Angel Rising, page 2
part #6 of Anna Fehrbach Series
‘This man—’
‘His name, according to the maid, was Stefan Edert. She does not know what happened to him, and he seems to have entirely disappeared, so very probably he is dead. The point is that while the countess did indeed drive north after leaving you, it was not to return to Berlin, but to rescue her parents from the village of Grozke, where apparently they were being held in an SS training camp; the maid does not know why they were under arrest. Having done that, she went south, to Switzerland. When they discovered that she intended to abandon the Reich, both Edert and this woman Gessner, who seem to have been fanatical Nazis, refused to accompany her. So she abandoned them and continued with her parents. That is the last known sighting of her. But at least we know that she did not die in Berlin, and that she did get to Switzerland. That was in March last year. A year ago, Tserchenko.’
‘A year,’ Tserchenko muttered. ‘But . . . what can we do now?’
‘You,’ Beria said, ‘are going to continue your search, and find this bitch.’
‘But Comrade Commissar, after a year . . . she could be anywhere in the world. She will undoubtedly have changed her name. She could have changed her appearance.’
‘Unless she has had a face lift, and I doubt that any woman possessing so much beauty would go as far as that, I am sure you will remember her when next you see her. Because you are going to sniff her out. By using another bitch, eh?’
‘Sir?’
‘Have you forgotten what happened in Warsaw, in September 1944? You learned that the Countess von Widerstand was on a visit to that city, which was still in German hands, and you led a picked squad to infiltrate the enemy lines and seize her?’
‘And kidnapped her sister by mistake,’ Tserchenko said ruefully. ‘At a cost of six lives. Don’t you think that episode will haunt me to my grave?’
‘That is bourgeois thinking,’ Beria pointed out ‘I will admit that it was a costly error, less because of the men who were killed than because the monster slipped through your fingers. But it was an understandable error. This Katherine Fehrbach may lack her sister’s beauty, but there is, or was, a considerable resemblance.’
‘All but two years ago,’ Tserchenko muttered. ‘Two years—’
‘That she has spent in a gulag.’
‘Being raped or beaten every day.’
Beria checked a note on his desk. ‘Number Forty-One. She will not have had a happy time. But when I sent her there, I issued specific instructions that she was not to be executed, or even crippled by mistreatment, I felt sure that one day she might prove useful. You will go to Camp Forty-One and make sure that she is well. Then you will remove her from the camp, feed her and groom her back to her best health, fit her out with a wardrobe of good clothes, convey her to Switzerland, and turn her loose.’
‘I do not understand, sir. She will be—’
‘Somewhat upset, of course. But you will explain to her that now the War is over, the search for her sister has been abandoned, and that all we wish to do is make it up to her for our error in arresting her at all. You will supply her with a Swiss passport, arrange for her to receive, on a regular basis, sufficient funds to support herself, and to travel if she wishes, and wish her farewell and good fortune. Now, Nicolai, put yourself in her shoes. You are twenty-four years old, you have had a quite horrendous experience, but you are now suddenly free and relatively wealthy. But you are all alone in the world, and the world you once knew, the world of Nazi Germany, no longer exists. What would you do?’
‘Well . . .’ Tserchenko scratched his chin.
Beria sighed; he had forgotten this man’s total lack of imagination. On the other hand, Anna Fehrbach had killed his only sister; he had to be dedicated. ‘You would seek to find something, or someone, from that world, to whom you could relate. We know that both her sister and her parents got to Switzerland. Make sure that she knows that too, and she will start looking for them.’
‘You think they are still in Switzerland?’
‘No, I do not. But I think the young lady will do everything she can to find out where they are, and indeed, get to them.’
‘They could have separated.’
‘Nicolai, if Katherine Fehrbach can locate her parents, that should be all you need to locate the countess.’
‘Me?’
