Authors: Alex Gerlis
Under
the identity of Patrick T O’Connor Jr, a US citizen, Edgar left Muntadas
airport in Barcelona just before ten in the morning on Swissair flight 1087. The
flight landed on time in Locarno at a quarter past one. Five hours later he was
in a small apartment above a hardware shop on Basteiplatz. He was let in by a
pleasant-looking Austrian who introduced himself as Rolf.
‘No need to worry about Rolf,’ Remington-Barber had
assured him. ‘Completely trustworthy: he’s an Austrian social democrat. Whitlock
recruited him in Vienna sometime around ’36. Nazis rolled into Vienna in March
1938 and Rolf rolled out soon after that: hates the Germans more than we do, if
that’s possible. His fiancée’s a prisoner of theirs. When Whitlock had to leave
Vienna and he found out Rolf was here in Switzerland, he recommended him to me.’
***
Basil
Remington-Barber and Henry Hunter arrived in Zürich late on the Thursday
afternoon and checked into the same hotel on Oetenbachgasse where Henry had
stayed the previous February, the night before he travelled to Stuttgart. The
next morning Remington-Barber left Henry in his room to rest and met Edgar as
arranged on Bahnhofquai. Together they watched a noisy barge make its way up
the Limmat.
‘Hunter alright, is he?’
‘After a fashion, yes. Picked him up yesterday
morning in Geneva during his morning walk and told him to pack his bags, bid
his farewells and we’re off to Zürich. It’s a year since he was in Germany and
I rather think he assumed we’d forgotten about him. Not very happy I haven’t
told him what’s going on, but then I hardly know myself, do I?’
‘And did you give him an opportunity to make
contact?’
‘Naturally. I told him we’d catch the one o’clock
train to Zürich and I’d meet him by the platform with his ticket at a quarter
to one. That gave him ample opportunity to get a message to his other people
that something may be on. Good to dangle bait of some kind in front of them.’
‘Good, well done Basil. Sorry to be elusive, but I
need to track someone down. Come along to the apartment later this afternoon
with Hunter.’
***
All
things considered, it had not been a good day and a half for Henry Hunter, and
it showed no signs of improving. On the Thursday, he had been whisked away from
Geneva by Basil Remington-Barber, with little by way of an explanation other
than ‘We’re going to Zürich: pack for a few days. Don’t forget your passport.’ The
subsequent train journey had passed mostly in silence, Remington-Barber
declining to answer any of Henry’s questions.
Then Remington-Barber had ordered him to remain in
his stuffy little hotel room for most of Friday morning. He had no idea what
was going on or what was going to happen, so he was feeling increasingly
anxious. There was a small part of him – a very small part, admittedly – which
was relieved that, after a year of hearing nothing from the British, at last
they now seemed to have plans for him. An even smaller part of him was excited
at the prospect of what those plans may involve. He had spent the past year
reflecting on the fact the trip to Stuttgart and Essen had been fraught with
danger, but the excitement of having completed the mission so successfully had
surprised him. The months since had been a mixture of boredom and nervous
anticipation: added to this was the pressure of serving two masters. The 100
pounds paid into his Credit Suisse account each month was some consolation.
Now Remington-Barber had sent a friendly Austrian
called Rolf to bring him to a small apartment above a hardware shop on
Basteiplatz. It was 3.30 in the afternoon and they had been waiting in the
sparsely furnished lounge for the best part of an hour. Henry was sitting on an
uncomfortable sofa while Remington-Barber nervously paced the room, darting
over to the window overlooking Basteiplatz every time he heard footsteps below.
The diplomat had said very little since they had arrived there.
Sit over
there Henry; yes, we’re waiting for someone; please be patient.
