by Alex Gerlis
Hanne watched the man carefully. Prince had told her all about him. Franz Rauter was a former Abwehr spy master who’d run a successful spy ring in London. When Prince had found him in Berlin at the end of the war, Rauter had undertaken to cooperate in return for a promise that he not be treated as a prisoner. It was agreed that after he’d helped the British, he’d be allowed to return to Germany. Prince had told her it hadn’t been a difficult promise to keep. Rauter was pleasant man, a professional intelligence officer and certainly not a Nazi; it had even been suggested to Tom Gilbey that he might be able to use him as a British agent once he was back in Germany.
Rauter himself was keen on this: he was clearly an Anglophile, and the promise of a new identity appealed to him. Although he’d worked in Berlin for a number of years, he was originally from Hamburg. Somewhere nice in the British zone of western Germany would suit him fine.
Neither he nor Gilbey had imagined his return to Germany would happen quite so soon. Gilbey had received an urgent phone call from Prince on the Thursday evening.
‘We’ve found Alphonse Schweitzer.’
‘Good.’
‘The Russians don’t think he’ll cooperate.’
‘I’m sure he will in time, Prince.’
‘We don’t have time, sir.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘He’s due to be executed first thing Monday morning.’
That was when Prince explained the plan he, Hanne and Gurevich had come up with. Alphonse Schweitzer would be told about a stay of execution and moved to a cell in another block while his sentence was allegedly reviewed by no less a person than Marshal Zhukov. He would share the cell with a stooge who’d hopefully get the information from him.
‘And Schweitzer’s bought all this?’
‘He doesn’t know about the stooge, sir.’
‘Obviously, Prince, don’t treat me like a fool. I meant about his case being reviewed at the last minute by Zhukov?’
‘Apparently he was so relieved he’ll believe anything.’ It was then that Prince had suggested they use Franz Rauter as the stooge. He expected Gilbey to find a good reason why not and was ready to make the case: they needed a German, someone who understood the Gestapo, who was credible and who they could trust. But Gilbey was surprisingly amenable to the idea. So much so that he said he’d bring him over himself.
‘As soon as possible, please, sir.’
They spent the weekend and all day Monday in the safe house in Wilmersdorf briefing Rauter: Schweitzer is the only person we’re aware of who knows the true identity of the Ferret, and we’d like you to get him to tell you.
They came up with a plausible cover story, and by the Monday afternoon Rauter was ready.
Reinhard Möller was about to become an inmate of Hohenschönhausen.
* * *
Alphonse Schweitzer was so relieved at his stay of execution that he was more than happy to chat with the man he shared his cell with, especially someone as like-minded and sympathetic as Reinhard Möller – that was, as the man insisted on pointing out, Möller with an ‘ö’ rather than Müller with a ‘ü’.
On the first day, Möller allowed Schweitzer to tell his own story, a typically self-serving account of a fanatical and committed Nazi who was anxious to blame everyone else for the predicament he found himself in and who was now desperately clutching at the unlikely straw of being reprieved by Marshal Zhukov.
‘Have you heard of this petition, Reinhard?’
‘Of course: apparently the British and Americans wanted the Soviets to observe more of a judicial process.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘What do I think about what, Alphonse?’
‘About my chances of being reprieved?’
‘Quite good, I’d say: look, they’re hardly going to waste Zhukov’s time with someone they were going to execute anyway. I only wish I was eligible for this – but you know, being German…’
It wasn’t until later on the Tuesday that Möller opened up about himself. He was from Dortmund, he’d joined the party in 1934 and become a Gestapo officer in 1938. From the summer of 1941 onwards, he’d been based at their Amsterdam headquarters on Euterpestraat. He’d managed to escape at the end of the war, but for some mad reason had headed east rather than west… a woman in Leipzig, he must have been crazy… and here he was.
