End of Spies by Alex Gerlis (best free ereader txt) 📗

man who’d turned up a week earlier with the two visitors who were neither Russian nor German.

‘How is he, Comrade?’

Despite the invitation to sit, Kiselyov had remained standing, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. ‘Prisoner Schweitzer spent the evening writing his final letters, Comrade sir. He was checked by the medical officer at six o’clock and then his evening meal was brought to him, but I’m told he didn’t eat any of it. I can’t say I blame him, I—’

‘Get on with it, Kiselyov.’

‘Yes, Comrade! He asked to see a Roman Catholic priest, but this was refused. The guards monitoring him in his cell say he has been agitated all evening, pacing up and down, crying and hitting the wall on occasion. He has been sick a number of times. In accordance with your instructions, he was given a mild sleeping draught about one hour ago, and when I checked with the guard five minutes ago, I was told that he is now asleep.’

‘Good, all as planned.’ The governor turned to Gurevich. ‘Are you satisfied, Commissar?’

‘I think so: you know what to say to him?’

‘Yes, sir, but what if he declines the opportunity?’

Gurevich helped himself to a cigarette from Kiselyov’s desk and raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Do you think he’s mad, Comrade Orlov? Five hours before he’s due to die? Come on, let’s go.’

The cell door burst open at the same time as the main lights were turned on, and Kiselyov shouted to the prisoner to wake up. Alphonse Schweitzer woke with a start and sat bolt upright on his narrow prison bed, letting out a yelp of fear as he did so. His shirt was undone and stained, and he stared at Kiselyov, the governor and the two guards in absolute terror.

‘Surely it’s not time, is it? Please… it must be too early… I asked to see a priest.’

Kiselyov told him to stand in the presence of the governor. Orlov nodded at one of the guards to handcuff the prisoner, who was now shaking so much it seemed as if he was having convulsions, while at the same time making a whimpering sound. He was trying to hold up his trousers and not succeeding. In the few days since the governor had last seen him, he seemed to have shrunk to half his size and looked twice as old.

‘You need to listen very carefully, Schweitzer, do you understand?’

The prisoner nodded frantically, gazing at them in a pleading manner.

The governor spoke slowly in Russian, pausing every sentence or two for Kiselyov to translate. ‘Prisoner Schweitzer, you have been found guilty of war crimes under the special wartime provisions of section 117, subsection 48 of the Penal Code. You have been sentenced to death and your appeal has been dismissed.’

Schweitzer was weeping now and shaking his head.

‘Shut up and act like a man! Your execution will take place,’ Orlov looked carefully at his wristwatch, ‘in just over five hours.’

After Kiselyov had finished translating that last sentence, the governor paused. ‘However, Prisoner Schweitzer… I have been informed this evening that as of the first of October, all prisoners who are neither German nor Soviet citizens are able to make use of a petition to the Soviet commander requesting clemency.’

He managed to look resentful at having to impart this good news. The prisoner stared at him in amazement and asked him to repeat what he’d just said, and if possible to explain further.

‘What I mean is that you may have been very lucky, Prisoner Schweitzer. The new regulation comes into force tomorrow, whereby the Soviet commander of the occupied zone of Germany will review all death sentences scheduled to be carried out on prisoners other than German or Soviet citizens. Personally I was of the opinion that this did not apply to prisoners sentenced before the first of October, but others took a different view.’

The prisoner mumbled something that sounded like a prayer.

‘However, for this to happen, you have to request it by signing this form – here, read it first by all means.’

The prisoner was weeping tears of joy, which dripped onto the sheet of paper as he read it and signed. Thank you… thank you… thank you…

‘Well, let’s see, Prisoner Schweitzer, your thanks may be premature: who knows what Marshal Zhukov will decide when he considers your case? But it could take up to a month for him to make his judgement, so tomorrow you’ll be moved to another cell.’

Thank you… thank you… thank you…

‘You’re a lucky bastard, Prisoner Schweitzer.’

When Orlov and Kiselyov left the cell, they noticed the commissar leaning against the wall, just out of sight of the man within. He said nothing as they walked back to the office on the second floor, but when they got there, he took a bottle of Armagnac from his briefcase, along with a wooden box of cigars, and placed them on the desk.

‘You have both handled this very most impressively. It will not go unnoticed, I promise you.’

The two men looked almost as grateful and relieved as the prisoner had minutes before.

‘Now we need the next stage to work. However, I do know that my friends have found someone who should make an excellent provokator.’

In the end, they moved the terrified Alphonse Schweitzer to another cell late on the Monday evening. Since the governor and Kiselyov had turned up in his cell the previous night and announced a temporary reprieve, he’d not slept. At first he was overcome with joy, relieved beyond words at his stay of execution. Then he worried the whole business might be a cruel trick by the Russians – he wouldn’t put anything past those bastards – or worse still, a trick of his own imagination.

He’d stayed awake all night: dawn came and passed, and the first Monday of October, which was a day he’d been fated never to see, was spent in his cell. The guards constantly checked him and Kiselyov came in two or three times to assure him he was