by Alex Gerlis
Slater looked pleased with himself and leaned back in a manner inviting a gesture of gratitude from Prince.
‘No other details – like this woman’s address?’
Slater shook his head. ‘Looks like the ball’s in your court, Mr Prince.’
Fortunately Bartholomew was in the office and they began to make plans. Bartholomew would have a team watch the Midland Bank in Threadneedle Street and arrest the woman once she had withdrawn the cash. He’d make sure every exit was covered. He’d even have people behind the counter.
Prince went to the records department in the basement and asked them to check on a Miss Myrtle Carter. A friendly woman with a Welsh accent told him she’d recently reorganised all the watch lists and they now had a centralised record of all the names on those lists. ‘When I took over, there were more than two dozen separate lists, would you believe: lists of people wanted by the police, deserters from the armed forces, people who’d applied to travel abroad now that it’s possible, political extremists… It was utter chaos, my love. Those individual watch lists still exist, but what I’ve done is create an alphabetical list of names of everyone on them. It’s been invaluable. We’ve even spotted people on as many as three different watch lists! It’s made the work of this section so much more efficient, but naturally my senior officer has taken all the credit. Now then, what did you say her name is?’
It took her less than a minute to find Myrtle Carter on her centralised list, along with a reference to where to find her in the original watch list.
‘Here we are: Carter, Myrtle – she’s applied for a permit to travel by ferry to France, accompanied by a Mr Harold Hamilton, both of them with an address in Bayswater. Looks like my system works a treat, eh, my love? Try and make sure I get some credit.’
But when Prince returned to his desk, there was the message to call Tom Gilbey and then the summons to St James’s.
Pop in for a chat would you Richard – later this morning perhaps?
* * *
Prince was persuaded to return to MI5 that afternoon while arrangements were made to fly him out the following day. In the time he’d been away at MI6, Bartholomew had made progress, and now they were in Hugh Harper’s office and Sir Roland Pearson had joined them. Bartholomew spoke first.
‘The address in Bayswater is a large house with a dozen or so bedsits. No sign of either a Myrtle Carter or a Harold Hamilton: they’ve never been there as far as we can tell, nor do they receive mail there. It’s what we call a postbox, which means it was probably used solely for the purpose of providing an address for registering their national identity cards. Once these came through, their contact in the house would have moved on. It’s not used as a safe house or as a place to receive messages. We won’t find where she or this Hamilton chap are through this address, and there’s no record of her anywhere else.’
‘Harold Hamilton rings a bell,’ said Prince, frowning.
‘Not for me, I’m afraid,’ said Harper.
‘The forger who was arrested in Manchester: didn’t he provide a list of false identities he’d provided and try to have his charges reduced by telling us that one of his clients bore a striking resemblance to Edward Palmer – the Nazi agent code-named Milton?’
‘Good Lord, Prince, you’re quite right. No one believed him at the time, did they? We thought it was just an attempt to curry favour. What was the identity he said he provided for Palmer?’
‘That’s the point, sir – it was Harold Hamilton: the forger said he sold it at a premium.’
It was the time of year when darkness descended in the afternoon with a suddenness that turned day into unexpected night. When Hugh Harper turned on his desk light, all four people in the room looked shocked. They had now established a connection between Edward Palmer, the fugitive Nazi spy who’d worked in the War Office, and a woman associated with the group of Nazi sympathisers apparently helping to fund the Nazi escape line. For a few moments they sat in silence as they absorbed this.
‘We shouldn’t arrest her tomorrow, Bartholomew.’
‘Whatever do you mean, Roly?’ Hugh Harper looked confused.
‘I agree with Sir Roland,’ said Prince. ‘We know that this Myrtle Carter and Edward Palmer are planning on travelling to the Continent with at least two hundred pounds. If we arrest her at the bank, we lose him. If we follow her to wherever they’re living, we might arrest them both but…’
‘…we lose the trail of the Kestrel Line,’ said Pearson. ‘Prince has got it. Bartholomew, you need to have a top team on this, and even then we’re running an enormous risk. We need to keep an eye on her as far as possible, but the priority is to find out exactly when and where they’re crossing the Channel and then follow them to wherever they’re headed. With some luck they’ll take us to Turin – and maybe even Martin Bormann.’
‘And Hanne,’ said Prince, his voice quiet. He was clearly upset. ‘With some luck they’ll lead us to Hanne.’
* * *
By the time Prince left MI5 that evening, his journey to Austria was taking shape. He’d be on an RAF flight in the morning to the US Air Force base in Munich, and would travel on to Villach from there.
He was staying at a MI6 safe house in Holland Park, and as it was a dry and not too cold evening, he got off the Underground early at Notting Hill Gate to walk the rest of the way. He wanted to clear his head: he ought to return to Lincoln to see Henry before travelling to find Hanne, but as much as he felt drawn towards his son, he felt he couldn’t risk delaying his search for her by even one day.
He turned into Addison Road, which despite its size felt as quiet and isolated as a country lane. He stepped aside to allow a couple walking their dog to pass, and was annoyed when they slowed down in front of him. He was about to cross the road when a man came alongside and positioned himself between him and the kerb. Prince turned round: another man was close behind him, a hand menacingly inside his coat pocket.
