End of Spies by Alex Gerlis (popular ebook readers .txt) 📕

‘…we need to find who’s asking about him!’

It didn’t take them long.

They put the word out that someone who knew the whereabouts of das Frettchen and was most interested in the reward would be at a bar on Ludwig Strasse opposite St Ludwig’s church at eight o’clock the following evening.

Sure enough, the man turned up. His German was good, but he clearly wasn’t a native speaker. And his story about das Frettchen owing him money was less than convincing. When Ulrich asked him where they’d met and for other details, he seemed hesitant. Ulrich, worried that they might be scaring him off, asked about the reward instead.

It turned out to be a generous one, and they agreed he’d pay half now and half when he found the man, which would be very soon, as Ulrich assured him das Frettchen was living just round the corner.

That was when it all went drastically wrong for Captain Christopher Stephens. He’d arranged for the American military police sergeant and two of his men to be waiting outside in civilian dress and in a German car. His plan had been for them to go with him to arrest the Ferret. But Ulrich insisted he leave with him through the rear of the bar, where he found himself in a small yard. Two men held him against the wall while an older man stood in front of him and asked him who he was and what he wanted.

Stephens’ only hope was that the Americans had realised what was going on and would come to look for him – he had said something to the sergeant about giving him ten minutes, and more than ten minutes had passed. He tried to buy time by saying that maybe there’d been a misunderstanding, and he wasn’t sure what the fuss was all about – he’d known the man called das Frettchen in Paris and they’d become friends; in fact – he gave a conspiratorial wink – they’d worked together in Avenue Foch. He owed his friend some money and had heard he was in Munich and wished to repay it; that was all.

‘I thought you told me he owed you money?’

Stephens realised he was shaking violently, and his mouth had turned dry.

‘You’re not German.’

‘Unfortunately not, no – I’m from Luxembourg. I feel unable to return there because of my… activities.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ The older man had produced a knife.

Stephens shouted – a loud shout in English, hoping the Americans were looking for him and would hear – ‘I’m here… help me!’ He repeated it and tried to kick the man with the knife, but it was too late. One of the others had plunged a blade into his side.

When the Americans found him a few minutes later, the surface of the small yard was coated in the Englishman’s blood, like a pond unexpectedly appearing in a forest.

Friedrich Steiner turned up as instructed at the grocery store on Türkenstrasse. He told the woman behind the counter that he never wanted to see another potato again, and when he asked if she had any cauliflower, she ushered him into the back of the shop. His delight at seeing his father ended when his father slapped him repeatedly round the face.

What on earth do you think you’re up to?

Did I not give you very strict orders?

Why have you been volunteering information about yourself here in Munich?

Did you know an Englishman was sent here to find you?

Friedrich sank to the floor and started sobbing. He said he was so sorry, but he couldn’t stand it in the Tyrol and thought he’d be safer in a city. He’d only told one or two people about himself, and then it was because he knew they were good Nazis like him, and never – on his mother’s memory – had he told anyone what his real name was, so really things weren’t that bad. And he was a reformed character, he assured his father. His behaviour had improved – he didn’t lose his temper as often – and he’d found himself a woman. ‘In fact, she lives with me.’

‘You’re not marrying her, are you, Friedrich?’

‘I don’t think she’s old enough, Father.’

Wolfgang Steiner shook his head. ‘You’ve obviously not learned your lesson. Tomorrow you will go to Frankfurt with Ulrich. He’ll arrange your escape from there: fortunately, I’ve made some arrangements. You’re to do what he says, do you understand?’

‘But Father—’

‘Listen to me! It’s not just your safety, it’s mine too. You will stay with Ulrich until the morning and then leave for Frankfurt.’

‘Can I go to my room?’

‘No, it’s too dangerous – let me have the address, though.’

When Wolfgang Steiner went to the address near the Theresienwiese the following morning, the place was deserted. A neighbour told him the girl had left the previous evening, and said there were bruises all over her face. Steiner thought it was ironic how close she’d come to being killed without realising it.

In the short time he’d been in the building, the rain had turned from a light shower to such a heavy one it was bouncing off the pavement. He waited in the dark entrance, smoking as he watched people hurrying by, all hunched and avoiding looking at anyone else. One man did glance towards the building, and for a brief moment Steiner thought he looked familiar, so he stepped back further into the shadows.

Europe was like this now: everyone seemingly on the move, journeys born out of desperation, destinations unclear or a secret, and an all-pervading sense of mistrust. A shudder ran down his back as he wondered whether he had either the energy or the courage for all this, for this escape from a life that not so long ago had been so assured.

His only hope was to trust that Ulrich would somehow lead Friedrich away from this nightmare.

His son would now be a traveller on der Fluchtweg Falke.

The Kestrel escape route.

Chapter 6

London, September 1945

They were