End of Spies, Alex Gerlis [important of reading books txt] 📗

‘What were you expecting, Charles – a cheque?’

‘No, but I thought maybe… an envelope?’ They were in the tiny office in the West End art gallery, and his uncle and his business partner and the woman were all smoking, which he worried was going to trigger his asthma, but he didn’t like to say anything. He stared at the package on his uncle’s desk. It was just over a foot long and possibly nine inches deep; certainly not the kind of thing you could slip into your pocket. It was wrapped in brown paper and secured with string and tape. On the front was the stamp of a pharmacy in London, and the word ‘medicine’ was written on the front and the back in English and German.

No one had so much as glanced at it when he took it back to Cologne, where he kept it in a case under his bed at night and carried it round in his briefcase all day, every day, until he managed to get a pass to go to Frankfurt for the weekend. The officer who issued the passes gave him a knowing wink and said if he had any plans – another wink – to take care, and if he didn’t take care then to enjoy it, but remember to see the medical officer as soon as he returned.

By the time Falmer arrived in Frankfurt, he was in a terrible state. He’d not slept for two nights and his stomach was playing up quite badly. As sympathetic as he was to the cause, he wasn’t sure he was the right man for this job. The journey to Frankfurt had been painfully slow. The bus had had to negotiate its way through the damaged streets of the city, stopping frequently as carts carrying rubble moved out of its path. It stopped at the railway station, or at least what remained of it, and when Falmer asked an American soldier where the nearest public toilets were, he laughed at him and said about a hundred miles away.

He walked from the station to the small hotel on Allerheiligenstrasse that was reserved for Americans and other Allied officials. It was the only building in the street that appeared unscathed, and seemed pleasant enough. As he was checking in, an American officer told him that as long as he had dollars, there were a couple of decent cafés near the remains of the main post office, and gave him directions.

The handover was planned for ten o’clock the following morning, the Sunday. As Falmer washed in the stained basin in his room, he wondered what to do with the package in the meantime, eventually deciding to take it with him in his briefcase.

His downfall came in a small bar in an alley opposite the post office. He was in the alley because of what had been on his mind since a colleague had told him that the whole of the centre of Frankfurt was a red-light district, due to the fact that people were so desperate. ‘It’s about the only way they can earn dollars – women and men, even children!’

The first bar was noisy and full of American troops and women old enough to be their mothers, and the second felt so menacing he only glanced into it from the doorway. He spotted the third bar down a cutting off the alley, and it was just what he’d had in mind. It seemed much quieter, and more to the point, it had only men in it. As he edged nervously to the bar, teenage boys began to gather around him. Are you American, sir? Do you have dollars? Buy me a drink, I will let you have whatever you want…

He wasn’t sure what to do. He felt intimidated and thought he ought to leave, but on the other hand… It was at that moment that a large man wearing a vest and smoking an enormous cigar sidled up to him. ‘This is my place: you give me five dollars and choose a boy, then you go upstairs. When you’re in the room, you pay the boy.’

Falmer looked at the boys watching him, all smiling expectantly. He was now wishing he wasn’t there; he’d not expected it to be so blatant and so sudden. He’d somehow assumed he’d have time to assess the situation and make up his mind; he’d been hoping for something more discreet. Another couple of boys had gathered round, including one who looked no older than twelve. The man pushed up against him and spoke in a menacing tone.

‘You choose a boy now and don’t waste my time: five dollars.’

‘I’d like to leave now… please.’ Falmer was doing his best to sound authoritative, but he was aware he came across as anything but. He pushed past the man and headed towards a door he assumed was an exit, but instead found himself in a narrow corridor with a staircase at one end.

‘To leave now, you pay ten dollars.’

He couldn’t remember exactly what happened next and in what order, but he did recall the briefcase being wrenched from his grasp and his wallet being taken from his jacket pocket, and then being punched in the ribs as he was dragged to the exit and pushed onto the wet cobbles, which were so slippery he felt as if he were sliding on ice. He picked himself up and realised he wasn’t hurt, but when he turned round, the door of the bar was shut. At that moment, half a dozen American troops appeared and he blurted out what had happened.

They told him not to worry and to wait outside. He heard much shouting from inside, and watched as everyone in the bar was thrown out and sent on their way. One of the Americans emerged carrying the briefcase.

The relief that swept over Charles Falmer didn’t last long.

He was asked whether this was the briefcase and he said yes, and then the American opened it and