by Alex Gerlis
‘What type of guns?’
‘Sub-machine guns. Horst had two Heckler & Kochs: MP5s.’
‘Horst’s surname?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Jesus Christ Ute, do you know how many fucking Horsts there are…?’
‘Thousands I imagine, I…’
‘It was a rhetorical question. Same goes for Christians and Ulrikes.’
Then they calmed down. Konrad left the room to see what they could find out about Werner Pohl. Later that morning Konrad went out again, and when he returned he said there were a few Werner Pohls in the Federal Republic but, as far as they could tell, none of them matched her Werner. There were certainly none who had that kind of wealth. They’d keep checking but the most likely explanation was that ‘Werner Pohl’ was a false name. He was untraceable.
There was another of Franz and Konrad’s long silences, broken by Ute. ‘There is something perhaps I should have told you earlier, about Werner...’
‘What?’ they replied, apparently in unison.
‘I saw him, recently. I was in Cologne, collecting a package for Horst. I took a bus back to the station and at a stop on a busy road I saw him crossing over. I had a very good view: I have no doubt whatsoever it was Werner.’
‘Do you happen to know the name of the road?’
‘I do actually: it was Innere Kanalstrasse. I heard the bus driver call the name of the stop. It was about six in the evening; it looked like he was leaving work. He was wearing a suit and carrying a small briefcase.’
Both men shot worried looks at each other.
‘Innere Kanalstrasse you say?’
She nodded.
‘Ute, when was this?’
‘Maybe a month ago - in July certainly.’
Chapter 19
Vienna, Austria and West Berlin
August 1976
Before parting in Vienna, Viktor told Edgar he’d had an idea thought. ‘I think I know a way of finding out Richter’s real identity. Give me a few days, but I need to contact someone first. You may have to go to West Germany to follow this up Edgar.’
Viktor remained in St Stephen’s Cathedral for at least fifteen minutes after Edgar’s departure. When he left he headed south-east, crossing Schubert Ring into the 3rd District and then walking a short distance to Reisnerstrasse. When he arrived at the Soviet Embassy he went straight to the security floor. Yevgeny did not appear to be a happy man.
‘Viktor, Viktor, Viktor… you’re an old man. You’ve lived your life. I’m half your age and I have a wife, three children and a career. Because of you I may lose all that!’
Viktor stared at the younger man, unsure of how serious he was being. Yevgeny held the stare for a while and then winked, a half grin appearing on his face – but one which made it clear he was only half joking. ‘Look, of course I trust you, and I know it is thanks to everything you did for me in Berlin that I became head of station here so early in my career. But Viktor, it’s tricky enough for me to bring you down to Vienna and give you the run of the city – and now you want to go from here to West Berlin?’ Yevgeny pronounced ‘West Berlin’ as if it were a place wracked by plague, where only the bravest or most foolhardy dared venture.
‘It makes sense Yevgeny.’
‘So, I’m a travel agent now?’
‘I travelled here from the DDR through Budapest with diplomatic cover Yevgeny – I’m most grateful for that. But I can’t travel into the Federal Republic with diplomatic cover, can I? I’d have to go back to the DDR and then slip in and out again, and that’s risky. If I can go direct from here to West Berlin and back it would be so much easier.’
‘And you want me to organise all that for you…’
‘Just get me decent cover Yevgeny, I can do the rest. Austrian documents will be ideal. I only need two days in West Berlin.’
‘And you’re not going to tell me what this is all about??’
‘I’ve told you Yevgeny: I have a source from many years ago… this could be a big intelligence coup for us. If it works out then it’s all yours. First, I have to see someone in West Berlin.’
***
But before Viktor went to see someone in West Berlin he needed to see someone else. A person he hadn’t seen since 1945.
Peter had worked for Viktor in the 1930s: a young German Communist who helped him train and run Comintern agents in Germany and Switzerland. He’d been brave and clever but in 1939 decided to return to Frankfurt. His parents were elderly, and Viktor agreed that he should go home. Peter, he realised, was burnt out, exhausted – and in any case, it would be useful to have someone in the city. Peter had operated under assumed names while working for Viktor, so no-one in Frankfurt was any the wiser about his politics.
