The Best of Our Spies (57 page)

‘Owen. Welcome to the den of the best forger in Pigalle, which also means the best forger in Paris and, of course, in France – if you don’t count Marseilles, of course. We tend not to count Marseilles. Makes life easier. What are you calling yourself this week, Louis?’

‘This week?’ The short man was jumpy and needed to think about the question. ‘This week you can call me Bertrand, André. You can still call me Louis, but Bertrand may be safer.’ Bertrand could not have been more than five foot tall and had a nervous tick. Every few seconds his head jerked towards his right shoulder in an involuntary movement. Not good for a forger, Owen thought.

‘Now then. Bertrand is a genius, aren’t you, Bertrand?’

Bertrand nodded.

‘If Bertrand can’t copy it then no one can. A clever man. But he has also been a naughty boy, haven’t you Bertrand?’

Bertrand now spoke fast, in a surprisingly deep voice.

‘That is unfair, André. I explained to the FFI and they understand. If I hadn’t done what they asked, the Germans would have killed me. It was the tiniest of favours. And I promise you, I didn’t do a good job, did I?’

He sounded nervous. André walked over and put his arm round Bertrand’s shoulders.

‘Bertrand’s mistake – Louis, you don’t look like a Bertrand, you know – was to forge some documents for an SS officer. All through the war he was so helpful to the resistance and then he goes and spoils it all in the last few days.’

‘André, I promise you. I had no alternative. But I made a deliberate mistake. He was caught, wasn’t he?’

‘So now the FFI have agreed that as long as Bertrand continues to help us, he will keep his balls, won’t you, Bertrand? Not that I think you have much use for them, but they are nice to have anyway, eh?’

Bertrand calmed down when he realised he was not in more trouble. He made a big play of shaking Owen’s hand and thanking the British. The British passport was the hardest to copy, he wanted Owen to know that. For him, this was clearly the greatest compliment he could pay. The British passport and the Greek passport, but who wanted a Greek passport? A bottle of Absinthe appeared from a shelf and they all sat round a table in the middle of the room while André carefully explained what Bertrand was to do. Owen toyed with his glass but avoided drinking any. He noticed André did likewise. Bertrand made notes of what was being said and asked a few questions, refilling his glass as he wrote. He understood. Once he slipped into the role of forger, he was no longer the nervous little man with the jerking head. He was now calm and sounded authoritative. Owen could see why he was a master.

‘And when do you want all of this by, André?’

‘Tuesday?’

‘Impossible. Some of these documents you want will be very difficult. One of them I have never attempted before. Thursday at the earliest.’

‘Wednesday morning?’ asked André.

‘How about Wednesday evening?’

‘No, Bertrand. I’ll be here Wednesday lunchtime. If they’re ready, you get to keep your balls. For me, that would be a very good incentive.’

Bertrand nodded. There was no need for André to add that the work had better be good. That was taken for granted.

ooo000ooo

He arrived in Paris while his prey was in the forger’s den.

He was seething when he found out that morning that Quinn had slipped the net and had been spotted in Boulogne, getting on a train for Paris. There would be time for recriminations later, Edgar reassured himself as the RAF plane began its descent into Paris. It was simply appalling. He had put enough measures in place to ensure that if Quinn so much as bent down to tie his shoe lace, he would know about it. And what had happened? Quinn had booked a week’s leave, which, of course, he knew about. He’d even paid for the hotel in St Andrews, they had checked on that. But he’d fooled those bloody idiots by leaving early and it was more than twelve hours before they could pick up any trace of him.

Now the priority was to find Quinn. He would not lose him this time. He could not begin to contemplate the possibility of Quinn actually finding his wife and what the consequences would be of that. It really did not bear thinking about. Edgar reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and felt the reassuring shape of his service revolver. That would not happen.

The last time, it had been simply unacceptable that the French police had been so tardy in supplying the hotel registration cards. He bet that they had been far more accommodating to the Germans. Now he had a promise that he would have help from the Embassy. He may have to stay up all night, but he’d be most surprised if he had not found Quinn by the end of Sunday. Then it would just be a matter of keeping a careful eye on Quinn and letting him do all the work.

ooo000ooo

André went on his own to collect the documents on the Wednesday and was back in the apartment by two that afternoon. Gaston was coming to collect them at five. Owen stayed in the apartment as much as possible. He had no doubt that by now, Edgar would be searching for him in Paris. The hotel registration cards would be of no help, so he did not want to give him the satisfaction of finding himself in the same queue for the Eiffel Tower. He felt safe in the apartment.

