Masaryk Station

Merzhanov

Berlin from the air was more of a shock than Russell expected-either three months away had blunted his memory, or he’d just grown accustomed to cities that didn’t look like some fantastic giant had repeatedly hit them with an outsize hammer. There were signs of rebuilding, but they still seemed far too few for the time that had passed. One thing was certain-if the Fuhrer suddenly emerged from hiding, he would recognise the place.

Effi was waiting at the terminal doors, lovely as ever, eyes full of worry. Before taking the U-Bahn home they went for a walk in nearby Viktoria Park, where in pre-war days they’d often enjoyed the panoramic view from the top of the Kreuzberg. This time they eschewed the climb, circling the base of the hill as they discussed the latest Soviet behaviour.

‘You and Shchepkin can fix this, can’t you?’ Effi half-asked, half-pleaded.

Russell shrugged. ‘I hope so. I just don’t understand what anyone thinks they could gain from threatening us like this. It doesn’t make sense. And until it does, it’s hard to know what we should do about it. But I can’t believe they want to take Rosa away from us-they’re just trying to scare you. We just don’t know why.’

‘According to Shchepkin the two men who tried to take me for questioning were investigating Sonja Strehl’s death, but back in April the police were telling everyone that no investigation was needed. It must all have something to do with Sonja’s death-I can’t believe the Soviets are that upset about losing my services.’

‘They should be,’ Russell suggested gallantly, ‘but they probably aren’t. Shchepkin will be able to find out.’

‘I hope so. This feels worse than waiting for the Gestapo to turn up.’

Russell pulled her to him. ‘They won’t take Rosa away from us,’ he promised.

‘I’ll kill anyone who tries,’ she vowed.

‘We’ll do it together. Now, I have some bad news for your friend Lisa.’

Effi looked up. ‘Uschi’s not dead, is she?’

‘Far from it. She’s getting married in a couple of months. To a young Party zealot.’

‘And she isn’t the slightest bit interested in escaping to America,’ Effi guessed.

‘Precisely.’ Russell explained what had happened, and how the girl had thought herself abandoned. ‘I’ve got a letter for Lisa, and a picture of the happy couple.’

‘Oh dear.’ Effi looked at her watch. ‘It’s time we went to pick up Rosa. I’ll go and see Lisa tomorrow.’

As they walked back to the U-Bahn she told him that Zarah was cooking him a ‘welcome home’ meal, and that Thomas had been invited.

‘Just Thomas?’

‘Hanna’s still at her parents, and Lotte’s got a new boyfriend, another young zealot by all accounts. Thomas told her he was pleased with her romance. When she asked why, he told her the family needed all the political insurance it could get.’

‘Annaliese?’

‘She’s fine, positively glowing, as they say. But worried about Gerhard. She says he keeps muttering under his breath.’

Russell sighed. ‘He’s too honest for Ulbricht’s KPD. Have the Russians been acting up?’

‘Nothing serious.’

After collecting an excited Rosa, they dropped off Russell’s suitcase at the flat and continued on to Fasanen Strasse. Zarah was already cooking, and Thomas arrived not long after. It felt like a real homecoming to Russell, and the joy of seeing his family again was only slightly marred by the absence of his son, and the fear that soon they might all be scattered again. Catching Zarah alone in the kitchen, he offered congratulations for her and Bill’s engagement.

‘I’m sure Effi could get work in America,’ Zarah said, clearly unaware that some was already on offer. ‘And you know you could,’ she added, conveniently forgetting the devil’s bargain that held him in Berlin.

The thought of returning to America was far from unappealing, Russell thought later, although Zarah’s prospective hometown in Iowa was probably not the most obvious fit for Effi or himself.

He had another ‘welcome home’ the following morning at the Berlin Operations Base HQ in Zehlendorf. It wasn’t as warm or fulsome as the one on Fasanen Strasse, but still a big improvement on his usual reception in the villa above Trieste. His old Berlin boss Scott Dallin was long gone, and the current incumbent, Brent Johannsen, was less annoying than most of the Americans Russell had met in the Intelligence business. He looked as Scandinavian as his name suggested-tall, blond, and almost insulting handsome. Johannsen was quick on the uptake, impressively thorough, but rather too narrow-minded. He was ruthless enough when he had to be, but unlike some he didn’t seem to enjoy it.

Johannsen was in a talkative mood that morning. ‘This is top secret,’ he confided, with the air of someone who didn’t give a hoot how many people knew. ‘There was a high-level meeting yesterday in the British Sector-we really are going to bring in a currency reform.’

‘I don’t suppose the Russians were invited.’

‘No way. This reform’s coming, and soon. Before the month is out.’

‘Here in Berlin?’

‘Maybe, maybe not.’

Russell shook his head. ‘That’s not good enough. Whoever controls the currency runs the economy, and whoever controls the economy runs the country. If Washington leaves Berlin out, then they’re handing it to the Russians.’

Johannsen just shrugged. ‘That’s above my pay-grade. All I know is there’s no such thing as a secret meeting in Berlin, and the Russians will be fully briefed on this one. Which means trouble for us. They’ll want to get their retaliation in first.’

‘Probably,’ Russell agreed. He was wondering if this might be how the Americans meant to abandon Berlin, but he couldn’t really believe it to be true. That would be like admitting they’d finally lost the peace. Could they do that? If they could, then he really should send Effi and Rosa away.

‘When’s your next meeting with Ilych?’ Johannsen was asking. Ilych was Shchepkin’s codename.

‘We meet on Fridays.’

‘Well, see what you can get out of him. In the meantime, we’re fresh out of defectors, but seriously short-staffed. Martin Bronson’s on compassionate leave, and I’d like you to run Claptrap until he comes back.’

‘Fine,’ Russell agreed. After Trieste, BOB’s long-standing surveillance of VD-stricken Soviet officers would be refreshingly straightforward.

After reading her daughter’s letter, Lisa Sundgren stared blankly out at the busy Ku’damm, a solitary tear running down each cheek. Angrily wiping these away, she picked up the photograph and scanned it again, as if she might have missed something crucial. ‘I hardly recognise her,’ she said eventually.

‘It’s been a long time,’ Effi said.

‘I know, but what can I do?’ Lisa almost pleaded.

Go home, Effi thought, but that seemed too brutal an answer. ‘You have another daughter,’ she offered gently. This one is lost to you, she thought.

‘I know that, of course I do. But I can’t just walk away from Uschi, forget she exists. I can’t.’

‘It needn’t be forever. John thinks the situation will improve over the next few months, and then travel in and out will get easier.’

‘I can’t wait that long.’

‘I know,’ Effi said. She found herself remembering John’s stories of Irish children who’d emigrated to America in the past century, exchanged letters for decades, but never actually seen their parents again. Heartbreaking.

‘So what can I do?’ Lisa repeated, defeat in her tone.

‘Sometimes there’s nothing you can do. And John did say she seemed very happy.’

Lisa seemed almost to wince. ‘Well, that’s something. Everything really.’ She turned her gaze to the street again, where an overcrowded tram was passing. ‘There’s nothing worse than losing a child,’ she added, sounding almost surprised.

They parted with promises to keep in touch, but Effi doubted they would. When she got home there was a hand-posted letter from Max Grelling waiting for her on the mat. He had samples of the documents she’d asked for, and now only needed a photograph of Uschi.

