by Alex Gerlis
From a folder in front of him Edgar removed a photograph of a distinguished man. ‘You’re aware of who Hubert Leitner is?’
‘Of course,’ said Sir Roland. Porter nodded in concurrence.
‘No one had heard anything about Leitner since late ’38, soon after the Nazis moved in to Austria. There were rumours he’d been killed trying to cross the border in Slovenia but nothing we could be sure of. Naturally we have a very active interest in him: he’s undoubtedly Austria’s most important and most respected politician. And it appears we may have found him.’
‘Really?’ Sir Roland and Porter spoke in unison.
‘Basil Remington-Barber was approached in Bern by a Swiss diplomat who’d been based at the Swiss consulate in Vienna. This chap had been in contact with Leitner in Vienna and had even arranged a safe house for him. Now the diplomat is being transferred to Madrid, so he’s asked us to look after Leitner – who, it seems, wishes to work with us. That, of course, is something of a coup: whatever happens, we must make sure neither the Nazis nor the Communists get their hands on him. First priority is to move Leitner to another safe house, one only we know about. We’ve managed to get George’s nun working on that but how much we can rely on her in the future, I’m really not sure…’
‘One cannot overestimate,’ said Whitlock, in between coughing, ‘just how important this is. In my opinion, it’s vital we get to Leitner as soon as possible. We’ve heard what Christopher has to say about the Soviets’ designs on Austria. If this chap Krasotkin gets to Vienna before we do, there’s every chance they’ll get hold of Leitner first too.’
‘All the more reason,’ said Sir Roland, ‘for us to get someone into Vienna to look after Leitner. Do we really have no one left there, George?’
Whitlock shook his head, which caused another outburst of coughing.
‘We can’t leave an open goal like this for the Soviets,’ said Porter. ‘Surely, there must be someone?’
Edgar had his head buried in his heads, thinking hard. He removed his hands and tapped the silver cigarette case on the table. ‘Do you know what? I think I may well have just the man.’
***
They all agreed it was the closest thing there was to a good idea, though they were hardly brimming with enthusiasm about it.
‘He’s not exactly a front-line agent though, is he?’ said Sir Roland. ‘Doesn’t sound like much of a match for this Krasotkin.’
Porter took a similar downbeat view. ‘Well, I suppose he’ll do… if there’s really no one else. What do you think, George? He was your find, after all.’
Whitlock shifted upright in his chair, a hacking and prolonged cough delaying his response.
‘I did recruit him, but never saw him as an agent as such: certainly not one operating on his own. He’s typical of the kind of chap one recruits locally: enthusiastic enough, happy to help out, running errands and carrying messages – that kind of thing. He left Austria in ’38 and went to Switzerland. I was happy to recommend him to Basil. But I’m not sure…’
‘I understand all that,’ said Edgar. ‘But do remember I worked with him quite closely in Switzerland and he came into Germany with me in ’41, so he’s been tested in the field. And he’s from Vienna, of course. That counts for an awful lot.’
The discussion went on for another hour: the pros and the cons; the ifs and the buts; on the one hand then the other. It was Porter who wrapped up the discussion.
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If you can get him over here, Edgar, and we can put him through a maximum two month’s hard training, then I’ll sanction sending him out there. But he’s got to come through the training with flying colours mind. No muddling through.’
Chapter 8
Moscow, Sweden, Germany and Vienna, January 1944
They didn’t come for Viktor Krasotkin that night, nor the next day and the night after that, but he remained convinced he’d gone too far and his days were numbered. Never question; never discuss; never hesitate.
Sure enough, two days later his boss turned up, a large black ZIS-101 pulling up outside the dacha. Viktor watched the driver let him out of the front passenger door and spotted two figures who’d remained seated in the back of the car. He felt his heartbeat quicken and he bit the inside of his lip so hard his mouth tasted of blood.
Ilia Brodsky was a slight, wiry-looking man with a scar running from under his left eye to beneath his chin. The gossip was he currently had the ear of Stalin, which meant Brodsky’s days were probably numbered. He reminded Viktor of the Jewish cobbler in his town just after the Revolution, but he knew better than to mention that. There was a rumour his grandfather had been a rabbi, but Viktor had never mentioned that either.
