Katastrophe, page 37
‘And you? And that boss of yours?’
‘We’re on manoeuvres, Herr Oberst. Reconnaissance is our business, as it used to be yours, and we believe the immediate future, at least in this city, will belong to the Soviets. That situation will offer certain possibilities. Both of us, especially Brigadeführer Schellenberg, have a great deal of knowledge. We know what’s really been going on this last year or two. If I was Zhukov, or even Stalin, I wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of us.’
‘You’re asking me to negotiate on your behalf?’
‘When the time is ripe, yes.’
‘With whom?’
‘In the first place, with the NKVD. We assume you have the contacts. That would be logical.’
Schultz nodded, sat back, did his best to hide his amusement. He’d left the cell a dead man. Now, barely minutes later, he was being recruited to save someone else’s life. War, he thought. Madness in a trim grey suit and a pair of glasses.
*
The next day, 27th April, a Triple Priority cable arrived at OSS headquarters in Bern. After firm instructions from Washington just days ago to break off negotiations with SS Obergruppenführer Karl Wolff, Allen Dulles was now ordered to hasten the despatch of German envoys to the Allied HQ at Caserta, where preparations were underway for the official surrender of all German forces south of the Alps.
At three o’clock the following afternoon, Generals Lemnitzer and Airey were at the airfield that served Allied HQ, awaiting the arrival of two German Generals empowered to sign the surrender. The Generals disembarked from their aircraft, and greetings were limited to a stiff exchange of bows. Over the hours that followed there were protracted wrangles over elements in the surrender document, but there were no doubts on either side that the Reich’s days in the Italian sunshine were over. One of the witnesses to the signing of the surrender document, at Stalin’s insistence, was a Russian Major General, Alexsi Pavlovich Kislenko.
*
Nehmann at first had been puzzled by the sudden silence on the water pipes. No more news from the showers. No more applause for his less guarded comments about a variety of Nazi tribal chiefs. No more gruff reminders that the war was now lapping at the battlements of Hitler’s secret army. In his last despatch, Nehmann’s neighbour had been all too explicit about the fate that probably awaited them all. These people always settle their debts, he’d tapped. Even at the very end.
The very end. Was this what had happened to Paprika Rundfunk’s faithful listener? Had he been dragged out to the courtyard and despatched? Was his dead body worth a gallon or two of precious gasoline? Or did they simply leave him to the dogs? Nehmann mourned his absence for four long days, then came a hesitant tapping that drew Nehmann from his bunk. Shackled, he knelt beside the water pipe, listening intently. Nothing happened. Nehmann reached for his spoon.
‘Again?’ he tapped.
Nothing.
‘Please repeat,’ he said, keeping the Morse very slow, very deliberate, tap-tap-tap.
This time, faintly, came a reply. A novice, he thought. Either someone very old who’s forgotten most of the groups, or someone much younger, who’s only just started to learn.
He lifted his spoon, asked once again for the message, and this time there was no doubt.
‘Der Führer.’ Nehmann was staring at the pipe. ‘Todt.’
Hitler. Dead.
*
The news reached Moncrieff at St James’s Street that same evening, which happened to be a Monday. Even at weekends, shackled to his desk, he’d been working late. Liddell had assigned him a punishing schedule of potential internee releases to be assessed and approved, a task that demanded an unbroken sequence of twelve-hour days. Now, he looked up to find ‘B’ Section’s director at the door.
‘He’s gone, Tam.’ Liddell was holding a bottle of champagne and a clutch of glasses.
‘Who?’
‘Hitler.’
‘Killed?’ Moncrieff had put his pen down.
‘Suicide. It’s on the tapes. Reuters. Have we still got that flag, by the way? And is it presentable? Tomorrow, Tam. First thing. Run it up the bloody pole.’ He settled the glasses on the desk and poured the champagne. ‘Prosit, mein Kamerad. Here’s to bloody peace.’
Later that night, still at his desk, Moncrieff took a call from a voice he recognised.
‘Ivor Maskelyne?’ Just the name was enough to put a smile on Moncrieff’s face. ‘I take it you’ve heard?’
