The Berlin Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  ‘This is a real emergency,’ said Lassiter as he allowed himself a sip of his drink, a thin foam of beer forming a brief moustache. ‘You know of Chris Porter, don’t you? Big cheese in Six during the war, retired a few years ago… Edgar’s boss.’

  The older man nodded and leaned closer to Lassiter.

  ‘Porter lives in Cambridge now, seems his mind is not what it was. Paul Sheridan – used to be station chief in Nairobi and now oversees the whole of Africa – is up in Cambridge most weekends, his wife works there, and once a month or so Sheridan pops in to see Porter. Last time he did so Porter was in a bit of a flap: seems Edgar had turned up unannounced a week or so before and was pushing him about the Krause case. Edgar took some papers of Porter’s away.’

  The older man leaned even closer and gripped Lassiter’s forearm. ‘You were meant to have dealt with this business seven years ago: you promised me!’

  ‘I did deal with it, that’s the thing. I told you so at the time, didn’t I? Porter read the report and passed it to me marked “not for action.” When I actually got round to reading the bloody report a day or so later I was worried sick, as you can imagine, not least in case Porter had a copy of the damn thing. But it seemed he’d forgotten about it. We agreed, did we not, it had been a lucky escape…’

  ‘And the report, remind me?’

  ‘As far as the Service is concerned, it doesn’t exist. There’s certainly nothing in Registry. I managed to remove all trace of it.’

  ‘And now Edgar… how the hell did Edgar even know about it?’

  Lassiter exhaled deeply and lifted his beer glass to his lips, spilling some onto the table. ‘I’ve no idea. However, Sheridan mentioned it to Castle and Castle told me because the report had come from Bonn. I managed to persuade Castle that I couldn’t recall the case but we nevertheless ought to find out what Edgar knew in case it had implications for current operations. I assured him I’d sort it all out.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’m afraid Castle rather over-reacted. He’s never much liked Edgar. They overlapped a bit at the start of Castle’s career and Castle always resented Edgar having never really gone away. He thought if we confronted Edgar then he could get Edgar into some kind of trouble, and be shot of him once and for all. I went along with it because I thought… well, you know, it would be a way of finding out what on earth Edgar knows and is up to. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if Porter had consulted Edgar about the Krause file all those years ago. But even if so, why on earth would he be interested in it now, after all these years? Castle decided that he and I would just turn up at Edgar’s place in Dorset, which we did.’

  ‘How did Edgar react?’

  ‘Like he had no idea what we were on about: rather made Castle look like a fool and me too by the same token. Admitted Krause had briefly come up in conversation with Porter but said it was more in passing than anything else – more for the sake of having something to talk about. He admitted he’d removed some boxes of papers but said it was nothing to do with Krause, just a favour to Porter, all inconsequential stuff… told us he’d burnt it on a bonfire in his garden.’

  ‘And did you believe him?’

  ‘Well, he offered to show us the ashes…’

  ‘No, you fool: do you believe him about why he asked Porter about the Krause report?’

  ‘He was certainly very plausible. But then why would he have brought up Krause, of all things, when he met with Porter? He said Porter had mentioned Krause back in ‘68 or ‘69 – he couldn’t remember – to see if the name rang a bell. He insisted he never saw any documents. Can’t believe he’d have mentioned it after all these years just to help the conversation along, especially as he told us it was all so inconsequential at the time.’

  The older man removed a folded handkerchief from somewhere deep inside his jacket and dabbed his head nervously, pausing every so often to inspect the handkerchief. ‘After all these years, I really thought we had nothing to worry about… but it appears we may do. You’ll have to tell him. He’ll be fucking furious. If you’d done your job properly in 1969 and read the report before passing it on to Porter, then no-one other than you would have seen that Krause file. And now… now it’s come back to bite us. Why are you bothering me with this Lassiter? You’re meant to be in charge, you should be dealing with this.’

  ‘I wanted your advice.’

  ‘Really? Didn’t realise you trusted me that much. Does he know yet?’

