Silesian Station

Into the Cage

John Russell lifted his glass, reluctantly tipped the last drops of malt down his throat, and placed it ever so gently down on the polished wooden bar. He could have another, he supposed, but only if he woke the barman. Twisting on his stool, he found an almost depopulated ballroom. A threesome at a distant table was all that remained - the blonde torch singer who had been making everyone nostalgic for Dietrich and her two uniformed admirers. She was looking from one to the other as if she was trying to decide between them. Which she probably was.

It was gone three o'clock. His twelve-year-old son Paul had been asleep in their cabin for almost five hours, but Russell still felt too restless for bed. A turn round the deck, he told himself, a phrase which suggested ease of movement, not the obstacle course of couples in thrall to passion which usually presented itself at this hour. Why didn't they use their cabins, for God's sake? Because their wives and husbands were sleeping in them?

He was getting obsessive, he thought, as he took the lift up to the boat deck. Four weeks away from his girlfriend Effi and all he could think of was sex. He smiled to himself at the thought. Thirty more hours at sea, five from Hamburg to Berlin.

It was a beautiful night - still warm, the slightest of breezes, a sky over-flowing with stars. He started towards the bow, staring out across the darkly rolling sea, wondering when the French and British coastlines would become visible. Soon, he guessed - they were due to make their stop at Southampton before midday.

He stopped and leant his back against the railings, gazing up at the smoke from the twin funnels as it drifted across the Milky Way. He hoped Effi would like her presents, the red dress in particular. He had gifts for Paul's mother Ilse and her brother Thomas, things that could no longer be found in Hitler's never-ending Reich, things - as the popular phrase had it - from 'outside the cage'.

He sighed. Nazi Germany was everything its enemies said it was, and often worse, but he would still be glad to be back. America had been wonderful, and he had finally managed to swap his British passport for an American one, but Berlin was his home. Their home.

He turned to face the sea. Away on the distant horizon a tiny light was flashing at regular intervals. A lighthouse, presumably. An extremity of France. Of Europe.

It really was time for bed. He walked back down the starboard side and slowly descended seven decks' worth of stairs. As he let himself into their cabin he noticed the folded sheet of paper which had been pushed under the door. He picked it up, backed out into the corridor, and studied it under the nearest light. It was a four-word telegram from Effi's sister Zarah: 'Effi arrested by Gestapo'.

Light was edging round the porthole curtain when he finally got to sleep, and two hours later he was woken, accidentally-on-purpose, by his son. 'It's England,' Paul said excitedly, wiping his breath from the glass. The Dorset coast, Russell guessed, or maybe Hampshire. The town they were passing looked large enough for Bournemouth.

Sitting in the bathroom, he wondered whether it would be quicker to leave the ship at Southampton. One train to London, another to Dover, a boat to Ostend, more trains across Belgium and Germany. It might save a couple of hours, but seemed just as likely to add a few. And he very much doubted whether the Europa carried copies of the relevant timetables. He would just have to cope with twenty-four hours of inaction.

At breakfast the elderly couple who had shared their table since New York seemed even more cheerful than usual. 'Another beautiful day,' Herr Faeder announced, unaware that his upraised fork was dripping egg yolk onto the tablecloth. 'We've been really lucky on this voyage. Last year we were trapped in our cabins for most of the trip,' he added for about the fourth time. Russell grunted his agreement, and received a reproachful look from Paul.

'I can't wait to get home, though,' Frau Faeder said. 'I have a feeling this is going to be a beautiful summer.'

'I hope you're right,' Russell said amicably. The Faeders probably came from another planet, but they'd been pleasant enough company.

Once they'd hurried off to claim their favourite deck chairs, he poured himself another coffee and considered what to tell Paul. The truth, he supposed. 'A telegram came for me last night,' he began. 'After you were asleep.'

His son, engrossed in chasing the record for the largest amount of jam ever loaded onto a single piece of toast, looked up in alarm.

'Effi's been arrested,' Russell told him.

Paul's jaw dropped open. 'What for?' he eventually asked.

'I don't know. The telegram just said she'd been arrested.'

'That's...' He searched for an adequate word. 'That's terrible.'

'I hope not.'

'I expect she said something,' Paul volunteered after a few moments' thought. 'That's not very serious. Not like murder or treason.'

Russell couldn't help smiling. 'You're probably right.'

'What are you going to do?'

'I can't do anything until we get back. And then...I don't know.' Kick up a fuss, he thought, but better not to tell Paul that.

'I'm sorry, Dad.'

'Me too. Well, there's nothing we can do now. Let's get up on deck and watch the world go by.'

As Herr Faeder had said, it was a beautiful day. The Europa, as they discovered on reaching the bow, was in mid-Solent. 'That's Lymington,' Paul said, after consulting his carefully-copied version of the large chart below decks, 'and that's Cowes,' he added, pointing off to the right. Many small boats were in view, a couple of yachts to the south, white sails vivid against the darker island, a flurry of fishing craft to the north, sunlight flashing off their cabin windows. Only the squawking gulls disturbed the peace.

'I had a wonderful time,' Paul said suddenly. 'The whole trip, I mean.'

'So did I,' Russell told him. He smiled at his son, but his heart ached. He knew why Paul had chosen this moment to say what he had, and what he might have added had he been a few years older. His son was a German boy in a German family, with an English father and an American grandmother, and he was growing up in a Germany that seemed bound for war with one or both of those countries. For four happy weeks the boy had been able to step outside the competing inheritances which defined his life, but now he was going home, to where they mattered most.

And though Paul would never say so, Effi's arrest could only make things worse.

They spent most of the day outside, watching the to-ings and fro-ings at Southampton, the warships anchored in The Nore roadstead off Portsmouth, the freighters in the Channel. The setting sun was colouring the white cliffs gold as they passed through the Straits of Dover, the lights brightening on the Belgian coast as darkness finally fell. They went to bed earlier than usual, but despite hardly sleeping the previous night Russell was still wide awake. He lay there in the dark, wondering what had happened, where Effi was. Maybe she'd already been released. Maybe she was en route to the new women's concentration camp at Ravensbruck. The thought brought him close to panic.

The Europa docked at Hamburg soon after ten the following morning. It seemed an eternity before disembarkation was underway, but the queue at passport control moved quickly enough. Russell was expecting a few questions about his passport - he'd left the Reich four weeks earlier as a UK citizen and was now returning as an American - but the German Consulate in New York had assured him that his resident status would be unaffected.

The officer took one look at Russell's passport and one at his face before calling over his supervisor, an overweight man with a large boil above one eye. He too examined the passport. 'You are travelling directly to Berlin?' he asked.

'Yes.'

'The Berlin Gestapo wish to interview you. About a relative who has been arrested, I believe. You know about this?'

'Yes.'

'You must report to Hauptsturmfuhrer Ritschel at the Prinz Albrecht-Strasse offices. You must go straight there. Understood?'

'I need to take my son home first.'

The man hesitated, caught in the familiar Nazi dilemma - human decency or personal safety. 'That would be inadvisable,' he said, reaching for the best of both worlds. 'I'm back,' Russell thought.

There were no questions about his passport, no search through their American purchases at customs. The taxi-ride to the station reminded Russell of his last visit to the city, when he'd been reporting on the launching of the battleship Bismarck, and the wonderful sight of Hitler struggling to contain himself as the ship refused to move.

Arriving at the station, he bought what seemed the most likely newspaper, but could find no reference to Effi's arrest. He didn't know, of course, how long she had been in custody. There were forty minutes until the next D-Zug express left for Berlin, so he parked Paul and the bags at a concourse cafe table and found a public telephone. Without a full address he had almost to beg the operator for Zarah's number, and the telephone rang about a dozen times before she answered.

'Zarah, it's John.'

'You're back? Thank God.'

'I'm in Hamburg. I'll be in Berlin this afternoon. Is Effi all right?'

'I don't know,' Zarah almost wailed. 'They won't let me see her. I've tried. Jens has tried.'

That was bad news - Zarah's husband Jens was a ranking bureaucrat and ardent Nazi, with all the influence that combination implied. 'What has she been arrested for?'

'They won't tell me. Two men from the Gestapo came to the house, told us that she had been arrested, and that I was to let you know by telegram - they even told me what ship you were on. They said not to tell anyone else.'

'Has there been anything in the newspapers?' Russell asked, suspicion growing.

'Nothing. I don't understand it. Do you?' she asked, more than a hint of accusation in her voice.

'No,' Russell said, though he probably did. 'I'll be back in Berlin about four,' he told her. 'The Gestapo want to see me the moment I arrive. I'll call you after I've seen them.'

He hung up and rang a more familiar number, that of Paul's mother and stepfather. Ilse picked up. Russell briefly explained what had happened, and asked if she could meet the train at Lehrter Station. She said she would.

He walked back across the busy concourse, feeling both relieved and depressed. The whole thing was a setup, aimed at him. Why else keep it quiet? Effi might have said something out of turn and been reported - it was hardly out of character - but when it came down to it the Gestapo were more than capable of simply making something up. Whichever it was, they had their leverage against him. Which was good news and bad news. Good because it almost certainly meant that he could secure Effi's release, bad because of what they would want in return.

Paul was looking at the newspaper. 'The Fuhrer revealed that the new Chancery would have another purpose from 1950,' he read aloud, 'but declined to say what that would be.'

