End of Spies Alex Gerlis (cat reading book .TXT) 📖

civilians shuffling along, all wearing more layers than usual of filthy clothing, heads bowed to avoid sharing their shame with someone they might know, and in case they should be fortunate enough to spot a cigarette end or some other treasure on the ground.

It took him longer than he’d anticipated to reach Kaiserstrasse; once there, he had to turn away from the direction of the station, so he waited in the doorway of a building that no longer existed and took time to light another cigarette, watching people walk slowly by. There was more of an edge to this area: it was the heart of the black market and there were signs of business being carried out deep inside the ruins and in the street – furtive conversations as an item was slipped from one pocket to another, money being palmed in the opposite direction. He moved along until he came to the junction with Moselstrasse, and was briefly thrown by the fact that the road ran in both directions off Kaiserstrasse, but then he spotted the sign he’d been told to look out for, crudely painted in black on what looked like the headboard of a bed.

Kartoffeln

Under the sign stood a cart piled high with potatoes, many of which appeared half rotten. Inside the remains of the building was a crudely built brick oven in which potatoes were being baked.

There’s a woman on the stall, she’ll be wearing a light blue headscarf. Ask if she’s Gertrud.

‘That’s me. What do you want?’

Tell her you want two baked potatoes to take with you for your train journey.

‘Of course: where are you travelling to?’ She was paying him a bit more attention.

Karlsruhe.

Gertrud’s bushy eyebrows lifted slightly. She’d now know he needed to contact the man called Ulrich, the one he’d failed to meet at the market on Brändström-Platz.

‘Sure, no problem, I’ll put two good ones on for you. Come over here, look at these – tell me if you think they look nice.’

She beckoned him closer, and as he leaned in to look at the potatoes, she spoke loudly in his ear, well above the volume of a whisper, her breath hot and flecked with spittle. ‘Go round the block into Elbe Strasse; there’s a stall there that sells soup. There’s always a long queue, which will fortunately keep you occupied. Come back here in forty minutes, you understand that? Not before then. When you return, I’ll take you to the back: Ulrich will be waiting there.’

‘And how long ago was that?’

‘Ten minutes ago. Two of my guys followed him into Moselstrasse, where he headed straight to a stall selling potatoes. They saw him talking to a woman there. One of the team thinks he heard her telling him to come back: he was looking at his watch the whole time, still is.’

‘And where is he now?’ Hanne hadn’t taken her eyes off the map of Frankfurt. Her finger was running along Moselstrasse.

‘Seems he’s in a queue in Elbe Strasse. There… the street behind.’

Her finger traced the map to Elbe Strasse. ‘And they’re watching him?’

‘Of course.’

They were in the control room in the building on Fürstenbergerstrasse as the messages came through intermittently from Sorensen’s team following Charles Falmer.

Subject is still queuing for soup on Elbe Strasse, appears nervous.

Subject has purchased soup and is drinking it in a doorway, keeps looking at watch.

Subject on the move and…

The last message had broken up: the radio operator said it was distorted and they’d have to wait. The room filled with the sound of static, and Hanne stared at the operator as if it was his fault. It was five minutes before the messages resumed.

Subject is now back in Moselstrasse: has returned to potato stall.

Subject has moved into building behind potato stall: no longer in sight.

‘They’re going to lose them. Shouldn’t they move in?’

‘Be patient, Richard.’ Hanne placed her hand on Prince’s arm. ‘They have the building covered.’

‘But with the cellars… he could slip away.’

Sorensen assured them no one would slip away from his team of watchers and remained calm as Prince paced the room and Hanne glared at the map and the radio operator in turn. The tension was broken by a burst of static followed by a deep voice.

Subject is leaving potato stall and now on Moselstrasse – following.

Subject now on Kaiserstrasse and heading west in direction of Hauptbahnhof.

Sorensen instructed the radio operator to tell them to keep watching the potato stall too.

Subject now crossing Hohenzollern Strasse and about to enter station.

Man carrying a rucksack and wearing a leather jacket and a woollen hat now leaving stall. Appears to have just one arm: request instructions.

‘Did I hear him say it was a one-armed man?’

‘Yes.’

‘In that case, we have to follow both him and Falmer.’

‘That’s just what I was about to tell them.’

Ulrich had been shocked when he received the telephone call to tell him the courier had turned up at Moselstrasse. When he had failed to appear as arranged on Elsa-Brändström-Platz, he’d assumed that was it, and when he heard he’d been arrested by the Americans and was being held at IG Farben, he’d feared the worst.

Not in a month of Sundays had he expected to hear from the Englishman, but now here he was on Moselstrasse giving the correctly coded messages. Gertrud had told him to hurry: the man would be back soon.

Now he was waiting in the cellar of the building next to the potato stall, reflecting on how fortunate it was that he was in Frankfurt that morning. The ceiling had been destroyed, exposing the room to the rest of the building, but it had been patched up with boarding, and enough of the rubble had been swept away to accommodate an incongruous patch in the middle containing a rug and two dusty armchairs.

The Englishman was in a bit of a state when he climbed awkwardly into the cellar. He didn’t look well, for a start, and there was a fresh soup stain down the front of his coat.