Zoo Station

My, hes bigger than I imagined. Welcome to England, young man.

Thank you, Paul said in English.

Ah, a linguist. I have just the book for him. He searched through the piles on the floor and extracted a large picture book of world aeroplanes. Have a look at that and tell me what you think, he said, handing it over. Throw those books on the floor, he added, indicating a loaded seat in the corner.

He turned back to Russells grinning face. Its good to see you in the flesh. Three years, isnt it? A long time in todays world.

Something like that, Russell agreed, taking a seat.

You havent come to tell me youve found a better agent?

Good God, no.

Well then, I can tell you weve sold the Germanys Neighbours series in both Canada and Australia. And herehe rummaged in a draweris a check to prove it.

Russell took it, and passed a sheaf of papers in the opposite direction. One for each series, he said. I thought Id save the postage.

An expensive way to do it. You came by train, I take it?

Nope. We flew.

Bernsteins eyebrows rose. Even more expensive. My percentage is obviously too low.

I came for another reason. Two, actually. And one was to ask you a favor. Russell outlined the Wiesners circumstances, his hope that at least some members of the family would be given exit visas before a war broke out. Paul, he noticed, was listening with great interest to his recital. Ive just put the family wealth in a safety deposit box, he told the unusually sober Bernstein. There are two keys, and I was hoping youd hang on to one of them. Theyll have the other, but theres a good chance it would be confiscated at the border.

Why, in heavens name?

Simple spite. If Jews are caught carrying a key out, the Nazis will guess its for something like this.

Id be happy to keep one of them.

Thanks, Russell said, handing the key over. Thats a weight off my mind. He stole a glance at Paul, who looked more confused than anything else.

How long are you here for? Bernstein asked.

Oh, only till Sunday. I came with my girlfriends sisterthat was the other reason. She wanted to have her son examined by an English doctor. A long story. But if theres a war, well, I guess Ill be back for the duration.

Without him? Bernstein asked, nodding in Pauls direction.

Without him.

Bernstein made a sympathetic face. Anyway, at least youve got a lot of work at the moment. No other ideas you want to talk about?

Not at the moment. He looked at his watch. Wed better go. Paul?

His son closed the book and brought it over. You can keep it, Bernstein said. Practice your English on the captions.

Thank you, Paul said. Very much, he added carefully.

Its working already. He offered Paul his hand, then did the same to Russell.

He was a nice man, Paul said, as they made their way down through the steamy stairwell.

He is, Russell agreed, as they reached the pavement. And hes Jewish, he added, hoping that Paul was not going to wipe the handshake off on his coat.

He didn't, but he did look upset.

Theyre wrong about the Jews, Russell said firmly. They may be right about many things, but theyre wrong about the Jews.

But everyone says. . . .

Not everyone. I dont. Your mother doesnt. Your Uncle Thomas doesnt. Effi doesnt.

But the government says. . . .

Governments can be wrong. Theyre just people. Like you and me. Look what foreign governments did to Germany in 1918. They were wrong. It happens, Paul. They get things wrong.

Paul looked torn between anger and tears.

Look. Lets not spoil the trip arguing about politics. Were in Londonlets enjoy it. They were walking down Charing Cross Road by this time. I know where we can get a cup of tea and a cake, he said, steering Paul off to the left. A few minutes later they were on the edge of Covent Garden market, dodging trucks piled high with crates of fruit and vegetables. Russell led them into one of the cafes.

It was full of men sawing at rashers of bacon and dribbling egg down their chins. Fried grease in its gaseous, liquid, and solid forms filled the air, lay congealing on the tables and covered the walls. England, Russell thought. He had a sudden memory of a similar cafe just outside Victoria Station, where hed eaten his last meal before service in France. Twenty-one years ago.

Russell bought two large cups of tea and two aptly named rock cakes. Paul nibbled at the edges of his, rightfully fearing for his teeth, but liked the tea once hed added four teaspoons of sugar. The cake is terrible, he told his father in German, causing several sets of less-than-friendly eyes to swivel their way.

Do you know anything about football? Russell asked the nearest man in English.

Maybe.

Are there any games on in London tomorrow?

Arsenal are playing Chelsea, another man volunteered.

At Highbury?

Of course.

And the games still kick off at three? Ive been working abroad for a while, he added in explanation.

So we see, the first man said with a leer. Yeah, they still kick off at three.

Thanks. Would you like to see a game tomorrow? he asked Paul. Arsenal are playing Chelsea.

His sons eyes lit up. Arsenal are the best!

They finished their teas, abandoned the half-excavated rock cakes, and picked their way through the vegetable market, taking particular care outside the peel-strewn frontage of a banana wholesaler. It was getting dark now, and Russell wasnt sure where he was. Looking for a street sign they found one for Bow Street.

Bow Street, Paul echoed. This is where Chief Inspector Teal brings the men hes arrested.

Away to their left a blue light was shining. They walked up the street and stood across from the forbidding-looking police station, half-expecting the fictional inspector to emerge through the double doors, busily chewing on a wad of Wrigleys as he adjusted his bowler hat.

Back on the Strand they found the Stanley Gibbons stamp shop was still open, and Paul spent a happy twenty minutes deciding which packets of cheap assorted stamps he most wanted. Russell looked in the catalogue for the ones Wiesner had given him in payment and was surprised to find how valuable they were. He wondered how many pounds-worth were nestling behind the stickers in their safety deposit box.

Zarah was more talkative at dinner than he ever remembered, and seemed newly determined to encourage the idea of his marrying her sister. She and Lothar accompanied them on their after-dinner walk this time, and Lothar, like Paul, seemed enthralled by the huge glittering river and its never-ending procession of barges and other boats. Russell and Zarah agreed upon their plans for Saturday: shopping in the morning, football for him and Paul in the afternoon, dinner with Jenss embassy friend for her and Lothar in the evening. When they said goodnight outside her and Lothars room, she thanked him warmly for his help. Theyd almost become friends, Russell thought. Effi would be amazed.

