Stattin Station

No warning

The train pulled into Berlin's Anhalter Station soon after nine, and Russell let it empty out before alighting. As on the outward trip, both corridors and vestibules had been packed with standing passengers between Dresden and Berlin, and only the lack of heating had prevented the rank atmosphere from becoming truly unbearable. If the Third Reich was going to last a thousand years it needed more soap and less flatulence-inducing food.

It was a cold, grey day, with gusts of an easterly breeze tugging at the swastikas above the station's main entrance. Russell bought a paper from the forecourt kiosk and asked whether there had been any air raids over the last two nights. There had not, the proprietor told him, gazing with blatant curiosity at the blood-encrusted bandage still wrapped around Russell's head.

'A falling brick,' he offered in explanation, and headed for the tram stop. He had never acquired the hat-wearing habit, but several years ago Effi had bought him a very smart fedora, and this seemed like a good time to break it in.

He reached the flat around ten. It was empty of course - Effi would be into her third day of shooting by now - but a note on the pillow announced her intention of being back around five. The bed still held a trace of her warmth, and he lay there for a few moments wondering what to do. His head was sore, but not so much that medical attention seemed urgent. He would get the Abwehr over with first. The quicker he told his lie, the less chance that the truth would get there before him.

But first a bath, and a change of clothes. As the water ran, he removed both bandage and dressing without causing a haemorrhage, and with the help of two mirrors managed to get a decent look at the furrow in his head. Considering its origin it seemed healthy enough, but a visit to the hospital would probably be wise. After taking his bath he dug some gauze and an old roll of bandage out of the medicine cabinet, re-dressed the wound, and went in search of the fedora. It looked very stylish, the more so when worn with clothes. He left Effi a note promising to be back by five, and started out for the Abwehr headquarters.

He was halfway there when a flaw in Giminich's story occurred to him. It was all very well claiming that Grashof had failed to make their appointment; the problem was, Canaris would want his letter back. The same letter which Giminich had casually torn open and pocketed. How could he explain its disappearance?

On the train home he had considered, and then dismissed, the option of defying Giminich and telling Canaris the truth. Now, walking along the bank of the ice-edged Landwehrkanal, he considered it again. He would be giving Canaris reason to trust him, and reason to proceed with the Swiss arrangement. But the latter would have to happen before the SD got wind of his betrayal, which wasn't very likely. The fact that Giminich had already known all the details of his treff with Grashof pointed to an SD mole in the higher reaches of the Abwehr. No, he couldn't tell the truth.

So what lie should he tell? He reached a final decision as the aide led him up to Piekenbrock's office. The Colonel seemed busy as ever, endlessly shuffling papers in an apparently vain attempt to secure some workable order. He listened to Russell's brief account, shrugged, and warned that the Admiral might have further questions at a later date. Russell asked the Colonel to remind Canaris of the Swiss arrangement which they had discussed the previous week. He was halfway to the door when Piekenbrock remembered the letter.

'I burned it,' Russell admitted. 'When Grashof failed to appear I became worried that someone might know of the letter, and try to steal it. Since the Admiral wrote it I didn't think he would need reminding of its contents.'

Piekenbrock considered this explanation for a few worrying moments, but then accepted it. 'You destroyed it completely?'

'Of course. I flushed the ashes down a toilet,' he added, hoping that he was not overdoing it. Or that Giminich would post it back to Canaris. '

Excellent,' Piekenbrock said absent-mindedly, as if he had suddenly realised how easily an outbreak of arson could clear his own desk.

Outside the building, Russell's immediate sense of relief soon turned to something more ambivalent. He had managed to avoid betraying Giminich, but that might just encourage the SD man to come back with another daring wheeze from the SS Book of Adventures. The Abwehr might still agree to set him up in Switzerland, but time was probably short, and they didn't seem in much of hurry. It was beginning to seem as if a swift American entry into the war offered him his best chance of safety, albeit one that neither included Effi nor guaranteed a prompt exit from the Reich.

Of course, much might have happened since he last heard or read an uncensored news report, and, given that he was still employed to write the stuff, he supposed he should bring himself up to date. The Foreign Press Club on Leipziger Platz was the nearest source of relatively uncensored news, and if that failed to provide, one could always find a journalist or three in the Adlon Bar. Even if they were only Italians.

The Press Club was deserted, the foreign newspapers four days old. He walked up Hermann-Goering-Strasse, wondering what had happened outside Moscow in those four days, and remembering a Sunday years before, waiting with an anxious Paul for the evening papers to arrive at the local kiosk with the football results. Hertha had lost.

The Russians, apparently, had not. Ralph Morrison was in the Adlon Bar, typing noisily away at a corner table on his brand new portable and ignoring the dirty looks being cast in his direction. 'They've hit real trouble,' he told Russell in what could only be described as a joyous whisper.

'The Germans?'

'Of course the goddamned Germans. They're up to their necks in snow, their tanks won't move, their planes won't fly... It's Napoleon all over again.'

'What's the source?'

'Wehrmacht. It's the goods, believe me. There are whole divisions coming down with frostbite.'

Russell felt a warm glow spreading up from his stomach, and fought back the desire to cheer out loud. 'What are their press people saying?' 'Oh, the usual crap. "Heavy fighting", "titanic struggle", you know the stuff. But they've given up claiming advances. And you can see it in their eyes. They know.'

'What about North Africa?'

'Harder to say. If I were a cynical man...'

'Perish the thought.'

'...I'd say neither the British nor the Germans have any idea who's winning. And I mean the ones who are fighting, the ones who you might think would know.'

'And the Pacific?'

'A matter of days. I'm packed, and I advise you to do the same. If we're not out of here by the middle of next week I'll be really surprised.'

'What's actually happened?'

'It's what hasn't happened. The Japs made a last offer, which Washington turned down flat. Now Roosevelt's made a counter-offer, one that requires the Japs to slice off their own balls and eat them. And guess what? They haven't replied. Unless you count the various armadas heading down past China.'

'They started the Russo-Japanese War with a surprise attack.'

'Well, this one won't be much of a surprise.'

A drink, Russell thought, but he was only halfway to the bar when Uwe Kuzorra filled the doorway leading to reception.

'I'd like a few words,' the detective said. 'Not here though. My car's outside.'

'No assistant today,' Russell noted as they crossed the pavement. The police Opel was empty.

'No,' Kuzorra agreed. 'How was Prague?'

'Stimulating.'

'Somebody hit you?' the detective asked, staring at the bandage.

'Don't ask,' Russell said, and somewhat to his surprise Kuzorra didn't.

