Lehrter Station

A last game of chess

Russell was still wondering why as he worked his way round the flak towers and down past the Zoo. Why had Geruschke — or someone else — decided he needed killing? And what had changed his mind?

He was waiting for a bus on the Ku’damm when he remembered Fritsche’s young colleague. Luders might have useful things to say about the way these people operated, and Fritsche should have his address. The cafe he used as an office was only a short walk away.

Fritsche was sitting in his usual seat, hands resting intertwined on the table, staring into space. He looked up with a jerk when Russell loomed over him, and the momentary flash of fear was hard to miss.

‘Has something happened?’ Russell asked.

‘It’s Luders. He was beaten up in the street last night. Badly. An arm and a leg broken. He’s in the hospital.’

‘Christ. Does he know who it was?’

‘No, but he can guess.’

‘Has he — has anyone — brought the police in?’

Fritsche managed a wan smile. ‘The hospital doctor insisted, but he needn’t have bothered. There’s nothing to go on, and even if there was…’ He shrugged.

‘How is he?’

‘In a lot of pain. They’re low on morphine at the Elisabeth — only the very worst cases are given any. Half the ward seemed to be screaming when I went in this morning — it sounded like the end of a battle.’ Fritsch seemed to take in Russell’s appearance for the first time. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost yourself.’

‘My own.’ He told Fritsche what had had happened that morning: the news of Kuzorra’s death, his own abduction and unlikely reprieve.

Fritsch shook his head in wonder. ‘Someone up there likes you. But the men who took you — they sound like American gangsters. They take people for “rides”, don’t they?’

‘So did the Gestapo.’

‘True. So who have you annoyed?’ Fritsche wondered out loud.

Russell felt reluctant to name him. ‘The same bastard as Luders, I think. Maybe I should go and see the boy in hospital, compare notes.’

Fritsche grunted. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. If anyone’s watching it’ll look like a council of war, and Luders can’t even sit up in bed, let alone defend himself. Once he’s back on his feet I’m sure the young idiot will be happy to join forces. The two of you can sign a mutual suicide pact.’

‘I’d rather not.’

‘Good. Walk away, that’s my advice. Situations like this, all sorts of diseases are bound to be rife. And there’s precious little you can do about it until the situation changes. As long as you have a black market you’ll have people like Rudolf Geruschke. Once it disappears, so will he.’

‘And in the meantime?’

‘In the meantime, we live with the guilt of watching better men go down in flames.’

Russell admired the clarity, but not the world-view.

Back on the pavement, he found his knees were still shaky, and spent a few moments leaning against a convenient lamp post, wondering what to do next. Was there any point in going to the police or the occupation authorities? The pair who’d marched him out of the station were probably genuine soldiers, but was it worth looking for them? There were upward of ten thousand British troops in Berlin, and even if he found this particular duo it would only be his word against theirs.

There was certainly no point in openly declaring war on Geruschke — the man would hang him out for the crows. But he couldn’t just let him get away with it — he owed Kuzorra too much for that. He would stay out of the ring for a while, let Geruschke believe he’d been scared — not difficult, that — and then, very quietly and carefully, start amassing evidence. It might take a while, but he and maybe Luders would take the bastard down with good old-fashioned journalism.

A communal canteen offered itself, and he exchanged some ration stamps for a bowl of surprisingly tasty vegetable soup. ‘I’m alive,’ he told his reflection in the washroom mirror. ‘But Kuzorra isn’t,’ the reflection retorted.

A bus dropped him off on Dahlem’s Kronprinzenallee, and he walked back through the suburban streets to Thomas’s house, eyes peeled for any sign that he was being followed. Berlin felt less safe than it had that morning.

Once home, he shut himself up in his and Effi’s room. Feeling suddenly cold, he lay down under the blankets. He began to shiver, and realised that the shock was wearing off. An hour later, when Effi came in, he was more or less recovered, but she immediately knew that something had happened.

She listened aghast as he told her what. ‘And this was the man who had Kuzorra killed?’ she asked, after holding him tight for a minute or more.

‘I don’t know for certain. It could have been someone with a personal grudge that we don’t know about — Kuzorra must have made enough enemies in his years at the Alex. But Geruschke was the one he was after.’

‘And you weren’t?’

‘No, I just visited Kuzorra. All I can think is, I went to the Honey Trap before I knew Kuzorra had been arrested — I was looking for Otto, but Geruschke might think that was a cover story, that I was already investigating him when I heard about Kuzorra, and that I went to see Kuzorra because I hoped he could tell me more. So first he killed Kuzorra and then he came for me.’

‘But changed his mind,’ Effi said doubtfully.

‘Yes. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘Perhaps they were only trying to scare you,’ she suggested hopefully.

‘If they were, it worked. But no, they were really annoyed when someone told them to bring me back.’

‘Were they wearing masks or anything? Would you know them again?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘The police could watch the nightclub for them.’

Russell shook his head. ‘The police are a broken reed at the moment. Even if they wanted to help, I don’t think there’s anything they could do. I think my best bet is to lay low for a while.’

She gave him a who-are-you-kidding look. ‘Really?’

‘For a while — yes, really. I’m sure Kuzorra wouldn’t want me to throw myself on his pyre.’

‘No, he wouldn’t. And if you change your mind I want to hear about it before you do anything risky, all right?

‘Okay,’ Russell said, taking her into his arms. They held each other so tightly that the phrase ‘like there’s no tomorrow’ popped into his head. ‘So what have you been doing?’ he eventually asked her.

‘Rushing around. We’re actually starting filming tomorrow. At Babelsberg, believe it or not.’

‘That’s great.’

‘Yes, yes it is.’ She heard the lack of conviction in her own voice, and wondered why that was. It was wonderful to be in at the beginning of something so important. She was so lucky. She’d had an extraordinary life, with and without him. But now she wanted something else for the two of them, something that seemed more impossible each day — an ordinary life.

‘But?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘John, what are we going to do?’

‘I don’t know. Something’ll come up — it always has.’

There was a knock on the door. It was Thomas, come to tell Russell that he had a visitor.

‘Who?’

‘A British soldier.’

‘I’ll come down.’

Frau Niebel was guarding the hall, the visitor still poised on the stoop. He was wearing a Jewish Brigade uniform. ‘You are John Russell?’ he asked in English. ‘Wilhelm Isendahl gave me your name and address, and since I was leaving Berlin this evening, I thought I would take a chance on finding you at home.’

‘I’m glad you did. Please, come in.’

The visitor watched Frau Niebel scuttle away. ‘Is there somewhere private we can talk?’

‘Use my study,’ Thomas suggested.

Russell ushered the man in and shut the door behind them.

