Chapter Eleven.

The battered, Olive-drab Plymouth sedan with the conspicuous five-pointed white stars painted on its flanks, swept out through the gates of Andrews Barracks, Lichterfelde; turning sharp left onto Finckenstein Allee with its tyres squealing on the old, uneven cobblestones. As it sped away; a couple of hundred metres down the road, the insignificant young man tinkering with the engine of his old Ural motorcycle under the shade of the large Lilac trees, stood up and wiped his hands on a piece of rag, as though he had completed whatever adjustment he had been making. He mounted the motorcycle, kick-started the engine and roared off along the shady road in the same direction as the sedan.

The young sergeant driving the sedan glanced into the rear-view mirror, grinned; and said, with a Southern drawl,

'Looks like we've got a tail, Ma'am. They think they're so goddamned smart, but we always hear the sound of that rattly old Russian motorcycle they use, coming from half-way across Steglitz.'

Charlotte Mckenna glanced back through the rear window,

'Why should they want to follow us? We're just one more Berlin Brigade staff car.'

The young sergeant grinned again.

'They follow all our staff cars and jeeps... just on the off-chance. They're trying to discover all our sector installations... especially the one we're heading for. That's why we're going to bamboozle them real good, today, Ma'am.'

The motorcycle was holding its position about half-a-kilometre behind the sedan. The young sergeant drove normally; as though he didn't realise they were being followed. They crossed the intersection with Dahlemer Weg, and a little farther along Finckenstein Allee, where the road curved to the left; they lost sight of the motorcycle for a few moments. It was enough. The sergeant flicked his headlights on and off, and another Olive-drab Plymouth sedan slid out from a side turning and positioned itself behind them. At Zehlendorf S-Bahnhof, the sedans turned sharp right onto Teltower Dam and then onto Kronprinzen Allee, where they caught up with one more Olive-drab Plymouth that had been cruising quietly along, waiting for them.

As the convoy picked up speed the young sergeant grinned again.

'That's screwed him, Ma'am. When we split, he has to decide which one of us to follow.'

The intersection with Schutz Allee was approaching. With well-practised precision, and at the last possible moment, the trailing Plymouth turned off to the right, heading back east along Schutz Allee. The young sergeant steered around the traffic island just beyond the intersection, glanced into his mirror, and let his breath out through his teeth with a voluble hiss.

'Dammit! He's still with us. We're going to need to get cute from here on in, with the old "switcherooney," Ma'am.'

He reached for the fog-light switch on the dash and flicked it twice. The intersection with Saargemünder Strasse was coming up. The motorcyclist was still about eight-hundred-metres to the rear. One of the big, six-wheeled ABOAG buses was trundling along in front of them. The lead Plymouth overtook it, followed by Charlotte's driver. She saw that the lead Plymouth had tucked itself in front of the bus; allowing her sedan to take the lead. The young sergeant accelerated away, leaving the other sedan dawdling along in front of the bus. As she watched through the rear window; the motorcyclist was overtaking the bus. As he drew level with the sedan it seemed to pull out" accidentally" from in front of the bus, causing the motorcyclist to brake hard and swerve out of its way. That was the switch and blocking movement. The offending Plymouth accelerated away as Charlotte's driver turned the sedan sharply into one of the residential side roads to the left, out of sight of the following motorcyclist.

As they watched; the Plymouth swept past the end of the road, followed by the motorcycle. The young sergeant grinned, and turned the sedan around. He crept back down to the end of the road and cautiously nosed out into Kronprinzen Allee. He glanced up the road. Less than a kilometre to the north, he saw the motorcyclist turning round at the intersection with Königin-Luise-Strasse. He glanced back at Charlotte.

'Goddammit! He's figured it out. Hold on tight, Ma'am...'

He floored the accelerator and cut through the sparse traffic into the road opposite, and sped away through the leafy suburban streets of Dahlem. Charlotte was watching from the rear window. There! The rider was turning into this street, less than seven- hundred-metres behind them. She leaned forward.

'He's gaining on us, sergeant...'

The driver's eyes were flicking from road to mirror.

'Yeah; I'm watching him Ma'am. He's a stubborn sucker. I'm going to have to lose him "toot-sweet"... we're less than a kilometre from where you have to be dropped off.'

