The Best of Our Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  Her eyes filled with tears for her baby’s absent father. Her mother softened and reached over to pick up the baby.

  ‘It all sounds very innocent to me, Ginette.’ She was clearly not convinced.

  ‘A few days before I was evacuated, two men came round asking for you. They frightened me. I told them that you were at work, which you were. I never said anything to you at the time. I was going to mention it, but then I was evacuated.’

  ‘Probably from the hospital here.’

  Her mother shook her head firmly. ‘Probably not, Ginette. If they were, they would have been aware you were at work. The one who did the speaking, he was from Alsace. The other was German, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I thought you said only one spoke?’

  ‘Ginette, don’t argue with me. I know Germans and the other man was German. I know it. What were you mixed up with? Was it the reason for your disappearance? What about the strange political views you used to have?’

  She got up and went to draw the curtains.

  ‘Whatever my views were, four years of the war have changed them. In any case, they had nothing to do with me leaving. I’m home now. Do you want me to stay – for us to stay?’

  She had noticed that her mother had been cuddling the baby, pressing her cheek against his.

  ‘Of course. Where else are you going to go, anyway?’

  ‘If we stay, it is on the understanding that we discuss these matters no more.’

  ‘Is there something important you have to tell me? Like, his name?’

  ‘I was waiting. I thought I would wait until I got home. I wanted you to have a say.’

  They agreed on Philippe, after the general who had liberated the city the previous week.

  ‘And what will you do now, Ginette?’

  ‘I’ll get a job, mother. The hospital may take me back.’

  The room was dark apart from a dim lamp in the corner. Philippe was fast asleep in his grandmother’s arms. She knew that her mother did not believe her, but she knew that she would not pry any further.

  So life would go on as normal and she would wait.

  And wait.

  ooo000ooo

  The bells of the Notre Dame had finished pealing and Strasbourg was surprisingly quiet. In the next room, she could hear her son begin to stir.

  ooo000ooo

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Paris

  January 1945

  Gaston returned to André’s flat in the early evening and handed a package over to him. Only then did André explain his plan. Up until then, Owen had imagined that they might actually be spending the night in the sewers.

  André’s idea, he had to admit, was an inspired one. It was risky and could go badly wrong, but he could not think of a better alternative. His real worry was that Lange would be released soon and would then disappear.

  ‘We’ll walk,’ André said as they turned left out of his apartment block and headed north.

  It was a damp night and it was a while before either of them spoke.

  ‘This is Pigalle we are entering. Have you heard of it?’ André asked.

  ‘The red light district?’

  ‘If it was only the red light district that would be fine. This is where everything that shouldn’t happen does happen. It is where the underworld of Paris gathers. Anything you want, you can buy here. Anything. Even the Germans couldn’t tame it in the whole time they were here. You see that guy over there?’ They were on the Rue Pigalle, walking past a small bar at the corner of an alley. André was waving at a friendly looking man in his early forties leaning against the door. Despite the cold, he was in shirtsleeves.

  ‘When he last came out of prison he discovered that his wife had been having an affair with a friend of his. He cut his wife’s ears off and made her eat them. I will leave it to your imagination what he did to the friend.’

  ‘And what happened to him?’

  André laughed. ‘Nothing. Lack of evidence. There is very little evidence here in Pigalle.’

  A short man in a full-length cashmere coat was shepherding a young girl out of a long Citroën which was blocking another alley. ‘If you have specialist tastes, this is where you come. That is Claude over there. He specialises in young girls, sometimes for himself, but mostly for clients. He did a lot of business with German officers. He was able to pick up a lot of intelligence that way, I am told. Boys you get in another street. Any age you want. The Germans had a taste for fourteen year olds, I’m told.’

  They darted across the road as an argument started in the alley: a delivery truck was objecting to Claude’s Citroën blocking the road.