They settled into the front seats and Russell gazed through the windscreen at the Brandenburg Gate as the detective searched his pockets for matches.

'So how's the case going?' Russell asked. He was still smiling inside at the news from Moscow.

'Not so good. Stimulating, though. I gave Schwering the number of the Mercedes, and he came back about half an hour later with some ridiculous story about it being burnt out in an accident on the Avus Speedway. I gave one of my own men the same job - without telling Schwering, of course - and he tracked the car down in fifteen minutes.'

'SD?'

Kuzorra blew out smoke. 'No, as it happens. It's registered to Fordwerke, the German subsidiary of the American corporation.' He turned his head to look at Russell. 'Now why would people like that want Herr Sullivan dead?'

'I don't know,' Russell said, 'but I could offer a guess.'

'Be my guest.'

Russell ignored the sarcastic tone; in Kuzorra's shoes he would probably have found himself a pain in the arse. 'Sullivan knew most of the German business leaders with American ties. He was called in - or called himself in - whenever Americans came over for meetings, either here or in Switzerland.

You know, nice hotels, good food, the high life in general. He helped with the interpreting, particularly when one side or another was anxious to keep the discussion under wraps. Mostly the language side of things, but the cultural stuff too - making sure they all understood each other.'

'I get the picture.'

'Well, imagine a few things. One, those American businesses with interests in Germany are afraid that American entry into the war will seriously dent their profits. Two, they reach some sort of secret deal which allows them to carry on doing business with their German subsidiaries, and Sullivan's there when they reach it. Three, Sullivan decides he's had enough of the Nazis and wants to go home. But given that he's been defecating on the United States from a great height for several years he badly needs a sweetener, something that'll buy his way back into the good graces of the US government.'

'With you as the go-between.'

'He asked to meet me. I do know he wanted to go home, but the rest is guesswork. I don't know what sort of deal he had in mind.'

Kuzorra thought about it. 'The American Government cares about this stuff?' he eventually asked.

'So I'm told.'

'So the German subsidiaries of these American businesses killed Sullivan to stop him blowing the whistle on them.'

'German, American - it doesn't matter. This is just money talking. These people don't let national loyalties get in the way of making a profit.'

'Hmm.' Kuzorra began another search for his matches.

'I don't think you want to solve this one,' Russell told him.

'Oh, but I do.'

'Pressure from above?'

'You heard the Reichsminister the other morning.'

'Can't you have a private chat with him?'

Kuzorra grunted. 'And say what? He won't be satisfied with guesses. If I'm going to accuse one of Germany's biggest industrial concerns of murder then I'm going to need some proof. There are no forensics, no witnesses, and the motive you've just offered me sounds like Soviet propaganda.'

'What about the car?'

'I imagine it has been burnt out by now.'

They stared at the Brandenburg Gate for a little bit longer. 'I still think there's something to find,' Kuzorra said at last. 'Schwering's bouncing round the office like a man who's terrified of missing something.'

'What'll you do if you find it first?'

'I'll take it to Goebbels, have the satisfaction of wiping the smile off the little rat's face, and humbly agree with whatever plan he comes up with for saving his own reputation.'

'Little victories,' Russell said, reaching for the door.

'The only ones we get,' Kuzorra agreed, turning the key in the ignition. Back inside the hotel, Russell decided lunch was more pressing than the Foreign Office press conference. The quality of the food gave him reason to regret the decision, but the briefing, as he discovered on reaching the Press Club an hour or so later, had been equally dire. Von Stumm had offered no new information worth the name, and had treated the assembled foreign journalists to twenty minutes of pathetic bluster. 'I almost felt sorry for him,' one of the Americans admitted, as if that alone was cause for bitterness.

The hubbub in the bar made Russell's head hurt, reminding him that he still hadn't seen a doctor. The Elisabeth Hospital was only a ten-minute walk away, and he had just decided to pay it a visit when a member of the Press Club staff appeared in the doorway, holding a letter. Spotting Russell, he walked across to deliver it. 'This arrived yesterday,' he said.

The envelope was addressed to John Russell, c/o the Foreign Press Club, Leipziger Platz. The letter was from Frau Marianne Sullivan. She had 'vital information', and wanted to meet him for their 'mutual benefit.' A telephone number was attached.

Russell headed for the booth on the ground floor, but changed his mind at the last moment. Collecting his coat, he walked across Potsdamer Platz to the main line station and found a booth there. The phone rang three times before she answered. Her voice sounded tired, almost cynical, but perked up a little when he told her who he was. Yes, she could meet him that afternoon. She lived in Dahlem, but he couldn't come to her flat. Did he know Wilmersdorf? There was a coffee shop named Werner's on the Hohenzollerndamm, about a hundred metres from the Fehrbelliner Platz U-Bahn station, going towards the city centre.

He said he could find it.

'At three o'clock,' she stipulated. 'I'll be carrying one of Patrick's books.'

'I'll be there.'

Another broken-down tram was gumming up the tracks, and he arrived almost fifteen minutes late. The coffee shop had clearly seen better times, but it wasn't alone in that, and an aura of middle-class respectability still clung, somewhat shabbily, to the mostly female clientele. None of the women had books on display though, and he was beginning to wonder whether he'd been stood up when she finally appeared in the doorway, one of Sullivan's novels clasped to her chest. She was younger and prettier than Russell had expected - a small thin blonde of about thirty-five with large blue eyes and a born-to-pout mouth. She was wearing black.

He introduced himself, let her choose their table in a lonely corner, and murmured 'an accident' in response to her questioning look at his bandaged head. His expressions of regret for her recent loss were shrugged aside - either she was putting a very brave face on widowhood or she was less bothered than he was.

'How long were you married?' Russell asked, purely out of curiosity. Sullivan had never mentioned a wife.

'Almost two years,' she answered, once the waitress had taken his coupons and gone off in search of coffee and cake. 'He was very good to me,' she added almost grudgingly. 'He was taking me to Italy once he had the money from those papers.'

Russell managed not to look surprised. 'Italy?' he asked.

'Away from the war,' she explained. 'And winters like this.'

'So what information do you have for me?' Russell asked.

The waitress arrived with their coffees and a creamy-looking confection that IG Farben had probably created between batches of synthetic rubber.

She took a bite and made a face. 'I think you already have the information,' she said, after wiping her lips. 'You do have Patrick's papers, don't you? Well, I want my share of whatever it is they're worth. I was his wife.'

'I don't have his papers,' Russell told her.