After lunch Russell took the U-Bahn south to Steglitz, where Operation Claptrap was based. A year into the peace BOB had stumbled across a biddable Polish doctor, set him up in his own VD clinic, and supplied him with enough precious penicillin to actually cure his patients. He didn’t need to advertise-catching VD was a court martial offence in the Red Army, and once word spread that relief was on offer in the privacy of the American sector, Russians of all ranks came flocking.

A fluent Russian-speaker, Doctor Kaluzny was given a camera for photographing any documents carelessly left in pockets or bags, and guidance in which questions he should casually ask the patients. He then filled in forms which his control-in this case, Russell-scoured for anything useful.

Reading the latest batch in a nearby bar, Russell found nothing of interest-just a stream of young men with identical physical symptoms, and the sort of complaints which life in any army tended to provoke. The prospect of a court martial certainly scared them, but mostly they were there because they were terrified their girlfriends at home would find out. When it came to military secrets, the best most could manage was the name of their sergeant.

When they were both in Berlin, Russell and Shchepkin usually met at the same time and place. Bad practice in theory, but since both sides knew of their meetings any attempt at subterfuge seemed gratuitous. So later that morning Russell made his usual trek to the northeastern corner of the Tiergarten, where the open black market had flourished in the immediate post-war years, and where a panoramic sweep of the eyes could take in the gutted Reichstag, a deforested park and the Soviet monument to the Unknown Rapist.

It was a warm day, and Shchepkin was wearing a lightweight charcoal suit and open white shirt. It was the first time Russell had seen him in daylight for more than three months, and the Russian looked a lot more drawn than he remembered.

‘A lovely day,’ was Shchepkin’s opening remark.

‘For some. Your people have been hounding Effi again.’

Shchepkin didn’t look surprised. ‘What has happened?’

Russell went through the sequence of events-Effi’s appeal to Tulpanov, the withdrawal of her Leading Actor ration card, the threatened review of Rosa’s adoption.

Shchepkin listened without interrupting, occasionally shaking his head. ‘I doubt there’s anything I can do,’ he said. ‘But I wouldn’t worry about your daughter-that sounds like an empty threat to me. I can’t see them bringing up your wife’s career in Nazi films when they’ve just been saluting her in ours; and as for the father-you have evidence of his death?’

‘Several affidavits.’

‘Well, then. The important thing is for Effi to keep away from Eva Kempka and the whole Sonja Strehl business. It’s clear to me that someone important wants something kept quiet.’

‘So it wasn’t a suicide?’

‘I don’t know, and I’m happy to remain in ignorance. Tell Effi she’s playing with fire.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Succeed. Now, we have a more pressing problem to deal with. Schneider wants more from you.’

‘More what? Personal hygiene advice?’ From their only meeting, Russell had deduced an aversion to water, soap, or both.

Shchepkin gave him an exasperated look. ‘This man is a danger to us.’

‘I thought you outranked him.’

‘I do, but the friends he’s been cultivating out-rank me. And the last meeting I attended, several supported his point of view.’

‘Which is what exactly?’

‘A more aggressive approach.’

‘But what does that actually mean?’

‘I don’t know, and I doubt that he does either. He’s restless. And he doesn’t think we’re making any progress.’

‘I’ve only just got back. And I thought it was agreed that I was a long-term investment, that I’d need several years to gain enough trust from the Americans to make myself really useful.’

‘According to Schneider, it has been several years, and that far from trusting you more, the Americans are losing faith in you.’

‘Where does he get that from?’

‘I don’t know. Have you done anything to annoy them lately?’

‘Nothing special.’

Shchepkin sighed. ‘Well, we need to boost your reputation, before one side or other decides to abandon their long-term investment.’

‘And cash me in?’

‘And cash us in.’

‘Point taken. So, how do we make the Americans love me more?’

‘I’ll see what I can get out of my GRU contact,’ Shchepkin said. ‘If he knows the names of any upcoming fake defectors, then you can give them up. Which will remind the Americans of how useful you are, without upsetting Tikhomirov and Schneider.’

‘Okay.’

‘But we also need to give my bastards something to crow about-the names of some American agents in our zone would do. But not ex-Nazis-it has to be people they might actually care about.’

‘But I …’

‘Yes, you would be condemning them to death. Or Wismut if they’re lucky.’

‘Where the hell is Wismut?’

‘It’s not a place; it’s our uranium mining stock company in Saxony. Look, John, this is a war we’re fighting, and all these people are soldiers. There are no innocents in our business-one way or another, they all chose to get involved. Like I did. Like you did. Remember that.’

‘Oh, I do, believe me.’ Shchepkin rarely called him by his first name, and when he did it was always for emphasis.

‘Good. I shall expect the names next week. Is there anything else?’ The Russian seemed unusually eager to get going.

‘Yes,’ Russell remembered. ‘Johannsen wants to know what your people are planning for Berlin. We assume you know about the currency reform.’

‘Of course. And I think our response is still being discussed. One thing I do know is that our people will soon be leaving the Kommandatura.’

‘For good?’ If the Soviets abandoned the Four-Power Council, that would mean the end of joint decision-making in Berlin.

Shchepkin shrugged. ‘Who knows? If the Allies agree to exempt Berlin, then perhaps we’ll return.’

‘And if they don’t?’

‘A shut-down, most likely.’

‘Meaning?’

‘No road or rail transport, in or out.’

‘A siege.’

‘More or less.’

Russell considered the implications. How would the Western sectors feed themselves? Where would they get the fuel for heat and electricity from? You couldn’t bring coal in by air. It was hard to see what the Western Allies could do, but surely they wouldn’t just throw in the towel? And if they tried to break the siege by force, then another war would erupt. He said as much.

‘It’s possible,’ Shchepkin agreed.

‘But what about the atomic bomb?’

‘Maybe Stalin knows something we don’t.’

‘A Soviet bomb.’

‘Why not?’

Why not indeed? There was nothing backward about Soviet scientists, and they’d had a lot of help from German colleagues and sympathetic spies, himself among them. It was buying his family’s safety with German atomic papers that had placed Russell at the MGB’s mercy, because if the bargain was ever disclosed, the Americans would probably arrest him for treason.

And the Russians had the uranium-as Shchepkin had just said, there were important mines in their German zone. If a point was reached where the atomic arsenals cancelled each other out, the Red Army could then presumably roll right over the Western armies.

Except the Russians really had been ripping up the railways in eastern Germany. Which made no sense at all if they intended marching westward. Their willingness to fight another war had to be a bluff. But would the Americans have the sense to call it? Or the balls? Russell guessed they would soon find out.

Was this why no one seemed eager to reconstruct the city? he asked himself, casting his eye across the still-serrated skyline. Why bother if another battle was coming?

BOB’s HQ in Berlin was an innocent-looking mansion on Fohrenweg, a quiet, leafy Dahlem street not five minutes walk from Thomas’s and Hanna’s. There were more floors underground than above, and the starkly lit interrogation suite on the second floor of the basement reminded Russell of a ship deck below the waterline.

