Masaryk Station

Janica

It was chaos at Anhalter Station on Tuesday morning. Overnight the Soviets had decreed that any Berliners wanting a ticket to the Western Zones could only buy it at Friedrichstrasse Station, and every available railway employee at Anhalter was surrounded by people haplessly protesting the inconvenience. But it was much more than that, Russell realised. As Friedrichstrasse Station was in the Soviet zone, the Russians had effectively awarded themselves a veto over who might leave the city.

It didn’t affect him and Effi for now. They weren’t leaving Stalin’s new empire, and they already had their train tickets. Their route was the usual one via Dresden, which Russell had taken in March 1939 with the German naval plans concealed in a false-bottomed suitcase. He still sometimes wondered how he’d managed not to soil himself during that particular border inspection. On that occasion he’d had a publicity shot of Effi to divert the guards; now he had the real thing.

It was a bright summer morning, and soon they were rolling through a healthy-looking countryside, the fields of flourishing crops only blighted by the occasional hulk of a burnt-out tank. These were all German, and Russell guessed that they had been left beside the line deliberately, as a visible reminder of who had won the war.

Their train made reasonable time by post-war standards, but it still took three hours to reach Dresden, which had the dubious distinction of looking even worse than Berlin. Russell shared the opinion, widely-held among Germans, that the air attack on Dresden in February 1945 had been a war crime, and he saw no reason to stop there-as far as he was concerned all those responsible for the Allied bombing of civilian targets should have ended up in the Nuremberg dock.

He had once said as much to an RAF wing-commander.

‘Those were brave men!’ the man had barked out in response.

‘I’m sure a lot of them were,’ Russell had replied. ‘And so were a lot of the Germans who committed war crimes in Russia.’

The RAF man had looked as if he wanted to hit him, but had just about managed to restrain himself.

Why were people so stupid? Did they really thinking bravery always went hand in hand with virtue?

As their train sat in Dresden platform, Russell told Effi about the exchange.

She smiled at him. ‘After two thousand years of this,’ she said, waving a hand at the partly-cleared ruins beyond the tracks, ‘you’d think men would step aside and give women a chance. But I don’t see it happening.’

‘Touche,’ Russell observed.

Forty minutes later they reached the border, and climbed out to take their walk through the inspection shed. The two of them were almost waved through, as Russell had assumed they would be-people entering Czechoslovakia at the state’s invitation were unlikely to be searched. Most of the people travelling in the opposite direction, however, weren’t so lucky. The Czechoslovak natives presumably all had permission to leave, but it looked as if each and every one of them was being subjected to a rigorous search. By contrast, the only obvious foreigners-two Germans and a Russian-were barely inspected at all.

As they walked forward to their waiting train, Effi drew what seemed the logical conclusion. ‘I think I should come back alone.’

‘I don’t think …’

‘I’ll be fine. They were only searching Czechs, and as long as I don’t have you standing behind me, making me nervous … and we did talk about you and Janica going on to Vienna.’

‘And you pointed out that the train toilet was the logical place to put on the makeup. If she goes with me there won’t be an opportunity, unless we find some way of sneaking her into our hotel.’

‘That would be crazy,’ Effi said. ‘She’ll have to do without the makeup. She’s only twenty-nine, for heaven’s sake-I looked the same at twenty-nine as I did at twenty-one. And there’s another thing. After what we saw this morning it looks like Berlin will get harder to leave. If we take Janica back there, we may not be able to get her out again.’

It was a good point, but hardly relevant to Russell’s main concern. ‘I don’t want you bearing all the risk,’ he said.

‘Well, you’re going to have to get used to it. Don’t you see? It makes so much more sense not to put all our eggs in one basket. If you and Janica go on Vienna, and for some dreadful reason she’s stopped at the border, then at least we’ll still have the film.’

‘And a very disappointed Merzhanov,’ Russell pointed out. But he would face that problem if and when it arose. He hated the thought of Effi carrying the film out alone, but he could see she was right. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But I’m not happy about it.’

‘You will be when it works.’

The Czechoslovak railways seemed in worst shape than the German, and it was early evening before their train entered the outskirts of the capital. As they rumbled into Wilson Station, Russell remembered Karel hustling him into the bathroom. ‘When we get to our hotel room, be careful what you say,’ he advised Effi. ‘It’ll probably be bugged.’

‘Will there be hidden cameras to film our love-making?’

‘God only knows.’

They barely had their feet on the platform before a familiar face turned up. ‘This is Petra Klima,’ Russell said, introducing her to Effi. ‘Ministry of Culture,’ he added.

‘I loved your film,’ Klima told Effi, as if she’d only made the one.

There was a car waiting outside, along with a young male chauffeur. He quickly stamped out his cigarette when they saw them approaching, then opened a door with studied insolence, as if regretting the show of deference. Once Effi and Russell were in the back, Klima joined him in the front.

Their hotel was supposedly close to Cisar’s apartment, and the drive to Smichov took about twenty minutes. En route they passed the sites of several lacunae in Russell’s espionage career, but given Klima’s probable fluency in German he forbore from pointing them out to Effi. It looked as though their time in Prague would be highly supervised, which might be a problem when it came to meeting Janica.