She wasn't convinced. 'Look, I'm sorry I told the police that Patrick was meeting you at Stettin Station. I was flustered.'

'I still don't have any of your husband's papers. What makes you think I do?'

She gave him a hard stare. 'Well, the police turned our flat upside-down looking for something, and what else were they looking for? So they weren't on the... you know, when they found him...'

'The people who killed your husband must have taken them.'

'I don't think so. If they did, why are they watching me?'

'What? How do you...'

'There are men watching me. There's a car outside our building all day. I called that Kriminalinspektor and he said it wasn't his people. So who else can it be?'

A good question, Russell thought. Was this why Kuzorra thought there was still something to find? 'Did they follow you here?' he asked, looking round. He couldn't remember any suspicious-looking characters entering the cafe since her arrival.

'No,' she said. 'I left by the back entrance, and I made sure no one followed me onto the U-Bahn.'

She was, Russell realised, smarter than she looked.

'Look,' she said, 'I don't know whether to believe you or not. When Patrick left home that morning he had the briefcase with him, so he must...'

Russell stopped listening. The strange direction from which Sullivan had appeared at Stettin Station - it suddenly made sense. The ticket... he must have found a chance to drop it, or more likely swallow it.

She was looking at him, expecting an answer.

'Your husband wasn't carrying anything when those men led him away,' he said truthfully. And Kuzorra, he realised, had made no mention of it. 'Did you tell the police about the briefcase?'

'No, of course not. They wouldn't let me sell the papers. They might even arrest me for knowing about them.'

'Maybe he left them in safe keeping at one of the foreign press clubs,' Russell improvised. 'I'll make some discreet enquiries. What does it look like?'

She said nothing, but the suspicion in her eyes was eloquent enough. 'I won't cut you out,' he said reassuringly. 'If I find the papers, and if we can sell them, then we'll split the proceeds 50-50. Fair enough?'

She wanted to protest, but was clever enough to know that he held all the cards. 'All right,' she said grudgingly.

It was a brown leather briefcase with two straps. Sullivan's initials were embossed in gold above the lock.

Russell walked her back to the U-Bahn station, watched her disappear down the steps, and sought out a public telephone. Over recent months the Gestapo had taken to cutting off the American Consulate whenever the mood seemed right, but on this particular day they must have been harassing other innocents. He got straight through, and persuaded the telephonist to summon Joseph Kenyon.

'I need to see you and Dallin,' he told the diplomat.

'Now?' Kenyon asked.

'Tomorrow morning will do,' Russell said, remembering his promise to be home by five.

There was a pause. 'Say ten o'clock,' Kenyon said. 'I'll try and round up Scott.'

'Good.'

Russell only realised that he'd forgotten to visit the hospital as he let himself into the flat. Effi was not yet back, but his son would be home from school. He unhooked the phone and dialled the Grunewald number. Paul himself answered, and sounded genuinely pleased to hear from his father.

Their usual Saturday afternoon get-together had, however, once again fallen victim to the insatiable appetite of the Hitlerjugend. The whole day had been taken over for a 'terrain game' in Havelland, and, as if that wasn't enough, four further hours on Sunday morning had been set aside for training in the laying of telephone cables. Russell sometimes wondered if Germany's youth would have any energy left by the time they were called up, but Paul seemed unfazed by the fullness of his weekend. 'Could we go to the game on Sunday afternoon?' he asked. 'I should be finished in time.'

Russell was delighted. They hadn't been for a while - Paul had not seemed keen, and Russell found it hard to feel enthusiastic about football in the middle of a war, though this was not a view shared by his fellow Berliners. Attendances had swollen over the last year, despite the fact that many of the best players and a high proportion of the regular fans were strewn across Europe at the Wehrmacht's bidding. 'I'd like that,' he said.

'So would I,' Paul agreed, and their goodbyes were imbued with the sort of simple father-son camaraderie that both had once taken for granted. A few minutes later Effi walked in, and was suitably shocked by his bandaged head. 'What...'

'It's nothing,' he reassured her. 'Someone took a shot at me. Just a crease. I'm fine.'

'Someone took a shot at you?'

'In Prague.'

'Have you seen a doctor?'

'In Prague. A Czech doctor. I meant to go today but...'

'Let me look at it.'

'There's no need...'

'Sit down!'

He did as he was told, and she began unwinding the bandage.

'How's the filming going?' he asked.

'I don't want to talk about it. Not until I've had a drink anyway. And I'm afraid I still haven't got to the shops; we'll have to eat out.' The bandage was off, and the wound seemed clean enough. She felt relieved, but also frightened at the closeness of the shave. 'And stop trying to change the subject. Who was it shot you? And why?'

'The Czech Resistance.'

'Well, they're rotten shots. This doesn't look too bad.'

'The worst bit is having to explain the bandage to everyone I meet.'

She smiled in spite of herself, and went into the bathroom. 'One of those woolly ski caps we bought in Innsbruck would cover it up,' she said, rifling through the medicine cabinet.

'Yes. And add a hint of sartorial joie de vivre to Ribbentrop's press conferences.'

She emerged with a new dressing. 'Now tell me the whole story.'

He gave her a detailed precis of his twelve hours in Prague.

'You were lucky,' she said when he was finished. 'And I don't just mean with the bullet.'

'Not that lucky. Canaris made the Swiss arrangement conditional on my delivering the message.'

'So that's off,' she said, failing to hide her disappointment.

'Not necessarily,' Russell told her. 'I have another idea.'

At ten the following morning he was ringing the doorbell at the American Consulate. A sprinkling of snow had fallen overnight, and both Kenyon and Dallin were waiting in Russian-style overcoats. The three of them walked across Pariser Platz, past the Brandenburg Gate and into the festive-looking Tiergarten.

'Any news?' Russell asked, as three fighters flew past a half-kilometre or so to the north. The BBC news of the previous evening had reported 'rising tension' in the Far East, but nothing more specific.

'No,' Kenyon told him, pausing to light one of his cigarettes. 'But we're still thinking days rather than weeks.'

'What about you,' Dallin asked. 'Have you seen Knieriem yet?'

'I tried,' Russell lied. 'I went round to his house last night, and there were two official cars outside. I think Herr Knieriem has thrown in his lot with the Nazis.'

'That doesn't necessarily follow,' Dallin insisted. 'He could be...'

'I know he could,' Russell interjected. 'But it didn't seem like the right moment to find out.'

They all fell silent as a well-wrapped nanny walked by with her two charges, one still in a pram, the other clasping a snowball and clearly itching to throw it.