  ‘Right, we’re going into the side streets now, just be careful. If we keep moving fast we will be all right. The pickpockets don’t like a moving target. I’m known here anyway, but you look like what you are.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘A stranger.’

  They had crossed Place Pigalle and had turned into a long, narrow alley. At first Owen thought it was covered, but the buildings on either side were no more than feet apart and the sky was obscured by overhanging balconies that appeared to touch each other. Halfway along, André turned up a small flight of partially concealed steps and then they cut back into another alley, which had no street lighting, relying on the occasional dim light thrown out from the gathering buildings. The alley appeared to come to a dead end, but André opened a creaky wrought iron gate and they found themselves in a tiny courtyard. A statue of a naked lady stood in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by plants. A spout that had once turned it into a fountain was sticking out of the top of her head. The ground was bathed by low level lights. André knocked on one of three doors opening onto the courtyard.

  Owen heard André mumble something and mumbling in turn from the other side of the door. Then a delay as a series of locks, bolts and chains was noisily unfastened. The door was unusually high and the man who had opened it unusually short. He stood behind the door, holding it open just far enough for André and Owen to squeeze in, then hastily shut it, putting all the locks, bolts and chains carefully back into position.

  Owen had never seen anything quite like it before. The whole of the ground floor and first floor appeared to have been excavated to form one large room. It was just one large space, with no floors other than the ground floor and no dividing walls. The roof beams were exposed and a small bird was flying between the rafters. Owen could not work out what was keeping the building standing if all the supporting walls and joists had been removed. It felt like an urban cave. There were desks, printing presses, drawing boards, shelves of pencils and inks and a door in a side wall that opened into a dark room. On the opposite wall there were three sinks, side by side. One was stained black with ink. There was a small table next to another sink, with food and drink on it. The middle sink had a syringe on the side. The back wall had a ladder propped against it, leading to more shelves. A black and white cat stared down at them from one of the shelves, wedged in between volumes of large torn leather ledgers.

  ‘Owen. Welcome to the den of the best forger in Pigalle, which also means the best forger in Paris and, of course, in France – if you don’t count Marseilles, of course. We tend not to count Marseilles. Makes life easier. What are you calling yourself this week, Louis?’

  ‘This week?’ The short man was jumpy and needed to think about the question. ‘This week you can call me Bertrand, André. You can still call me Louis, but Bertrand may be safer.’ Bertrand could not have been more than five foot tall and had a nervous tick. Every few seconds his head jerked towards his right shoulder in an involuntary movement. Not good for a forger, Owen thought.

  ‘Now then. Bertrand is a genius, aren’t you, Bertrand?’

  Bertrand nodded.

  ‘If Bertrand can’t copy it then no one can. A clever man. But he has also been a naughty boy, haven’t you Bertrand?’

  Bertrand now spoke fast, in a surprisingly deep voice.

  ‘That is unfair,
André. I explained to the FFI and they understand. If I hadn’t done what they asked, the Germans would have killed me. It was the tiniest of favours. And I promise you, I didn’t do a good job, did I?’

  He sounded nervous. André walked over and put his arm round Bertrand’s shoulders.

  ‘Bertrand’s mistake – Louis, you don’t look like a Bertrand, you know – was to forge some documents for an SS officer. All through the war he was so helpful to the resistance and then he goes and spoils it all in the last few days.’

  ‘André, I promise you. I had no alternative. But I made a deliberate mistake. He was caught, wasn’t he?’

  ‘So now the FFI have agreed that as long as Bertrand continues to help us, he will keep his balls, won’t you, Bertrand? Not that I think you have much use for them, but they are nice to have anyway, eh?’

