End of Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  ‘Charles Falmer, last name spelt with an “l”.’

  ‘And where is he now?’

  ‘He’s in the American cells in the basement: would you like to meet him?’

  * * *

  Before they were due to meet Falmer, Hanne and Prince had a row. She felt their investigation was too chaotic and Prince asked her what on earth she meant.

  ‘In Berlin, I think we relied too much on the goodwill of the Russians.’

  ‘But they’re our allies, Hanne. I trust Gurevich; if it wasn’t for him, you—’

  ‘That’s the point – you trust him too much, you see him as your friend. I agree he’s very charming and I realise that if wasn’t for him I’d probably be dead, but the fact is, we’re not on the same side as them any longer, are we? I think we ought to have made more effort at the prison – we should have insisted on interrogating Alphonse Schweitzer once he’d given Rauter the Ferret’s real name, and then we should have asked the Russians not to shoot the man who killed Rauter.’

  ‘Klaus Böhme?’

  ‘Yes, they shot him the same day: surely he ought to have been interrogated? Maybe he could have told us something. I think we need to stop wandering around Europe being grateful for the opportunity to ask a few questions here and a few questions there. We need to treat this like a serious criminal investigation. Remember, I worked in the major robbery unit at Norrebro when I was in Copenhagen. I’m experienced in dealing with complex crimes, and that’s how I think we should treat this case. With respect, Richard, I know you’re a senior detective, but maybe this is more my kind of crime, so please do let me take the lead when we question Falmer.’

  * * *

  Charles Falmer – Charles Denton Falmer, according to his papers – appeared at first to be grateful to see them, as if he believed they’d come to help him. It was an impression reinforced by the way Prince began the questioning, speaking in a friendly manner and checking Falmer’s details – name, date of birth, address in England, where he worked in Cologne and the facts surrounding his arrest. More than once he said ‘we ought to have this sorted in no time’, and each time he said it, Falmer seemed to relax a little more. He appeared not to have shaved for a couple of days and was stroking his stubble, still unused to the novelty of it.

  ‘And you understand why the Americans had to confiscate their dollars, do you, Charles? They have very strict regulations on how much of their currency they allow to be in circulation in their zone.’

  Falmer nodded, and smiled at Hanne, who had still said nothing.

  ‘And before you return to Cologne, it’s likely the English money will be confiscated too.’

  Falmer nodded again, more hesitantly than before, but both Hanne and Prince guessed he was thinking this might be the end of the matter.

  ‘It’s an awful lot of money, Charles – the five hundred pounds sterling alone is close to two decent annual salaries. What the hell were you doing with all that?’

  Falmer shrugged and muttered something neither of them could hear.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said my uncle runs an art gallery in London and gave me the money to purchase a painting. I told them that and they seemed satisfied enough.’ He sat up straight in his chair and tossed his head back in a ‘so there’ manner, as if the explanation was perfectly reasonable.

  Neither Prince nor his wife said anything as they watched the man in front of them. It was the familiar pose of someone who was frightened and worried but was concentrating a bit too hard on giving the impression that all was fine. They’d talked about this before, how suspects all too often put their efforts into appearing innocent rather than focusing on the subject matter of what they were being questioned about.

  As the silence continued, Falmer appeared increasingly agitated. He moved around in his chair and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. According to his papers, he was forty, but he looked older, with a gaunt appearance and a pockmarked face. He fiddled nervously with his watch strap and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. He was well-spoken, though with a voice as thin as his features, and Prince had noted that his background did not seem to match his status as a clerk in the Army Pay Corps.

  At last Hanne leaned forward and nodded at her husband: my turn.

  ‘I think you’re talking nonsense, Mr Falmer!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Charles Falmer looked both aggrieved and confused, not least at Hanne’s accent. He gave the impression that he wasn’t used to being spoken to like that, least of all by a woman and certainly not by one who sounded foreign.