'So when are you going back?' Dallin asked, looking warily over his shoulder.

'Maybe tonight, but that's not what I wanted to see you about.' He stopped and turned to Kenyon. 'I think I may know where those documents are, the ones Sullivan was going to give us.'

'Where?' Kenyon asked, his eyes lighting up.

Russell ignored the question and turned to Dallin. 'But I need something from you in exchange,' he told the Intelligence man. 'Remember the idea of setting me up in Switzerland as a channel between you and the Abwehr, and the job I was supposed to do in Prague for Canaris as proof of my usefulness and loyalty? Well, the SD torpedoed the job, and Canaris is probably less fond of me than he was. So I need you to push my case from your end, tell Canaris how useful it would be for you and him to have me there in Switzerland.'

Kenyon was smiling, Dallin frowning and shaking his head. 'I can't do a deal like that,' the latter said.

'Of course you can. You liked the idea when I first told you about it, and it's in your government's interest - a channel to the Abwehr would be useful, particularly if Canaris falls out even further with Heydrich. And it's in the Admiral's interests too. All you have to do is insist that I'm the man you want as the go-between. Put it in writing, and I'll deliver it. What could that cost you?'

'And when do you think you can recover Sullivan's papers?' Kenyon asked. Away in the distance a train was rumbling across the Spree bridge outside Bellevue Station.

Russell worked through a mental timetable. 'Saturday,' he suggested. 'Maybe Sunday.'

'I don't know,' Dallin said stubbornly.

As Russell had hoped, the senior diplomat was not about to be denied. 'We'll work something out,' Kenyon assured him.

Dropping in at the Adlon to check for messages, Russell found most of the foreign press corps strewn around the bar like passengers waiting for a train. Some had even taken the precaution of bringing small suitcases with them, just in case. Several were enjoying a late and decidedly alcoholic breakfast.

Around eleven forty-five they set off en masse for the Foreign Ministry, rather in the manner of schoolboys and girls resenting a disagreeable outing. The briefing proved even less enlightening than usual - with the battles in Russia and North Africa apparently still raging, all von Stumm wanted to talk about was a heinous attack by terrorists on a German officer in Paris. For once, Russell thought, the German spokesman might have got his priorities right, albeit not in the way he intended. As finite German power was spread ever more thinly across an expanding empire, an ever-swelling tide of resistance seemed inevitable.

The briefing concluded in the traditional way, with one of the Americans asking a question that the Germans either wouldn't or couldn't answer. 'Would the spokesman like to comment on Turkey's decision to accept lend-lease aid from the United States?' Ralph Morrison asked. Von Stumm looked at the table, said for the hundredth time that year that this particular question was 'not worthy of an answer', and made the usual abrupt exit, sucking minions into his wake as he swept from the chamber. There was a brief and thoroughly sarcastic ripple of applause.

The press corps adjourned to the Press Club for a long and highly alcoholic lunch, before attending their second circus of the day at Goebbels' Big Top. One of the Americans was leaving for Switzerland soon thereafter, and a farewell party had been planned for the station platform. Russell didn't know the man well, but joined his drunken colleagues in their stumbling progress to the nearby Potsdam Station. Out on the platform, the party turned into a multinational singsong, with a fine rendition of 'Lili Marlene' sandwiched between equally melodic takes on 'Swanee River' and 'Pennies from Heaven'. Several colleagues had come armed with rolls containing real sausage for the traveller, and insisted that their later consumption be suitably ostentatious - if at all possible, sizable chunks of meat should be casually jettisoned in front of watching Germans.

The whistles finally blew, and as the train moved off into the darkness the journalists all waved white handkerchiefs at their departing colleague. It was quite ridiculous, and annoyingly moving.

After sobering himself up with a strong and thoroughly disgusting coffee at the station buffet, Russell descended the steps to the U-Bahn platforms. The normal rush hours were over, but the trains were still packed, and he stood all the way to Alexander Platz, where he changed lines. The Gesundbrunnen train was almost as full, but a seat opened up after a couple of stops. He was tired, he realised, both physically and mentally. Tired of waiting for some sort of axe to fall.

Emerging from the U-Bahn terminus, he turned down Behmstrasse. Ahead of him, the dark rectangle of Hertha's Plumpe Stadium was dimly silhouetted against the clear night sky. The locomotive driver Walter Metza lived a couple of streets to the north, in one of the old apartment blocks that housed many of the local Reichsbahn workers, and Russell found the street without much difficulty. This was not the sort of area the Gestapo would visit on foot, but for Metza's sake Russell was careful to make sure that he wasn't being followed.

The woman who answered the door was initially suspicious, but managed a thin smile of welcome when he explained who he was, and swiftly ushered him inside. She was a tallish blonde in her early thirties, with one of those plain faces that would sometimes slip into beauty. As she shut the door Russell noticed a Reichspost cap hanging behind it.

'I'm his wife,' she said, squeezing past him. 'Ute.' She opened another door. 'Walter's in here.'

Metza was in an armchair, with one heavily strapped leg resting on a cushioned upright chair. The left side of his face was a mass of healing lesions, and the hair on that side of his head was still growing back. He was at least ten years older than his wife, but the two young girls examining Russell with great curiosity clearly belonged to both of them - the older one looked like him, the younger one like her. The wife quickly shooed the two girls into the other room and shut the door behind the three of them.

Russell explained who he was, who he worked for, and how he was trying to build up a picture of what was really happening in Russia before the outbreak of German-American hostilities caused his deportation. Metza nodded his understanding, and asked for reassurance that his name would not be mentioned.

'No. And I'll make damn sure that no one could deduce my source from reading the story.'

'Then fire away.'

Russell began running through the questions he had prepared. The driver answered them in a slow but confident voice, often thinking for several moments before speaking. He was, Russell guessed, one of the many workers who had benefited from the KPD's sponsorship of adult education classes in the late 1920s.

Metza had mostly been employed on the main line to Moscow through Brest, Minsk and Smolensk, which, as Russell knew, was the principal supply route for Army Group Centre. The whole line had needed re-gauging for German locomotives and rolling stock, the driver explained, and most of it had been. The continued use of Russian locomotives and rolling stock complicated matters, but those problems were proving surmountable. Others were not. Every Reichsbahn district manager in Germany had volunteered his worst workers for service in the East, and Reichsbahn equipment had proved utterly inadequate for the conditions. 'The Soviets have their steam pipes inside the boiler on their locomotives, so that they do not freeze up,' Metza explained. 'Ours are outside, and of course they do. And that's just one of the differences. Their tenders carry more water, so their water towers are further apart, too far apart for ours. There are so many problems like that. Our trains are just not built for Russian conditions.'