‘My name is Hersch,’ the man began. He was about thirty, Russell guessed, with deeply tanned skin and dark, almost racoon-like eyes. ‘As you can see, I’m an officer in the British Army’ — he allowed himself a wry smile — ‘but I’m here on behalf of the Haganah. I assume you know who we are?’

‘The defence force of the Palestinian Jews.’

‘Yes. And you, I believe, have proved yourself a friend of the Jews.’

It seemed easiest just to nod.

‘We have a proposition for you. You know about the flight route to Palestine?’

‘Isendahl gave me a primer.’

‘Would you like to write about it?’

‘Very much, but why would you want the publicity?’

Hersch smiled for the first time, and looked about ten years younger. ‘To give the survivors hope. To encourage them to join us. To tell the world that the Jews have seized control of their own lives, and that we’re no longer willing to submit.’

‘All good reasons. But won’t you also be making it easier for the authorities to stop you?’

‘We will expect you to keep some secrets, to change the names of people and places.’

‘I can do that.’

‘Then I think we have a deal.’ He reached inside his tunic pocket for a crumpled piece of paper, and handed it across. ‘You must reach Vienna by Monday if you want to be sure of joining the next group. If you arrive any later, then you may have to wait for the one after that. If you contact that person at that address, then everything will be arranged for you.’

It was almost light next morning when he watched Effi walk out to the waiting single-decker. According to her, the Russians had provided the vehicle to carry the film cast and crew to and fro, but Russell recognised the familiar outline of an American school bus. It chugged off down the otherwise silent street, spewing dark clouds of exhaust into the grey dawn.

No one seemed to be watching the house, neither then nor later, when he walked to the Press Club for an American breakfast. He picked up his allowance of cigarettes before leaving, and handed out a few to the ferallooking urchins who loitered outside the gates. The first word of the ‘No Germans Allowed’ sign had been obliterated with a wodge of something brown.

Back in Thomas’s study, he wrote accounts of his conversations with the three KPD men. He couldn’t actually remember whether Shchepkin had asked for written reports, but a material record seemed less prone to distortion than some NKVD version of Chinese Whispers. He gave Kurt Junghaus and Uli Trenkel the clean bills of political health that their loyalty undoubtedly warranted, and felt slightly worried that the NKVD would find such trust suspicious. His report on Strohm was more nuanced, admitting the man’s support for a ‘German path to socialism’ while stressing his belief in party discipline. Strohm, he said, would argue his case with intelligence, but accept those decisions that went against him.

‘Neither yes-man nor no-man,’ Russell murmured to himself. A comrade of the old sort.

He had abandoned the notion of telling Strohm about his vetting job, deciding instead on a more generic warning. He would say that a Soviet acquaintance had been asking questions, and that he had told this fictitious character what he was in fact reporting to Nemedin. This would warn Strohm that he was being watched, yet leave Russell’s own role looking peripheral.

He put the reports to one side, and leafed through his notes on the DP camps and their Jewish inmates. He had enough for a thoroughly depressing feature — the Western Allies seemed lost for a plan where the surviving Jews were concerned, and the Poles were making matters worse by driving their survivors out. The uplifting news would have to come later, if Hersch and his colleagues proved suitably inspirational.

After two hours at the typewriter, he went back to the Press Club for lunch, and sat listening to a bunch of young journalists at the next table discussing the new United Nations. The Senate in Washington had just voted to join the organisation, and most of the journalists seemed less than impressed. ‘United Nations, my arse,’ as one man elegantly phrased it.

Another two hours and he had fifteen hundred words for Solly to sell. It was just like the old days, he thought — him at a typewriter, Effi out on set. He walked to Kronprinzenallee for a third time, and left the finished article for Dallin to forward. With any luck it might reach London before Christmas.

He hadn’t been home long when the Soviet bus dropped Effi off. In the old days they would have walked down to one of their favourite restaurants on the Ku’damm, window-shopping on the way. Now they had to settle for Thomas’s favourite communal canteen, with only ruins to inspect. So many buildings had been hollowed out, their walls left scorched but standing, their blown-out windows like eyeless sockets.

Effi had enjoyed her day’s work, but it was hard to stay cheerful in such surroundings.

Russell asked if she knew how long the filming would take.

‘Four weeks is what they’re saying, but I can’t see it — it takes half the day to pick everyone up.’

‘Oh for the days of the studio limo.’

‘It had its uses. And anyway, four weeks will take us up to Christmas. I was hoping to spend that with Rosa.’

‘Has she ever celebrated Christmas?’

‘I don’t know. Now you mention it, I don’t suppose she has.’

‘So will you go back in January?’ Russell asked.

She gave him a look. ‘For a few days at least. I wish we both could. Do spies get holidays?’

‘Who knows? Sometimes I feel like telling them all to do their worst. They might agree to let me go.’

‘They might not. And I’d rather be visiting Rosa in London than you in prison. Or putting flowers on your grave.’

Thursday morning, Russell was back in the Soviet zone, hoping to see the last two comrades before his meeting with Shchepkin the following day. Leissner’s office was at Silesian Station, but the man himself was in Dresden, dealing with some undefined railway emergency, and wouldn’t be back until the weekend. Manfred Haferkamp, the only man on his list without an administrative job, was at his desk in the newspaper office, but too busy to see Russell before the afternoon.

It was a reasonable morning for December, bright but not too chilly, and after scrounging a coffee in the office canteen Russell walked on up Neue Konigstrasse towards Friedrichshain, checking the various notice boards for any mention of Otto or Miriam. He came across several of Effi’s messages, but no one had added anything useful.

He walked past several ‘antique stores’ selling salvage from bombedout apartments. A couple of trackless tank hulks faced each other across the next junction, and a group of Soviet soldiers were taking turns having their picture taken in front of one, arm in arm with a young German woman. She was either enjoying herself or putting on a good act. On the other side of the street two white-haired German men were staring stony-faced at the changing tableaux, almost pulsing with repressed rage.

Realising Isendahl’s flat was nearby, Russell decided on a visit. He doubted he’d find anyone better informed when it came to the local Jews and communists, and a journalist should cultivate his sources.

Isendahl had obviously been writing — a cigarette was burning in the ashtray by the typewriter — but seemed pleased to be interrupted. ‘I tried to call you,’ was the first thing he said after bringing Russell in. ‘Is your telephone out of order?’

‘It comes and goes.’

‘Well there’s someone to meet you.’

‘Hersch? He came round a couple of evenings ago.’

Isendahl picked up his cigarette. ‘No, not Hersch. You remember the group I told you about — the Nokmim?’

‘Who could forget?’

‘There are two of them in Berlin. And they’d like to talk to an American journalist.’

‘It seems to be catching,’ Russell said wryly.

Isendahl smiled. ‘It’s a propaganda war for the Jewish soul. Revenge, Palestine or the good life in America.’