‘I have indeed. Joy and rejoicing. And my Broadway chums tell me it doesn’t stop there, either. Hitler took his dog and that lovely Elsa Braun with him. She’d apparently married him only hours before. Can you imagine that? Making wifehood the condition of your own bloody suicide? Führerdämmerung. Scored for all three of them.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘The money’s on Goebbels next.’ Maskelyne chuckled. ‘There are eight of them in that family so here’s hoping they can lay hands on enough pills. Listen, mon brave, there are plans afoot for a modest celebration, and it seems your name’s on the list.’
‘For what?’
‘A get-together. And maybe a glass or two. This is Broadway again, I’m afraid. They want someone from your neck of the woods to show his face and you appear to be the only one with table manners.’
‘Very funny. Whose idea was this? Specifically?’
‘Can’t possibly comment, old son. Most of the time you lot depend on guesswork, so I’d stick with that. Can I assume a yes? He can be very persistent.’
‘He?’
Another chuckle. Then the line went dead.
*
Early next morning, Erwin Neuer escorted Schultz to a waiting Mercedes. For the past six days, Schultz had been camping in the air raid shelter in the bowels of Gestapo headquarters with a scatter of other prisoners. Here, in the so-called Himmler bunker, Neuer had assured him that he’d be safe, not simply from air raids and Soviet artillery, but from the attentions of the SS. Thanks to a cable from Schellenberg, with rumoured support from the Reichsführer himself, Oberst Schultz was to be treated as a guest, rather than a prisoner. In terms of his well-being, this diktat made absolutely no difference. The same bread and marmalade. The same potato soup. But at least, as long as he believed this sudden reverse in his fortunes, Schultz was to be spared a visit to the courtyard.
Now, sharing the back of the Mercedes with Neuer, Schultz stared out at the battlescape that had once been the capital of the Reich. It was still early, dawn a blush of pink beneath a ledge of cloud away to the east, but the grey light revealed nothing except rubble, and drifting clouds of dust kicked up by the wind, and the gaunt bones of ministries along the Wilhelmstrasse, gutted by point-blank fire.
The driver pulled into what once had been the kerb, and half turned to await instructions. Neuer was watching a group of Russian infantry, their weapons trained on the remains of a building on Vossstrasse. Slowly, one by one, a straggle of senior officers appeared in the dawn light, led by a Wehrmacht trooper. He was a big man, and he gazed around for a moment or two, not quite believing what he was seeing, and then he raised his rifle. Attached to the bayonet was a length of dirty white cloth. The Russians took a step or two backwards, and then waved the surrender party towards a waiting armoured car, thick rubber tyres, single cannon.
‘Scheisse.’ Schultz shook his head. This, he knew, was history in the making. After all the bloodshed, all the destruction, all the long years of suffering, four figures were stumbling through the cold Berlin dawn, trying to avoid the rubble.
‘So what now?’ he asked Neuer.
‘We follow.’
The surrender party climbed awkwardly into the back of the armoured car. One of the Russians slammed the door shut and gave it a kick before the vehicle set off, its wheels spinning among the debris. Turning into the Hermann-Goering Strasse and crossing the Potsdamer Platz, it was already moving at speed, bucketing from one pothole to the next, the driver’s hand on the horn. Watching from the back of the Mercedes, Schultz could only think of some wounded animal, maddened by victory, howling down the empty streets.
Minutes later, they stopped outside a house on the Schulenburgring. A fine rain had drifted in from the west, and Schultz watched as the driver opened the rear door of the armoured car and hurried his passengers across the pavement and into the house under the carbines of more Russian troopers crouching in the rain.
‘Who’s in there? Who’s waiting?’ Schultz nodded at the house.
‘Zhukov. He’s taking the surrender.’
‘Of Germany?’
‘Of Berlin. After this morning, everything else will follow.’
Schultz nodded, said nothing. Then a long file of German prisoners appeared, loosely escorted, shuffling through the thin grey dawn. Their heads were down, and face after face registered nothing but the numbness of defeat.
‘So why are we here?’ Schultz asked, after the prisoners had gone.
‘Zhukov has an NKVD man in his entourage. His German is perfect. He’s serving as an interpreter. What’s happening in there won’t take long because there’s nothing to talk about. The terms are settled.’ A thin smile. ‘Unconditional surrender.’
