Chapter Thirteen.

Monday, 27th September, 1948, was a typical, grey, and rainy Berlin day. Charlotte Mckenna gazed out of the window at the rear of her apartment, across the wide expanse of cleared bombsite towards Friedrichstrasse. She was watching two Soviet GAZ patrol jeeps cruising up Friedrichstrasse; appearing and disappearing between the scatterings of bombsite gaps that sprinkled the once-imposing street. The patrols were much more frequent these days; but then; Berlin was almost as dangerous now, as when the Nazis had governed the Capital.

The Soviets' behaviour towards the Berliners and the Allied occupation forces had deteriorated rapidly during the last few months. Early in 1947, the American and British had merged their two occupation zones into one; the so-called "Bizone." The Russians had realised that Britain and America were beginning to create a new, strong Germany, and Stalin wanted to destroy Germany once and for all. To this end, the Soviets had been systematically stripping East Germany of its wealth and machinery. On the other side, Britain and the Americans wanted to rebuild Germany’s industry to avoid another Versailles.

Things had come to a head with the American European Recovery Programme which sought to rebuild the economic infrastructure of Germany and other European countries. Stalin saw this as an attempt to undermine Russian influence in Eastern Europe. Immediately, Red Army troops in the Soviet occupation zone began interfering with traffic between the British and American zones in Germany and their corresponding sectors of Berlin which fell within the Soviet zone. Finally, on 1st June, America and Britain announced that they intended creating a new Nation which would be named West Germany; and a few weeks later introduced a new German currency... the Deutschmark. The Soviets had vetoed the reconstruction of Germany and the introduction of the new currency, while the French, who were still controlling the south-western part of Germany and held a persistent enmity over their past military defeats at the hands of the Germans, were throwing as many spanners into the works of the American and British initiatives as was humanly possible. The day after the currency was introduced, the Soviets cut off all rail and road links to West Berlin.

The network of agents that Charlotte controlled had been extremely successful. There had been a few exceptions; but on the whole, BOB was well pleased with the high-profile traffic that the network had provided. Now, though; it was beginning to get risky. Several informants had been taken; two agents had been assassinated, and the cross-zone couriers were effectively trapped behind the Soviet blockade. The intelligences were still being delivered to Charlotte's apartment in the old Hotel "Clou" on Mauerstrasse; but getting them to BOB in the American zone at Dalhem-Zehlendorf was another matter.

The grey BMW four-door saloon with the red pennant attached to the driver's side front fender and a paper sticker inscribed with Cyrillic text attached to the windscreen, that Siegel had provided, was parked out of sight in the rear courtyard of old Hotel Clou, concealed under a large tarpaulin. It had been fitted with authentic Soviet military licence plates provided... from God knows where, by her armourer who ran the electrical store next door. She knew him only by his cryptonym... "Regin."

The intelligence she had received needed to be taken to BOB quickly. It told of a Soviet build-up on all the previously free crossing points, and the removal of existing ones, and blocking of replacement food supplies from the countryside within the Soviet zone. The inference was that the Soviets were preparing to starve Berlin into submission.

Working on her well-tried adage of "The Bigger the Lie... The Smaller the Suspicion," Charlotte decided to run the intelligence through the blockade herself. Pulling her bell of blonde hair into a severe bun, and donning her dark trench coat, she slipped the Soviet pass into her pocket and went down to the rear courtyard. Pulling the tarpaulin off the BMW, she started the engine and let it idle for a few minutes to warm up the oil. Stalling the engine at the barricade was not a good way to impress the guards!

Approaching the Friedrichstrasse crossing point, she saw that there was no barricade as such; just a group of armed Soviet soldiers and a couple of bored-looking "People's Police." One of the soldiers stepped out into the middle of the road and waved her down. She saw him stare at the red pennant and his expression changed. He came to the driver's-side window and saluted. She handed him the pass and watched his face stiffen slightly. He asked no questions... he said nothing at all; merely waved the others aside and saluted again.