‘I know which I’d choose.’

‘You’re not Jewish.’

‘True. You didn’t include remaining in Berlin on your list of options.’

‘No. A few may stay, but…’ He shook his head. ‘Would you?’

‘Probably not, but Berlin will be the poorer.’

‘Without doubt.’

Something suddenly occurred to Russell. ‘Why are the Nokmim here? Are they planning some spectacular act of vengeance?’

‘You’ll have to ask them that. If you want to meet them, that is.’

Russell knew an ethical minefield when he saw one, but it was too good an opportunity to turn down. ‘I do,’ he told Isendahl.

‘There’ll be restrictions, of course. This has to be a secret meeting — they don’t want the authorities to know they’re here in Berlin.’

‘Of course,’ Russell agreed. It would, he realised, depend on what they intended. If the Nokmim told him they had plans to execute some deserving Nazi, then he could probably live with keeping it off the record. But if they outlined plans to poison the city’s water supply, then they could hardly expect him to hold his tongue. Anything in between, he would play it by ear. ‘When do they want to meet?’

Tonight’s a possibility.’

‘They’re not far away then?’

‘No.’

‘Where do they want to meet?’

Isendahl shrugged. ‘Here?’

‘Suits me.’ He gave Isendahl a quizzical look. ‘You haven’t made up your mind about these people, have you?’

‘No. At first I thought they were crazy, but I’m not so sure any more. Or maybe their craziness just seems more appropriate than other people’s sanity.’

Russell looked at him. ‘How about you? Have you ruled out any of the options on your list?’

‘Not really. I’m beginning to think certainty died with the Nazis.’

Manfred Haferkamp would not have agreed. He looked younger than his thirty-five years, which spoke well of his constitution after spending the last seven in Soviet and Nazi prison camps. He had light brown hair and bright blue eyes, and an air of absolute certainty that Lenin’s buddies would have found familiar.

The other interviewees had all mentally poked and prodded at Russell’s cover story, but Haferkamp just took it for granted that the world would be interested in what he was thinking. Russell had tried and failed to find some innocent means of introducing the subject of Stalin’s betrayal — the handing over to Hitler in 1941 of some fifty KPD victims of the Great Purges, Haferkamp included — but he needn’t have bothered. The German brought it up himself, and the ironic nature of the disclosure failed to conceal the residual bitterness.

He was nothing if not consistent in his view of the Soviets. The task of German communists was the same as it always had been — to mount a real revolution and build a communist Germany. And who was standing in their way? Their supposed allies. The Soviets wanted the Party in charge but no real change; what was needed was the people in charge and a real transformation. The Anti-Fascist committees which had sprung up all over Germany were communist-inclined and truly popular, which was why the Soviets were trying to squash them.

Russell played devil’s advocate — surely no one expected the Soviets to grant the KPD free rein, or not this soon at any rate? Not after the Germans had killed twenty million Soviet citizens.

‘I don’t expect them to ever do so of their own accord,’ was Haferkamp’s reply. ‘We have a real fight on our hands.’

‘Do other comrades share this view?’

‘Most of them, I’d say.’

‘And the leadership?’

Haferkamp made a disdainful noise. ‘The ones who came back from Moscow are just stooges.’

‘All right, but they still have to counter your arguments. And haven’t they said that they support a German road to socialism?’

‘They give it lip service, nothing more. And they don’t counter our arguments, or not in any constructive sense. They just throw insults about. The last piece I wrote, they accused me of “left-wing infantilism”. There was no discussion of the real issues.’

Russell noted with relief that Haferkamp had already aired his views in public. His report wouldn’t tell the NKVD anything they didn’t already know.

He asked if there was any chance of a home-grown challenge to the KPD’s current pro-Soviet leadership.

‘It’s bound to happen eventually. These people have been away too long. Listen, this is the German Communist Party, not some provincial branch of the CPSU. We fought against Hitler and, if we have to, we’ll fight against Stalin.’

Russell couldn’t resist one more question. ‘A statement like that would get you arrested in Moscow. Aren’t you worried that the same will happen here?’

Haferkamp’s blue eyes were cold and determined. ‘I’ve spent half my life in prison or exile. I’m not afraid of either.’

Russell thanked him for his time, and walked out into the night. He couldn’t fault the sense of anything Haferkamp had said, but he still hadn’t liked him. The man might be sincere in his political convictions, but they weren’t what drove him on. He might have been a good comrade once, but the Nazis and Soviets had taken their toll, and his heart was running on empty.

He was also backing the losing side. Russell wondered what an old communist like Brecht would find to admire in the current KPD leadership. Maybe nothing. It would explain why he hadn’t come back from America.

It was still only five — he had two hours to kill before his meeting with Isendahl’s ‘Jewish Avengers’. The name made him smile, which was probably not the effect they were hoping for.

He found a small bar behind the wreckage of the old Reich Statistical Office — the pre-war press corps had called it Fiction Central — and exchanged a pack of cigarettes for a glass of alleged bourbon. The only other customers were two Red Army soldiers, and they were engrossed in a game of chess. The barman disappeared out back in response to a woman’s summons, leaving Russell to idly skim through the Soviet-sponsored Tagliche Rundschau that someone had left on the bar. It was full of poems and short stories, and almost devoid of politics. A reader from Mars might reasonably conclude that sponsoring the arts was the Russians’ main reason for being in Berlin.

Well, no one could make that mistake with the British or Americans.

Two ‘bourbons’ and two excellent short stories later, he was ready for the Nokmim.

When he reached Isendahl’s building, the man himself was standing in the doorway, smoking a cigarette. ‘We’re meeting in a cafe,’ he announced, crushing the stub under his foot. ‘It’s not far.’

It was three streets away, in the candlelit basement of a bombed-out house, and felt more like somebody’s kitchen than a commercial establishment. There were two Nokmim waiting for them, and rather to Russell’s surprise one was a young woman. She seemed to have blonde hair — it was hard to be sure in the gloom — and probably blue eyes too. Her companion, a man of similar age, had a mass of frizzy hair which stuck out at the sides, and gave him the look of a wind-blown cedar. His piercing stare reminded Russell — somewhat inappropriately — of the happily departed Fuhrer.

Isendahl introduced them — the man’s name was Yeichel, the woman’s Cesia — and then sat off to one side, rather in the manner of an umpire.

‘What would you like to tell me?’ Russell asked the two of them.

‘You ask the questions,’ Yeichel said. ‘Isn’t that how it works?’

‘Okay. Tell me about the Nokmim? Who are you? What are your aims?’

Yeichel man smiled for the first time, and it lit up his face. ‘Do you know Psalm 94?’ he asked.

‘Not that I remember.’

‘He will repay them for their iniquity, and wipe them out for their wickedness; the Lord our God will wipe them out.’