The next Viktor heard of Peter was when the war ended: Viktor provided him with papers to show he’d helped the Allies and as far as he was concerned, Peter owed him a favour. Now, thirty years later, he was calling it in.
Viktor telephoned Peter from his hotel room. The man who answered the phone was unmistakably his old colleague. The voice had aged, from years of cigarettes no doubt, but it was recognisably him.
‘Synok! Good afternoon: after all these years we get to speak again!’
Silence on the other end. Viktor knew full well that Peter was still there, and knew he would need a moment or two to compose himself. He would be understandably shocked. Synok was an affectionate Russian word Viktor used for his younger agents. It meant ‘son.’
‘Where are you?’
‘That’s how you greet me?’
‘It’s been more than thirty years, Viktor. I stopped working for you almost forty years ago. What the hell is all this about?’
‘I need to see you synok.’
‘Do I have any choice?’
‘You know the answer to that my friend. In any case, surely you’d want to see me after all this time? Where is easier for you to get to from Frankfurt: Vienna or West Berlin?’
‘Neither.’
‘Peter, you know that’s not an option…’
‘When would you want to see me?’
‘Tomorrow synok.’
Viktor heard what sounded like swearing down the line. ‘Vienna I guess: there are more flights and my brother-in-law lives there so I suppose I can say I’m visiting him if anyone asks.’
***
Early on an already-hot Tuesday morning late in August, Viktor emerged from Uhlandstrasse subway station in West Berlin. He wore a shabby and slightly stained jacket and ill-fitting trousers. A two-day beard was in keeping with his attire, without making him appear too disreputable. He shuffled along with the aid of a stick, crossing Kurfürstendamm before walking slowly down Fasanenstrasse, the heart of West Berlin’s legal district. Just before the junction with Lietzenburger Strasse, he found the offices of Rostt Legal. The lady behind the reception desk was unable to disguise her disdain as she looked him up and down.
Yes, Herr Stern is in this morning but he has a full schedule. Do you have an appointment with him?
Viktor replied that he didn’t, but he had heard Herr Stern was a very good lawyer. Perhaps you could ask if I could see him?
The receptionist reluctantly rang through to Herr Stern. As I said, he has a full day. Perhaps you can make an appointment with one of our junior lawyers?
Viktor took a leather notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket, tore out one of the pages, wrote briefly on it before folding it into quarters and handed it to the receptionist. ‘Please give Herr Stern this piece of paper.’
Less than a minute later the flustered-looking woman hurried out of Herr Stern’s office. He’ll see you now. He’s told me to cancel all his appointments for today.
***
The man behind the large desk appeared remarkably calm in the circumstances. He gestured for Viktor to sit in one of the two smart chairs in front of him. He looked much as Krause had described him after their encounter in Frankfurt eight years previously: perhaps slightly younger than his l
ate forties, a full head of wavy fair hair with some grey flecks at the sides and, most notably of all, piercing dark eyes that studied Viktor with an intensity he found unnerving. In his hand was the piece of paper Viktor had written on. He waved it in the direction of the man opposite him.
‘You’re Horst Weber?’
‘No. You are.’
The lawyer brushed his forehead with the back of his hand, looking slightly flushed now. He folded and unfolded the piece of paper, adjusted the knot on his tie, looked down at his desk, across at the window and then once more at Viktor, noisily clearing his throat.
‘There is a misunderstanding. My name is Georg Stern. I am a senior partner here at Rostt Legal. You need to tell me who you are.’
There was no hint of the anger Viktor would have expected had this all indeed been a misunderstanding.
‘I know that you are Georg Stern. You were born Georg Stern, and that is your legal identity. But there was a period during the war when you were Horst Weber, which is why I am here.’
During the ensuing silence Viktor could hear doors opening and closing along the corridor and the ticking of a carriage clock. A steady breeze caused the half-open window to rattle in its frame, and he could hear the lawyer breathing more heavily as he tried to work out how to respond.
