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  this must be Ashby. He was a little disappointed that his visitor had not arrived in a staff car, for in his opinion, a man who arrived in a Bedford truck obviously did not have much influence.

  He noticed also that Ashby walked with a slight limp and he wondered if this was the result of a war wound.

  Gerhardt checked his appearance in the mirror, ran a comb through the sleek black hair and then nervously adjusted his tie. He’d arrived from Sweden wearing a well-tailored suit but, for reasons of their own, his interrogators had confiscated it and issued him with a brown pinstripe which, fitting badly, hung loosely on his slight frame and made him look ridiculous. In his anxiety to create a favourable impression, he first arranged the upright chairs so that they would be facing one another across the trestle table and then he straightened the lightweight blanket which covered its surface. Gerhardt, who had expected his visitor to knock, was surprised when Ashby walked into the room unannounced.

  He was hardly an inspiring military figure and he seemed indifferent to his appearance. No effort had been-made to face the lapels on the utility battledress blouse which was of a slightly different shade from the trousers. Although his face reflected the pallor of a man used to working in an office there was no hint of flabbiness about his body, but the set of his mouth indicated a certain disenchantment with life. Until he removed his cap, Gerhardt had thought that they were roughly the same age, but the shock of fair hair suddenly made him look younger and he guessed, correctly as it happened, that Ashby was about thirty-five.

  He smiled almost shyly and said, ‘My name is Ashby. Won’t you please sit down, General.’

  Gerhardt refrained from bowing and Ashby gave no sign that he wished to shake hands with him. ‘I’m pleased you were able to spare the time to come and see me,’ Gerhardt said formally.

  The smile vanished immediately. ‘I was ordered to—some people are of the opinion that my section is underemployed, General.’

  Ashby took a cigarette out of a crumpled pack and lit it and then leaned back in his chair.

  A complete rundown on this particular General had given him an insight into Gerhardt’s background and character. This was a man who, as the son of a minor government official, owed much of his advancement in the army to the National Socialist Party.

  He was known to be ambitious and ruthless, and even though he’d tried to conceal it, being a prisoner of war had done little to blunt an arrogant nature. Gerhardt saw himself as an emissary for the German Underground and evidently he expected to be 21

  treated as a willing ally. Ashby thought that it would do no harm if he reinforced a growing suspicion that the British Government attached little importance to what Gerhardt had to offer.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Ashby, ‘have you had an interesting war?’

  ‘I’ve fought in Poland, France and Russia.’

  ‘By any standard, I’ve had a very quiet one. I went to Norway in 1940 with 24 Brigade because someone thought that my knowledge of German would come in useful. Since we failed to take any prisoners, I was diverted to Harstad where for five weeks I guarded a supply dump with a scratch force of gunners until we were evacuated on the 8th of June. My battle experience was seeing a few Heinkel IIIs bombing Narvik in the distance.’

  There was, in fact, a good deal more to Ashby than he had chosen to reveal. By May of 1941, he had established a network of safe houses which stretched right across Europe from Madrid to Karlsruhe. Known as the Express Way, this route was a means of inserting and extracting intelligence agents, and it remained in operation until it was finally closed down in February 1942, by which time the quality of the information being fed back had led Ashby to conclude that it must have been blown some time in November 1941. The leak was eventually traced to Raoul Garcia, a jeweller in Madrid who, in return for a numbered bank account in Zürich, had become a double agent. This man, supposedly a Socialist who had fought for the Republican Government in the Spanish Civil War, had been responsible for delivering at least four agents into the hands of the Gestapo.

  On 10th February, 1942, Ashby had arrived in Madrid via the KLM flight to Lisbon from Prestwick and subsequently kept watch on Garcia’s apartment in the Avenue José Antonio. Three nights later, he broke into the flat, surprised Garcia with his Gestapo contact and, in killing them both, was obliged to make his escape through the bedroom window. The apartment was on the second floor and, as a result of landing heavily, he had fractured his right ankle. Since he couldn’t afford to miss his flight, medical attention had had to wait until he reached Lisbon. The incident had almost caused a diplomatic row and had offended not only the Foreign Office but also his opposite numbers in the Special Operations Executive who ran the Iberian desk.