  ‘No. I was wondering if there was any way of avoiding telling him. You know… perhaps just waiting to see what happens.’

  The older man shook his head. ‘No. You’ll have to tell him. You’d better get over there and tell him in person, hadn’t you?’

  ***

  They met a week later in a safe house on Stauffenberg Strasse just south of the Tiergarten in West Berlin: it was less risky for Reinhard Schäfer to travel to the west than Lassiter to the east.

  ‘I have two hours, three at the most.’ That was how Reinhard Schäfer greeted him. No greeting, no niceties, not even a smile. It was a Sunday, and the German had slipped through with a set of papers showing that he was visiting a sister in West Berlin: a five-hour visa. ‘You’d better tell me what’s up.’

  ‘Are you keeping well?’

  The German shrugged. He had sat down when he came in but now stood up again and started carefully folding his coat, as if he was about to try and pack it into a small suitcase. ‘I was until I got your message. You are only meant to contact me directly in the most extreme case of emergency, otherwise it’s through London. You don’t look too well yourself.’

  ‘You remember the document we got our hands on in ’69, about Otto Schröder?’

  Schäfer nodded.

  ‘He’d become Bernhard Krause and was living in Frankfurt, where he died. That report was…’

  ‘Yes, yes – I remember… he thought he’d come across Richter in ‘68, you don’t need to remind me.’

  ‘Well you’ll remember then that nothing came of it at the time, I managed to make the report disappear.’ Lassiter paused, unsure how to continue. When he did start talking again he looked at the floor and then at the ceiling – anywhere but at the man in front of him. ‘The one problem we had in 1969, which I may or may not have mentioned to you at the time, was that I very foolishly allowed an experienced officer called Christopher Porter to read the report first.’

  ‘You most certainly never mentioned that to me!’

  ‘In which case it was an oversight, for which I apologise. My only excuse is I was overwhelmed with work. It’s one of the consequences of working for two sides. It’s like having two jobs.’

  Schäfer had stood up and walked angrily over to the window, and then paced up and down the room. ‘That is more than an oversight Lassiter, it’s negligence. But this was what… six, seven years ago? Why do you feel so urgently that you have to admit to it now?’

  Lassiter coughed for longer than seemed necessary, and hesitated. ‘At the time I obviously was unaware of what the report was about, which is why I asked Porter to read it first. Fortunately, Porter attached no importance to it and his recommendation was to forget it. It was only then that I read it: I sent a copy to you and removed all trace of the original from Registry, and all has been well for the past seven years. However, to cut a rather long story short, it seems a former colleague of Porter’s, called Edgar, turned up at Porter’s house recently and asked him about the Krause case.’

  Schäfer abruptly stopped pacing the room. ‘When was this?’

  ‘A few weeks ago. Porter is retired and lives in Cambridge. His memory appears to be going but he told another former colleague that Edgar had turned up and asked him about Krause, and had even taken a few boxes of papers away with him. Ronnie Castle told me about it and he decided that the two of us should go and see Edgar. Edgar was rather plausible, I have to say. Told us Krause’s name had come up as a very short part of a longer conversation. He said he’d never seen a
ny file and the papers he took away were just odds and ends which he removed as a favour, and burned in his garden.’

  Schäfer stood up and paced the room for a while, deep in thought. ‘This is not a good situation.’ He had returned to his seat, moved it to directly opposite Lassiter, and was staring at him as he spoke. ‘In fact, it is an intolerable situation. You have exposed us all. I was even named in that report!’

  ‘It’s is hardly my fault Reinhard, if anyone is to…’

  ‘Your job Lassiter is – and always has been – to make sure none of this gets out, that no-one compromises our plans or our safety. It’s not much, but you can’t even manage that. We must assume that this Edgar has the file and may contact the authorities. Remind me who’s still alive?’