‘And then?’
‘And then we talk to the NKVD man.’
*
Nehmann awoke to silence. These last few days, the thunder of battle had engulfed the heart of Berlin, a crescendo without end, body blow after body blow that had crept ever closer, rocking the entire building. By now, Nehmann suspected that other prisoners had been evacuated from their cells, probably to some kind of shelter in the basement, but that invitation had never come his way and so he’d lain mute on his bed, his hands over his ears, resigned to whatever the final curtain of this mad drama had in store for him.
Now, though, it had ended. He struggled out of bed in the darkness. Generators fed the lights in the building but even they appeared not to be working. Had they surrendered? And had their German masters also thrown in the towel? And if so, might this account for the silence? His hands groped for his spoon, and he crouched beside the water pipe, tapping a plaintive message. Is there anyone there? And why is it so quiet?
Nothing happened. He tried again, and then a third time, but finally abandoned the effort. The darkness, it occurred to him, might go on for ever. Even peace, if that’s what this was, could be merciless.
*
Moncrieff took the phone call at lunchtime, bent over yet another internee schedule in his office at St James’s Street. It was Ivor Maskelyne again, phoning from his rooms in Balliol.
‘Marching orders, you lucky man.’
‘For what?’
‘Tonight’s little get-together. I now understand it’s Section Five only, all those clever buggers out in the wilds of St Albans, bit of a reunion. They’ve come up with a few games, too. Have you got a pencil handy? Everyone takes a photograph, and a single object, and will be expected to talk about them. Prepare a decent story, too. I imagine you’ll be on your feet half the night, and I anticipate lots of bawdy versifying afterwards. No need to take flowers, though, so that might come as a bit of a relief. Do you happen to know the Tower at all?’
‘The Tower?’ Moncrieff was lost.
‘Of London, mon brave. They used to put it on stamps behind the King’s head. You’re to present yourself at the main entrance for eight o’clock. Ask for Alf. He’ll let you in.’
‘Tonight’s impossible.’ Moncrieff was looking at the pile of paperwork on his desk. ‘My apologies but I won’t be there.’
‘Out of the question, I’m afraid.’
‘Who says?’
‘That boss of yours, Guy Liddell. He thinks it’s a thoroughly good wheeze. Nice to give peace a flying start before the proper celebrations and he thinks you’re the man to make that happen. Everyone’s sick of war, mon brave. We all need to be friends again.’
Moncrieff nodded, knowing he’d been outflanked.
‘So what happens once I get in?’ he asked. ‘Where am I going?’
‘Broadway have commandeered a room in St Thomas’s Tower. I’m assured there’s lots of grub, and buckets of bubbly, and maybe even a wench or two.’ Maskelyne was laughing now. ‘And you’ll never guess what lies beneath.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Traitors’ Gate.’
*
Nehmann was asleep when the footsteps came to a halt outside his door. Hearing voices, he jerked awake. It was still dark in the cell, an inky blackness that told him nothing about the time of day, or what might happen next, or whether Berlin even existed any more. Then came the squeal of a key turning in the lock, and a stir of slightly colder air told him that the door had opened. For a long moment, nothing happened. Nehmann was sitting up now, facing the door. It could be anyone, he thought. Solitary confinement, yourself alone, robs you of everything.
‘Who is it?’ he was trying to mask his anxiety.
‘Me, my friend.’ The cheerfulness in the voice sounded familiar but Nehmann couldn’t quite place it. ‘The train? The Kreutzer Sonata? That poor bloody man and his whore of a wife? You once told me journalists have long memories. Was I right to believe you?’
‘Leon?’ Nehmann was frowning now. ‘The Leon from Kolyma? The Leon from that fucking railway station in the middle of nowhere? The Leon who gave me War and Peace?’
‘The same. Don’t believe me? Here’s another clue. It’s a present this time. With the compliments of Moscow.’ A torch switched on, sweeping the cell until it found the figure on the bunk. Nehmann shielded his eyes, then peered between the spread of his fingers as the beam settled on another presence, standing beside the NKVD man. The huge hands. The hunch of the shoulders. The breadth of the chest. And the briefest shake of the head. The freezing spaces of the church in Stalingrad, he thought. The priest bent over the organ. The dying chords of the Pathétique. And outside, under the eyes of the Soviets, the parting nod he’d thought was for ever.