  ‘I – we – don’t believe you. How about you tell us what happened, from the beginning?’

  ‘I thought I’d already done so. I had the impression our meeting here was to sort out my return to Cologne. Surely having the money confiscated is going to be ample punishment?’ Falmer addressed his remarks at Prince, ignoring Hanne.

  She repeated her question, and they both noticed Falmer’s air of defiance leak away as it dawned on him that this was a more serious business than he’d thought. He’d come to terms with being discharged from the wretched Pay Corps, and though he knew he’d have to face his uncle’s wrath, his mother would ensure her brother wasn’t too harsh on him. She’d tell him he had no right to send his nephew on such a ridiculous errand. His hands started shaking and he clasped them together to keep them still as he started to tell his story again.

  ‘My uncle is an art dealer in London, and when I was back on leave recently he said he was in touch with a chap in Frankfurt about buying a painting and would I mind popping down from Cologne to pick it up. He gave me some money wrapped up in a parcel so I had no idea how much it was – I never opened it, you see. I had it in my briefcase and when I went out for a meal on the Saturday night, I took it with me. I’d been told there were some decent restaurants near the main post office and I saw a bar on the way so I thought I’d stop in for a drink, and that’s when someone tried to steal the briefcase – for all I know, they could even have put the money in there!’

  ‘That’s not how thieves tend to operate – in my experience they take money out of a bag rather than put it in.’

  Falmer shrugged and again looked at Hanne as if he believed she had no right to speak to him like that.

  ‘Your uncle the art dealer…’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I’d like his name and address, please.’

  Falmer started to say something, but stopped and was now looking quite flustered. ‘I’m not sure what the relevance is of—’

  ‘The relevance, Mr Falmer, is that you’re claiming the money came from your uncle in London who’s an art dealer, so it is perfectly reasonable for me to ask his name.’

  ‘Donald Ridgeway.’

  ‘And his address?’

  Falmer’s foot was tapping hard on the floor. ‘He’s a partner at Bourne and Sons in Cork Street in the West End of London. I can assure you it’s a very well-established and respectable business. I would imagine…’ he paused to allow a weak smile, ‘you are not familiar with the art market. If you were, you’d know it is perfectly common for paintings to be purchased from contacts in such a manner.’

  ‘Buying a painting on the black market in Germany doesn’t sound like the height of respectability to me, Mr Falmer. One can only imagine where the painting was looted from. Tell me, please, about how you were going to obtain it?’

  ‘I was to go to a square off Guiollettstrasse, if that’s how one pronounces it, at ten o’clock on the Sunday morning. There is a flea market of sorts there, and a one-armed man – which I know may sound somewhat clichéd – would be selling a painting of a kestrel. I was to give him the package and he’d give me the painting. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘What is the man’s name?’

  ‘I have no idea – Hans, I would imagine, they’re all called Hans, aren’t they?’ He laughed nervously and then stopped abruptly, as if he’d said something wrong.

  * * *
/>
  ‘And you’re sure you’re telling me the truth, Ulrich – this isn’t another excuse?’

  Friedrich Steiner was pacing up and down the lounge of the safe house in Königstein like an angry animal, glaring at Ulrich as if he’d just challenged him to a fight and was awaiting his response. He paused by the window and pushed open the shutters, ignoring the other man’s warning to be careful. He pulled hard on his cigarette and flicked the ash onto the floor.

  ‘Will you please calm down and come and sit here,’ Ulrich said. ‘You’re making me nervous walking around like that. I told you, it’s just a setback.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘I don’t know, I need to speak with your father. Maybe a few weeks. We needed the money the courier was bringing – without it, we have problems.’

  ‘I really don’t see why we need all this money.’

  ‘Because, Friedrich, we’re setting up a proper escape line for people like you and me. We need to pay for safe houses like this one, to arrange transport, buy false papers and bribe people. It’s a very expensive business, far more so than you’d think. These people were meant to be helping us.’