And then there were the partisans. 'At first we thought, "Ah, this is just a small nuisance that we'll have to get used to", but the attacks grew more frequent very quickly, and now they are a major problem. Lines are blown up, bridges too - there are so many long stretches of track running through empty forests. Not that the partisans stick to the countryside - sabotage attacks are common in cities like Minsk and Smolensk.'

'I know it's an impossible question,' Russell said, 'but how much is the Army getting of what it needs? Are there just difficulties, or is there a real supply crisis?'

Metza thought about that for a moment, idly scratching at his side where less visible injuries were presumably itching. 'In early November, when I was wounded, there were serious difficulties. And from what comrades have told me since then, I would guess that those difficulties have turned into a real crisis. Even three weeks ago the yards in Brest and Baranovichi were full of supplies which couldn't be moved, and from what I hear the blockages are now backed up as far as Warsaw.'

'How were you wounded?' Russell asked out of curiosity.

'A partisan attack.' He had seen the blown bridge in time to stop, but his stationary train had immediately come under fire. 'And not just from rifles. It was a mortar that got me. It landed in the tender.' Metza smiled ruefully. 'They'd obviously fired a few before we arrived to get the range.' He flexed his leg in remembrance. 'Nothing that won't heal. I was lucky. My fireman was killed outright, and about twenty others. If a troop train hadn't pulled up behind us it would have been a lot worse.'

'How do you feel about going back?'

'Not good. I mean, no one wants to die or get maimed in a good cause, and our cause stinks. I was a member of the Party before the Nazis came to power, and I'm still a communist at heart. Why would I want to see the Soviet Union destroyed? But what choice do I have, a married man with two daughters? We lost in '33, and we'll have to keep paying the price until someone else brings the bastard down.'

Russell had more specific questions about fuel and food supplies, but Metza couldn't help him - 'All the people at the forward depots ever complained about was the lack of winter clothing.' The driver did have more information about the Jews. Special SS squads called einsatzgruppen were combing the occupied territories, and rumour had it that Jews in small villages and towns were simply being shot. In big cities like Minsk they were only being forced into the ghettoes. There were no large-scale transports, either east or west, although that might be down to a simple shortage of trains.

Metza was visibly tiring, although he managed a smile when a sudden burst of high-pitched laughter erupted in the other room. Russell put his notebook away, and got to his feet. 'I have a favour to ask. I need to talk to Gerhard Strohm, and I have no way of contacting him. I know he works in the Stettin Station yards but it's always been him getting in touch with me, not the other way round. Could you get word to him, tell him I need to speak to him? It is urgent.'

The driver nodded. 'I can do that. But not until the morning.'

'That'll do. Tell him he can telephone me tomorrow evening, any time after six.'

They shook hands, and Russell let himself out. As he steered his way back through the blackout to the U-Bahn station, he imagined the mother and daughters reoccupying the room he had just vacated, pushing back the war with their laughter.

Effi usually left work early on a Friday, and today it was even earlier - a sudden row between director and writer had been won by the former, necessitating a weekend rewrite and the postponement of shooting. John being already home was a nice surprise; the news that they had to stay in and wait for a call from his railwayman was most definitely not, particularly since the call itself would probably result in her spending the rest of the evening alone. Seeing her disappointment, Russell suggested they went out immediately for an early dinner. If Strohm called in the meantime, he would doubtless call again.

As it happened, the German-American called ten minutes after their return. 'Klaus, I heard you were trying to reach me.'

'Yes. Thanks for calling. There's another game tonight at Number 21. Same time - 8.30. Can you make it?'

There was a moment's pause. 'Yes, I can,' Strohm said. He was, Russell guessed, somewhat mystified by the request for a meeting.

Half an hour later he left Effi curled up on the sofa and walked down to Savignyplatz. This time a westbound train drew in almost instantly, and he arrived at Westkreuz with almost half an hour to spare. The sky was as clear as yesterday's, the temperature probably lower, and after enduring twenty minutes of the chilling breeze the only way he could find to warm himself was by stamping up and down the steps between the station's two levels.

At least Strohm was on time. They went through the same charade as before, leaving the station, returning, and retreating to the end of a platform.

'I need your help,' Russell told the other man. He explained about Sullivan - the putative deal, the arrest and murder, the still-missing papers. 'He must have put them in the left luggage. He was coming from that direction when I saw him, but I didn't make the connection until his wife told me he was carrying a briefcase. I've got a description and I need to get in there and look for it. Are there any comrades working there who can let me in? Or someone else who'll take a bribe to look the other way?'

'I don't know,' Strohm said. 'I suppose you've thought of just turning up and saying you lost the ticket?'

'I have. But Sullivan's initials are on the briefcase, and I have no papers to prove that I'm him, even if I wanted to try. And if either the police or Sullivan's murderers have a similar brainwave about the left luggage, they'll end up getting my description from whomever I talk to, which I definitely don't want. No, in this instance, the illegal way seems the safest way. I want whoever helps me to have a personal motive for keeping quiet. Loyalty to the cause would be best. I mean, think about it. These papers will prove that American and German capitalists are determined to carry on sharing out profits while Germans and American workers are dying on the battlefields. It's perfect propaganda because it's so fucking true.' Strohm grunted. 'I'll see what I can do. When can I call you?'

'Tomorrow between five and seven?'

'All right. If I can arrange something I'll give you a time and day for a movie, and we'll meet at Stettin Station. If I can't I'll ask for Wolfgang, and you can tell me I've got the wrong number.'

Back home, Russell found Effi in bed, almost asleep. 'Sorry,' she said. 'It's these five o'clock starts. Come and hold me.'

He did for ten minutes or so, finally disentangling himself when her breathing grew heavier. His brain seemed to be humming with possibilities, most of them dire, and listening to the nine o'clock news on the BBC engendered boredom without inducing calm. He wondered whether he should pack. He probably should, but what? His books were mostly still in boxes, and his only other prized possession was an unusable car. Clothes, he supposed, but how many of those would he need? Was he supposed to take all his underwear into exile?

Rummaging through a drawer he came across a collection of Paul's pictures from his first school, and one in particular - a collection of stick- figured Hertha Berlin players wildly celebrating a goal - caught his eye. On impulse he folded it up and tucked it into his wallet. A photograph of Effi was already there, a head and shoulders shot that Thomas had taken during a boating day on the Havel four, five years ago. Her face was turned towards the camera, an impish smile warring with the seriousness in her eyes. Thomas had caught both the child and the adult, which was no mean feat.