‘Paprika fucking Rundfunk?’ Schultz growled. ‘That could only be you.’
24
Moncrieff was late getting to the Tower of London. The last time he’d been here was nearly four years ago. On that occasion, he’d been assigned to probe the circumstances that had drawn Rudolf Hess to fly to Scotland and bail out. He’d discovered the Deputy Führer in a freezing cell-like room accessed by a spiral stone staircase but now he found himself in a very different part of the building. St Thomas’s Tower lay beside the Thames. Already, Moncrieff could hear the sound of laughter.
Dress code, Maskelyne had assured him, was emphatically a matter of personal taste and Moncrieff was dressed for the hills: comfortable corduroy trousers, soft cotton shirt, old tweed jacket. A flight of stone steps took him to a modest room dominated by an old oak table. Youngish women dressed as wenches were fussing over dishes of food Moncrieff had last seen in the better organised internment camps: thinly sliced pemmican, portions of Woolton Pie, baskets of sliced bread the colour of death. One of the wenches caught Moncrieff’s eye, and he recognised the cool, generations-old beauty that went with pre-war country house weekends. Her efforts at a Cockney accent were unconvincing.
‘No cooking facilities, I’m afraid, sir, so it has to be alfresco. The boys next door think they’re back at school and that makes them very happy.’
Moncrieff was looking at a mountain of boiled potatoes, brightened with chopped nettles.
‘Anything to drink?’
‘Spoiled for choice, sir. Most of it’s next door already. I dare say you’ll be helping yourself.’
Moncrieff had brought the keeper’s bag he carried on outings from the Glebe House. He extracted a manila envelope and passed it across.
‘One favour? Do you mind?’
‘Not at all, sir. As long as it ain’t naughty.’
‘I’m afraid it’s very naughty. There’s a Mr Philby in there…’ he nodded towards the open door. ‘You know him?’
‘Of course, sir. It’s his do. Head of the table. Senior prefect.’ She smiled. ‘I expect he’ll be saying grace soon.’
‘Excellent.’ Moncrieff nodded at the envelope. ‘When you get the chance, just tuck that beside his chair.’
‘He’s not to see it?’
‘God no.’ Moncrieff planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘My life is in your hands.’
The woman was feeling the shape of the envelope. Then she looked up, and Moncrieff recognised a flicker of real interest in her eyes.
‘You’re one of them?’ She’d abandoned the Cockney accent. ‘I find that hard to believe.’
*
The gathering next door was more intimate than Moncrieff had anticipated. The room was lit by candles, shadows dancing on the ancient timbered walls, and he counted no more than a dozen figures sitting around the long table. Some of them were wearing dinner jackets in various states of disrepair. One had a row of medals pinned to a Leander blazer. Another, small and fussy, had dressed himself as Montgomery. The slouch beret and the Desert Rat combat blouse had caught the essence of the man, and Moncrieff watched him scolding his neighbour for a breach of manners. The thin, reedy voice, the intense concentration, the stabbing forefinger, all were perfect.
‘Gentlemen, we are honoured.’ The tap of a knife on glass stilled the laughter.
It was Philby. He was wearing a patterned Arab headscarf in faded shades of red, and the baggy Army blouse that Moncrieff had last seen on his long-ago visit to Section Five at their St Albans headquarters. The jacket had once belonged to Philby’s father. When it gets wet in the rain, he’d told Moncrieff, I can still smell him.
Now, he got to his feet, a generous sweep of his arm serving as an introduction to the faces at the table. Thanks to the munificence of several City livery companies, he said, the evening had been blessed with some truly remarkable wine. The banderilleros of Section Five, that happy band of provocateurs, were also happy to offer a barrel of porter, freshly tapped, plus an assortment of other delights available in bottles of every conceivable shape and provenance. Tonight, they’d decided to dispense with formalities. Grub would be left on the table. Most of it was inedible and best left to die of neglect. The drink, on the other hand, deserved serious attention and the presence of a novillo with Tam Moncrieff’s reputation was indeed an extra blessing.
