Chapter Fifteen.

Charlotte was very quiet as Siegel drove fast along the last five kilometres of the AVUS. At last, she turned to him. Her voice was measured, and reproving.

'Was all that killing really necessary, Max? They're certain to mark us as top priority targets when they discover the bodies.'

He glanced at her.

'Yes; it was totally necessary. Your cover has obviously been completely compromised, and I am exposed as a "Khokhol"... that's a Russian racist slur for a Ukrainian Cossack. If those shadows hadn't been neutralised, you, and I would be lying on the bare concrete floor of a interrogation cell by this time tomorrow with no future ahead of either of us except for twenty years in a forced-labour camp in the Siberian Gulag... or, we could easily have both have been executed and eventually discovered floating face-down in the Spree.'

Charlotte didn't reply. She knew he was correct in what he had said. The Siebenschläfer network, it seemed, had been blown wide open. She had still said hardly anything as they came off the end of the AVUS onto the short Teufalseestrasse and turned onto Kaiser Damm. Just beyond Bismarck Platz, Siegel turned left onto Wilmersdorfer Strasse and headed north through Charlottenburg towards Plötzensee. The British sector northern boundary was down the middle of the Hohenzollern Kanal that led down to the Westhafen docks area. The control point on the bridge marking the British-French border was unmanned.

Siegel drove quickly along Seestrasse to the junction with Müllerstrasse. Turning left, they met a French military provost jeep coming from the opposite direction. The two gendarmes stared at the black Ford sedan as they passed, but continued on their way. Charlotte glanced at Siegel. He raised an eyebrow and reduced his speed slightly. At the end of Müllerstrasse, he turned right into Gotthardstrasse past a large cemetery on the northern side of the road, and drove for perhaps, one and a quarter kilometres into the residential area known as Die Weisse Stadt... The White City; so called, because of the original bright white, plaster façades of the buildings. The ravages of time and conflict had now, however tarnished the once-pristine plaster to a drab grey.

Die Weisse Stadt was a metropolitan settlement with an open-plan internal structure, consisting of fringe buildings and rows of three and four-storey houses as well as intertwining green spaces. All the buildings had been constructed in the Bauhaus style between 1929 and 1931. There were over a thousand individual apartments in the complex; all of which had survived major damage during the bombing. The safe house was in a small, anonymous apartment block on Bieler Strasse.

Number five, Bieler Strasse was a three-storey, balcony apartment block in a quiet, tree-lined, short thoroughfare. It was in the French Sector of the city where no one took much notice of what was happening; or of who came and went. It was ideal as a safe house. Even if the opposition knew that their quarry were somewhere in the complex, it would take weeks, perhaps months to flush them out.

Leaving the sedan around the corner in Zermatter Strasse; Charlotte, and Siegel walked the hundred or so metres to the safe house, acting as though they were residents of the area. No one took the slightest notice of them. The apartment occupied the entire second floor. Typically Bauhaus style; it was light and airy, with an open floor plan comprising living and dining area, kitchen, one bedroom; bathroom, central heating and a balcony. It was furnished with typically functional furniture. The buildings were arranged in a quadrangle enclosing a communal area of grass and trees. The safe house could only be approached from the street frontage, and the overhanging balcony made a most effective vantage point. She could easily see why it had been chosen... but, by whom? Was it a Soviet safe house... or something else?

Charlotte walked around the apartment admiring the black and chrome furniture... simple and light; without fussy decorative features. She also noted that there was only the one bedroom. She was still not quite sure about Siegel. If this was indeed a honeytrap, it was being implemented with impeccable taste. She watched him as he walked to the glass sliding door that led out onto the balcony; opened it, and stood surveying the street below.

As much as she hated to admit it, Max Siegel was an extremely handsome man. His dark hair was a little too long for military standards, and almost touched his collar. He was tall... about one-point-eight metres; and his shoulders were broad, against a relatively narrow waist. His eyes were a deep grey; set in a strong, well-proportioned face with an almost classically straight nose and prominent cheekbones above a pronounced mouth and lips; and his strong, square jaw was firm and resolved, suggesting that he had never doubted a thing that he had done from the day he was born. This man was not someone she could take lightly. Somehow, just being here with him relaxed her, in spite of her misgivings as to his intentions.

She turned, to begin exploring the layout of the apartment. Siegel stepped in from the balcony, and studied the girl. Her black suit and white blouse were flattering; but it was the way she moved that startled him as he quietly contemplated her figure. If he did not know better he would be convinced that she was his little Aneska; although he knew this could not possibly be. Little Aneska had died on the dirty, back-kitchen floor of the bombed-out ruin on Tiergartenstrasse, over five years ago. This girl had the same, typical blonde, blue-eyed looks; she moved in the same way... he had to admit this; but there was something disquietingly different about her.