Russell picked up the phone and called his ex-brother-in-law. 'How are things?' he asked, once Thomas had picked up.

'As good as can be expected. You're not out on the town, then?'

'No, Effi's gone to bed. Early mornings and all that.'

'Ah.'

Why had he rung? Russell didn't really know. 'I'm just rummaging through my worldly possessions, wondering what to pack,' he said. 'It could be any day now, and, well, if anything should happen to Ilse and Matthias, you will...'

'Of course,' Thomas said, sounding almost hurt that Russell would ever doubt it.

'I know you will. Sorry.'

'And make sure to tell Effi that we want to keep seeing her,' Thomas added.

'I will.'

'If you are still here next week, let's meet for lunch. Tuesday at the usual time and place?'

'Why break the habits of a lifetime?'

'Why indeed?'

'I'll see you then.'

'Goodnight, John.'

Saturday morning they slept in, then walked down to the Ku'damm for a late breakfast. The sun was shining, and pre-war numbers of well-wrapped Berliners were sitting at outside tables, sipping their ersatz coffee and smiling at each other. Everyone seemed in good spirits - it was wonderful what two clear nights without an air raid could do.

'And the forecast for tonight is cloudy,' Russell read aloud from his half of the newspaper. 'There is a God.'

'There's also Goebbels,' Effi murmured. 'He has a whole trainload of women's fur coats ready for shipment to the front.'

'The troops'll look very fetching,' Russell observed.

She laughed and looked at her watch. 'I have to go,' she said, but made no move to do so. 'I do love Zarah, but... I assumed you'd be spending the day with Paul.'

'Not a good assumption these days. The Hitlerjugend has first call.'

She picked up her cup, realised it was empty, and put it down again. This, Russell thought, is how she always ends up being late. 'I've got to go too,' he said encouragingly, and she reluctantly got to her feet.

They parted at the tram stops outside the Universum, she heading west towards Grunewald, he travelling east towards the old city and what would probably prove a long and futile afternoon attending to business. His first stop was the table of foreign newspapers at the Press Club, his second the Adlon bar, where his fellow-American journalists seemed to be waiting, drinks in hand, for someone to shout 'Last orders' on their Berlin sojourn. It felt to Russell as if everyone was holding his breath, or at least waiting for some sign that the wind had decided which way to blow. Who was winning outside Moscow? Who was winning in North Africa? Where and when would the Japanese strike? The war seemed at a tipping point, yet refused to tip.

He was back home in time to hear the six o'clock news from the BBC, but an encouraging tone was all that London had to offer. Effi's key was just turning in the lock when the telephone rang. It was Strohm.

'That film you asked about,' the familiar voice began. 'It's showing at the Metropole at five o'clock tomorrow afternoon.'

'I'll meet you there,' Russell told him. The Hertha game would be over by four - he'd just have to put Paul on the U-Bahn.

'The railwayman?' Effi asked.

Russell nodded and reached for his newspaper. 'It's on for tomorrow evening,' he said, scanning the cinema listings. The film at the Metropole was indeed opening at five. Strohm was thorough. 'How was Zarah?' he asked.

Effi made a face. 'She's all right. Jens is still trying to atone. How long that will last is anyone's guess. She needs to help him, but I'm not sure she knows how. I'm not sure I do.' She sighed. 'But enough. Let's have some fun. Can we leave the war behind for a few hours?'

'We can try.'

They did. A better than usual meal at one of their pre-war favourite restaurants was a good start, and only slightly spoiled by a tall, thin and very insistent SS officer, who leaned over their table like a black heron and gushed his way through an account of Effi's career that would have embarrassed her old agent. As a piece de resistance he took off one black leather glove, revealing an index finger encased in plaster which Effi was required to sign.

'I dread to think how he got that injury,' Russell remarked once the man had gone.

They thought about taking in a show, but the only entertainments on offer were those revues that so shocked provincial visitors to the capital. The newspapers had been full of indignant letters for months, but nothing had been done - their enormous popularity with soldiers on leave obviously overrode the old Nazi puritanism.

Effi found nothing thrilling in 'flashing sequins and bouncing breasts'. She wanted to dance.

That was harder to arrange than it had been, but they eventually located a joint behind Alexanderplatz Station which one of Russell's colleagues had recommended. The music in the expansive cellar was hardly audible from the street, which was just as well since the band was playing unmistakably forbidden material, albeit interspersing it with syncopated versions of German folk tunes and Deutschland Uber Alles. The air was thick with cheap cigarette smoke, the cocktails all variations on the same mixture of industrial alcohol and grenadine, but they had a wonderful couple of hours, alternating dances with watching others enjoy themselves. They even tried something called 'jitterbugging', which Effi did a hundred times better than him.

When they stumbled back out around midnight a light shower of sleet was falling, and it took all their semi-drunken enthusiasm to steer a straight course through very dark streets to Alexanderplatz Station. The train home seemed full of other revellers, all beaming at each other and ignoring the myriad leaflets which someone had scattered around the carriage. 'A Christmas without honour' was the headline, and Russell felt no need to read the rest.

At around a quarter to two on the following afternoon he and his son shouldered their way through the packed western terrace at the Plumpe to reach their habitual spot, halfway up and opposite the edge of the penalty area. Paul was in plain clothes for once, but his commitment to the Hitlerjugend was evidenced by yet another vividly bruised cheek, the alleged result of a collision with a tree while 'terrain-gaming.' Russell didn't believe the explanation, but his son seemed in a good mood, and he didn't want to spoil it by playing the nosy and over-protective father.

Instead they talked football. Hertha were playing SV Jena, and the latter's recent record suggested a difficult ninety minutes for the home team. But, as Paul jubilantly pointed out, Jena had recently seen three of their first-choice defenders drafted into the army, so the teams were probably well matched.

The home team emerged to rousing cheers and the usual chants of 'Ha! Ho! He! Hertha BSC!' The stadium was almost full, the crowd well wrapped and, as many a wafting breath amply demonstrated, fortified with alcohol against the cold. Mittened hands lifted loosely-packed cigarettes to chapped lips, sucked in smoke and exhaled with obvious satisfaction.

A Hertha player drafted in the previous year had just been reported killed in action, and the team were all wearing black armbands in his memory. They should probably make them part of the normal strip, Russell thought sourly.

The Jena team followed Hertha out onto the frosty pitch, several players craning their necks to examine the heavens. The sleet had stopped overnight, but a dark and ominously-coloured sky seemed heavy with more.