As she drove away into the American sector, she glanced into the rear-view mirror, and saw the group watching her departure and talking animatedly amongst themselves. Perhaps she should stay at Dalhem for a while. Too much Soviet interest could jeopardise the whole covert operation network. She continued glancing into the rear-view mirror as the Friedrichstrasse crossing point receded into the distance behind her. There was no sudden appearance of any vehicle from any one of the side roads that might be intending to shadow her progress. However, as she continued down Friedrichstrasse, a US Military Police jeep turned out of Kochstrasse and began to follow her at a discreet distance.

With the present situation in Berlin, surveillance rather than confrontation would seem to be the order of the day. She decided that there would be a good chance that an official-looking car with Soviet military plates in the American sector would be tailed, but would never actually be stopped. She turned onto Yorckstrasse and increased her speed as she drove on down through the suburbs of Schöneberg. The MP jeep remained the same distance behind her. She could not lead it to the location of BOB. Not even the Allied Kommandatura knew exactly where the first Chief of Base, Allen Dulles had set it up. She would have to use one of the safe houses. The jeep was far enough back for her to evade it once they were into the maze of tree-lined, residential streets of Dahlem. The jeep followed her for another two kilometres down into Friedenau; always keeping pace, but not approaching too closely.

She drove carefully, watching the jeep in her mirror; then... Grünewald Strasse came up on the right. She thrust the gear shift into third, spun the wheel; and, with a tiny touch of handbrake to get the tail around, floored the accelerator pedal. The BMW lurched into a ninety-degree slide, then straightened, and, with a deep boom from its six-cylinder engine, rocketed away down the jumble of roads through the peaceful, tree-lined suburbs. At the junction with Zeune-Promenade, Charlotte threw the car left and then first left again; and sharp-right into a short dead-end road behind the Botanischer Garten where she knew there was a secluded parking area out of sight at the end of the road. She switched off the engine, wound down the window, and listened.

The unmistakeable howl of a Willys jeep being accelerated hard up through the gears echoed down through the trees. As it came closer, the howl diminished to become an ominous exhaust burble as the jeep slowed to check the side-turnings. As it reached the end of the dead end street, there was a squeal of brakes as the jeep stopped. Charlotte could almost visualise the ice-pick eyes scanning the seemingly-deserted area. The BMW was out of their line of sight. Unless they knew that the parking area was there; there would be no reason for them to turn into the road. She waited as the seconds dragged by; then, the jeep slowly moved on; the metallic grunt of its exhaust fading into the distance.

Charlotte waited, with the engine still switched off. In this game, it was always wise to err on the side of caution. Two years of espionage had proved that nothing should ever be taken on face value. The Americans were brash, but they were systematic. They might well return. She waited for five minutes; contemplating which of the safe houses in the area offered the best concealment for the BMW with its blatantly-obvious Soviet Military plates. She was about to start the car's engine when she heard it. At first, it was faint; the familiar burble of the Willys jeep exhaust. It was coming closer. They had turned around and were retracing their route, in the hope that their quarry had thought that it had outsmarted them. She waited, as the sound of the exhaust approached, echoed down the tree-lined road, and slowly faded as the MP jeep cruised past. She heard it turn back out towards Grünewald Strasse and fade away to be lost in the hum of traffic out on the main thoroughfare.

Starting the engine, she loosened the severe bun and allowed her hair to drop back into its usual golden bell. Slipping the gearshift into first, she eased the BMW out into the street, and moved slowly up to the junction. Cautiously, she scanned the road. It was deserted. Turning right onto the old Mancke Stieg, now recently renamed with its old pre-war name, Kaiser Wilhelm Strasse; she drove down to the short Bogen Weg and turned right onto Unter den Eichen. She drove for one kilometre and turned right onto Schütz Allee. Half-a-kilometre further, on the right, was Inne Strasse. She glanced into the rear-view mirror. No-one was following. Turning into Inne Strasse, she checked the rear-view mirror again. Nothing. A short distance north, and she would be at the safe house at Reichshofer Strasse.

