Authors: Gordon Ferris
“No, it doesn’t. That’s why I’m here. It doesn’t add up.”
There was the same long look from him, as though he was drilling into my head. “Cassells seemed quite clear.” He reached out to his tray and pulled the slim folder off the pile. He
opened it and scanned the papers. He knew every line. And could read between them.
“Says they caught her
in flagrante
? Transmitter under bed, code book, the lot. Seems fairly conclusive…”
“Two men looking at a piece of metal sticking out of the ground. One sees the fin of a bomb, the other an old cooker.”
“But a transmitter, Danny?”
“Ham wireless operator?”
He put on a wry smile. “Whoever she is, you both want the girl. I’m here to help.”
“I appreciate that, Toby. But where to start? This isn’t my patch.”
“It would help to know why she was here.”
“If we knew that…”
“Quite. But let’s assume she is a German spy. She could be trying to make contact with her old team. The man or woman who was running her. Agreed?”
I nodded. He went on. “If that’s the case, what I can say is she’s probably not in our sector. We keep a pretty close eye on who’s seeing who round here. So do the Yanks.
The French? Well… the French do their own thing, but we’re on pretty good terms with them.” He tapped the file. “When I got wind of this I put some calls out. We asked them
to keep an eye out for ripples. Anyone asking questions.”
“And?”
“Nothing so far. But that was only a couple of days ago. My hunch is that she’d go where the climate is a little warmer for ex-Nazis. The Russians got here two months before us and
had the run of the place. After raping every woman over ten and under ninety they installed their own tame Krauts in charge of each district, running them along the same lines as the old SS.
We’re beginning to push things back in our own sectors but the Germans seem more comfortable under… how shall we put it?… strong leaders. The Russians are happier to make use of
the former Nazi top men than we are. If I were her, looking for my old playmates, that’s where I’d look first.”
“Can I travel into the Russian sector?”
“Ye-e-s. They have plenty of patrols, but that’s mainly to keep their own soldiers out of trouble. It’s not as if there’s a fence or anything. Yet.”
“Do I need a pass?”
“We’ll fix that. But for god’s sake be careful. The place is a thieves’ kitchen. Roaming in gangs. They’d murder their grandmother for a packet of fags. All
nationalities. Poles, Czechs, Russians… the flotsam of war, Danny.”
“Can I get a map? Can you show me where to start?”
“I can do better than that. I’ll lend you Corporal Vic for a few days. He speaks the lingo and knows his way around, particularly the shadier spots, I’m afraid. Don’t let
him corrupt you.”
FIFTEEN
Vic was smirking as we left Toby’s den. The mission obviously agreed with him. We hopped into his jeep and he whizzed me round to the Tiergarten Mess, a block of flats
requisitioned by the British Army, and left me to sort myself out. Luxury. I had two small rooms to myself. The sitting room had a wireless and a couple of sagging chairs, with a little fold-up
table by the dirty window. The walls were in a heavy patterned wallpaper with vivid rectangles where the previous occupants had hung their framed photos of Kaiser Bill or Goebbels.
A tiny scullery ran off it, with a sink, a gas cooker and a wall cupboard. With a fine sense of British priorities the cupboard held a little caddy of tea and some sugar, along with a kettle,
two cups and saucers and a couple of plates. In the bedroom I found a single bed and a wardrobe. The floor had worn but clean carpets over the lino. I took my shoes off, lay down on the bed and lit
up. All hunky-dory.
Vic called again at six pm in civvies, hair glistening, and looking like he was born to wear silk ties and white socks. He was chewing a large wad of gum. I felt like a bank manager alongside
him.
“Got cash?” he asked.
“I’ve got these.” I showed him a handful of dollars, surprising gifts from Cassells.
You’re sort of on the payroll, Daniel.
“And these.” I pulled out a
packet of cigarettes and patted my pockets to show the rest of my supply.
“What about one of these?” He slid his hand round the back of his trousers and pulled out a gun. It was a 9mm Belgian Browning High Power automatic. Used 9mm bullets. Thirteen to the
cartridge and one up the spout. A nice weapon and a good crowd stopper.
“Do we need them?”
