End of Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  He’d memorised the instructions about where he was to go if the first rendezvous didn’t work out, and reckoned he was now around five minutes’ walk from his destination. He looked around to check that no one had followed him, but he needn’t have worried. There were no Americans in uniform; just a few civilians shuffling along, all wearing more layers than usual of filthy clothing, heads bowed to avoid sharing their shame with someone they might know, and in case they should be fortunate enough to spot a cigarette end or some other treasure on the ground.

  It took him longer than he’d anticipated to reach Kaiserstrasse; once there, he had to turn away from the direction of the station, so he waited in the doorway of a building that no longer existed and took time to light another cigarette, watching people walk slowly by. There was more of an edge to this area: it was the heart of the black market and there were signs of business being carried out deep inside the ruins and in the street – furtive conversations as an item was slipped from one pocket to another, money being palmed in the opposite direction. He moved along until he came to the junction with Moselstrasse, and was briefly thrown by the fact that the road ran in both directions off Kaiserstrasse, but then he spotted the sign he’d been told to look out for, crudely painted in black on what looked like the headboard of a bed.

  Kartoffeln

  Under the sign stood a cart piled high with potatoes, many of which appeared half rotten. Inside the remains of the building was a crudely built brick oven in which potatoes were being baked.

  There’s a woman on the stall, she’ll be wearing a light blue headscarf. Ask if she’s Gertrud.

  ‘That’s me. What do you want?’

  Tell her you want two baked potatoes to take with you for your train journey.

  ‘Of course: where are you travelling to?’ She was paying him a bit more attention.

  Karlsruhe.

  Gertrud’s bushy eyebrows lifted slightly. She’d now know he needed to contact the man called Ulrich, the one he’d failed to meet at the market on Brändström-Platz.

  ‘Sure, no problem, I’ll put two good ones on for you. Come over here, look at these – tell me if you think they look nice.’

  She beckoned him closer, and as he leaned in to look at the potatoes, she spoke loudly in his ear, well above the volume of a whisper, her breath hot and flecked with spittle. ‘Go round the block into Elbe Strasse; there’s a stall there that sells soup. There’s always a long queue, which will fortunately keep you occupied. Come back here in forty minutes, you understand that? Not before then. When you return, I’ll take you to the back: Ulrich will be waiting there.’

  * * *

  ‘And how long ago was that?’

  ‘Ten minutes ago. Two of my guys followed him into Moselstrasse, where he headed straight to a stall selling potatoes. They saw him talking to a woman there. One of the team thinks he heard her telling him to come back: he was looking at his watch the whole time, still is.’

  ‘And where is he now?’ Hanne hadn’t taken her eyes off the map of Frankfurt. Her finger was running along Moselstrasse.

  ‘Seems he’s in a queue in Elbe Strasse. There… the street behind.’

  Her finger traced the map to Elbe Strasse. ‘And they’re watching him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  They were in the control room in the building on Fürstenbergerstrasse as the messages came through intermittently from Sorensen’s team following Charles Falmer.

  Subject is still queuing for soup on Elbe Strasse, appears nervous.

  Subject has purchased soup and is drinking it in a doorway, keeps looking at watch.

  Subject on the move and…

  The last message had broken up: the radio operator said it was distorted and they’d have to wait. The room filled with the sound of static, and Hanne stared at the operator as if it was his fault. It was five minutes before the messages resumed.

  Subject is now back in Moselstrasse: has returned to potato stall.

  Subject has moved into building behind potato stall: no longer in sight.

  ‘They’re going to lose them. Shouldn’t they move in?’

  ‘Be patient, Richard.’ Hanne placed her hand on Prince’s arm. ‘They have the building covered.’

  ‘But with the cellars… he could slip away.’

  Sorensen assured them no one would slip away from his team of watchers and remained calm as Prince paced the room and Hanne glared at the map and the radio operator in turn. The tension was broken by a burst of static followed by a deep voice.

  Subject is leaving potato stall and now on Moselstrasse – following.

  Subject now on Kaiserstrasse and heading west in direction of Hauptbahnhof.

  Sorensen instructed the radio operator to tell them to keep watching the potato stall too.

  Subject now crossing Hohenzollern Strasse and about to enter station.

  Man carrying a rucksack and wearing a leather jacket and a woollen hat now leaving stall. Appears to have just one arm: request instructions.

  ‘Did I hear him say it was a one-armed man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In that case, we have to follow both him and Falmer.’

  ‘That’s just what I was about to tell them.’

  * * *

  Ulrich had been shocked when he received the telephone call to tell him the courier had turned up at Moselstrasse. When he had failed to appear as arranged on Elsa-Brändström-Platz, he’d assumed that was it, and when he heard he’d been arrested by the Americans and was being held at IG Farben, he’d feared the worst.

  Not in a month of Sundays had he expected to hear from the Englishman, but now here he was on Moselstrasse giving the correctly coded messages. Gertrud had told him to hurry: the man would be back soon.