Paul was yawning, but Russell felt far too restless for sleep. Bedtime for you, he told his son. Im going back downstairs for a drink. I wont be long.

Youre just going downstairs?

Yes. No stamp-smuggling tonight. Just a drink.

Paul grinned. All right.

For a Friday night, the cocktail lounge seemed unusually empty. Russell bought a pint of bitter, parked himself on a stool at the end of the bar, and played with a beer mat. The taste of the English beer made him feel nostalgic. He had thought about taking Paul out to Guildford, to show him the house where hed spent most of his own boyhood, but there wouldn't be time. The next trip perhaps, if there was one.

He pictured the house, the large garden, the steeply sloping street hed walked to school each day. He couldn't say hed had a happy childhood, but it hadn't been particularly unhappy either. He hadn't appreciated it at the time, but his mother had never really settled in England, despite almost thirty years of trying. His fathers inability or unwillingness to recognize that fact had undermined everything else. There had been a lot of silence in that house.

He should write to her, he thought. A quick trip to reception provided him with a few sheets of beautifully embossed Savoy writing paper, and he ordered another pint. But after telling her where he was and why, and sketching out the plot of Effis new film, he could think of nothing else to say. She hadn't seen Paul since he was four, and it would take a book to explain him and their relationship.

He comforted himself with the knowledge that her letters to him were equally inadequate. On those rare occasions when, as adults, theyd been together, they had both enjoyed the experiencehe was sure of thatbut even then theyd hardly said anything to each other. His mother wasnt much of a talker or a thinker, which was why she had never liked Ilse. She and Effi, on the other hand, would probably get on like a house on fire. They were doers.

A shadow crossed the paper as a man slid onto the stool next to his. He had short, dark, brilliantined hair, a sharpish face with a small moustache, and skin that looked unusually pink. He looked about twenty, but was probably older.

John Russell? he asked.

Oh God, Russell thought. Here we go again. I think youre mistaking me for someone else, he said. Im Douglas Fairbanks Jr.

Very good, the man said admiringly. Can I get you another drink?

No thanks.

Well, I think Ill have one, he said, raising a finger to the distant barman.

Are you old enough? Russell asked.

His new companion looked hurt. Look, theres no need to be offensive. Im just. . . . He paused to order a Manhattan. Look, I think you know Trelawney-Smythe in Berlin.

Weve met.

Well, he passed your name on to us, and. . . .

Who might you be?

War Office. A department of the War Office. My names Simpson. Arnold Simpson.

Right, Russell said.

Simpson took an appreciative sip of his Manhattan. We checked up on youwe have to do that, you understandand it looks as if Trelawney-Smythe was right. You are a perfect fit. You speak German like a native, you have family and friends there, you even have Nazi connections. Youre ideally placed to work for us.

Russell smiled. You may be right about means and opportunity, but wheres the motive. Why would I want to work for you?

Simpson looked taken aback. How about patriotism? he asked.

Im as patriotic as the next businessman, Russell said wryly.

Ah. Very good. But seriously.

I was being serious.

Simpson took a larger sip of the Manhattan. Mr. Russell, we know your political history. We know youve been badgering the Berlin Embassy about a Jewish family. Whatever you write for the Soviets, we know you dont like the Nazis. And theres a war coming, for Gods sake. Dont you want to do your bit to defeat them?

Mr. Simpson, cant you people take no for an answer?

Now the young man looked affronted. Of course, he said. But. . . .

Goodnight, Mr. Simpson.

THEY SPENT THE FIRST PART of Saturday morning following Zarah in and out of clothes stores on Bond Street, the second scouring Hamleys for the stimulating toys which Dr. McAllister had recommended. They found nothing which Zarah considered suitable in either. German toys are much better, she announced with a satisfied air on the Regents Street pavement, and Paul agreed with her. There had been no dead soldiers, and those still breathing had been markedly inferior to the ones back home.

They parted at midday, Russell and Paul wending their way through the streets beyond Oxford Street to the trolleybus terminus at Howland Street. The 627 took them up the Hampstead, Camden, and Seven Sisters Roads to Finsbury Park, where the pubs were already overflowing with men en route to the match. It was a cold afternoon, the would-be spectators exhaling clouds of breath and clapping their gloved hands together as they threaded their way down the back streets to the field. A rosette seller offered red and white for Arsenal, blue and white for Chelsea, and Paul wanted both. Covering the field, eh? the man asked with a grin. He had a red and white scarf wrapped around his head, and a flat cap rammed on top of it.

The match itself was a disappointmentanother point in Germanys column as far as Paul was concerned. It was hard to argue with him: If this was the best football in the world, then the world of football was in trouble. There was none of the magic England had shown in Berlin nine months earlier. In fact, both teams seemed markedly less endowed with basic skills than poor old Hertha.

What Paul did find fascinating was the crowd. He had no way of appreciating the wit, but he reveled in the sheer volume of noise, and the swirling currents of emotion which rose and fell all around him. Its so. . . . he began, as they crunched their way out across the carpet of roasted peanut shells, but an end to the sentence eluded him.

At the Arsenal station they shared a seemingly endless tunnel to the platform with several thousand others, and their Piccadilly Line train was full to bursting until it reached Kings Cross. After the relative spaciousness of the U-bahn, the train itself seemed ancient, airless, and claustrophobicanother point in the German column.

They walked back to the Strand through Covent Garden Market, and ate another delicious dinner in the Savoy restaurant. Paul was quiet, as if busy absorbing his impressions of the last two days. He seemed, Russell thought, more German somehow. But that, he supposed, was only to be expected in England. He hadn't expected it, though.

On the way to breakfast next morning he stopped off at reception to consult the hotels ABC Railway Guide, and after theyd eaten he told Paul there was something he wanted to show him. They took a bus up Kingsway and Southampton Row to Euston, and walked through the giant archway to the platforms. The object of their visit was already sitting in Platform 12the blue and silver Coronation Scot. They bought platform tickets and walked up to where a dozen youngsters were paying court to the gleaming, hissing, streamlined Princess Alice.

