The Best of Our Spies (55 page)

Gaston made towards the car. Owen started to speak, but André put his arm across to stop him.

‘Don’t... don’t even think of asking.’

Émile turned briefly as they got in, a dark beret pulled down just above his hooded eyes, which surveyed them through the rear view mirror. As they headed south through the quiet streets of early morning Paris, Gaston briefed them.

‘We are going to a prison for German prisoners of war. Those that are cleared, that is the non-Nazis, will be sent to a holding camp. They will be released when it is safe, when the war is over. The others, those suspected of war crimes, they will face further justice.

‘We managed to track Lange down to this prison. He is being processed at the moment. I have to tell you though, it looks like he is in the clear. There is no evidence that he is a Nazi Party member or has committed any war crimes. He was probably a typical Abwehr officer – not a Nazi. He’s clever apparently. Smart is the word they used to describe him. He was wearing a Wehrmacht uniform when he was caught and there is no evidence against him. It is not going to be easy.

‘We used to have free access to these prisoners. Straight after the liberation, we could even take them away and do what we wanted with them. If it was up to us, we could get the information you want out of him in an hour, probably far less. It would be no problem. But with the authorities, it is not so easy now. We can no longer have open access to the prisoners. That is why we are going early on a Saturday morning. The governor of the prison is away. The senior officer on duty today is very sympathetic to us. He will give us access to Lange, but on one very strict condition – we are not to harm him. Understand?’

Owen had expected the prison to be on the outskirts of the city, but they had driven for some while with Paris long behind them. They passed Fontainebleau and soon after turned off the main road. The land was flat and covered in a layer of rolling mist, the open landscape broken only by islands of trees and isolated farm buildings. The road had narrowed and was now well above the level of the land on either side of it, which had taken on the appearance of soggy marshland. After about twenty minutes, a large grey building appeared out of the mist ahead of them. They slowed down for a police checkpoint and there were two more before they drove through the main prison gates.

They were ushered into the office of a tall man whom Owen took to be Gaston’s contact. From the way they embraced, Owen imagined that they had been
résistants
together at some stage.

He looked at André’s pass and nodded and then spoke in a fast Parisian accent to André, who translated.

‘He wants to remind you that there is to be no physical violence against this man. Lange is not expecting us by the way.’

The senior officer led them through the warren of corridors. It appeared that the building may originally have been a castle, with various prison buildings being added at different stages. The overall effect was of a confusing collection of blocks and rooms, linked by gloomy corridors and courtyards. After walking down a corridor they came to a door which the senior officer unlocked. They were now in a courtyard, surrounded by high, grey walls. The air was damp and oppressive, the stone walls glistening. A group of German prisoners were milling around the courtyard, hunched against the rain, staying close to the walls and the little shelter they offered. They were guarded by three French soldiers.

Owen was shocked. Apart from the German prisoners he had seen clearing rubble while driving through Boulogne, this was the first time he had come face to face with any Germans, despite being at war with them for over five years. Gaston spat on the ground, in the direction of the prisoners. André shot them a mocking smile. But it was not Owen they were looking at, nor Gaston or the officer. This group of men with their grey prison uniform and hollow eyes, huddled together in the drizzle against the grey brick, could not take their eyes off André. It was unsettling, as if they recognised him.

The senior officer unlocked a door at the end of the courtyard and they were now climbing down a series of steep steps.

‘Why were they all staring at you, André?’

‘Don’t you realise, Owen? They know my type, they’ve had years of training. I was supposed to have been eliminated, remember?’

They waited in a narrow corridor while the senior officer went into a small office. The steps had taken them down into what now felt like a dungeon. The only light came from a series of yellow light-bulbs, all protected by steel mesh, and the atmosphere was distinctly damp. They were now joined by a guard who led them down another corridor, through further locked door and into a small corridor with four locked doors. They paused in the corridor.