There were two defectors to process that Friday afternoon. Both had presented themselves at American barracks on the previous afternoon, one in Schonfeld, the other in Neukolln; but as neither had yet arrived from the military holding cells where they’d spent the night, Russell and his colleague John Eustis spent most of the morning chatting, sweating, and twiddling their thumbs.

Eustis was from Providence, Rhode Island. He had been with CIC for almost four years, and had no compunction in telling all and sundry that the work was beginning to bore him. Which didn’t surprise Russell. Eustis was clever but lazy, and his only real interest in other human beings was what half of them had under their skirts. He was nominally in charge, but usually he allowed Russell to just get on with it-the interrogations took so much longer if every last question and answer was translated. This suited Russell in more ways than one-the job was done quicker, and it was easier for him to pick and choose which pieces of intelligence he passed on, and which little nuggets he squirrelled away.

Their first Russian arrived soon after eleven A.M., loudly complaining that he hadn’t had breakfast. Once this had been provided and eaten it was almost lunch time, and by mid-afternoon, Eustis was beginning to glance at his watch. The second Russian would be waiting a few doors down, and this one seemed incapable of answering the simplest question without setting the scene like a novelist with verbal diarrhoea. He was a long-serving Major in an artillery unit-he had apparently fought his way from the Polish border to Moscow and back again-and would doubtless prove a mine of basic information on the Red Army and its workings, should anyone have the patience to hear him out. By the time several hours had passed, Russell and Eustis were fully agreed that Army Intelligence should be given the chance.

‘Why don’t we leave the second guy till tomorrow?’ Eustis suggested, once the first Russian had been taken away. ‘I’ve got a hot date tonight, and preparation is everything.’

Russell laughed. ‘A fraulein?’

‘No, no. I’ve been there. Sweet but short-not much in it for us, other than the obvious. No, this is an American girl-a general’s daughter, spending the summer with Daddy. She’s gorgeous, and he’s rich, and I hope to God she’s willing.’

‘It’s only four P.M.,’ Russell said, checking his watch. ‘Let’s see the guy at least-maybe we can just move him on, and then you’ll have tomorrow free to show her the city. Johannsen’ll be pissed off if he sees us sneaking off this early.’

Eustis threw up a weary arm in surrender. ‘Okay, let’s see the bastard.’

His name was Konstantin Merzhanov, and he said he was twenty-five years old. With blond hair, blue eyes, and clean-cut features, he could easily have passed for a young American. He described himself as a technician, which seemed boring enough until he mentioned his place of work-the MGB HQ at Karlshorst-and the nature of his expertise, which was cinematic.

Russell was just about to translate these facts for Eustis, when Merzhanov dropped his bombshell. ‘I am in possession of a film,’ the Russian said carefully. ‘A film in which the Minister in charge of the MGB kills a young German woman.’

‘The Minister?’

‘Beria. You know who he is?’

Even Eustis’s ears pricked up at that. ‘Did he say Beria?’

‘Yes,’ Russell said, rapidly thinking on his feet. The Russian mightn’t be saying what Russell thought he was saying, but if he was … ‘He says he’s the devil himself,’ he told Eustis, before turning back to Merzhanov. ‘We’ll talk about your film later,’ he told the Russian. ‘For now, we need your history and personal details, your reasons for wishing to defect.’

Merzhanov gave Russell a doubtful look, but shrugged his acceptance, and over the next hour he answered questions with a precision his predecessor in the chair had so sadly lacked. Russell dutifully translated most of the answers, omitting only the Russian’s references to his time at film school in Moscow, which had been cut short by the German attack in 1941.

At five o’clock Eustis suggested they call it a day, and Russell offered to finish up on his own. ‘A small fish,’ he assured the American. ‘I won’t need much longer.’

Once the door had closed behind his colleague, Russell wasted no time. ‘We can talk about your film now,’ he said. ‘You said it shows Lavrenti Beria killing a German girl. Really killing her, right? This is not a work of fiction?’

‘No, no, this is real.’

‘Okay. So where, when, why?’

‘The film was shot at a house just outside Berlin, the one where important visitors stay. Beria came to Berlin in February, and he stayed there for several days. During that time he entertained several girls.’

‘And he was being filmed?’ Russell found this hard to believe.

‘He didn’t know it. All the rooms have hidden cameras, and of course this one should never have been turned on-it was a mistake. But I watched it, and I saw him kill one of the girls. And I knew what I had. This would be great propaganda for the West, yes?’

‘I should think it would,’ Russell said drily. ‘Where is it now?’

‘My girlfriend Janica has it.’

‘And where is she?’

‘In Prague. She’s a Czech.’ He took a dog-eared photograph from his jacket pocket and passed it across. The ‘girl’ looked about thirty, but she wasn’t unattractive, and there was definite intelligence in the gaze she offered the camera. ‘I met her when we liberated the city,’ Merzhanov went on. ‘She was being attacked by some of my comrades, and I managed to rescue her. We’ve been in love ever since.’ The Russian’s eyes were shining, Russell noticed, and when the young man offered a long list of the girl’s qualities and charms he didn’t interrupt.

‘But why does she have the film?’ he quietly asked, once the panegyric was over.

Merzhanov gave him an almost triumphant look. ‘Because I didn’t feel safe keeping it here in Berlin, and because bringing her out will be your only way to get hold of it.’

‘That’s your price?’

‘We don’t want money,’ Merzhanov insisted, as if he wouldn’t soil his hands on the stuff. ‘But you must take us somewhere safe-once the film is made public, they will realise that I must have taken it, and they will try to hunt us down.’

They all said that, Russell thought, but in this case it would be true. The Rat Line came to mind. If he could get them to Draganovic’s man outside Salzburg, they would be on their way to safety. Theirs, and his. ‘So how do we contact Janica?’ he asked. ‘What’s her surname?’

‘You don’t need to know that. She will be waiting on the Masaryk Station concourse at five P.M. on Wednesday the sixteenth. With the film. And you people will bring her out to the West.’

It sounded simple, and maybe it was. It occurred to Russell that a film was easier to get across a border than a woman, and that after she’d handed it over, he could simply leave her there. She would be no position to call the police.

Then again, in the heat of the moment she mightn’t stop to consider her own best interests. And even if she did, Merzhanov would clearly be more than upset, which might prove just as damaging. If the film was to have any value to Russell and Shchepkin, then it had to remain their secret, and the best way of ensuring that was to keep its suppliers happy.

Merzhanov seemed blissfully unaware of the possible flaw in his scheme; but Russell already suspected that Janica had thought the whole thing up, and that she might well have a back-up plan. Well, she wouldn’t need one. A deal was a deal, and Russell would bring her out. Or probably die trying.

‘We must keep this absolutely between us,’ Russell told the Russian. ‘I will tell my boss of course, but no one else. As I’m sure you know, the MGB has spies in this sector-in this building, most likely-and if word of all this gets out, your life won’t be worth a kopek. So you mustn’t mention Beria or the film to anyone. Understood?’

‘Yes,’ Merzhanov said, with only the slightest hint of doubt.

‘It’s for your own safety,’ Russell insisted. BOB’s other Russian-speaker, Don Stafford, wasn’t due back until the following Friday, so Merzhanov’s chance of spilling the beans was minimal, but the need for secrecy was hard to exaggerate. ‘And I’ll need to borrow the photograph,’ Russell said. ‘For new papers,’ he added, when Merzhanov expressed reluctance. The Russian handed it over with the sort of reverence a Biblical scholar might have shown for a first edition of the Sermon on the Mount.