He threw the sedan into a squealing turn to the left and floored the accelerator pedal again. This little tree-lined road snaked left and right past a wooded area. The motorcyclist was temporarily lost from sight. The driver wrenched the wheel around and slewed into yet one more little residential street, where an old, Gestapo-type, black Mercedes-Benz 260D saloon was waiting. As the Plymouth approached, the front passenger door was swung open. The young sergeant told Charlotte to get out quickly and change to the Mercedes. She had barely managed to get out of the sedan before he banged it into gear and sped off. She had just closed the door of the Mercedes when the motorcyclist came tearing around the corner as the driver of the Mercedes moved off sedately from the kerb.

The rider barely glanced at the old black car and its occupants as he roared off on pursuit of the Olive-drab sedan that was disappearing into the distance. The Mercedes driver grinned broadly.

'Just like running Moonshine back home. Ma'am! He's in for a long ride. Johnny will lead him all around Steglitz and Lichterfelde before he ends up back at Andrews Barracks. I'm Jimmy Haskins. Let's get you round to BOB; it's only just up the road a ways.'

Within five minutes, Haskins turned the Mercedes into a heavily tree-lined avenue. The street sign identified it as being Föhrenweg, Dalhem-Zehlendorf. A little way along on the right; he turned into a driveway marked No.19. A large, three-storey, red-brick villa appeared through the trees. It stood on a large, heavily-wooded plot of land which effectively shielded it from the road. Haskins said that it had been used during the Nazi era as a secret headquarters of Feld Marshall Keitel; but was now the operational headquarters of O.S.S... The Berlin Operations Base... otherwise known as "BOB."

The Russians had no idea that it was located here; but it was less than five kilometres from the edge of the American Sector boundary and the Russian occupied zone. They'd tried hard enough to find it. There was just the one checkpoint... Checkpoint Bravo on the autobahn at Albrechts Teerofen; and that was little more than a collection of huts. It wasn't difficult for them to come into the American Sector by way of the other routes into Berlin.

Haskins stopped the Mercedes at the front of the villa and guided Charlotte up a flight of iron-balustraded steps to the entrance hall which was effectively on the first floor... the ground floor was constructed in a natural hollow surrounded by the densely-wooded garden. The interior of the villa was light and airy, with polished wooden floors and large windows fitted with thinly-rodded metal grilles. The Head of Station's office was at the eastern end of the first floor overlooking Föhrenweg. Sitting behind his desk a roomy, sparingly furnished office dominated by a large bay window, a ramrod-straight, middle-aged American with greying hair looked up from a sheaf of papers as Haskins ushered her in.

The Head of Station smiled, and indicated that she should sit in the chair placed in front of his desk. His steady sea-grey eyes studied her for a few moments, and then he spoke. His voice was soft, with a slight Boston accent.

'So, you are the celebrated Miss Mckenna. Welcome to Berlin. My name is Washburn. It is, of course, a cryptonym; taken from one of the early Security Directors. This is the last time I, or anyone else will use your true name. From now on in, you shall be known only as "Monokel"... the cryptonym General Donovan has allocated to you.'

He smiled briefly.

'Let me familiarise you with our situation and surroundings. This building was the operational headquarters of the U.S. Military Liaison Mission, whilst the official service was established in Potsdam in the Villa Sigismund at Neue Fahrländer Lake. Relations with the Soviet Union, however, were frosty and they eventually broke down completely, due to the fact that, because the members of the USMLM, could move about freely in the Soviet sector... apart from special closed areas; they used that privilege for military reconnaissance and espionage.

When O.S.S. was disbanded and we became the Strategic Services Unit, we had a great deal of trouble being accepted by the Military at first; but the Military Governor in Germany... General Clay has been forced to become increasingly dependent on our officers since Zhukov was recalled early in 1946 and replaced by the hard-line Marshal Sokolovskiy.

Since then, the Soviets have done everything humanly possible to isolate the Allied garrison in Berlin and completely cut off all sources of information within the Soviet Union and its satellite countries. As a result of this, the Military and Diplomatic officers in Berlin soon discovered that they had no choice but to rely on us for even the most basic intelligence on Soviet objectives or situations inside East Germany.

