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

gives you the rest of the films? I hardly think you need our permission, though it’s awfully nice of you to ask.’

‘It’s not as straightforward as that, Tom. There’s a further condition he’s set before he hands over the rest of the films, and we need your cooperation.’

Jenkins looked more nervous now, running a hand over his cropped hair and wiping perspiration from his brow.

‘The man has a son who’s wanted by you guys. As a condition of him handing over the rest of the films, he wants you to abandon the hunt for his son.’

‘What’s the man’s name, Joe?’

‘Wolfgang Steiner. His son’s name is Friedrich. We want you to call off the hunt for Friedrich Steiner and forget about the Kestrel Line. Letting a minor Nazi go free is a very small price to pay for us getting access to such invaluable intelligence.’

Which was when Tom Gilbey responded by telling the American it was a good try but was completely out of the question. Sir Roland Pearson let out a weary sigh. Jenkins sat defiantly with his arms crossed.

‘Leaving aside the not inconsequential fact that Friedrich Steiner is a war criminal who murdered British agents, there’s also the issue of the Kestrel Line. Not only do we think we’ll find the traitor Edward Palmer on it, but there’s also a distinct possibility that it could lead us to Martin Bormann!’

‘You’re not going to find Bormann, Gilbey; I don’t know why you guys believe that story.’

‘We have it from an excellent source.’

‘Russians – you trust the Russians?’

‘More than I’d trust a Nazi!’ Gilbey was shouting now, red-faced and clearly furious, and on the word ‘Nazi’, he slammed his hand on the table.

‘Bormann’s probably dead.’

‘There’s no proof of that, Joe’ said Sir Roland, speaking softly in an effort to calm things down. ‘We hear what you say regarding Friedrich Steiner, and my advice to Tom, should he seek it, would be for us to refer the matter up, but I would suggest you don’t hold out a lot of hope: we have a first-class team on the trail of Steiner and the Kestrel Line, and they’re very close to finding them.’

Joseph Jenkins shook his head and gathered up his papers. ‘It’s too late for that; I’m afraid. I was trying to be courteous. Ambassador Winant has already met with Foreign Secretary Bevin, and he agreed to our request. I think you’ll be ordered to call off the hunt any minute now.’

Messrs Bourne and Ridgeway had reached the limit of their endurance. They struggled to regain their breath as they crouched by the high laurel hedge while at the same time not taking their eyes off the side door of the large Victorian house.

They’d spotted a thin line of light behind a curtained bay window, and another light in a top-floor room, but the house was otherwise dark, its broad shape just visible in the half-moon, its array of chimneys silhouetted like turrets against the mottled sky. The world around them was as silent as the churchyard they’d crept through some twenty minutes earlier. An animal scurried behind them, and high above came the soft call of an owl.

Bourne was still breathing heavily and Ridgeway was concerned. ‘Are you all right, Bourne – you sound in difficulty?’

‘It’s the asthma. Spending the best part of an hour creeping through the countryside in the bloody damp isn’t good for it. Christ knows why people live in the middle of nowhere. And I’ve cut my hand on the brambles.’

‘I have too, and I fear I may have torn my trousers. Do you think we should go in? We’ve been waiting long enough. He said to be here by eight, and it’s already a quarter past.’

‘Our instructions were very clear, Ridgeway: to park at the back of the village pub and work our way through the woods, then take the footpath by the side of the field and enter the garden through the back. We’re to wait here until we see a light go on over that side door. We have to be patient, and in any case, it gives me a chance to get my breath back.’

Ten minutes later, a weak yellow light flickered into life above the side door and the two men walked nervously towards it. The door was unlocked as they’d been told it would be, and they moved carefully along a dark corridor until they came to a door opening into a kitchen area. Their host was standing there, nodding but saying nothing by way of greeting. They followed him into the library, where the heavy curtains were drawn. The room was lit by two lamps, one at either end.

‘I’ve given my man the evening off, so we’re alone until…’ their host glanced at his wristwatch, ‘ten thirty. That gives us two hours – more than enough time. You followed my instructions to the letter, I hope?’

‘Yes, Admiral, absolutely.’ Bourne’s breathing was still heavy.

‘And I trust you didn’t go anywhere near the front of the house or onto the lane? The bastards are still watching me, you know: I don’t know whether it’s MI5 or Special Branch, I think they maybe take it in turns. In the two years since I was released from prison, I don’t think they’ve missed a day.’

Bourne and Ridgeway both tutted and shook their heads. The two men had known the Admiral for some time and admired him enormously. As Bourne had said to Ridgeway during their otherwise silent drive up, the man was remarkable. To have someone of his stature and vision still involved in what remained of their movement had been an inspiration. Had it been a lesser person, they doubted the movement would have lasted much beyond 1939.

As it was, his loyalty to the cause had survived the test of the outbreak of war and indeed the difficult few months leading up to it. After the destruction of the synagogues in Germany in March 1938, many lesser folk had left the movement,