  ‘And then you were assigned to the German Section?’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Ashby said quickly.

  ‘One of the officers who questioned me shortly after I arrived here at Abercorn House.’

  ‘Major Dryland?’

  ‘I think that was his name.’

  ‘I bet he didn’t tell you the half of it. Do you know what I’ve 22

  been doing for the last four years? Sitting on my backside in a comfortable office in St Albans engaged in the vital task of screening the German Nationals we interned at the beginning of the war in order to see if some of them might be released.’

  ‘What is the point of telling me all this?’

  Ashby said, ‘The whole point, General, is that my section is a bit of a laughing stock, and I can’t think of anyone in authority who would pay much attention to me.’

  ‘I tried to interest your colleagues in my plan.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘They found it amusing.’

  ‘I can imagine that.’

  Gerhardt smiled faintly. ‘Suppose you and I share the joke, Colonel?’

  Ashby stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘I’ve got nothing better to do.’

  Gerhardt propped his elbows on the table and pressed the tips of his fingers together while he carefully weighed each word before he spoke. He needed to fire Ashby’s enthusiasm without being too obvious and this was not going to be easy.

  ‘Hitler apart,’ he said with emphasis, ‘who would you say was the next most powerful man in Germany today?’

  ‘Himmler?’

  ‘It’s Bormann. He controls the Nazi Party machine and as deputy leader, he is constantly at Hitler’s side. His influence is enormous and he is a compulsive intriguer. Men such as Goering, Himmler and Goebbels both fear and hate him because he now virtually runs Germany from behind the scenes, and without him, I think the whole power structure would collapse. I doubt if Hitler, who since July has gradually deteriorated and is now a very sick man, could hold the edifice together without his help.’

  Ashby said, ‘I have a feeling that this is where we come to the funny part. According to Dryland, if we help you to kill Bormann the Home Front collapses, the German Underground comes out into the open and we get a clear run into Berlin while you lot hold off the Russians. That’s about the gist of it, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a little more subtle than that.’

  ‘I would certainly hope so, because you’d either have to be very naïve or impossibly arrogant if you think you can make a deal with us at this stage of the war.’ Ashby pointed at the window.

  ‘Out there,’ he said, ‘are millions of people who look upon Stalin with something approaching affection and think the Red Army is bloody marvellous, and they would never stand for it, if for one moment, they thought we were, in some way, about to stab the Russians in the back.’

  23

  ‘Major Dryland has obviously distorted everything I said to him,’

  Gerhardt said bitterly.

  ‘Oh, he ridiculed your idea all right but I doubt if it suffered much distortion.’

  The atmosphere was strained and Gerhardt knew that he was in danger of antagonising Ashby to the point where there would be open hostility between th
em. He needed to convince this man that his motives were not suspect and obviously his initial approach had been wrong.

  ‘If I told you that I had been opposed to Hitler from the outset I would be lying.’

  ‘Now at least you’re being honest.’

  ‘This also is honest,’ said Gerhardt. ‘I knew that the war was lost after Stalingrad but I did nothing about it because I was content to follow orders. I had first-hand evidence of the massacre of Jews in the Babyi-Yar ravine just outside Kiev in 1943 but, apart from making a verbal protest to my Divisional Commander I avoided taking any positive steps.’

  ‘And then you changed your mind?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Stauffenberg proved to me that I was not alone.’

  ‘After this war is over,’ Ashby said quietly, ‘there will be a settling of accounts. In coming over to us now, General, some people will think that you are merely trying to save your own skin.’

  ‘I think it probable that my wife has already been arrested and is now being questioned by the Gestapo. If anything should happen to her, I don’t think I would wish to go on living.’

  ‘I believe you.’

  For the second time that afternoon, Gerhardt smiled hesitantly.

  ‘I hope you will also believe that if you do accept my plan it may, just may, help to end the war.’