‘Don’t worry, my friend.’ It was the man walking next to him who spoke, his accent foreign. Prince sensed that the couple in front and the man behind were now even closer: it felt like a trap.
‘I have greetings for you from my colleague Iosif in Berlin. He hopes you are well.’
‘I hardly think—’
‘I have limited time, so it will be best served by you listening to me. Iosif assumes you are travelling to Austria to look for Hanne.’
‘How the hell do you know that?’
The man shrugged. He was a big man with a neat beard, a hat pulled low over his face. He kept his head down as he spoke. ‘Please listen. Iosif says to go to Vienna first. He’ll meet you there: don’t worry about finding him, he’ll find you.’
‘I can’t go to Vienna. I have to go south; I have to find Hanne.’
‘That, my friend, is why he wants to meet you in Vienna!’
Chapter 22
Austria, December 1945
‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it?’
The man who’d appeared beside him was pointing at the Hofburg Palace as if Prince hadn’t noticed it. Prince had been standing in the drizzle on Heldenplatz in front of the enormous edifice for a few minutes, and had begun to feel thoroughly miserable. He now felt an enormous sense of relief.
‘In what way?’
The man concentrated on finishing his cigarette. ‘You’d do well to find a more impressive symbol of imperialism still standing in Europe, and now it’s under the control of the Soviet Union! So when I said “wonderful”, I meant the irony of us controlling what was once the heart of the Habsburg Empire.’
Prince laughed. ‘But you don’t control it, do you? The centre of Vienna’s an international zone. We control this place as much as you do, and we still have an empire – though by the sounds of it, you’re starting to acquire one!’
Iosif Gurevich laughed, then turned to embrace Prince and told him it was good to see him. ‘I didn’t think you’d get here quite so soon.’
They’d started to walk and were n
ow on Löwelstrasse, the drizzle turning into heavy rain. ‘I was told you might be able to help me find Hanne. You can’t imagine how desperate I am, Iosif.’
‘Is that what they told you?’
Prince recounted what had happened the previous evening in Holland Park.
‘I said not to be so heavy-handed. Four of them behaving like that is ridiculous: it sounds as if they were planning to abduct you! That’s the problem with London station. They have no sense of proportion. You look dreadful, by the way.’
‘I feel it. I can’t remember when I last slept.’
‘Come, I have somewhere we can talk.’
* * *
Prince certainly hadn’t slept the previous night. After his encounter with the Russians in Holland Park, he’d returned to the safe house, the message that Gurevich could help him to find Hanne occupying his every thought.
He should have reported what had happened straight away, but decided against it. He didn’t want anything to jeopardise his chances of finding Hanne, especially now the Russians seemed to be offering some hope.
At the safe house there was a message from Gilbey. Change of plan: there’s a flight to Munich at three in the morning and you’re on it. A car will pick you up in half an hour.
He was driven to RAF Benson in Oxfordshire and flew from there on an RAF DC3 to Neubiberg airport just outside Munich, where he was met by a harassed British liaison officer called Cuthbert who assured him he was working on getting him to Klagenfurt. ‘Shouldn’t take terribly long.’
‘To get to Klagenfurt?’
‘Uh, no… to work out how to get you there. We’re rather dependent on the Americans here. No rush, though, is there?’
Prince explained that actually there was a rush, but knew better than to rely on this man to expedite matters. He wandered around the airbase until he found the officers’ mess, where he joined a table of USAF pilots to whom he explained his dilemma. I need to get to Vienna.
‘Is this official British business?’ The man who asked the question was young and wearing dark glasses, and spoke with a long cigarette clamped between his front teeth. Prince assured him it couldn’t be more official.
The pilot stood up, towering over him. ‘Follow me.’
He’d arrived in Vienna just before noon, and in the eight hours since then had wandered round the city knowing he’d only see the Russian when Gurevich was ready to be seen.
Don’t worry about finding him, he’ll find you.
And now Gurevich was ready. They made an unlikely pair as they walked through Vienna’s First District, one in a British Army greatcoat, the other in a Red Army one. They walked past the magnificent St Stephan’s cathedral, which seemed to throw shadows even in the dark. Gurevich’s pace quickened as they turned into Dominikaner Bastei, seemingly heading towards the Danube Canal, and Prince wondered what would happen if they crossed from the neutral First District into the Soviet zone.
Gurevich stopped just before the junction with Schwedenplatz. He looked round as he lit a cigarette, pausing to allow two Austrian police officers to pass. Moments later, Prince found himself in the basement of a bar, furniture piled high at one end, the bare room lit by a single bulb. Gurevich sat down opposite him at the solitary table.
‘Hanne’s safe.’
Prince gasped and stared intently at the Russian in an attempt to work out whether he was telling the truth.
‘You look like you don’t believe me, my friend. Why would I lie?’
Prince coughed and realised tears were forming in his eyes. ‘It’s not that I don’t believe you, but… maybe this is just what someone has told you… maybe they’re wrong… How do you know she’s alive?’
‘Believe me, I know.’
‘Has she escaped from the Nazis, or been rescued?’