This girl's looks had a whiff of something ancient and ageless about them... it was hard to make any sense of this inherent feeling he had... this vague, intuitive notion. As he watched her move; the faint memory of stories he had heard as a boy crept into his thoughts. The legend of the Warrior Maid of The Shining Lands... the one they had called "The Golden Child."

He had grown to manhood in his homeland surrounded by these fables... never tiring of listening to the telling and retelling of the stories by the old men. He smiled wryly. This girl was an American agent. Such thoughts were nonsense!... and the stories had probably all been hatched on Vodka-fuelled dark, winter nights! But... as he watched her walk into the kitchen, he was suddenly gripped by an inexplicable cold shiver... almost as if, at that same moment, a grey goose had flown over his grave.

The old black Mercedes was coming fast along Zimmerstrasse from the east. Turning into Friedrichstrasse, it slowed, and parked up at the junction with Mauerstrasse. A young man stepped out of the car and glanced idly up and down the street before he crossed the road. He was dressed in workman's overalls, wore a grimy flat cap on his head; and carried the type of bag that was used by plumbers to carry their tools. He moved along Mauerstrasse; to all intents and purposes, minding his own business as he proceeded to his next job. Nothing odd here; except, to the knowing eye, he made sure that he stayed on the inside of the pavement... in the shadows of the buildings; so as not to give anyone who might be watching; a clear silhouette.

As he passed the dome-less, smoke-stained shell of Bethlehemkirch, he paused. There was a black DKW saloon parked outside Mauerstrasse 15. Nobody who patronised the seedy "Café Plais" owned, or had use of a car... it just didn't attract that sort of customer. The "plumber" reached into the bag and carefully grasped the butt of the HiStandard silenced pistol concealed in its depths. Keeping one hand in the bag; he shifted it up across his chest, as though it was a little too heavy to be carried in the usual manner. He noted that the "WINO" electrical store was closed and padlocked. The ex-Abwehr Technical specialist code-named "Regin" who ran the store had been picked up by the People's Police a week ago when the Siebenschläfer network was betrayed.

The entrance door to the Hotel Clou was ajar. Stepping quickly past; the "plumber" flicked off the pistol safety with his thumb. He glanced into the "Café Plais." The few customers sat, frozen at their tables, like rabbits trapped in a car's headlamp beam. Two heavies were giving Grete Rohmer a thorough going-over against the greasy counter, whilst a third stood with his back to the door, carelessly swinging a metre-long length of thick rubber hose in his hand.

The "plumber" opened the cafe door and stepped inside... as though he hadn't fully realised what was taking place inside. The heavy with the rubber hose turned, eyed the "plumber" with a menacing glower; and snarled.

'People's Police... Fuck off, arschloch.'

The heavy across the cafe, who was about to smack Grete Rohmer in the face with a set of brass knuckles paused momentarily; glanced at the newcomer, then drew his fist back to aim another blow. The third heavy, who had been amusing himself by kicking her in the shins, merely grinned. The "plumber" gave the heavy at the door a frightened, apologetic grin and turned towards the door. As he did so; a dull "phut" broke the silence, and the thug with the rubber hose suddenly grew a small hole in the centre of his forehead. The other two turned, clawing for their concealed weapons; but "the plumber's" HiStandard silenced pistol was out, and pointing towards them. The terrified customers heard two more "Phuts" as he fired. The heavy with the brass knuckles clutched at his throat and crashed, gurgling to the floor with a thick jet of blood spurting from his jugular. His shin-shredding buddy's left eye was suddenly transformed into a gruesome red hole as his eyeball exploded from the impact of the point-two-two bullet.

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A shocked silence descended on the "Café Plais." The customers sat as if turned to stone. Only Grete Rohmer reacted. Wiping the blood from her split lips with the back of her hand; she laughed... a harsh, barking laugh.

'Impressive liquidation, Scharführer. The Leibstandarte would be proud of you. You would have done well with us in Mauthausen!'

The "plumber".. who was, in fact, "Hermoth", gave her a resigned smile.

'A pity that you had to mention that; Frau Rohmer. As you are aware, I am "Der Reiniger"... "The Cleaner." I tidy up the loose ends... and you have just become a loose end.'

One more dull "Phut" broke the fearful silence. Grete Rohmer swayed slightly; a look of complete surprise on her florid, blowsy face. A thin thread of blood trickled from a neat hole punched with surgical precision, dead centre between her eyebrows, as the disbelief in her eyes turned into an upward roll of the eyeballs and her fat carcass collapsed to the floor with a crash that rattled the crockery on the shelves that lined the wall behind the counter. It was followed by the brief rattle and scrape of her heels on the cracked, and grimy floor tiles, before she finally lay still.

