by Alex Gerlis
Anthony Hawke nodded, trying to appear impassive. ‘I despise this government and I had considerable doubts about the course and aims of the war, but I’m a patriot – I’m not a Nazi, you know!’
‘But don’t you think, sir,’ Bourne looked down as he spoke, ‘that the enemy of my enemy is my friend?’
‘So are you asking me for money?’
Bourne turned to the woman again, who said that indeed, anything would be most appreciated.
Hawke removed the chequebook from his jacket pocket again. ‘I wouldn’t want to be… embarrassed by this.’
‘Of course not, sir: what we can do is treat it as a purchase. We have some Victorian sketches of doubtful provenance that are really worth very little, but it would ensure everything appears above board. May I ask how much you intend to give?’
‘Twenty-five pounds is what I had in mind.’
‘That is most generous, sir, thank you very much.’
‘How do you get the money over to the Continent?’ Hawke was looking down at the chequebook as he spoke. ‘I don’t imagine you send them cheques, eh?’
‘Strictly cash,’ said the woman. ‘We send it by courier. We had one courier who went out a few weeks ago, and there’s another we hope to send soon.’
‘Yes,’ said Bourne, chuckling. ‘Killing two birds with one stone!’
The woman coughed, and when Sir Roland looked up, he noticed a furious look on her face.
* * *
Two days later, Sir Roland Pearson was sitting in Tom Gilbey’s office with the Wright landscape propped up on a chair next to him. Roland Bentley was also present, as were Hanne and Prince, summoned back from Lincoln.
Pearson gave a lengthy account of his two visits to Bourne and Sons. When he had finished, he rubbed his hands together and pointed to the painting, as if its purchase had been the purpose of the exercise.
‘The objective of Sir Roland’s mission was to establish whether there is a link between this art gallery and the Kestrel Line. Is that not correct, Tom?’
Gilbey told Bentley that it was.
‘And it would seem that such a link has been established through this visit?’
‘To an extent, yes.’
‘What do you mean, Tom?’
‘Don’t get me wrong, it was a successful visit, but the evidence gained from it is circumstantial rather than direct. I’m sure our police officer friends here appreciate the difference – I assume Danish law is similar in this respect?’
Prince and Hanne both nodded.
‘Without in any way seeking to diminish what you achieved Roly, we only have what Mr Bourne and Mr Ridgeway have said, along with the more explicit statement of the unnamed woman.’
Pearson had opened his notebook and now read out loud, as if giving dictation: ‘“…a number of them are seeking to assume new identities and leave Europe, so that they are in a position to resume their cause… We are assisting one particular group in a practical manner, specifically by providing funds to enable their passage.” I ought to add that I made these notes more or less contemporaneously: I pride myself on my recall.’
‘And you gave them a cheque for twenty-five pounds, I believe it was. To whom was it made out Tom?’ Roland Bentley’s fountain pen was poised as he waited for an answer.
‘To Bourne and Sons, sir: we’ve already been through this. Obviously it’s a pity it wasn’t made out to another account, as then it would have been easier to trace.’
‘They were hardly going to ask me to make out a cheque to the Nazi Escape Fund, were they?’ Pearson looked pleased with his remark.
Hanne looked up, shocked, unsure whether this was a joke.
‘I think there is undoubtedly something to this – a possible link between Bourne and Sons and the Kestrel Line has now become a probable one. Nonetheless, we need more evidence. Prince, you had a decent relationship with Hugh Harper at MI5 when you worked with him on that last mission, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, Mr Gilbey, sir.’
‘I’ve asked him to help; this end of things is really their game. They’ve already got someone looking at the Bourne and Sons bank account to see if we can spot any interesting transactions. I suggest you and Hanne try to see what you can find out too.’
‘There is something else.’ Pearson hauled himself into a more upright position in his chair. ‘This may be nothing, but nonetheless I made a note of it, and I see I put an asterisk alongside it. After the woman talked about the funds, she said… where are we… ah, here… “There are also people in this country we wish to send on the same route.” Then she mentioned having already sent out one courier…’
‘Which was presumably Charles Falmer.’
‘If you say so… and she added they hoped to send another out soon. Then Bourne made a joke along the lines of killing two birds with one stone. She looked furious with him when he said that.’
‘Whatever does all that mean?’
‘I have no idea, Tom.’
‘What more can you tell us about this woman?’
‘Very assertive, I would say, Prince. I got the impression that she was calling the shots somehow.’
‘What did she look like?’
‘Very attractive, if I might say. Pretty face and good legs; had a refined air about her.’
‘Age?’
‘Difficult to say, but if you pushed me, I’d say early to mid-fifties.’
‘And he didn’t use a name?’
‘No.’
‘Any accent?’
‘Nothing discernible.’
‘You look as if you think you’re on to something, Prince?’
‘As you know, sir, in my last case I infiltrated a group of British Nazi sympathisers in an attempt to break the German spy ring we were investigating. There was a woman – an Englishwoman – I came across in Gerrards Cross who was part of that group. I next encountered her when she identified me at a pub in east London. As far as I’m aware, she’s never been traced.’
‘And your point?’