A lunatic asylum, Russell guessed, but he didn't think his son would appreciate the joke.

'Can we go up to the platform?' Paul asked.

'Why not.'

The D-Zug was already standing there, a long red bullet of a train. Paul placed a palm on its shiny side, and Russell could almost hear him thinking: 'This is what Germans can do.'

They finished lunch an hour into the journey, and Russell slept fitfully for most of the rest. Ilse and her husband Matthias were waiting on the Lehrter Station concourse, and both seemed really pleased to see Paul. Russell thanked them for coming.

'Do you want a lift?' Matthias asked.

'No thanks.' The idea of them all drawing up outside the Gestapo's Prinz Albrecht-Strasse HQ for a family visit seemed almost surreal, not to mention unwise.

'I hope it's all right,' Paul said. 'Send Effi...tell her I want us to visit the Aquarium again.'

'Yes, call us,' Ilse insisted.

'I will. But don't tell anyone else about her arrest. The Gestapo don't want any publicity.'

'But...' Ilse began.

'I know,' Russell interrupted her. 'But we can always make a stink later, if we need to.'

Goodbyes said, Russell deposited his suitcases in the station left luggage and hailed a cab. 'Prinz Albrecht-Strasse,' he said, 'the Gestapo building.' The cabbie grimaced in sympathy.

It was usually a ten minute ride, but the evening rush hour was underway and the bridges across the Spree were choked with traffic. The eastern end of the Tiergarten was crowded with walkers enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. 'The summer before the war,' Russell murmured to himself. Or maybe not.

The traffic thinned after the Potsdamer Platz traffic lights, and disappeared altogether as they swung into Prinz Albrecht-Strasse. The cabbie took Russell's money, joked that he wouldn't wait, and drove off towards the Wilhelmstrasse. Staring up at the grey, five-storey megalith, Russell could see his point.

He'd been in worse places, he told himself, and even managed to think of a couple. Pushing his way through the heavy front doors, he found himself surrounded by the usual high columns and curtains. A great slab of a desk stood in front of a flag which could have clothed half of Africa, always assuming the locals liked red, white and black. Behind the desk, looking suitably dwarfed by his surroundings, a man in official Gestapo uniform - not the beloved leather coat - was reading what looked like a technical manual of some sort. He ignored Russell's presence for several seconds, then gestured him forward with an impatient flick of a finger.

'My name is John Russell, and I have an appointment with a Hauptsturmfuhrer Ritschel,' Russell told him.

'For what time?'

'I was asked to come here as soon as I reached Berlin.'

'Ah.' The receptionist picked up the telephone, dialled a three-figure number, and asked if Hauptsturmfuhrer Ritschel was expecting a John Russell. He was. Another call produced a uniformed Rottenfuhrer to escort Herr Russell upstairs. He followed the shiny boots up, wondering why the Gestapo rarely wore their uniforms out of doors. A need for anonymity, he supposed. And Heydrich probably liked to economize on laundry bills.

The stone corridors were infinitely depressing. So many offices, so many thugs behind desks.

Hauptsturmfuhrer Ritschel looked the part. A shortish man with thinning fair hair, a face full of ruptured blood vessels and eyes the colour of canal water. There were beads of sweat on his brow, despite the wide open window and a shirt open at the collar. His leather coat was hanging on the door. 'Herr John Russell?' he said. 'How would you like to see Fraulein Koenen?'

'Very much.'

'You may have five minutes. No physical contact.' He turned to the Rottenfuhrer. 'Take him down and bring him back.'

This time they took a lift. The floors were numbered in the usual way, which seemed somewhat incongruous in the circumstances; basement, in particular, seemed a less than adequate description of the cell-lined corridor which awaited them. The silence of the grave was Russell's first impression, but this was soon superseded. A woman sobbing behind one door, a restless shuffle of feet behind another. A man's voice intoning 'shut up, shut up, shut up' as if he'd forgotten he was still speaking.

Oh my God, Russell thought. What had they done to her?

The Rottenfuhrer stopped outside the penultimate door on the right, pulled back the sliding panel for a brief glimpse inside, and drew back the two massive bolts. The door opened inwards, revealing Effi in the act of getting to her feet. As she spotted Russell behind the Rottenfuhrer her face lit up, and she almost jumped towards him.

'No physical contact,' the Gestapo man said, spreading his arms to keep them apart.

They stood facing each other. She was wearing grey overalls that lapped around her wrists and ankles, making her look more waif-like than ever. Her black hair looked tousled and unusually dull. She tucked one strand behind an ear. 'I never liked grey,' she said.

'How long have you been here?' Russell asked.

'Three nights and three days.'

'Have they hurt you?'

She shook her head. 'Not my body, anyway. But this is not a nice place.'

'Have they told you why you've been arrested?'

Effi smiled ruefully. 'Oh yes. That bitch Marianne Schoner informed on me. You know she never forgave me for getting the part in Mother. According to her, I said that Hitler had achieved the impossible - he'd surrounded himself with midgets yet still managed to look small.'

'But you didn't say it?'

'I probably did. It's not bad, is it? No, don't answer that - they'll have you in here too.'

It was his turn to smile. She was scared and she was angry, but there was still fire in her eyes. 'They've only given us five minutes. I'll get you out of here, I promise.'

'That would be good.'

'I love you.'

'And I you. I had much better plans for your homecoming than this.'

'They'll keep. Paul sends his love, wants to go to the Aquarium with you again.'

'Send him mine. Have you seen Zarah? Does she know I'm in here?'

'She's frantic with worry. They wouldn't let her see you.'

'Why not, for God's sake?

'I think this is aimed at me.'

She gave him a surprised look.

'There's nothing in the papers, nothing to stop them simply letting you go if they get something in return.'

She rubbed the side of her face. 'Why didn't I think of that? Oh I'm sorry, John. I should learn to keep my mouth shut.'

'I wouldn't want that.'

'What do they want from you?'

'I don't know yet. Just some favourable press, perhaps.' He glanced at the Rottenfuhrer, as if inviting him to join the conversation.

'That's five minutes,' the man said.

She reached out a hand, but before he could respond the Rottenfuhrer was between them, hustling him out of the cell. 'Try not to worry,' Russell shouted over his shoulder, conscious of how fatuous it sounded.

Back upstairs, Hauptsturmfuhrer Ritschel looked, if possible, even more pleased with himself. Russell took the proffered seat and implored himself to remain calm.

'Your passport,' Ritschel demanded, holding out a peremptory hand.

Russell passed it across. 'Has Fraulein Koenen been formally charged?' he asked.

'Not yet. Soon, perhaps. We are still taking witness statements. Any trial will not be for several weeks.'

'And until that time?'

'She will remain here. Space permitting, of course. It may be necessary to move her to Columbiahaus.'

Russell's heart sank, as it was supposed to.

'After sentencing it will be Ravensbruck, of course,' Ritschel added, as if determined to give a thorough account of Effi's future. 'And the sentence - unfairly perhaps - is bound to reflect Fraulein Koenen's celebrity status. A National Socialist court cannot be seen to favour the rich and famous. On the contrary...'

'Effi is hardly rich.'

'No? I understand that her father gave her an apartment on her twenty-fifth birthday. Do many Germans receive that sort of financial help? I did not. And neither, as far as I know, did anyone in this building.'

It was a hard point to argue without free access to all Gestapo bank accounts, which Russell was unlikely to be granted. 'The court may not share your presumption of guilt,' he said mildly.

'You know what she said?'

Russell took a deep breath. 'Yes, I do. But people have always made jokes about their political leaders. A pretty harmless way of expressing disagreement in my opinion.'

'Perhaps. But against the law, nevertheless.' He picked up the passport. 'Let's talk about you for a moment. Why have you become an American citizen, Herr Russell?'

'Because I'm afraid that England and Germany will soon be at war, and I do not wish to be separated from my son. Or from Fraulein Koenen.'

'Do you feel emotionally attached to America?'

'Not in the slightest,' Russell said firmly. 'It's a wholly vulgar country run by Jewish financiers,' he added, hoping he was not overdoing it.

Ritschel looked pleasantly surprised. 'Then why not become a German citizen?'

'My newspaper employs me as a foreign correspondent - if I ceased to be foreign I would no longer be seen as a neutral observer. And my mother would see it as a betrayal,' he added, egging the pudding somewhat. It seemed unwise to mention the real reason, that being a foreigner gave him a degree of immunity, and some hope of getting Paul and Effi out of the country should one or both of them ever decide they wanted to leave.

'I understand that you wish to keep your job, Herr Russell. But just between ourselves, let's recognize this "neutral observer" nonsense for what it is. The Reich has friends and enemies, and you would be wise - both for your own sake and that of your lady friend - to make it clear which side of that fence you are on.' His hand shot out with the passport. 'Hauptsturmfuhrer Hirth of the Sicherheitsdienst wishes to see you at 11am on Wednesday. Room 47, 102 Wilhelmstrasse.'

Russell took the passport and stood up. 'When can I see Fraulein Koenen again?'

'That will depend on the outcome of your meeting with Hauptsturmfuhrer Hirth.'

Standing on the pavement outside, Russell could still feel the movement of the Europa inside him. A black-uniformed sentry was eyeing him coldly, but he felt an enormous reluctance to leave, as if his being only a hundred metres away might somehow help to protect her.