‘The Nazis, I assume. So if God has them in his sights, where do you come in? Are you God’s instruments?

‘Not at all. If there is a God, he has clearly abandoned the Jews. We will do the work that he should have done.’

‘And wipe out the Nazis.’

‘That is the intention.’

Cesia seemed about to add something, but apparently thought better of the idea.

‘Have many of you are there?’ Russell asked.

‘A hundred or so. Perhaps more by now.’

‘And you have a leader?’

‘Our leader’s name is Abba Kovner. He is from Vilna. He was the leader of the ghetto uprising there, and the commander of the partisan army in Rudnicki Forest.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘We cannot tell you that.’

‘And the rest of the group?’

‘All across Europe. Wherever Nazis or their friends can be found.’

‘And you plan to wipe them out?’

‘We plan to kill as many as possible.’

Russell found himself imagining an army of 19th-century Russian anarchists carrying out coordinated bombings. ‘How?’ he asked.

‘However we can.’ Yeichel made a face. ‘And when we strike, you will have the answer to your question.’

Russell paused to marshal his thoughts. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ he asked. The answer seemed obvious, but he wanted to hear it from them.

‘The world must know who was responsible, and why.’

‘You want me to explain your actions after the event. Like a spokesman. But I can’t promise to dress it up the way you want me to. I understand your desire for vengeance, but that doesn’t make it a good idea. Some might accuse you of acting like Nazis.’

‘So we should turn the other cheek?’ Cesia asked, speaking for the first time. ‘We are not Christians,’ she added contemptuously.

‘No,’ Russell agreed.

‘Look around this city,’ Yeichel said calmly. ‘Everywhere you turn, there are Nazis resuming their old lives as if nothing had happened. No one is going to punish them.’

‘We are living in the ruins of their capital.’

‘Oh, the Germans have been punished for invading other countries. But not for what they did to us. Read the reports from Nuremberg — the Jews are hardly mentioned.’

‘We are the lucky ones,’ Cesia said bitterly. ‘We survived when millions didn’t, and we owe them a debt. One day we will have homes and families and jobs again, but our war will not be over until that debt is paid. Until then we belong to the dead.’

‘And when do you think that might be?’

‘Soon,’ Yeichel told him. ‘We have a homeland to build in Palestine, so our business here cannot take long.’

Russell could think of other questions, but he wanted away from the two of them, from her burning resentment and his chilling self-righteousness. Haferkamp would have fitted right in.

Three corroded souls.

Interview over, he and Isendahl walked back down to Neue Konigstrasse. ‘What do you think they’re planning?’ Russell asked his companion, not really expecting an answer.

‘I don’t know. But… I have a Jewish friend — this is off the record, all right?’

‘Okay.’

‘This friend is also in a group — they call themselves the Ghosts of Treblinka. Or just the Ghosts. And they look for ex-Nazis. Not the sort who just joined the Party out of greed or fear, but men who killed Jews, or sought profit from their deaths. Men they could turn over to the Occupation authorities with a reasonable expectation of punishment.’

‘Sounds admirable.’

‘But they don’t turn them over,’ Isendahl continued. ‘They dress up as British soldiers, tell these men they’re arresting them, and then drive them out into the countryside. When they reach their destination, they tell the Nazi that they’re Jews, and execute him.’

‘Ah.’ Russell found himself wondering whether the Ghosts made use of Kyritz Wood. ‘You think the Nokmim are planning something similar?’

‘No. I told Cesia about these people, and she hated what they were doing. She said they were treating the Nazis as individuals, which was not how the Nazis had treated the Jews. She said the Nazis should be killed the way the Jews were killed. Anonymously, impersonally. On an industrial scale.’

‘Of course,’ Russell murmured. ‘Gas?’ he wondered out loud. ‘Poison in the water? But where would they find that many Nazis?’

‘In a prison camp.’

‘Did they tell you that?’

‘No, it just seems logical.’

It did. And almost just. Almost. ‘And you’re happy to let them get on with it?’

‘Happy overstates it,’ Isendahl admitted, ‘but then again, I’m not in the business of rescuing Nazis. Are you?’

It was a fair enough question. And the answer, Russell realised, was no.

Effi was already asleep by the time he got home, and already gone when he woke in the morning. In the old days he would have made his leisurely way down to Kranzler’s on Unter den Linden, read the papers, sipped his way through at least one cup of excellent coffee, and basked in the life of a freelance journalist in Europe’s most exciting city. But that was then — he was, he realised, dwelling more in the past than was healthy. Maybe ruins encouraged nostalgia.

He was not looking forward to meeting Shchepkin, and realised that was unusual. Asking himself why, he decided that he’d always seen himself as a self-employed, independent sort of spy. A permanent place on Stalin’s payroll evoked very different feelings.

The sun was shining as he emerged from the Potsdamerplatz U-Bahn station, but the chill in the air was appreciably sharper than on the previous day. The home of Europe’s first traffic lights was still a wreck, but several reconstruction gangs were at work behind the shattered facades of the perimeter, the dust from their efforts hanging red in the bright blue sky.

Russell walked up the old Hermann-Goring-Strasse and into the Tiergarten. The open-air market seemed as popular as ever, and would doubtless remain so until the occupation authorities created the conditions for something more legal. As he arrived, he noticed two women proudly bearing away a precious square of glass. Berliners were only allowed to glaze one room per dwelling, but people were travelling out into the country, removing windows from their own or others’ cottages, and bringing them back to the city to sell.

Shchepkin appeared halfway through his second circuit, and the two of them retired to the same bench as last time.

Russell placed his copy of the Allgemeine Zeitung between them.

‘Your report is inside?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Anything else worth reading?’ Shchepkin asked, looking down at the American-sponsored newspaper.

‘There’s an article about the adoption of orphans. It seems that Germans prefer them blond.’

‘That’s hardly news.’

‘No.’ Perhaps the Nokmim were right, Russell thought.

‘So have you seen all five men?’

‘Not Leissner. He’s out of town. He’ll be back this weekend, but I’m leaving town myself, so he’ll have to wait.’

‘Where are you going?’

Russell explained about the Haganah offer. ‘You did say you wanted a working journalist.’

‘We do. And I’m sure that Leissner can wait. So what about the others?’

Russell went through the list. ‘Junghaus and Trenkel — the planner and the propagandist — you won’t have any trouble with either of them. Strohm will argue for what he thinks is right, but only until a decision has been made. He’ll always accept Party discipline because he can’t imagine life outside the Party. Haferkamp is a bomb waiting to go off, but I assume you know that already — he told me he’d published an article outlining his views.’

‘It was only just brought to our attention,’ Shchepkin said. ‘The German comrades like to keep their disputes to themselves.’