Once Merzhanov had been taken away to new accommodation on the floor below-a cell in all but name, but a comfortable one for all that-Russell just sat there for several minutes, wondering at what had just-apparently-fallen into his lap. This was it, the thing that Shchepkin had named in London’s Russell Square more than three years earlier. He could still him say it: ‘Something on them that trumps everything else; a secret so damaging that we could buy our safety with silence.’

Well, only Stalin throttling a nun would trump what Merzhanov’s film allegedly showed.

But it wouldn’t be easy. Russell had to collect Janica and the film, and then get the lovebirds out of Europe, all without raising any suspicions among his American colleagues. And then he and Shchepkin had to make their deal with Beria, the psychopath in charge of the world’s largest plain-clothes army. In return for their keeping silent about what was on the film, he would need to promise no Soviet disclosure of Russell’s role in securing the German atomic papers for Moscow, allow them both to retire from Soviet service, and allow Shchepkin’s wife and daughter to leave for the West.

Put that way, it sounded like a pipedream.

But try as he did, Russell could see no logical flaw in the plan. Executing it was another matter, though. How the hell would they contact Beria-c/o the Lyubyanka? He hoped Shchepkin would know.

There was no instant way of getting hold of his Russian partner. Russell could and did arrange an emergency meeting with a phone call, but the place and time were already pre-set. The former was chosen at the end of each regular meeting, the latter always noon on the following day, which gave him eighteen hours to wait.

He didn’t say anything to Effi that evening-he didn’t want to raise her hopes-but once she’d fallen asleep in his arms, he allowed himself the luxury of some daydreaming. If he could escape the Soviet embrace, then the American one would be easier to shrug off. He could be a real journalist again, not in Berlin perhaps, but in England or America. Effi already had one offer from Hollywood, and he was sure she’d find work in either country. It would be so good to live near Paul again, and he didn’t think Rosa would really miss Berlin.

‘And with one bound he was free,’ he thought.

Or one spool of film.

Masaryk Station.

On Saturday morning Russell pleaded work as his excuse for abandoning Effi and Rosa, who’d planned a family walk in the Grunewald. After seeing them off, he started out for the Funkturm, the spot he’d chosen for the emergency treff with Shchepkin. He was almost an hour early, which gave him ample time to dwell on the memories the structure evoked. The radio tower-Berlin’s smaller version of the Eiffel-had been badly damaged in the final weeks of the war, with one leg severed and the restaurant burnt out, and was still closed to the public. But in pre-war times, when Paul was living with his mother and stepfather, this had always been his first destination of choice, and the two of them had spent countless Saturdays together staring out across the city from the observation platform.

Shchepkin was also early, as if he’d somehow got wind that something important had happened. Natty was the word, Russell thought, as he watched the Russian walk towards him. Effi had been reminded of a theatre director she once worked for, and Russell could just imagine Shchepkin among Berlin’s pre-Nazi avant-garde.

As they circled the tower together Russell went through everything that Merzhanov had told him. By the time he’d finished describing the plot of the film, the Russian’s pinched expression was as bleak as he’d ever seen it. ‘Is this all possible?’ he asked Shchepkin. ‘Do you know about this house outside the city?’

‘Yes, it exists.’

‘And could Beria have been there?’

‘He was here around that time although I can’t remember the exact dates. And there have been rumours over the years. I never respected the man, but they weren’t the sort of rumours that anyone who cared for the Party could bring himself to believe. That he had young girls abducted off the street in Moscow and taken to his dacha-that sort of thing. Something like this would be worse, much worse.’

‘The film might be a fake,’ Russell offered.

Shchepkin shook his head. ‘We’ll know when we see it, but somehow it all rings true.’ He fell silent for a few moments. ‘So you intend to collect the woman from Prague, reunite her with her lover, and send them both off to South America, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘I can see two major problems.’

‘Only two?’

‘At first sight. One, you’ll need papers to get her out of Czechoslovakia. I may be able to help with those, but it’s far from certain. Two, you have to persuade your Mister Johannsen that Merzhanov deserves such special treatment. What has he done to deserve it?’

‘I’m working on that,’ Russell said, somewhat less than truthfully. The problem had occurred to him, but so far he’d chosen to ignore it.

‘I think I can help there,’ Shchepkin told him. ‘I’ll meet you tomorrow with something special. I don’t know what exactly, but something that’ll make Merzhanov seem worth the extra effort. You’ll have to be the ventriloquist.’

‘That should work,’ Russell agreed, mentally rehearsing the process. ‘I am his only channel of communication until our other Russian speaker gets back. And I’ll just have to move Merzhanov south before he does.’

‘Yes,’ Shchepkin said thoughtfully, as if something had just occurred to him. Then he allowed himself a wry smile. ‘If the Americans find out about the film, and realise that you’ve chosen not to tell them, that will be the end-you must realise that. At best they will sack you. At worst, I don’t know. Either way, your use to us will be over. You and I, we will both be loose ends that need cutting off.’

He was right, Russell thought, but what choice did they have? He didn’t want to grow old checking Doctor Kaluzny’s patient reports, doing odd jobs for men like Youklis and his Russian equivalents. How many Sasas would there be in that future?

He smiled at the gloomy Russian. ‘So let’s make sure we don’t fuck it up.’

The next morning, Russell went back to the Fohrenweg basement for a two-hour session with Merzhanov. He had nothing new to ask the Russian, but he needed to establish a time in which the information Shchepkin was providing could actually have been divulged. For the most part they chatted about their time as soldiers-Merzhanov was interested in Russell’s experiences in the First War, and he was still shocked by what he’d witnessed himself during the Red Army’s four-year war against the Germans. The Russian also talked more about Janica, with a fondness Russell found unusually touching. He found himself hoping that the Czech girl was worthy of such devotion.

By midday Russell was in the Potsdamer Strasse cafe Shchepkin had specified for the hand-over. This time there was no conversation, just the usual rolled newspaper casually left, which Russell scanned and took with him. On a Tiergarten bench half an hour later he read through the papers inside, which contained a complete breakdown of the new KI organisation in Berlin, complete with names, ranks and personal habits which might expose the officers involved to successful blackmail. As a bonus, Shchepkin had included the names of two MGB agents employed by the American Zone administration in Frankfurt.

It was more than enough to warrant two exit visas. Now all he had to do was convince Eustis that he was hearing it all from Merzhanov.

With Russell still absent on duty, Effi and Rosa went over to Dahlem without him. Hanna had just arrived back from her parents’ farm in the American Zone, and Lotte had her new boyfriend Karl on display-a serious young man who seemed painfully inhibited by the various members of her extended family: the American major, the British journalist, the notorious actress, even the famous young artist, who drew him with a star-struck look on his face.

Annaliese arrived late and without Strohm, who was also spending the Sunday at work. Strohm had sent a message to Russell hoping they could meet for a drink sometime in the next few days.