“Where do you think you are? Finchley? We’re averaging two hundred robberies and five murders a day. And that’s just the official numbers.”
I walked over to the wardrobe where I’d hung my coat and few belongings. I lifted my socks and pants and retrieved the heavy Luger I’d purloined from my altercation with
Gambatti’s boys. God knows how the Navy version had turned up in the East End. The extra length gave it greater accuracy over Vic’s Browning, but it needed to be kept spotless and oiled
if it wasn’t to foul up.
“This do?”
Vic whistled. I made sure the safety was on and tucked it into my waistband in the small of my back. I hoped there were no real cowboys out there. By the time I withdrew the long barrel from my
trousers, flipped the safety and aimed the thing, I could have been outdrawn by a girl guide.
“Any idea where to look, Danny?”
I thought about the tangled words in Eve’s notebook. I’d found some references to Berlin but nothing that made sense. Not without some context.
“What’s the layout? I mean how’s this place set up?”
“Simple. Draw a line north to south, splitting the city in two. The Ruskies have everything east of the line. We share the west with the Yanks and the Froggies. We’re in the middle,
the French above us and the Americans in the south.”
“Where would you go if you wanted to lie low?”
Vic laughed. “This whole sodding place is an escape hole.”
“Toby said old Nazis hang out in the Russian sector. Make sense?”
“Maybe. Let’s take a look.”
I saw the expression on his face. He knew this was hopeless. But I had to try. We left the flat, pockets bulging with fags, cash and guns, and headed for the wild side of town. Vic left his
British-marked jeep in the safety of the courtyard behind the HQ. We strolled along the edge of Tiergarten. It had probably once been a great green landscape like Hyde Park, full of trees and
pleasant walks. Now the trees had been scalped by shrapnel, and the open grassy areas were gouged and pitted by bombs. Expired tanks and smashed small aircraft littered the park. It would take a
very long time to turn it into a lovers’ haunt again.
My stomach flipped; ahead of us loomed the very symbol of the Third Reich: the great outline of the Brandenburg Gate, looking remarkably unscathed. Vic nudged me and pointed to our left, at a
series of new arches standing apart from the rubble.
“What’s that?” I asked, staring.
“It’s the Russian Monument to their dead. Opened last week. Bags of big hats and red flags.”
“Didn’t take them long. Why here? Why in our sector?”
“They didn’t expect to give up any of Berlin.”
We walked on towards the Gate. Now I could see the damage: great lumps chewed out of the stonework and one side demolished. But it still dominated the central crossroads, and framed the Unter
den Linden beyond. We walked through the central arch and found ourselves gaping at a massive picture of Joe Stalin guarded by some bored Russians sweating in greatcoats. They glanced at our cards
and we walked on down the avenue. They would have to change the street name or find themselves some new Linden; all that remained was stumps amid the rubble. Vic pointed us down some side streets
and we began to sink into old Berlin. The smell of bad drains increased.
We started in the few bars that were open. I had a couple of Eve’s newspaper photos pasted on to card and wherever we went, I discreetly showed it to the barman and some of his regulars.
Sometimes I bought their interest with a cigarette. We had to be careful; there were usually some Russian NCOs or officers having a drink. No squaddies – they were kept leashed in their
barracks. There were also quiet men sitting alone, supping coffee and watching the room over the top of a paper.
We entered one bar down a set of steps and through a leather curtain. We left the daylight outside. Inside was all gloom and dank with only dim light from some paper lanterns illuminating the
dark corners. It reeked of stale beer and fags, and a faint residue of vomit. The clientele fitted in well; shabby and grey, with lifeless eyes that tracked us to the bar. My neck hairs rose.
Vic ordered me a beer. It tasted of stale water. We surveyed the room and its handful of drinkers. They looked sorry that Hitler hadn’t conquered the world. Maybe next time.
The murmured conversations were restarting at the tables around us. I was just about to walk Vic out of this rat hole when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I whirled. He was thin and intense,
wearing a coat and hat despite the warm evening. “Papers, please,” he asked in German.
The bar had quietened. The barman moved into the shadows.
“Who might you be?” I answered in English, knowing full well who he was.
His face tightened, but he stuck to German. “English? Show me your papers.”