‘Even Ulbricht’s pro-Soviet bunch?’

‘Especially them. They’re afraid that opposition in their own ranks reflects badly on themselves.’

‘Well Haferkamp’s only a journalist. Maybe the Party could find him a job in the sports department.’

‘Maybe.’ He gave Russell an enigmatic smile. ‘I hope you’ve been completely honest in your appraisals.’

‘Of course I have,’ Russell lied. ‘There seemed no point in anything else. A man like Haferkamp has no future in the KPD — he just hasn’t realised it yet. He’ll be happier filing football reports.’

‘And the names we provided for Fraulein Koenen?’

‘She says they’re pathetically grateful to your people for the chance to make their film, and that they hardly ever mention politics — just the occasional anti-American gibe. And that when they remember they belong to the Party, no one could be more loyal.’

Shchepkin snorted. ‘The worst kind — when people like that wake up, they always get really angry. But thank you, and thank Fraulein Koenen.’ He tapped his fingers on the folded newspaper. ‘Have you given the Americans a copy?’

‘Not yet, but I will.’ He would have to give Dallin the same report, just to be on the safe side — he had no idea how much information the Americans shared with the British, and he hadn’t forgotten Shchepkin’s warning of Soviet moles in MI5 and MI6. He could always give the Californian a fuller verbal report. ‘The Americans have found a task for me,’ he told Shchepkin. ‘Have you ever heard of a chemist named Theodor Schreier?’ he asked, half hoping that the Russian would say no.

‘Yes,’ Shchepkin answered, clearly interested.

‘Well the Americans want him, and they’ve more or less ordered me to go and fetch him.’

‘Alone?’

‘I doubt it. They’re hoping you can find out how well he’s being guarded.’

Shchepkin seemed lost in thought for some time.

‘Well?’ Russell asked eventually.

‘Yes, we’re sitting on Schreier. He’s agreed to work in our country, in Yaroslavl, if I remember correctly. His laboratory is being packed up for moving. I don’t know the details, but the procedure is the same in all such cases — two men with him around the clock, in three shifts. For his protection,’ the Russian added wryly.

‘That doesn’t sound good,’ Russell observed.

‘Mmm, no. But why? — that’s the question. The Americans must have a thousand Schreiers. Just to deny us, I suppose. Why are they being so petty?’

Russell let that go. ‘I’ve been wondering whether this has more to do with me — or us — than Schreier. I think they’re testing us. Giving us a chance to prove our loyalty.’

‘You’re learning,’ Shchepkin said. ‘And speaking of proving our loyalty, I’ll have something for them in a few weeks. But in the meantime…’

‘Can you help me?’

‘I don’t see how. And I will have to tell Nemedin about this.’

‘Why, for God’s sake?’

‘Because our lives will be forfeit if he hears it from somebody else. We can’t assume you’re his only American source.’

Russell supposed not.

‘It depends on how important Schreier is,’ Shchepkin went on, ‘whether we really need his skills or might just find them useful. If he’s expendable, then perhaps I can convince Nemedin that it’s in our interests to let you take him. Your success will please your American control, and the more he trusts you, the more use you will eventually be to Nemedin. Or so he will think. You must remember,’ the Russian said, turning towards him for emphasis, ‘we need to keep proving our loyalty to both sides.’

Yes, Russell thought, after you through the looking glass. Shchepkin’s world made him feel dizzy.

He reverted to practicalities. ‘So Nemedin will remove the guards?’

‘Oh no, that would make the Americans suspicious. How many men are you coming with? And when?’

‘Saturday evening. No numbers have been mentioned.’

‘I would send a four-man team,’ Shchepkin said, as if this was the sort of operation he organised every week. ‘There shouldn’t be any problems, especially if the guards have been told to only offer token resistance.’

It sounded promising, until Russell remembered the original premise. ‘What if Schreier is vital to the future of the Soviet Union?’

‘Then he won’t be there when you come to call. Other than that, I don’t know. If I was in charge I’d put on some kind of show, and make sure you got marks for trying, but if I suggest that to Nemedin he’ll find some reason to do something else. He doesn’t trust me any better than he trusts you.’

‘That’s almost an honour. So let me get this straight — when I arrive at wherever it is I’ll either find Schreier and two amenable guards or no Schreier and… what?’

‘Whatever Nemedin decides. You’ll be safe enough — he may not like you, but you’re still his best hope of a career boost. And he’s not impulsive — if he ever comes after you it won’t be on a whim.’

‘That’s comforting. So what do I tell Dallin?’

‘Just say that I thought there’d be two guards, and that if there’s anything I can do to help without raising suspicions then I’ll do it.’

‘Okay. Now, something personal. Just before the end of the war, here in Berlin, Effi was asked to shelter a Jewish girl whose mother had just died. She’s still with us, and we’re trying to find out what happened to her father. His name is — or was — Otto Pappenheim, and someone of that name was given a transit visa to Shanghai via Moscow sometime in the six months before Hitler attacked you. Is there any way you could confirm that he actually took the trip? And if he did, whether he ever came back. We’re not at all sure he’s the right Otto Pappenheim, so knowing his age would be useful — there must have been a date of birth on the visa.’

Shchepkin had a weary look in his eyes. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said.

They both got up and surveyed the crowd in front of them, as if reluctant to leave each other’s company.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve uncovered any useful secrets lately,’ Russell said.

‘No, not yet.’

An hour or so later Russell was sitting in Scott Dallin’s office. In future, Dallin told him, they would meet in less official surroundings — the Grunewald seemed conveniently close. Two reasons were offered. First, that ‘the Russians might know, but we’re not supposed to know that they know.’ Second, that Crosby had been asking questions about Russell. His interest might be completely innocent — Crosby might simply want to recruit him — but the more separate their two organisations were, the better Dallin liked it.

Why, Russell wondered, did governments delight in creating competing intelligence organisations? They always — always — ended up spending more time fighting each other than the enemy.

‘So what did Comrade Shchepkin have to say?’ Dallin asked.

Russell trotted out the pre-arranged answer.

‘A team of four, then’ Dallin said, fulfilling Shchepkin’s prophecy. ‘Brad Halsey will be in command. I’ll get him down here.’ He reached for the internal telephone.

‘And the other two?’ Russell asked once he’d put it down.

‘A couple of GIs.’

‘Out of uniform, I assume.’

‘Of course.’

‘Shchepkin said that Schreier has agreed to work in the Soviet Union. What if he refuses to come with us?’

Dallin gave him a disbelieving look. ‘He’ll jump at the chance. Why wouldn’t he?’

A thought occurred to Russell. ‘It is just him? There’s no wife or girlfriend? No children?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

Amateurs was about right, Russell thought. ‘What if there are? Should we bring them as well?’