He dragged himself away, and started up the wide Wilhelmstrasse. The government buildings on the eastern side - the Finance, Propaganda and Justice ministries - were all bathed in sunlight, the Fuhrer's digs on the western side cloaked, rather more suitably, in shadow. At the corner of Unter den Linden he almost sleep-walked into the Adlon Hotel, but decided at the last moment that an encounter with his foreign press corps colleagues was more than he could handle on this particular evening. He felt like a real drink, but decided on coffee at Schmidt's - if ever he needed a clear head it was now.

The cafe was almost empty, caught in the gap between its workday clientele and the evening crowd. After taking his choice of the window-seats Russell, more out of habit than desire, reached across for the newspaper that someone had left on the adjoining table. Hitler had opened an art exhibition in Munich, accompanied by the Gauleiter of Danzig and Comrade Astakhov, the Soviet charge d'affaires. This interesting combination had watched a procession of floats, most of which were described in mind-numbing detail. Sudetenland was a silver eagle, Bohemia a pair of lions guarding the gateway to the East, as represented by a couple of Byzantine minarets. The Fuhrer had gone to see The Merry Widow that evening, but 'Miss Madeleine Verne, the solo dancer' had failed to show up.

Who could blame her?

Russell tossed the newspaper back. He didn't feel ready for re-immersion into Nazi Germany's bizarre pantomime.

At least the coffee was good. The only decent cup he'd had in America was in the Italian pavilion at the World's Fair.

Zarah, he reminded himself. The telephone in the back corridor was not being used, and he stood beside it for a few seconds before dialling, wondering what he was going to say. Not the truth, anyway. She picked up after the first ring, and sounded as if she'd been crying.

'I've seen her,' he said. 'She's fine. They've told me to come back on Wednesday, and they'll probably release her then.'

'Why? I don't understand. If they're going to release her, why not now?'

'Bureaucracy, I think. She has to receive a formal warning from some official or other. They didn't give me any details.'

'But she will be released on Wednesday?'

'That's what I was told,' he said. There was no point in her spending the next two days in a state of high anxiety. If the Sicherheitsdienst was playing sick games with them, she'd find out soon enough.

'Thank you, John,' she said. 'They won't let me see her, I suppose.'

'I don't think so. They won't let me see her again until then. I think it's probably better to just wait.'

'Yes, I can see that. But she's all right.'

'She's fine. A little frightened, but fine.'

'Thank you.'

'I'll ring you on Wednesday. Effi will ring you.'

'Thank you.'

He jiggled the cut-off switch and dialled Ilse's number. 'Paul's in the bath,' his ex-wife told him.

'I've seen Effi and she's all right. Can you tell him that?'

'Of course. But...'

'I think they're going to let her go on Wednesday.'

'That's good. You must be relieved. More than relieved.'

'You could say that.'

'Paul seems to have had a wonderful time.'

'He did, didn't he? I hope he doesn't find the transition too difficult. It's a bit like coming up from the ocean floor - you need to take your time.'

'Mmm. I'll watch for signs. What about this weekend? Are you...'

'He'll want to catch up with all of you, won't he? I'd like to see him, but maybe just a couple of hours?'

'That sounds good, but I'll ask him.'

'Thanks, Ilse.'

'I hope it all goes well.'

'Me too.'

He went back to the rest of his coffee, ordered a schnapps to go with it. He supposed he should eat, but didn't feel hungry. What would Heydrich's organization want from him? More to the point, would it be something in his power to give? The Sicherheitsdienst - the SD, as it was popularly known - had started life as the Nazi Party's intelligence apparatus, and now served the Nazi state in the same role. It thrived on betrayals, but the only person Russell could betray was himself. No, that wasn't strictly true. There was the sailor in Kiel who had given him the Baltic fleet dispositions, not to mention the man's prostitute girlfriend. But if the SD knew anything about Kiel, he wouldn't be drinking schnapps in a cafe on the Unter den Linden.

So what did they want him for? As an informant, perhaps. A snitch in the expatriate community. And among the German press corps. He had a lot of friends and acquaintances who still wrote - with well-concealed disgust in most cases - for the Nazi press. Effi might be asked to report on her fellow thespians.

Or maybe they were more interested in his communist contacts. They certainly knew about his communist past, and after the business in March they probably had a highly exaggerated notion of his current involvement. They might want to use him as bait, luring comrades up to the surface.

The latter seemed more likely on reflection, but who knew what the bastards were thinking?

He paid the bill and stood out on the pavement once more. Where to go - his rooms in Hallesches Tor or Effi's flat, where he'd been spending the majority of his nights? Her flat, he decided. Check that everything was all right, make sure the Gestapo had remembered to flush.

When it came down to it, he just wanted to feel close to her.

He walked through to Friedrichstrasse and took a westbound Stadtbahn train. There was a leaflet on the only empty seat. He picked it up, sat down, and looked at it. 'Do you want another war?' the headline asked him. The text below advised resistance.

Looking up, he noticed that several of his fellow-passengers were staring at him. Wondering, he supposed, what he was going to do with the treasonous missive now that he'd read it. He thought about crumpling the leafl et up and dropping it, but felt a sudden, unreasoning loyalty to whoever had taken the enormous risk of writing, producing and distributing it. Two minutes later, as his train drew into Zoo Station, he placed the leaflet back on the seat where he'd found it and got off. The attractive young woman sitting opposite gave him what might have been an encouraging smile.

He collected his suitcases from the left luggage and walked the half-kilometre to Effi's flat on Carmerstrasse. Everything looked much as he'd last seen it - if the Gestapo had conducted a search then they'd tidied up after themselves. So they hadn't conducted a search. Russell sniffed the air for a trace of Effi's perfume but all he could smell was her absence. He leaned against the jamb of the bedroom door, picturing her in the cell. He told him-self that they wouldn't hurt her, that they knew the threat was enough, but a sliver of panic still tightened his chest.

He stood there, eyes closed, for a minute or more, and then urged himself back into motion. His car should be here, he realized. He locked up and carried his cases back down. The Hanomag was sitting in the rear courtyard, looking none the worse for a month of Effi's erratic driving. It started first time.

Twenty minutes later he was easing it into his own courtyard on Neuenburger Strasse. He felt less than ready to face Frau Heidegger and the inevitable deluge of welcome home questions, but the only way to his room led past her ever-open door. Which, much to his surprise, was closed. He stood there staring at it, and suddenly realized. The third week of July - the annual holiday with her brother's family in Stettin. Her sour-faced sister would be filling in, and she had never shown the slightest interest in what was happening elsewhere in the building. Frau Heidegger was fond of claiming that the life of a portierfrau was a true vocation, but her sister, it seemed, had not heard the call.

He lugged the suitcases up to his fourth floor rooms, and dumped them on his bed unopened. The air seemed hot and stale, but throwing the windows wide made little difference - night was falling much faster than the temperature, and the breeze had vanished. There were two bottles of beer in the cupboard above the sink, and Russell took one to his favourite seat by the window. The beer was warm and fl at, which seemed appropriate.

None of it was going to go away, he thought. Effi might be released on Wednesday, but they could always rearrest her, and next time they might feel the need - or merely the desire - to inflict a little pain. If Effi left him - God forbid - there was always Paul. Some sort of pressure could always be applied. The only way to stop it was to leave, and that would mean leaving alone. They would never let Effi out of the country now, and Ilse would never agree to Paul going. Why should she? She loved the boy as much as he did.

If he left, they'd all be safe. The bastards would have nothing to gain. Or would they? They'd probably find jobs for him to do in Britain or the US. Do you care what happens to your family in Germany? Then do this for us.

He needed to talk to someone, he realized. And there was only Thomas, his former brother-in-law, his best friend. The only man in Berlin - on Earth, come to that - whom he would trust with his life.

He went back downstairs to the telephone.

Thomas sounded happy to hear from him. 'How was America?' he asked.

'Wonderful. But I've run into a few problems since I got back.'

'How long have you been back?'

'In Berlin, about six hours. I'd like a chat, Thomas. Can you find me a half hour or so tomorrow morning if I come to the works?'

'I imagine so. But wouldn't you rather have lunch?'

'I need a private chat.'

'Ah. All right. Ten-thirty? Eleven?'

'Ten-thirty. I'll be there.' Hanging up, he realized he hadn't even asked after Thomas's wife and children.

Back in his room he sat in the window, taking desultory swigs from the second bottle of beer. The roofs of the government district were visible in the distance, a barely discernible line against the night sky. He thought of Effi in her cell, hoped she was curled up in sleep, cocooned from the evil around her.

The Schade Printing Works were in Treptow, a couple of streets from the River Spree. As Russell parked the Hanomag alongside Thomas's Adler, a ship's horn sounded on the river, a long mournful sound for such a bright morning. Russell had only managed a few dream-wracked hours of unconsciousness, and the coffee he'd grabbed at Gorlitzer Station had propelled his heart into an unwelcome gallop for longer than seemed safe.

The main print room was the usual cacophony of machines. Thomas's office was at the other end, and Russell exchanged nods of recognition with a couple of the men on his way through. Both looked like Jews, and probably were. Schade Printing Works employed a higher percentage of Jews than any business in Berlin, largely because Thomas insisted that he needed all his highly-skilled workforce to fulfil his many contracts with the government. The irony was not lost on his Jewish workers, much of whose work involved printing anti-Semitic tracts.

