at being a nurse and a nun, the world of espionage was one she feared she could never truly leave.
And sure enough, she was now back in it. She’d crossed the Gürtel, Vienna’s outer ring road, and into the more desirable area on the outskirts of the city on the way to the Vienna Woods. Here there were more trees and parks and the houses were bigger and liked to style themselves as villas.