Schweitzer seemed impressed, especially when Möller told him he’d been responsible for finding communists and socialists in the Netherlands, and recounted in some detail how many he’d caught and how many he’d killed with his own hands. Schweitzer had already explained how he himself had worked for the Gestapo in Paris, ‘though I wasn’t as important as you, Reinhard’; the other man told him not to be so silly and of course he was important, and Schweitzer said please not to tell Marshal Zhukov, as then he’d definitely be executed.
They both laughed, and then Reinhard Möller mentioned casually how he’d worked with a Gestapo officer in Amsterdam who’d been transferred from Paris.
‘I can’t for the life of me remember his name, Alphonse – I don’t know what’s happened to my memory. He was a young chap, quite good-looking. Austrian, I think. We knew him by his nickname, the Ferret. I don’t suppose you ever came across him?’
Alphonse Schweitzer slapped his new friend’s thigh. ‘Of course I did! He worked with me at the mairie for a while. Difficult chap, very arrogant; father was a big cheese here in Berlin. As I recall, while he was based in Paris, he completely screwed up an investigation. They wanted to throw him out of the Gestapo, but his father arranged for him to be transferred to Amsterdam – quite a lot of the senior officers in the Netherlands were Austrian, and I think the father used that connection.’
‘That would have been when?’
‘Early 1944, I guess.’
‘That’s right – your memory’s so much better than mine. I don’t suppose you remember his name?’
‘I do, as it happens. His name was Friedrich Steiner, and I even recall his father’s name: Wolfgang.’
* * *
When Kiselyov came into the cell the following morning, Reinhard Möller asked him if the date for his hearing had been fixed, the agreed code to indicate that he had the information he needed.
An hour later, Kiselyov returned and told him his tribunal had been arranged and he was being moved.
The two prisoners shook hands and wished each other luck, Schweitzer managing a whispered ‘Heil Hitler’ just before his new friend was led out.
Franz Rauter was taken to Orlov’s office, where Hanne and Prince were waiting for him. He greeted them both and gratefully accepted a glass of cognac and a cigarette from the governor.
‘The Ferret’s real name is Friedrich Steiner; he is the son of Wolfgang Steiner, who was a Nazi Party official here in Berlin. Funnily enough, his name rings a bell, but I never met him – as you know, I didn’t mix in those circles.’
Prince said how pleased they were, and Rauter finished his cognac and allowed the glass to be refilled, then asked whether they’d be leaving straight away. ‘The sooner I’m out of this place, the better.’
‘The governor thinks it would be safer if you’re kept here until after Schweitzer’s execution. If he somehow catches wind that you’re no longer around, he may suspect something and somehow get a message to his fellow Nazis. I know that’s unlikely, but it’s not impossible: this place is full of Nazis on the lookout for anything.’
‘And I should add that when he’s taken out to be shot, he will get to see a Catholic priest. You never know what he might say. It’s going to be safer to let you go after he’s been executed.’ The governor was speaking slowly, allowing Kiselyov to translate.
Rauter looked disappointed. ‘I’m not keen on staying here: this isn’t my idea of a holiday.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said the governor. ‘This afternoon I’ll tell Prisoner Schweitzer that his petition to Marshal Zhukov has been denied and he’s being executed in the morning. We’ll mov
e him straight back to Block D. Once he’s dead, we’ll have you out of here.’
* * *
It was a mistake no one could have foreseen; a coincidence more than anything else, something that happened by chance and could be put down to sheer bad luck, though it was to have dreadful consequences.
Prince and Hanne left the brick building by a side entrance and paused in the doorway to say goodbye to Franz Rauter. They joked that this time tomorrow he’d be enjoying a fine lunch in the best restaurant in Berlin, and Rauter said they’d be lucky to find any restaurants left. There was much slapping of shoulders and laughter as he finished his cigarette and then allowed the guard to put him in handcuffs prior to the walk back to the block.
Watching all this from his cell window was a young SS major awaiting his tribunal, where he fully expected to be sentenced to death. Hauptsturmführer Klaus Böhme had been an aide to SS-Brigadeführer Walter Schellenberg when the latter had taken control of the much-distrusted Abwehr in July 1944. He had been appalled at the attitude of many of the Abwehr officers, some of whose loyalty he seriously doubted.