Late in the afternoon, all the guests shared a tram to Ku’damm, and then went their separate ways. It had been a good day, Effi decided, as she and Rosa climbed their stairs. Thomas seemed rejuvenated by politics, and her worries about Rosa seemed less substantial than they had. Thinking back over the long conversation at table, Effi could hardly remember an optimistic statement, but it didn’t seem to matter-whatever the world might throw at them all, somehow love and friendship made life worth living.

She found Russell scribbling away at the table, surrounded by sheets of Cyrillic script. ‘This has to be done tonight,’ he said apologetically after embracing them both. ‘I need it for the morning.’

‘But what is it?’ Rosa asked.

‘I can’t tell you that. It’s top-secret.’

‘But something to do with the Russians?’

‘You’ve guessed it.’

‘Let him work,’ Effi told her. ‘We’ll find something to do in the other room.’

It was several hours before Russell had finished re-casting Shchepkin’s information as an imaginary interview with Merzhanov, and by then Rosa was fast asleep. It was time, he decided, to tell Effi what was happening. After sitting her down on the sofa, he went through the story, omitting nothing. ‘And before I go to Prague,’ he concluded, ‘I want you and Rosa on a train to Frankfurt.’

She ignored that. ‘You’re going back to Prague,’ she said incredulously. ‘Just the name gives me the shivers. Every time you’ve been there something terrible has almost happened-sometimes it actually has. You were shot there! Only last week you were beaten up in one of their jails.’

‘They let me go when they found out I worked for the Soviets.’

‘Can’t Shchepkin do that part? Isn’t Czechoslovakia one of their countries now?’

‘I don’t think it works like that. And I dread to think what Janica would do if a Russian approached her at Masaryk Station.’

‘How will you get her across the border?’

‘I haven’t decided yet. As my daughter maybe. Shchepkin’s looking into papers, and if he can’t help, I’ll have to see Max.’

Her eyes lit up. ‘How old is Janica?’

‘She looks about thirty. Why?’

‘Because I asked Max to forge some papers for Lisa Sundgren’s daughter. She’s only twenty-one, but I can probably take a few years off Janica.’

‘Wait a minute …’

‘No, this is fate. I’m coming with you.’

‘Oh no.’

‘Oh yes, and I’ll tell you why. Where’s the best place to hide a reel of film?’

‘In a projection booth?’

‘Almost. Among other films. You told Jaromir Cisar how much I liked his work, and he said he’d like to work with me. Well, I can go and see him, and tell him in person that I’m interested in working with him. And I can take some audition reels with me-DEFA were always good about giving us copies of the rushes. And we can hide your film among them.’

It did sound almost perfect, but …

‘And if it looks like I’m choosing the Czech version of DEFA over the Americans, the Soviets will be overjoyed,’ Effi went on excitedly. ‘Which should stop them thinking about Rosa.’

‘But what about Rosa?’ Russell asked, hoping to bring her back to earth. ‘If both of us end up in a Czech prison …’

‘We won’t. Didn’t you just remind me that they let you go because you work for the Soviets?’

‘Yes, but …’

‘I know what you’re saying,’ Effi conceded quickly. ‘Of course I do. And I also know that if worst came to worst, Zarah would be as loving a mother as I would. But it won’t. I won’t let it.’

At ten o’clock on Monday morning, Effi presented herself at Max Grelling’s Ku’damm apartment. He was in his dressing gown, and the bed through the doorway still seemed occupied, but he smiled when he saw her, and urged her into the well-stocked kitchen, where coffee was loudly percolating.

‘Would you like a cup?’

‘I wouldn’t say no.’

Grelling took the pot from the stove, and lined up a couple of cups. ‘Do you need the papers after all?’

‘Yes, but for a different woman. I have her photograph here. It’s not in very good shape, I’m afraid.’

Grelling passed her a cup, and examined the picture. ‘Can’t you give up rescuing people?’ he asked.

‘Apparently not.’ The coffee was wonderful.

‘Well, this one doesn’t look twenty-one,’ he said.

‘Could you change the birth date?’

He shook his head. ‘Not without leaving a mark. It would pass a normal scrutiny, but I think you’d be better changing the woman’s appearance. Anyone who checks photographs on a regular basis knows that very few people look just like their picture, and they’re much more likely to accept a discrepancy there than they are in the writing.’

‘You’re the expert,’ Effi told him. ‘But I am in rather a hurry.’

‘Of course. Who is this woman?’

‘She’s a Czech. And she’s not Jewish, if that’s what you’re wondering.’

‘Ah. But for you … Will Wednesday do?

‘That would be perfect. And can I insult you by offering payment?’

‘Insult away.’

Russell read a newspaper on the tram journey out to Fohrenweg. The Soviets had indeed abandoned the Kommandatura, but only after the American representative Colonel Howley had flounced out. Since Shchepkin had known about the Soviet decision two days earlier, Russell could only assume that Howley had been stupid enough to hand the Soviets a propaganda victory on a plate. Elsewhere in the paper there were rumours that the Arabs were considering a ceasefire in their war with the infant Israel. If they thought time was on their side, they had another think coming, Russell thought. Now that the Brits had got out of the way, the Jews would only get stronger.

It was also reported that Eduard Benes had resigned as President of Czechoslovakia on grounds of ill health. He might be sick for all Russell knew, but his departure still felt like the end of an all-too-short era, one in which people still believed that social democrats and communists could work together. If they couldn’t do it Prague, then they couldn’t do it anywhere. Now it would be a fight to the death.

At the BOB HQ Russell found a yawning John Eustis in the canteen, and laid the fictional report in front of him. After skimming his way through the first few pages, Eustis suddenly pulled up short, and went back to the beginning. ‘Have you told Johannsen?’ was the first thing he asked after reading it properly.

‘I thought we’d get it all wrapped up and tied with a ribbon,’ Russell told him. ‘Get ourselves some brownie points.’

‘They wouldn’t hurt. I expect my new girl’s father is checking me out as we speak.’

‘Well then, let’s get Merzhanov back up.’

The hours that followed-around eighteen of them spread over two and a half days-were some of the most exhausting Russell had ever endured. Having turned Shchepkin’s breakdown of the MGB operation in Karlshorst into a series of individual profiles, he now had to cope with Eustis’s supplementary questions, a process which demanded almost instant creativity. In the time that Merzhanov took to answer Russell’s mostly footling questions-ones which bore no relation to those that Eustis thought were being translated for him-he had to think up answers for Eustis, mixing fiction with a few odd facts that he had wisely withheld from the written report. So Eustis would ask about one Russian’s apparent ascendancy over another, Russell would translate this as a question about Merzhanov’s army training, and then turn the Russian’s description of a Soviet boot camp into a probable consequence of the recent Soviet intelligence reorganisations, which he knew about from Shchepkin’s endless complaints.

Eustis never suspected a thing-he was, thank God, so used to their way of working together-but Merzhanov became increasingly baffled by the Americans’ apparently bottomless appetite for irrelevant details of his earlier life, and clearly puzzled by some of the unfamiliar Russian names which cropped up in Russell’s English translations. By Wednesday morning Russell was silently praying for his colleague to run out of questions.

He did so soon after eleven A.M., which gave them the rest of the morning to polish their report, before presenting it to Johannsen early that afternoon. Their boss was sparing in his praise-why hadn’t they told him straight away about the MGB plants in Frankfurt? — but Russell suspected he was more pleased than he let on. The three of them were all CIC veterans, and Johannsen would make damn sure their new CIA bosses were aware of that fact.