  ‘You mean the ones I have responsibility for? Just the four of them. Konrad Hartmann lives in Kent, where he is called Martin Page. Lothar Meier is in Nottingham, his name is Christopher Vale. Christian Schäfer is in a place called Huddersfield, near Leeds. His name is Tom Hartley. Arnold Bauer lives in Cheltenham, not terribly far from me as it happens: he goes by the name of Tony Norton. They all lead what you would describe as very ordinary lives.’

  ‘Plus Captain Canterbury.’

  ‘Of course’

  ‘You know what you need to do, don’t you Lassiter?’

  The Englishman nodded, a blank expression on his face. The German leaned closer and spoke in a menacing tone. ‘If this Edgar is interested in what Krause said, then he will no doubt investigate. If he does that there is a good chance he’ll get close to your four men. And if that happens, we’re all in trouble, aren’t we?’

  Lassiter nodded slowly, a look of fear now slowly replacing the blank expression.

  ‘So you have to ensure they’re silenced before Edgar gets to any them. You do understand what I am saying, don’t you?’

  ‘And Canterbury?’

  ‘Especially Canterbury.’

  Chapter 15

  London

  July 1976

  It was all well and good Viktor imploring him to find these recruits, but Edgar knew it was a task which on the face of it would make finding a needle in a haystack appear straightforward. Even assuming any of the SS recruits had made it to Britain, tracking them down after more than thirty years seemed almost impossible.

  But there was one thing which gave Edgar hope. In his testimony, Krause had mentioned how the recruits would have to use their original names until they escaped. The more Edgar thought about it, the more he realised perhaps there was something to go on after all.

  ***

  ‘All I can say sir is that this is most irregular, and if it wasn’t for the fact there are so few of us still around from the old days, I wouldn’t be going along with this. As it is, I’m really not sure…’

  Edgar was in a corridor below Century House, the headquarters of MI6. He knew that the basement extended like tentacles under the building, but he had never had cause to reach quite so far into them. He’d managed to persuade Walker – one of the old-school MI6 clerks – to help him on a Sunday, and not tell anyone about it.

  ‘You see sir – I’m sure you recall – when MI9 wound up whenever it was, ’45, ’46, it more or less withered on the vine so to speak, didn’t it? Do mind your head please sir, the ceiling dips a bit here. MI6 inherited its work, didn’t we? Naturally, all British prisoners of war were safely accounted for by then. There were still a few Germans around, but not many. So there was no longer really a role for MI9 was there? That is why all their files came here. I was a junior clerk in Registry at the time sir, as you know. Oh dear sir, I did warn you about the ceiling – the floor’s a bit uneven here too, careful now. Now then, just let me unlock this door and then we’re more or less there.’

  The door Walker had unlocked was to a cage-like room, with serried ranks of shelves laden with files, enormous ledgers and boxes. The smell and the dust suggested no-one had been in the area for months, if not longer.

  ‘This room sir contains files and documents relating to Nazi prisoners of war held in this country. That is what you were after, wasn’t it?’

  Edgar nodded.

  ‘The files for the Nazis who were held prisoner on the continent and elsewhere but not brought over here, they’re in another room. You won’t be wanting those, will you?’

  ‘This will be fine Walker. I’m most grateful. Explain how they’re organised?’

  ‘MI9 were quite meticulous sir. They’re arranged by the year the prisoners were brought over to this country, and then alphabetically within those years if you see what I mean. There’s a desk over there and a lamp on it that may even work. How about I leave you down here for a while and I go and get a cup of tea, eh?’

  ***

  Just an hour later, Edgar was muttering prayers of gratitude to whichever idiot it was in German intelligence who thought they didn’t need to change the German identities of the young SS recruits that were going to be captured by the Allies. Of course he could see some logic in their thinking: the recruits had enough to think about without having to worry about assuming and memorising another identity. There was always a danger that, under interrogation, a false identity could be picked apart, which in turn could cause their whole crazy plan to unravel. Even so, it broke so many rules of intelligence: using real names meant the recruits were traceable.

  With Werner, Schröder and Möller all dead, Richter apparently living somewhere in West Germany and Weber in Berlin, Edgar knew he was looking for no more than five of the original ten recruits.