  Bertrand calmed down when he realised he was not in more trouble. He made a big play of shaking Owen’s hand and thanking the British. The British passport was the hardest to copy, he wanted Owen to know that. For him, this was clearly the greatest compliment he could pay. The British passport and the Greek passport, but who wanted a Greek passport? A bottle of Absinthe appeared from a shelf and they all sat round a table in the middle of the room while André carefully explained what Bertrand was to do. Owen toyed with his glass but avoided drinking any. He noticed André did likewise. Bertrand made notes of what was being said and asked a few questions, refilling his glass as he wrote. He understood. Once he slipped into the role of forger, he was no longer the nervous little man with the jerking head. He was now calm and sounded authoritative. Owen could see why he was a master.

  ‘And when do you want all of this by, André?’

  ‘Tuesday?’

  ‘Impossible. Some of these documents you want will be very difficult. One of them I have never attempted before. Thursday at the earliest.’

  ‘Wednesday morning?’ asked André.

  ‘How about Wednesday evening?’

  ‘No, Bertrand. I’ll be here Wednesday lunchtime. If they’re ready, you get to keep your balls. For me, that would be a very good incentive.’

  Bertrand nodded. There was no need for André to add that the work had better be good. That was taken for granted.

  ooo000ooo

  He arrived in Paris while his prey was in the forger’s den.

  He was seething when he found out that morning that Quinn had slipped the net and had been spotted in Boulogne, getting on a train for Paris. There would be time for recriminations later, Edgar reassured himself as the RAF plane began its descent into Paris. It was simply appalling. He had put enough measures in place to ensure that if Quinn so much as bent down to tie his shoe lace, he would know about it. And what had happened? Quinn had booked a week’s leave, which, of course, he knew about. He’d even paid for the hotel in St Andrews, they had checked on that. But he’d fooled those bloody idiots by leaving early and it was more than twelve hours before they could pick up any trace of him.

  Now the priority was to find Quinn. He would not lose him this time. He could not begin to contemplate the possibility of Quinn actually finding his wife and what the consequences would be of that. It really did not bear thinking about. Edgar reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and felt the reassuring shape of his service revolver. That would not happen.

  The last time, it had been simply unacceptable that the French police had been so tardy in supplying the hotel registration cards. He bet that they had been far more accommodating to the Germans. Now he had a promise that he would have help from the Embassy. He may have to stay up all night, but he’d be most surprised if he had not found Quinn by the end of Sunday. Then it would just be a matter of keeping a careful eye on Quinn and letting him do all the work.

  ooo000ooo

  André went on his own to collect the documents on the Wednesday and was back in the apartment by two that afternoon. Gaston was coming to collect them at five. Owen stayed in the apartment as much as possible. He had no doubt that by now, Edgar would be searching for him in Paris. The hotel registration cards would be of no help, so he did not want to give him the satisfaction of finding himself in the same queue for the Eiffel Tower. He felt safe in the apartment.

  Émile drove them south of Paris, the journey to the prison taking a bit longer than it had early on the Saturday morning. He had not acknowledged them as they entered the car, but throughout the journey Owen noticed that he kept glancing at them. Gaston’s contact had warned them not to arrive before six, when the governor would still be on duty. After seven would be better. All the prisoners would be back in their cells by then.

  They arrived at seven thirty and Gaston’s friend made a couple of calls while they waited in his office. Ten minutes later the phone rang and they were on their way through the labyrinth of corridors, courtyards and staircases.

  Lange was handcuffed to the chair when they went into the same room as they had seen him in on Saturday. He looked confused and a bit dishevelled. His fair hair, which had been carefully slicked back on Saturday, appeared uncombed. He sat behind the table, looking from Gaston to Owen to André, but the look was a nervous, darting one. The air of self-confidence that had been so evident before was absent. André lit a cigarette, making a point of not offering one to Lange, who looked as if he could do with one.

  ‘Is this really necessary?’ The German asked, noisily holding up his two hands as far as the chains would allow.

  ‘We’ll see, but I think it probably will be,’ said Gaston, carefully putting on his reading glasses. ‘Do you have family, Lange?’