The hotel was on Zborovska, one block west of the Charles River. It didn’t look much from the outside, but their suite was large and well-furnished. Once Klima had left them to get settled in, they left the tap running noisily in the wash-basin and sat either end of a brimming hot bath, discussing their plan for the next two days. They were still there when Klima started banging on the outer door, intent on escorting them down to dinner.

While Effi was dressing, Russell told the Czech woman that their travel plans had changed, that while he still planned on travelling on to Vienna, Effi would be going straight back to Berlin. Could Klima check the Vienna trains on Wednesday, and arrange the appropriate permit?

She didn’t foresee any problem.

There were no other guests in the dining room, which seemed a trifle strange, and Klima’s explanation-that people ate late in Prague-bore no relation to Russell’s experience. She didn’t sit with them, claiming she’d already eaten, but sat alone at a table near the door, as if on sentry duty. Her German, they’d discovered, was as good as her English.

The food and wine were both excellent, but the thought of microphones close by inhibited conversation. After coffee, when Russell announced that they were going to take a romantic stroll by the river, the Czech woman said she would join them.

‘How are we going to get rid of her?’ Effi asked Russell, once back in their bathroom with the tap full on.

Russell had already come up with an answer. ‘After lunch tomorrow, you’ll say how you’ve never been here before …’

‘I haven’t.’

‘… And ask to see some sights. I’ll say I’m coming, too, and then I’ll drop out at the last moment. I’ll say I’m tired, and am coming back here for a snooze.’

‘You are fifty next year.’

‘Thanks for reminding me. I still have some youthful vigour, you know.’

‘Remember the cameras!’

‘They’ll be in the bedroom.’

The appointment with Jaromir Cisar was at ten the next morning. He was clearly overjoyed to meet Effi, kissing her several times on both cheeks and cupping her face in his hands to study it more thoroughly. Russell would have slapped him, but she took it all in her stride. Bloody thespians, he thought, echoing a character in a movie whose name he couldn’t remember.

‘What a lucky man!’ was all Cisar said to him, but even that was four words more than Klima received. She just hovered in the background, smiling an uncertain smile.

One of the apartment’s two bedrooms had been converted into a projection room, with four seats facing a plain white wall. Cisar had already seen two of the sampled films, so they watched the rushes from Effi’s performances in the other two. The director sat with a rapt look on his face, expressing his appreciation of a particular look, gesture, or spoken line by patting Effi’s hand with his own.

‘I already have a project in mind for us,’ he told Effi when they emerged. ‘An adaption of a book by one of our best young writers, which our Culture Minister has publicly praised, so there should be no problems from that direction.’ He shot Klima a glance, and received an angry one back.

‘What’s it about?’ Effi asked.

‘It’s about who we are. Czechoslovaks, that is, but also human beings. The central character, which you would play, is a Sudeten German mother. People assume that all Sudeten Germans were eager to join the Reich in 1938, but they weren’t. This woman’s family opposes the Nazis, and she loses a son as a result. And seven years later, she loses another one, when the Czechs take out their frustrations on all the Germans they can lay their hands on. And through it all, she refuses to grow bitter-she’s convinced that people are people, no matter which group they think they belong to. When she finds out that her daughter is having a love affair with the son of one of the Czech vigilantes-a nod to Romeo and Juliet, of course-she moves heaven and Earth to save the girl from the wrath of her own third son. That’s a very crude summary, but you get the idea. When I’ve finished the adaption’-he nodded towards the desk, where a pile of pages and an overfull ashtray flanked his typewriter-‘I shall send you a copy.’

Their leave-taking was extended by another long examination of Effi’s face from various angles, but eventually Cisar let them go. The Skoda was waiting outside, the driver smoking another cigarette, which he took his time stubbing out. ‘Hollywood suddenly seems less appealing,’ Effi remarked once they were seated.

‘I don’t suppose Mickey Mouse has heard of the Sudetenland,’ Russell added flippantly.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Yes, of course. But they do make good movies in Hollywood. Just not the sort that he makes.’

The car was on the move.

‘Where are we going?’ Russell asked.

‘To lunch,’ Klima told him.

The restaurant was only a few minutes away, and a table had been reserved in the garden, which overlooked the Charles and offered a panoramic view of Mala Strana and its looming castle. This time Klima did eat with them, and Russell set out to disarm the young woman with questions about her family. It half-worked, but no matter how many times he offered the bottle of wine, she refused to take a refill. She was, he decided, depressingly single-minded.

He asked if she’d remembered his train ticket. ‘Yes,’ she said, digging in her handbag, ‘I forgot to give it to you.’ The hand emerged with an envelope. ‘Here it is. The Vienna express leaves Wilson Station at 10 A.M.-that’s half an hour after Fraulein Koenen’s train to Berlin.’

Russell pocketed the envelope and thanked her, glad that his train was departing after Effi’s. After his recent experiences in Prague he hadn’t fancied leaving her on the platform.

‘So what shall we do this afternoon?’ Klima asked, like a mother inviting suggestions from the children. ‘Now that your business is done, some sightseeing perhaps. Prague is a very beautiful city.’