“I say again, pal. What do you want?”
I felt Vic squeeze my arm. “Don’t, Danny. Just show him our papers.”
The man slid his hand into his coat, and I waited for the gun. I could feel the weight of the Luger against my spine but not even Roy Rogers could draw in time. He pulled out a folded card. He
opened it and I could see Cyrillic script and his ugly mug. It looked important. I assumed he was NKVD, the Russian security boys.
Vic interrupted. “Of course, sir. Danny, show him your papers.” Vic handed his over and I followed suit.
“What are you doing here?” He wanted a fight and I was tempted. Jumped-up little bureaucrats have that effect on me. Vic must have seen my look. He interceded again in German.
“We’re just having a quiet drink, sir. No trouble. This is my friend’s first time in Berlin. I’m showing him how well the reconstruction is going, especially in the
eastern sector.” He smiled. The little prick didn’t return the smile.
“Perhaps it is better to continue drinking in your own sector.” It wasn’t a question. We finished our beers and left. But we didn’t head back, not immediately. We went
from bar to bar, café to club down the darkening streets. None of them lived down to my expectations of Berlin as the fun capital of Europe. There were one or two lamps working but not
enough to join up the pools of light. I became conscious that the number of Russian two-man patrols was increasing. Sometimes they stopped us and asked for papers. Vic’s papers and his
fractured German seemed to satisfy them. They reminded us of curfew at ten pm and left us with a shrug.
I tried to picture Eve in one of these dives but couldn’t. I no longer felt I knew her, far less where I might find her. Some of the bars were little more than knocking shops that Mama
Mary would have been embarrassed to be seen in. The atmosphere was a cloying mix of stale booze, fags and gallons of cheap perfume to drown out the smell of unwashed females. It wasn’t
through choice I’m sure; shampoo and bath salts were as hard to find as a virgin over twelve anywhere in the Russian-occupied zone.
By nine-thirty my feet were killing me, and I’d drunk too much watered-down beer. Vic was ready for more but I needed some shuteye. I planned to strike out on my own tomorrow during
daylight to see what I could see. The underground had stopped running for the night. Rather than face another walk past a line of good-time girls all hoping to pass as Marlene Dietrich in the
moonlight, we found a taxi. I crawled to my room, slumped into bed and was out like a candle.
I woke with a bad head and a weak stomach. I dealt with both over a massive fry-up in the mess. We seemed to be looking after our boys out here. The locals might be starving in the street, but
in here we could eat all the bacon and eggs we could manage. I noticed some of the blokes filling their pockets with hunks of bread and pats of butter, even wrapping the odd sausage in newspaper. I
asked one of the other diners what was going on: saving something for a mid-morning snack? He laughed. They were feeding their girlfriends on the sly. Food and fags, and a roof over your head could
buy the plainest British squaddie the most bewitching product of Hitler’s selective breeding programme.
I’d been thinking about how to find her. It didn’t seem likely that she frequented the dumps we visited last night, unless she hoped to find who she was looking for there. Maybe if I
could imagine her target I could get on her wave length? Let’s assume she was a spy and let’s assume she’s looking for her spymaster, where would a senior spy locate after the
spying stopped? There were several possible answers.
He – let’s call him Fritz – could go straight, get a job in civvy street and forget his past dark arts. Unlikely; there were no jobs, and spies don’t change their
spots.
He could switch sides and work for one of the Allied security services. Much more likely. I replayed my conversation with Toby Anstruther. The Russians had been here longest and had already sewn
up a number of senior positions. It was just the sort of rats’ nest that would suit an out- of-work spy with flexible morals. But I doubted I would get very far with that line of
questioning.
The other profession that Fritz could easily turn his hand to was the black market. He’d be used to shady deals and working on the margins of society. He’d know how to run a network
and would already have good contacts. He was naturally ruthless and deceitful, and could work both sides of the law. That’s where I’d start. All I had to do was find the black
market.
The lovely lady who served me tea in Toby’s office gave me instructions and a short moral lecture before I fled her beautiful eyes and walked towards Potsdamer Platz. She told me that
markets continually sprang up and died around the city depending on demand and the leniency of the authorities.