‘You are going to track her every inch of the way, wherever she goes. You will not let her know this, of course. Take whatever people you require to carry out a round the clock surveillance of her, and you may also call on our embassy staffs when she is located. But bring me the Countess von Widerstand. And Nicolai . . .’ Beria spoke quietly. ‘You really need to bear in mind that our search for the countess has so far cost us seventeen lives: two, including your sister, when she broke out of this prison, six when we tried to arrest her in Washington, six when you tried to arrest her in Warsaw, and three when you actually did arrest her in Germany, including one of my best aides. And she is still at large. This is your very last chance. Bring her back or you will wind up in a gulag yourself.’
Tserchenko swallowed. ‘Yes, sir. But may I say . . . well, as you have just pointed out, the countess’s record is, ah, disturbing. If I had been allowed to shoot her on sight . . .’
‘You did have that authority, then, Colonel. But you elected not to use it, because you wanted the prestige of bringing her back alive. Now that authority has been withdrawn. Now you must bring her back alive.’
‘Just so that she can be publicly tried and executed? And when it may cost several more lives?’
‘I am certain that you will make sure that none of those lives is your own. It so happens that since we have had access to the Nazi archives in Berlin, we have gleaned a great deal of information concerning the countess’s last mission for the Reich. I am not going to tell you what it was, but it is essential that we learn more about it. And she is the only person who can tell us, because she is the only survivor of that mission. So, I want her alive, standing where you are now. I will wish you good fortune, Comrade Colonel.’
Tserchenko stood up, saluted and left the room, and a few minutes later was replaced by a female secretary. ‘Comrade Kamarov is here, Comrade Commissar.’
Beria had been staring at the wall, drumming his fingers on the desk. Now he seemed to notice her for the first time. ‘Show him in.’
The secretary stood aside to allow the little, sharp-featured man into the office. ‘I saw Tserchenko on the stairs.’ Kamarov moved, and spoke, with a confidence Tserchenko entirely lacked. This was because he had spent almost his entire adult life in this building, and was indeed spoken of as Beria’s possible successor when the commissar moved on to better things – as was known to be his ambition, in the course of time.
‘I am giving him another chance.’ Beria held up a finger. ‘I know. You do not think he is worth a damn. But he has a personal stake in this business, not to mention his career. I think he may bring it off, this time.’
‘You may not need him,’ Kamarov said. ‘We have just received a radio message from London. The man Andrews is back in England.’
Beria leaned back in his chair. ‘You think he is after her?’
‘We know he was once. And failed. But we also know that if she is alive, as the British are claiming that she is dead, she is almost certainly in their custody, somewhere in England. It makes sense.’
‘Perhaps it does. But why should Andrews assume she is alive? We have not revealed the existence of the woman Gessner to anyone in the West.’
‘But we also do not know what information the West may have gleaned from other survivors. I think it is worth following up.’
‘Even if he does have information that she is alive, what makes you think he will be able to find her and we cannot?’
‘There can be no doubt that it was British Intelligence who got her out of Switzerland. Presumably this was because she has secrets they would not like to see divulged to the world, or during a public trial. Therefore it is British Intelligence who are holding her, somewhere in England. Andrews has links with British Intelligence.’
‘Who also know that the Americans promised us they would eliminate her in 1944. They failed. If the British do have her, do you suppose they would allow him near her now?’
Kamarov shrugged. ‘Who knows what goes on behind the scenes in the West? If the British did engineer the countess’s escape from Germany last March, they have held her now for a year. They will certainly have finished interrogating her.’
‘In which case they may well have shot her.’
‘But you do not believe that, sir. Or you would not still be trying to find her.’
Beria studied him for several seconds. ‘It may well be that your brains will one day prove too sharp for your well-being, Comrade Kamarov. But you are right. I believe the woman Gessner is telling the truth, that she got out of Germany, and that she is still alive.’
