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

volley of pistol shots. Prince heard Sorensen bellow orders over the radio to move in and stop them. ‘We need to keep the perimeter secure!’ But it was too late: the two figures had ducked back into the house, and were now firing from a ground-floor window. It was then that Prince heard the crack and whistle of a shot, and Hanne screaming behind him, followed by the searing pain in his shoulder.

He was aware of feeling light-headed and nauseous, and felt Hanne’s arm round him as she told him to sit down. Across the road, the Americans were still trying to force their way into the house. Suddenly Hanne shouted out and pointed to what appeared to be the same two figures emerging from the shell of a house two doors along.

But in the chaos, no one heard her, and they could only watch as the two figures hurried to the roadside, reaching it just as a jeep pulled up, the men jumping in as it sped away. By the time, the Americans realised what was going on, it was too late. A couple of them opened fire at the jeep, but its taillights were already dimmer than the stars above them.

Dusk was descending on Cologne as the train from Frankfurt finally pulled into Köln Hauptbahnhof. It had been a long journey, delayed because of speed restrictions, or damage to the track, or for no apparent reason at all.

Two of Walt’s team had followed Charles Falmer onto the train. Prince had made it clear that they should leave him for as long as possible: they needed to see where he went and what he did. The train was crowded, and Walt’s men watched as Falmer found a place in an eight-seater compartment towards the front. They split up, one of them positioning himself at the front of the carriage, the other at the rear.

The train emptied slowly in Cologne, the two Americans waiting for the Englishman to leave so they could follow him. But soon the trickle of passengers dried up, and Charles Falmer had certainly not been among them.

They found him apparently asleep in a corner seat by the window, the brim of his trilby tipped low over his face, his briefcase wedged between him and the side of the carriage.

The two Americans looked at each other. One of them shook him by the shoulder as the other checked his pulse. Both shook their heads. They knew that whatever happened, this would reflect badly on them. They checked him over for any clues. The body was still warm and the blood that had seeped onto the seat from where he’d been stabbed in the back was still bright red and not yet too sticky.

‘It must have just happened,’ one of them said.

The other nodded. It was hardly much of a consolation.

Chapter 14

London, October 1945

‘Sir Roland is in the library if would you care to follow me, Mr Gilbey.’

Tom Gilbey assured the steward he knew where the library was, thank you very much, but the response was a fleeting smile and a slight bow of the head as the man stepped towards the stairs, indicating that the visitor should follow.

They found the ample figure of Sir Roland Pearson on the first floor, wedged into a high-backed club chair positioned between two tall dark oak bookcases of Victorian literature that cast him in a valley of gloom. A brass and green glass lamp threw some light in his direction. He waved a leather-bound volume at Gilbey by way of greeting. A shaft of sunlight caught the small cloud of dust from the book.

‘Our Mutual Friend – one of Dickens’ finest and most underestimated novels; I must reread it. My maternal uncle Wilfred made a point of reading it twice a year, every Easter and Christmas. “And O there are days in this life, worth life and worth death.”’

‘Pardon, Roly?’

‘It’s a quote from the book, part of a passage I had to read out at his funeral. I’m afraid I rather blubbed at the time. Thankfully it was a sparsely attended event – Wilfred didn’t marry, you know; bachelorhood is something of a family tradition, one I’m afraid I’ve followed.’

Sir Roland was gazing out of the window, the autumn afternoon’s weak sun catching his watery eyes. He blinked and turned to face his visitor, inviting him to speak.

‘From what I hear, Roly, you now have all the time in the world to catch up on your reading.’

‘Is this visit business or pleasure, Tom – I’m presuming the former?’

Gilbey nodded and Sir Roland slowly stood up. ‘There’s a room along the corridor where we can have a private chat. I’m never too sure what one should drink at three o’clock in the afternoon; it’s one of those neither-here-nor-there times, don’t you find?’

The steward had followed them and was standing expectantly in the doorway.

‘We’ll have two large whiskies, Barker, and a jug of water, please. The club’s own malt is terribly good, Tom.’

‘I didn’t know you were a member of Boodle’s, Roly.’

‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me.’

Gilbey laughed briefly and the two men sat in the dusty silence for a while as the steward poured their whiskies.

‘It’s not on my file then, Tom?’

‘What isn’t, Roly?’

‘That I’m a member here.’

‘It would be the Security Service who’d hold it rather than us. They’ve probably got a file on me too.’

The two men laughed and wished each other good health, and Gilbey asked Pearson what he made of the new prime minister.

‘Too early to say, Tom: he’s hardly had time to unpack his overnight bag. Looks a bit like Trotsky, don’t you think?’

‘I think you may mean Lenin.’

‘You’re quite right: let’s hope that’s the only similarity, eh? He had me out of Downing Street soon enough.’ There was a distinctly resentful tone to Pearson’s voice.

‘Well he would do, wouldn’t he, Roly? You were Winston’s appointment as his personal intelligence coordinator or whatever your title was. You can hardly blame Attlee for that.’

‘Nonetheless,