Prince shrugged. ‘Hard to say, sir, but the description Sir Roland gave sounds like her. And remember too, the main purpose of that case was to identify the Nazi spy known as Agent Milton. We established that he was Major Edward Palmer, but…’
‘…he disappeared too.’
‘Exactly. So when this woman said there are people in England that they want to help escape – you never know, she could have been talking about Palmer.’
The atmosphere altered as the room descended into silence, everyone in it absorbed in their thoughts. It was as if the temperature had dropped by a few degrees.
‘Good Lord,’ said Bentley, not normally a man given to such expressions. ‘I do think you may well be on to something here.’
Chapter 17
Berlin, November 1945
After years of blaming other people for his lowly status and what he saw as a run of constant bad luck, Kenneth Bemrose had come to realise it was up to him to pull himself together and do something about it.
Learning Russian was a case in point: he enthusiastically volunteered for Russian lessons and applied himself as hard as possible. He studied in his free time and sailed through the beginner’s course with such ease that one of the MI6 officers running the course asked him whether he’d be interested in the intermediate course, and would he also like to be considered for what he called ‘special duties’?
Bemrose said of course, and only two days ago he’d been asked to go to the fifth floor of the building where he worked, where one of the guards actually saluted him. He was then taken into a windowless room where a man who never actually gave his name said they were very impressed with his progress, and if he was prepared to sign up to staying in Berlin for another five years and continue to the advanced-level Russian course, he would be promoted to officer status and become a MI6 member of staff. It was only when the man stood up to indicate that the meeting was over that he mentioned – more as an aside than anything else – that Bemrose might be interested
to know that he’d also passed through another level of security clearance.
No longer would he be a mere clerk, or even a chauffeur as he had been when that couple had come over from London in September. At last he would have some standing: it would mean he would qualify for better accommodation, perhaps even in one of those very pleasant blocks in Charlottenburg. And Peggy – the pretty WRAF girl at RAF Gatow who walked with a bit of a limp – might even be interested in him now, despite the fact that he was quite a few years older than her.
His boss had said he could use the Humber Snipe over the weekend, so on the Sunday morning he drove over the Havel to Grunewald. He’d telephoned Peggy on Friday and Saturday and left messages for her: would she be interested in accompanying him? He could collect her and drive her back. In fact, to his slight embarrassment – he hadn’t wanted to come across as desperate – he’d actually rung four times on the Friday and twice more on the Saturday, but he imagined someone had failed to pass on the message – or that Peggy was busy.
Once he’d been walking in the forest for an hour, though, he was grateful she hadn’t joined him. He doubted she’d have managed the rough terrain with her limp, and it would have been an awfully long time to keep up a conversation. He was enjoying the tranquillity of the place, the strange silence afforded by so many trees so close together.
He was wary of losing his way, so avoided going too deep into the forest and made sure the path to his left remained just in sight. It was then that he noticed the couple walking along the path, seemingly keeping pace with him. He didn’t think much of it at first, but after a while, he was unsettled by their presence – not because there was anything suspicious about them, but because it made him feel inhibited: when he was sure he was completely out of anyone’s earshot, he liked to talk to himself or sing out loud. He didn’t want these people to think he was odd.
He decided to move a bit deeper into the forest, out of sight of the path, and continued like this for a while until he heard twigs snapping behind him and turned round to see the couple just yards from him, smiling apologetically as if they’d disturbed him. They seemed to be in their seventies, both short and smartly dressed as if on their way to a social engagement. The man had a fine head of silver hair and a well-tended beard. He looked like an academic. The woman had a gold brooch on the lapel of her coat and wore a pair of smart leather gloves.
‘We are terribly sorry to bother you, Mr Bemrose.’
Bemrose’s first thought was that from now on – if there was to be a now on – he would make sure he always carried a pistol. Someone in the office had mentioned it, and he hoped his failure to do so wasn’t something he’d regret, though of course it might be too late for that.
‘Please, Mr Bemrose, don’t look so shocked. We are here to give you a message, that is all.’
The man had addressed him in English with a Mittel-European accent.
‘Are you sure you’ve got the right person?’
‘You are Mr Bemrose, yes – a British official?’
Bemrose said he was, but he was sure he was one of many, and in any case how on earth had they found him here? He was wondering about heading back towards the path when he noticed the man – to his horror – reaching into his inside jacket pocket. He held his breath until he produced a silver cigarette case and offered it to him. He eagerly took one.
‘In September, Mr Bemrose, you looked after an Englishman and his wife who visited Berlin on official business. Please… do let me finish. They had reason to go to the Soviet sector of Berlin, where they had dealings with Commissar Iosif Gurevich.’
Bemrose started to say that he really couldn’t recall it, but the man held up his hand.
‘This isn’t a question, Mr Bemrose: I am stating matters of fact. This is a message from Iosif Gurevich: you are to contact the couple urgently and tell them he needs to see them in Berlin as soon as possible.’
‘Well, I suppose—’
‘It is also essential that you add it is in connection with Kestrel. They’ll understand. Perhaps you’d care to repeat the message?’