A smiling Thomas arose from his desk to shake Russell's hand. 'God, you look terrible,' he half-shouted over the din. 'What's happened?' he added, seeing the look in his friend's eyes.

Russell shut the door, which cut the noise by half. 'Effi's been arrested.'

'Why - or do I need to ask? Someone informed on her... I'm sorry, that's not helpful. Where is she?'

'Prinz Albrecht-Strasse. Can we talk outside?'

'Of course.' Thomas led him back into the printing room, through a store-room and down a few steps into the yard, where a line of tarpaulin-covered wagons stood ready for unloading in the company siding. The two men walked down past the buffers and sat side by side on a low brick wall, facing the yard and printing works. Birds sang in the weed-covered wasteland behind them; a rumble of machinery emanated from the cement works on the other side of the tracks.

'This do?'

Russell looked round. No one could get within earshot without being seen. 'They're going to let her go tomorrow - or at least I think they will. They more or less said as much. I was allowed five minutes with her yesterday - she's scared but she's okay. They haven't done anything to her, haven't even questioned her as far as I know.'

'So what...'

'It's me they're after. They'll only let her go if I agree to work for them.'

'Doing what?'

'I'll find that out tomorrow.'

'What could you do for them?'

'Ah. There's a history to this that you don't know about. You remember those articles I wrote for Pravda?'

'On the positive aspects of Nazi Germany? How could I forget?'

'I needed the money. And the Soviets fed me a line about preparing their readers for peace which I could just about swallow. As I expected, they wanted more than my magic pen - a little espionage on the side. I refused, of course; but then I got involved with the Wiesners - remember them? Felix Wiesner was a big-time doctor until the Nazis came along - an Iron Cross, First Class, by the way - but Kristallnacht finally convinced him that there was no future for his family here. His son was sent to Sachsenhausen and badly beaten. Felix hired me to teach his daughters English so they'd have a head start once he got them out. But then they arrested him on a trumped-up abortion charge, sent him to Sachsenhausen, and beat him to death. His widow and daughters were left in limbo, his son was on the run from the Gestapo. Enter yours truly with a brilliant idea. The Soviets wanted me to bring a few papers out of the country, papers that would interest any of Germany's enemies. I agreed to do it if they got Wiesner's son across the border, and I offered copies to the British in exchange for exit visas for the mother and two girls. Oh, and I demanded an American passport for myself, which I've just been given. Now I won't have to leave Paul and Effi behind when Chamberlain finally stands up to Hitler.'

Thomas was momentarily lost for words. 'My God,' he murmured.

Russell gave him a wry smile. 'It seemed like a good idea at the time.' He paused as a local passenger train rattled by. 'Still does, actually.'

'It sounds like you got away with it.'

'I thought I had. The bastards don't have anything definite against me, but they've got reasons to be suspicious. They know I was in contact with the Soviets over the articles, and they know that the Soviets expect more from their foreign correspondents than journalism. Hell, everyone does these days. The Gestapo, the SD, whichever bunch of goons we're talking about - they'll all be assuming I have contacts among communist circles here in Germany. And if they want to use me as a way in, then they've hit on the perfect way of getting me to cooperate.'

'Did Effi provide them with the excuse?'

Russell told him what she'd said. 'She was reported by another actress, one that she beat to a part.'

Thomas grimaced.

'So what do I do?'

Thomas ran a hand through his spiky grey hair. 'Well, I suppose the first thing is to find out what they want. Whatever it is, you'll have to at least say that you'll go along with it. If it's more than you can stomach, then, first chance you get, you take yourself and Effi out of this godforsaken country.'

'And Paul?'

'Better an absent father than a dead one.'

'Of course. But what if they punish him for my sins?'

Thomas used the clanking of a passing freight train to think about that. 'Maybe I'm being naive,' he said finally, 'but I don't believe they would. What could they do to a twelve year-old aryan boy? And he has his stepfather to stand up for him. Matthias is very fond of Paul - he wouldn't let anything happen to him without a real fight. Neither would I, by the way.'

'I know that. And you're probably right. I was thinking last night - this won't go away, I have to get out. But getting Effi out will take time - they won't just let her leave. Do we have that sort of time? The smart money's all on September, after the harvest, before the rains.'

'There's no way of knowing, is there? We seem to go through the same dramatic scenes every six months. Hitler stamps his foot and shouts a lot, everyone rushes around making him offers, and he graciously accepts a mere 99 per cent of what he asked for. It could happen again.'

'Not with the Poles.'

'You're probably right. I wish I could send Joachim somewhere safe.' Thomas's seventeen-year-old son was doing his compulsory year's service in the Arbeitsdienst public works programme, and would be shifted to auxiliary military duties if war broke out.

The two men sat in silence for a moment.

'So you're seeing the SD tomorrow,' Thomas said eventually. 'How are you going to spend the rest of today?'

'Worrying. And working, I suppose. I have a new job, by the way. Central and East European correspondent of the San Francisco Tribune. Salary, expenses, the works.'

'Well, that makes a welcome change. Congratulations.'

'Thanks. I met the Editor in New York - Ed Cummins. An amazing old man, very pro-Roosevelt.' Russell smiled. 'He wants me to wake America up. Particularly those Americans with their roots in Germany and Germany's neighbours. The Jewish-Americans of course, but the Polish-Americans, the Hungarian-Americans, all of them. He wants them to know what's really happening in the old countries, and to get really angry about it. And not to go along with all that crap - to use his own words - about it being none of America's business.' Russell laughed. 'Of course, we weren't reckoning on the SD and Gestapo breathing down my neck. I'll just have to convince the bastards that retaining my credibility as a journalist is in their interests too. Because if I suddenly start sucking up to them in print, no one who matters will trust anything I do or say.'

'I suppose not. Are you going to be covering the day-to-day stuff?'

'Not really - they'll carry on using the agencies for that. I'm more comment than news - the big diplomatic stories and whatever else strikes me as important. The first thing Cummins wants is a piece on how the Czechs are doing under occupation. And I thought I might visit that agricultural school in Skaby that the Jews are running for would-be emigrants to Palestine. I can't believe the Nazis are still sponsoring it.'

Thomas grunted his agreement as another suburban train headed for Gor-litzer Station. One carriage seemed full of over-excited young boys, most of whom were hanging out of the windows. A school trip, Russell supposed.

'Talking of Jews,' Thomas said, 'I've got a mystery of my own to solve.' He brushed a speck of dirt off his trousers. 'I had an employee by the name of Benjamin Rosenfeld. A good worker, he started here five or six years ago. A Jew, of course. About six weeks ago he came to ask if I had a job for his seventeen-year-old niece. Her family are farmers in Silesia, the only Jews in the area apparently, and she was being harassed - perhaps more, he didn't say - by the local boys. Her parents thought she'd be safer in Berlin.' Thomas's shrug encompassed both the sad absurdity of the problem and the impossibility of knowing where a Jew might be safest in such times. 'As it happened I'd just lost a young woman - her exit visa had arrived that week and she was off to Palestine - so I said yes. Rosenfeld arranged the trip, sent the ticket, and arranged to meet her at Silesian Station. That was on the last day of June. Almost three weeks ago.

'As far as I can make out, on the day she was supposed to arrive Rosenfeld left here with the intention of walking straight to the station - it's only about three kilometres away. Somewhere along the way, some thugs decided he needed beating up. Storm troopers probably, from their barracks on Kopenicke Strasse, but they weren't in uniform according to Rosenfeld. Someone took him to one of those makeshift Jewish hospitals in Friedrichshain, and he was in and out of consciousness for several days. I didn't know he'd been attacked until one of the workers told me on the following day. I wondered what had happened to the girl, but assumed she had managed to make contact with Rosenfeld's friends, and that she'd turn up for work on the Monday. But she didn't. I had no proof she'd ever left Silesia, and the fact that she hadn't turned up seemed like a good reason for doubting it. I told myself I would contact the parents when Rosenfeld had recovered sufficiently to tell me their address, but he never did. He died about a week after the attack.'

'I don't suppose the police were interested?'

'I don't think anyone even bothered telling them,' Thomas said wryly. 'I went to the funeral, and talked to as many of the mourners as I could. Most of Rosenfeld's friends knew she was coming, but none of them had seen her. Then, after the ceremony, a man I hadn't talked to came up to me with a suit-case. He told me he was Rosenfeld's landlord, and said he didn't know what to do with the man's belongings. "I was wondering if you could send them back to his family with his final wages."' Thomas grimaced. 'To be honest, I'd completely forgotten about the wages. I told him I had no address for the family, and he said he hadn't either. He was obviously eager to get rid of the stuff, so I took it, thinking I could always share out whatever was in there with his work-friends. Two days later the landlord showed up at the works with a letter which had just arrived for Rosenfeld. It was from his brother, the girl's father. He was worried that he hadn't heard from his daughter.

'There was no address of origin, only a Wartha postmark. It's a small town - a big village really - about sixty kilometres south of Breslau. About a week ago I sent a letter to the Wartha post office, asking them to forward another letter that I'd enclosed for Rosenfeld's brother, but there was no reply. So yesterday I telephoned the post office. A man who claimed to be the postmaster said he'd never got the letter and that he'd never heard of the Rosenfelds. "Jews, I suppose" - I think those were his exact words. "They've probably gone somewhere where they're wanted."

