Flight of Eagles. Jack Higgins

realized that what I was thinking wasn’t ‘When I come out.’ It was ‘Will I come out?’

      The first surprise in Berlin was that my uncle had been posted back to Hamburg, or so I was informed by the caretaker of the flat he lived in.

      She was an old, careworn woman, who said, ‘You’re the nephew. He told me to let you in,’ which she did.

      It was a neutral, grey sort of place. I dropped my bag, had a look round and answered a ring at the door to find Konrad Strasser standing there.

      ‘You’re looking good,’ he said.

      He found a bottle of schnapps and poured a couple. ‘So, you’re doing the tourist bit into the Eastern Zone, boy?’

      ‘You seem well-informed.’

      ‘Yes, you could say that.’

      I swallowed my schnapps. ‘What’s a Hamburg detective doing in Berlin?’

      ‘I moved over last year. I worked for the BND, West German Intelligence. An outfit called the Office for the Protection of the Constitution. Our main task is to combat Communist infiltration into our part of the country.’

      ‘So?’

      He poured himself another schnapps. ‘You’re going over this afternoon with Germanic Tours in their bus. Leave your Brit passport here, only take the Irish.’

      ‘Look, what is this?’ I demanded. ‘And how are you involved?’

      ‘That doesn’t matter. What does is that you’re a bagman for 21 SAS.’

      ‘For God’s sake, they turned me down.’

      ‘Well, not really. It’s more complicated than that. Have you ever heard the old IRA saying? Once in, never out?’

      I was stunned but managed to say, ‘What have you got to do with all this?’

      He took a piece of paper from his wallet and passed it over. ‘There’s a crude map for you and a bar called Heini’s. If things go wrong, go there and tell the barman that your accommodation is unsatisfactory and you must move at once. Use English.’

      ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

      ‘That someone will come for you. Of course, if everything works, you come back on the tour bus, but that would imply a perfect world.’

      I said, ‘You’re part of this. Me, Wilson. My uncle’s not here, yet you are. What the hell goes on?’

      I suddenly thought of my desk at the office in Leeds, the Astoria ballroom on a Friday night, girls in cotton frocks. What was I doing here?

      ‘You’re a fly in the web, just like me in the Gestapo. You got pulled in. All so casual, but no way back.’ He finished his schnapps and moved to the door. ‘I’m on your side, boy, remember that.’ He closed the door and was gone.

      The tour bus took us through Checkpoint Charlie, everything nice and easy. There were tourists from all over the world on board. On the other side, the border police inspected us. In my case, my tourist visas and Irish passport. No problems at all.

      Later, at lunch at a very old-fashioned hotel, the guides stressed that if anyone got lost on any of the tours, they should make for the hotel, where the coach would leave at five.

      In my case, the instructions in the brown envelope told me to be at my destination at four. I hung in there for two boring hours and dropped out at three-thirty, catching a taxi at just the right moment.

      The East Germans had a funny rule at the time. The Christian church was allowed, but you couldn’t be a member of the Communist Party and go to church – it would obviously damage your job prospects. The result was that the congregations were rather small.

      The Church of the Holy Name had obviously seen better days. It was cold, it was damp, it was shabby. There was even a shortage of candles. There were three old women sitting waiting at the confessional box, a man in a brown raincoat praying in a pew close by. I obeyed my instructions and waited. Finally, my turn came and I entered the confessional box.

      There was a movement on the other side of the grille. I said, ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,’ and I said it in English.

      ‘In what way, my son?’

      I replied as the instructions in the envelope had told me. ‘I am here only as God’s messenger.’

      ‘Then do God’s work.’

      An envelope was pushed under the grille. There was silence, the light switched off on the other side. I picked up the envelope and left.

      I don’t know how long it took me to realize that the man in the brown raincoat was following me. The afternoon was darkening fast, rain starting to fall and I looked desperately for a taxi with no success. I started to walk fast, moving from street to street, aiming for the River Spree, trying to remember the city from the old days, but at every corner, looking back, there he was.

      Turning into one unexpected alley, I ran like hell and suddenly saw the river. I turned along past a line of decaying warehouses and ducked into an entrance. He ran past a few moments later. I waited – silence, only the heavy rain – then stepped out, moving to the edge of the wharf.

      ‘Halt! Stay exactly where you are.’

      He came round the corner, a Walther PPK in his left hand, and approached.

      I said, in English, sounding outraged, ‘I say, what on earth is this?’

      He came close. ‘Don’t try that stuff with me. We both know you’ve been up to no good. I’ve been watching that old bastard at the church for weeks.’

      He made his one mistake then, coming close enough to slap my face. I grabbed his right wrist, knocked the left arm to one side and caught that wrist as well. He discharged the pistol once and we came together as we lurched to the edge of the wharf. I turned the Walther against him. It discharged again and he cried out, still clutching his weapon, and went over the edge into the river. I turned and ran as if the hounds of hell were at my heels. When I reached the hotel, the coach had departed.

      I found Heini’s bar an hour later. It was really dark by then. The bar, as was to be expected so early in the evening, was empty. The barman was old and villainous, with iron-grey hair and a scar bisecting his left cheek up to an empty eye socket. I ordered a cognac.

      ‘Look,’ I said in English. ‘My accommodation is unsatisfactory and I must move at once.’

      It seemed wildly crazy, but to my surprise, he nodded and replied in English. ‘Okay, sit by the window. We’ve got a lamb stew tonight. I’ll bring you some. When it’s time to go, I’ll let you know.’

      I had the stew, a couple more drinks, then he suddenly appeared to take the plates. There were half a dozen other customers by then.

      ‘Cross the street to the wharf where the cranes are beside the river. Black Volkswagen limousine. No charge, just go.’

      I did as I was told, crossed the road through the rain and found the Volkswagen. In a strange way, it was no surprise to find Konrad Strasser at the wheel.

      ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

      I climbed in. ‘What’s this, special treatment?’

      ‘Decided to come myself. What was your score on the border? Two Russians? Well, you’re now an Ace. A Stasi agent went into the Spree tonight.’

      Stasis were members of the East German State Security Police.

      I said, ‘He didn’t give me a choice.’

      ‘I don’t imagine he would.’

      We drove through a maze of streets. I said, ‘Coming yourself, was that in the plan?’

      ‘Not really.’

      ‘Risky, I’d have