‘If he wants them to come, then yes, I suppose so.’

It didn’t seem worth a debate. ‘So we just bring him back on the U-Bahn, and deposit him where?’

‘That’ll be up to Brad.’

Russell supposed it would be. He himself was on probation, useful if they got lost, but otherwise only along for the ride. He wondered out loud whether any of the others spoke German.

‘No,’ Dallin told him, causing Russell to wonder what the powers in Washington had been doing for four years. Had Germany’s defeat come as a surprise?

Brad Halsey arrived. He looked and sounded like a typical Midwestern kid — athletic-looking and open-faced, with neat, almost golden brown hair — but there was someone else behind the bright blue eyes, someone the war had shut down. His opening glance was hardly friendly, causing Russell to wonder how much of his chequered past Dallin had passed on.

‘I still don’t have the address,’ Russell told them both.

‘It’s in Friedrichshain,’ Halsey answered. ‘Lippehner Strasse 38. Do you know it?’

‘I know the street,’ Russell told him. ‘And it must be almost two kilometres from the nearest U-Bahn station.’

‘That won’t be a problem. But we need somewhere close by for a rendezvous point. The less time we spend as a group, the less chance the Russians will notice us.’

Halsey might be a cold fish, but he clearly wasn’t a fool. ‘The western entrance to Friedrichshain Park,’ Russell suggested. ‘It’s about a five minute walk away.’

‘Sounds good.’

Dallin also nodded his agreement. ‘And the time?’

‘Eight o’clock?’ Halsey suggested. The eyes glittered at the prospect.

Effi was still awake when he arrived home, but only just. ‘If we stay in, I’ll be asleep in an hour,’ she told him. ‘Let’s go out.’

‘Okay, but where? Do you have any suggestions?’ Russell asked Thomas, who had followed him in.

‘The cabaret on Konigin-Luise-Platz is pretty good, and it’s not that far to walk. The Ulenspiegel is better, but…’

‘Where’s that?’ Effi asked.

‘On Nurnberger Strasse.’

‘Too far,’ Russell said. ‘Will you come with us?’ he asked Thomas.

‘Yes, why not? I was going to write to Hanna, but I can do that in the morning.’

‘Have you heard from her?’ Effi said. ‘How are they?’

‘Fine. Well, fed up with the country. And… other things. Hanna and her mother, really. They always got on well enough for a few days, but after a year… I think the strain is beginning to tell. She wants to come home, and so does Lotte.’

‘That’s good news,’ Russell said.

‘You’ll need us to move out,’ Effi realised.

‘It won’t be for weeks but, yes, I was going to talk to you about that. None of the others have anywhere to go, and I thought, well, with your connections, you won’t have any trouble finding somewhere else.’

‘I’m sure we won’t,’ Russell reassured him. ‘In fact I think it’s time Effi reclaimed her flat.’

‘If I ever have the energy. But of course you have to make room for them. I’ll look into it while you’re away. Now let’s go out before I keel over.’

The walk took twenty minutes. The food in the next-door cafe was good, the cabaret just what they needed. Some of the sketches were funnier than others, but all seemed infused with the spirit of a newer Berlin. There was little sentimentality — the new Berliner was a fourteen-year-old with her pram, explaining in verse how she’d come by her baby — exchanging sex for a Hershey bar. And there was little respect for the victors — one sketch lampooned the American decision not to screen the movie Ninotchka in Berlin for fear of upsetting the Russians.

The one group spared ridicule were the Nazis, which Russell found surprisingly pleasing. Some Germans at least were putting the past behind them. Walking home, he realised that he’d needed an evening like that. One with a future.

Effi was working on Saturday, and Russell found it hard not to dwell on the evening ahead. Writing anything decent proved beyond his powers of concentration, so he had a long lunch at the Press Club, and headed into the city centre. He spent a couple of hours watching Bing and Bob’s Road to Morocco at a recently re-opened cinema off Alexanderplatz, and another couple nursing two weak beers at a bar close by. By seven-thirty he was walking slowly up the southern side of Lippehner Strasse, examining the buildings opposite.

The street had fared better than most in Friedrichshain, and No. 38 was one of five adjoining buildings spared by bombs and shells. According to Dallin, Schreier’s apartment was on the third floor, the one at the front on the right. A faint light was gleaming round the edge of the windows.

Walking on, he noticed a boy of around fifteen watching him from a nearby stoop. The house behind it was a field of rubble. Keeping his eyes on the curtained windows, Russell sat down beside him. ‘Would you like to earn some cigarettes?’

‘Doing what? Are you some kind of pervert?’

Russell couldn’t help smiling. ‘I want to know about the man who lives in that apartment over there.’

‘The one with the Ivans?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about him?’

‘Is he there now?’

‘How many cigarettes are we talking about?’

‘A pack.’

‘A whole pack?’ the boy exclaimed in surprise.

Russell felt like offering a short lesson in bargaining tactics, but decided against. ‘A whole pack,’ he confirmed.

‘So what do you want to know about him?’

‘Is he there?’

‘They came back about an hour ago. Him and the Ivans.’

So Nemedin had been told that Schreier was expendable, Russell thought. Which meant they were expected. He asked how many Russians there were.

‘Two. It’s always two. They swap over later.’

‘When exactly?’

The boy shrugged. ‘Who knows what the time is? The Ivans have all of the watches.’

‘How do they get here? Do they walk?’

‘No, they come in a jeep. They drive up, blow their horn, and wait for the two upstairs to come down. Then they go up, and the other two drive off.’

Russell took a pack of Chesterfields from his pocket and handed it over. ‘Now go home,’ he said.

The boy stared at his prize with glowing eyes, like a prospector finding a golden nugget. ‘This is my home,’ he said, and skipped away across the rubble.

By the time Russell reached the meeting point it was almost eight o’clock. The park stretched away into darkness, and would have been closed if it still had gates. He had met Wilhelm and Freya Isendahl at this entrance in the summer of 1939, and Albert Wiesner six months earlier. Albert was still in Palestine, as far as he knew.

A little way from the entrance, two men were lurking in the shadows. They looked uncomfortable in their German clothes — Dallin been obviously been shopping at one of the black markets — and grinned with relief when Russell gave them the pre-arranged password, a request for directions to Braunsberger Strasse. They introduced themselves: Vinny had the face and accent of an Italian-American from New York City, George the sort of earnest face and broad ‘a’s that Russell associated with Boston.

Halsey appeared out of the gloom a few seconds later, as if he’d been waiting to make his entrance. He was wearing the kind of long coat that gangsters wore in movies, and was presumably trying to look like a black marketeer. Which was fitting, Russell thought — what else were they doing that evening but trying to boost American business prospects? White marketeering, the respectable kind.

Halsey took a gun and silencer from his left coat pocket and offered it to Russell.