‘And who are you?’ The lawyer looked genuinely curious.
‘Who I am is immaterial,’ he replied, ‘but you do need to listen carefully to what I have to say. I have a testimony from a Bernhard Krause in which he claims his real name was Otto Schröder, and that he was recruited into the SS in 1944. He was part of a small group of young recruits who were taken to an isolated house near Magdeburg, where they were trained for a special mission. During this training some terrible things took place, which he admits he played a part in and which amount to war crimes. As part of his mission, Herr Krause was meant to allow himself to be captured by the Allies and taken to Britain as a prisoner of war. However, Herr Krause managed to escape just after he was captured in France, and assumed a new identity. He ended up in Frankfurt, where he died in 1969. In his testimony Herr Krause gave the names of the other recruits. There were ten in total, though one was murdered very soon after arriving at Magdeburg. Schröder –or Krause – says he was very friendly with a recruit from Berlin called Horst Weber. The last time he saw Weber was in or near Dortmund in December 1944, when all the recruits were asked to make their own way to Essen. Apparently Herr Weber never arrived in Essen, the assumption was that he escaped…’
‘I keep telling you, this has nothing to do with me! I am a very busy man, I…’
‘But not busy to cancel all your appointments as soon as you saw a piece of paper with the words Horst Weber on them? Herr Krause claims in his testimony that in February 1968 he was working for a law firm in Frankfurt when he encountered Horst Weber. He claims that Weber was in fact you – Georg Stern, from Rostt Legal in Berlin. That, Herr Stern, is why I am here.’
Georg Stern stood up and walked over to the window and then to a more comfortable chair on one side of a coffee table, and gestured for Viktor to join him on a facing chair. Viktor had interrogated so many people in his career that he was familiar with changing patterns of behaviour during an interrogation. Stern was behaving exactly as someone would when they became aware that the other person had a strong case against them. He was buying time while he thought. It was the Russian who spoke first.
‘Herr Stern, it is significant that you have singularly failed to address the very serious allegation I’ve made, namely that you were a member of the SS. You are a respectable man now. I understand that you are Jewish…’
Stern held up his hand in a ‘stop’ gesture. ‘They are barely allegations: as a lawyer I would say they amount to little more than hearsay. You come into my office and make these wild claims with no proof – and expect me to do what?’
‘I had expected you to deny more convincingly that you lived for some time as Horst Weber.’
Stern leant back in his chair, crossed his legs, and held his hands in front of his face, fingertips touching. It was as if he was forcing himself to be calm. ‘In the war, people adopted all kinds of identities in order to survive, especially people who were persecuted. This man, whoever he is, he died what – seven years ago? What has he to do with me?’
From an inside pocket of his jacket Viktor produced a bulky envelope. ‘I thought I’d just explained that, Herr Stern. Here is a copy of Herr Krause’s testimony. I’m giving you the whole testimony up until and including the meeting with you in the ’60s. I would like you to read it.’
Stern reached out for the envelope. ‘I need to have some idea about who you are – I’m not even sure if you’re German. Are you here in an official capacity: are you a war crimes investigator? How do I know you’re not a Nazi!
’I am not a West German official of any kind. Nor am I East German, and I am most certainly not a Nazi. I am someone that you would do well to co-operate with.’
‘So what do you want from me?’
‘I told you, Herr Stern. I would like you to read this testimony. Then I will have a very specific request for you. You will not be reported to anyone, your story will be kept from the authorities here. Your secret will remain just that.’
Stern studied the envelope in his hands, clearly intrigued by its contents. ‘Come back and see me this time tomorrow. And tell me this: Herr Krause – what was his cause of death?’
***
The Austrian identity Yevgeny Mironov had provided meant Viktor didn’t need to stay in any of the KGB safe houses in West Berlin, which was just as well – he wouldn’t want anyone in the KGB office on the Unter den Linden to know he was there. He found a pleasant hotel on Budapester Strasse, overlooking the Landwehr Canal. From there he rang Peter again.