The game began. Paul was standing to his father's left, and when play was at that end of the pitch, Russell found himself taking surreptitious glances at his son. The boy was only a few inches shorter than he was, and seemed noticeably older each time Russell saw him. Ilse had always said that he looked like his father, but Russell couldn't see it - they had the same coloured eyes, but that was about it.

The game seemed faster than usual, as if the players were all working overtime at keeping warm. Lacking permission to hare up and down the pitch, the two goalkeepers were both walking brisk circles inside their penalty areas, occasionally stopping to run on the spot. But all the frenetic activity failed to produce a decent chance, let alone a goal, in the first forty-five minutes.

Halfway through the second period it began to snow. This seemed to galvanise both teams, who shared four goals between them in an exhilarating last ten minutes, Hertha scoring a second equaliser with only seconds remaining. 'A fair result,' Russell murmured, as the players trudged off the now white pitch.

'I suppose so,' Paul admitted. He was still staring at the players, as if willing them to return and settle the matter. 'But what good is a fair result?' he muttered to himself.

Maybe his son did take after him, Russell thought.

They headed slowly for the nearest exit, eventually emerging onto Bellermanstrasse. 'Can we come to the next game?' Paul asked.

'If I'm still here,' Russell said without thinking.

'You will be, won't you?'

'I don't know. My influence over the Japanese, American and German governments seems somewhat limited these days. I hope so,' he added, wondering as he did so whether that was true. Some small part of him wanted a clean break, for his son's sake as much as his own.

Paul walked in silence for a while, a sure sign that he was pondering an important question. 'You will come back, won't you?' he finally asked, the tone almost accusative, his voice pitched slightly higher than usual. 'After the war, I mean.'

'Of course I will,' Russell said, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder. 'You won't decide to live in England or America?'

'No. I'm a Berliner. And so's my son.'

'Yes,' Paul said, as if realising that fact for the first time. 'We are, aren't we?'

They joined the crowd funnelling into the U-Bahn entrance, and waited on the densely packed platform for the next train.

'You'll be all right getting home?' Russell asked anxiously as the train neared his stop.

'Dad!' Paul said indignantly, and they both laughed. Russell stayed on the platform to watch the train leave, and saw his son's face seeking his own as the wheels started turning. It was a comforting moment, one he would treasure in the years to come.

Out on Bernauerstrasse the snow was already several millimetres thick. Daylight was almost gone, an eerily pallid darkness taking its place. A few army lorries swished their way past on the other side of the wide road; a tram clanked by on the near side, full of swaying shadows.

It took him fifteen minutes to reach Stettin Station. Behind the blackout screens that hung from the entrance archways there was just enough light to run a railway, but not that much activity. One train looked set for an imminent departure, and a steady trickle of people were heading for it. People returning home after a weekend in the capital, Russell guessed, their overloaded bags a sure sign that Berlin's shops were still better stocked than those of provincial towns like Stettin and Rostock.

No other meeting place had been specified, but it was still too early to head for the left luggage office. Entering the buffet where he and Sullivan had planned to meet, Russell saw Strohm sitting with a newspaper and beer on the far side. He was wearing a long overcoat, and had placed his hat on the table in front of him. Russell took a careful look round, saw nothing to rouse his suspicions, and walked across to join him.

Strohm gave him a quick smile of welcome and, as usual, wasted no words on pleasantries. 'The shift changes at five o'clock,' he said. 'Two men come off, and our man comes on. The Stettin train leaves at 5.10, so we'd better give him until then to deal with last-minute collections.'

'Is our man a comrade?' Russell asked in a suitably low whisper.

'Yes. He knows this is for the Party.'

'Good. I'll get myself a beer.'

He sat and sipped while Strohm read his paper and the buffet clock worked its way past the hour-mark. There were few other customers, and the only new arrivals were a pair of young army officers, who came in laughing happily and bore all the hallmarks of men starting their period of leave.

'If you ever need to contact me again,' Strohm offered, 'I nearly always take lunch at Johann's on Gartenstrasse. It's a working man's cafe, about two hundred metres from here, just past the Lazarus Hospital on the same side. I'm usually there between twelve and twelve-thirty. Just come in, get something to eat or drink, and make sure I see you. When I leave, follow me onto the street. All right?'

'All right.'

After a flurry of whistles and steam had signalled the departure of the Stettin train Strohm folded his paper, carefully placed his hat on his head, and got to his feet. 'I won't be hanging around,' he told Russell as they crossed the thinly populated concourse. 'I'll just introduce you and leave you to it.'

'Fine,' Russell agreed. He couldn't believe how loud their steps sounded. 'And thanks,' he added. Assuming the briefcase was there, he planned to examine its contents as thoroughly as the circumstances permitted, then deposit it again under a new and false name. He certainly had no intention of carrying anything home.

The left luggage office was about twenty metres down platform one, part of the long building which lined the eastern wall of the train shed. An open doorway led into a small waiting area with a wide counter. The man behind it was probably in his fifties, with a round, cheerful-looking face and a seemingly bald head under his uniform cap. A faded naval tattoo was visible on his lower right arm. Behind him, lines of luggage shelves could be seen through another open doorway.

'This is Herr Russell,' Strohm told him.

The man opened the counter-flap and gestured Russell though.

'Good luck,' Strohm said as he left.

The room behind was bigger than Russell had expected, but the shelves were far from crowded.

'When was the article deposited?' the man asked him.

'A week ago. Saturday the 29th.'

'This way then,' the man said, leading him down one aisle and turning into another. 'This is the section.'

There were several hundred items - suitcases, canvas bags, burlap sacks, even a barrel - but only a few briefcases, and Russell noticed the one on the top shelf which matched his description almost instantly. It was not locked, and the two leather straps were all that stood between Russell and the contents. He took out the sheaf of papers and scanned the one on top. The English words 'Standard Oil' stood out amidst the German.

'This is it,' he told his accomplice. The light was good enough in this corner, and he couldn't be seen from the doorway. 'Can I spend a few minutes here looking through these papers?' he asked.

The man looked doubtful, but only for a second. 'All right. But don't be too long. The bosses only make the rounds once in a blue moon, but they do make them.'

'I'll be as quick as I can.'

The man headed back to his counter. Russell pulled out a suitcase to sit down on, and started leafing through the papers. They were, he quickly realised, exactly what Sullivan had said they were. Most were carbon copies of official minutes, a meticulous recording of meetings in the year soon ending between representatives of German and American industry. The majority were unadorned, but Sullivan had added explanatory notes in a few of the margins.