Berlin Operations Base coordinates Allied intelligence efforts and reports the information to Washington and the other Allied powers. The Potsdam Agreement, where the four powers were supposed to govern as a single unit has completely broken down and the western sectors of Berlin are perceived by the Soviets as becoming an outpost of freedom... a real thorn in their side that they seem intent on removing by whatever means necessary... hopefully, short of open aggression; which is exactly what is happening to the German people in the Soviet zone. According to our sources, under the guise of "Denazification," they are crushing individual rights, throwing thousands into prisons and concentration camps, and creating a stifling régime of fear and conformity.

The basement and first floor of this building is our domain, and the second floor and loft space are used by members of the Gehlen Bureau.'

Charlotte gave Washburn a puzzled stare.

'The Gehlen Bureau? Washington made no mention of such an organisation.'

Washburn nodded.

'And no reason that they should. The Gehlen Bureau takes its name from its founder, Reinhard Gehlen; a Brigadier General in the German General Staff with responsibility for the intelligence specialists on the Eastern Front. He surrendered in Bavaria, and handed over the entire files of the intelligence unit, with priceless details of the status and capabilities of the Soviet Army on the Eastern Front to us. The organisation is made up of former Abwehr intelligence agents who have proved to be of great use to us, and may one day, even form the nucleus of a future German Intelligence Service. Have you any problems with working with them?'

Charlotte smiled briefly.

'None at all. I am, after all, German myself.'

Washburn nodded again.

'Good; because I am allocating you to the "GRAIL" programme, which means that you will be working closely with their case officers.

I should explain that the GRAIL project has been running since the summer of '46, and involves covert operations to ascertain Soviet intentions and resources... effectively, their Order of Battle; by the building up of large chains of agents throughout the Soviet zone. Our mission is to pinpoint targets of interest anywhere in the Soviet zone, and despatch agents to cover them almost at a moment's notice. This includes penetration of the central Soviet administrations of Berlin, for the purpose of clandestine intelligence reporting.

You are only the second fluent Russian-speaking intelligence officer we have at present, which is why you are so valuable to us. The agents in the field contact old friends near Soviet installations to observe and report, and if possible, photograph such installations. This has had some problems. Some contacts were arrested; but they could easily be replaced... such is the hatred of the average German against their detested oppressors. A few were doubled and became spies against us; but in the main, much useful intelligence has been gathered so far.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Your brief is to become a resident agent control officer. We have set up a safe house for you in the Mitte district... actually, an apartment on Mauerstrasse... in the old Hotel "Clou." It's not the Ritz, but it's anonymous, and a perfect base for you, as it's inside the Soviet sector. There's also space behind the building for your automobile, which we shall supply. That's about it for now. I'll get Haskins to drive you out to your apartment.'

Haskins drove her across to central Berlin in the black Mercedes. No-one followed them. They crossed into the Soviet sector by way of the open crossing point at Friedrichstrasse which was lightly-manned by the East Germans. Haskins explained that Berlin remained very much open to cross-border traffic. Those who lived in the east of the city were free to work in the west... and vice versa; but Berlin was also the place people came to if they wanted to flee the new German Democratic Republic; and the East Germans were beginning to get a little problematic.

As the Mercedes cruised past, one of the Volkspolizei on duty raised his hand in acknowledgement. Obviously this was a well-travelled route for the black Mercedes. Haskins continued straight along Friedrichstrasse until they reached the intersection where he turned into Zimmerstrasse and stopped the car.

He turned to Charlotte.

'OK, this is it. Walk on up Friedrichstrasse for about thirty yards, and Mauerstrasse is the street that angles off to the left. Your place is a good quarter-of-a-mile up towards the city centre, past the ruined church. Sorry to make you walk; but it's much safer this way. This old Merc' is too well-known around here.'

Charlotte nodded and climbed out of the car. Haskins handed her a buff envelope.

'Identity documents. You might find they come in handy. Pick up the key to the apartment from the café next door. Your identifying name is "Fräulein Schäfer." Take care, "Monokel"; we'll be in touch.'