Viktor was surprised how little his former comrade from Comintern had changed when he’d turned up in Vienna three days previously, the day after Viktor had summoned him. He was now in his sixties, but he looked considerably younger. He also looked suspicious.
‘Let me tell you one thing first Viktor,’ he’d said as they found a table at the darkened rear of a coffee shop, no-one within earshot. He sounded emotional as he spoke. ‘I regret nothing I did when I worked for you. In fact I’m proud of it. And when I returned to Frankfurt in ’39, and for the rest of the war, I did nothing to be ashamed of. I became a teacher, I taught mathematics. I never joined the Nazi Party and I even managed to help a few Jews, although only in a minor way. Because of my poor eyesight – which of course I was able to exaggerate - I was exempt from military service. I am now retired. What possible use can I be to you now?’
Viktor nodded, slightly impatiently, waiting for Peter to get whatever it was off his chest. ‘Very well, now listen synok. There is a law firm in Frankfurt called Schmidt Legal. Its office is on Hochstrasse, the principal is an Alois Schmidt. On 17th April 1968 – which was a Wednesday – Herr Schmidt saw a new client, a man who was quite possibly from outside Frankfurt. It was about a divorce.’
‘Viktor, in 1968 I was a teacher, I…’
‘This has nothing to do with what you were up to in 1968 Peter. It is to do with what I need from you now. Please concentrate.’
But when Viktor called Peter from the pleasant hotel on Budapester Strasse, he recognised an altogether much more upbeat tone in the other man’s voice. A good agent rarely loses the excitement of being in the field, even after a gap of some forty years.
‘Tell me synok – tell me.’
And Peter told him. He told him how the day after his return to Frankfurt he had turned up at the offices of Schmidt Legal on Hochstrasse and explained to the receptionist that, although he didn’t have an appointment, he needed to see a lawyer about an urgent and sensitive matter.
A few minutes later he was ushered into the small office of one of the lawyers, a young woman who insisted he call her Trude. Peter recounted a most distressing tale to Trude: how he and his wife had been leading s
eparate lives for some time, but in the past month he had been diagnosed with a most serious illness and he needed as a matter of some urgency – he was sure Trude would understand – to put his affairs in order… and his wife now wanted a divorce. Well at this point, Peter told Viktor, he broke down. ‘It was so convincing Viktor. I felt genuinely upset: I actually cried. You’d have been proud of me: it was how you taught me, to live the part.’
‘And what happened then synok?’
‘Trude looked uncomfortable and asked if she could get me anything and I told her a coffee with no sugar and a dash of milk would help, and maybe if I was allowed a minute or two to compose myself. No-one wants to spend too much time alone with a sobbing man, so Trude left me alone for a good five minutes, which was ample time. I found Schmidt Legal headed paper and an official stamp, with which I stamped one of the sheets. When Trude returned I was more composed, to her obvious relief. I asked what the fees were and when she told me I was suitably shocked and explained that as it was considerably more expensive than I’d envisaged, I’d need to visit my bank manager first. Would she mind if I did so and returned the following week? I think she was pleased to see the back of me, to be honest.
‘Her office was on the third floor so I walked down to the second floor, and at the end of a corridor I saw a trolley laden with files. I waited until no one was watching, slipped half a dozen files into my briefcase, and headed for the exit. I ought to add that while I was waiting in reception when I first arrived I’d picked up a brochure about the firm. Most helpfully it contained a note of introduction from Alois Schmidt, with his signature at the bottom of it.’
‘The name synok, I need to know whether you got the name of this client.’
‘I’m coming to that Viktor. You always told me that information needed to be presented in its correct context, didn’t you? From the Schmidt Legal office I went home: I reckoned I had perhaps two hours before someone spotted the files were missing, so I typed the letter on the paper I’d taken from the office. The letter said that I was a new messenger, authorised to have access to the Schmidt Legal files at the depository on Grosse Gallusstrasse, the place you told me about. I used the name of my late father-in-law: he died three years ago and we’ve kept his personalausweis. I copied Alois Schmidt’s signature from the brochure I’d found in reception.