Because, Kamarov thought, that belief is controlled by your dick. He knew that his boss had never actually laid eyes on the Countess von Widerstand, but he also knew that he kept a photograph of her in his desk drawer; so great an obsession with having her back in one of his cells had to be sexually motivated. ‘And if she is alive, Comrade Commissar,’ he said, ‘and they have obtained everything they can from her, they may have decided to hand her over to the Americans. After all, she can hardly be anything more than an embarrassment to them if it becomes known that they are concealing such a woman.’
Beria stroked his chin. ‘It is a long shot.’
‘Can it be any longer than using that idiot Tserchenko to find her?’
Beria sat up. ‘You are right, Comrade. Tell London to place Andrews under round-the-clock surveillance. But no action is to be taken until he actually makes contact with the countess. If he does. Thank you, Kamarov. This could be the break we are looking for.’
*
Belinda Hoskin opened the door of her London flat in answer to the bell. A small, dark woman in her early forties, she had attractively sharp features and shoulder-length wavy black hair. Italian by birth and origin, she had lived in England for thirty years, and had adopted the surname of her step-father; her Italian father had been murdered by Mussolini’s blackshirts, which was why his widow had fled to England with her little daughter.
Belinda had prospered, at least in her professional life, and was now fashion editor of a leading London weekly; she had in fact just returned from her day at the office, still wore her smart suit and high heels, although she had removed her hat. Personally, her life had been a roller-coaster ride, her long standing on-off affair with Clive Bartley, which had actually led to her becoming involved in his undercover work as an MI6 agent, being further complicated by her relationship with the operative he controlled, the fabulous Anna Fehrbach, so-called Countess von Widerstand. Not that it mattered now, she supposed.
But the eagerness with which she had opened the door had been because she anticipated that it might be Clive; she did not see him all that often nowadays. When she recalled that once he had proposed marriage, and she had turned him down, being at that time more interested in her career in fashion than in domesticity! Now . . . she peered at the tall, thin, hatchet-faced man standing in the doorway. ‘May I help you?’
He raised his hat. ‘Miss Belinda Hoskin?’
It was a slow, southern drawl. ‘Yes,’ she acknowledged, cautiously.
‘Joseph Andrews.’ He held out his hand.
Belinda considered. ‘Do I know you? You’re an American.’
‘I guess I am. You make me sound like an alien from Mars. We have never met, but we have several mutual acquaintances.’
‘Oh? Well . . .’ she squeezed his fingers.
‘Do you think I could come in?’
Another consideration. ‘I suppose so,’ she said at last, released his hand and stepped away from the door. ‘I was just about to pour myself a drink. Would you care to join me?’
Andrews closed the door behind himself. ‘That depends on what you’re planning to drink.’
‘I only drink Scotch whisky.’
‘That’s fine by me.’ He took off his topcoat and hung it behind the door, together with his hat; he was wearing a double-breasted grey suit. Then he walked into the centre of the little lounge, looked around himself.
Belinda went to the sideboard. ‘I take mine neat.’
‘Ah . . . sure. A little ice would be nice.’
‘Ice? With Scotch?’
‘Ah . . . maybe not.’
Belinda poured. ‘Are you looking for something? Or someone?’
‘I was just wondering . . . you don’t seem to have any photographs.’
‘Photographs belong in albums. Frames have to be dusted.’
‘Interesting point.’
She gave him his glass. ‘You may sit down, if you wish.’ She sat herself, on the settee, crossed her knees. Andrews chose a chair opposite her. ‘What do you Americans say?’
‘Happy days?’ He sipped, appreciatively. ‘Good.’
‘Johnnie Walker Black.’
‘Yeah. Nearly as good as Chivas Regal.’
Belinda regarded him as she might have done a beetle. ‘You said something about a mutual acquaintance?’
‘Yeah. I guess you see a lot of Clive Bartley.’
‘Is he our mutual acquaintance?’
‘One of them.’
‘Well, I actually don’t see a lot of him nowadays. Do you have any idea what he does for a living?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Then you know where to go to find him.’