  ‘And the man who was meant to give you the money – do you think he ran off with it?’

  ‘Sit down, Friedrich, and listen. He was arrested – wait, just listen. All he knew was to go to Elsa-Brändström-Platz, approach a one-armed man and ask how much the painting of the kestrel was, and that’s how I’d get the money. We think he was arrested the night before. But he didn’t know my name and he certainly doesn’t know about this place, so it’s not nearly as calamitous as it could be. There’s something else, though…’

  Friedrich was silent, sitting quite still as he stared at Ulrich through the smoke from his cigarette.

  ‘We have a contact in Frankfurt, the IG Farben building off Fürstenbergerstrasse: it’s the building where the Americans have their headquarters. A man and a woman – British, we think – were there to question this courier.’

  ‘But you said he doesn’t know about us.’

  ‘Not quite, Friedrich. Apparently they were asking about der Fluchtweg Falke – and I’m afraid they also asked about you by name.’

  Chapter 13

  Germany, October 1945

  ‘You seem somewhat shocked, Mr Falmer.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes: I’d say you appear to be taken aback.’

  ‘I would say I’m surprised rather than shocked: pleasantly surprised, though. I’d not expected that outcome.’

  ‘Well as I say, Mr Falmer, you are fortunate that both the American and British authorities accepted your explanation that the money found in your possession was intended to be used for the purchase of paintings. We checked out your story, and there is indeed a market on Elsa-Brändström-Platz off Guiollettstrasse where paintings are traded, as well as an art gallery called Bourne and Sons in Cork Street. Furthermore, the American administration have consulted their lawyers, who are of the view that they handled the matter improperly from the outset, in that you were the victim of an alleged crime and therefore should not have been treated as a suspect in another crime.’

  Prince stared at Charles Falmer, daring him to believe what he was telling him. It wasn’t proving to be too difficult: Falmer looked pitifully grateful.

  ‘Personally, Mr Falmer, I have to say I think you’re most fortunate: the money is not being confiscated for procedural reasons more than anything else.’ Hanne was managing to look aggrieved as she spoke. ‘But there we are. My advice is to return to Cologne. A report will be passed to your superior officer, but he will be advised that no further action is being taken.’

  There was a pause as an incredulous Charles Falmer smiled and glanced first at Hanne, then at Prince.

  ‘Well, thank you very much indeed. I presume I’m free to leave now?’

  They waited as he was led away to another office, where his briefcase was returned to him, and then stood at the window to watch his diminishing figure leave the building and walk across the rubble towards Fürstenbergerstrasse.

  ‘Do you really think he believed us?’

  ‘I hope so, Hanne. Don’t you?’

  ‘I’m not so sure. Yesterday we were telling him he’d committed a serious crime, and twenty-four hours later we inform him he’s free to go, and by the way, here’s all that money we apparently had such a problem with yesterday.’

  ‘That’s true, but don’t forget he wants to believe it. That counts for an awful lot. You and I have enough experience of interrogating suspects to know how biddable they are.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That they’re easily persuaded: if you tell a suspect you believe he’s innocent or admit there’s no evidence against him, he’s hardly likely to argue with you, is he?’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Anyway, even if this is something of a long shot, it’s the only way we’re going to have a chance of finding about Kestrel. Those two chaps following Falmer – see them there?’

  Hanne nodded.

  ‘They must be the Americans Gilbey sorted out – and there are more of them too, apparently. Let’s hope they’re as good as he says they are.’

  * * *

  They’d pulled more strings than there were in a large orchestra.

  After interviewing Charles Falmer the previous day, both Hanne and Prince had agreed there was no question he was a link to the Kestrel escape line, and through that to Friedrich Steiner. But now that he was in custody and the money confiscated, that lead appeared to have vanished.

  They needed to find a way of restoring it.