‘I’ve been here many times,’ Russell told her, ‘and I think I’d rather have a lie-down at the hotel. But I’m sure Effi would like to see some sights.’

‘I’d love to,’ Effi agreed enthusiastically.

Klima looked flustered for a moment. ‘But how would you find your hotel?’ she asked, adding with more than a hint of suspicion that she hadn’t thought he spoke the language.

‘I wouldn’t,’ Russell replied cheerfully. ‘But you can hail me a cab and tell the driver where to take me.’

She looked relieved at that. ‘Yes, why not?’ she said thoughtfully. ‘But first I must, how do you say it in English? Powder my nose.’

It took her a long time, long enough to ensure that someone would be waiting when he got back to the Slovan.

When she returned they all walked out to the pavement, and a cab was duly waved down. Klima gave the driver his instructions, which included an awful lot more than the name of their hotel, if the cabbie’s face was any guide. Russell gave Effi a parting kiss, wished both women an enjoyable afternoon, and climbed into the front seat.

‘And you have a good rest,’ Effi said sympathetically.

As Russell had hoped, his driver headed for the Legii Bridge. There were traffic lights at the far end, and his 50–50 chance came good-they were red. He slid the $10 note into the other man’s pocket with one hand, opened the nearside door with the other, and deftly stepped on to the road. ‘Cigaretten,’ Russell said, miming a smoke and raising a hand in farewell. The cabbie sat there stupidly for a few seconds, until the rising chorus of horns behind forced him to let in the clutch.

Russell walked in the opposite direction, and ducked through the doorway of the first suitable sanctuary, which turned out to be a junk store piled high with old furniture. He didn’t think the cabbie would come looking for him, but those the man reported to probably would. Russell skulked inside the store for at least ten minutes, searching through a tray of second-hand earrings, swapping smiles with the bewildered proprietor, and keeping a watch on the street.

Eventually he ventured out. The tram route was two blocks north, so he hurried in that direction, keeping as much as he could to the shadows. Once aboard a northbound car, he consulted his watch. He had almost three hours to kill before his treff with Janica, and he didn’t want to spend them out in the open. A bar seemed a good bet, and after changing trams and re-crossing the river he found one in the Old Town backstreets, about a ten-minute walk from Masaryk Station. With only an incomprehensible Czech newspaper to read, he worked his way through two beers and a compensatory cup of strong black coffee, before finally setting out on the final lap. The first thing he did on reaching the station was find the public toilets, and relieve the pressure on his bladder.

Back on the concourse, he sought out an ill-lit corner and began his vigil. It somehow seemed fitting that his future should hang on a meeting here, in a station whose name reeked of failure. Both father and son had sought the humanist middle ground between rampant capitalism and communism, and both had failed. They had not been alone-the entire European left, himself included, had sought in vain for a socialism that worked-but Jan Masaryk’s tragic end, thrown from a window by communist thugs, seemed like the final straw.

Masaryk Station, the end of the line.

It was getting busier by the minute, as people who worked in the centre of town took their trains home to the suburbs. Which was perhaps why Janica had chosen that time of day. If so, it was a smart move.

The clock above the platform barrier was showing two minutes past, but so far he hadn’t seen the face in the photograph. But it was then that he noticed her, sitting on a bench on the other side of the concourse. As he did so, she threw him an irritated glance and nodded slightly. She’d probably been there for a while.

He ambled over and sat down beside her. ‘Janica, how good to see you,’ he said softly in German. Merzhanov had claimed she spoke it quite well, or at least much better than he did. ‘Have you been visiting your mother?’ Russell asked, completing the password which the Russian had given him.

‘No, she moved to Brno,’ Janica answered, which according to Merzhanov was actually true. She was a slightly plump, full-breasted woman, with dark shoulder-length hair, an attractive mouth, and surprisingly steely eyes. Her ensemble of white blouse, black skirt, and two-inch heels nicely avoided the twin pitfalls of too conspicuous and too anonymous. Another smart move.

And she looked younger than her photograph, which was a definite bonus, now that that they wouldn’t be making her up.

‘Let’s walk,’ Russell suggested, getting to his feet.

She followed suit, taking his arm, and only asked where they were going as they emerged on to the street.

Russell steered them across before answering. ‘To Wilson Station to buy you a ticket,’ he said. ‘In my pocket there are papers with your picture in the name of Ruza Zdenec,’ he told her, remembering how Effi had considered it a good omen that Grelling had chosen the Czech equivalent of Rosa. ‘Do you have the film with you?’

‘It’s in my bag. And it stays there until we cross the border.’

‘That won’t be possible,’ Russell said. ‘My wife will be taking the film to Berlin, and I shall be taking you to Salzburg, and Merzhanov. It will be safer for us all that way. My wife is less likely to be searched at the German border than you are, and if they stop you at the Austrian border you’ll be better off without the film. A lot better off. You’d only get five years for trying to leave the country without permission, but if you’re caught with this film the Russians will shoot you.’ Though exaggerating for the Czech woman’s sake, he still felt a shiver of apprehension for Effi.

Janica was silent for a while, mulling over what he had said. Eventually she asked the inevitable question-‘why should I trust you?’