Its beautiful, Paul said, and Russell felt a ridiculous surge of pride in his native country. Paul was right. The German streamliners reeked of speed and power, but this train had a grace they lacked. One mark at least for England.

Back at the Savoy they packed, took a last look at the Thames, and joined Zarah and Lothar in the lobby. The car was on time, the Sunday roads empty, and they arrived almost two hours early. While Paul stood with his face glued to the window, Russell scanned the News of the World for a clue to British concerns. He discovered that a vicar had been assaulted by a young woman in a village street, and that now was the time to protect your crocuses from sparrows. A half page-ad for constipation relief featured a wonderful photographthe man really did look constipated. And much to Russells relief, the game theyd seen the previous afternoon got a highly critical write-upso at least it wasnt the norm.

It was the same aeroplane and crew which had brought them over. This time though, the clouds were lower, the flight rockier, the view more restricted. Jens, waiting for them at Tempelhof, hugged Zarah and Lothar as if theyd been away for weeks and thanked Russell profusely. He also offered to take Paul home, but Russell demurred, unwilling to sacrifice half an hour of his sons company.

As it was, Paul sat mostly in silence as they drove west, gazing out of the window at his home city. It seems . . . well, strange, he said, as they turned into his road. After being there, the idea of a war against England seems . . . it seems silly.

It is, Russell agreed. But coming nevertheless. And, in one way, the sooner the better. Say it lasted four years, like the last one. Assuming they stuck to the current call-up at eighteen, Paul would be drafted in March 1945. For the war to be over by then, it had to get started early in 1941.

No need to worry, Russell told himself. Hitler wouldn't be able to wait that long.

Blue Scarf

AFTER SPENDING THE NIGHT with Effi, Russell drove her out to the studio for an early start. She was pleased but not surprised by Dr. McAllisters diagnosisI said there was nothing wrong with him!but despondent about Mother. The director was a mechanic; her co-stars all thought, wrongly, that they were Gods gift to acting; the on-set adviser from the Propaganda Ministry kept trying to clarify the films social role by inserting lines that even a baboon would have trouble misunderstanding. I suppose I should be grateful, she said, as they drove in through the studio gates: Ill probably go down in history as one of Germanys great comediennes.

Afterward, Russell drove to Zoo Station, where he bought breakfast and a paper. Nothing unusual seemed to have happened during his time in England. The widening of the Kiel Canal had been decreed: It obviously wasnt big enough for the Bismarck. Hitler had opened the International Motor Show just down the road, and unveiled a model of the new peoples car. For 950 marksabout 50 British poundsthe average German would get a small five-seater, with deliveries to begin in about fifteen months time. Having made an appearance at this birth, the Fuhrer had proceeded to the funeral of some obscure Carinthian Gauleiterthe man had probably held his hand when the bullets started flying in 1923. Hed certainly been given all the Nazi trimmings: swastikas everywhere, black banners with runic emblems, lines of flaming pylons to light his way across the Hesperus.

Back at Neuenburgerstrasse, Frau Heidegger was waiting to ply Russell with coffee. She was elated by his impression of British unreadiness for war, which she thought, rather perceptively, both lessened the chance of war and increased the chance of German success if there was one. Before retiring upstairs to work, Russell phoned Unsworth at the British Embassy. He was told that Conway had been in touch, and that representations were being made in the appropriate quarters. Russell thought about visiting the Wiesners but decided against it. He had nothing really to tell them, and instinctively felt that it was safer to limit his visits to the scheduled lessons.

He spent most of the next 48 hours working in his room, writing the fourth Pravda article, which he planned to deliver in Posen that weekend, and sketching out a piece on artists and entertainers for the Ordinary Germans series. His only trip out was to the Greiner Works in Wedding, one of the Reichs major production centers for military vehicles. Expecting suspicion and probable refusals, he went straight to the Labor Front office, and was almost laughably surprised by the warm welcome he received. Yes, of course the German worker was torn between his love of peace and his desire to arm the Fatherland against its foes. What human being would not be? And of course Herr Russell could talk to the workers about their feelings. The rest of the world should be given every chance to understand both the German hunger for peace and the nations determination to defend its rights and its people.

After this, talking to several groups of workers in the canteen proved something of an anti-climax. Most were understandably reticent, and those prepared to speak their minds had nothing surprising to say. It was a job, that was all. As usual, the pay was bad, the hours too long, management more of a hindrance than a help. The Labor Front at least listened, if only to ward off potential trouble. Open discussions were infinitely preferable to either noncooperationslow working, mostlyor the sort of covert resistance that could lead to sabotage. Reading between the lines and facial expressions of the men to whom he spoke, Russell decided that the level of noncooperation was probably significant without seriously affecting production levels or quality, and that the amount of real resistance was negligible. And when war came, he guessed, both would decrease.

Wednesday morning, he called in at the embassy on his way to the Wiesners. The moment he saw Unsworths face he knew what had happened. Hes dead, isnt he?

The official line is that he hanged himself, Unsworth said. Im sorry.

Russell sat down. A wave of sadnessof utterly useless sadnessseemed to wash over him. When? he asked. Has the family been told?

Unsworth shrugged. We received this note from the Foreign Ministry this morning. He passed it over. A reply to our representations on Friday.

The message comprised one sentence: In response to your enquiries of 18 February, we regret to inform you that the prisoner Wiesner has taken his own life, presumably out of guilt for his crime.

Wiesner had been dead within two days of his visit, Russell thought. Beaten to death, most probably. A blessed release, perhaps. But not for his family.

We assume the family has been informed, Unsworth was saying.

Why? Russell asked, handing back the note. Because its the decent thing to do?

Unsworth nodded, as if taking the point.

What about the visa situation? Russell wanted to know. Theres nothing to keep them here now. And surely. . . .

Im told the decisions on the next batch are being taken tomorrow afternoon. If you come back Friday morning I hope Ill have some good news for you.

Russell walked down the stairs and out past the line of visa-seekers on Unter den Linden. Once behind the Hanomags steering wheel he just sat there, staring down toward the Brandenburg Gate and the distant trees of the Tiergarten.