'So I went to the Kripo office in Neukolln - not, I have to admit, in a conciliatory frame of mind. It probably wouldn't have made any difference, but I certainly rubbed the duty officer up the wrong way. After I'd explained all the circumstances, he told me that the girl had probably run off with a boyfriend, and that the German police had better things to do than scour the city for sex-mad Jewesses. I almost hit him.' Thomas clenched his fist reminiscently. 'And I've thought about reporting him to his superiors - there are still some decent men in the Kripo, after all - but it doesn't really seem like such a good idea. If I get on the wrong side of the authorities it won't be me that suffers, or at least not only me. It'll be the three hundred Jews who work here.' He paused for a moment. 'But I can't just forget about her. And I remembered that you did a piece - quite a few years ago now - on private investigators in Berlin.'

Russell grunted his agreement. 'It was after that movie The Thin Man came out. Berlin went from having one private detective to having fifty in a matter of months. Most of them only lasted a few weeks.'

'Can you recommend one that's still in business?'

'I don't know. If he's still in business, I mean. A man named Uwe Kuzorra. He was a Kripo detective who couldn't stomach working for the Nazis. So he quit, opened an agency in Wedding. I liked him. Knew this city inside out. But he was in his late fifties then, so he may have retired. I could find out for you.'

'If you could.' Thomas rubbed his cheeks and then clasped his hands together in front of his face. 'There were always things I hated about my country,' he said, 'but there used to be things I loved as well. Now all I feel is this endless shame. I don't know why - it's not as if I ever voted for them. But I do.'

'I'm getting to the point where all I feel is anger,' Russell said. 'And useless anger at that.'

'A fine pair we are.'

'Yes. I'll let you get back to work. I'll drive over to Wedding this afternoon, see if Kuzorra is still in business. If not, I'll try to find someone else.'

They walked back down the line of wagons and round the side of the works to the front yard. 'Give my love to Effi ,' Thomas said as Russell climbed into the front seat.

'I will.' He leaned his head out of the window. 'What's the girl's name?'

'Miriam. And I almost forgot.' He took out his wallet and removed a dog-eared photograph of two men, one woman and a girl of about fifteen. 'Rosenfeld's on the left,' Thomas said. 'The others are Miriam and her parents.'

She was a pretty girl. Dark hair and eyes, olive skin, a shy smile. Her figure would have filled out, but the face wouldn't have changed. Not that much, anyway.

Miriam Rosenfeld. A nice Jewish name, Russell thought, as he motored up Slessische Strasse towards the city centre. Miriam Sarah Rosenfeld, of course. It was almost a year since the regime had blessed all Jews with a self-defining second name - Sarah for females, Israel for males. Dumb as a dog in heat, as one of his mother's friends liked to say.

It was another hot summer day. The traffic seemed unusually sparse for noon, but then Berlin was hardly New York. The pavements were busy with pedestrians going about their business, but the faces showed little in the way of animation. Or was he imagining that, looking for depression to mirror his own? Berliners were aggressive talkers, but they could give the English a run for their money when it came to cold reserve.

A long stomach growl reminded him that he hadn't eaten that morning. Gerhardt's frankfurter stand, he decided, and abruptly changed direction, causing the driver behind to sound his horn. A new set of traffic lights outside the main post office held him up for what seemed an age. He found himself thumping the steering wheel in frustration, and then laughing at himself. What was the hurry?

The queue at Gerhardt's stretched out of the concourse beneath the Alexanderplatz Station and into Dircksen-Strasse. It moved quickly though, and Russell was soon ordering his bratwurst and kartoffelsalat from Gerhardt's brother Rolf, the sprightly septuagenarian with the drooping moustache who manned the counter.

'Haven't seen you for a while,' Rolf said, taking Russell's note and handing back some coins.

'I've been in America.'

'Lucky man,' Rolf said, passing over the food. Russell shifted down the counter to add mustard and mayonnaise, stabbed a chunk of potato with the small wooden fork and popped it in his mouth. A mouthful of steaming bratwurst followed. Paul had been right in New York. German hot dogs were better.

He walked back to the Hanomag and sat behind the wheel enjoying his meal. 'A lucky man,' he murmured to himself, and remembered Brecht's line about 'the man who laughs', who had 'simply not yet heard the terrible news.' Well, he'd heard the terrible news and he still wanted to laugh, at least once in a while. Even these clouds had a few stray fragments of silver lining hanging down. He was too old to fight, his son was too young. And Effi would be released the next day.

A drink, he decided. At the Adlon. It was time he caught up with his colleagues.

In the event, only the Chicago Post's Jack Slaney was there, perched on his usual barstool. He greeted Russell with a big grin. 'Beer, whisky or both?'

'Just the beer, thanks,' Russell said, sliding onto the next stool and gazing round. 'Not too busy, is it?'

'It's like this every summer. How was the States?'

'Good. Very good. My son had a whale of a time.'

'Staten Island Ferry?'

'Four times. Statue of Liberty, Central Park, Grand Central Station, Ma-cy's toy department...not to mention the World's Fair.'

'And you're one of us now.'

'News travels fast.'

'We are journalists. How's next year's election looking? Any chance that Lindbergh's going to run?'

'Doesn't look like it. The way things are going in Congress it doesn't look like he needs to. Roosevelt's chances of revising the Neutrality Bill seem to be getting worse, not better. America won't be joining a European war any time soon.'

'Pity. The sooner we get into a war, the sooner I get to go home.'

'What's been happening here?'

'Not much. Lot of grumbling in the press about you British - how the guarantee to Poland has given the Poles a free hand to persecute their poor German minority. A few incidents around Danzig but nothing serious. Calm before the storm, of course.'

'Most calms are.'

'Maybe. The German universities all closed for the summer last week. Two weeks earlier than usual, so the students can help with the harvest. They're busting a gut to get it in on time this year, and why do you think that might be? If I was a betting man - and I am - I'd put money on a new batch of Polish atrocity stories in the first two weeks of August. And then Hitler will start ranting again. A complete idiot could recognize the pattern by this time. I know they're an evil bunch of bastards, but what really gets me down is that they're such an insult to the intelligence.'

'Talking to you is always such a joy.'

'You love it. I'm the only man in Berlin who's more cynical than you are.'

'Maybe. I seem to be moving beyond cynicism, but God knows in what direction.'

'Despair comes highly recommended.'

Russell laughed. 'Like I said, a real pleasure, but I've got be off. I owe you one.'

'At least three actually. Where are you off to?'

'To see a man about a missing girl.'

Wedding had been a communist stronghold before the Nazi takeover, and it still seemed depressed by the outcome of the subsequent reckoning. A few faded hammers and sickles were visible on hard-to-reach surfaces, and billowing swastikas were less ubiquitous than usual. Uwe Kuzorra's office was on the east side of the Muller-Strasse, a hundred metres or so south of the S-bahn. Or it had been - his name was still among those listed by the door, but the detective himself had retired. 'End of last year,' a brisk young woman from the ground floor laundry told Russell. 'If you want his home address, I think they have it upstairs.'

Russell climbed the four flights to Kuzorra's former office, and found it empty. An elderly man with a monocle eventually answered his knock on the opposite door. A wooden table behind him was covered with clocks in various stages of dismantlement, chalk circles surrounding each separate inventory of pieces.

'Yes?'

'Sorry to interrupt, but I was told that you had Uwe Kuzorra's home address.'

'Yes. I do. Come in. Sit down. It may take me a while to find it.'

The room gave off a rich melange of odours - wood polish and metallic oil from the workbench, soapy steam from the laundry below, the unmistakable scent of male cat. The beast in question, a huge black tom, stared blearily back at him from his patch in the sun.

The horologist was shuffling through a pile of papers - mostly unpaid bills, if the frequent mutters of alarm and dismay were anything to go by. 'Ah, here it is,' he said at last, waving a scrap of paper at Russell. '14 Demminer Strasse, Apartment 6. Do you have a pencil?'

Russell recognized the street. He had interviewed a dog breeder there several years earlier - some dreadful piece for an American magazine on the Germans and their pets. The breeder had claimed that Mein Kampf inspired him in his search for pedigree perfection.

It was only a five minute drive. The apartment building was old, but seemed well cared for. A grey-haired woman opened the door - in her early 60s, Russell guessed, but still attractive. He asked if Uwe Kuzorra lived there.

'Who are you?' she asked simply.

'I interviewed him once several years ago. I'm a journalist, but that's not why I'm here...'

'You'd better come in. My husband is in the other room.'

Kuzorra was reclining in an armchair close to the open window, legs stretched out, eyes closed. A People's Radio was playing softly on the chest of drawers - Schubert, Russell guessed, but he was usually wrong. 'Uwe,' the woman said behind him, 'a visitor.'

Kuzorra opened his eyes. 'John Russell,' he said after a moment's thought. 'Still here, eh?'

'I'm surprised you remembered.'

'I was always good at names and faces. Are you chasing another story? Please sit down. Katrin will make us some coffee.'

'You've had your two coffees,' she said sternly.

'I can't let Herr Russell drink alone.'

She laughed. 'Oh, all right.'