‘I can’t answer that.’ He had thought about confiding Effi’s plan to hide the film among others, but the StB might get that information out of her before Effi reached the border. ‘Except to say this,’ he went on, ‘why would we get you false papers and buy you a railway ticket if we meant to betray you?’

‘I haven’t seen these papers yet.’

The street they were on was empty. ‘Take them now,’ he said, extracting the envelope from his pocket. ‘Put it in your bag,’ he advised her. ‘The papers are there, and the money you’ll need for the ticket to Vienna. You can see for yourself in the station toilet.’

They walked across the park that fronted Wilson Station and in through the main entrance. Russell waited while she went off to examine the contents of the envelope, and on her return he led the way to the station buffet. There was an empty table in one corner.

‘I will trust you,’ she told him, when he came back with two coffees. ‘I have no other choice. Do you want the film now?’

‘Not yet,’ he decided, looking around. ‘You must get your ticket now. Tomorrow morning, the ten A.M. train to Vienna. You will probably need to show the papers, and if anyone asks you why you’re going, say you have a Russian boyfriend there. If you leave your bag with me, I’ll take the film first chance I get.’

She nodded, left it open on the floor between them, and strode calmly out of the buffet. Glancing down after a decent interval, he could see the reel of film. It wasn’t in a box, and would fit nicely in his jacket side pocket. A minute or so later, when no one seemed to be looking, he reached down a hand and worked the transfer.

Looking up again, he half-expected to see a posse of StB thugs lunging towards him, but there was only the same bunch of customers, enjoying their coffee and cakes.

She was back in ten minutes, bearing a ticket with a seat in Coach 4.

‘I’m in Three,’ he told her, showing his own. ‘But it’ll be safer for you if we don’t make contact again until the train reaches Vienna. As a foreigner, I’ll be watched.’

‘I understand,’ she said, closing up her bag.

‘Where are you going now?’ he asked.

‘Home,’ she said, without volunteering a location.

‘Very well then, I’ll say goodbye.’

She smiled slightly, the first time she’d done so, kissed him lightly on the cheek and walked off towards the exit.

A cool one, he thought. It was only then that he realised she’d never even mentioned Merzhanov.

But that was the Russian’s problem. Russell’s was the film now burning a hole in his jacket pocket. As he headed south towards Wenceslas Square he wondered what the StB would do with the reel if they ever got hold of it. Meekly hand it over to the Soviets or melt it away in a furnace? No one was safe with a secret like this.

He crossed Wenceslas Square and began cutting through the back streets in the general direction of the river. This seemed safer than taking the major thoroughfares, until the two Czech cops spotted him emerging from a New Town alley. As they strode towards him, he barely resisted the urge to turn and run.

One of the cops asked him something in Czech.

‘Nechapu’, he said. I don’t understand.

One cop reached out a friendly arm, clearly intent on taking him in charge.

‘Hotel Slovan,’ Russell said desperately. ‘Smichov.’

‘Ah,’ the first cop said. He put a hand on Russell’s soldier, pointed down him the street, and indicated that he should turn right at the end.

‘Dekuji,’ Russell almost gushed, as a rivulet of sweat ran down his back.

Both cops insisted on shaking his hand, and he could feel their eyes on his back as he hurried off in the suggested direction. He was getting too old for this sort of thing.

At that moment he was passing a post office, and the thought of putting the film in the post-and sparing Effi this sort of grief-caused him to slacken his pace. But it was no good. Given the current levels of official paranoia, there seemed an excellent chance that the Czech authorities were checking any remotely suspicious package bound for foreign parts. The film’s interception would certainly end all their hopes, and would most likely prove the start of a nightmare, since the StB and their MGB allies would have the address they needed to track down the intended recipient. No, the only safe way to dispose of the damn thing was to write Stalin’s name on the parcel.

Or just drop it in the river, he thought, as he walked across the Legii Bridge. But he knew he wouldn’t do it. He told himself to stop imagining the worst, and concentrate instead on averting it.

The immediate problem was Klima, who by now would know he’d gone AWOL. What was his explanation?

‘I changed my mind,’ he told her a few minutes later, when they met in the Slovan lobby. ‘I guessed you would walk across the Charles Bridge, so I walked up this side of the river and waited, but you never appeared.’

‘You waited all this time?’

He laughed. ‘Oh no, after an hour or so and I went and found a bar. Your beer is excellent.’

She looked torn between incredulity and the knowledge that he was a foreign guest she shouldn’t offend without being sure.

Seeking to tip the balance, Russell reached into his pocket and brought out the pair of earrings he’d bought at the antique shop. ‘These are for you. A token of our appreciation for all your help.’

She looked at them. ‘Thank you, but …’

‘I’m hungry,’ Russell interrupted her. ‘Are we eating here again?’

During dinner, Russell set out to allay any remaining suspicions Klima might have, and only realised he was overdoing it when Effi gave him a kick under the table. Back in their bathroom with the taps full on, Effi couldn’t decide which of the audition films she should sacrifice for a reel.

‘The film that made the smallest splash,’ Russell suggested. ‘In case the guards feel like a showing.’