Eventually, almost somnambulantly, he put the car into gear and moved off, circling Pariserplatz and heading back up Unter den Linden toward Alexanderplatz and Neue Konigstrasse. What did you say to someone whose husband or father has just been murdered for the sin of being born to a particular race? What could you say? All around him the people of Berlin were going about their usual business, walking and driving and shopping and talking, laughing at jokes and smiling in friendship. If theyd heard of Sachsenhausen, they no doubt imagined neat rows of barracks, and some well-merited hard labor for the criminals and perverts residing there at the states pleasure. They hadn't seen a man they knew and liked twisted and torn out of human shape for the pleasure of others.

He couldn't even tell the story, not without Jens suffering for it. And even if he could, he had no evidence to back up his suppositions. The Nazis would claim that a crime like Wiesners was bound to provoke an angry reaction from his Aryan guards, and that the wretched Jew had simply taken the easy way out when he received a few well-deserved bruises. What, they would say, was the problem? Everyone had behaved in a racially appropriate manner, and the world had one less Jew to worry about.

On the Wiesners street he sat in the car, putting off the moment of truth. There was another car parked on the other side of the road, its windows open, with two bored-looking men smoking in the front seat. They looked like Kripo, Russell thought, and they were probably on loan to the Gestapo, which was notorious for believing itself above the more mundane aspects of police work.

Well, there was no law against teaching Jewish children English. He got out, walked up the familiar steps, rapped on the familiar door. An unfamiliar face appeared in the opening. A rather attractive woman, with a mass of curly brown hair and suspicious eyes. In her late thirties, Russell guessed.

He introduced himself, and her face changed. Come in, she said. Youve heard? she added.

About Dr. Wiesners death? Yes. Half an hour ago, at the British Embassy.

As he spoke, Marthe Wiesner emerged from the other room, closing the door behind her. Herr Russell. . . . she began.

I cant tell you how sorry I am to hear about your father, he said. There were two broken table lamps on the wooden chest, he noticed, and the curtain rail was hanging at an awkward angle.

Thank you, she said stiffly. She seemed calmalmost overly sobut for the moment at least the light in her eyes had gone out. This is Sarah Grostein, she said, introducing the other woman. Shes an old friend of the family. Mother is . . . well, you can imagine. The shock was terrible. For all of us, of course. Mother and Ruth are sleeping at the moment.

Please give her my condolences, Russell said, the hollow words tripping off his tongue like. . . . He wondered whether to leave the safety deposit box key with Marthe, especially in the presence of a stranger. He decided against. I need to talk to your mother, he said. Not now, of course, he added quickly. Ill come at the usual time on Friday.

Marthe nodded, just as the sound of wailing erupted in the other room. A few second later Eva Wiesner called her elder daughters name. I must go. . . .

Of course. He waited until the door had closed before asking Sarah Grostein when the family had heard of Felix Wiesners death.

Saturday evening, she said. I wasnt here of course, but the police behaved abominably. I can understand why Albert lost his head.

Russells heart sunk. What did he do?

Oh, dont you know? He attacked the Gestapo bastard, hit him with one of these table lamps. The mans in the hospital. They said he might die, but Marthe says it didn't look that bad. I think they were just trying to scare Eva.

Where have they taken Albert? he asked. The wailing was quieter, but just as insistent.

She gave a bitter laugh. They havent. He got away. Pushed the other bastard over the sofa and ran for it. He got out the backtheres a maze of alleys out thereand the conscious one knew better than to follow him. He wouldn't have found Albert, and he knew damn well he might not come out again.

Wheres Albert now?

No one knows, she said, leaving Russell with the distinct impression that she was lying. They came back yesterday, she went on. Shouted at Eva to tell them where he was, which she couldn't have told them if shed wanted to. But they didn't arrest her. Maybe they realized that there was no one else to look after the girls, that theyd be up to their eyes in paperwork if they tried to send them away somewhere.

Maybe, Russell agreed. He thought it more likely that the British expression of interest in Wiesners fate had kept the Gestapo in check. Can you pass on a message to Frau Wiesner? Tell her. . . . He paused. I was going to say that it looks like the children will get British visas in the next week or so, but it doesnt seem as though Albert will have any use for his. If he goes to the Germans for an exit visa, theyll just arrest him. Still, the girls should be able to go. And maybe their mother, too.

She wont leave Albert.

Perhaps he can persuade her.

Perhaps. But the Gestapo are parked outside, which makes arranging meetings rather difficult.

He looked at her, standing there with arms crossed and anger simmering behind her eyes. Are you trying to get out? he asked.

Not at present, she said, in a tone that didn't invite questioning.

Ill get going, he said. Ill be back on Friday morning.

She nodded, opened the door, and closed it behind him. He walked out to the car, ignoring the watching police, and drove it slowly down Neue Konigstrasse toward the city center. He knew there was nothing more he could do, but that knowledge did nothing to diminish the feelings of anger and helplessness which dogged him through the rest of that day and the next. By the time he entered the British Embassy on Friday morning he felt ready to explode, but equally certain that murdering anyone other than Hitler would only make matters worse.

British entry visas for the three Wiesner children were waiting on Unsworths desk, but Unsworth had the decency not to be too pleased with himself. Ive found out why the mothers been refused, he told Russell. The intelligence people have quite a dossier on her. She was a Spartacistyou know what they were? Of course you do. Apparently they grade communists out of ten, and anyone scoring over seven is refused immigration. Eva Wiesners an eight.

Russell was astonished. How recent is this information?

It isnt. The dossier has nothing later than 1919, so she probably gave up politics when she got married. But that wont help her. An eights an eightthats what their man told me. . . .

Trelawney-Smythe?

Youve met him. No exceptions, he said.

Russell didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I dont suppose it matters, he said, before explaining about Albert.

Half an hour later he was back in Friedrichshain. This time Frau Wiesner opened the door, and managed a slight smile as she let him in. After brushing aside his condolences, she sat him down and made them both coffee. He was a wonderful man, she said. And nothing can take that away from him, or from me.