One of those had been Franz Rauter, a bright and well-regarded Abwehr career officer who was running a successful spy ring in England and was therefore protected from the purges towards the end of the war. The rumour was that he was now helping the British.
Now Klaus Böhme observed a man who looked very much like Franz Rauter chatting amicably with a man and a woman in civilian clothes, neither of whom appeared to be Russians. After a friendly farewell, he was put into handcuffs and led towards his block.
As he queued for supper later that afternoon, Böhme spotted the same man ahead of him on the landing. He heard a guard address him as Möller, but when the man turned his head, Böhme had absolutely no doubt. If Rauter was here – under an assumed name – it was because he was a traitor. Böhme knew what his duty was, and it wasn’t as if he had anything to lose. They might even put him out of his misery sooner.
He collected his supper and walked towards the man, whose back was towards him. ‘Hey, Franz – Franz Rauter!’
Instinctively Rauter turned. In the brief moment before Böhme plunged the knife deep into his heart, he recognised the young man who’d called his name but couldn’t for the life of him place him.
His memory was so bad these days.
* * *
Alphonse Schweitzer was unaware of all this. He was still in Block D. The governor had come to his cell that afternoon and informed him Marshal Zhukov had reviewed his case and denied his petition.
‘What does that mean?’
‘What do you mean, what does that mean? It’s obvious, isn’t it? You’re going to be executed after all – at dawn tomorrow. You’ll be transferred to the death block now.’
Schweitzer was dragged crying from his cell at dawn the next morning. The guards were disgusted at having to handle the terrified prisoner, who’d soiled himself and kept vomiting. He was thrown in the back of a truck and driven the short distance to the barracks, then dragged to the firing range.
A white-faced Catholic priest was allowed to spend a few seconds with him, but Schweitzer couldn’t hear what he was saying and nor did he care.
As he was strapped to a post, he felt his legs give way. At that moment a tall man in a commissar’s uniform strolled over to him. The man – who looked suspiciously like a Jew – smiled as he instructed the guards to gag the prisoner but not to bother blindfolding him. ‘Let him enjoy everything!’
Once he was trussed up like a pig, the commissar leaned over and spoke clearly in his ear. ‘I really must thank you, Schweitzer: you’ve no idea how helpful you’ve been!’
* * *
When Hanne and Prince met with Commissar Gurevich in his office in Behrenstrasse later that morning, the mood could not have been more sombre. Prince had listened to the Russian’s account of Schweitzer’s execution without showing any reaction, and simply shrugged when informed that the prisoner had been told how helpful he’d been just before he was shot.
‘Are you not pleased, my friend?’
Prince said he supposed he was, but he was more devastated at Franz Rauter’s death. ‘I don’t know how that could have been allowed to happen.’
‘It wasn’t allowed to happen; from what Comrade Orlov tells me, it was sheer bad luck – he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The man who killed him – Prisoner Böhme – knew him from the RSHA and guessed he was a traitor, don’t ask me how. When he realised he was using an assumed name, he concluded his guess was correct. If it’s any consolation, Prisoner Böhme was shot later that day.’
‘It’s no consolation actually. I think we should have pulled Franz out of Hohenschönhausen once he’d told us the Ferret’s identity. It was risky to—’
‘Hindsight, my friend, hindsight. It could also have been risky to pull him out immediately. We weren’t to know Böhme would spot him; it was a chance in a million, sheer bad luck. And at least he’s dead, which means no one will make the link with the Ferret. Do you want some news to cheer you up?’
‘Go on.’
‘I did a check yesterday, and we do have a Wolfgang Steiner on our watch list. He was a Nazi Party official at the Parteikanzlei, just a few minutes’ walk from here. We don’t know a lot about him, but he was known to be an associate of Martin Bormann, Hitler’s personal secretary, who is someone we certainly want to arrest – he’s one of the most senior Nazis whose whereabouts we know nothing about. As far as we know, Wolfgang Steiner left Berlin in late March and has disappeared.’