‘Surely they won’t have a projector at the border post,’ Effi objected.

‘They will at their local cinema. It’s just a matter of improving the odds,’ he explained. ‘If by some chance, they choose to check one out, they’re more likely to pick one they’ve heard of.’

‘I suppose that makes sense,’ Effi agreed.

If there was a hidden camera in their bedroom they couldn’t spot it. Which didn’t mean it wasn’t there. Russell left the film in his jacket pocket until all their lights were out, and they lay there in the dark waiting for a decent interval to elapse. He wondered if Beria had checked for a camera, or merely assumed it wasn’t running. How could he have made such a stupid mistake? Overweening arrogance, most likely. People with that much power often ended up thinking that nothing touch them.

After ten minutes had passed, Russell removed the film from his jacket, and they both crept into the bathroom, where the thinnest of lights was seeping in through the transom window. Effi had already removed the film from one of her reels, and now took on the job of replacing it. The lack of light made things difficult, and it took her an age to fix the end of the strip.

Once Merzhanov’s film was finally wound and boxed she sat on the toilet seat for a minute or more, regaining her composure and wondering what to do with the roll she’d taken off.

‘Put in back on Janica’s reel,’ Russell whispered, after turning on the tap. ‘I’ll take it with me.’

‘Okay,’ she agreed.

The thought crossed his mind that at least he’d have a souvenir of her, a thought that kept him staring at the ceiling long after she’d slipped into sleep. She had once told him that when she first started working for the resistance worry and fear had often kept her awake, but after one very real scare everything had suddenly changed, and sleep had come easily again. Somehow her mind had learned to shut itself down.

Next morning, though, she did seem tense.

‘What do I say if they do find it?’ she asked him in the bathroom.

‘You’re an actor,’ he told her. ‘A very good one. Be shocked. You know nothing about this film; you have no idea how it came to be on that reel. Someone must have taken yours off, and put this one on, with an eye to stealing it back in Berlin. You’re outraged. So much so, that you’ll help the police find out who it was. They can follow you home and catch the man who comes for it.’

‘They won’t believe me,’ Effi said.

‘Maybe not, but it’s a worth a shot. And believe me, most men are distracted by gorgeous women.’

‘I do believe you, but you’re forgetting that I’m forty-two.’

‘And still gorgeous.’

‘I’m glad you think so. And I suppose I should be grateful it won’t be the Gestapo.’

‘Yes.’ He decided to let her keep whatever illusions she might have about the greater kindliness of the MGB.

‘And what about you?’ she asked.

‘I’ll be safe as houses. I might be on the same train as Janica, but if she’s stopped at the border I’ll just keep walking.’

‘She might denounce you.’

‘I doubt it. She seems pretty level-headed, and there’s no way she could involve me without telling the whole story, and that would make things worse for her. No, she’ll hope that Merzhanov refuses to budge without her, and that we’ll be forced into another attempt at getting her out.’

‘Would we?’

‘I doubt it,’ Russell admitted. ‘How could we?’

On the way to the station Russell noticed that Klima was wearing her new earrings. She seemed less on edge than usual, probably relieved at the prospect of seeing them off. Their driver was surly as ever though, snarling at any tram or bus that dared to block the Skoda’s path.

After Effi’s train had steamed out, Klima insisted on waiting with him, even though her successor was already on the job, hiding behind a newspaper some five metres down the platform. This man followed Russell on to the train and took a seat in the same coach, around ten rows farther back. Which was all to the good, Russell supposed-for once in his clandestine life he had nothing to hide, and the more they watched him, the less likely they would notice Janica.

He had watched her arrive on the platform with some relief. She had seen him, too, but there’d been no batted eyelids or faltering steps. If he didn’t know better, he’d have said that she was the professional.

Which was a disturbing thought. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering if the whole business was a gigantic set-up, with a purpose that eluded him. For all they actually knew, the film was blank. Or a record of Stalin, thumbs in ears, derisively waggling his fingers at the camera.

But he couldn’t really believe it. Merzhanov had convinced him from the start, and Janica had said nothing to make him suspicious.

Beyond the window, mist draped the meadows and shrouded the trees. The sun would probably soon break through, but it was already hot in the carriage, and even with the toplights open, the air was oppressively close. Russell took off his jacket, and tried not to worry about Effi.

Assuming she didn’t run into trouble, and he successfully shipped the other two off, what did they need to do next? Did they have to send Beria a copy of the film, or would merely describing its contents be enough? How else could they have known about the events in question? From the other woman, of course, assuming she survived. But hearsay wouldn’t be enough. They had to provide proof of the film’s existence-a presentation copy was the only way. And now he came to think of it, several copies might make all the difference-if they hid them in different countries, Beria would have a hell of a job tracking them down. And even if he did, he could never be certain he had them all.

But they couldn’t make copies themselves, and whoever did so would need to be in on the secret. Effi might know someone from her work whom she could trust with something like this. A political innocent would be best; someone who’d never heard of Beria, and who wouldn’t recognise him.