  They managed to get a call through to Tom Gilbey in London, and he in turn contacted the senior OSS officer in the IG Farben building, who promised to do what he could. The man from the Office of Strategic Services turned out to be as good as his word, not least in promising the services of an officer called Tim Sorensen.

  That night, the three of them hatched a plan. Falmer would be informed – with a degree of ill grace that would hopefully make it appear more credible – that the case against him was being dropped on technical grounds, and that not only was he free to go – with the money – but that he should also consider himself a very lucky man.

  ‘You don’t think he’ll be spooked?’ Sorensen seemed keen to help but was struggling to conceal a degree of scepticism.

  ‘In what way, Tim?’

  ‘What I mean is, one minute he’s being told he’s committed a serious offence and is losing all that money, and the next he’s being told he’s free. In those circumstances don’t you think the first thing he’ll do is get the hell out of Frankfurt and go back to Cologne – or indeed, just disappear? With all that money, I’d be tempted to.’

  ‘There is a risk of that.’ Prince was nodding thoughtfully.

  ‘I don’t agree.’ Hanne looked annoyed. ‘He’s a weak man. I have experience of dealing with criminal organisations; Falmer is probably fairly low down in this one and will feel accountable to the people above him. He’s more likely to be spooked, as you put it, Tim, by the thought of what will happen if he leaves Frankfurt with the money. I believe he’ll have come with instructions about what to do if the first rendezvous didn’t work. It’s inconceivable there wouldn’t be a backup plan.’

  They agreed that following his release, Charles Falmer would be followed. If he headed for the Hauptbahnhof and back to Cologne, then the gamble would have failed. But it was a risk worth taking.

  * * *

  There was something close to a spring in Charles Falmer’s step as he left the American headquarters. He couldn’t relax completely, of course, but the worst part of the nightmare was over. His stomach no longer felt quite as wretched as it had done over the past few days, and he paused for a minute or two to breathe in fresh air.

  It wasn’t quite as fresh as it had first seemed. There was a definite early-winter bite to it along with the ubiquitous smell of burning. That was what he’d noticed in Cologne
too: everything was being burned – wooden beams, ruined furniture, and some kind of filthy coal that exuded thick brown smoke and stuck to the back of the throat.

  Falmer had asked the American officer who’d escorted him from the building for directions to the station, and he’d very helpfully pointed the way: just over a mile south-west of here but probably longer given the detours you’ll need to make. He’d indicated a ruined building in the distance that seemed taller than the ones around it, twisted metal beams pointing accusingly at the sky. Head for that, the station’s nearby.

  Falmer walked slowly, mindful that most of the pavements were impassable and the roads could be dangerous, with the few vehicles on them not appearing to be subject to any kind of Highway Code. It wasn’t an easy journey – not so much because of the detours the American had mentioned, but more due to the absence of many of the street signs. He paused on a street corner to buy a packet of cigarettes from a young girl and allowed himself a minute or so to gather his thoughts and get his breath back, although the acrid smell didn’t make that easy.

  He’d certainly been lucky, as the Englishman and the woman with the odd accent had repeatedly told him, though he considered that to an extent he’d been responsible for that luck – they ought to have at least acknowledged that. After all, he’d stuck to his story, and what he’d told them was, by and large, true. He was surprised they’d allowed him to have the money back, though, but then the Americans had been so heavy-handed, he wasn’t altogether surprised they’d breached their own rules.

  The little girl who’d sold him the cigarettes was pestering him to buy another packet, and in a rare moment of goodwill, he chucked a couple of coins from his pocket in her direction and watched in amusement as half a dozen children emerged from the rubble to scrap over the money.

  He could head straight back to Cologne, but the consequences of that would be too serious. He just wanted to be shot of the money and put the whole sorry business behind him. Never again would he allow his uncle, or indeed anyone else, to talk him into something like this, no matter how much he agreed with the cause. Apart from anything else, his health wasn’t up to it.