He gave her the British entry visas for the three children, and explained why she was being refused.

She smiled sadly at that. I thought that must be the reason, she said, but it doesnt matter now. Take this back, she added, handing over Alberts visa. Someone else can take his place.

He also gave her the safety deposit box key, and a piece of paper containing two names and addresses. This is the bank where the box is, and this is my agent in London, Solly Bernstein. Get the girls to memorize it all, and then burn it, he said. And I think it would probably be safer for you to keep the key yourself. Solly has another one, and they can use that when they get to London.

She stared at the writing, as if it were in a foreign language.

Have you seen Albert? he asked.

She shook her head. But hes all right.

AFTER LEAVING EFFI AT THE STUDIO early the next morning, he took the car back to her street and walked to Zoo Station. With an hour to wait for the Warsaw train, he had breakfast in the buffet before climbing up to the eastbound platforms. It was the first time, he realized, that hed been up there since McKinleys death. He had no idea where the American had gone under his train, and a morbid search for telltale signs came up empty. If there was one thing at which the Germans were good, it was cleaning up after themselves.

He put five pfennigs in a toasted almond machine, and walked down the platform eating from his cupped hand. It was a misty morning, the trees in the Tiergarten fading by stages into nothing. Some geese flew across the glass dome of the station, squawking noisily, heading God-knew-where for late February. There were few finer sights, Russell thought, as their V-formation curled and furled like a banner in the wind. He remembered the seagulls at the Bismarck launching, and laughed out loud.

The Warsaw train arrived, empty save for the few who had boarded at Charlottenburg. Russell found his seat by the time it reached Friedrichstrasse, and dropped off to sleep as the last of the southeastern suburbs slid past his window. Dimly aware of the stop at Frankfurt-am-Oder, he was roused by officialdom for the customs stops on either side of the Polish border, and spent the rest of the journey staring out of the restaurant car window. A wintry sun had finally burned off the mists, and the rye and potato fields of Prussias lost province stretched away into the distance, interrupted only by the occasional dirt-track or farm, the odd meandering stream.

The train rolled into Posenor Pozna?, as the plethora of signs proclaimeda few minutes early. Russell took a taxi from the forecourt to the Bazar Hotel, where hed booked a room. Just the one night? the receptionist asked incredulously, as if the charms of Posen required weeks to appreciate. Just the one, Russell agreed, and was shown rather begrudgingly to an adequate first-floor room. There were only a few hours of light remaining, so he went straight back out again, pausing only to examine the display in the lobby, which documented the hotels pre-war role as a hotbed of Polish nationalism.

The town, though pleasant enough, suffered in comparison to Cracow. Its churches were not quite as beautiful, its streets not quite as charming, its squarethe Stary Ryneknot quite as grand. As he wandered somewhat aimlessly around the city center he noticed several faded German names on streets and buildings, but the German language was still audible on those same streets, along with Polish and Yiddish. It would take another war, Russell thought, before the winners could take it all.

He dined in the hotel restaurant. The veal escalopeszrazikiswere excellent, the wine surprisingly good, but neither could dispel his deepening depression. It wasnt just McKinley and Wiesner; he had hardly spent two waking hours with Effi since Rugen Island, and his contact with Paul since returning from England had consisted of two friendly, but brief, telephone conversations. And here he was in darkest Posen, waiting for Shchepkin to go through one of his cloak-and-dagger mating rituals.

He went back to his room, hoping against hope for a simple knock on the door. An hour or so later he got one, but it wasnt Shchepkin. A short woman in a long skirt and blouse brushed past him and into the room before he could say anything.

Close the door, Mr. Russell, she said. The language was definitely German, but not a sort that Russell had ever heard before.

The woman had roughly parted blond hair which just failed to reach her shoulders, blue eyes, thin lips, and heavily accented cheekbones. In another life she might have been attractive, Russell thought, but in this one she wasnt really trying. She wore no make-up, and her cream-colored blouse badly needed a wash. He now remembered seeing her on the other side of the dining-room, arguing with one of the waiters.

John Russell, she said, as much to herself as him. I am your new contact.

Contact with whom? he asked. It was hard to imagine her as a Gestapo agent provocateur, but how would he know?

My name is Irina Borskaya, she said patiently. I am here in place of Comrade Shchepkin, she added, glancing around the room and finding a chair.

Has something happened to Comrade Shchepkin? Russell asked.

He has been reassigned. Now, please sit down Mr. Russell. And let us get down to business.

Russell did as he was told, feeling a pang of sorrow for Shchepkin. He could see him on the Cracow citadelYou really should wear a hat! But why assume the worst? Perhaps he really had been reassigned. Stalin couldn't kill everyone whod ever worked for him.

He pulled the latest article out of his briefcase and handed it over. She took a cursory glance at the first page and placed it in her lap. You were asked to talk to armament workers.

He recounted his visit to the Greiner Works, the conversations he had had with Labor Front officials and ordinary workers. She listened intently but took no notes. Is that all? she said when he was finished.

For the moment, Russell said. Where is your accent from? he asked, partly out of curiosity, partly to take her mind off his skimpy research.

I was born in Saratov, she said. In the Volga region. Now, we have another job for you.

Here it comes, Russell thoughtthe point of the whole exercise.

We need you to collect some papers from one of our people and bring them out of Germany.

Not a chance, Russell thought. But refuse nicely, he told himself. What sort of papers? he asked.

That doesnt concern you.

It does if you expect me to bring them out.

They are naval plans, she said grudgingly.

Russell burst out laughing.

What is so amusing? she asked angrily.

He told her about Shchepkins comment in Danzignone of those naval plans Sherlock Holmes is always having to recover.

She wasnt amused. This is not a Sherlock Holmes storythe comrade in Kiel has risked his life to get a copy of the German fleet dispositions for the Baltic.

Then why not risk it again to bring them out? Russell argued.