Outside the train, the sun was busy dispersing the mist, and conjuring pinpoints of light from the dew-sodden fields. Russell decided he would visit the buffet car, partly for the exercise and partly for a drink, but mostly because he wanted to check on Janica. With his StB shadow a few steps behind him, all he could see on the way forward was the back of her head, but when he returned half an hour later they swapped innocent glances. She looked like she hadn’t a care in the world, but then she wasn’t married to Effi.

Effi’s train was about ten minutes away from the German border when the man reappeared. He was about fifty, she guessed; he was smartly dressed and looked more like a Czech than a German. Early in the journey he had walked slowly past the compartment, given her a lingering look, and moved on out of sight. Now he repeated the process, this time with the faintest of smiles.

It all brought back the war. All those hours, days, weeks she’d spent permanently on edge, waiting for the knock on the door, the tap on the shoulder, the car pulling up in the street outside. She’d thought that life was over, but here it was again. How did John stand it, year after year?

They had to leave, get as far away as they could. Russell had always believed the Soviets would punish a desertion, that either they’d tell the Americans how he’d bought his family’s freedom with atomic secrets, and so bring a treason charge down on his head, or they’d simply kill him, along with heaven knew how many other members of the family. He could be right-he usually was when it came to expecting the worst-but just this once he might be wrong. Maybe it was time to call their bluff. From a great distance, if that proved possible. Effi knew Stalin had sent someone all the way to Mexico to kill Trotsky, but Russell, much as she loved him, was much smaller fry. And if they were going to live in fear, they might as well do it in Hollywood.

The train was slowing down. Effi reached up for the overnight bag in the luggage rack, and pulled it down beside her. She couldn’t think of any reason why they should question the four reels of film. Her papers were in order; she was travelling first class courtesy of a communist Culture Ministry; these same four reels had been in the bag when she entered the country two days ago. And she would top it all off with a winning smile, she reminded herself. John had insisted on one of those.

She stepped down on to the cinder path and joined the stream of passengers heading toward the inspection hall. It was only as she passed through the doorway that she realised who was behind her-the man from the corridor.

Her heart skipped a beat, but he did nothing more threatening than stand there in the queue. The urge to turn and challenge him was strong, but she knew she mustn’t. If he was StB, then what would she gain? If he wasn’t, then what was the point? She would merely be making herself conspicuous.

So she kept her face forward, aware of his breathing, aware of his feet on the move each time the queue shuffled forwards, until an official in front of her commanded all her attention.

He went through her papers, asked to place her bag on the table, and began to empty its contents. After opening one can and exposing its reel, he repeated the process with the other three, and asked her something in Czech.

She shrugged her incomprehension and offered up the winning smile, but the official was already walking away, having signalled by hand that she should stay where she was. Behind her, she could feel the queue sighing with impatience.

The official was back almost instantly, a German-speaking colleague in tow. He extracted one film from its tin. ‘What are these?’ he asked her.

‘They’re audition reels,’ she told him. ‘I’m an actress. I’ve been to visit one of your directors-a man named Jaromir Cisar. He’s thinking of casting me in one of his films, and he wanted to see examples of my work.’

The official had never heard of Cisar.

‘It was all arranged by your Ministry of Culture. They will confirm what I say.’

The man looked at the film in his hand, said something in Czech to his colleague, and strode off again.

A third official returned with him, and took his turn staring at the films.

‘The names of the films are on the boxes,’ Effi volunteered. ‘Each one contains a few scenes, which I use for audition purposes.’

The man looked at her, then back at the films. ‘You will have to leave these with us,’ he finally said in German. ‘Once they have been examined, we will send them on to Berlin.’

Neither Effi nor Russell had foreseen this eventuality-they had both been too busy worrying that she would be held. ‘But I need them,’ Effi protested. ‘I have an appointment to show them in the morning,’ she lied.

‘I’m sorry,’ the man said. ‘But we have only your word for it that you’re an actress.’

‘But that’s ridiculous …’

A voice behind her started speaking in Czech. It was the man who’d been watching her on the train.

I’m done for, she thought.

‘This gentleman says he can vouch for you being an actress,’ the third official told her.

She turned to face him.

‘And of course I’ve heard of Jaromir Cisar,’ he added in German.

‘Thank you,’ she said, but he was speaking to the Czech official again.

‘I suggested he telephone the Ministry of Culture,’ he eventually told her, ‘but he doesn’t want to hold the train up. So he says you can take your films.’

‘Oh thank you so much.’ She turned back to the official. ‘Dekuji,’ she said, with a second flash of the winning smile. Resisting the impulse to shovel her possessions back into the overnight bag, she carefully restored them one at a time, before striding out through the exit door.

In the German building a hundred metres farther down the track, each official had his own Russian shadow. Here, too, her baggage was searched, the boxes opened, but this time her explanation had official backing. Comrade Tulpanov had sanctioned her trip, she told the German official, and he should refer any queries to Berlin.

He started to tell his shadow, but was cut short. Presumably the Russian had understood her German, because his hand now waved her though.

She walked back out into the sunshine, and on towards the waiting train.

It left about ten minutes later, and not long after that her saviour appeared in the compartment doorway. ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.

‘Yes. And thank you again.’

‘Could I buy you a drink?’

It seemed churlish to refuse, and perhaps unwise-she still harboured a faint suspicion that he’d saved her for purposes of his own.