'So what brings you to me? How did you find me? Surely that lunatic clock-maker has long since lost my address.'

'You underestimate him.'

'Perhaps. He has been mending the same dozen clocks ever since I met him. Still...'

'I need a private detective,' Russell said, 'and I thought you might be able to recommend one. It's a missing persons case - a Jewish girl. Not the sort of case that'll make anyone famous...'

'The sort of case that'll lose an investigator any police friends he still has,' Kuzorra said. 'And they're the ones you need in this job.'

'Exactly. I imagine a lot of your ex-colleagues would turn it down.'

'You're right about that. Can you give me some details?'

Russell went through what Thomas had told him, pausing only to accept an extremely good cup of coffee from Kuzorra's wife.

'Well, let's hope she hasn't run into another George Grossman,' was the detective's initial response.

'Who?'

'Before your time, I suppose. You remember the German cannibals of the 20s? There were four of them - Fritz Haarmann, Karl Denke, Peter Kurten and George Grossman.' He almost danced through the names. 'Grossmann was the Berliner. He rented a flat near the Silesian Station, just before the war. He used to meet the trains from the East, seek out innocent-looking country girls - he preferred them plump - and ask if they needed help. He told some of them that he was looking for a housekeeper, but most of the time he just offered the girls cheap lodgings while they found their feet in the big city. Once he got them back to his flat he killed them, cut them up, and ground them into sausages for the local market. He was at it for about eight years before we caught him.'

'He hasn't been released recently?'

'He hanged himself in prison.'

'That's a relief.'

'I doubt your girl has been eaten. But the first thing to do is find out if she ever reached Berlin. I've got some friends at Silesian Station - I can ask around. What day did she arrive?'

'The last day of June, whatever that was.'

'A Friday,' Frau Kuzorra said. 'I had a doctor's appointment that day. But Uwe...'

'I know, I know. I'm retired. I also get a little bored from time to time. Asking a few questions at Silesian Station is hardly going to kill me, is it? And we could do with a little extra money. That week on the coast you've been talking about.' He took her silence for acquiescence. 'My usual rates are twenty-five Reichsmarks an hour and reasonable expenses,' he told Russell.

'Fine.' Thomas could certainly afford it.

'Right then. If I go down on Friday evening there's a good chance the same crew will be working that train. Have you a picture of her?'

Russell passed it over.

'Lovely,' Kuzorra said. 'But very Jewish. Let's hope she didn't reach Berlin.' He got to his feet, wincing as he did so. 'They say old war wounds are more painful in wet weather,' he said, 'but mine always seem worst in summer. You fought in the war, didn't you?'

'In Belgium,' Russell admitted. 'The last eighteen months.'

'Well, who would have guessed we'd find a leader stupid enough to start another one?' the detective asked.

'He hasn't started one yet.'

'He will.'

Russell drove slowly back into the city along Brunner-Strasse and Rosenthaler Strasse. The area around the latter had once hosted a large Jewish population, and reminders of Kristallnacht were still occasionally evident - shops abandoned and boarded up, a few with crudely daubed Stars of David on their doors. He hadn't told Thomas or Kuzorra, but he already had one missing girl to find in Berlin. In New York his mother had introduced him to the Hahnemann family, rich Berliners from Charlottenburg who had decided they could no longer abide life in Hitler's Germany. They had brought three of the children with them, but their oldest daughter Freya had refused to leave her Jewish boyfriend, a man named Wilhelm Isendahl, and had remained in Berlin. The Hahnemanns hadn't heard from her in months, their own letters had been returned unopened, and they couldn't help worrying that her 'firebrand' of a boyfriend had led her into trouble. Could Russell make sure she was all right, and ask her to send them a postcard? Of course he could.

Finding her might take time - there was certainly no chance of official help if a Jew was involved - but he had no reason to believe that Freya Hahnemann was in any immediate danger. And he wanted Kuzorra to concentrate on Miriam Rosenfeld, who probably was. Her face in the photograph had an air of almost catastrophic innocence.

After recrossing the river Russell found himself heading back to the Adlon. He rang Thomas from the lobby to tell him he'd hired Kuzorra, and what the retainer was. Thomas took a note of the detective's address and promised to send off a cheque.

Slaney was gone from the bar, but several members of the British press corps had filled the gap. Russell bought a round and listened to the latest news from London, most of which seemed singularly uninteresting. One item, however, grabbed his attention. According to Dick Thornton, the British and French governments had both received virtual ultimatums from Soviet Foreign Minister Molotov. If they didn't get serious about a military alliance, then the Soviets would look elsewhere.

'They won't do a deal with Hitler, will they?' the Chronicle man asked.

'Why not? It would give them some time. Stalin has just killed half his generals.'

'I know, but...'

'Look at it from their point of view,' the Sketch man said. 'The British and French have hardly been enthusiastic about a military alliance.'

'More to the point,' Russell interjected, 'what's Stalin got to gain now? The Germans can only get at him by going through Poland, and that'll automatically bring in the British and French on his side.'

'Always assuming they honour the guarantee.'

'They will.'

'That's what the Czechs thought.'

'This is different. There's no wriggle-room this time. And no way the Poles will sign large chunks of their country away.'

'I know that and you know that, but does Hitler?'

'Hard to say.'

The discussion meandered on. Russell was interested, but had too much else on his mind to give it his undivided attention. He ought to be submitting his visa application for Prague and the Protectorate, but it felt wrong to be making travel plans while Effi was still in a Gestapo cell. And there was always the chance that a visa would be granted more quickly once he'd demonstrated his willingness to work for the SD.

But there were more sensible ways of killing time than drinking it away. When the conversation turned to cricket, he made his excuses and drove over to the French restaurant in Wilmersdorf which he and Effi visited every few weeks. It was usually half-empty these days, probably in consequence of the Nazis' remorseless trashing of everything French, but the food was still wonderful. Russell ate French bread and Normandy butter with a single glass of the most expensive wine he could find, and followed it up with a steak oozing blood, pear tart with chocolate sauce, a slice of Brie and a small black coffee.

The light was almost gone when he emerged, but it was a lovely evening, warm with a feathery breeze. He drove back up towards the Kaiser Memorial Church and found an empty table at one of the busy pavement cafes on Tau-enzien-Strasse. After ordering schnapps and coffee - in theory the caffeine and alcohol would cancel each other out - he sat and eavesdropped on the conversations around him. One young couple were discussing what colour to paint their bedroom; a middle-aged couple were planning the series of trips they would make when they finally took delivery of their People's Car. Visiting his wife's family in Essen did not seem high on the husband's list of priorities. The only hint that war might be imminent came from the young man to his left, who was trying to convince his girlfriend, without actually saying so, that the time for consummating their relationship might be shorter than she thought. Her replies sounded like distant echoes of those which Russell had received from prim little Mary Wright in the spring of 1917. Some things never changed.

It was dark now, the spire of the Memorial Church circled by stars. Russell drove home to Neuenburger Strasse and wearily climbed the stairs. Reaching the top, he realized that the bulb on his landing had gone again.

As he opened the door to his room - one hand turning the key, the other the knob - it seemed for a moment as if the key hadn't needed turning. He was still thinking he must have imagined that when his flick of the switch failed to produce light. A mental alarm bell started ringing, but much too late.

Two things happened almost simultaneously. A bright beam of light caught him right in the eye, and something very hard delivered a tremendous blow across his stomach. As he doubled over, a second blow in the back sent him crashing to the floor. Once, twice, feet thudded into his front and back, torch-light dancing above. A kick in the groin hurt like hell, and curled him into a foetus-like ball, arms clasped together to protect his face and head. He tried to shout out, but his lungs could only manage a rasp.

The blows had stopped, but a heavy foot planted on his stomach was pinning him down. He tried opening his eyes, but the beam of light - a torch, he assumed - was shining right in his face, and the figures above him were only flickering shadows. He felt one draw nearer, and a gloved hand dragged one arm away from his head. Something cold and metallic was rammed into his ear. The barrel of a pistol.

He could smell beer on the breath of the man who held it.

'Finish him off,' someone said.

'My pleasure,' the man holding the gun murmured.

Russell felt the flow of warm piss inside his pants as the trigger clicked on an empty chamber.

'Just kidding,' the man said. 'But next time...well, now you know how easy it would be. We can always find you. Here or on Carmerstrasse.'

The torch shifted away from Russell's face. Blinking through the after-lights he could see it illuminating the framed poster for Effi's first major film. 'She could be on her way to Ravensbruck tomorrow,' the voice said. 'But they'd hold her in Columbiahaus until the next shipment. How many men do we have there?'

'Around forty,' one of his friends said.

'They'd be queuing up, wouldn't they? They'd all want to fuck a film star.' The torch was back in Russell's eyes. 'You do understand?' beer-breath said, increasing the pressure of the gun barrel.

Russell managed a rasping 'yes'.

'I think he's got the message,' the second voice said.

'You can smell it,' a third man said.

Suddenly foot and gun barrel were gone, the torch switched off. Darkness gave way to dim light as his assailants tramped out of the apartment, then fell once more as the door shut behind them.

Russell lay there, tentatively shifting his body. The pain in his groin was beginning to subside, leaving more space for the one in his kidneys, but nothing seemed to be broken. He lay there in his sodden trousers, remembering the last time he had pissed himself in fear, walking towards the German lines as mates on either side of him literally lost their heads.

