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

San Lazzaro. Bartholomew was in a top-floor office with the windows wide open despite the cold. It was close to dusk, the twinkling lights of the Adriatic just visible through the mist.

‘They’re mercurial, this bloody pair, I can tell you that.’ Bartholomew looked as if he’d not slept in days. He was in the same raincoat he always seemed to wear. ‘They must be important, because they seem to have plenty of local help. I can’t believe we lost them in Paris, but fortunately we counted on them moving on and we’re not exactly short-staffed there so we had every station covered. We almost lost them in Geneva too, which would have been a disaster, but they were collected from the station in a green Renault and we were able to follow that to where they stayed overnight and from there to Turin, but I can tell you we’ve been stretched to the limit. This Italian coffee is remarkable, you should try it… you don’t need to sleep!’

‘What happened in Turin?’

‘The apartment they stayed in had links to fascists and we thought that was where they were going to stay…’

‘So did we.’

‘…but then they did a midnight flit: fortunately the FSS chaps in Turin were on the ball and we managed to track them to Verona. Following them to Trieste turned out to be the easiest part, actually. This place certainly makes sense: big port and easily accessible from Austria, and it’s full of all types, not just Italians. It’s the kind of place where it’s easy to be inconspicuous.’

‘Where are they now, Bartholomew?’

‘We followed them to a building in the south of the city. I’ve got the local Field Security Section chaps watching it now, and two of my men are there too. I’ll go down later. You’re welcome to join me.’

‘Is anyone else with them?’ Hanne asked.

‘That’s what we don’t know: I would recommend keeping an eye on the place for at least another twenty-four hours. By then we ought to have an idea.’

‘If this place is the end of the Kestrel Line, we need to know if Friedrich Steiner’s there too.’

‘And Martin Bormann.’

‘I understand.’

‘And the port – where could they sail to from it?’

‘I asked the same question of the senior FSS officer downstairs. He pointed to a map of the world and said to take my pick.’

‘They’ve been in there all night, sir.’

It was ten o’clock on the Monday morning. Hanne and Prince were huddled in the back of a Fiat truck with Bartholomew and a Field Security Section officer, a well-built Welshman called Evans who’d been on duty all night. The truck was parked next to a large cemetery on Via dell’Istria on the opposite side of the road from the building Myrtle Carter and Edward Palmer had been seen entering.

‘You’ve got the rear covered?’

‘Yes, sir – every angle is covered.’

‘And do we know what the building is?’

‘Are you a betting man, Mr Prince?’

Prince shrugged. ‘The occasional flutter, I suppose: the Grand National, you know…’

‘Well I’d have bet a tidy sum on the Catholic Church being involved in a Nazi escape line: all the intelligence we’re getting is that they’re up to their ears in it – organising the fugitives’ passage into Italy, hiding them, arranging new identities and then helping them escape from Europe. And sure enough, this place belongs to the local Catholic diocese: apparently it’s some kind of hostel for people connected with the Church to stay in when they’re visiting or passing through Trieste. A couple of parish priests live here too. Carter and Palmer went in yesterday when they arrived in the city and haven’t been seen since.’

‘So we don’t know if Friedrich Steiner’s in there, or anyone else?’

‘No idea, sir.’

‘You know about Martin Bormann?’

Evans nodded and pointed to a photograph of Bormann taped to the side of the truck. ‘No sign of him either, sir.’

They watched and waited for the rest of Monday and into the night. The uneasy silence was broken only by the occasional sound of other vehicles passing. There was a discussion about whether to raid the hostel, but they agreed to wait until they saw Friedrich or anyone else of interest in the building.

At midnight, Hanne and Prince slipped away to a hotel the FSS had taken over on Via San Nicolò. They’d only been asleep a few minutes when there was a knock at the door.

‘I’m sorry to wake you, but they’re on the move,’ said Bartholomew.

Evans met them outside the hotel. He’d been on duty when a van had pulled up in front of the hostel on Via dell’Istria and a small group had hurried from the building into the back of the vehicle.

‘Carter and Palmer were definitely among them, and I’d say from the description you’ve given me that Steiner was too. One of the men could have had just one arm, but it was difficult to tell. There was another man too.’

‘Who do you think he was?’

‘Could have been Bormann: he was dressed as a priest. I’ve been staring at his bloody photo all day, but I can’t be sure it was him, but neither could I be sure it wasn’t him, if you see what I mean.’

‘Do we know where they are?’

‘Fortunately two of our motorcyclists were able to follow them: this is quite an easy city to find your way around, as it’s laid out in a grid pattern. They’re not far from here – at the port. Jump in.’

They drove to a warehouse on Porto Vecchio. It appeared to be deserted, but Evans said one of his motorcyclists had spotted movement in the first-floor offices when they first arrived.

They waited huddled in the back of the truck as the port came to life. A salty wind whipped in from the Adriatic, but other than a rusty sign swaying in the wind, there was no movement in the warehouse.

‘Do we know anything about the building?’

‘The sign on the door says De Luca e Figli – De Luca and