He shoved the Mercedes into gear and sped away down Zimmerstrasse; the rasp of its exhaust echoing back and forth across the ruined wasteland.

As she walked up Mauerstrasse towards the gutted, dome-less shell of Bethlehemkirch, burnt in the bombing raids of November '43, she cautiously apprised the neighbourhood. There were a few buildings still standing; some intact, others damaged; but in the main, it was a desolation of broken land... thick, waist-high weeds and half-tidied piles of rubble; smoke-stained, teetering walls and semi-collapsed cellars.

Mauerstrasse 15 was a five-storey, neo-Gothic survivor of the bombing; the frontage of which was divided into a seedy café called "Café Plais" on the left of the original hotel access door, and an electrical appliances shop called simply "WINO" on the right. Screwed to the towering naked sidewall of the building were three large metal signs advertising Radios; a parfümerie; a Frisseur... a Hairdresser, presumably somewhere farther along the virtually non-existent buildings on the broken, thickly weeded, bombed ground and piles of rubble that stretched up to Leipziger Strasse.

The lofty façade of the building was stippled with roughly-applied cement patches filling the lower blemishes in the stonework; but higher up, bullet gashes, and fist-sized shrapnel holes still pockmarked the grimy, smoke-stained, grey stone precipice. She walked into the café. The decor was shabby grey, and matched the customers who sat, listlessly consuming their monotonous staple diet of Berliner Kartoffelsuppe; sausage, and beer as they watched her with dull, and resentful glances.

She walked to the serving counter and identified herself to the blowsy fat woman with scraped-back, drab blonde hair and a florid complexion, who seemed to be the proprietor of this seedy establishment.

Charlotte looked at her steadily.

'Guten Tag. Du halten einen Schlüssel für mich? Ich bin Fräulein Schäfer.''... 'Good afternoon.You hold a key for me? I am Fräulein Schäfer.'

The woman gave a wan smile and reached under the counter. She slapped a key onto the sticky surface of the counter, pointed next door, and muttered,

'Zweiten Stock, Fräulein'... 'Second Floor, Fräulein'

Charlotte nodded and took the keys. A dozen pairs of apathetic eyes watched her leave the café. Next door, she pushed open the scarred, paint-peeling entrance door to the old Hotel Clou. It smelt of sauerkraut, stale cigar-smoke; cheap coffee, unwashed bodies; sausage, and mildew. The patched and threadbare carpet covering the floor of the narrow entrance hall that had once apparently been an elegant burgundy colour was now a faded brown, and the peeling walls were painted with a powdery distemper of some pale, indeterminate colour. The decorative plaster frieze that joined the drab walls to the cracked plaster of the high ceiling was chipped and broken. The whole dismal prospect was lit by two naked light-bulbs coated in dust; dangling from spider-web-festooned, cloth-covered electrical flex.

The area at the far end of the hallway had apparently been the reception, but was now sealed off by a raw concrete-block construction that served as a front wall for a further apartment squeezed into the narrow area at the rear of the ground floor. The old hotel lift was still in place, but the entrance door was chained and padlocked, and displayed a prominent sign which demanded in large, black intimidating letters...

"Gefahr! Nicht benutzen"... "Danger! Do Not Use!"

Charlotte sighed and began to climb the narrow, gloomy staircase. After the first flight, it made a ninety-degree turn and continued on up to the second floor, where Haskins had said her apartment was located. There was another dim light-bulb above the turn in the staircase. As she reached the top of the first flight, a thin click echoed down in the hallway and the bulbs extinguished; leaving her in darkness. She froze. The light timer-switch in the hall had tripped... but she hadn't operated it. The lights were already burning when she came in through the front door. That could only mean one thing. Someone else had arrived a short time before her... and, she had no weapon.

Suddenly, the light came on, and a man's voice broke the stifling silence.

'You'd better come on up before you stumble back down the stairs.'

Cautiously, she inched her way up the flight of stairs, keeping tight against the substantial oak banister rail. He stood on the top landing with his arms folded and an automatic pistol fitted with a seven-inch silencer pointed towards the ceiling. She recognised him immediately. Erhard Schneider; the Leibstandarte SS-Scharführer, with whom she had shared the half-track on their fraught journey into central Berlin during the last days before it succumbed to the Soviet onslaught.