That however was the end of the good news. When Russell asked permission to move Merzhanov on, he was told ‘not yet’-Johannsen thought the Frankfurt base would want to ask some questions of their own once they heard about the plants. As for sending Merzhanov and ‘his wife’ down the Rat Line, BOB simply couldn’t afford it-the quarterly budget had all been spent. And if all that wasn’t enough, Johannsen let slip that Don Stafford, the base’s other Russian speaker, was already back in Berlin.

‘But not working this week?’ Russell said, barely managing to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

‘Oh he’s working. He’s on Claptrap and the cleaners for the next few days.’

By the time he met Shchepkin, Russell’s panic had subsided. Before leaving the Fohrenweg building he had heard from Johannsen that Frankfurt would be on the line next morning, and that once their questions had been answered Merzhanov would be allowed to leave Berlin. Which left Stafford and the money as the next hurdles to overcome. Since Stafford was out in Steglitz dealing with Claptrap he shouldn’t present any immediate problem, but the lack of money certainly did. Russell and Effi didn’t have $3,000, and he very much doubted whether Thomas did either.

‘I thought you told me that only some people paid for this Croat’s services,’ Shchepkin said, once the problem had been broached.

‘Only Catholics travel free,’ Russell told him. ‘And they’re mostly fellow Croats or OUN Ukrainians like Palychko.’

‘Couldn’t you pass Merzhanov and his girlfriend off as Ukrainians?’

Russell beamed at Shchepkin. ‘Why not? I could even have him tattooed.’

He got back home to find that the Czech Embassy had welcomed Effi with open arms. ‘They could hardly believe it when I told them I wanted to visit Cisar, with a view to working with him-one official gave me heartfelt speech about how few foreigners appreciated Czech culture, and another wittered on about how international socialism moves in mysterious ways. Or something like that. Anyway, you just have to go in and sign something, and you can pick up both our visas.’

‘Your friend Lisa should have been so lucky.’

‘Don’t. When I saw her off this morning she looked like death.’

‘Well I don’t know about international socialism, but something must move in mysterious ways-if she hadn’t come to see you we’d never have got the papers in time for next Wednesday.’

Next morning, Russell entered the building on Fohrenweg with some trepidation. Had some evil genie persuaded Johannsen to change his mind and switch Russell’s duties with Stafford’s? But there was only Eustis in the room below, and when the telephone call came through from Frankfurt it was Russell doing the interpreting. The man at the other end seemed barely interested in what Merzhanov knew-the two plants had been arrested, and doubtless offered a much more immediate source of intelligence. Once he had elicited a few extra nuggets of fictional information the Frankfurt agent was happy to flaunt his laurels. ‘You people should leave this stuff to the professionals,’ he said in parting, only slightly in jest.

Russell went up to Johannsen’s office. ‘So can I move him now?’

‘Where to? I told you-we’re out of money.’

‘I’ll take him down to Salzburg, pass him and his wife off as Ukrainians.’

Johannsen smiled, but shook his head. ‘I need you here.’

‘Why? You’ve got Stafford back now.’

Johannsen did a double-take. ‘I assumed you knew. He was found dead outside his billet last night. Someone after a few cigarettes, it looks like.’

‘Shit.’ Russell took a deep breath. He wanted to ask for details, but didn’t trust his voice. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry about that, but Merzhanov’s given us a lot, and he’ll be just as dead if we don’t get him out of the city. And I promised him safety, or he wouldn’t have given us anything. I’ll only be gone for the weekend.’

Johannsen sighed. ‘Oh, all right. But be here Monday morning.’

‘I will.’ Russell got up to leave, and only stopped himself when halfway through the door. He had to know. ‘Was Stafford single?’

‘A wife and two children,’ Johannsen told him. ‘I’ll be writing the letter this evening.’

Gerhard Strohm sat at his desk, feeling disinclined to begin his day’s work. He had always been a conscientious worker, and still completed each task with exemplary efficiency, but the symposium on Rugen Island had stripped the process of any remaining joy. Annaliese had noticed the change on his return, and since that day he had tried to be cheerful at home, a far from impossible task now that the swell of her belly offered growing proof of their child-to-be. But at work he made less of an effort, despite the looks from his fellow-workers. He was in an ideological sulk, and no matter how often he resolved to shake himself out of it, somehow it persisted.

The nature of his current work did nothing to help. Everyone at the office knew the crisis was upon them-it was their job to make it tangible-but the starting gun had still not been fired. Breaking the rail link between Berlin and the Western zones wasn’t exactly difficult as all it required was a red signal at either end of the tracks that traversed the Soviet zone. But if Stalin had really decided on such a drastic step, he hadn’t yet told his German comrades.

Merely slowing things down was more complicated, particularly if you wanted to pretend that the slow-down wasn’t deliberate, and even more so if you weren’t sure what you wanted the other side to believe. And the Soviets kept changing their minds, first insisting that ‘technical difficulties’ be blamed for interruptions in the rail service, then claiming that they’d limited interzonal traffic in order to protect the local economy from the contagion of Western currency reform. And while one moment stressing that such measures were temporary, at others they strongly implied that only a change in Western behaviour could guarantee a restoration of the status quo. It sometimes seemed as if the Soviets were playing with the Western allies, but Strohm had the sneaking suspicion that they were simply incapable of reaching a decision.

In the meantime, the harassment went on. Passenger trains now left from Friedrichstrasse, whose short platforms dictated the removal of four coaches. Single freight wagons were rejected for minor mistakes in their labelling, causing whole trains to be shunted aside. Crews were ordered to present their personal belongings for inspection, which might only take a few minutes, but the stoppages soon began to add up.

Strohm was tired of it all. He had always thought that the Western powers’ foothold in Berlin made it harder for the Soviets to let go, but now he was beginning to wonder-perhaps it was only the Western presence which prevented the Russians from tightening their grip. Either way, he wanted to know. ‘If there has to be a showdown,’ he told one colleague over lunch, ‘then let’s have it now. And Moscow should be open about it. Tell the Western Allies that they’re stopping all traffic to Berlin, and tell them what they can do to get it started again. The British and Americans started all this with their currency reform, and they can end it by coming back to the table and agreeing a four-power solution. I would understand that. More to the point, the people of Berlin would understand it. But “technical difficulties”? No one believes this nonsense. They just think we’re liars.’

His colleague gave him a pitying look. ‘This is a difficult time,’ he agreed, and changed the subject.

Back at his desk, Strohm went through the press release he had written that morning, explaining the sudden rash of mechanical defects in the wagon fleet. He sighed, and resisted the temptation to crumple up the piece of paper. He had nothing against deception-for much of his life his survival had rested on his ability to deceive his enemies. But was that what he was doing now? He seemed to spend most of his time deceiving the people he supposedly served.

After dropping Rosa off at school on Friday morning, Effi and Russell walked to the Czechoslovak Embassy on Rauch Strasse. She was met by smiles, he by frowns, but both their travel permits had been approved. Cisar was looking forward to discussing a future collaboration with Effi, and happy to answer her husband’s follow-up questions. The new Ministry of Culture had booked them into a hotel not far from the director’s home.