Most of the big names were mentioned. Here was Standard Oil promising shipments of oil to Tenerife on Panamanian-registered tankers, making secret deals to secure patents against wartime seizure, banking German payments for oil not yet extracted from its Romanian fields. Here was Ford making sure that everyone benefited from its new French plant, with German-American messages flowing via Vichy and Lisbon, ensuring that American shareholders would get their profits from the lorries now supplying the Wehrmacht in Russia. Here were General Motors and its Opel subsidiary, communicating in secret through a Danish sub-division.

There was a lot more. Russell leafed through the pages, marvelling at how wide Sullivan's access had been, and the thoroughness with which he had made use of it. If the man hadn't loved the Nazis so much, he would have been a damn good journalist.

And then, at the bottom of the sheaf, he found it. Sullivan's ace in the hole. A journalist's dream, a people's nightmare.

The final document contained the minutes of a meeting in Milan the previous May, in which representatives of IG Farben and their American partners arranged to use a supposedly unconnected South American firm as the middleman in their continuing shipment of pharmaceuticals. Attached to this document, and only connected to it by the corporation involved, was a sheet in Sullivan's own handwriting. It was, he claimed, a record of a conversation he had overheard in the executive dining room at IG Farben, between a corporation lawyer and the director of another company, Degesch, which Farben part-owned. The conversation concerned one of Degesch's most profitable products, a pesticide gas by the name of Zyklon-B, which was used to combat rat and insect infestations in premises like barracks and factories. The gas itself was odourless, the Degesch man had explained, and a chemical 'indicator' had always been added to warn humans of its dangerous presence.

But in early November the SS had placed a huge order for Zyklon-B, and insisted that no indicator should be added. This order had created a major problem for Degesch because, although the company still owned the patent on the indicator, its patent on the gas had now expired. Negotiations at the highest level had been required to sort the matter out, and Degesch had only agreed to accept the SS order once its production and sale monopoly had been guaranteed for a further ten years.

Russell stared into space for a few seconds. Could there be any other explanation? He couldn't think of one. He just sat there for a while, caught in the grip of a terrible sadness. He remembered walking alongside Albert Wiesner in Friedrichshain Park more than two years before. 'Some of my friends think they'll just kill us,' Albert had said, almost daring him to disagree. The friends had been right.

The sound of an arriving train shook him out of it. He put the papers back in the briefcase, fastened the straps and made his way back to the outer office.

As he reached it, Uwe Kuzorra walked in from the platform.

The detective's eyes took in the briefcase. 'Patrick Sullivan's?' he asked.

There was no point in denying it. Russell passed the briefcase across the counter. 'It only occurred to me this afternoon,' he said, as Kuzorra began unfastening the straps. 'But I did claim it was mine. I said I'd lost the ticket. My friend here was just being helpful.'

Kuzorra looked unconvinced. He opened the bag, briefly rifled through its contents, and closed it again. The expression on his face was more disappointed than angry. 'How did you know what to look for?' he asked.

'His wife. She let slip he was carrying a briefcase when he left home.' 'I think we'd better have a talk down at the Alex,' Kuzorra decided. 'It's time I heard the whole story in one go. Having you read me a new chapter every few days is getting more than a little tiresome.'

Russell opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it. The car was outside, Kuzorra's driver enjoying a cigarette in the falling snow. They skidded their way out of the forecourt and headed east on Invalidenstrasse before turning south onto Rosenthaler. It took only ten minutes to reach the Alex, and almost as long again tramping corridors and stairs to reach Kuzorra's office on the police building's top floor. The room was crowded but not cluttered, and a framed photograph of the detective's late wife stood on the shelf behind the main desk, allowing her to look out over his shoulder.

Kuzorra took his own seat, gestured Russell into the other, and reopened the briefcase.

'If you read the first one you'll get the idea,' Russell said helpfully.

The detective said nothing in reply, but did look up after working his way through the first document. 'Are they all like this?'

'All except for the last page.'

As Kuzorra read that, Russell watched the sequence of emotions crossing the detective's face - curiosity, anger, disgust, a bottomless grief. At last he looked up, and their eyes met.

The telephone rang.

Kuzorra listened, glanced briefly up at Russell, said 'Very well', and broke the connection. 'Stay here,' he said, 'I'll be back in a few minutes.'

What now? Russell wondered. Would he be handed over to the Gestapo or the SD? He reminded himself that he hadn't done anything seriously illegal. And Kuzorra would help if he could - not because he liked Russell, but because they hated the same people.

The minutes stretched by. He listened to the low hum of the building, the occasional footfalls in the corridor outside. The snow was still falling past the window, the courtyard below a square of ghostly light. He was supposed to be meeting Effi at the Chinese restaurant at seven, which was less than half an hour away. He was going to be late, at the very least. He considered using Kuzorra's phone, but had no idea how to get an outside line.

It was almost seven when the detective finally reappeared. He closed the door firmly behind him and leaned back against it. 'They have you, John,' he said quietly.

'What?' Russell asked, his stomach in freefall.

'I was called downstairs because they know you've been involved in my case,' Kuzorra continued. 'The Gestapo are out looking for you. At your home, the press clubs, the hotels...'

'Why?'

'Espionage.'

Russell was reminded of the day in Flanders, more than twenty years earlier, when he had first understood the expression 'almost choking with fear'.

'Your trip to Prague, someone recognised you. An informer, I think. He tied you to the communist resistance there, and the Gestapo have been showing your picture to communists they have in the camps. One man's refusal to recognise you wasn't very convincing, and they eventually got him to talk about things that happened more than two years ago. A meeting you had in the Tiergarten, naval papers you were supposed to collect in Kiel and pass on to the Reds.'

Russell remembered that day in the Tiergarten, the young man with the shaking hands who said his name was Gert.

'They showed your photograph around in Kiel as well, and someone else recognised you, a woman who was there when the papers were handed over.'

Geli, her name had been. Russell just stared at the detective. His mind seemed reluctant to work.

'What were you going to do with the papers in the briefcase?' Kuzorra asked.

Russell shook his head, hoping to set his brain in motion. 'There's a man at the US Consulate who wants them. He doesn't like big business types who betray their country. The last page I thought I'd keep for myself, and tell the world when I got out.' He managed a wry smile. 'Not that that seems very likely now.'

Kuzorra gave him a long hard look. 'I can probably get you out of the building,' he said eventually, 'but that's all I can do.'

'It sounds like a start,' Russell said. He could hear the brittleness in his own voice. Where the hell was he going to go?