Eventually, a bell rang and Remington-Barber sent
Rolf downstairs to open the door. Henry heard two pairs of footsteps ascending
the stairs. At first he didn’t recognise the tall figure wearing a trilby hat
who had to stoop as he entered the door. But then he removed the trilby and
said ‘Henry’ – no more than that, just ‘Henry’ – before taking off his raincoat
and slinging it over a chair, then angling the single armchair so it was
directly facing the sofa.
‘Sit down Basil, you’re making me nervous. No need
to keep looking out of the window: no-one has followed me; I can assure you of
that. Make yourself useful – pass me that ashtray then go and sit next to
Henry. Either of you chaps fancy a cigarette?’
Edgar lounged back in the armchair, stretching out
his long legs so they almost touched the feet of the two men opposite him. Not
bothering to stifle a series of yawns he closed his eyes momentarily and it
looked for a while as if he was about to fall asleep. Then he sat up straight,
slapped his thighs and rubbed his hands.
‘Right – down to business. Henry, you look rather
shocked to see me: understandable I suppose. I imagine you rather hoped you’d
never see me again, eh?’
Henry said nothing.
‘And are you keeping well Henry?’
‘I’m well thank you. And you?’
‘Basil tells me your little trip to Germany last
year went well.’
Henry was about to reply but Edgar raised a hand to
stop him.
‘And the money’s going in to your account every
month as promised, I presume? Along with the 500 you received after your trip.’
Henry replied that it was.
‘Which in a sense is why I’m here: time for you to
do something more to earn that money. How about if I were to tell you you’re
going back to Germany?’
Henry drummed his fingers on his knees and very slowly
nodded his head. ‘To Essen?’
‘Good heavens no. We can hardly have the murderer
returning to the scene of his crime, can we?’ Edgar laughed heartily and
Remington-Barber joined in nervously.
‘We thought Berlin would make a nice change.’
Henry gazed quizzically at Edgar, as if he was
trying to work out whether the man opposite him was being serious.
‘Berlin?’
‘Yes, Henry, Berlin. Capital of the Third Reich.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. Look, I could tell you all about it
now, but I’d just end up repeating myself later on. We have a chap coming to
see us in an hour or so and we’ll put all of our cards on the table then. Talking
of tables, Basil, how about some tea, eh?’
Basil Remington-Barber headed over to the small
kitchen, pausing in its doorway.
‘You certain this chap is going to turn up, Edgar?’
‘Don’t worry Basil. I’m certain of it. He really has
no alternative.’
***
Captain
Edgar had finally approached the man at lunchtime that Friday. It felt, to him,
as if he’d spent half of his life following people, waiting for hours in the
shadows of doorways for them to appear, calculating when they would emerge and
what would then be the best time and place to approach them. He had learnt
through years of experience that most people tended to be unpredictable in
their habits, but he could have guessed that if anyone would be a man of
precise routine it would be a Swiss banker. And Michael Hedinger did not
disappoint him.
According to the message that Hugo sent through
Lisbon, Gunter Reinhart’s friend in Zürich was a man called Michael Hedinger
who worked for Bank Leu. Hedinger was apparently aware ‘in principle’, whatever
that meant, that his friend Gunter in Berlin wanted him to help look after his
son, but he would have no idea he was about to be approached.
Edgar had watched the bank over the past couple of
days. It had been founded in 1755 and some of the employees he watched coming
in and out looked as though they had been there that long. Now it was one of
the ‘Big Seven’ Swiss banks: not one of the largest, but still big enough to
have its snout in the German trough, along with all the others. With the help
of a porter at the bank who had been paid generously in return for doing no
more than giving a signal when Michael Hedinger entered the building, Edgar had
been able to spot his quarry.
Hedinger left the head office of Bank Leu on
Paradeplatz at precisely one o’clock, presumably on his way to lunch. He turned
into Bahnhofstrasse and Edgar decided now was the time he had to make his move.
‘Herr Hedinger, may I have a word with you?’ Edgar
spoke in German.
