Back home in Leeds, as I started a succession of rather dreary jobs, I received a buff envelope from the authorities reminding me that I was a reservist for the next ten years. It suggested that I join the Territorial Army, become a weekend soldier and, when I discovered there was money to be earned, I took them up on it, particularly as I was considering going to work in London. There was a Territorial Army Regiment there, called the Artists Rifles, which the War Office turned into 21 SAS. When the Malayan Emergency started many members volunteered for the Malayan Scouts, which in 1952 became a Regular Army Unit, 22 SAS.
When in London job-hunting, I reported to 21 SAS with my papers and was enthusiastically received as an ex-Guards NCO. I filled in various papers, had the usual medical and found myself finally in front of a Major Wilson, although in view of what happened later, I doubt it was his real name.
Just sign here, Corporal, he said and pushed a form across the desk.
And just what am I signing, sir? I asked.
The Official Secrets Act. He smiled beautifically. This is that kind of unit, you see.
I hesitated, then signed.
Good. He took the form and blotted my signature carefully.
Shall I report Saturday, sir? I asked.
No, not yet. A few formalities to be gone through. Well be in touch.
He smiled again, so I left it at that and departed.
I had a phone call from him about two weeks later at the insurance office in Leeds where I worked at that time, suggesting a meeting at Yates Wine Bar near City Square at lunchtime. We sat in a corner enjoying pie and peas and a light ale while he broke the bad news. I was surprised to find him in Yorkshire, but he didnt explain.
The thing is, old son, the SAS cant use you. The medical shows a rather indifferent left eye. Although you dont advertise the fact, you wear glasses.
Well, the Horse Guards didnt object. I fired for the regimental team at Bisley. I was a crack shot. I had a sharpshooters badge.
Yes, we know about that. At least two Russians on the East German side of the border could confirm your skill, or their corpses could. On the other hand, you only got in the Guards because some stupid clerk forgot to fill in the eye section on your records and, of course, the Guards never admit mistakes.
So thats it?
Afraid so. Pity, really. Such an interesting background. That uncle of yours, staff sergeant at Hamburg headquarters. Remarkable record. Captured before Dunkirk, escaped from prison camp four times, sent to Auschwitz to the enclave for Allied prisoners considered bad boys. Two-thirds of them died.
Yes, I know.
Of course theyve kept him at HQ Hamburg because of his excellent German. He married a German war widow, I see.
Well, love knows no frontiers, I told him.
I suppose so. Interesting family though, just like you. Born in England, Irish-Scot, raised in the Shankill in Belfast. What they call an Orange Prod.
So?
But also raised by your mothers Catholic cousin in Crossmaglen. Very republican down there, those people. You must have fascinating contacts.
Look, sir, I said carefully. Is there anything you dont know about me?
No. He smiled that beatific smile. Were very thorough. He stood up. Must go. Sorry it turned out this way. He picked up his raincoat. Just one thing. Do remember you signed the Official Secrets Act. Prison term for forgetting that.
I was genuinely bewildered. But what does it matter now? I mean, your regiment doesnt need me.
He started away then turned again. And dont forget youre a serving member of the Army Reserve. You could be recalled at any time.
What was interesting was a German connection he hadnt mentioned, but then I didnt know about it myself until 1952. My uncles wife had a nephew named Konrad Strasser, or at least that was one of several names he used over the years. I was introduced to him in Hamburg at a party in St Pauli for my uncles German relatives.
Konrad was small and dark and full of energy, always smiling. He was thirty-two, a Chief Inspector in the Hamburg Criminal Investigation Department. We stood in the corner in the midst of a noisy throng.
Was it fun on the border? he asked.
Not when it snowed.
Russia was worse.
You were in the Army there?
No, the Gestapo. Only briefly, thank God, hunting down some crooks stealing Army supplies.
To say I was shaken is to put it mildly. Gestapo?
