Russian Front (9) ‘The idea being that if we get to his parents or great-aunt Matilda or whoever, we just might be able to get to him,’ said Bruckner, scribbling a note. ‘What return address shall we give?’ ‘That safe house in Belfast, the one the IRA put at our disposal. When you get the letters written and sealed, get one of the local girls to travel up to Belfast and post them. She must buy the stamps up there. She doesn’t need to know what the letters are about. A Belfast address and a British stamp won’t arouse any suspicion. The Lough up there is stiff with Royal Navy ships.’ ‘Of course you realize that even if we can get to his parents they might not know where he is or what he’s doing.’ ‘Of course I realize that,’ retorted Eichmann, ‘but you don’t know these people, I do. They always write home to mummy and daddy. My guess is that we’re bound to learn something.’ Eichmann was far from being as confident as he sounded. In truth, he really wasn’t at all sure that he could trace the whereabouts of one British Army officer on a secret mission without more information. But he was ambitious and he wanted Bruckner and, more importantly, Canaris to know that he hadn’t left a stone unturned. He traveled to London by boat on a false Irish passport obtained from an IRA contact at stinging cost – sometimes he wondered whose side they were one – with his bogus navy uniform in a suitcase along with £500 in forged five-pound notes. Once in London he rented a small flat in Earl’s Court. This was more expensive than a boarding house, but he wanted to be able to come and go as he pleased in his uniform without a nosy landlady asking questions. He paid his deposit and first month’s rent in real money, since he didn’t know how long the forged stuff would stand up. It was probably safe enough to be used for casual things like meals, drinks and bribes, but he knew that if it led him back to his address it would mean his neck. Quite literally, as the British seemed to hang any spies they caught. But he had a high opinion of his own cleverness and expertise and felt sure that he could make his way around the British capital without arousing suspicion. His uniform was authentic, his identity card and ration book would stand a cursory inspection and his accent was faultless apart from a trace of Dublin, which wasn’t a problem as there were thousands of Irishmen serving with the British forces, despite Irish neutrality. But London had disturbed him. Goebbels’ propaganda had led him to think of the city as being on the verge of collapse, riven by class warfare, strikes, political dispute and near-starvation from the U-boat threat. Despite the satisfyingly evident bomb damage, he gained the impression of a people who were, for some reason he couldn’t fathom, happier than when he had last visited the city as a schoolboy. There was no obvious friction between the various uniforms and nationalities who thronged the public places. The Americans looked disgustingly well fed and well off, but there was no open hostility that he could detect. He was keenly interested in the morale of British soldiers in particular, and was disappointed to note how cheerful they seemed. The papers were full of what was being described as a ‘victory’ in North Africa, led by that pipsqueak Montgomery. Did they really believe that Rommel could be kicked out of Africa? Hadn’t they heard of tactical retreats? Once he had rented his flat he sent a telegram to a safe house in Dublin giving the address. He didn’t include any other information as he had to assume that telegrams between here and Dublin would be read on a routine basis. He hadn’t brought a Morse radio with him, he distrusted the things. He knew that the Abwehr was capable of tracking the location of a radio signal very quickly and, presumably, so could the British secret service. He began his search for Swayne by hanging around officers’ clubs that he had heard about around Piccadilly and Mayfair. He looked for suntans and Eighth Army flashes and would buy their owners drinks, telling his story that he owed this chap Swayne money and - not before a second or third round was consumed - casually ask if they had run across him in the desert. This tactic held a certain amount of risk, he knew, but he was surprised at the suspicion that his casual inquiry aroused. Everybody he spoke to seemed to be very security-minded. He dropped the whole thing when, twice in one lunch time, he was closely questioned about his motives and had to make a hurried exit from a hotel bar. He could only assume that Bruckner had sent out the letters to the public schools and was collating any replies. After he had been in London five days, with his nerves getting rather worn, he decided on one last