Number twenty, Reichshofer Strasse was a large, pre-war villa in extensively-wooded grounds. As Charlotte turned the BMW in through the ornate, wrought-iron gates, the crunching of the tyres on the gravel drive brought a tall, middle-aged woman to the front door. She looked to be, at first sight, a well-built, typical Berliner Hausfrau. Her white-blonde hair was pinned into a tight bun, and she wore an old- fashioned pinafore with deep pockets at the front, into which her hands were thrust. First impressions in this case, were totally deceiving... and, for an unsuspecting intruder... deadly. This was the safe house caretaker; Hiltraud Schiller; former instructor at Die Reichsschule für SS-Helferinnen, Oberenheim/Alsace... the special training school for SS women auxiliaries. Her right hand buried deeply in her pinafore pocket would, almost certainly, be holding a silenced Walther PPK pistol, just in case the visitor was an unwelcome one. Hiltraud Schiller was a lethal, de-nazified gatekeeper, recruited by BOB from the Gehlen "Org," the complimentary spy organization set up by General Reinhard Gehlen, who had been Hitler's top anti-Soviet spy and had overseen all of Germany's military-intelligence capabilities throughout Eastern Europe and the U.S.S.R. He had been mandated by U.S. officials to continue gathering information in the East just as he had been doing for Hitler.

Gehlen had enlisted thousands of Gestapo, Wehrmacht, and SS veterans despite his promise to U.S. officials that he would not employ hard-core Nazis. Hiltraud Schiller had been one of them. As Charlotte brought the car to a halt, the woman approached. Her square, brutal face gave a cold, box-like smile of recognition. Hiltraud Schiller's eyes were the palest blue; so pale as to be almost the colour of mother-of-pearl... the eyes of a wolf. Her voice was flat, and indifferent.

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'Guten Tag, "Monokel." What brings you here?'

Charlotte set the handbrake and stepped out of the BMW. She left the engine ticking over. She forced a friendly smile to the woman. Hiltraud Schiller was a repellent human being. Charlotte could easily envision her resplendent in her Reichsschule uniform, meticulously infusing the minds of her ex-BDM recruits with the pernicious racism they would employ for their duties in the camps. This image, blurred by the impression of the homely Hausfrau that the pinafore suggested, was horribly sinister... and Charlotte had encountered a great many sinister individuals during the last few years; but none quite as unnerving as this one.

She spoke.

'Guten Tag, Frau Schiller. I need to have this car concealed. I was followed from the Friedrichstrasse crossing point by an American MP jeep, but managed to lose them in the side-streets of Dahlem. I'll walk back to Base, and arrange for the car to be collected in a few days.'

Hiltraud Schiller nodded and climbed into the driving seat. As Charlotte walked back out through the gates, the car disappeared around the far side of the villa.

As she came out onto Garystrasse, she was approached by a youngish man who asked her if she knew the way to Reichshofer Strasse. Curiously, he had a Jewish appearance... although that was something of a rarity in Berlin, these days. He spoke with a typical Berliner accent. She gave him vague directions; he thanked her, and she continued her journey to the Berlin Operations Base at Föhrenweg; a pleasant stroll of about one-and-a half-kilometres through the tree-lined streets.

Reporting in to Head of Station, Washburn; she passed over the ciphers for decoding and related how the network was now impeded by the closure of the crossing points. She also related the inference contained in certain reports of the Soviets' preparations to attempt to starve Berlin into submission by cutting off the food supplies for outside the city. She also reported the presence of the BMW at the safe house... it might well be a prime asset for the use of the Base.

Washburn listened intently. When she had finished her report, he sat back and studied her. Then he spoke.

'I think it is prudent to retain you here for the present. The network is sound, but should be rested for a while, whilst this cross-zone interference exists. You have done well, Monokel, and so I am extracting you from the GRAIL Programme... it has pretty much run its course; and the Soviets' actions have more or less made it irrelevant. I shall send someone round to Reichshofer Strasse in a day or so, to pick up the car. It will be of great use to us. Now, take yourself off into our zone and enjoy yourself or a few days. We will pick up all your expenses.'

