and peaked cap, a grimy blue scarf knotted around his neck. His companion, the driver of the truck, wore an old army tunic and badly needed a shave.
‘This is it, Karl, you are certain?’ Conlin asked in German.
‘The cottage is a couple of hundred yards from here at the end of the farm track through the woods, Father. You can’t miss it, it’s the only one,’ Karl told him.
Conlin said, ‘I’ll take a look. You wait here. If everything’s all right I’ll be back for you in a few minutes.’
He moved away. Karl took the stub of a cigar from behind his ear and lit it. He sat there smoking for a while, then opened the door, got down and stood at the side of the truck to relieve himself. There was no sound at all, so that the blow that was delivered to the back of his head came as a total surprise. He went down with a slight groan and lay still.
There was a light at one of the cottage windows for the curtains were partially drawn. When Father Conlin approached cautiously and peered inside he saw Margaret Campbell, dressed in sweater and slacks, sitting in front of a blazing log fire reading a book.
He tapped on the pane. She glanced up, then crossed to the window and peered out at him. He smiled, but she did not smile in return. Simply went to the door and opened it.
Conlin moved into the warmth of the room, shaking rain from his cap. ‘A good night for it.’
‘You came,’ she said in a choked voice.
‘Didn’t you think I would?’ He was warming himself at the fire and smiled at her. ‘Your father – how is he?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said tonelessly. ‘I haven’t seen him for weeks now. They wouldn’t allow me.’
He saw it then of course, saw all of it, now that it was too late. ‘Oh, my poor child,’ he said and there was only concern for her in his voice, compassion in the faded blue eyes. ‘What have they made you do?’
The kitchen door creaked open behind, a draught of air touched his neck coldly and he turned. A man was standing there, tall, rather distinguished-looking, dark hair turning to silver, a strong face – a soldier’s face. He wore a heavy overcoat with a fur collar and smoked a thin cheroot.
‘Good evening, Father Conlin,’ he said in German. ‘You know who I am?’
‘Yes,’ Conlin said. ‘Helmut Klein. I believe you once enjoyed the dubious distinction of being the youngest full colonel in the Waffen SS.’
‘Quite right,’ Klein said.
Two men in raincoats emerged from the kitchen to stand beside him. At the same moment, the outside door opened and a couple of Vopos entered armed with machine-pistols, followed by a sergeant.
‘We got the truck-driver, sir.’
‘What, no comrade?’ Father Conlin said. ‘Not very socialistic of you, Colonel.’ He turned to Margaret Campbell. ‘Colonel Klein and I are old adversaries, at a distance. He is Director of Section Five, Department Two of the State Security Service which is charged with the task of combating the work of refugee organizations in Western Europe by any means possible. But then, you’d know that.’
Her eyes were burning, her face very pale. She turned to Klein. ‘I’ve done what you asked. Now can I see my father?’
‘Not possible, I’m afraid,’ Klein said calmly. ‘He died last month.’
The room was very quiet now and when she spoke it was in a whisper. ‘But that can’t be. It was only three weeks ago that you first sent for me. First suggested that I …’ She gazed at him, total horror on her face. ‘Oh, my God. He was dead. He was already dead when you spoke to me.’
Father Conlin reached out for her, but she pulled away and launched herself on Klein. He struck her once, knocking her back into the corner by the door. She lay there dazed. As Conlin tried to move towards her, the two men in raincoats grabbed him and the Vopos advanced.
‘Now what?’ the old priest asked.
‘What do you expect, whips and clubs, Father?’ Klein asked. ‘Nothing like that. We have accommodation reserved for you at Schloss Neustadt. Comfortable – or otherwise
– the choice is yours. A change of heart is what I seek. As publicly as possible, naturally.’ ‘Then you’re wasting your time entirely,’ the old man said.
Behind them, the door banged as Margaret Campbell slipped out into the night.
* * *
She had no idea where she was going, her brain unable to focus properly after the stunning shock she had received. Klein had lied to her. Used her love for her father to betray a remarkable man.
Her mind rejected the idea totally so that she ran as if from the consequences of her action, blundering through the trees in the darkness, aware of the cries of her pursuers behind. And before her was only the river, its waters, swollen by heavy rain, flooding across the weir.
One of the Vopos loosed off a burst from his machine-pistol and she cried out in fear, running even faster, one arm raised against the flailing branches, tripped over a log and rolled down the steep bank into the river.
The Vopos arrived a moment later and the sergeant flashed his torch in time to see her out there in the flood, an arm raised despairingly, and then she went under.
It was just after eight o’clock on the following evening when the black Mercedes saloon drew up to the entrance of the Ministry of State Security at 22 Normannenstrasse in East Berlin. Helmut Klein got out of the rear and hurried up the steps to the main entrance for he had an appointment to keep – probably the most important appointment of his entire career – and he was already late.
Section Five was located on the third floor. When he went into the outer office, his secretary, Frau Apel, rose from her desk considerably agitated.
‘He arrived ten minutes ago,’ she whispered, glancing anxiously at the three men in dark overcoats who stood by the inner door. Hard, implacable faces, ready for anything and capable of most things, from the look of them.
There was a fourth man, lounging in the window-seat reading a magazine. Small, with good shoulders, dark hair and grey eyes that had a transparent look to them. The left-hand corner of the mouth was lifted into a slight ironic half-smile that contained no humour, only a kind of contempt directed at the world in general. He wore a dark trench-coat.
Klein gave his coat to Frau Apel and moved towards him, hand outstretched. He spoke in English. ‘Well, we got him, Harry. It worked, just like you said. The girl did exactly as she was told.’
‘I thought she might.’ The voice was soft and pleasant. Good Boston-American. ‘Where is she now?’
‘Dead.’ Klein explained briefly what had happened.
‘What a pity,’ the small man said. ‘She was rather pretty. You’ve got the man himself in there, by the way. I almost got to touch the hem of his garment as he swept by.’
Klein glanced quickly at the security men by the door and dropped his voice. ‘Exactly the kind of remark we can do without. When I call you in,
