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

harsh winter gripped the farm, he wondered how much he really wanted to risk his life. He knew it was likely that Friedrich and Ulrich had made their way to safety. He questioned how much of an obligation he now really felt to Bormann.

And then there was the question of his original plan, the reason why he’d photographed so many documents and compiled the notebooks in the first place, and why he’d gone to the trouble to find the farm. He’d put the plan on hold until he knew about Bormann, but now he didn’t want to wait much longer.

On a dirty Monday afternoon in early December, he locked himself in the cellar and took out the leather suitcases again, counting the 218 rolls of film that he’d meticulously logged in a ledger. He selected a handful of films, writing a list of their contents on a separate sheet of paper:

Roll 12/41: persons convicted of sexual offences, Berlin area, Jan. – June 1941

Roll 8/42: senior personnel, Luftwaffe Intelligence Directorate

Roll 22/42: names and addresses of senior NSDAP officials, Düsseldorf

Roll 6/43: names and address of clients arrested at (male) brothel, Spandau

Roll 17/43: General Staff and Senior Army Group F (Bayreuth)

Roll 20/43: NSDAP members: details of bank accounts with Bank Leu, Zurich

Roll 6/44: names of officers, II SS Panzer Corps

Roll 19/44: list of scientists, Peenemünde rocket development facility

He checked that each film was properly sealed in its small metal canister and then sowed them all into the hem of his overcoat. He thought about taking a couple of the notebooks but decided they’d require too much explanation. If these films didn’t interest them, nothing would.

From the lining of one suitcase he retrieved his old identity papers, including his Parteikanzlei pass. In Munich he’d be Wolfgang Steiner once more.

He left the farm early the following morning, walking across the fields to Eggenfelden and catching a bus from there to Mühldorf.

He arrived in Munich early in the afternoon, the journey not having taken as long as he’d expected. It meant he had more time to kill than he’d anticipated, which at least allowed him to find a bed for the night.

He found a bar on Landwehr Strasse, north of the Theresienwiese, where Friedrich had stayed. It was the kind of area where the right amount of money would mean that the requirement for a guest to register could be overlooked. The bar keeper told him he had some rooms upstairs. Do you want one on your own or are you prepared to share?

Steiner said he’d prefer one on his own and handed over what he considered to be a small fortune. The room was on the top floor, more of an attic than anything else, with bare floorboards and a cracked window. The bed was hard and dusty, the sheets looked as if they’d not been changed in a while and there was a smell of mice. The bar keeper must have sensed Steiner’s disapproval. At least you’ll be safe; no one will know you’re here.

He remained in the room for an hour, but the mice got the better of him, and in any case he wanted to eat. He headed south, and on Lindwurm Strasse found a café, though that was a generous description of a gloomy, hollowed-out shell of a building with a few tables set amongst the rubble.

He sat in the corner and avoided looking at the other customers. He made a bowl of soup and some chunks of black bread last an hour before deciding to leave. His plan was to walk around, making sure he kept on the move and hoping to reach his destination once it was dark. He began to brood: it wasn’t too late to abort his trip, and the more he thought about it, the more he wondered whether he was actually insane. It was as if he was surrendering for no good reason. A plan that had been so carefully thought through in Berlin during the war – which had seemed to be so clever, and even flawless – felt very different here in Munich.

As he walked the short distance from the café to Sendlinger Platz, he felt uneasy, putting that down at first to nerves before becoming aware of a presence behind him. When he turned round, there was a man no more than a foot or two from him.

‘Wolfgang, you devil! What the hell are you doing here?’

Steiner stepped back and blinked. The man looked very familiar, but he couldn’t for the life of him recall his name.

‘Don’t you remember me – it’s Gustav, Gustav Wagner. Surely you know me!’

‘Of course – Gustav: how are you?’

Wagner gripped Steiner’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. ‘I can’t believe I’ve bumped into you of all people: talk about this being my lucky day!’

Wagner was one of Steiner’s former ‘clients’, as he liked to call them. He’d been the Gauleiter of the area north of Bremen – the local political leader, a role with a good deal of influence – but had spent too much of his time abusing the privileges of office. He’d made contact with Steiner when he was accused of stealing party funds. Steiner had negotiated a solution: Wagner would admit to an accounting error, pay back the money and then accept a transfer to Poland, always an unpopular posting. The last time he’d seen him had been in February in Berlin. Wagner had told him he’d been in Budapest: I helped organise the transports to Auschwitz, I signed a lot of death warrants.

‘What are you up to, Wagner?’ Steiner pulled his hand away from the other man’s.

‘I’m on the run, Wolfgang – surely you are too? I can’t return home, and apparently my name’s on wanted lists in Poland and Hungary. They say I’m a war criminal – can you believe that? I never fired a gun, not once! I’m desperate for money. I thought Munich might be safer, but Christ, Wolfgang… it’s like the whole world’s changed.’

‘It has, Gustav.’

‘How come you’re