Two nights later; at eleven-thirty pm precisely; a black Plymouth sedan turned into Reichshofer Strasse, and parked a little way down the street from number twenty. Two men got out and walked quietly along the shadowy pavement. They turned in through the ornate, wrought-iron gates; and, carefully avoiding the gravel drive, walked along the herbaceous borders towards the imposing front door of the darkened villa. Ringing the doorbell brought no reply. They waited for a few minutes, and then made their way around to the rear of the premises. There was something seriously wrong here. Frau Schiller should have been there. They would have to effect a forced entry to establish whether or not there had been a hostile security breach.

There were no other houses overlooking the villa at the rear. One of the men chose a window and brought out a glass cutter attached to a circular suction pad which he affixed to the centre of one of the window panes. The other man illuminated the window with a flashlight. As he moved to the side of his colleague to throw a better beam of light on the glass, his foot kicked something that rolled away with a sharp metallic clatter. The first man was completing the neatly-scribed circle, and about to tap out the piece of glass, when the second man shone the flashlight down to see what he had kicked. The beam of light fell on a rusty squat metal canister with a faded black, red, and white label which proclaimed in bold letters:

ZYKLON B

GIFTGAS !

CYANPRAPARAT ! KÜHL UND TROCKEN LAGERN! VOR SONNE

UND OFFENER FLAMME SCHÜTZEN! NUR DURCH GEÜBTES

PERSONAL ZU ÖFFNEN UND ZU VERWENDEN.

Dessauer Werke für Zucker und Chemische Industrie A. G. Dessau.

As his horrified gaze made out the warning on the label, and the awful realisation of what had occurred here, struck him; his companion tapped the circle of cut glass out of the window pane. He leapt forward and dragged the first man back as a haze of bluish vapour burst out into the night air. There was a strong smell of bitter almonds. Both men ran back into the rear garden until the smell had dispersed. Cautiously, they approached the rear of the property. The rear door had a pane of glass missing; with a piece of cardboard taped across the void. So; that was how, whoever it was, had done it. The perfect assassination! Remove a pane of glass, tip in the Zyklon B crystals, which started to liquefy and release the gas on contact with the air at room temperature; and block up the hole. One part gas in two thousand parts of air was lethal; the contents of a single tin was sufficient to exterminate more than five hundred people... and the whole tin's contents appeared to have been used. The hydrogen cyanide gas would have permeated the entire villa in less than half an hour. Anyone inside, asleep and breathing deeply, would lapse into unconsciousness as the gas started to block the absorption of oxygen in their bloodstream. As the vital cell functions were starved of oxygen, the victim would suffocate.

There would be no evidence at all... the liquefying crystals would have evaporated by the time anyone discovered the victim. But, who? And, more to the point... why? Hiltraud Schiller may well have been a thoroughly unpleasant bitch; but she was merely a housekeeper; and who, other than the Soviets, would have access to Zyklon B these days? The two men returned to their car and drove back to Föhrenweg to report their findings.

The following morning, Washburn sent a clean-up squad round to Reichshofer Strasse. They found Hiltraud Schiller dead in her bed; her face congested and grey-skinned with cyanosis giving the appearance that she had been asphyxiated... but, on her forehead, her assassin had carefully placed a frayed yellow-cloth Star of David ... the reviled Nazi "Judenstern." So, the bastard must have had a gas mask with him. This had been planned down to the last detail.

When he read the report, Washburn swore quietly to himself. That was all he needed at the moment... a Jewish, revenge-seeking, Nazi-hunter. Here he was; trying to hold the fort in Berlin together under the flimsy auspices of the short-lived, Central Intelligence Group... the CIG; whilst, back in Washington, the battle over the future of American intelligence had been raging for the past three years. In the period since The President had signed The National Security Act of 1947, the Joint Chiefs of Staff had fought even harder for a service that would be totally under their control. The army and the navy had still demanded their own service, J. Edgar Hoover wanted the FBI to conduct worldwide espionage; and The State Department now sought to control them all.

A new agency: the CIA... the Central Intelligence Agency, had been established under the National Security Act, and had been given the authority by the National Security Council less than a year previously, to carry out covert operations "Against hostile foreign states or groups or in support of friendly foreign states or groups but which are so planned and conducted that any US Government responsibility for them is not evident to unauthorized persons."