Émile drove them south of Paris, the journey to the prison taking a bit longer than it had early on the Saturday morning. He had not acknowledged them as they entered the car, but throughout the journey Owen noticed that he kept glancing at them. Gaston’s contact had warned them not to arrive before six, when the governor would still be on duty. After seven would be better. All the prisoners would be back in their cells by then.

They arrived at seven thirty and Gaston’s friend made a couple of calls while they waited in his office. Ten minutes later the phone rang and they were on their way through the labyrinth of corridors, courtyards and staircases.

Lange was handcuffed to the chair when they went into the same room as they had seen him in on Saturday. He looked confused and a bit dishevelled. His fair hair, which had been carefully slicked back on Saturday, appeared uncombed. He sat behind the table, looking from Gaston to Owen to André, but the look was a nervous, darting one. The air of self-confidence that had been so evident before was absent. André lit a cigarette, making a point of not offering one to Lange, who looked as if he could do with one.

‘Is this really necessary?’ The German asked, noisily holding up his two hands as far as the chains would allow.

‘We’ll see, but I think it probably will be,’ said Gaston, carefully putting on his reading glasses. ‘Do you have family, Lange?’

Lange shrugged his shoulders and gave the slightest of nods, his eyes narrowing.

‘According to your file, your wife is Helga. Daughters Charlotte aged... let me see, twelve now? Maria, she’d be fourteen... fifteen?’

Lange eyes blazed at them.

‘And what is Mainz like to live in, Georg? I understand it is a historic city, isn’t it where the printing press was invented?’

Lange sat very still, controlling his breathing. Gaston was leafing through a thick file of papers as he spoke.

‘And what is sustaining you now, Georg, is the knowledge that in just a matter of months, possibly even weeks, you will be back in Mainz with Helga, Charlotte and Maria, eh? This unfortunate war will be forgotten and you will go back to being a pillar of Mainz society, if there is such a thing. Am I right?’

No reaction from Lange.

‘And you did indeed have every reason to believe that. There was no evidence that you were a Nazi or had committed war crimes.’

Silence.

‘Your French is excellent, Georg,’ continued Gaston, ‘so you will have noticed that I used the past tense there. There
was
indeed no evidence that you were a Nazi or had committed war crimes. I have no doubt you spotted that. But now, let me show you the evidence. You will notice that I am now using the present tense. André, please.’

Gaston removed his glasses in a triumphant manner as André got up and walked over to the table. Owen could see why they had asked for Lange to be handcuffed. He spread out the documents on the table and held each one up in turn in front of Lange’s face. Lange was shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

‘Let me present exhibit A,’ said André. ‘A Nazi Party membership card. Very good. You didn’t join until 1941 by the way, in case you are wondering when you signed up. You left it a bit late, but we thought it best as we only had recent photographs of you. Obviously a wise career move, Lange. Makes sense, it probably stopped you being sent to the Eastern Front. So you are a member of the Nazi Party now, Georg. Congratulations.’

‘Bastards.’ Lange struggled in his chair.

‘Keep still, Georg, the more you struggle the more your handcuffs will hurt. I know that from bitter experience,’ said Gaston. There was a pause, before André continued.

‘Now then, the Nazi Party card was easy to produce. It is not exactly rare, but these,’ he was waving a sheaf of papers in front of Lange, ‘we are very proud of. Exhibit B we will call them. Have a careful look. The first one is dated the sixteenth of July 1942. You know what date that is, don’t you, Georg? Need I remind you? It is the date of the
grand rafle
. The roundup of the Jews in Paris. And before you tell me again that you were not involved in this kind of thing, that you were in military intelligence… here we have a series of orders…’ André was leafing through the sheets ‘... signed personally by you ordering the arrest and deportation of Jews. That is clear evidence of a war crime, would you not agree?’

Lange was shaking his head angrily.

‘You know I was not involved in anything like that, this is an outrage, it...’ he shouted.

‘Shhhhhhh.’ André had a finger to his lips. ‘Be quiet, Georg, I have not finished yet. And here is exhibit C. We know that you were in Boulogne in June this year. You admitted that yourself in your affidavit, in your very own handwriting. By the way, thank you so much for alerting us to the existence of that affidavit, it was most helpful, as you can see. It is good to have a nice large signature like that. Very useful for a colleague of ours. Anyway, back to Boulogne. You admit you were there in June. A perfectly legitimate place for a Wehrmacht intelligence officer to be based, I am sure. But do you remember what happened on the seventh of June, the day after D-Day in case you have forgotten?’

Lange shook his head.

‘Let me remind you then. Two hostages were executed in front of the Hôtel de Ville. In reprisal for the killing of two German soldiers. Do you remember? A mother of two children and a teenage boy. Well I have news for you, Georg. This document here,’ he held it in front of Lange’s angry eyes, ‘shows who signed the death warrant. Georg Lange.’

André sat down. Owen noticed that he was shaking. It was as if he had come to believe the veracity of Bertrand’s forgeries himself, so good were they. Gaston got up and leaned on the table in front of Lange, who had now turned white, perspiration pouring down his face.

‘We can do one of three things with this information, Georg. It can go to the authorities and you will face a war crimes trial. I would have thought we are looking at a minimum of ten years before you see Helga, Charlotte and Maria and Mainz again, that is if they wait for you that long. Mainz will, of course, but possibly not Helga. And Charlotte and Maria will not remember you in any event. And then that evidence from Boulogne is very damning. They may even seek the death penalty there. There’s only one way to find out.

‘The second thing we could do would be for you to be transferred from here tonight and your car intercepted on the way by the FFI. Do you want me to describe to you what they would do? No? I can promise you, ten years in prison will be a very attractive alternative even if it will last a lot longer.’

There was a long pause now, during which Lange lurched forward and vomited down the front of his grey uniform. When he lifted his stained head up, his eyes were red with tears. His mouth was half open, flecks of vomit and saliva dripping down his chin. The cell now had a rank and fetid air smell. Lange was trembling violently.

‘I can appreciate your discomfort, Georg. Are you ready for me to tell you the third alternative? All of these documents can be destroyed. They would be burned, in your presence and the minute the war is over, you would be released and free to go back to Helga, Charlotte and Maria in Mainz. If it was me, I would see that as the most preferable of the three options. And you want to know how you can get us to do that? It’s simple. You tell us everything you know about this woman.’ Gaston slapped the photograph of Nathalie down on the table. ‘Everything. You have our word that if we find out that you have been telling us the truth, all of this will be destroyed.’

There was a long silence as Lange stared at the photograph and the documents laid out on the table in front of him. He was rocking very slightly in his chair.

‘And how can I trust you?’ Lange’s voice was quavering.

‘You can’t. It is a gamble,’ said André. He waited before continuing. ‘But I would have thought the alternatives to not trusting us are far worse. It is a risk you have to take.’

‘Do you want some time to think about, Georg?’ asked Gaston.

The German looked up slowly and his gaze took in all three of them. Any pretence at composure was long gone. He was broken. His face betrayed a mixture of fear and hatred. Within the space of less than ten minutes he had gone from a sophisticated and professional officer to a broken man.

‘Of course not. I’ll tell you everything I know. But I want to tell you something first. It was not difficult to recruit her. She came to us.’

ooo000ooo

There was an air of definite satisfaction in the Renault as it headed back to Paris that night and they discussed everything that Lange had told them. It was in marked contrast to the gloom that had accompanied the journey back the previous Saturday. Owen even noticed that there was some life in Émile’s eyes as the driver kept looking at them, taking everything in.

Had they not been so tired, they might have been tempted to stop for a drink in one of the bars around the Avenue des Champs Élysées and had they done that, they could well have been spotted by the tall Englishman in the long dark greatcoat and wide-brimmed trilby. Some of the bar owners had spotted him more than once over the previous days, peering into the bars, looking around and never buying a drink – which is what bothered them most. One or two had asked him his business and he produced a pocketful of accreditation that quickly persuaded them to mind their own business.