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

and he knew he had little time. The prospect – however remote – of capturing Bormann was a tantalising one: it would certainly secure his next promotion. Apprehending the English spies would be a good career move too, Moscow liked the idea of having the British in their debt. And the fact that he’d be helping his English friend was pleasing, though only a secondary consideration.

He shouted for his assistant to come through. ‘You look as if you’re ready to leave.’

‘I was hoping to, sir, but if you—’

‘We’re going to be here all night, Yegorov. It will be like the old days. Get hold of Fyodorov, I think he’s still based at Hohenschönhausen prison.’

‘And what should I say to him, sir?’

‘Tell him I want to see him now, immediately. Oh, and get a pot of coffee, the stronger the better.’

Kapitan Fyodorov was a bag of nerves when he knocked tentatively on Gurevich’s door just half an hour later. It was best to assume a summons from a commissar was something to worry about, though for the young NKVD officer, almost everything was something to worry about these days. Gurevich shouted for him to come in and sit down and not look so nervous.

‘For heaven’s sake, Fyodorov, take your coat off. You’re not cold, are you? Here, have some coffee.’

He waited as Fyodorov sorted himself out. He noticed that the younger man held his coffee cup with both hands, and he remembered the days when he too would shake in the presence of such a senior officer. He didn’t think he came across as that harsh.

‘I hear very good reports about you, Leonid.’

‘Thank you, sir. It is an honour to serve the Soviet Union and to—’

Gurevich held up his hand to stop him. ‘I’m sure. There is an urgent matter that needs to be dealt with. You remember Willi Kühn?’

‘You mean Paul Hoffman’s contact?’

‘That’s him, the schoolteacher – former KPD member. I need him to do something for us, but I’m not sure how far we can trust him.’

Gurevich swivelled his chair round, and when he’d completed a full circle to face Fyodorov once more, he lifted his feet onto the desk and closed his eyes in thought.

‘Let me put this another way: if we were to approach Kühn, how do you think he’d react?’

‘He’s not the trusting type, sir.’

‘What’s Hoffman up to these days?’

‘Since the Volkspolizei was formed in October, he’s become a very effective officer in it, sir: I understand he is even trusted to investigate political crimes.’

‘So we could use him to approach Kühn?’

‘That would be a better approach, sir.’

‘I thought so. Very good, get Hoffman here now.’

An hour later, Paul Hoffman swaggered into Gurevich’s office without any of the nervousness shown by Fyodorov.

‘I want you to bring Willi Kühn here, Hoffman.’

‘When, sir?’

‘Ideally, an hour ago, but I’ll settle for some time tonight.’

Hoffman coughed and looked less confident now. ‘There is a slight problem with that, sir.’

Gurevich looked up in the manner of a man who had enough problems already. ‘Go on.’

‘He’s in Wedding, sir, in the western part of the city. I think that’s in the French sector.’

‘In that case, I’ll allow you two hours to bring him here.’

The war had been over for more than seven months, but that didn’t stop Willi Kühn breaking out in a cold sweat and his heart missing a beat or two when he heard knocking on his door so late at night.

At least he was alone. His daughter was working as a nurse at the French hospital, and his son-in-law was in a Soviet prisoner-of-war camp, where frankly Kühn hoped he would remain. Through the frosted glass he saw the shadows of two still figures.

‘Who is it?’

‘You don’t need to sound so worried, Willi. It’s me, Paul – Paul Hoffman.’

Kühn undid the chain. Hoffman’s face was just inches from his. He couldn’t make out the slightly shorter figure standing behind him.

‘What is it – am I in trouble?’

‘You will be if you don’t let us in,’ said the other figure. It spoke with a Russian accent. ‘It’s fucking cold out here.’

The three of them stood in the doorway, the light from the lounge spilling into the hall. Kühn peered at the Russian, trying to work out whether he recognised him. Fyodorov held a card in front of him and said he was NKVD.

‘Get your coat on, you’re coming with us.’

‘I can’t, I…’ His heart beat faster and he felt nauseous.

‘Really? It must be a very important social occasion if it’s preventing you from doing what you’re told.’

Hoffman cleared his throat. ‘You’re not in trouble, Willi, but your cooperation would be very much appreciated.’

‘Where are we going?’

The Russian reached into his inside coat pocket and Kühn backed against the wall. He relaxed when some papers were handed to him. ‘If we get stopped, this is the pass you show, but let Paul do the talking. We should be all right, though; we’ll take a longer route, but it’s a safer one.’

‘I need to know where you’re taking me.’

‘You’re going on a trip to the east, Willi.’

The events that night in his office on Behrenstrasse reminded Iosif Gurevich of a play he’d seen in Moscow before the war. He remembered little of it other than that it was predictably earnest, with long periods of silence punctuated by speeches that sounded like editorials from Izvestiya, though without the jokes.

A recurring scene saw a series of workers at a collective farm summoned to the party chairman’s office, each eager to take the blame for some unspecified misdemeanour. The succession of people coming through his door that evening reminded him of those hapless workers: the put-upon Yegorov; Fyodorov; Hoffman, and now Willi Kühn, who stood in front of him blinking in the bright light. Gurevich felt like the party chairman on the collective farm, studying his most recent visitor as he stood nervously in front of him, twirling his hat round against his chest.

‘Kühn, I understand that when you met Wolfgang Steiner in