Washburn, however, had one ace in the hole: Frank Wisner; former O.S.S. Head of Station, Bucharest, Romania; and now head of the Directorate of Plans, with Richard Helms as his chief of operations. This office controlled three-quarters of the entire budget for the CIA; and both Wisner and Helms believed the primary intelligence target was to find out what the Soviets intentions for Western Europe truly were... and the signs, so far, were not at all reassuring.

He scanned the report again. He gave an ironic smile. In spite of the real danger of the possibility that there was, indeed, a Jewish faction who saw themselves as avenging angels and anointed crusaders now active in Berlin... and the Gehlen "Org" was being targeted... which could, so easily turn into a counter-intelligence nightmare; he nodded to himself. Schiller's liquidation was a fitting retribution by her being put down by the very chemical agent that had been used to exterminate close on two-and-a-half-million victims at Auschwitz alone... of which, almost ninety-percent had been Jews. Auschwitz had been the posting for a considerable number of Schiller's more vehement Reichsschule Oberenheim pupils... the SS-Helferinnen... the female guards. It was; indeed, true poetic justice on a scale of Wagnerian magnitude.

Washburn closed the file, lit a cigarette, and swung his chair around to gaze out his office window in contemplation of the leaves on the trees in the villa garden beginning to burn golden with the early, first whispers of autumn; as he pondered on what the hell would be the next thing to foul up.

No-one could have possibly foreseen what the next "Foul-up" would be. "Operation Vittles" had been running for almost three months along the three, twenty-mile-wide air corridors from the West, airlifting emergency supplies into the isolated city. As the flights increased, Soviet fighters continually harassed the unarmed cargo planes by making diving passes at them as they lumbered through the corridors. Barrage balloons were cut loose in their flight paths, and gunnery targets were frequently towed across the flight paths of the airlift planes.

One Soviet Yakovlev fighter actually loosed rockets near one C-54, narrowly missing it. Bombs were dropped almost hitting an airlift plane flying in the free corridor below; and the worst incident of all... as far as BOB was concerned; was the forcing down of a C47 that had strayed out of the southern corridor into Soviet zone airspace, and resulted in the capture of three Gehlen Bureau officers who were on their way to a high-level intelligence meeting in Paris. What they eventually revealed under interrogation was to affect the efficiency of the Berlin CIA community for years to come. Many of the covert assets of the Gehlen Bureau would become controlled by Soviet intelligence. Covert operations, agents-in-place, and dozens of suspected civilians would be betrayed, and many would be executed.

The real fear was, that they had also revealed information on Allen Dulles' covert "Operation Stay-behind"; conceived at the end of the War, and designed to build secret anti-communist guerrilla forces in Europe. So-called "Stay-behind" organizations were secretly created in most countries of Western Europe, including neutral Portugal, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, and Turkey.

The secret stay-behind armies were created to serve a dual purpose. They were to prepare for a communist Soviet invasion and occupation of Western Europe: which, if it came, would entail operating behind enemy lines, strengthening and setting up local resistance movements in enemy held territory, evacuating pilots who had been shot down, and sabotaging supply lines and production centres of the occupation forces.

The secondary purpose was to prepare for an "emergency situation." This was understood to include all domestic threats, most of which were of a civilian nature. The military secret services of the United States and Western Europe considered that communist parties, and to some degree, socialist parties, had a real potential to weaken the Allied alliance from within, and therefore represented a direct threat to the alliance. If they gained political strength and entered the executive, or, worse still, gained control of Defence Ministries, an "emergency situation" would result.

This secondary purpose even went so far as to countenance carrying out terror attacks that would later be blamed on the political left in order to discredit the communists and prevent them from assuming top executive positions.

Washburn lit another cigarette and watched the first leaves begin to flutter down. If the Soviets uncovered this little ticking time-bomb, all hell would break loose. So much, for the President's advisors cosying up to a bunch of ex-Nazis.

It seemed that the old, First World War British Tommies' saying still held true...

"Never trust the Boche... they're either at your throat, or at your feet."

Thoroughly disheartened by his deliberations; he placed the file into his desk drawer, locked it, and walked out of his office, resolved to go and break open his last good bottle of Jack Daniels and get seriously pissed.