Turning to the customers, "Hermoth" spoke quietly. His voice was cold and admonitory.

'Say nothing of what you have witnessed here. Take what you want; but remain in the café for five minutes after I leave.'

With that; he backed towards the door and stepped out onto the deserted Mauerstrasse. Quickly, he slipped into the Hotel Clou, and quietly pushed the street door closed. He paused... listened; not a sound. The hallway was dark. If anyone was there; they had certainly been there for more than just a few minutes. The light time-switch in the hall was off. Carefully; hugging the banisters, he moved up the stairs to the second floor. Monokel's apartment door was locked. There were no signs that anything had been tampered with. He slipped his key into the rim lock escutcheon and softly unlocked the door.

Swinging the door open, he aimed the pistol around the room. The apartment was empty. Nothing had been disturbed since Monokel had departed on her assignment. Systematically, he searched the room for any hint or clue that might be of any value to the opposition. There was nothing. The apartment was clean. When they finally decided to check this place out; as they were bound to do, sooner or later; the opposition would find a furnished, unoccupied apartment in an old run-down hotel. There would be nothing to suggest that it had ever been a safe house; let alone, a spy network base. Satisfied; he closed, and locked the door, and made his way down the stairs. Glancing around the dingy hallway, he grinned. Yes, they could use this place again.

He opened the front door and stepped out into Mauerstrasse, to be confronted by four of the People's Police positioned behind their cars, pointing their StG44 machine-guns at him. They had arrived quietly; he hadn't heard a thing. They didn't even give him a chance to put his hands up before they opened fire. Four synchronised bursts from their weapons lifted him off his feet and hurled him against the grimy, war-scarred stonework, splattering him across the chipped, paint-peeling door of the old Hotel Clou.

As the shattered corpse lay sprawled across the worn steps of the hotel, the four People's Police heavies relaxed; standing around with their weapons slung; smoking and laughing whilst they waited for the canned-meat wagon to arrive to collect the body. The youngish man with a distinctly Jewish appearance and a typical Berliner accent, who had been sitting unobtrusively amongst the customers in the café, walked quietly away up Mauerstrasse towards Leipziger Strasse. He patted the envelope containing the thick wad of Ostmarks in his inside jacket pocket. Easy money! Just one quick telephone call to Police Headquarters on Königstrasse, then sit back and watch the action. The People's Police paid good bounties for denunciations, and really had no sense of humour at all when it came to western spies!

OK; so it hadn't been quite as satisfying as the Reichshofer Strasse job he had done on that Nazi bitch; it lacked the poetic justice; but it was one less ex-SS scum free to walk the streets... and an ex-Leibstandarte at that. He smiled to himself. The Yank intelligence service was riddled with ex-SS. The members of his pro-Zionist group of Jewish avengers had discovered this little gem of information when they had captured and interrogated one of the senior agents of the so-called Siebenschläfer network... a little ex-Gestapo shit named Franz Schiller.

After they'd finished slapping him about for a while; he was still swearing that he actually had a soft spot for the Jews, and had great respect for their lifestyle. He had nothing to do with the transports to the east... he was just a clerical clerk. Very philanthropic of him; they had said; but, strange then, that his rank had been an SS-Obersturmbannführer, and, according to their witness sources; had spent a good deal of time beating Jews to a pulp in the interrogation cells of the dreadful Columbia-Haus; the notorious Gestapo Prison that had once stood on the edge of Flughafen Tempelhof.

They then said, that, in his case; seeing as how he really empathised with the Jews, they'd do him a real favour, seeing as how he was a "Goy"... and would give him a neat "Bris" job so that all the Jewish girls would like him. They held him down and slowly circumcised him with a rusty razor blade. With his foreskin resting on the table in front of him, they then said that they might as well have his testicles as well... so that he wouldn't have to fret about fathering any little Aryan bastards in the future... seeing as how he was now so Jewish. When he'd stopped screaming; and, as soon as he felt the cold edge of the razor blade touch the skin of his scrotum, he began to sing like the proverbial canary. What he revealed meant that they now had an extensive list of ex-SS whom they could exterminate at will; and more importantly; a list of "Safe house" addresses around Berlin where they could find their victims. They let Schiller keep his testicles, but gave him a 7·65 millimetre, lead headache pill for his trouble instead, and then dumped him unceremoniously in the Landwehrkanal.