With their new papers safely stowed away in Russell’s pocket, the two of them walked down to Tauentzien Strasse, where Effi had shopping had to do. The pavements were crowded for ten in the morning, particularly given the dearth of goods on display in store windows, but Effi wasn’t surprised. ‘Zarah said it was like this on Wednesday,’ she said. ‘With all the rumours of currency reform, everyone’s spending what money they have while it’s still worth something.’

As if to prove her point, a woman walked by with an exceptionally ugly table lamp under each arm.

‘I guess we’re the lucky ones,’ Russell said. The Americans had always paid him in dollars, and Thomas had helped Effi shift some of her earnings into Swiss francs. Whatever transpired over the next few weeks, they would be all right. At least in terms of money.

The theatrical shop wasn’t overwhelmed with customers-bulk-buying makeup supplies as a hedge against inflation had obviously not caught on. Effi went in to replenish her personal stocks, which she hadn’t used since the war. Then she’d been ageing her own appearance; making Janica look younger would be more of a challenge.

Russell waited outside, watching other shoppers walk by. The procession of faces-most agitated or shut down, very few smiling-got him thinking about the city and its recent history. In the 1920s, when he had come here to live, there had been few places in the world more exciting, either politically or culturally. Then the Nazis had re-cast it as the capital of their swelling boil of an empire, and their enemies had reduced it to rubble. For three years the politics and culture had grown interesting once more, but there was no doubt in Russell’s mind that the shutters were coming back down. So what now, division or Soviet takeover? Which sort of prison would it be?

Back at the flat, he barely had time to pack a small bag before kissing Effi goodbye and setting out for Fohrenweg. Merzhanov and the ordered jeep were waiting for him, the former looking smart in American civvies. The Russian wore a wary expression on his face during their chauffeur-driven journey to Tempelhof, as if he couldn’t quite believe his luck.

Their plane was waiting in a distant corner of the airfield, one of many DC-3s parked around the perimeter. Russell’s accreditation saw them straight on board, where seven other passengers were already waiting. They all looked German, but none seemed disposed to exchange any form of eye contact, let alone smile or converse. Merzhanov’s face was now sporting an idiot grin, which only faded as they roared down the runway.

The flight to Rhein-Main took a little under two hours, the wait for their connection to Munich a little over. Another jeep was waiting in the Bavarian capital, and by five o’clock they were crossing the border between the American zones of Germany and Austria. At CIC HQ in Salzburg, Russell found an old acquaintance waiting-he had crossed paths with Major Rick Sewell on several occasions, and as far as he knew he had caused no lasting offence.

‘Johannsen let us know you were coming,’ Sewell said, as he looked Merzhanov over. ‘Sing a good song, did he?’

‘Oh yes,’ Russell agreed. The American had put on weight since their last meeting, the buttons of his tunic straining to contain his new belly.

‘Well, let’s get him tucked up in bed. I’ll drive ’em,’ Sewell told the young corporal who’d collected them from Munich.

‘Yes, sir.’

Sewell, as Russell now remembered, thought jeeps cornered best on two wheels. He hung on grimly as they wove their way through the early evening traffic, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to check that Merzhanov was still with them. Soon they were out of the city, and jolting along the hilly road which led to the farm the CIC used as a safe house. Russell had been there the previous year, after Sewell’s boss, in dire need of an interpreter, had virtually press-ganged him into helping out.

Behind him, the Russian was staring at the mountains filling the southern horizon the way someone raised in a desert might gaze at an ocean. At that moment he looked the picture of innocence, not the lust-sick deserter and traitor which most of his erstwhile comrades would think him. But what did that matter? As long as he kept his mouth shut. And the film lived up to its billing.

The safe house had a permanent staff of six-two housekeepers and four armed guards on twelve-hour shifts. Merzhanov was introduced to those on duty, shown his private sleeping quarters, and offered dinner. The man looked profoundly pleased with life, Russell thought as he left, like someone who had taken a difficult decision and been thoroughly vindicated. Or would be, once Janica was sharing the bed. Before leaving, Russell had taken Merzhanov aside and forcibly reminded him not to mention the film.

Sewell was chatty on the ride back into town, but Russell wasn’t feeling sociable. ‘I was up at five A.M.,’ he lied glibly, when the American suggested a bar. ‘I can hardly keep my eyes open.’

‘Then I’ll take you to your hotel. Maybe tomorrow.’

‘If I’m still here,’ Russell promised, knowing perfectly well he wouldn’t be. ‘I assume Father Cecelja is still in Alt Aussee?’

‘He is. I guess you’ll need a jeep in the morning.’

‘Yeah, please.’

‘I’ll put your name down at the pool. You remember where it is.’

‘I do.’

‘Okay, then. Sleep well.’

Well, the man couldn’t have been more accommodating, Russell thought, as he wearily climbed the hotel stairs. And he was likeable enough. So why had he given him the bum’s rush?

An hour or so later, alone in the hotel bar, he asked himself the question again. The answer, he decided, was simple enough-he’d just had enough of men in uniforms.

Alt Aussee was about forty miles to the east, a small village nestling beside an eponymous lake, in the shadow of a stark plateau. The hour’s drive was stunningly beautiful, almost ironically so given the ugliness of the person at the other end.

Father Vilim Cecelja was Draganovic’s man in Austria. He was an Ustashe from way back-he had even taken the ritual oath, complete with daggers, candles, crucifixes, and all the other cliches, which allowed him to use the revered title of a ‘Sworn Ustashe’. After the Nazis invaded Yugoslavia he had served as senior military chaplain to the Ustashe militia, officially blessed Pavelic and his odious regime, and he had done nothing to suggest he disagreed with their genocidal goals. In 1944, sensing the game was up, Cecelja had moved to Vienna and founded a new branch of the Croatian Red Cross, which hitherto served as a cover for his work in aiding escapers from Allied justice. In April 1945 he had moved again, this time to Alt Aussee. With Red Cross credentials, new American papers, and Draganovic’s support, he had opened the Rat Lines for business.

The local CIC had proved more resolute than the US Army, and six months later Cecelja had been arrested. Eighteen months of imprisonment followed, but no charges were brought by the Americans, and Yugoslav requests for his extradition were eventually refused. In April 1947 the US Government finally decided that the priest did have crimes to answer for, but by then it was too late-he had already been released. With increasing numbers of Soviet defectors to shift, the CIC had decided that the Rat Line could be useful in more ways than one, and put Cecelja back in business.

Russell would have preferred not to use him, but there wasn’t much choice where fugitive escapes to the sun were concerned. The real question was how to get the priest’s help without paying for it, at least in monetary form. Russell was more than willing to promise the Earth on the CIC’s behalf-one more burning bridge behind him seemed neither here nor there.

The priest was around forty, and looked more Irish than Croatian. He was Russell’s height, with dark hair showing hints of grey. He wasn’t wearing a robe or dog-collar, and no church abutted his two-storey house. Like Father Kozniku, clearly he had placed God on the back-burner.

He expressed no surprise at receiving a visitor from the CIC, although he insisted on seeing Russell’s accreditation.

‘We have a favour to ask,’ Russell began, once they were seated in the large lounge overlooking the lake, and an Austrian youth had brought them both coffees. ‘Two Ukrainian Catholics, a man and a woman, whom the Soviets are pursuing.’