Bemrose did so, and then the couple said it had been very nice to meet him and shook his hand, slightly bowing their heads as they did so. Would he mind, they asked, if he waited where he was for ten minutes or so to give them time to make their way back?
* * *
The investigation in London had been going badly. Hugh Harper at MI5 gave the impression of being very put upon. He complained that he’d lost most of his influence and half his team, including the Disciples, as his elite team of watchers and followers led by the redoubtable Bartholomew was known – were being dismantled. He was wondering how long he had left in the Service, he told Prince.
Nonetheless, he had managed to secure the services of three officers – ‘all qualified accountants, would you believe’ – who specialised in investigating financial matters. ‘It sounds rather tedious, Prince, but these chaps insist that in investigations like this, money is the key to everything. They look at bank accounts and work out where the deposits have come from and where money paid out goes. They have had some very encouraging results. Let’s give them a fortnight: they’re confident they ought to dig something up.’
Despite their confidence, they didn’t manage to dig anything up. Bourne and Sons turned out to have two business accounts, one with Martins Bank and the other with the Midland Bank. MI5’s investigators looked at both accounts going back to the start of 1944: all the deposits by cheque or from other accounts were above suspicion, as was the money paid out. They’d then turned their attention to the personal bank accounts of Bourne and Ridgeway, the former’s with Midland Bank, the latter’s with National Provincial. Again they were unable to find evidence of any suspicious activity.
‘Other than cash,’ said Harper when he met up with Prince and Hanne at the end of the investigation. ‘The accountant chaps – though one’s a woman, believe it or not – say there’s a higher level of cash deposits and withdrawals than one would expect, but then of course one can’t trace cash, so that in itself is suspicious.’
‘So no one paid money in by cheque? I thought that when Anthony Hawke donated money to them, he did so by cheque?’
‘As payment for the purchase of an artwork… these chaps are quite clever. But the evidence of significant amounts of cash going in and out of the account probably means we should persist with this.’
The gallery on Cork Street was watched for a fortnight, and Bourne and Ridgeway were followed, but no clues emerged. Prince said they were especially interested in the woman – the one who’d been at the meeting between Bourne and Hawke and whom he suspected was involved in the Nazi spy ring – but there was no sign of her.
Hanne told him in no uncertain terms that she felt the investigation was ridiculous. ‘Like that sport you play – cricket. It’s slow and pointless. There seems to be no sense of urgency. Surely we should be getting warrants to search the gallery and their homes and bringing them in for questioning.’
Prince said he had to agree, and he arranged a meeting with Tom Gilbey. MI5 are rather dawdling, sir, I think we need to up our game…
But before the meeting could take place, a message came from Berlin, from Bemrose. Gurevich wants to see you. He says it’s urgent – it’s to do with kestrel.
* * *
‘We’ve found him!’
Commissar Iosif Gurevich clapped his hands and stood up. There was a wide grin on his face and a shot glass of vodka held high above his head as he prepared to deliver yet another toast. Slightly confused, and beginning to feel the effects of the vodka they’d already been obliged to consume, both Hanne and Price slowly stood too before sipping their drinks.
It was late in the morning in Gurevich’s new office on the top floor of the building on Behrenstrasse. This one had sweeping views of what remained of Berlin and felt more like a dining room than an office, with its highly polished furniture and expensive-looking rugs. Hanne and Prince were exhausted f
rom their overnight flight from London: they’d hoped for some time in Berlin to rest before their meeting, but Bemrose had insisted they travel to the Soviet zone immediately.
‘You found Friedrich Steiner?’
Gurevich shook his head as he topped up his glass.
‘His father, then?’
‘No, not yet – but hopefully very soon. You recall the file I showed you last time – this one here?’
He angled a folder on his desk so they could see it better. ‘This is Wolfgang Steiner’s file and it gave us a link between him and the Kestrel Line, if you remember. We assumed FFM stood for Frankfurt, which from what you tell me was probably a correct assumption, but we had no idea what the other initials – RLB, V and T – stood for, though we thought T must be Turin. I said at the time that these were notes added to the file after an interrogation, and that the officer who made them had failed to include his initials – that he was most probably in a hurry. I also said I’d try and find that officer.’
Minutes later they were joined by that officer. Kapitan Leonid Fyodorov looked improbably young – perhaps in his mid-twenties – with a mop of unruly hair, and black eyes that watched them suspiciously. He also spoke good German.
‘I have assured Kapitan Fyodorov that he has done nothing wrong,’ Gurevich began. ‘This is not a disciplinary matter in any way. I understand that he made these notes at a time when he was interrogating maybe a dozen Nazis a day. His oversight in failing to add his initials and not making the notes more explicit is therefore quite understandable.’
Kapitan Fyodorov nodded, and allowed a thin smile to cross his young face.
‘Perhaps, Fyodorov, it would be best if you explained everything in your own words. Would anyone like some more vodka first?’
Hanne and Prince both said they were fine, thank you very much, and Fyodorov didn’t respond as he opened the file and his notebook. Before he spoke, he stood up and shook hands with the two visitors, looking them both in the eye. He seemed intrigued by them. Prince wondered how Gurevich had explained their presence.