He grinned. Let me complete your education. The Gestapo needed skilled and experienced detectives so they descended on police forces all over Germany and commandeered what they wanted. Thats why more than fifty per cent of Gestapo operatives werent even members of the Nazi party and that included me. I was about twenty in 1940 when they hijacked me. I didnt have a choice.
I believed him instantly and later, things that happened in my life proved that he was telling the truth. In any case, I liked him.
It was 1954 when Wilson re-entered my life. I was working in Leeds, as a civil servant at the time, still writing rather indifferent novels that nobody wanted. I had a backlog of four weeks holiday and decided to spend a couple in Berlin because my uncle had been moved there on a temporary basis to Army headquarters.
The phone call from Wilson was a shock. Yates Wine Bar again, downstairs, a booth. This time he had ham sandwiches, Yorkshire, naturally, and off the bone.
Bit boring for you, the Electricity Generating Authority.
True, I said. But only an hours work a day. I sit at my desk and write.
Yes, but not much success there, he informed me brutally. There was a pause. Berlin should make a nice break.
I said, Look, what the hell is this about?
Berlin, he said. Youre going to stay with your uncle a week next Tuesday. Wed like you to do something for us.
Sitting there in the normality of Yates Wine Bar in Leeds with the muted roar of City Square traffic outside, this seemed the most bizarre proposition Id ever had.
Look, I said. I tried to join 21 SAS, you said my bad eye ruled me out, so I never joined, did I?
Not quite as simple as that, old boy. Let me remind you, you did sign the Official Secrets Act and you are still a member of the Army Reserve.
You mean Ive no choice?
I mean we own you, my son. He took an envelope from his briefcase. When youre in Berlin, youll take a trip into the Eastern Zone by bus. All the details are in there. You go to the address indicated, pick up an envelope and bring it back.
This is crazy, I said. For one thing, I remember from my service in Berlin that to go through on a British passport is impossible.
But, my dear chap, your Irish antecedents earn you an Irish passport as well as a British one. Youll find it in the envelope. People with Irish passports can go anywhere, even China, without a visa. He stood up and smiled. Its all in there. Quite explicit.
And when I come out?
All taken care of.
He moved away through the lunchtime crowd and I suddenly realized that what I was thinking wasnt 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.
All taken care of.
He moved away through the lunchtime crowd and I suddenly realized that what I was thinking wasnt 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, Youre 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.
Youre looking good, he said.
He found a bottle of schnapps and poured a couple. So, youre doing the tourist bit into the Eastern Zone, boy?
You seem well-informed.
Yes, you could say that.
I swallowed my schnapps. Whats 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. Youre 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 doesnt matter. What does is that youre a bagman for 21 SAS.
For Gods sake, they turned me down.
Well, not really. Its 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. Theres a crude map for you and a bar called Heinis. If things go wrong, go there and tell the barman that your accommodation is unsatisfactory and you must move at once. Use English.
And whats 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, Youre part of this. Me, Wilson. My uncles 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?
Youre 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. Im 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 couldnt 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 Gods messenger.
Then do Gods 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 dont 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. Dont try that stuff with me. We both know youve been up to no good. Ive 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 Heinis 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. Weve got a lamb stew tonight. Ill bring you some. When its time to go, Ill 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.
Lets go, he said.
I climbed in. Whats this, special treatment?
Decided to come myself. What was your score on the border? Two Russians? Well, youre now an Ace. A Stasi agent went into the Spree tonight.
Stasis were members of the East German State Security Police.
I said, He didnt give me a choice.
I dont imagine he would.
We drove through a maze of streets. I said, Coming yourself, was that in the plan?
Not really.
Risky, Id have thought.
Yes, well, you are family in a way. Look, the whole things been family. You, the border, your uncle, me, the old Gestapo hand. Sometimes we still have choices. I did tonight and came for you. Anyway, were returning through a backstreet border post. I know the sergeant. Just lie back and go to sleep. He passed me a half-bottle. Cognac. Pour it over yourself.