Brodsky stood in the doorway and said nothing, other than telling Viktor they were going outside. They walked along the lane outside the dacha, the heavy snow making all around them silent. Viktor was convinced this was how they’d eliminate him, away from the dacha, a quick bullet that would hardly be heard beyond the snow-covered trees: he’d know nothing. There were worse ways to go; at least it would be quick, they owed him that. He didn’t turn around, but he was certain the two men from the car would be behind them, getting close enough for a good shot.
Viktor and Brodsky walked for quite a while, past the other dachas and away from the road that led to Moscow. The sharp sound of their boots crunching on the snow seemed to reverberate around them. Despite a bitter wind blowing almost silently into them, Viktor could feel himself becoming uncomfortably hot and clammy. He loosened the black silk scarf around his neck. He’d bought it a few years previously at Galeries Lafayette in Paris and for some reason he found himself worrying that the scarf, of which he was especially fond, would become blood-stained when they shot him.
‘What happened the other day was a serious breach of acceptable conduct.’ Brodsky broke the silence, speaking as if reading from an official document. The phrase meant he’d committed a serious political crime. To Viktor, it sounded like a judge intoning a death sentence and he began to feel dizzy and his throat tightened: the bullet would come any moment now. He could make a run for it, but Brodsky’s men would get him and, in any case, his legs now felt leaden.
Brodsky patted the bigger man hard on the back, causing Viktor to jump. ‘However unacceptable your actions were,’ he said, ‘there are extenuating circumstances. But they will not be repeated. You understand?’
Viktor nodded, trying hard to disguise the relief beginning to sweep through him.
‘They were out of order. They should have been more professional and briefed you properly. They should have shown you the respect you deserve.’
‘I don’t want any more to do with them, I…’
Brodsky held his hand out to stop him talking. ‘You don’t need to worry: one of them has already been eliminated and the other two have been sent to fight on the German front. As for your identity, I’ve been thinking. You’ll be an Austrian, from Vienna.’
They carried on walking for a while, Viktor so relieved he didn’t bother to argue. They came to where the snow had drifted above knee height, blocking their path, and they paused. ‘Let’s go back indoors,’ said Brodsky.
Which was how Viktor Krasotkin came to be Otto Schneider. He had to admit it was an inspired idea. Hide in full view, they’d told them at training school. So he spent a month in another dacha in the company of an elderly husband and wife – Party members in exile from Vienna who fussed over him like indulgent parents. He was immersed in everything Viennese; the dacha was nicknamed Little Vienna. They spoke nothing but German, which he was fluent in anyway and he breathed in their Viennese accents and habits, mimicked their nuances of speech, ate their cakes, pored over maps of the city, and studied photographs and newsreel of it. Otto Schneider’s cover story was that he’d spent many years in Germany and Switzerland, which accounted for his less-than-perfect accent, but even the comrades from Vienna admitted it was good.
***
Once they
’d agreed on his new identity he’d been driven from the dacha into the centre of Moscow and to a monstrosity of a building that took up the whole of a block just to the north of the Kremlin. An ancient elevator took him to one of the upper floors where Brodsky was waiting for him.
‘You’re going to meet the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Austria,’ said Brodsky ‘The chairman is Johann Koplenig. They’ve been here since 1939. Listen to what they have to say and ask any questions you want.’
Viktor sat in the shadows so none of the men in front of him could make out his features. Brodsky sat to his left. Ahead of them were seven unhealthy-looking men in ill-fitting suits. Comrade Koplenig nervously spluttered out something about the Revolution, the ideals of Marxist-Leninism, the leadership of Comrade Stalin, the heroism of the Red Army and the imminent defeat of the Nazi menace. When he finished, he wiped away the perspiration that had gathered on his forehead and glanced anxiously at Brodsky. The man who currently had the ear of Stalin.