throw of the dice before returning to Dublin. The Germans had comprehensively penetrated Russian intelligence before the German invasion of June 1941 and Eichmann had come to London armed with the name, physical description and home address of the head of the NKVD at the Russian Embassy in London. Why not tail him for a day or two, he thought to himself, to see what he was up to. Even if Sasha, as Eichmann knew he was called, knew nothing about Swayne’s mission, Eichmann might pick up some useful information on other matters to send back to Berlin. His first piece of good fortune was that Sasha seemed to prefer to walk everywhere. The weather was unusually balmy for the time of year and it wasn’t difficult for Eichmann to pick up Sasha that evening as he left the private road housing the Russian Embassy. He followed him to a house in Belgravia, where, Eichmann guessed, Sasha was a guest at dinner. Then he tailed him to Soho where he spent about fifteen minutes in a tart’s second floor flat. After that, Sasha went back to the Embassy for the night and a weary Eichmann returned to Earl’s Court, telling himself that he would give it one more day. He was back outside the Embassy Gates at six o’clock the next morning, waiting. He read the same newspaper over and over again while he waited, and was eventually rewarded with Sasha walking briskly over towards Victoria at about a quarter to twelve. He followed him to a hotel near Victoria, and stopped to light a cigarette at the corner of the cul-de-sac as Sasha entered the lobby. Eichmann squared his shoulders and trotted up the steps of the hotel, assuming the air of a man on his way to a lunch appointment for which he was a minute or two late. The elderly Commissionaire opened the door for him and there he was in the lobby. Strolling into the lounge he inserted himself into the crush of uniforms at the bar. He ordered a pink gin and, as he shot the change from one of his bogus fivers into his pocket, he turned around pretending to look at the pretty garden through the windows, taking in the fact that Sasha had joined a middle-aged British Colonel and a pretty young woman in expensive clothes. Eichmann turned back to the bar and moved closer to a group of Polish RAF officers. Almost perfect cover for a German spy, he thought to himself ruefully. He didn’t have a clue what Sasha was doing there. The woman might be the better class of prostitute, for all he knew. Sasha had certainly demonstrated his interest in such entertainment last night. But how did the other man fit in? The gin burned into his empty stomach and he felt suddenly very tired. He was fed up with pretending to be someone else in a strange country. The anonymity didn’t suit his arrogant, egotistical personality. He had imagined real espionage to be much more exhilarating. Instead, he felt seedy and furtive. It was like one long moonlight flit. He must have looked sorry for himself, since one of the Polish flyers clapped him on the shoulder and smiled at him. Eichmann grimaced back and turned away. He realized that his countenance was beginning to give him away. In the mirror behind the bar he noticed the trio by the window finish their drinks and move to the door of the lounge. They turned to the right outside the door, which meant they were having lunch here, since the lobby was to the left. Eichmann told himself he would try and get close to them during lunch, and if he heard anything useful, fine, if not he would take the first boat-train back to Dublin. As he followed them into the restaurant he was almost hoping that he wouldn’t be able to sit next to them, so that he could call the whole thing off. He could see them sitting down at a table near the window. That can’t have been Sasha’s choice, thought Eichmann, as he pushed through the crowd at the door and fixed his eyes on the headwaiter. ‘That table at the window, please.’ There was only one window table left, and it was a table for four. Eichmann had no reservation but he did have his fake five-pound notes. He had one already folded and slipped it into the waiter’s hand while staring into his eyes. It did the trick. The waiter ushered him to the corner table and began to clear away the other places. ‘Leave one setting for the lady!’ Eichmann murmured shyly. The man grinned and did as he was told. Eichmann reached for the menu. He was in an almost perfect position, with his back to Sasha’s back. The British Colonel and the woman were on the other side of their table. He studied the menu and ordered a half-pint of bitter. The Englishman started talking in a low voice, Eichmann couldn’t catch what he was saying. There was a bit more talk, none of which he could follow, and he was beginning to get discouraged when the girl spoke up. ‘My security clearance is quite high, you know. I wouldn’t have been able to do the job I was doing if I wasn’t to be trusted.’ A definite Home Counties accent. Sounds promising, Eichmann thought. He turned to the window as if daydreaming. This brought his left ear more to bear on the conversation. The British Colonel was talking to the Bolshevik. Eichmann caught the suggestion at the end of a sentence, something about asking her what they needed to know. Sasha was talking to the woman. He called her ‘Miss Sally’, but Eichmann couldn’t catch anything else, until Sasha said the word ‘Hugh’. Hugh Swayne? Eichmann’s whole body became tense and he stopped breathing to listen. He caught ‘America’ as Sasha finished speaking. The woman he now knew as Sally had a clear, lowish, attractive voice. Thank God for elocution lessons, thought Eichmann. He couldn’t stop himself wondering if she could sing. ‘Just after Captain Montague made such … Colonel Morrison …Lieutenant Swayne, back to England for retraining and [‘specious alignment’?], Captain Montague …angry … wanting to know why his cracked …Colonel Morrison told him that you … America …rain their scouts. This made Monty, Captain Montague – we all in Monty – living. He’s very funny, Americans. Almost para[something], might say. It was infuriating to listen to. Eichmann fought down an hysterical urge to turn fully around and ask her to speak up. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the table. He wanted to shout at the waiter who brought his plate of a rather small Dover sole. But he kept very still, listening. Captain Montague. Who was he? Never mind. Monty? That’s what the British called General Montgomery. Was he involved? Not likely, much more probable that Monty was short for Montague. Eichmann knew that Morrison was Swayne’s commanding officer. The point was that this woman, Sally, knew something about Swayne and his mission. ‘Russian liaison chap,’ Sally was saying. ‘Packed off to Russia …Colonel Morrison …’ Her voice went lower and he couldn’t catch the rest. ‘Tell us everything,’ said Sasha. His voice was very hard. Sally started to speak up again, as if there was something in Sasha’s tone that provoked her. ‘Well, can’t really remember, but Monty – we call him that – said something …czarist name, isn’t it? What’s he doing in the [something]. A set of [‘een-shells’?]. Can’t remember. Something like that.’ This was driving Eichmann up the wall. Then the older Englishman said clearly, ‘Romanov. That’s a czarist name, isn’t it? What’s he doing in the NKVD?’ ‘That’s it!’ cried Sally. ‘Romanov was the name!’ ‘Montague,’ said Sasha slowly. Then there was a lot of urgent, low murmuring and a scraping of chairs as all three got up to leave. Sally went first and Eichmann decided to follow her. He felt sure that she knew what this was all about. And if he could get her alone he could make her talk. * * * * * Eichmann had been there to watch Sally return to the flat. She must have gone somewhere else first, it would only have taken the taxi a few minutes to get here from Victoria. That was stupid of her. When she came out of the flat he followed her on the Underground to Paddington, where it was simple enough to stand behind her in the queue at the ticket office and overhear her request for a ticket to Bristol. He bought a ticket for himself and followed her on to the train, determined to find out exactly where she was going. Who was she? Would she lead him to Swayne? Eichmann’s first few hours in Bristol were miserable. The train had arrived just before ten and he had followed Sally into the station hotel. He dawdled at a noticeboard while she picked up her key, he had tried to get a room there for himself, but of course it was full. She must have telephoned a reservation. He began to regret throwing away his cap and uniform jacket. That might have got him in. Of course he still had his identity card but he hesitated to use it wearing civilian clothes. He had failed to overhear which room she was in and thought it was too dangerous to ask. He would just have to come back early tomorrow morning and tail her as she left. He wandered back to the station, which was packed with Allied military of all kinds, some of whom were asleep on their kit bags. After a pink gin in the station buffet just before last orders, he set out to find a hotel, but it was hopeless. He didn’t know the city at all, and the only places he could find nearby in the blackout were full. He trudged back to the station. All the seats were occupied by troops of various kinds in transit. Those who couldn’t find a bench were sleeping against their kit bags on the wooden floor of the ticket office, whose windows were closed. Eichmann, still carrying his briefcase and without having had anything to eat since a bite of his Dover sole at lunch, found a seat on the very end of a bench on one of the platforms. It was beastly cold and he had no overcoat. He had also run out of cigarettes. The soldier next to him, bundled in his greatcoat, farted. Eichmann picked up his briefcase and walked out of the station. The time was about midnight and the moon had risen. Wandering towards the city center he could just see a woman looking at him on a street corner. ‘All right, Darlin’?’ He stopped and looked at her. She moved towards him and murmured, ‘I got my flat aroun’ the corner. Ten bob for ‘alf an hour. You’ll be all right.’ ‘I’m sure I will,’ he said pleasantly. He felt suddenly very calm, exhilarated almost. She took him several streets away to a basement flat in what looked like a Georgian Terrace. As she turned the key in the lock an air-raid siren began to wail nearby. Eichmann, accustomed to air-raid free Dublin, looked up at the star-lit sky. ‘It’s all right darlin’,’ she murmured. ‘They’re just nuisance raids nowadays. Soon be gone. You’ll be all right.’ They entered the flat and she closed the door before turning on the light. Revealed was a dingy bed-sitter. ‘Got the ten bob, darlin’?’ He handed her one of his fivers. ‘I’ll get you some change, darlin’, don’t you worry. Might be only three or four pound, though. Where you from, anyway?’ She began to take off her raincoat. ‘Dublin. I’m Irish. It’s a bit chilly tonight.’ ‘Irishman, that’s good, I love an Irishman. What’s your name? Mick? Pat?’ She put the raincoat on a hanger behind the door. ‘Actually, it’s Jack.’ His own very private joke. ‘I tell you what, I’m really starvin’, you wouldn’t be after havin’ such a thing as a potato or a piece of bread in the house?’ He had moved over to the kitchenette, an area partitioned off with a painted wooden screen. ‘Ah, here we are,’ he said, his eyes lighting on two or three small unwashed spuds nestling in a brown paper bag. She was busying herself lighting the gas fire. The room was very damp. ‘You’m welcome to ‘em, but they’re not cooked.’ He glanced at her. She had bleached-blonde hair scraped back behind her head. It was impossible to tell her age to within ten years in the dim light. The pleats in her dress swayed as she fiddled to get the fire going. He opened what he guessed would be the cutlery drawer and, as quietly as he could, took out the potato peeler. He used it to remove the core of the potato, as if it were an apple. The prostitute was having trouble with her matches, she started to swear under her breath. He moved to his briefcase and knelt down to open it. The click of the lock made the woman turn around, still squatting down on her slim haunches. ‘What you doin’?’ A hard tone of suspicion in her voice. ‘Just getting my cigarettes,’ he said, smiling at her. She turned back to her task, an uncertain expression on her face. He kept his hands below the top of the inside of the briefcase as he jammed the cored potato on to the barrel of his revolver. It was a .38 Webley, British military issue, obtained from the IRA. Nowhere near as good as a Walther, but safer to carry around in England. ‘Thass better. Bloody thing.’ The gas fire began to hiss. She rose and turned around, groaning at having to squat for so long. She saw him sitting on the bed with a gun with a potato stuck on the end of the barrel. The image was faintly ridiculous, but there was something pitiless in his expression. He was looking at her, watching her reaction, like a schoolboy pulling the wings off a spider. She thought of the razor she carried in the secret pocket of her raincoat, but that was against the door on the other side of the room. He was between her and a weapon or escape. Get him talking, her instinct said. ‘They spuds isn’t cooked, darling! I’ll cook ‘em for you, I don’t mind, I like cookin’, how do you like ‘em?’ She moved towards him. Aiming carefully, he shot her through the heart. The force of her body hitting the wall was louder than the shot. The smoking potato fell from the end of the barrel of the gun. Eichmann got up and pushed the woman’s body away from the gas fire. His hands were dirty. He washed them at the sink and then ate some food standing up - stale bread and a tin of rice pudding – all the time looking at the corpse leaning against the wall. There was no sound from any other part of the house. He wiped the end of his gun, put it back in the briefcase, locked the door and took off his shoes, jacket and tie. He turned out the light, pulled back the coverlet and lay on the bed. The orange light from the gas fire shone warmly on the walls. He slept like a log.
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Copyright © 1998 Aidan Steer |