His eyes were adjusting now, making the most of what light there was from the city outside. He painfully worked his way across the floor to the nearest armchair, and levered himself up so his back was against one side. A warning, he thought. His visitors had been told to hurt him but leave no visible marks. To scare the shit out of him.

They'd succeeded.

He sat there for a while, then clambered laboriously to his feet. The standard lamp responded to its switch, revealing an apparently untouched room. The two extracted light bulbs had been left on the table.

Russell swapped his clothes for a dressing-gown and walked down to the bathroom he shared with three other tenants. The red patches on his body would doubtless turn blue over the next few days, but he avoided his own face in the mirror, frightened of what he might find. Back in the flat, he lowered himself onto the bed and turned out the light. Sleep came more easily than he expected, just as it had in the trenches.

He woke much earlier than he wanted to, and sat at his window for the better part of an hour listening to the city stir. His body ached in the expected places, and movement was still painful, but at least there was no blood in his piss. At around a quarter to seven he ran himself a deep hot bath, and lay soaking until a fellow tenant began banging on the door.

Back in the apartment, he wondered how he should dress for his eleven o'clock appointment. A suit and tie seemed called for - the Heydrichs of this world liked a smart appearance. He chose the dark blue, took time to polish his shoes, and then spent another five minutes at the sink scraping the polish off his fingers. A look in the wardrobe mirror proved less than reassuring - the outfit was all right, but his hair was slightly over-length by SS standards, and the dark circles underneath his eyes suggested debauchery or worse. 'You don't look a day over fifty,' he mumbled at his reflection. 'Pity you're only forty-two.'

During his coffee and rolls in the Cafe Kranzler, an altercation broke out on the other side of the intersection: a tram-driver was leaning from his cab window and shouting at a brown-shirted team of flag-hangers, all of whom seemed blissfully unaware that their truck was blocking the rails, or that the occupants of the Cafe Kranzler's pavement seats were watching them with interest. One of the Brownshirts walked across to the tram, shouting as he went, whereupon the driver climbed down onto the road. His wide shoulders and impressive height - around two metres of it - clearly gave the storm trooper pause for thought. The driver, aware of the wider audience, seized his chance to show his flair for mime. These are rails, his arms seemed to say, and this thing here - the tram - could only run on rails. Their truck was slewed right across them. Conclusion - they had to move the damn thing!

There was a spattering of applause from the Cafe Kranzler clientele. The storm trooper spun round, face twisted in anger, but decided with obvious reluctance against arresting everyone in sight. He turned away from the crowd and ordered his underlings to move the truck. When one of these disconsolately raised an unhung flag, he was treated to a loud burst of abuse. The truck was moved; the tram squealed through the intersection and disappeared. The breakfasters went back to their newspapers.

Russell sipped at his coffee and wondered what to do about the previous night's visit. Should he bring it up at his meeting with Hauptsturmfuhrer Hirth? What would be the point? If the man denied SD involvement Russell had no way of proving otherwise. And if, as seemed more likely, the bastard cheerfully admitted complicity, there was no way Russell could threaten him, not when Effi's life was at stake. Better to say nothing, he told himself. Let them see that he took their warning seriously. Which he did.

A young man at the next table left a tip and walked off down the street, abandoning his copy of the Volkischer Beobachter. Russell skimmed through the paper in search of significant news, finding none. The leading letter, as so often in the Beobachter, offered a reader's heartfelt agreement with a government announcement of the previous day, which in this case amounted to a statement from some ministry or other that gluttony was a form of treason. A cynic might guess that some form of food rationing was on the way.

One other story caught his eye. A German Jew and his non-Jewish girlfriend had broken the race laws by getting married, and had evaded prosecution by moving to Carlsbad in what was then Czechoslovakia. After the Munich crisis of September 1938 they had moved on to the capital Prague, intent on emigration. They had, however, still been there when Hitler invaded in March. Arrested a few days later, they had now been sentenced to two and two and a half years respectively, for the crime of 'racial disgrace.' Russell wondered whether Freya Hahnemann had married Wilhelm Isendahl, as her parents feared she had. If everything went well today - and please let it! - then tomorrow he would find the time to check out the address they had given him.

At ten-forty Russell moved the car down to Leipziger Strasse, sat fretting for another ten minutes, and then walked across to Wilhelmstrasse. Number 102 looked better than it had on his last visit. In January the garden behind the street facade had been streaked with snow, the trees lifeless, the grey building sunk beneath a grey sky. Now the birch leaves rustled in the summer breeze, and roses bloomed around a perfectly coiffured lawn. Heydrich had obviously had the mower out.

The receptionist was a buxom blonde off the assembly line, the poster bearing this week's official Party slogan - 'Let that which must die sink and rot. What has strength and light will rise and blaze' - took pride of place on the wall behind her. Russell stared at them both for a while, then decided a visit to the men's room was in order. This, needless to say, was spotless. If the SS had restricted their activities to the design and maintenance of toilets, the world would have been a cleaner and better place.

Get it out of your system, he told himself. When the moment comes, don't be a smart alec. Just listen, nod, smile.

Back in reception, a baby-faced Sturmmann was waiting to escort him to Room 47.

Hauptsturmfuhrer Hirth, as Russell soon discovered, bore more than a passing resemblance to Stalin, at least from the neck up. He had the same cropped hair, thick moustache and cratered cheeks, but clearly spent fewer hours in the gym than some of his SS buddies. All SS men creaked when they moved - the sound of stretching leather belts - but Hirth creaked more than most. Girth would have been a better name.

He looked up, creaking as he did so, and flicked a hand towards the chair facing his desk. There was, Russell noticed warily, intelligence in the man's eyes.

'Herr Russell,' Hirth began, 'I have no time to waste, so I'll simply point out what will happen if you refuse to cooperate. One, Fraulein Koenen will spend a very long time in a concentration camp. She may survive, she may not. She will certainly lose her beauty. Her career will be over.' He paused, as if expecting Russell to protest.

Russell just nodded.

'Two,' Hirth continued, 'you yourself will be arrested and questioned over events which happened in March of this year.'

'Which events?' Russell asked. He hadn't expected this.

'On the night of March 15th, only a few hours before our troops moved in to restore order in what was then Czechoslovakia, you travelled from Prague to Berlin. The Gestapo received an anonymous tip that you were carrying illicit political materials. Your bag was searched.'

'And nothing was found.'

'Indeed. But why would anyone go to the trouble of betraying you if there was nothing to betray?'

'Mischief-making?'

'Please be serious, Herr Russell. You are a former communist. You had only just written several articles for the Soviet newspaper Pravda. . . .'

'With the approval of your organization.'

'Indeed. That is hardly . . .'

Russell put his hands up. 'Very well. I will tell you what happened. It's very simple. I did those articles for the Soviets, and was well paid. They then asked me to do other work for them - journalistic work perhaps, but the sort that verges on espionage. I refused, and I think they contacted the Gestapo just to inconvenience me. Out of spite. That's all it was.'

'And the false-bottomed suitcase.'

'As I told the Gestapo, that was an unfortunate coincidence. Half the Jews in Germany are using them.'

Hirth smiled at him. 'Of course. And then we have the Tyler McKinley reports which appeared in the San Francisco Examiner. McKinley was dead by then, and there was some mystery as to how these scurrilous articles had reached the newspaper.'

'I wouldn't know.' Tyler McKinley had lived one floor down from Russell in Neuenburger Strasse. More colleague than friend, he had ended up under an S-bahn train at Zoo Station. Russell still got cold sweats remembering the risks he'd run to get the young American's articles on the secret Nazi euthanasia programme out of Germany.

'But you're now working for another San Francisco newspaper,' Hirth observed. 'Another coincidence perhaps.'

'Apparently.'

'Herr Russell, are you really telling me that you have nothing to fear from a thorough investigation of these events?'

'Not a thing,' Russell lied. Dig deep enough and they could probably have him for breakfast. 'Look,' he said, 'you don't need to dig up the past. Just tell me what you want me to do. Release Fraulein Koenen and I'll do it.'

'Good.' Hirth leant back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, a symphony in creaking leather. 'I think we understand each other. I hope so at least. And the fact that the Soviets approached you actually makes this easier. You will go back to them, say you've changed your mind, and offer to supply them with information.'

Russell hid his relief. 'What information?'

'That is not yet decided. Only that it will be false.'

'And that's all you want me to do?'

'For the moment, yes.'

'And Fraulein Koenen will be released?'

'When we are finished here I shall call Prinz Albrecht-Strasse, and she will be waiting for you. She will be able to attend the premiere of her latest film.

It's on Friday, I believe.'

'She may not feel like dressing up.'

'She will. The Reich Propaganda Minister will be there.'

'Wonderful.' A kiss on the cheek from Joey - he only hoped Effi would refrain from kneeing the little runt in the balls. 'It may take me some time to contact the Soviets,' he said. 'I can't just ring up the Embassy.'

'Why not?'

'Because they'll know you're listening in. And watching everyone who goes in and out. They'll expect a would-be spy to be a little more circumspect. A Soviet embassy outside Germany, perhaps. Warsaw or Paris.'

'How soon could you go?'

'In a week or two. My paper wants me in Prague. Which,' he couldn't resist adding, 'is no longer a foreign capital.'