  The large, leather-bound and slightly mouldy ledgers displayed the name, rank, and serial number of all German prisoners of war who had been brought to the United Kingdom in 1945. Further columns showed, in careful copperplate writing, the prisoners’ regiments, where they had been captured, the camps they had been held in, and when they had been released. It took Edgar less than half an hour to discover that Arnold Bauer, Konrad Hartmann, Lothar Meier and Christian Schäfer had all been captured as members of the SS and brought to prison camps in the United Kingdom in 1945. There was no reference to a Mathias Hahn.

  But what Edgar discovered sent a frisson of fear shooting through him. In the feeble light thrown up by the lamp on the desk he read three words in the final column alongside each of the names.

  Escaped, not recaptured.

  Edgar carefully copied out the details alongside each of the four names into his notebook. By the time Walker returned the desk was covered in ledgers, with a pile of files next to it on the floor. Edgar affected an exasperated air.

  ‘Any luck sir?’

  ‘Afraid not Walker. It was always going to be a long shot, but I didn’t have enough decent information to begin with. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained…’

  ***

  ‘And this is all above board Edgar? You absolutely promise me that?’

  Edgar nodded. He was feeling uncomfortable. Detective Superintendent Paget had insisted they meet in a police pub in Victoria, not a venue Edgar would have chosen. He disliked their unfriendliness and their Masonic handshakes and he didn’t trust the police in general, Special Branch less so and Detective Superintendent Paget in particular, but he needed an enormous favour and Paget was his only option.

  ‘It’s just that you’ve got me into trouble before Edgar, doing favours for you.’

  ‘This isn’t a favour, as you put it, Martin.’

  ‘So what is it then?’

  Edgar leaned closer to Paget over the wobbly damp table between them. A trickle of spilt beer edged towards him and he caught it with his sleeve. He composed himself as he tried very hard not to come across as patronising. Maybe calling Paget ‘Martin’ hadn’t been a good idea.

  ‘Well, if anything it is me doing you a favour. Your responsibilities at the Branch include the far right, isn’t that correct?’

  Paget nodded, beginning to look interested. ‘Amongst many other things, yes.’

  ‘And that includes Nazis?’

/>   Paget’s eyes widened. Edgar was sure one or two men standing near them had turned round. ‘Yes, not that I’ve come across any for many years, if you don’t include the poor beggars who get sectioned because they think they’re Adolf Hitler.’

  ‘If there’s anything in this Martin then the case will be yours, and I can promise you it would be quite a feather in your cap. You can say it came from a contact: I won’t want any credit.’

  ‘Not that I believe you Edgar, but carry on.’

  ‘I’m going to give you an envelope: inside it are the names of four German prisoners of war who escaped from captivity in this country in 1945. None of them have been heard of since – as far as I can ascertain, they’re the only German POWs who escaped in this country and were never recaptured. I’m certain none of them have used their German name since the day they escaped, but you never know… somewhere on a file one of these names may exist. It’s worth a try. I know your systems are very sophisticated these days.’

  ‘I wouldn’t hold out too much hope Edgar.’

  ‘Nor would I, but if there is anything it will open up a very big case, I can promise you. If you get anything, contact me the usual way.’

  Edgar and Paget got up at the same time. They were outside and had already begun to part when Paget hurried after Edgar. ‘You were going to give me an envelope Edgar?’

  ‘It’s in your jacket pocket Paget!’

  ***

  Edgar had not held out a lot of hope, but Paget was nothing if not very thorough. If he couldn’t find anything, then it wasn’t there. Edgar was nevertheless shocked when, just a week later, the telephone rang at eight in the evening at his home in Dorset. ‘No,’ he answered, sounding characteristically annoyed, ‘we most certainly are not a taxi company.’ Soon after he took the dog for a walk, and dialled a Surrey number from a call box outside the pub. He let the phone ring three times, terminated the call, waited one minute and rang again.

  ‘That was quick,’ said Paget.