He grinned.

'Hello, "Monokel." Small world.'

Charlotte stared at him.

He grinned again.

'Don't look so shocked. Washburn sent me to settle you in. I am "Hermoth."

Charlotte stared at him disbelievingly.

'But you were SS... and... Leibstandarte. How could you possibly know Washburn?'

He grinned again.

'You shouldn't believe everything you see. I was a member of the Berlin "Bearcat" anti-Hitler group before the July plot. It was controlled by von Helidorf, the President of the Berlin Police. He, and most of the prominent plotters ended up dangling from piano wire nooses in Plötzensee. My name was dragged up as being somehow implicated; but they just couldn't bring themselves to believe that a Leibstandarte SS-Scharführer could possibly be involved. I had decided that resistance was better inside than out. I had taken the identity of one of my school friends who was killed on the streets by the communist "Red Orchestra" thugs in late '43. He was already inducted into SS-Junkerschule, so I simply took his place. I already had contacts with the American O.S.S. agents in Berlin, and the rest, you know.

After we dropped you at Potsdamer Platz, we had to double back and take a run up Friedrichstrasse to get round to the Zitadelle sector. We made it over the Weidendamm bridge playing hide and seek with Ivan all the way, until we got tangled up with one of five doomed breakout attempts by surrounded SS and Wehrmacht forces together with various non-combatants heading towards Chausseestrass with the intent to break out north of the Mitte District. Ivan managed to target us just beyond the Theater des Volkes at the intersection of Friederichstrasse with Johannisstrasse, where the half-track was hit hard with grenades. I was blown out; the rest were killed. This proved to be really useful; because Soviet TASS press agency photographer Mark Redkin took pictures, and wrongly identified us due to the SS licence plate number and markings on the wrecked half-track.

They said the vehicle was from the Swedish company X1.SS Freiwilliegen-Panzergrenadier Division Nordland who were attempting to break out; and they identified, and photographed me as the Swedish driver SS-Unterscharführer Johansson as I lay on the sidewalk pretending to be dead. Another photograph taken by Redkin of the rear of the half-track showed a dead girl. They identified her as being a Scandinavian WSS frontline nurse. She was, in fact, Luise Gärtner, the nurse who came with us from Lichterfelde. She was slammed against the rear door by the explosion and broke her neck as she hit the armour hard enough to force the door open.

After that, the Russians just dumped me in the rubble, and eventually I made it to the Allies, and ended up here. My real name is...'

Charlotte stopped him.

'Don't tell me. I don't want to know. You have been briefed as to why I am here? Then, what I don't know, I can't reveal.'

Hermoth nodded and moved to the door of the apartment to the left of the stairs. It was painted a dull brown colour; worn and scratched around the rim lock escutcheon, and had a little round brass peep-hole in the centre panel. Charlotte turned the key in the lock and opened the door. The flat contained four rooms; the main living area, which was furnished in reasonable taste with heavy, dark wood furniture and contained a one-bar electric fire in the original vast fireplace. The carpet and the colour scheme were bland, but acceptable. To the left, a door led to a small kitchen. The bedroom contained a double bed, a bulky wardrobe, and an elaborate dressing-table with a winged mirror. Another door off the bedroom led to the bathroom/lavatory. The bedroom overlooked the rear of the building and the walled rear yard. Trash bins lined one wall, and parked against the opposite wall was what she presumed was her car... a ten year-old, black Mercedes-Benz 260D. It was well-battered... as were most cars in the Soviet sector, and looked as though it had spent the early part of its life as a Gestapo Alarm Command car... one of StandartenFührer Walter Sohst's Gestapo killers' Mercedes. It still managed to look sinister even now. It was even still fitted with the twin spot lamps attached to the windscreen pillars.

At the foot of the bed was her old steamer trunk that hopefully contained her clothes. Hermoth said that they had gone down to the ruins of the Swedish Legation with a member of the Swedish Red Cross in accordance with the instructions from BOB; and discovered the steamer chest sealed with an official Legation seal, in the depths of the Legation bunker. This seal had given it the same immunity as a Diplomatic pouch. It had not been tampered with. It was probable that no one ever knew it had been there. He said they had simply signed the receipt the Red Cross official needed and brought it back to the apartment.