  Ashby could see that Gerhardt was on the point of allowing his enthusiasm to cloud his judgment.

  ‘You weren’t so modest when you tried it out on Dryland.’

  ‘I may have over-estimated its possibilities, but this much I do know—if we can lead people to believe that Bormann was killed on the express orders of Himmler, we shall succeed in turning the Nazi Party machine against its own security service. I doubt if even our docile Field-Marshals could idly stand aside and do nothing in such a situation.’

  He could see from the expression on the other man’s face that the idea was beginning to take hold and although this was what he wanted, Gerhardt was at a loss to know why and how it had happened.

  24

  ‘You know,’ Ashby said thoughtfully, ‘if we could pull this off, it really would be something.’

  Gerhardt smiled. ‘I think there is little doubt that it would have a profound effect. I imagine your people will wish to know how much support a team of infiltrators can expect to get inside Germany?’

  ‘You can bet on that,’ said Ashby, ‘and I’ll need a lot of data to convince them that it’s a feasible proposition.’

  *

  The man was in a pitiful state. Both cheekbones showed extensive bruising and the eyes had closed to narrow slits; the right arm, bent at the elbow, had been so badly dislocated that bone and tendons protruded through the broken flesh. No longer able to walk because the soles of his feet had been flayed with a bamboo cane, he had to be carried into the room and placed in a chair.

  His name was Johannes Lehr, and his pre-war experience with a small firm of building contractors had led him to being drafted into a Civil Defence Technisch-Nothilfe Battalion based on Minden. Until his arrest, Lehr had been in command of a rescue squad and during the month of August 1944 when the air raids on the Ruhr had reached a new and horrific peak, his Teno battalion had been called in to assist the local authorities in faraway Essen, Gelsenkirchen and Dortmund. It was his misfortune to be in charge of the team which had brought out the dead from beneath the ruins of the Kaiserhof.

  Wollweber closed the file on his desk and then looked up to face the prisoner. ‘I should congratulate you,’ he said acidly, ‘you were on to a very good racket while it lasted. In times like these, I can think of quite a number of people who might wish to disappear officially. Tell me, how much were you paid to find the body of General Gerhardt?’

  Lehr moved his lips with difficulty. ‘I wasn’t,’ he said thickly.

  ‘You seem to forget that less than forty-eight hours ago, the mortuary attendant from Dortmund picked you out on an identity parade held in your battalion barracks. Must I also remind you that in his sworn statement this man declares that he saw you place a ring on the finger of one of the unidentified victims laid out in the mortuary, and that when he questioned you about it, you paid him the sum of three hundred Reichsmark to forget the incident.’

  ‘He’s lying to protect himself.’

  ‘But we searched your bunk in the barracks and under the floorboards we found a tin box containing eight thousand, seven 25

  hundred and sixty-eight Reichsmark. I suppose you’ll be telling me next that this sum represents your life savings.’

  ‘I’ve told you before,’ Lehr said obstinately, ‘I don’t know anything about a tin box; if you found one, it must have been planted there.’

  ‘Presumably by an enemy of yours?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  A smirk appeared on Wollweber’s face. ‘Oh, come now, you must do better than that.’ The plump soft fingers drummed the desk.

  ‘Why persist with this stupid story when every man in your team has confessed that they are in on your various little rackets? We know for a fact that you have been fencing looted property through Erhard Thierback’s junk shop on Bismarkstrasse!’

  ‘I’m not saying anything.’

  ‘With the evidence we already have in our possession, we could have you tried and executed if we so wished. Of course, I’m not saying that I can get you off, but five years wouldn’t be so bad, would it? I mean, it’s better than dangling on the end of a rope?

  And all I want is the name of the man who asked you to arrange Gerhardt’s death.’

  Lehr was approaching his fiftieth birthday and he had no illusions left. He was a dour, stolid Westphalian and although he gave the impression of being the converse, he was not slow on the uptake. Not for one minute did he believe that Wollweber would keep his word, but in helping the Gestapo, his life would be prolonged for a few days or even weeks if he was lucky and, viewed objectively, there really was no alternative.