He only hesitated for a second — he had seen nothing to alarm him on Lippehner Strasse, but if his companions and the Russians were all carrying guns it seemed foolish to be the odd man out. If all hell did break loose he wanted to be more than a sitting duck.

He told Halsey and the two GIs what he’d discovered in the last halfhour. Halsey looked annoyed at being upstaged, but only for a moment. ‘Let’s get it over with before the next shift arrives. We’ll walk in pairs. You two’ — he indicated Vinny and George — ‘keep about fifty yards behind us.’

They set off. In the old days it would have been three in the morning before the streets were this empty, but post-war Berlin went early to bed. Many dim lights were visible in the obviously habitable buildings, a few in some that looked mere shells. There was no traffic in sight, but every now and then Russell could hear a vehicle on the nearby Greifswalder Strasse. Two pedestrians passed by on the other side, both half-running, as if pursued by a curfew.

They turned into Lippehner Strasse. Halsey hadn’t said a word since they started walking, but Russell could almost feel the young man’s eagerness. The glitter in his eyes suggested something more, and Russell found himself wondering whether Dallin’s favourite had been sampling the cocaine now readily available on Berlin’s black market.

There didn’t seem much point in asking.

They stopped outside Schreier’s building, and waited for Vinny and George to catch up. Staring across the street, Russell thought he saw movement in the ruins, but couldn’t be sure. Maybe his informer had put two and two together, and come to see the show.

The four of them went in through the front door. There were no working lamps in the hall or on the stairs, but enough light was seeping round the edges of doors to offer a modicum of visibility. The building smelled of cabbage, sweat and human waste, like most of the rest of Berlin. Music was playing somewhere up above — the sort of sultry jazz that Goebbels had found so repellent.

The stairs creaked alarmingly, causing Russell to wonder whether the house was as solid as it looked. According to Annaliese, half the people arriving at emergency rooms were the victims of collapsing walls, floors and staircases. The other half were simply starving.

They reached the third floor without mishap. A ribbon of light shone under Schreier’s door, and the music was playing behind it.

‘You knock,’ Halsey told Russell in an exaggerated whisper. ‘Pretend to be a resident complaining about the music. We need to know the situation — where Schreier is, where the Russians have their guns. Okay?’

Russell felt like asking ‘why me?’ but unfortunately knew the answer — none of the others spoke German. He waited until they had disappeared up the stairs, took a deep breath, and knocked.

The music abruptly ceased.

‘Who is it?’ a voice asked in Russian.

‘Herr Hirth,’ Russell improvised. Hauptsturmfuhrer Hirth had been his SS spymaster in the good old days.

There was no reply.

He knocked again and took a quick step sideways, just in case. Drunken Russians had a habit of shooting doors which annoyed them.

These two proved to be sober. The uniformed man who opened the door was holding a machine pistol half aloft, like someone intent on starting a race. Another slightly older man was sitting at a chessboard on the other side of the room. Both sported the pale blue shoulder insignia of the NKVD.

They looked confused, as if they’d been expecting someone else.

‘Herr Schreier?’ Russell said tentatively.

The Russian at the table leant back in his chair and called into the adjoining room. A few seconds later a tall thin German emerged, and gave Russell an enquiring look.

The complaining resident act seemed unconvincing, but he couldn’t think of anything else. ‘I was just wondering if you could turn the music down,’ he said. ‘My wife is sick, and she needs her sleep.’

Schreier walked across to the radio and mimed Russell’s request to the watching guards, both of whom smiled their assent. The one who had answered the door was still holding the machine pistol, but its barrel was now pointed at the floor. The other man’s gun was sitting on the table, beside a clutch of sacrificed pawns.

Russell made gestures of thanks and withdrew. The door closed behind him, and the music resumed at a lower volume. An accommodating NKVD — what next?

Halsey was waiting a few steps up.

Russell reported what he’d seen, and watched with alarm as Halsey screwed the silencer onto his gun. Vinny was taking position on the flight of stairs below, George holding his on the flight above.

It occurred to Russell that Halsey might not know that they were expected. ‘You won’t need to use that…’

‘I will,’ Halsey contradicted him, and the look in his eyes told Russell much more than he wanted to know.

The young American slipped away down the stairs and applied his own fist to Schreier’s door. When it opened seconds later a few Russian words were abruptly cut off by the ‘phhhtt’ of the silenced revolver. There was a sound of tumbling furniture, another ‘phhhtt’, a cry of fear.

Halsey had disappeared into the apartment, and Russell reluctantly followed. The younger Russian was lying on the ragged carpet behind the door, a bloody hole where his left eye had been. His comrade was on the ground behind the table. As he struggled to get up, Halsey administered the coup de grace, a bullet in the back of the head. He was clearly a fan of the NKVD.

Russell was aghast, and obviously showed it.

‘What did you think we were going to do?’ Halsey asked. ‘Tie them to chairs?

Something like that, Russell thought. He looked from one corpse to the other. Another two families in mourning. He hoped that neither were Nemedin favourites.

Schreier also looked in shock. ‘Tell him he’s coming with us,’ Halsey told Russell.

He did so.

Schreier didn’t look eager, which was hardly surprising. ‘Where are you taking me?’ he asked in a tremulous voice.

‘To the American sector,’ Russell told him.

Schreier shook his head, more in disbelief than refusal.

‘Get whatever you want to take,’ Russell said. ‘You won’t be coming back.’

The German went into the bedroom, and reappeared moments later with a framed photograph of a woman. ‘My late wife,’ he explained.

A horn sounded in the street below.

‘Who the fuck’s that?’ Halsey asked, heading for the window. He peeled the curtain back a few inches and looked down. ‘It’s two Ivans in a jeep. An American jeep,’ he added, as if that made their appearance even less welcome.

‘The changing of the guard,’ Russell guessed. He’d forgotten to tell Halsey about the horn routine, and there didn’t seem much point now.

‘It looks like we won’t need the U-Bahn,’ Halsey said. ‘We’ll wait for them to come up, then take the jeep.’ He walked to the door and softly called the other two in. They hardly looked at the two corpses.

‘What if they don’t come up?’ Russell asked. He didn’t want two more Russians to die, but short of shooting Halsey could see no way around it. ‘They won’t want to leave the jeep unattended, so they’ll probably wait for these two to come down.’

Halsey smiled. ‘Then I guess we’ll have to take their places.’

A hail of bullets was about right. ‘How many Russians are you going to kill?’ Russell asked. ‘I thought Dallin sent us to fetch Schreier, not start World War Three.’

The horn sounded again, a touch more impatiently.

‘Well they’re down there, we’re up here, and we have to get past them somehow. Have you got a better idea?’