Charlotte broke the seal and opened the trunk. All the clothes Himmler had provided for her at the Kaiserhof Hotel were there; neatly folded between sheets of tissue paper. The Walther PPK and the Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife were lying on top of the clothes, where she had placed them as she had left the Adlon Hotel on Unter-den-Linden, back in early 1945.

Hermoth stared at the Walther.

'You can't carry that in the Soviet sector with those grips.'

He was referring to the Party Leader/Political Leader pistol grips with the Hoheitsabzeichen Eagle of the NSDAP moulded into the tops of the grips where normally, the "Walther" banner would be displayed.

'Anyone seeing those will think you're a Nazi. I'll get them changed to the normal ones... and these are worth a fortune as souvenirs to the Yanks.'

He pulled out the automatic with the long silencer.

'You'd better have this. It's a stock issue O.S.S. HiStandard silenced, single action semi-automatic pistol. The magazine takes ten, point two-two long rifle rounds. It's a good silent assassin weapon. There's no muzzle flash, and all they hear is a slight "phut"... by which time, it's too late.'

He reached into his pocket and withdrew an envelope, which he handed to her. His face held a quiet smile.

'Your new documents. Congratulations! You have just become a Russian. I am instructed to inform you that you are now, in Soviet intelligence parlance; officially an "Illegal." Your name is...'

He referred to a slip of paper...

'Paula Lukanovna. You are a Ministry of State Security Investigator based at the Soviet Central, Luisenstrasse, with the rank of Major. The pass contained in this envelope gives you unlimited access to the entire Soviet Zone, and even allows you to travel into Poland...'

Charlotte stared at him.

'You must be joking! Something like that would have to come directly from Moscow. They'll see through it in a moment.'

Hermoth grinned again.

'It did come from Moscow... or rather the one that the best Jewish forger left in Germany copied this pass from, did. It was recovered from a Russian "Ghost" we intercepted sneaking into the American sector last week. Everything is perfect, even down to the rubber stamps and shade of ink. No one... not even SMERSH will challenge it. It's one of the finest "Game Licences" I've ever seen.'

He smiled at her.

'I'll leave you to unpack. This place will be your safe base until we locate somewhere better for you.'

Charlotte looked askance at him.

'Safe? What about the premises on either side? That café, especially, must be a huge security risk.'

Hermoth shook his head.

'No risk at all. The electrical shop is run by an ex-Abwehr Technical specialist. He's our man... and your armourer. The café proprietress is Grete Rohmer. She has a very murky past. She was an Aufseherin at the Mauthausen-Gusen camp where they killed close on three thousand Soviet prisoners of war by literally working them to death in the quarries. We pulled her out of the Landsberg Prison and made her an offer she couldn't refuse... either take up the post of gatekeeper for this safe house... or be turned over to the Russians and get her neck stretched... if she was lucky. She chose the gatekeeper option. She keeps an eye on the customers to make sure none of them get too interested in who is occupying the old Hotel apartments. Any who do; tend to end up face-down in the Spree. She still has a few strong-arm, ex-SS contacts.'

He turned to leave, and paused.

'Just be careful with that old Merc' 260 parked out back. It looks like a completely clapped-out ex-Gestapo hack. It's meant to... so that nobody takes much notice of it. It's been modified by the Berlin Brigade motor pool. They changed the suspension, fiddled with the exhaust, and put in a Ford V8 engine and transmission. It still sounds like a 260 diesel, but it will do a hundred-and-forty km/h, and out-run anything the Russians have... even the motorcycle patrols. It will get you out of trouble one day, so take it out in the country somewhere and get used to its road-holding before you need to use it in anger.'

He opened the door and paused.

'Be careful out there, Monokel; there are some evil bastards sneaking around, and the new German sickness is fear. Mostly, it is fear of the Russians, but a close second is the almost paranoid dread of venereal disease which has become almost an epidemic since the Russians showed their "hospitality" to virtually every female still breathing, in Berlin. Consequently; any unknown women in this city tend to be viewed with the deepest mistrust and suspicion.''

He gave her another grin and left the apartment.