Cecelja paused in the act of transferring sugar from bowl to cup. ‘I presume you know the fees.’

‘A favour we shall reciprocate,’ Russell went on. ‘But not, in this case, with cash. Our funds have been frozen,’ he explained. ‘Temporarily, we hope.’

Cecelja found that amusing. ‘The mighty United States war machine can’t put its hands on three thousand dollars?’

‘I’m sure the war machine could, but not our little part of it.’

‘So what are you offering us?’

‘We’re offering you a free pass. A statement to the effect that the accusations of collaboration raised against you have been officially dismissed. And all previous statements to the contrary expunged from our official records. Put the two together, and any future application for US visa will be a formality.’

Cecelja looked interested, but didn’t reply right away.

‘This situation won’t last for ever,’ Russell told the priest.

‘Which situation is that?’

‘The one in which Uncle Sam is so desperate for help from people like you that it’s willing to forgive and forget.’

‘Ah, that sounds like a threat.’

‘You could see it as a choice. On the one hand, securing your own future safety and helping two good Catholics escape from the communists. On the other …

Cecelja steepled his fingers. ‘Put that way, the choice does seem rather obvious.’

‘I would say so,’ Russell agreed. And it was-sending the two down the Rat Line wouldn’t cost Cecelja anything, but the promised paper might prove priceless. Even if it failed to materialise, he wouldn’t be out of pocket.

‘So when can I expect these “good Catholics”?’

‘I’ll be dropping them off next Thursday.’

‘Along with the document you promised?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then …’ The priest rose and offered his hand, which Russell duly accepted. Over the past few years he had met several men with copious blood on their hands, and all they had shared was a certain coldness. Cecelja didn’t even have that. Without a knowledge of his deeds, there was literally nothing to set him apart.

Russell drove back to Salzburg with the window open, revelling in the freshness of the wind. He had forgotten to arrange a meeting with Sewell, but despite its being Saturday, he found him in his CIC office.

‘I can’t believe you persuaded the good Father to take them free of charge,’ Sewell said, as they drove across town to the Photo and Document lab. ‘You must have got him on a really good day.’

At the lab, Russell placed his order with the CIC’s resident forger-new passports, travel documents, transit passes, extra IDs, and baptismal certificates for two. The American didn’t want to start work without photos, but eventually agreed that they could be affixed near the end of the process. Russell came away feeling positive: success with Cecelja, success with the documents-it seemed like his luck was in.

And there was one more piece of good fortune to enjoy. Before he took to the road again, Sewell suggested calling the local airbase, and sure enough, a transport was leaving for Frankfurt in less than an hour. He was on a roll.

It didn’t last. The flight was smooth enough, but the sky over Rhein-Main was humming with traffic, and the queue to land took almost as long. The reason, as he discovered on reaching the offices, was a general alert. While Russell had been travelling south on Friday, the Soviets had been shutting the Berlin rail link down, and American reliance on their air links had risen accordingly, tripling their flights in and out of the city.

It was dawn on Sunday before Russell had a seat on one, and seven in the morning before he stepped blearily down on to the tarmac at Tempelhof. Reaching home to find Effi and Rosa at breakfast, he grabbed a fork and took turns stealing scrambled eggs off their plates.

‘Did it all go all right?’ Effi asked, when Rosa left them for a few moments.

‘Better than I hoped. How’s Rosa?’

‘She’s worried about us both going away. She doesn’t actually say so, and I do keep reminding her that we’ll only be gone for two or three nights, but I know she is.’

‘Mmm. Well, let’s make sure we have a good day today.’

‘We’re going to Zarah’s for lunch. And Bill will probably be there.’

‘Well, that’ll be good.’

‘Oh, and Strohm rang for you. He sounded disappointed when I told him you were away, and that Monday we were both going off again.’

‘He must be feeling the pressure,’ Russell said.

‘The baby or the Russians?’

‘He can’t wait for the baby. It’ll be the Russians. Stuck between the devil and the deep red sea.’

‘The devil being Comrade Ulbricht.’

‘Or the Americans. He’s spoilt for choice.’

Effi dismissed it all with a wave of the hand. ‘Anyway, I’m packed. And these,’ she said, pointing them out, ‘are my audition reels.’ There were four of them, each in small round cans of roughly similar size.

‘I hope Merzhanov’s isn’t a lot bigger,’ Russell observed. ‘It’ll stand out if it is.’

Effi shook her head. ‘We can empty one of these and rewind the new film on to it,’ she said.

Russell gave her an admiring look. ‘You should have been the secret agent, and I should have been the beauty.’

Bill Carnforth was at Zarah’s when they arrived, peeling potatoes in a rather fetching apron. His news was more sobering-having allowed a resumption of rail traffic between Berlin and the Western zones, the Soviets had turned their attention to the only road link, and closed its bridge over the Elbe, ostensibly for repairs. ‘They’re just messing with us,’ Carnforth said. ‘And they’re gonna keep on doing it until we throw up our hands in despair and head back home.’

‘And you should have seen it on Ku’damm yesterday,’ Zarah interjected. ‘Thousands of people spending their money like they couldn’t wait to get rid of it. If they don’t reform the currency soon, we’ll be back to barter.’

‘And if they do,’ Russell mused, ‘then God only knows how the Soviets will react.’

‘But what could they do?’ Zarah wanted to know. ‘Money is money.’

‘I think they’re doing it already, honey,’ her fiance observed.

‘You mean blocking the autobahn?’

‘And the railway.’

‘But you won’t let them cut us off,’ Zarah insisted, as if he was the one who would take the decision.

‘I wish I was certain of that,’ he said, placing another peeled potato in the saucepan. ‘Me and General Clay would give them a fight, but it won’t be our call. The politicians will have to decide.’

‘They’ll stand up to the Russians eventually,’ Zarah said confidently. ‘But it still doesn’t seem like a very good time to go waltzing off to Prague,’ she told Effi. ‘Couldn’t you wait a few weeks?’

‘It’s all arranged,’ Effi told her. A year ago she would have filled Zarah in on what was actually happening, but since Carnforth had appeared on the scene she and Russell had opted not to burden her sister with a possible conflict of loyalties. ‘And I do want to see Cisar,’ she added. ‘You liked that film of his you saw.’

‘Did I? What was it?’

‘Beloved Morning.’

‘Oh yes, that was good. So you’re back on Wednesday or Thursday?’

‘I think so,’ Effi told her

‘Can we meet you at the station?’ Rosa asked.

‘No, sweetheart. We don’t know which train we’ll be on, and it might be very late.’

The girl looked crestfallen. ‘Will you wake me when you get back?’

‘Of course we will.’

That afternoon they all went to see a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers musical at a recently re-opened local cinema, and half-danced their way back to Zarah’s flat. There was an undamaged double staircase fronting one of the bombsites on Kant Strasse, and this provided Effi and Russell with the opportunity to recreate one particular scene. Their attempt seemed more than creditable to Russell, and he failed to see why their audience found it so amusing.

Back at Carmer Strasse that evening, Rosa did a drawing of the two of them whirling each other around in the street. Examining it over her shoulder, Russell felt close to tears.