The next target on the list that could be quickly identified and dealt with was the Siebenschläfer network's Deputy Controller code-named "Die Pilgerin"… "The Pilgrim". He was lurking somewhere up in the Scheunenviertel Mietskasernen. The word was, that he had always protested that he was just an ordinary ex-Alex bull, and had retired before the force was politicised. Schiller, however, had revealed that The Pilgrim's true name was Otto Brünner, and he had been an Oberwachtmeister/Scharführer in the SS-Polizei-Bataillon, happily occupying his days cramming Jewish deportees into cattle cars over at Güterbahnhof Putlitzstrasse for their one-way trip to the east.

Then, of course, there was the main controller of the network... "Monokel." No one seemed to know much about this one; but the occasional "Bris" job on one, or two of the more fanatical bastards amongst the scum that they rounded up, and someone would eventually crack and reveal his identity.

Washburn sat, gazing out of his office window at the tumbling, wind-blown leaves skittering across the lawn at the rear of Föhrenweg 19. It was a typical, dull, Berlin autumn morning. The rain was lancing down from skies that were sullen with grey, scudding clouds, and was being driven against his window by a predatory east wind that gusted and rattled the glass panes in their metal frames.

He turned again to the file resting on his desk, and flipped it open. It made grim reading. The opposition had effectively neutralised the Siebenschläfer network. He looked up at Charlotte Mckenna.

'How did this happen? You were always so careful.'

Charlotte shook her head.

'There was nothing we could do about it after Franz Schiller was kidnapped by that shadowy pro-Zionist group of Jewish avengers. They tortured him for information, and then used it to either liquidate our people themselves, or betray them to the People's Police for the usual bounty... that's how they got Hermoth outside the Hotel Clou. They later found Schiller dumped in the Landwehrkanal with the back of his head blown off.'

Washburn nodded.

'Yeah, Reinhard Gehlen's gone completely nuts over them. These guys only ever target ex-SS, or those who were closely connected to the SS... and that means most of Gehlen's Bureau. It has had adverse consequences for our intelligence gathering, of course; but nothing like the damage they've done to those creeps upstairs; and just to make it more interesting; it seems the Russians have decided to join in.

The Pilgrim was assassinated last night. According to our technical guys, it that seems that he was lured out of his apartment... possibly by some sort of honeytrap; and whilst he was distracted; someone slipped in and booby-trapped his favourite Meerschaum pipe. This, they tell me; was originally a classic old Russian "Cheka" secret police trick. A small quantity of some sort of powerful nitramine booster explosive such as Tetryl compound was put into the mouthpiece of his pipe and attached to a thin fuse which led to the bottom of the bowl beneath the tobacco. When the pipe was lit, then, eventually, so was the fuse.'

He allowed himself a brief, sardonic grin.

'Quite simple, really ... but spectacularly lethal. It blew his goddamned head off.'

His expression became serious.

'We are worried that you might well be the next casualty, being the Siebenschläfer network resident agent control officer. That is why I am de-activating you in Berlin, and posting you out of harm's way. Now that we are officially known as The Central Intelligence Agency; CIA for short; and have finally been established as the civilian intelligence agency of the United States government responsible for providing national security intelligence to senior United States policymakers; I've decided to post you to the Korean Liaison Office in Seoul. We have identified the Soviet Union as the controlling hand behind all the North Korean political and military planning; and they have large numbers of Chinese troops that could be used in Korea against the south. Your languages will be most valuable in ascertaining exactly what the Soviets are up to. Personally, I have a particularly bad feeling about what is developing over there.'

Charlotte looked steadily at him.

'You are, of course, aware that I have established an association with a Soviet officer here, in Berlin, and that he has indicated that he wants to come over to us?'

Washburn nodded.

'Yes; Lieutenant Colonel Maksim Siegel. Does he wish to defect?'

She shook her head.

'No. He is not a traitor. He just wants out. He saved me from two of the opposition's heavies who came to arrest us at Wannsee, and again, when they tried to intercept us on the AVUS. We have spent the last two days in one of their safe houses in "Die Weisse Stadt" at Reinickendorf.'

Washburn regarded her with a steady gaze.

'So, they knew about you? It must have been one of the Gehlen doubles who compromised your cover. What do you want to do about Siegel? Are you having any sort of relationship with him?

She shook her head.

'No, not yet; but with suitable identity documents, he could come with me. A "Soviet officer" as a companion would make a good cover. He's back in "Die Weisse Stadt," making preparations for the extraction.'

Washburn was silent for a while; then he leaned forward.

'Tell you what I'll do, Charlotte. You'll need a heap of window dressing for this deal, and I'll need to write a "Legend" for both of you from the ground up. Get yourself down to transport, grab a car, and go get Siebel. Then get across to the safe house in Alsbacher Weg, Zehlendorf and sit tight for a few days. I'll be in touch.'