There was a long silence after this. Viktor didn’t know if he was meant to speak but did so anyway. ‘You didn’t mention the working class, comrade,’ he said mischievously. ‘Why ever not?’
Comrade Koplenig was profuse in his apologies. No offence had been intended, naturally the role of the proletariat… He looked pleadingly at Brodsky, whose features remained fixed. The Central Committee members all shifted anxiously in their chairs, fearful as ever about Siberia. They knew they survived only because they were slightly more useful here in Moscow.
‘Do we have any comrades left in Vienna?’
The seven men again shifted uncomfortably, in unison. A man sitting next to the chairman replied. ‘We’ve lost so many comrades. Even after the Anschluss and the start of the war we still had thousands in Vienna – it was the KPO’s stronghold, I’m sure you know that. Many have been conscripted and, of those who were left in Vienna, virtually all have been captured. The Viennese Gestapo is very, very effective. As much as it pains me to say this, our fellow Austrians have shown themselves to be even more enthusiastic Nazis than the Germans.’
‘What the comrade means to tell you,’ said Brodsky, his stare still fixed on the men in front of him, ‘is that many of his former comrades have defected to the Nazis. That’s so, yes?’
‘I am afraid it is. All the leadership that remained in Vienna has been wiped out. Many comrades have been sent in to help the resistance – from Yugoslavia, from Slovenia, even from Turkey. But none of them have survived more than a week or so.’
‘Betrayed,’ said Brodsky, looking at the men in front of him as if he blamed them.
‘So there’s no one left?’
Another man spoke. He was sitting at the end of the row and looked slightly younger than the rest. ‘There’ll still be a number of comrades remaining, but they’ll be ones who were neither very active or who used false names when joining the Party – that wasn’t uncommon, especially after the KPO was outlawed in May ’33. We know there are a few minor acts of resistance taking place – machinery being interfered with, anti-Nazi messages being left in public places. These will be people who aren’t known to have any association with the KPO, so they’ll be hard to find.’
‘That’s helpful,’ said Viktor sarcastically.
‘There are some districts where you’re more likely to find help than others,’ said the man at the end of the row. ‘Try Margareten, the 5th district.’
‘The 17th – Hernals – is worth trying too, ’ said another man.
‘And the 20th, Brigittenau,’ said one more. ‘My old district.’
‘I’d say the factories are still the best places to find comrades,’ said Koplenig. ‘We think some of them may even have secret KPO cells, but they’ll be so secret it’ll be near-impossible to penetrate them. But if it was me, I’d maybe try some of the bars around the factories… I don’t know.’
Brodsky stood up, a clear signal the meeting was over. The seven members of the Central Committee of the KPO hurried to their feet. The man at the end, the younger one and the one who’d been most confident, spoke.
‘There is one other thing.’ Everyone sat down as fast as they’d got up. ‘In Floridsdorf, the 21st District, there’s a large locomotive works. It employs many thousands of men, even some women. We did hear they were having so much trouble getting workers they’ve been bringing them in from France. We believe some comrades volunteered to go there from France, including comrades who’d fled there in the thirties.’
Viktor nodded. At last, something helpful.
‘And there’s a large Labour Exchange in Favoriten in the 10th District, in the south of the city,’ said the man sitting next to the Chairman. ‘That may be a place to start.’
When they’d left the meeting, Brodsky took him aside. ‘When were you last in Vienna, Viktor?’
‘’37.’
‘And before that?’
‘I was there quite often during the thirties.’
‘I know you Viktor; you’re too good not to have contacts there who’ll still be around, people who’ve never had anything to do with the Party and we don’t know about. That’s why you’re so good; you’ll have your own people. You’ve never made the mistake of trusting people, have you?’
Viktor shrugged. ‘That’s why you and I have survived, isn’t it?’
***
He was still in Moscow on 14th January when the latest Red Army offensive began and they were so pleased with how things were going that someone had the clever idea of getting him into Vienna through the eastern front. Another idiot.
‘Are you mad?’