  Now he was waiting in the cellar of the building next to the potato stall, reflecting on how fortunate it was that he was in Frankfurt that morning. The ceiling had been destroyed, exposing the room to the rest of the building, but it had been patched up with boarding, and enough of the rubble had been swept away to accommodate an incongruous patch in the middle containing a rug and two dusty armchairs.

  The Englishman was in a bit of a state when he climbed awkwardly into the cellar. He didn’t look well, for a start, and there was a fresh soup stain down the front of his coat. He was carrying a small suitcase and a briefcase, which he clutched tightly to his chest when he sat down.

  He said nothing as he glanced around anxiously, his eyes narrowing to adjust to the dim light. He had clearly forgotten his instructions.

  ‘And you are…?’

  He apologised profusely and said in quite reasonable German that his name was Michael and he was still interested in purchasing the painting of the kestrel.

  Ulrich replied that that was no problem, that it was indeed still for sale but he would require the money first, and although the Englishman hesitated, he did open the briefcase, though with a degree of reluctance.

  ‘It should all be there, but I’m afraid it’s been rather messed up, what with one thing and another.’

  Ulrich took the money out, not bothering to count it as he folded it into rolls, which he secured with string and placed in his rucksack, before handing the briefcase back to the Englishman. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘I don’t need the painting?’

  ‘An unnecessary touch.’

  ‘But what if I’m stopped again?’

  Ulrich shrugged as if he didn’t really care. ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something to say. Tell me, what happened with the Americans?’

  The Englishman told him it was nothing: they’d been concerned at the amount of US dollars and British money he was carrying but were satisfied with his explanation.

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘That’s all. Perhaps I ought to leave now. I’m going to try and catch the train to Cologne.’

  ‘I heard you were also questioned by the British?’
/>   ‘Well, yes, after a fashion – but they must have been satisfied with my explanation too.’

  ‘What did you tell them about meeting me?’

  ‘I just told them I was buying a painting from a man at that market.’

  ‘Did you give any details about me or the painting?’

  The Englishman hesitated for far too long and shifted awkwardly in the armchair.

  ‘I don’t believe I did, no.’

  ‘So how come they’ve been asking around IG Farben about Kestrel, and specifically about a man called Friedrich?’

  The Englishman looked shocked. ‘I really have no idea.’

  Ulrich stared at him for a while. He didn’t like what he saw and he certainly didn’t like what he was hearing. The man was naïve and complacent at best. He didn’t trust him when he said he’d revealed little detail about the market. On the other hand, as far as he could tell, the man hadn’t been followed to Moselstrasse, and most importantly, Ulrich now had the money.

  Wolfgang would be delighted. He could get the escape line working again and move Friedrich on.

  He looked up: the Englishman was wringing his hands and had a sheepish grin on his face as if aware he’d done something wrong.

  ‘May I go now?’

  ‘I think you better had.’

  After he had left, a man appeared from the shadows where he’d been hiding. He brushed the dust from his coat and hair and glanced at Ulrich, who looked relaxed in the armchair.

  ‘You heard all that?’

  The man from the shadows nodded.

  ‘So you know what to do?’

  He nodded again and left the cellar.

  * * *

  Sorensen’s team followed the one-armed man in the leather jacket and woollen hat as he walked up Moselstrasse, crossing Kaiserstrasse before turning right into Taunus Strasse. Walt, the senior member of the team following him, said the man was a professional, increasing his pace without it being obvious and using classic techniques to be sure he wasn’t being followed.

  ‘I’m going to cut radio contact for a while. I’m worried he’s heading for some kind of transport. I’ll see what we can do.’

  It was an hour before they heard from Walt again, during which time even the unflappable Sorensen began to appear agitated.

  ‘He headed to Landstrasse, where there was a motorbike waiting for him: fortunately we’d pulled both our cars up by then and were able to follow him. He headed north-west out of Frankfurt and up into the Taunus mountains.’

  ‘Where are you now, Walt?’

  ‘A spa resort called Königstein; it seems really nice and peaceful.’

  Sorensen arranged for a car to take the three of them to the town. The building Ulrich had been dropped at was a former guest house set in a quiet road with the mountains looming behind it. They met Walt diagonally opposite the house in an abandoned building he’d taken over.

  ‘The roof’s damaged, but as far as we can tell, the building is inhabited. We’ve been watching it for an hour now, maybe a bit longer. The ground floor seems to be very secure, and there is some movement on the first floor. The windows are shuttered, but we’re working on the assumption that they can see what’s going on outside. I’ve got three men watching the rear and the sides, and two at the front.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you have any idea of how many people are inside?’

  ‘My guess is at least two. We watched the one-armed man go in, and there was definitely someone moving around the first floor when he arrived.’

  ‘Is there any reason why you can’t call for backup and move in?’ Prince was watching the house through binoculars.

  ‘No,’ said Hanne. ‘We want to find out what we can about the Kestrel escape line. Going in like that could mean everything ending in chaos. Let’s wait and see what happens. They may have other visitors after all.’

  Sorensen decided that they’d watch the house overnight and into the following day, and if nothing had happened by the late afternoon – by which time the one-armed man would have been inside for twenty-four hours – they’d move in.