His life is worth something, she said tartly, and quickly realized that she had gone too far. He is too valuable to risk, she amended, as if he might have mistaken her meaning.

Then why not send someone else in to get them?

Because we have you, she said. And we have already established that you can come and go without arousing suspicion. Were you searched on your way here, or on your way to Cracow?

No, but I wasnt carrying anything.

She put the article on the carpet beside her chair, crossed her legs and smoothed out the skirt on her thigh with her left hand. Mr. Russell, are you refusing to help us with this?

Im a journalist, Comrade Borskaya. Not a secret agent.

She gave him an exasperated look, delved into her skirt pocket, and brought out a rather crumpled black and white photograph. It was of him and Shchepkin, emerging from the Wawel Cathedral.

Russell looked at it and laughed.

You are easily amused, she said.

So they tell me. If you send that to the Gestapo I might get thrown out of Germany. If I get caught with your naval plans itll be the axe. Which do you think worries me more?

If we send this to the Gestapo you are certain to be deported, certain to lose your son and your beautiful bourgeois girlfriend. If you do this job for us, the chances of your being caught are almost nonexistent. You will be well-paid, and you will have the satisfaction of supporting world socialism in its struggle against fascism. According to Comrade Shchepkin, that was once important to you.

Once. The clumsiness of the approach angered him more than the blackmail itself. He got up off the bed and walked across to the window, telling himself to calm down. As he did so, an idea came to him. An idea that seemed as crazy as it was inevitable.

He turned to her. Let me sleep on this, he said. Think about it overnight, he explained, in response to her blank expression.

She nodded. Two PM in the Stary Rynek, she said, as if shed had the time and place reserved.

Its a big square, Russell said.

Ill find you.

SUNDAY WAS OVERCAST BUT DRY. Russell had coffee in one of the many Stary Rynek cafes, walked up past Garbary station to the Citadel, and found a bench overlooking the city. For several minutes he just sat there enjoying the view: the multiplicity of spires, the Warta River and its receding bridges, the smoke rising from several thousand chimneys. See how much peace the earth can give, he murmured to himself. A comforting thought, provided you ignored the source. It was a line from Mayakovskys suicide note.

Was his own plan a roundabout way of committing suicide?

Paul and Effi would miss him. In fact, he liked to think theyd both be heartbroken, at least for a while. But he was neither indispensable nor irreplaceable. Paul had other people who loved him, and so did Effi.

All of which would only matter if he got caught. The odds, he thought, were probably on his side. The Soviets would have no compunction about risking him, but their precious naval plans were another matterthey wouldn't risk those on a no-hope adventure. They had to believe it would work.

But what did he know? There could be ruses within ruses; this could be some ludicrously Machiavellian plot the NKVD had thought up on some drunken weekend and set in motion before they sobered up. Or everyone concerned could be an incompetent. Or just having a bad day.

Shit, he muttered to himself. He liked the idea of the Soviets having the German fleet dispositions for the Baltic. He liked the idea of doing something, no matter how small, to put a spoke in the bastards wheels. And he really wanted the favors he intended to ask in return.

But was he fooling himself? Falling for all the usual nonsense, playing boys games with real ammunition. When did self-sacrifice become a warped form of selfishness?

There were no answers to any of this, he realized. It was like jumping through an open window with a fuzzy memory of which floor you were on. If it turned out to be the ground floor, you bounced to your feet with an heroic grin. The fifth, and you were jam on the pavement. Or, more likely, a Gestapo courtyard.

A life concerned only with survival was a thin life. He needed to jump. For all sorts of reasons, he needed to jump.

He took a long last look at the view and started back down the slope, imagining the details of his plan as he did so. A restaurant close to the Stary Rynek provided him with a plate of meat turnovers, a large glass of Silesian beer, and ample time to imagine the worst. By two oclock he was slowly circling the large and well-populated square, and manfully repressing the periodic impulse to simply disappear into one of the adjoining streets.

She appeared at his shoulder halfway through his second circuit, her ankle-length coat unbuttoned to reveal the same skirt and blouse. This time, he thought, there was worry in the eyes.

She managed to leave the question unspoken for about thirty meters, and then asked it with almost angry abruptness: So, will you do this job for us?

With one condition, Russell told her. I have a friend, a Jewish friend, in Berlin. The police are looking for him, and he needs to get out of the country. You get him across the border, and I will do the job for you.

And how are we supposed to get him across the border? she asked, suspicion in her tone.

The same way you always have, Russell said. I was in the Party myself onceremember? I knew people in the Pass-Apparat, he added, stretching the truth somewhat. Everyone knew about the escape routes into Belgium and Czechoslovakia.

That was many years ago.

Not according to my information, Russell bluffed.

She was silent for about fifty meters. There are a few such routes, she admitted. But they are not safe. If they were, we would not be asking you to bring out these papers. Maybe one person in three gets caught.

In Berlin its more like three out of three.

She sighed. I cant give you an answer now.

I understand that. Someone will have to contact me in Berlin to make the arrangements for my friends journey, and to give me the details of the job you want me to do. Tell your bosses that the moment my friend calls me from outside the Reich, I will collect your papers from wherever they are and bring them out.

Very well, she said after a moments thought. You had better choose a point of contact in Berlin.

The buffet at Zoo Station. I shall be there every morning this week. Between nine and ten.

She nodded approvingly. And a mark of identification. A particular book works well.

Storms of Steel? No, half the customers could be reading that. Something English. He mentally pictured his bookshelves at Neuenburgerstrasse. Dickens. Martin Chuzzlewit.

A good choice, she agreed, though whether for literary or other reasons she didn't say. Your contact will say that hes been meaning to read it, and will ask you if its any good.

He? Russell asked.

Or she, she conceded.

NINE OCLOCK ON MONDAY morning found him in the Zoo Station buffet, his dog-eared copy of Martin Chuzzlewit prominently displayed on the counter beside his cup of mocha. He wasnt expecting the Soviets to respond that quickly, and he wasnt disappointed10:00 came and went with no sign of any contact. He collected the car from outside the zoo and drove across town to the Wiesners. There was no obvious police presence outside, which probably meant that theyd recruited some local busybody for their observation chores. A curtain twitched as he walked up the outside steps, but that could have been coincidence.