‘But comrade, the Red Army is fighting a heroic battle and defeating the enemy every hour of every day. You can cross the front line and reach Vienna through Hungary or Slovakia.’
‘The front line in the Ukraine isn’t even close to Galicia yet. What am I meant to do? Walk through ploughed fields for a month and pretend I’m a Viennese travelling salesman who got on the wrong train?’
‘It was just an idea. Maybe in a week or so the Red Army will already be in Hungary.’
‘And maybe they’ll have reached the United States,’ spat Viktor. ‘Don’t believe everything you read in The Red Star, comrade. I’ve another idea: get me to Sweden and I’ll do the rest. Just make sure I have plenty of krona though – and Reichsmarks, of course.’
Always better to do things yourself.
They got him into Sweden and, once there, he made his own way down to Malmo on the south coast. He booked himself into a room above a bar-cum-brothel near the port and stayed there for a few days, getting a feel for the port and the girls. Eventually he trusted one enough, a pretty girl from Poland, no more than 20 and with the saddest eyes he had ever seen.
Find me a Swedish ship sailing to Germany, one leaving in the next day or two. Not a small ship, mind, nor too big. Just get me the information and find out where the captain hangs out. I’ll do the rest.
She found a suitable ship: a medium-sized Swedish steamer taking a cargo of iron ore into Rostock, leaving the next day on the evening tide. The captain, she said, was already at a bar around the corner hiring crew. When Viktor got there, he was surprised to see the captain looked more like a shopkeeper than a ship’s captain: short and slim with a neat moustache and a generally suspicious air about him. The girl in the brothel had told him she understood the captain spoke good German. His air of suspicion increased somewhat when Viktor emerged from the shadows at the back of the bar as the captain walked past and asked, in German, if they could speak in private.
‘You want work? I’ve hired everyone I need now.’
‘I need to get to Rostock.’
‘When?’
‘When you sail tomorrow.’
‘I’m not a passenger ship.’
‘I have proper German papers, obviously…’
‘… Obviously.’
‘… I need to return to Germany as soon as possible. I have a… lady friend in Sweden and my wife’s become
suspicious, if you understand.’
The captain didn’t look as if he believed a word he said, but that look changed soon enough when Viktor opened his jacket to allow the captain a glimpse of high-denomination krona notes. He’d calculated it would be at least two months’ salary for the captain – maybe three. In Viktor’s experience, less than two was too little for a bribe, whereas much more than three aroused undue suspicion.
‘Promise me you’re not doing anything illegal.’
‘Of course not!’ said Viktor, managing to look suitably shocked. ‘Just get me on board and let me know when it’s safe to leave the boat in Rostock. That’s all.’
And that was all. When they left Malmo the following evening the captain kept him in his cabin and even let him have his bed. The voyage through the Orseund Sound and down the Baltic was a short one and it was still dark when they sailed past the batteries of anti-aircraft guns into Rostock harbour the following morning. Viktor left the ship almost straight away, disappearing into the heavy mist as the boat was still being tied up and just before the harbour police came on board. By 8.00 he was on a train to Berlin and by lunchtime was bound for Munich, grateful the Allied bombers hadn’t disrupted his journey. He stayed in Munich Hauptbahnhof that night, preferring the safety and anonymity of the bomb shelter beneath the station to a hotel. There was a train to Vienna first thing, across a border that no longer existed. It was early afternoon when the train pulled into Westbahnhof: Vienna was as certain of itself as ever and, like all the Hapsburg capitals, undeniably beautiful.
Now the hard work would begin.
***
Viktor had to keep reminding himself that Austria hadn’t existed as a nation since the spring of 1938,when the country had so enthusiastically allowed itself to be swallowed up into the Reich. For a while it had been known as Ostmark, but now it was just a collection of seven Danube and Alpine provinces and he was in one of them, Greater Vienna. So much to remember, there always was. His ability to move from one country to another and assume completely different personas hadn’t failed him yet, although effortlessly absorbing a new identity now felt more perilous. Just staying alive and avoiding capture was becoming an achievement in itself. He was only 45, yet he felt the years catching up on him.