  He said, ‘I don’t know his name but I can describe him.’

  ‘Try not to be vague,’ Wollweber said harshly, ‘because it won’t help you.’

  ‘I only met him the once.’

  ‘Let’s hope you have an excellent memory then.’

  ‘It was on a Sunday, about five weeks ago in Minden. He came up to me in the Ratskeller while I was having a drink and we made the contract.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Why not? Erhard Thierback had made all the preliminary arrangements.’

  ‘Perhaps Thierback can give me his name.’

  ‘He makes a point of never asking for names.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So this man’s about sixty, maybe older, well dressed but his suit was a little shiny. He’s a small man, thin face, white hair and I thought he might be a professor or a lawyer or something like that. I also think he lives locally.’

  26

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Thierback said he seemed to know his way around the city.’

  Wollweber sighed. ‘You know,’ he said smoothly, ‘I don’t think you’re helping us at all.’

  ‘There’s more—he kept his right hand tucked inside his jacket pocket while he was talking to me and I got the idea that he didn’t want me to see it. Anyway, when he came to leave, he forgot all about it as he pushed the door open. He’s missing one, maybe two fingers and he holds it like a claw as though he had arthritis.’ Lehr half-closed the palm of his left hand to demonstrate what he meant. ‘See, like this,’ he said.

  The room seemed to be getting darker and Lehr knew that if he didn’t get back to his cell where he could lie down, he was going to pass out.

  Wollweber said, ‘Where did you collect the General’s clothes?’

  ‘Clothes?’ Lehr said muzzily. ‘What clothes? He gave me an envelope containing the money, a gold ring and a Wehrmacht pay book.’

  ‘And?’

  There was a roaring noise in his ears and his voice
seemed to come from a great distance. ‘I was told what sort of body was required.’

  It was possible that he was lying but Wollweber didn’t think so, for in his judgment, Lehr was not an inventive man and the description had too much of an authentic ring about it to be a mere figment of the imagination. It was, in any case, the first tangible lead that had been uncovered and it might just placate Kastner. For all their surveillance measures, the watch on the Gerhardt woman had so far proved abortive, and from his point of view there was much to be said for widening the search to include Minden. It would at least get Kastner off his back. He had Lehr taken back to the cells and then, picking up the phone, he placed a call through to Berlin.

  27

  4

  DRYLAND STOPPED TO buy a copy of The Star from the vendor outside the London Pavilion and then, tucking the newspaper under his arm, he turned the corner into Shaftesbury Avenue and hurried towards the Trocadero where he had arranged to meet Leonard Pitts of the Ministry of Economic Warfare. Dryland was a slim, athletic-looking young man of twenty-six, and his service dress uniform, tailored by Hawkes of Savile Row, fitted him perfectly.

  His hat, by Herbert Johnson of Bond Street, was worn at a slightly rakish angle in the style originated by Admiral Beatty, and this impression of the jaunty, combat-experienced officer was completed by the two medal ribbons displayed above the left breast pocket. Of these, the Africa Star with First Army clasp was in a sense rather fraudulent.

  Although he had been in North Africa during 1942 and the early part of ’43, Dryland had spent most of his time in Algiers and only on rare occasions had he ventured forward to First Army Headquarters, but since he was on the strength of that army, he was entitled to the appropriate clasp and the fact that he did not deserve it, had not prevented him from promptly claiming the award. As he was quite blatant about it, this faint streak of dishonesty, which had always been present in his character, was looked upon as a sign of eccentricity in an otherwise personable and efficient Intelligence officer.

  Like the Rainbow Corner on the opposite side of the street, the Trocadero had been a popular haunt with the Americans, but since the Normandy landings their presence in London had not been so noticeable. This apart, there had been little change, for Scotch whisky was still as scarce as ever. As he walked into the room, Dryland saw at a glance that Pitts had not yet arrived, and edging his way through the throng at the bar, he found himself a niche in the corner and ordered a small beer.