The sense of raw pain had gone from the Wiesners flatreplaced by a grim busyness, a determination to do whatever needed doing. There was grief to spare, the faces seemed to sayno need to spend it all at once.

And there was good news, Frau Wiesner told him. They had old friends in England, she said, in Manchester. The Doctor had written to them several weeks ago, and a reply had finally arrived, offering a temporary home for the girls. They had tickets to travel a week from Thursday.

I may have more good news, Russell told her. I have friends who may be willing to smuggle Albert across the border.

Mother and daughters all stared at him in amazement. What friends? Frau Wiesner asked.

The comrades, he said simply. The comrades they had both abandoned, he thought.

But I had no idea you were. . . .

Like you, I left a long time ago. And I cant go into details about the arrangements. But if I can fix things, can you get in touch with Albert at short notice?

Yes. The hope in her eyes was painful to see.

And will he trust me, do you think?

She smiled at that. Yes, he likes you.

And if we can get him out, there is nothing to keep you here?

The lack of a visa. Nothing else.

Im still working on that.

HE TRIED TO WRITE THAT AFTERNOON, but the words refused to matter. As evening fell he took himself off to the Alhambra and sat through an overblown Hollywood musical, murmuring sour asides to himself in the dark. The film had been made on the sort of budget which would feed a small country, but was mercifully devoid of consciousness-raising pretensions. The consciousness-lowering effect was presumably accidental.

The Kudamm was gearing up for the night as he emerged, thick with human and motorized traffic. He walked slowly westward with no real destination in mind, looking in windows, studying faces, wondering if the Soviets would agree to his terms. People lined up outside the theaters and cinemas, streamed in and out of the restaurants, most of them laughing or happily talking, living the moment as best they could. A police car careened up the center of the wide road, its siren parting the traffic like waves, but the visible signs of a police state were thin on the ground. In fact, Russell thought, it was the absence of violence which told the real story. The blood and the broken glass, the groups of men on corners, clutching their razors and itching for a brawlthey were all gone. The only violent lawbreakers left on the streets of Berlin were the authorities.

He walked back down the opposite pavement, picked up the car, and drove home.

TUESDAY OFFERED MORE OF THE SAME: waiting in vain at the buffet counter, working with words like a juggler in mittens. Frau Heidegger seemed irritating rather than quirky, Paul almost provokingly gung-ho in his description of the previous Saturdays Jungvolk outing. Even the weather was bad: A cold rain fell throughout the day and into the evening, creating lake-size puddles in many of the streets. The Hanomag, as Russell discovered on his way to collect Effi, had a less-than-waterproof floor.

At least her film was finished. I have seen the error of my ways, and a good wife is all I want to be! she exclaimed as they left the studio. But only, she added as they reached the car, after Ive slept for at least a week. In the meantime you may wait on me hand and foot.

Later, he was still working up to telling her about his weekend in Posen when he realized shed fallen asleep. Which was all for the best, he decided. Thered be time enough for explanations if and when the Soviets said yes. Looking down at her sleeping face, the familiar lips ever-so-slightly curled in a sleepers smile, the whole business seemed utterly absurd.

CONTACT WAS MADE ON THURSDAY. The buffet clock was reaching toward ten when a man loomed over Russells shoulder and almost whispered the prearranged sentence. Lets walk, he added, before Russell had time to declaim on the virtues or otherwise of Martin Chuzzlewit.

The man made for the door with what seemed unnecessary haste, leaving Russell floundering in his wake. He seemed very young, Russell thought, but he looked anonymous enough: average height and build, tidy hair and a typical German face. His suit was wearing at the elbows, his shoes at the heels.

At the station exit the man turned toward the nearest Tiergarten entrance, pausing for a nervous look back as they reached it. Russell glanced back himself: The street was empty. Ahead of them, a few solitary walkers were visible among the leafless trees.

Its not a bad day, the young man said, looking up at the mostly gray sky. We will walk to Bellevue Station, like friends enjoying a morning stroll in the park.

They set off through the trees.

I am Gert, the young man said. And it is agreed. We will take your friend across the Czech border, and you will bring the papers to us in Prague. He fell silent as a steady stream of walkers passed them in the opposite directiona middle-aged couple and their poodles, a younger couple arm in arm, an older man with a muzzled Dobermanand paused to offer Russell a cigarette on the Lichtenstein Bridge across the Landwehrkanal. His hand, Russell noticed reluctantly, was shaking slightly.

The paths around the Neuersee were mostly deserted, just a couple of women with small children happily feeding the ducks. You must memorize the arrangements, Gert said, with the air of someone reading from a script. Your friend must be in the station buffet at Gorlitz at five oclock on Monday afternoon. He must wear workingmens clothes, with a blue scarf around his neck. He must not have a suitcase or bag of any kind. When a man asks him if he knows where the left luggage is he should say, Yes, but its easier to show you than explain, and walk out with that man. Understood?

Yes.

Then repeat what Ive just told you.

Russell did so.

Good. Now for your part. Your contact is in Kiel. Or in Gaarden, to be precise. You must be in the Germania Barits on the tram route to Wellingdorf, just outside the main entrance to the Deutsche Werke shipyardsat eight PM on Friday the tenth. With your Martin Chuzzlewit .

I made it clear to the comrade in Posen that I wouldn't collect your papers until I knew my friend was safe.

Gert gave an exasperated sigh. He will be in Czechoslovakia by Tuesday morning, Prague by the afternoon. You should hear from him that day. Either that, or some of our people have been captured or killed with him. And if that happens, we hope you will honor their memory by honoring the bargain.

Russell gave him a look. Lets hope it doesnt come to that.

Of course. Now, you will bring the papers back to Berlin, and then take them on to Prague as quickly as possible

I have to be in Berlin on that Sunday, Russell said.

It would be better if you traveled before that. The border guards tend to be less vigilant on a Saturday night.