'That's too long,' Hirth said. 'Unless you're willing to wait a week or two for Fraulein Koenen's release.'

'I'm just...'

'Why not go to the Soviet Embassy for a visa? People do that all the time. And while you're there, ask for an outdoor meeting with someone. In the Tiergarten, or somewhere like that. Won't that be that circumspect enough?'

Russell agreed, somewhat reluctantly, that it might be.

'Good. Fraulein Koenen will be waiting for you at Prinz Albrecht-Strasse. Enjoy your reunion. But let me make it clear - this is a last chance for both of you. Help us out, and we'll help you. Let us down and she'll end up in Ravensbruck. You might be more fortunate, and simply be deported, but you'll never see each other again.'

Russell listened, nodded, smiled. 'I get the picture,' he said.

Hauptsturmfuhrer Hirth looked at him, and decided that he did. He passed across a piece of paper with a number on it. 'When you have established contact with one of the Soviet intelligence services, ring this number.'

Russell walked slowly back to the car and drove it round to the Gestapo building in Prinz Albrecht-Strasse. The kerb outside was empty, as if no one dared to park there. Why not? he thought. He was one of Heydrich's boys now.

He walked through the main doors expecting a long wait, but Effi was already sitting in the reception area. He'd half-expected to find her still wearing the oversize grey pyjamas, but she was wearing her own clothes, the deep blue dress he'd bought her a couple of Christmases ago and a pair of matching heels. Her hair was tied back with what looked like a shoelace.

She flew into his arms, and they stood there, clinging to each other. 'Oh John,' she said, and he squeezed her still tighter, revelling in the familiar softness and warmth, ignoring the pain in his abdomen.

'Let's get out of here,' she whispered.

'Gladly.'

They hurried across the pavement to the car, as if they were escaping. Was Ritschel watching from the window, proud of his little ploy? 'Where to?' he asked Effi . 'Home?'

'Home. Yes. God, I need a bath. I must smell awful.'

'You don't.'

He started the engine, and turned to her. 'How were the last two days?' he asked.

'Better,' she said. 'Let's go.'

He moved the car off in the direction of Potsdamer Platz.

'Better once I'd seen you,' she explained. 'I knew you'd sort it out.'

'Did they question you?'

'Yesterday, though there weren't many questions. I was simply given my last chance to pledge undying allegiance to the Fuhrer and all his moronic minions.'

'And you did.'

'Of course. I won't be making that mistake again.'

Russell glanced across at the oh-so-familiar profile. Something had changed, he thought. For ever? Or just for the time it took for the shock to fade? It crossed his mind that he didn't want Effi to change, but this thought was soon supplanted by another - that the needs of survival might well demand changes from both of them.

She returned his glance. 'You must tell me all about America.'

'It seems a long time ago.'

She smiled. 'I can imagine. But I don't want to talk about the last few days. Not yet.'

'Okay. I've got a new job.' He told her about his meeting with the Tribune editor in New York, what his new brief was.

'Is that the paper Tyler McKinley worked for?'

'No, but Tyler's editor recommended me. I phoned him to find out what sort of response they'd had to Tyler's story. The answer was not much. A few angry voices, but Washington didn't want to know. The paper finally got an assurance that our Ambassador here would raise the subject with Ribbentrop, and I'm sure he did, but I don't suppose the bastard was listening.'

Neither was Effi . 'I was only in that place for five days, but I had trouble remembering what a tree looked like,' she said, gazing out at the sunlit Tiergarten. 'Can we take a walk?'

Russell pulled over, and they took the first path into the park. Most of the benches were occupied by Berliners enjoying a picnic lunch in the hot sun-shine, and there was a lengthy queue at the first ice cream stall they came to. They joined it anyway.

'Has it been as hot as this for long?' she asked.

'Since I got back.'

Effi shook her head in disbelief. 'I was cold in that place. Really cold.'

Russell put an arm round her shoulder, and received a wan smile in return.

'We're giving you your life back - that's what he said. You know, I can't even remember the swine's name.'

'Ritschel?'

'That's right. He told me no one knew I'd been arrested - apart from you and Zarah, that is - that I should just carry on as if nothing had happened. The premiere on Friday, the new film on Monday. Oh, I haven't told you about that.'

'More Than Brothers? I saw the script at the fl at.'

'I only agreed to do it a few hours before I was arrested.'

Having reached the front of the queue, they bought their ice creams and walked across to the lake. A pair of ducks were fighting over a floating cone a few feet from shore. The previous owner - a very young child - was watching the fight with interest while his mother berated him.

'Is it a good part?' Russell asked.

'It's a big one.'

'Tell me about it.' Talking about her films was something they'd always enjoyed.

She seemed about to refuse, then shrugged her acquiescence. 'It starts at the end of the war,' she began. 'My sister's husband gets killed in the fighting, and she's completely distraught. When she finds out that she's pregnant she gets even more hysterical, and I only just manage to dissuade her from having an abortion. So she has the baby, but he - it's a boy, of course - reminds her so much of her dead husband that she runs away. I'm left with the baby, which isn't very convenient.' She paused to take a lick of ice cream. 'I already have a baby of my own, and I'm looking after my father, who's been crippled in the war. I'm a nurse at the local hospital - it's set in Wedding by the way - working split shifts. Since my husband can't find a job, he's supposed to look after things at home, but he's not happy about looking after one baby, let alone two. He gets drunk and tells me I have to choose between him and my sister's baby. I throw him out and struggle on. Only trouble is, the boys fight all the time.' She took another lick and smiled. 'At this point the writer wants one of those through-the-years-type collages of them fighting with each other - you know what I mean? - the problem is, they always end up using children of different ages who look nothing like each other.'

In the distance a military band started up, and promptly fell silent again. They waited in vain for a resumption.

'Where was I?' Effi asked. 'Oh yes. We've reached 1932. The boys are strapping lads who still can't stand each other. Enter the hero. Several young SA men are brought into the hospital after a street-fight with the Reds. One of them's in really bad shape, and he eventually dies, but not until I've been through my whole Angel of Mercy routine. The squad leader who keeps visiting them can't help but notice how wonderful I am, and of course I can't help but notice how stern and fatherly he is. I ask him over for dinner. He gets on like a house on fire with my father and, much more importantly, takes the two boys to task for fighting all the time. After a couple of visits he has them eating out of his hand. Cue wedding bells and the boys go off to join the Hitler Youth together. It ends with another collage - the two of them hiking in the mountains together, helping an old lady across the road, collecting for Winter Relief, etc etc. My husband and I stand at our front door, new children liberally scattered around our feet, and watch the two of them go smiling off to war. The End.'

'Incredible.'

'Ridiculous, but it's a living.'

'Where it's being shot.'

'Out at the Schillerpark Studio. I don't think they'll do any location shooting.'

'How long?'

'Three weeks, I think. You don't have to work today?'

'No.'

'And you're not going anywhere in the next few days?' she asked, betraying only the slightest hint of anxiety.

'Nowhere.' Prague could wait.

'You know, I feel hungry. After I've rung Zarah and had a bath let's go and have a nice lunch.'

'What are you going to tell her?' Russell asked.

'What do you mean?'

Russell told her what he'd said to Zarah on Monday. 'It's better for every-one if she believes it was all a mistake,' he added.

'Yes, I see that,' Effi said, 'it'll feel strange, though, lying to her. But of course you're right.'

They drove back to the flat. Russell read through some of the script while Effi talked to her sister and bathed. She shut the bathroom door, which was unusual, but he knew that remarking upon the fact would be unwise. She also pulled the bedroom door to when she went to dress. 'Let's go to that bistro in Grunewald,' she said on emerging. 'Celebrate our new jobs.'

Once they were seated in the restaurant she insisted on a blow-by-blow account of his trip to America, filling any space in his narrative with questions.

'You're useless,' she said, after failing to elicit a satisfactory description of the World's Fair. 'I shall have to ask Paul. I bet he remembers everything.'

'Probably.'

'And you got the American passport?' she asked.

'I did.' This didn't seem the right moment to mention the other side of the bargain - that he was now working for American intelligence. A picture of the sunny briefing room in Manhattan crossed his mind, the gaunt-faced Murchison dragging on his umpteenth Lucky Strike of the day. Over there it had all felt a little unreal. Europe had seemed a long way away.

He still meant to tell Effi , but the events of the last few days had complicated matters.

She sensed his reticence, though not its cause. 'I know you had to promise them something,' she said quietly, meaning the Gestapo. 'And I know we have to talk about what we're going to do. Together, I mean. But I need to think. I couldn't think in that place, just couldn't. After this wretched premiere... Can we go somewhere at the weekend, somewhere quiet, away from Berlin?'

'Of course we can.' Introspection was not something he associated with her. Intelligence, yes, but she'd always run on instinct rather than thought.

It was late afternoon when they arrived back at the flat. 'I think I need to sleep,' she said. 'But you'll stay, won't you? Could we get into bed and just hold each other?'

Ten minutes later Russell was lying there, wide awake, relishing the scent of her newly-washed hair, the feel of her body tucked into his. 'We'll work it out,' he whispered, though he had no idea how. He remembered the poster in the torchlight, the jeering threats in the darkness. 'We will,' he murmured, more to himself than to her. She managed a grunt of agreement and slid away into sleep.