But it turned out he was just a cineaste and fan, a decent Czech man with a wife and two children who had seen her recent films and admired them. He had recognised her soon after they left Prague, but had been too shy to approach her.

Russell’s train reached the Austrian border soon after two. As the train slowed down he wondered whether he should pass through border inspection ahead of Janica, and put himself clear of any subsequent fall-out, or stay behind her in the queue, and know for certain how she had fared.

It all proved academic. As he could soon see through his window, a spanking new border post was under construction on the site of the old, and the inspectors emerging from a grounded old carriage were clearly intent on boarding the train. They started at the back, and took around twenty minutes to reach Russell’s carriage. His documents were scrutinised with great care, his bag rifled through, but he had the feeling their hearts weren’t it-in the new Czechoslovakia a foreigner leaving was a problem solved.

They would look a lot closer at Janica.

After they’d passed through into her coach, he nervously waited for sounds of trouble, his eyes fixed on the corridor connection ahead, in case she erupted through it. ‘I’ve never seen this woman before,’ he murmured to himself in rehearsal. Would they believe him? They couldn’t prove otherwise, but would that worry them?

Each minute that passed with no sign of alarm left him feeling a little more confident, and then, mercy of mercies, he saw the two officials and their military minder walking back across the tracks towards their temporary office. Without a woman in tow.

Almost immediately, the train clanked into motion, and within seconds it was rumbling across the small river that marked the border. They were out of Czechoslovakia, and into Austria’s Soviet Zone, which should be a good deal safer. The Russians were too busy trying to stop their own fleeing nationals to worry overmuch about one Czech woman. And few Soviet officials would know a dud Czechoslovak ID from a genuine one.

Russell even managed an hour or so’s sleep as the train chugged on towards Vienna. It was a minute to five when they crossed the Danube, two minutes past when the train wheezed to a grateful halt in the roofless Nordbahnhof. He found Janica waiting for him on the platform, suitcase in hand. ‘Take my arm,’ he said.

There were uniforms at the barrier, but either they were waiting for someone specific, or only had a watching brief. No tickets or papers were being inspected, and no one approached them as they calmly walked through to the forecourt, where a line of taxis was waiting. Theirs had seen better days, and its driver looked about eighty. ‘Stephansplatz,’ Russell told him, deeming it wise to seek sanctuary in the international sector.

‘You have dollars?’ the driver asked, without starting the cab. He was probably used to passengers arrived from Prague without convertible currency.

‘I have dollars,’ Russell admitted.

The driver smiled and let in the clutch. Soon they were passing the Riesenrad Ferris wheel and heading down Prater Strasse towards the Danube Canal bridge. As they crossed the latter, Russell felt a huge sense of relief-for the moment, at least, they were beyond the reach of the Soviets. As if to reinforce that feeling, an international patrol drove past in a jeep, the Russian sat beside the French driver, the Anglo-Americans perched in the back.

Janica, he saw, was staring wide-eyed at the Viennese ruins. ‘But the war’s been over for years,’ she said.

He told her she should see Berlin.

They were almost at Stephansplatz when Russell remembered the hotel on Johannesgasse that he’d stayed in three years earlier, and redirected the driver. It was still standing, and offered more in the way of discretion than the American Press Club. She looked it over with ill-concealed distaste. ‘Is there nothing better?’ she asked.

‘It’s only for a few hours,’ Russell promised.

He told the desk clerk the same and got a predictable leer in return.

‘There’s only one bed,’ Janica complained when she saw their room.

‘It’s all yours,’ Russell told her. ‘I’m off to see about our train to Salzburg.’

‘Tonight?’

‘If possible. Aren’t you in a hurry to see Merzhanov?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Okay. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t go out.’

‘Where would I go? I haven’t any money.’

He left her curled up on the bed, probably hoping for a more prosperous future. Outside, his first port of call was the Central Exchange, and the familiar room with the long-distance connection. Effi’s train had been due in an hour before his, so by this time she should be home.

The phone in the Carmer Strasse flat rang for a long time, and he was beginning to hope she’d gone straight on to Zarah’s when at last she picked up. ‘Who is this?’ the familiar voice asked.

The sense of relief was strong enough to take his breath away. ‘It’s me. You didn’t have any trouble then?’

‘Not too much. Only a mild panic. Everything all right at your end?’

‘So far.’

‘Do you still think you might be back tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow or Saturday. Was Rosa pleased to see you?’

‘Very. I think she was really worried.’

‘Tell her I miss her.’

‘All right.’

He hung up, and just sat there for several moments, smiling into space.

The CIC offices were a few blocks west in the American sector, or had been the previous year. Russell walked to the house in question, hoping that the local CIA hadn’t got around to absorbing their local rivals, the way they had in Berlin, but hadn’t in Trieste. His luck was in-the Viennese CIC was still parading its own independence, and the duty officer that evening was a man he’d dealt with before. Russell explained about Janica, and their need to reach Salzburg. Could the two of them take the Mozart train that night?