‘I’m not sure that he wants to see me. I’m actually trying to contact one of his people. The Countess von Widerstand.’
Belinda gave a twisted smile. ‘You’re out of date, Mr Andrews. The countess is dead.’
‘No!’
‘If you know about the countess, and you know what Clive’s job is, then you must know that she was working for British Intelligence in Berlin. She had an Austrian father, you see.’
‘And an Irish mother,’ Andrews said thoughtfully. ‘And you reckon she was killed when the city fell to the Russians.’
‘She hasn’t been heard of since. It’s a logical conclusion.’
‘Clive’s conclusion, right?’
‘He should know. Anyway, it’s official.’
‘Sure.’ He sipped his drink, obviously choosing his words. ‘Would you be interested if I told you that far from being dead, the countess is very much alive, and in Clive’s care? I presume she’s at a secret location, where I am quite sure he visits her, from time to time?’
Belinda got up. ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to do, Mr . . . Andrews, is it? But I think you had better leave.’
Andrews finished his drink. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. I thought you might be interested.’
‘I have never been interested in lies.’
Andrews remained seated. ‘We, that is the American authorities in Germany, have in our custody a man named Stefan Edert. He claims to have been the Countess von Widerstand’s personal trainer for four years. Whether that is true or not, we do not know. But he sure seems to have known her pretty well. As for instance, did you know that she has a blue sort of stain on her right rib cage? He reckoned it was an old bullet wound. Right rib cage. You with me? It’s not a part of the body that women generally expose, except maybe in a two-piece bathing suit, and as far as we know the countess did not go in for public swimming, although she may have done with a close friend. You still with me?’
Belinda had gone to the sideboard. Now she poured herself another drink, and said, almost absently, ‘She sustained that wound in saving my life, six years ago.’
‘Well, now, seems like you knew her as well as I did once. Six years ago . . . that would have been when she was in England as wife to that fellow Bordman, spying for the Reich. Before Clive got to her.’
‘After,’ Belinda said. ‘She had already become a double agent. She and I were having a private talk, when this woman, her Nazi controller, came in and was going to shoot me. So Anna tackled her.’
‘You mean she shot her first? She’s supposed to be the fastest thing with a gun since Annie Oakley.’
‘Anna did not shoot her,’ Belinda said. ‘Because at that moment she was unarmed. She broke her neck.’
‘Jesus!’
‘But to do that she had to take a bullet. She very nearly died from the wound.’
‘That must’ve made quite a bond. I guess you were pretty cut up when you heard she was dead. So now you should be happy to know that she’s actually alive.’
‘I do not know that, Mr Andrews.’
‘That’s a fact. So let me fill you in. This guy Edert was picked up in Magdeburg last April. So we picked up tens of thousands of erstwhile Nazis. We locked them up to await sorting. We were trying to separate the bad Nazis from the acceptable Nazis. Well, eventually we decided that he was a bad one. So he then decided to see if he could buy us off. He swears, under oath, that he helped the countess and her parents out of Berlin in March last year, and drove them to the Swiss border. I guess you know that the countess, for all her talents, never learned to drive.’
‘Yes,’ Belinda said. Could what he was saying possibly be true? Anna, alive? Oh, if only it could be true. But this man worked for the Americans. And she knew, because Clive had told her, that the Americans had condemned Anna to imprisonment, if not death.
‘So this guy does know what he’s talking about. He left them at the border. He was prepared to help her escape, he says, but he personally was not prepared to abandon the Reich while there was any hope. Seems he still believed Hitler’s twaddle about secret weapons that would bring Germany victory. So we know that Anna, with her parents, got to Switzerland . . . and then disappeared. There is absolutely no trace of any of them. But then we have the British hand-out that without a shadow of a doubt, the infamous Countess von Widerstand died in the ruins of Berlin, fighting the Russians.’