‘I will carry out the interrogation,’ said Gaston. ‘Leave it to me. André will translate for you. We do not want him to know at this stage that André speaks German, we may need that later. I will explain that you are from British Intelligence. Under no circumstances must you say anything about your relationship with her. You remain silent, you are here as an observer. You understand? You have the photographs, André?’

André nodded and turned to Owen. ‘Don’t worry. We know what we are doing.’

‘Let’s go.’ Gaston signalled to the guard who unlocked the door nearest to them.

The room was about twenty foot by twenty foot, harshly lit and windowless. Behind a metal table that was fixed to the stone floor sat a well-built man with slicked back fair hair. A guard was standing to the side of him. In front of the table were three chairs. There was nothing on the table apart from an empty ashtray.

The man stood up as they filed into the room. He was on the short side and was wearing the same grey uniform they had seen the other prisoners wearing. The guards left the room, leaving just the three of them facing Georg Lange.

André took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and tossed them onto the table, gesturing for Lange to help himself. He took out three, placed one in his mouth and two in his top pocket and smiled. André held a lit match for him and lit a cigarette for himself.

‘We are from French Intelligence,’ said Gaston, pointing at himself and André. ‘Our colleague here is from British Intelligence.’ Lange’s eyebrows raised, part surprised, part interested.

‘We are interested in finding about some of your agents. We are going to show you some photographs of Abwehr agents that we have arrested. We need to establish their true identities. We believe you may have been connected with them. It would be in your interests if you could tell us what you know about them.’

Lange leaned back, so that his wooden chair was resting on its two back legs. One arm was folded across his middle, the other holding the cigarette in front of him, the elbow resting on the folded arm. His eyes narrowed, before he replied in what to Owen sounded like immaculate French.

‘What do you mean by in my interests?’

‘I mean,’ said Gaston, ‘that if you co-operate then your chances of an early release will be greatly improved. If you fail to co-operate, then you may find that you are a guest of the French Government for many years to come.’

Lange laughed and shrugged his shoulders. ‘My understanding is that the Allies play by the rules.’ He smiled directly at Owen as André quietly translated. ‘I am a prisoner of war, gentlemen. I am covered by the Geneva Convention. I am not obliged to answer any questions. I only have to give my name, my rank and my serial number. I have done nothing wrong. There are no conceivable grounds for detaining me any longer than necessary once this war is over.’

‘You are an Abwehr officer, though.’

‘If you look at my file, gentlemen, which I am sure you have, you will see that I am a Wehrmacht officer. I was arrested in Paris on the twenty-fifth of August wearing a Wehrmacht uniform. In my file is an affidavit I have signed testifying that I am not a member of the Nazi Party, neither have I ever been a member of it. You will find no record of my being a member of the Nazi Party. I have done nothing wrong. I am very confident I will be released along with all the other Wehrmacht soldiers, because I know that there will never be any evidence that I ever did anything improper. You should not be wasting your energies on me, gentlemen. There are plenty of Nazis who you should be chasing after. Certainly, I worked in the field of military intelligence, but I do not think that is a war crime, is it? You may not choose to believe me, but I was never a Nazi. Sure, I was a loyal German, but never a Nazi. You will find no evidence that I was. I am sorry; I am aware that I may be repeating myself, but what more can I say – other than the truth?’ He inhaled deeply, folded his arms, leaned back in his chair and smiled politely.

André took an envelope out of the small briefcase he had brought with him and removed some photographs.

‘I am going to show you some photographs,’ said André. ‘They are of people we have arrested who we believe are Abwehr agents. We believe they are giving false names. We want you to tell us their real names. As we say, if you co-operate it will be in your interests.’

André placed five photographs in front of Lange, as if he was dealing from a pack of cards. They were upside down from Owen’s point of view, but he could clearly see that they were of three women and two men. Nathalie’s photograph was on Lange’s far right.

Lange studied them carefully, picking each one up and tilting it in the light. His face showed no hint of recognition whatsoever. When he had finished he placed them all down again and laid his hands flat on the table, his fingers spread out as he looked once more up and down the photographs.