‘Yes. You three take Schreier down to the ground floor, and find somewhere out of sight. I’ll lean out of the window, tell them there’s a problem, and that I need them up here.’

‘Do you speak Russian as well?’ Halsey asked. It was almost an accusation.

‘Enough.’

‘Hmm. What if only one of them comes?’

‘Then you’ll have one less to deal with.’ And one life saved was better than none, Russell thought but didn’t say.

‘And what’ll you do?’

‘Once they start up I’ll head down a flight or two, and stay out of sight until they’ve gone past.’

Halsey nodded. ‘Okay. Give us a couple of minutes.’ He took one last look at his victims and led the others out through the door, Vinny and George clutching their guns, Schreier his photograph.

Russell was still wondering about the jeep. They’d be more exposed above ground, but it would certainly be quicker than walking to the nearest U-Bahn and waiting for a train. They’d be out of the Soviet sector in fifteen minutes, provided they weren’t stopped.

He found himself looking at the dead Russians again. How were the American authorities going to explain this? He supposed they could simply deny all knowledge, but who else would have a motive for snatching Schreier and killing two NKVD men? Schreier himself was the only credible scapegoat, and if the Americans blamed him they could hardly put him to work in one of their laboratories. Or not without giving him a new identity.

The two minutes were up. He reached for the window latch just as the horn sounded again, and after a struggle managed to disengage it. He stuck out his head just as a Russian stepped out of the jeep. ‘You must come up,’ he shouted down, hoping that an unfamiliar voice wouldn’t alert them. ‘There’s a problem. I’ll need you both,’ he added, then swiftly withdrew his head.

Please, he silently advised them, save your lives.

He closed the door behind him and hurried down the stairs, alert for the sound of feet below. Reaching the first floor, he ducked back along the passageway that led to the flats at the rear, and was just flattening himself against a wall when torchlight flickered across the ceiling. The Russians were lighting their own way up.

There were footfalls on the stairs now, so the others had not been spotted. And there were — thank the Lord — two pairs of feet ascending. Russell crouched in the darkness, and prayed no beam would shine his way.

It played on the walls in front of him, but then vanished upwards along with the feet. He waited until these reached the next landing, then descended, as swiftly and quietly as he could, to the ground floor, door and street.

The others were already on board, with Halsey and George sandwiching Schreier in the back, and Vinny at the wheel. Russell scrambled into the empty front seat, wondering why Halsey had forsaken the honour. He soon found out. The engine burst into life, and Vinny accelerated off down Lippehner Strasse, shouting ‘which way?’ at him over the roar of the motor.

‘Left,’ he said automatically as they roared up towards the intersection with Greifswalder Strasse. Which was the best way to go? The American sector was closest, but how would they get across the Spree? When he’d walked to that stretch of the river the other day, all the bridges had still been down. The simplest route was straight along Neue Konigstrasse to Alexanderplatz, crossing the Spree and Spreekanal by the Old City bridges — he knew that they were open. Then down Unter den Linden to the Brandenburg Gate, where the British zone began. The British might stop them and make a fuss, but they wouldn’t shoot anybody.

Neue Konigstrasse was almost empty, a late night tram brimming with passengers striking sparks in the other direction.

A nasty thought occurred to Russell. He turned to Schreier, and asked him in German whether there’d been a telephone in the apartment.

‘Yes.’

‘Was it working?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘There was a telephone,’ Russell told Halsey, in response to the latter’s quizzical look.

They were passing between the remains of the Statistical and Tax Offices, Vinny driving the jeep at a steady forty as they approached the brighter lights of Alexanderplatz. Back in the spring Russell had done a day’s involuntary labour on this stretch of road, helping dig gun emplacements for the defence of the city.

After Neue Konigstrasse, Alexanderplatz and the streets leading into it seemed almost brimming with life. Several strands of music were audible and the square itself was awash with people. Some of the men looked German, but most were wearing uniforms, and clinging on to a local girl. Judging by the high-pitched screams of delight, almost everyone was drunk, and the only thing waved at their passing jeep was a clearly empty bottle.

They swung round under the Stadtbahn bridge, drove down Konigstrasse’s rubble-lined canyon, and crossed the Spree on the makeshift replacement for the old Kurfursten Bridge. On the other side of the Schloss the Christmas fair in the Lustgarten offered a second oasis of life and light, the carousels gaily circling against a backdrop of ruptured stone.

Another makeshift bridge and they were slaloming down Unter den Linden, twisting this way and that through the gathered piles of rubble. A mile in the distance, the silhouette of the Brandenburg gate was hardening against the night sky. As they crossed the almost deserted Friedrichstrasse, Russell began to believe they would make it.

His confidence was short-lived. There was something up ahead, something involving movement and vehicles, between Pariserplatz and the site of the vanished Adlon Hotel. Was it a checkpoint, or just some Soviet unit doing God knows what? He could see a brazier aflame by the side of the road, several soldiers warming their hands. Two jeeps and a truck were lined up beyond.

An officer had noticed them coming, and was striding out into the road, clearly intent on pulling them over.

Russell took in the scene. The brazier suggested the Russians had been here for a while, and there was no sign that they were expecting a gang of murderous American abductors — none of the soldiers were taking cover or reaching for rifles. ‘It’s just a routine check,’ Russell told Halsey. ‘Let me handle it.’

They were about a hundred metres away now, and Vinny’s foot was easing down on the brake.

‘No,’ Halsey said suddenly. ‘Don’t stop. Drive on through.’

There was no time to argue the pros and cons. Vinny did the best job he could, slowing down enough to lull the Soviet officer into a false sense of security, then ramming his foot through the accelerator. The Russian jumped aside a second too late, and cried out in pain as the wing struck his trailing leg.

The soldiers were lunging for their rifles now, and Russell hunched himself down in his seat, waiting for the first whining bullet, blessing the fate which had put him in front. It seemed an age, but then there was a sudden volley of shots, and a cry of pain from behind him. They were crossing Pariserplatz now — another hundred metres and they’d be in the British sector.

More single shots rang out, and then a burst of automatic fire. A spray of liquid bathed the back of Russell’s neck, and something heavy dropped onto his shoulder. He felt the slight shift of light as they ran under the Brandenburg Gate and into the Tiergarten. The shooting had stopped.

Vinnie pulled the jeep to a halt a few hundred metres down the Chaussee, and helped Russell get out from under the body. Halsey had taken a bullet through the nose, and bits of his brain were everywhere.

Schreier was dead as well, still clutching his photograph. He had taken two bullets in the centre of the back.

A heartfelt ‘fuck’ was Vinny’s comment on the situation. He lit a cigarette and stood there gazing out across the darkened Tiergarten.

George just shrugged, like he’d seen it all before.

Looking at the dead Halsey, Russell realised he couldn’t care less. Which was a sobering thought.