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

who was anxious to blame everyone else for the predicament he found himself in and who was now desperately clutching at the unlikely straw of being reprieved by Marshal Zhukov.

‘Have you heard of this petition, Reinhard?’

‘Of course: apparently the British and Americans wanted the Soviets to observe more of a judicial process.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘What do I think about what, Alphonse?’

‘About my chances of being reprieved?’

‘Quite good, I’d say: look, they’re hardly going to waste Zhukov’s time with someone they were going to execute anyway. I only wish I was eligible for this – but you know, being German…’

It wasn’t until later on the Tuesday that Möller opened up about himself. He was from Dortmund, he’d joined the party in 1934 and become a Gestapo officer in 1938. From the summer of 1941 onwards, he’d been based at their Amsterdam headquarters on Euterpestraat. He’d managed to escape at the end of the war, but for some mad reason had headed east rather than west… a woman in Leipzig, he must have been crazy… and here he was.

Schweitzer seemed impressed, especially when Möller told him he’d been responsible for finding communists and socialists in the Netherlands, and recounted in some detail how many he’d caught and how many he’d killed with his own hands. Schweitzer had already explained how he himself had worked for the Gestapo in Paris, ‘though I wasn’t as important as you, Reinhard’; the other man told him not to be so silly and of course he was important, and Schweitzer said please not to tell Marshal Zhukov, as then he’d definitely be executed.

They both laughed, and then Reinhard Möller mentioned casually how he’d worked with a Gestapo officer in Amsterdam who’d been transferred from Paris.

‘I can’t for the life of me remember his name, Alphonse – I don’t know what’s happened to my memory. He was a young chap, quite good-looking. Austrian, I think. We knew him by his nickname, the Ferret. I don’t suppose you ever came across him?’

Alphonse Schweitzer slapped his new friend’s thigh. ‘Of course I did! He worked with me at the mairie for a while. Difficult chap, very arrogant; father was a big cheese here in Berlin. As I recall, while he was based in Paris, he completely screwed up an investigation. They wanted to throw him out of the Gestapo, but his father arranged for him to be transferred to Amsterdam – quite a lot of the senior officers in the Netherlands were Austrian, and I think the father used that connection.’

‘That would have been when?’

‘Early 1944, I guess.’

‘That’s right – your memory’s so much better than mine. I don’t suppose you remember his name?’

‘I do, as it happens. His name was Friedrich Steiner, and I even recall his father’s name: Wolfgang.’

When Kiselyov came into the cell the following morning, Reinhard Möller asked him if the date for his hearing had been fixed, the agreed code to indicate that he had the information he needed.

An hour later, Kiselyov returned and told him his tribunal had been arranged and he was being moved.

The two prisoners shook hands and wished each other luck, Schweitzer managing a whispered ‘Heil Hitler’ just before his new friend was led out.

Franz Rauter was taken to Orlov’s office, where Hanne and Prince were waiting for him. He greeted them both and gratefully accepted a glass of cognac and a cigarette from the governor.

‘The Ferret’s real name is Friedrich Steiner; he is the son of Wolfgang Steiner, who was a Nazi Party official here in Berlin. Funnily enough, his name rings a bell, but I never met him – as you know, I didn’t mix in those circles.’

Prince said how pleased they were, and Rauter finished his cognac and allowed the glass to be refilled, then asked whether they’d be leaving straight away. ‘The sooner I’m out of this place, the better.’

‘The governor thinks it would be safer if you’re kept here until after Schweitzer’s execution. If he somehow catches wind that you’re no longer around, he may suspect something and somehow get a message to his fellow Nazis. I know that’s unlikely, but it’s not impossible: this place is full of Nazis on the lookout for anything.’

‘And I should add that when he’s taken out to be shot, he will get to see a Catholic priest. You never know what he might say. It’s going to be safer to let you go after he’s been executed.’ The governor was speaking slowly, allowing Kiselyov to translate.

Rauter looked disappointed. ‘I’m not keen on staying here: this isn’t my idea of a holiday.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said the governor. ‘This afternoon I’ll tell Prisoner Schweitzer that his petition to Marshal Zhukov has been denied and he’s being executed in the morning. We’ll move him straight back to Block D. Once he’s dead, we’ll have you out of here.’

It was a mistake no one could have foreseen; a coincidence more than anything else, something that happened by chance and could be put down to sheer bad luck, though it was to have dreadful consequences.

Prince and Hanne left the brick building by a side entrance and paused in the doorway to say goodbye to Franz Rauter. They joked that this time tomorrow he’d be enjoying a fine lunch in the best restaurant in Berlin, and Rauter said they’d be lucky to find any restaurants left. There was much slapping of shoulders and laughter as he finished his cigarette and then allowed the guard to put him in handcuffs prior to the walk back to the block.

Watching all this from his cell window was a young SS major awaiting his tribunal, where he fully expected to be sentenced to death. Hauptsturmführer Klaus Böhme had been an aide to SS-Brigadeführer Walter Schellenberg when the latter had taken control of the much-distrusted Abwehr in July 1944. He had been appalled at the attitude of many of the Abwehr officers, some of whose loyalty he seriously doubted.

One of those had been Franz Rauter, a bright and