Sorry, itll have to be Monday, Russell said. The Sunday was Pauls birthday.

Gert controlled himself with a visible effort. Very well, he agreed, as if hed made a huge concession.

And how do you suggest I carry them?

This was clearly in the script. We do not know how many papers there are. If it is a matter of a few sheets, they can be sewn into the lining of your coat or your jacket. If there are a lot, then that will not be possible. If they search you and your luggage they will probably find them. The best thing is not to be searched.

And how do I manage that?

You probably wont have to. They only search about one in ten, and foreigners very rarely. As long as you dont draw attention to yourself, everything should be fine. Now, once you reach Prague, you must check in to the Grand Hotel on Wenceslas Square. You will be contacted there. Is that clear? Now please repeat the details of your treff in Kiel.

Russell repeated them. What if no one approaches me on that day? he asked.

Then you return to Berlin. Any other questions? Gerts hands seemed to be writhing in his coat pockets.

He had none, or none that could be answered. At Bellevue Station they went their separate ways, Gert bounding up the stairs to the eastbound Stadtbahn platform, Russell ambling along the bank of the Spree to the kiosk beneath the Bellevue Schloss. He bought a cup of hot chocolate, took it to a riverside table, and watched a long train rumbling across the bridge to his left. Everything should be fine, he told himself in Gerts Bavarian accent. It was the should which worried him.

His next stop was the British Embassy. Rather than return for the car, he walked down the river to Kurfurstenplatz, and then along Zellenallee to the Brandenburg Gate and the western end of Unter den Linden. The queue outside the Embassy seemed longer than ever, the atmosphere inside the usual mix of irritation and self-righteousness. He asked to see Unsworth, and was shown up to his office. Once there, he admitted it was Trelawney-Smythe that he really wanted to see. But I didn't want to announce the fact in reception, he explained to Unsworth. I wouldn't put it past the Nazis to include an informer or two among the Jews.

Unsworth looked slightly shocked at the thought, but agreed to escort Russell to the MI6 mans door. Trelawney-Smythe looked startled to see him, and somewhat put out. I know why youre here, and the answer is no. We cannot make exceptions.

Russell sat himself down. I take it this rooms secure, he said.

We went over the whole building with a fine-tooth comb a few months ago, Trelawney-Smythe said proudly.

Russell looked up, half expecting to see a microphone hanging from the ceiling. How interested would the Admiralty be in the German Navys Baltic Fleet dispositions? he asked.

To his credit, Trelawney-Smythe didn't jump out of his seat. Instead, he reached for his pipe. Very, I should imagine. After all, if a ships in the Baltic it wont be in the North Sea.

Thats the conclusion I came to, Russell said. He smiled at the other man. Dont ask me how, but at some point in the next two weeks I should have my hands on those dispositions. Not to keep, mind you, and not for long. But long enough to copy them out.

Trelawney-Smythe lit his pipe, puffing vigorously out of the corner of his mouth.

A technique learned in spy school, Russell thought.

You would be doing a tremendous service to your country, the other man said in an almost torpid tone.

But not only for my country. Theres a price.

Ah. Trelawney-Smythes eyes narrowed. You want money, he said, with the air of a disappointed vicar.

I want you to make an exception, and come up with a visa for Eva Wiesner. And while youre at it, Id like an American passport.

That surprised the MI6 man. How on earth do you expect us to get you one of those?

Im sure youll have no trouble if you set your mind to it. I do have an American mother, you know, so its hardly a huge stretch.

Why do you want one?

Id have thought that was obvious. If theres a war in Europe, anyone with a British passport will be sent home. With an American passport I can stay.

Trelawney-Smythe puffed at his pipe, digesting the idea, and Russell watched the slight widening of the eyes as he appreciated the possibilitiesMI 6 would have a man in Germany once the war started!

Not that Russell had any intention of doing anything more for them, but they werent to know that.

In the next two weeks, you said.

Yes. But I want the visa for Eva Wiesner by Monday. That should give her time to arrange her exit visa, and she can travel with her daughters on Thursday. Theres no hurry about the passport, he added. So long as I have it before a war breaks out.

You must like this family, Trelawney-Smythe said, sounding almost human.

I do. The girls have only just lost their father, and theres no good reason why they should lose their mother as well. She left the communists twenty years ago, for Gods sake. Shes not going to start a revolution in Golders Green.

I hope not, Trelawney-Smythe said wryly. All right. I can get her a visa by Monday. The passport. . . . I cant promise anythingthe Yanks dig their heels in about the silliest thingsbut well do our best. You werent born in America, were you?

I was born in mid-Atlantic, if that helps. But on a British ship.

Probably not, then. He was sounding almost chummy now. If you come in on Monday morning Ill have the visa for you.

Ill see you then, Russell said, resisting the temptation to be churlish. On his way out he noticed that the reading room was empty, and took time to consult the Embassy atlas. Gorlitz was about two hundred kilometers southeast of Berlin, and about twenty from the Czech border. There were direct trains from Berlin, but they took most of the day and were probably checked as they neared the border area. If Albert got safely through the ticket barrier at this end hed probably be picked up at the other. Russell was going to have to take him in the car.

There were two obvious routes: He could stick to the old road or take the Silesian autobahn to just south of Kottbus, and join it there. He liked the idea of escaping Hitlers Germany by autobahn, but the old road, for reasons he couldn't explain, felt safer.

So, two hundred kilometerssay, three hours. Stick in an extra half-hour in case he had a puncture. If the car broke down they were sunk, but spending more than a few minutes in Gorlitz, with Albert eye-wrestling anyone in uniform, seemed like an excellent way of committing suicide. When it came down to it, the car seemed worthier of trust than Alberts temperament.

Russell walked out to Unter den Linden, climbed into the Hanomag and headed east. If only Albert didn't look so damned Jewish! The boy could hardly wear a mask, though the lifelike Goebbels mask which one of the American correspondents had made for last years Halloween party would have been singularly appropriate. How could he hide the boys face? A cap over the eyes, perhaps. