“Will you lead this team, Admiral?” asked Kelly.
“No!” said Jenkins with firmness. “I was flattered to have been asked by our superiors but am happy to retire now. I’ve set the project up, but the operation of the new branch will rest with an incoming senior agent. Incidentally, the branch will be designated IIA. It stands for Intelligence and Intervention Agency. Officially it will be part of G3, but actually it will be entirely autonomous.”
There was a pause. Kelly felt it was inappropriate to interrupt at this point, he wanted Jenkins to say what he suspected, hoped, he was about to say.
At length, Jenkins said, “I want you to be a member of this team, Dan.”
Kelly nodded. “I would be honoured to accept, Admiral. I’m only sorry you won’t be leading us.”
“Excellent!” exclaimed Jenkins. “I think you’ll find that the senior agent appointment won’t disappoint. He is a very experienced agent with an excellent record of success, in fact you know him! Robert McFarlane!”
Kelly smiled. Yes, he could work with Bob McFarlane.
“Right Dan!” said Jenkins decisively. “Let’s walk along to Bob’s office so that he can formally welcome you to his branch, as Dragan Kelly, Special Intelligence Agent.”
Berlin 1950
Dragan Kelly, SIA, sat at a small table beside a refreshment concession in Tempelhof airport. He took a sip of his now tepid coffee and scanned the front page of Die Welt for the umpteenth time. His contact was late. He glanced at his watch. Three fifteen; he should have been here at three. He would give Herr Manteufel another five minutes then he would leave, appearing too keen would send the wrong signal.
As he glanced up from his watch, he saw Manteufel out of the corner of his eye, approaching from the main entrance. He was alone, which was bad news. Kelly deliberately showed no recognition. Instead, he stood, folded his paper, and picked up his coat. Again, out of the corner of his eye he saw Manteufel quicken his step. Good, thought Kelly, that was the response he was looking for. He turned towards the entrance, immediately smiled, and half nodded as if seeing his contact for the first time.
He sat down again, as Manteufel breathlessly approached the table, motioning to the German to take a seat.
“Kaffee?” asked Kelly. They always conversed together in German.
“I would love one, but don’t have enough time.” Kelly observed Horst Manteufel. Middle aged with blond hair turning to grey and receding at the temples. His face was careworn, creased with worry and concern. Manteufel looked fifty but was in fact in his early forties.
In some ways Kelly felt sorry for the man. Manteufel had fallen into people smuggling in much the same way that Kelly had become involved in his own line of work, more by accident than design. Manteufel had a distinguished service record having served as a paratrooper in North Africa. Later he was involved in the defence of Berlin but had evaded capture when the Soviets had overrun the city.
Kelly knew that Manteufel had a family which included young children, but he also recognised that if and when the time came to eliminate this man he would do so without hesitation. Manteufel had been responsible for the escape of a number of war criminals and was plotting the escape of one of the most wanted men on the planet.
“Where is Müller?” asked Kelly. Müller was Manteufel’s latest project, an evil man who had worked closely with Heydrich and Eichmann on the so called ‘Final Solution’. It had been Kelly’s job to find him. He had partially traced him to Manteufel, who was believed to be trying to get him to South America, although extradition was becoming increasingly difficult for Manteufel and his kind, as the allied powers improved their awareness and security procedures over time.
Consequently, when Kelly, posing as a southern Irishman named Tom Driscoll, had allowed it to be known on the underground that he had a route out, Manteufel had beaten a path to find him.
Today’s meeting was meant to be the partial exchange of tickets and contacts in exchange for a deposit. Kelly had explained that he would need to take a picture of Müller in order to produce and supply the final identification papers and documents. It had been imperative to convince Manteufel on more than one occasion that he was not prepared to accept a picture from a third party. He needed to be absolutely sure who he was dealing with. “You can’t be too careful,” he had explained to Manteufel.
“He wouldn’t come here,” said Manteufel hesitantly, “too open.” He jerked his head and Kelly looked in the direction indicated. A group of four military policemen in battledress, easily identified by their red caps, stood chatting near the exit. Kelly smiled inwardly. If Manteufel had known it, the real threat to him were the two cleaners sweeping near the departure gate, the big guy behind the cafeteria counter and the baggage checker on the departure gate. All were G men from MI5.
“So, what now?” asked Kelly in a bored voice.
“I have brought the pictures you need,” said Manteufel, eagerly pulling a number of passport size photographs from his wallet. Kelly noted the single five mark note and the sweat forming on Manteufel’s brow. He’s desperate, thought Kelly.
Kelly ignored the photographs, rose, threw his newspaper in the nearest bin then picked up his coat and started to walk towards the exit. Manteufel was out of his seat and scampering alongside.
“Please be reasonable, Mr Driscoll. It’s the best I can do.” Kelly stopped and faced him.
“Look Horst, this is nothing personal, but we’ve been over this many times