‘Not a chance,’ Jack Dearlove told him cheerfully. ‘You know it’s Americans Only, and these days the Russians check everybody. This girl of yours will need American papers and a new wardrobe, and that will take several days to arrange. Even with them, you’ll spend the whole trip praying that no one starts asking her questions in English.’

‘Shit,’ Russell muttered.

‘But no worries, eh,’ Dearlove said with a grin. ‘The Russians get tough; we get airborne. There’s a morning shuttle from Salzburg now, leaves there at eight, here at ten. In the morning take a cab out to Meissner Park-that’s where the airstrip is. I’ll let them know you’re coming.’

Russell thanked him profusely, and walked back towards the city centre. This was the way things were going, he thought-intelligence people flying where and when they wanted, while ordinary joes formed orderly queues at frontier posts. Well, he might as well enjoy it while he could-if everything went according to plan, he’d soon be a civilian himself.

Janica looked like she’d been dozing when he got back, but perked up at the promise of a meal. It was a hot summer evening, and they ate at an outdoor restaurant in the Stadtpark, where she batted away his queries concerning her family history, and plied him with questions about life in America. She ate surprisingly sparely, but drank several glasses of wine, and seemed somewhat unsteady walking back. In the hotel lobby, she looked almost scornful when Russell paused at the reception desk to rent a second room.

They shared breakfast at a nearby cafe, and a cab out to Meissner Park. ‘I’ve never been on an aeroplane,’ she admitted, as they drove across the grass to what looked like a makeshift control tower. She sounded more curious than nervous.

The usual DC-3 touched down about ten minutes later. This was the last trip, the pilot told them. Now that the Russian blockade of Berlin had begun, their squadron was being sent north. His luck was holding, Russell thought, but the German capital’s might have run out. He asked the pilot for specifics, but came up empty. ‘They’ve locked it up tight,’ he said. ‘On the ground, that is; they can’t blockade the fucking sky.’

Russell wasn’t so sure, but he hoped the man was right. Considering their situation, this didn’t seem like the best of times to be trapped.

The flight to the Salzburg airbase took just under an hour, the wait for a jeep almost as long, and it was one o’clock before they reached the farm. When he saw her, Merzhanov face’s lit up with joy. She was more restrained, but there was real affection there, Russell decided. Maybe he’d misjudged her.

‘Can we have some time alone?’ Merzhanov asked.

‘I’m afraid not,’ Russell told him, feeling mean but not really caring-they’d have weeks at sea to cuddle each other. ‘We have to leave straight away.’

Merzhanov’s small bag was already packed, and the two of them followed him out to the jeep. Sitting together in the back, they whispered endearments for most of the ninety-minute ride, leaving Russell to take a mental wander through the minefield of the next few weeks. With the Allied air forces now providing the only ways in and of Berlin, Russell’s idea of hiding copies of the film in various countries seemed likely to be a non-starter. If the Brits or Americans got their hands on one, then Beria’s crime-or a suitably edited version thereof-would end up on Pathe News, and Russell and Shchepkin would have lost their bargaining card.

A kilometre short of Alt Aussee, Russell pulled the jeep over to the side of the road and turned to face the lovebirds. ‘As I told Konstantin last time I saw him-these people believe you are Catholics. That’s why they’re willing to help you. I wish we’d had time to give you a crash course in Catholicism, but we didn’t. If a problem arises, Konstantin will have to say that he had no chance to practise his religion in the Soviet Union-which would be true enough-and so he only knows what little his grandmother told him. But you feel like a Catholic,’ Russell told the Russian, ‘and you’re hungry to learn more. And if anyone questions you, Janica, just say you’re planning to convert as soon as you can.’

‘All right.’

‘Okay. Now, Konstantin, what do you know about the Ukrainian nationalist groups?’

‘They’re all murderous bastards.’

Russell smiled. ‘Well, forget that for a while. They’re popular murderous bastards with the people who are taking you south. You don’t have to claim you were in the OUN, or anything like that, but if the subject comes up, be tactful. Make up a history which they’ll like.’ He looked at them both.

‘Where are we going?’ Janica asked him abruptly.

‘America. South America to begin with, I expect.’

‘But we want to live in the USA.’

‘I know. And I’m sure you’ll get there eventually.’

‘We will need money,’ she insisted.

‘I have five hundred dollars for you,’ Russell said, reaching into his pocket.

‘Is that all?’ Merzhanov said, more surprised than angry. He had apparently forgotten his earlier disdain for the stuff.

‘I’m afraid so.’ Johannsen had only provided $200; Russell and Effi had supplied the rest. ‘It’ll go a long way if you’re careful,’ he added.

‘And we have each other,’ Merzhanov rallied, putting an arm around Janica’s shoulder.

‘Of course,’ she agreed, managing to return his smile.

‘You should be at sea within a week,’ Russell told them. ‘One last thing. The MGB aren’t looking for you now, and I presume you’d like to keep it that way. So don’t, whatever you do, tell anyone about the film.’

‘We understand,’ Merzhanov said.

‘Yes, of course,’ Janica said, a little sulkily.

‘If they find out you took it, they’ll kill you both,’ Russell reiterated, just to make sure they fully understood.

‘Yes, yes,’ Janica said. ‘We know. We say nothing.’