‘Who said she was with the Nazis? In our business we shouldn’t make assumptions, should we?’
‘Don’t play games with me, Iosif, I need to find my wife. Where the hell is she? I need to know if she’s safe!’
‘I told you she’s safe. What happened to her may be my fault, but from what I gather, we probably saved her life. She’d got herself into a very dangerous situation.’
‘Is she here in Vienna?’
‘No, she’s still in Villach. Don’t worry; you’ll be taken there tomorrow.’
‘What do you mean, it may have been your fault?’
Gurevich undid his greatcoat and from an inside pocket produced a flask, which he put down on the table, indicating that Prince should drink first. ‘The war was very straightforward in many ways, wasn’t it? I’ll admit that our alliance with Nazi Germany was awkward, though of course Comrade Stalin was correct to try and buy time. Had the Nazis invaded in 1939, we would have struggled to resist. Once they did invade, in 1941, it was clear exactly who our enemy was: we could see them, we were fighting them every day. But since the war ended, matters have become complicated. We’re meant to be friends with the British and the Americans because we were on the same side, but everyone knows that it is hardly a friendship. Even within the Soviet Union the comradeship and unity that was there during the war has been replaced by a degree of mistrust.’
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and lit a cigarette. ‘And then we have our other allies, in countries where the Soviet Union is trying to exert its influence. You yourself made reference to us acquiring an empire, which of course is unfair, but it is true that there are countries in eastern and central Europe that we are trying to bring into the embrace and protection of socialism, with the Soviet Union at the vanguard showing strong leadership. We believe this is absolutely in their interests and we have no doubt that in time they will understand this too.’
He stopped and looked hard at Prince, wanting him to understand that as urbane and amenable as he was, there could be no doubt as to where his loyalties lay.
‘There’s an old saying I remember my grandfather using: your enemies appear in the light, your friends in the dark. The enemy is easier to spot than a friend. A friend can become an enemy before you realise it. But with some of these countries – our friends – the relationship is, how shall I phrase it… complicated. They too have fought a long and hard war and they have a desire for independence that is not necessarily compatible with our interests. So we need to work hard to extend our influence. One way of achieving this is by doing favours for them; making them feel indebted towards us.
‘The country presenting us with most problems at the moment is Yugoslavia. Their partisans fought an outstanding war against the enemy, but now there are indications that they wish to follow their own path. So we need to increase our influence with them.
‘After you left Berlin, I discovered that in the summer of 1944, Friedrich Steiner was transferred from Amsterdam to Maribor in Slovenia. He operated from the Gestapo bureau there under a different name, and he did not use his nickname of the Ferret. His brutality in Maribor was particularly appalling, and the Yugoslavs too are hunting for him. So I went to see them at their mission in Berlin on Cornelius Strasse. I told them about the Kestrel Line and Steiner and about Villach and you and Hanne and… hang on, hang on, hear me out… and in return I can expect favours from them: it will help make them well disposed towards us. They will understand we’re on the same side.
‘I was told they had sent a team to Villach. But it is important that you know I instructed them that under no circumstances should any harm come to you or Hanne: I made it very clear that you’re both to be treated as comrades… Why are you shaking your head?’
‘Because how do I know we can trust them?’
‘They will know not to upset someone like me, but if there are any problems, you can contact me on this telephone number. Someone here in Vienna will answer. If necessary, I can come back here and sort things out.’
* * *
Well before her husband had arrived in Vienna – indeed, some time before he’d left London – Hanne found herself in the small wood outside Villach, standing a
gainst the base of the tree with her hands in the air as she’d been instructed to do. The man who’d given the order stood in front of her. A woman was next to him, and Hanne recognised them as the couple she’d assumed were hikers when they’d passed her minutes earlier.
Neither of them said a word, and when Hanne began to speak, the woman put a finger to her lips. The three of them stood still as the couple listened carefully. There was not a sound to be heard other than a light wind brushing the tops of the trees. Eventually the man nodded, and the woman stepped forward and searched Hanne then indicated she could lower her hands.
‘Are you alone?’
The man spoke quietly but firmly and Hanne thought she detected a lack of menace in his voice. She replied that she was, and when he asked what she was doing here in the woods, she said she was out for a walk.
‘You walked up a tree?’
She shrugged and said something about looking round, and when the man asked why she was looking at the house, she said she didn’t know what he was talking about, realising as soon as she said it just how unconvincing it sounded.
‘We can talk later, it’s not safe here – but you probably know that. Come.’
They started to walk through the woods, Hanne behind the woman and in front of the man. When they reached the wooden fence, she noticed a younger man crouched by it with a pistol in his hand. He spoke quietly with the couple in a language she couldn’t place before heading off. Hanne waited in the woods with the couple, the three of them sitting down between the trees. She asked what this was all about and said she needed to return to the town, but they shook their heads and said ‘later’.
After about an hour, the younger man returned and they followed him to a car parked on the nearby lane. As far as Hanne could tell, they drove past Villach and ended up somewhere to the south-east of the town. On the outskirts of a village, they pulled onto a rough track and then into a farmyard. The farmhouse was bitterly cold and sparsely furnished.