  They didn’t need to wait that long.

  It had been dark for an hour when a side door opened and two figures moved furtively along a path from the house towards the quiet road in front of it.

  The instructions had been that in the event of this happening, they should be allowed to move clear of the house before being challenged. Somehow word hadn’t got through to everyone, because no sooner had the two figures emerged than there was a shout, an order in German to halt, then another shout, followed by a volley of pistol shots. Prince heard Sorensen bellow orders over the radio to move in and stop them. ‘We need to keep the perimeter secure!’ But it was too late: the two figures had ducked back into the house, and were now firing from a ground-floor window. It was then that Prince heard the crack and whistle of a shot, and Hanne screaming behind him, followed by the searing pain in his shoulder.

  He was aware of feeling light-headed and nauseous, and felt Hanne’s arm round him as she told him to sit down. Across the road, the Americans were still trying to force their way into the house. Suddenly Hanne shouted out and pointed to what appeared to be the same two figures emerging from the shell of a house two doors along.

  But in the chaos, no one heard her, and they could only watch as the two figures hurried to the roadside, reaching it just as a jeep pulled up, the men jumping in as it sped away. By the time, the Americans realised what was going on, it was too late. A couple of them opened fire at the jeep, but its taillights were already dimmer than the stars above them.

  * * *

  Dusk was descending on Cologne as the train from Frankfurt finally pulled into Köln Hauptbahnhof. It had been a long journey, delayed because of speed restrictions, or damage to the track, or for no apparent reason at all.

  Two of Walt’s team had followed Charles Falmer onto the train. Prince had made it clear that they should leave him for as long as possible: they needed to see where he went and what he did. The train was crowded, and Walt’s men watched as Falmer found a place in an eight-seater compartment towards the front. They split up, one of them positioning himself at the front of the carriage, the other at the rear.

  The train emptied slowly in Cologne, the two Americans waiting for the Englishman to leave so they could follow him. But soon the trickle of passengers dried up, and Charles Falmer had certainly not been among them.

  They found him apparently asleep in a corner seat by the window, the brim of his trilby tipped low over his face, his briefcase wedged between him and the side of the carriage.

  The two Americans looked at each other. One of them shook him by the shoulder as the other checked his pulse. Both shook their heads. They knew that whatever happened, this would reflect badly on them. They checked him over for any clues. The body was still warm and the blood that had seeped onto the seat from where he’d been stabbed in the back was still bright red and not yet too sticky.

  ‘It must have just happened,’ one of them said.

  The other nodded. It was hardly much of a consolation.

  Chapter 14

  London, October 1945

  ‘Sir Roland is in the library if would you care to follow me, Mr Gilbey.’

  Tom Gilbey assured the steward he knew where the library was, thank you very much, but the response was a fleeting smile and a slight bow of the head as the man stepped towards the stairs, indicating that the visitor should follow.

  They found the ample figure of Sir Roland Pearson on the first floor, wedged into a high-backed club chair positioned between two tall dark oak bookcases of Victorian literature that cast him in a valley of gloom. A brass and green glass lamp threw some light in his direction. He waved a leather-bound volume at Gilbey by way of greeting. A shaft of sunlight caught the small cloud of dust from the book.

  ‘Our Mutual Friend – one of Dickens’ finest and most underestimated novels; I must reread it. My maternal uncle Wilfred made a point of rea
ding it twice a year, every Easter and Christmas. “And O there are days in this life, worth life and worth death.”’

  ‘Pardon, Roly?’

  ‘It’s a quote from the book, part of a passage I had to read out at his funeral. I’m afraid I rather blubbed at the time. Thankfully it was a sparsely attended event – Wilfred didn’t marry, you know; bachelorhood is something of a family tradition, one I’m afraid I’ve followed.’

  Sir Roland was gazing out of the window, the autumn afternoon’s weak sun catching his watery eyes. He blinked and turned to face his visitor, inviting him to speak.

  ‘From what I hear, Roly, you now have all the time in the world to catch up on your reading.’

  ‘Is this visit business or pleasure, Tom – I’m presuming the former?’

  Gilbey nodded and Sir Roland slowly stood up. ‘There’s a room along the corridor where we can have a private chat. I’m never too sure what one should drink at three o’clock in the afternoon; it’s one of those neither-here-nor-there times, don’t you find?’

  The steward had followed them and was standing expectantly in the doorway.

  ‘We’ll have two large whiskies, Barker, and a jug of water, please. The club’s own malt is terribly good, Tom.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were a member of Boodle’s, Roly.’

  ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me.’

  Gilbey laughed briefly and the two men sat in the dusty silence for a while as the steward poured their whiskies.

  ‘It’s not on my file then, Tom?’

  ‘What isn’t, Roly?’

  ‘That I’m a member here.’

  ‘It would be the Security Service who’d hold it rather than us. They’ve probably got a file on me too.’

  The two men laughed and wished each other good health, and Gilbey asked Pearson what he made of the new prime minister.