‘He got out early,’ said Hanne, ‘before your main assault on the city.’
Gurevich nodded. ‘Obviously smart – and the fact that he got away then means he’s probably more important than we realised. I’ll make a note on his file. But what I don’t quite get is the son – Friedrich. He was a young Gestapo officer who murdered people. I’m afraid that was not unusual. So why are you going to these lengths to find him – surely there are more important war criminals?’
‘Because, Iosif, two of the people he murdered were our agents, people who’d been sent over from England, and there’s a view in London that we have a responsibility to bring the person who killed them to justice.’
‘But it sounds as if there may be a reason why he’s so hard to find – why someone was murdered in Munich when they tried to track him down. I can get Friedrich Steiner’s name added to our watch lists – I’m sure you’ll be doing the same with yours.’
‘It’s already been done.’
‘Good. There is something, though.’ Iosif Gurevich hesitated, as if unsure whether to carry on. He drummed his fingers on his desk and then held up a hand – wait – and walked over to the door. He opened it and appeared to look up and down the corridor before closing it again. Then he pulled up a chair and leaned forward.
‘There are escape lines for Nazi war criminals operating across Europe, and from what we gather, they’re far more prevalent in the American, British and French zones than in ours. We want to know more about these escape lines: we want to know who’s on them and where they end up. We think Italy is the main destination, because there are plenty of people there who’ll help them, and they can also then escape through the Italian ports. Friedrich Steiner may well be on one of those escape routes – if you can find out anything about them, it could help us track him down.’
‘You mean you want us to supply you with intelligence?’ Hanne had raised her voice slightly, and Gurevich indicated that she should lower it.
‘I’m suggesting we share information. To show you evidence of my goodwill, there is something about Wolfgang Steiner I didn’t mention. Please be careful about how you use this intelligence, though. Come closer.’
They shifted their chairs so their knees were almost touching.
‘This is in Wolfgang Steiner’s file. You won’t be able to read it, as it’s in Cyrillic script, but it says “possible link with RLB and der Fluchtweg Falke”, followed by the letter
s FFM, V and T.’
‘Fluchtweg would mean escape route, I think,’ said Hanne, ‘but I’m not sure what Falke means – is it a kind of bird?’
‘It’s a shortened form of the word Turmfalke – a kestrel. I’m not sure who added that note to the file; officers pick up scraps of intelligence and just include them, when really they should be putting in more detail, like where they got it from, and then identifying themselves… but this goes on all the time. People are so busy. My guess is that whoever put that in got it from an interrogation and was in a hurry. I’m trying to track down the officer. My supposition is that this is a reference to an escape line – that’s what der Fluchtweg would mean. Kestrel is probably its code name.’
‘And the initials?’
‘FFM almost certainly stands for Frankfurt am Main: those initials are often used to differentiate it from the smaller Frankfurt, which is on the River Oder and is usually abbreviated to FFO. My guess is that the Kestrel escape line starts in Frankfurt, and the V and the T are the initials of places it goes to, but where those are is anyone’s guess. I have no idea what RLB stands for.’
‘If you say these escape lines end up in Italy, then the V could be Venice,’ suggested Prince.
‘And the T – Turin, possibly?’
‘I think Turin is more than possible. True, it isn’t a port, but it’s near Genoa, which is the main port the Nazis are using. Look, I think we’re guessing, Hanne, but let’s hope this helps you find him. All I ask is that you share with me what you discover about the escape line. In the meantime, I’ll try and find the officer who made that note on the file.’
* * *
Tom Gilbey had reluctantly remained in the safe house in Wilmersdorf. He’d thought about coming to the east of the city to meet Gurevich but decided it wasn’t worth the risk of exposing himself. He was as upset as Prince and Hanne were at the news of Franz Rauter’s death, but soon turned his attention to Friedrich Steiner.