He had approached the banker from behind, having got
as close to him as possible and making sure he placed himself between the man
and the road. It was a well-practised technique, as was the friendly but firm
hand on the man’s elbow and the enforced shaking of his hand.
Hold one arm,
shake the other arm: take control
. That way, anyone watching would assume
it was a chance encounter between two acquaintances.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Hedinger replied, sounding
surprised rather than annoyed. This was encouraging but Edgar could not assume
this would last for long.
‘I need to talk to you about a rather important
matter, Herr Hedinger. Is there somewhere quiet perhaps we could go?’
‘I don’t know who you are. What’s this about?’ Now
Hedinger was beginning to sound annoyed, and a man and woman turned to look at
them as they passed by. People were not accustomed to raised voices on the
streets of Zürich.
Edgar edged even closer to Hedinger. ‘It’s in
connection with Gunter Reinhart in Berlin, Herr Hedinger.’
Edgar was not prepared for the reaction that
followed. He had hoped that at the mention of Reinhart, Hedinger would relax
and want to know more: quite possibly he had expected to be contacted and may
even be relieved. What he had not expected was to see the look of sheer panic
and fear that spread across Hedinger’s face. Edgar could not be sure, but it
looked as if his eyes had filled with tears. The banker appeared unsteady on
his feet.
‘Come with me.’
Michael Hedinger meekly allowed Edgar to shepherd
him across Bahnhofstrasse and then onto Kappelergasse where they settled on a
bench overlooking the river. Edgar could see the man next to him was terrified.
Edgar took his time lighting a cigarette and held the packet in front of the
other man. Hedinger shook his head. ‘No, I don’t smoke.’
‘What’s
your name, what’s this about? Please tell me!’
Edgar ignored the first question. ‘I told you: it’s
in connection with Gunter Reinhart. You know Herr Reinhart – from the
Reichsbank in Berlin?’
‘I’m not sure. Why do you ask?’
‘It’s a very straightforward question, Herr
Hedinger. Either you know him or you don’t?’
‘We are acquaintances, in a professional capacity.’
Edgar had prepared his next line
: Herr Reinhart
has asked for help in bringing his son Alfred out of Berlin and he tells us you
are prepared to look after him in Zürich.
But before he had an opportunity
to speak, Hedinger gripped his forearm and turned to face Edgar. He was a man
of medium height, but with the kind of shrunken appearance reserved for those
of especially nervous disposition. With his unhealthily pale complexion, watery
blue eyes with scarcely a trace of eyebrow above them and his few remaining
wisps of hair dancing in the wind, he reminded Edgar of an English country
clergyman, the type sent to only the most undemanding of parishes. Now he
looked like a clergyman who had been caught in a compromising situation and was
about to be defrocked. He was utterly terrified. Edgar could smell it on his
breath.
‘I’ve always feared this moment and had resolved
that if – when – it came about, I’d immediately be honest.’ Hedinger’s voice
trembled as he spoke. ‘It’s all been a terrible misunderstanding… a most
unfortunate misunderstanding. Herr Reinhart wanted to divert some of the funds
from Germany into a private account in his name and, in a moment of weakness, I
agreed. And in a moment of even greater weakness I accepted some money from
Herr Reinhart for myself… for my efforts. I regretted it immediately. My money
is held in a separate account. I can arrange to have it paid back to you within
a matter of days. I can see to it this afternoon in fact.’
Edgar loosened the grip Hedinger had on his arm and
stood up to face the river. In a world of surprises, it was very rare for one
to shock him, but this one had. By the sounds of it, Hedinger and Reinhart were
involved in a scheme to smuggle German state funds out of Germany into their own
private accounts here in Zürich. Hedinger must have assumed Edgar was a German
official. He turned around: Hedinger was trembling, his feet tapping on the
ground.
‘I have a young family and I’m a good man: I go to
church every week. Please understand I didn’t intend to keep your money. I’m
sure I can have it all returned to you this afternoon – along with the money in
Herr Reinhart’s private account.’