  Lange shrugged his shoulders and gave the slightest of nods, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘According to your file, your wife is Helga. Daughters Charlotte aged... let me see, twelve now? Maria, she’d be fourteen... fifteen?’

  Lange eyes blazed at them.

  ‘And what is Mainz like to live in, Georg? I understand it is a historic city, isn’t it where the printing press was invented?’

  Lange sat very still, controlling his breathing. Gaston was leafing through a thick file of papers as he spoke.

  ‘And what is sustaining you now, Georg, is the knowledge that in just a matter of months, possibly even weeks, you will be back in Mainz with Helga, Charlotte and Maria, eh? This unfortunate war will be forgotten and you will go back to being a pillar of Mainz society, if there is such a thing. Am I right?’

  No reaction from Lange.

  ‘And you did indeed have every reason to believe that. There was no evidence that you were a Nazi or had committed war crimes.’

  Silence.

  ‘Your French is excellent, Georg,’ continued Gaston, ‘so you will have noticed that I used the past tense there. There was indeed no evidence that you were a Nazi or had committed war crimes. I have no doubt you spotted that. But now, let me show you the evidence. You will notice that I am now using the present tense. André, please.’

  Gaston removed his glasses in a triumphant manner as André got up and walked over to the table. Owen could see why they had asked for Lange to be handcuffed. He spread out the documents on the table and held each one up in turn in front of Lange’s face. Lange was shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

  ‘Let me present exhibit A,’ said André. ‘A Nazi Party membership card. Very good. You didn’t join until 1941 by the way, in case you are wondering when you signed up. You left it a bit late, but we thought it best as we only had recent photographs of you. Obviously a wise career move, Lange. Makes sense, it probably stopped you being sent to the Eastern Front. So you are a member of the Nazi Party now, Georg. Congratulations.’

  ‘Bastards.’ Lange struggled in his chair.

  ‘Keep still, Georg, the more you struggle the more your handcuffs will hurt. I know that from bitter experience,’ said Gaston. There was a pause, before André continued.

  ‘Now then, the Nazi Party card was easy to produce. It is not exactly rare, but these,’ he was waving a sheaf of papers in front of Lang
e, ‘we are very proud of. Exhibit B we will call them. Have a careful look. The first one is dated the sixteenth of July 1942. You know what date that is, don’t you, Georg? Need I remind you? It is the date of the grand rafle. The roundup of the Jews in Paris. And before you tell me again that you were not involved in this kind of thing, that you were in military intelligence… here we have a series of orders…’ André was leafing through the sheets ‘... signed personally by you ordering the arrest and deportation of Jews. That is clear evidence of a war crime, would you not agree?’

  Lange was shaking his head angrily.

  ‘You know I was not involved in anything like that, this is an outrage, it...’ he shouted.

  ‘Shhhhhhh.’ André had a finger to his lips. ‘Be quiet, Georg, I have not finished yet. And here is exhibit C. We know that you were in Boulogne in June this year. You admitted that yourself in your affidavit, in your very own handwriting. By the way, thank you so much for alerting us to the existence of that affidavit, it was most helpful, as you can see. It is good to have a nice large signature like that. Very useful for a colleague of ours. Anyway, back to Boulogne. You admit you were there in June. A perfectly legitimate place for a Wehrmacht intelligence officer to be based, I am sure. But do you remember what happened on the seventh of June, the day after D-Day in case you have forgotten?’

  Lange shook his head.

  ‘Let me remind you then. Two hostages were executed in front of the Hôtel de Ville. In reprisal for the killing of two German soldiers. Do you remember? A mother of two children and a teenage boy. Well I have news for you, Georg. This document here,’ he held it in front of Lange’s angry eyes, ‘shows who signed the death warrant. Georg Lange.’

  André sat down. Owen noticed that he was shaking. It was as if he had come to believe the veracity of Bertrand’s forgeries himself, so good were they. Gaston got up and leaned on the table in front of Lange, who had now turned white, perspiration pouring down his face.