‘No. I am sorry, gentlemen. I do not recognise any of these people. You understand that in military intelligence we had very little contact with French citizens. There was some, of course, but “agents”,’ he was waving his hand with the cigarette in a dismissive manner, ‘agents appear in books. Military intelligence is all about maps, codes and radio intercepts – as I’m sure you know. Very boring, actually. So, I don’t think I can help you. If you are looking for spies, then I suggest you try a library.’ He smiled at each of them in turn, anxious to convey the impression that he was genuinely sorry.

Lange helped himself to more cigarettes, this time brazenly removing four from the packet and placing three of them in his top pocket. André lit the one in his mouth for him.

Gaston hesitated as if he was not sure what to do next. He had clearly not expected Lange to stonewall them quite so effectively. ‘We have different levels of interest in these people. There is one in particular that we want to know about, more than the others.’

‘And I imagine that it is this one, am I right?’ Owen’s heart leaped and he fought to control his excitement. Lange was holding up the photograph of Nathalie. It had been taken in Hyde Park, so she was smiling and clearly out of doors. ‘Shall I tell you why? Because the other four have had their photographs taken in a police station. Mug shots. This one, I suspect, is not in custody as otherwise you would have a custody photograph of her. She is the odd one out. Am I right? Please do not treat me as if I am a fool. ‘

Gaston appeared to sigh. ‘What can you tell us about her then, Lange?’

It was impossible to calibrate, but the pause that followed felt just a fraction too long. It was enough to convince Owen that Lange was hesitating. His face was very still; if anything he was trying just too hard to show no flicker of emotion. He was allowing himself an extra split second to compose an appropriate response.

‘Nothing. I have never seen her before, have I? I thought I had told you that.’

‘Are you sure, Lange? If we find out that you are lying to us then that will put you in a very difficult position.’

‘I cannot see how. If I don’t know someone, then I don’t know them, do I? Is there anything else that I can help you with?’

There was nothing. They left the prison disconsolate. The idea of placing Nathalie’s photograph among a selection of others had seemed a good idea at the time, but it had backfired. Their de-brief in the car felt desperate. Lange was smart, they agreed. He might well know Nathalie, but he was clearly not going to admit to it. The rest of the journey back to Paris was conducted in silence. Every time Owen looked up he could see Émile’s eyes darting around in the mirror. Owen was devastated. Lange had seemed to be their best bet for finding Nathalie, but he was not going to co-operate. He knew that they had no proof of the connection, so could easily block them. He could feel Nathalie slipping from his grasp after seeming to be so close.

They were dropped off in the Rue Taitbout and André and Owen trooped miserably up the stairs, with the concierge’s beady eyes following them from the entrance hall.

For a while, nothing was said. Owen sank into the sofa and helped himself to one of André’s strong cigarettes. André paced up and down, at one stage kneeling down by the box containing photographs and glancing at one or two.

Then he seemed to have an idea, turned to Owen and said ‘wait here’ and disappeared.

It was an hour before he came back. When he did, Owen was none the wiser. ‘I rang Gaston. He liked my idea. He is going back to the prison to collect something. Then I’ll take you into the sewers of Paris.’

ooo000ooo

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Strasbourg
January 1945

For the first time in five years, the bells of the Notre Dame were able to summon the New Year into a free city. The city had been occupied by the Nazis for nearly four and a half years, longer than almost any other city in France. The bells sounded muted.

There was some shouting in the street, but her mother was asleep and the baby was settling in her arms. She stood at the window, inside the drawn curtains, gently rocking. Over the rooftops, she could just make out the main spire of the cathedral, lit up for the first time in years. In a nearby street she could hear a crowd singing
La Marseillaise.
After the years of silence you could hardly turn a street corner without hearing that music, she thought. On the table behind her was a half-f glass of white Alsatian wine, its chill long gone. Her mother had insisted on opening a bottle, but she did not feel like celebrating.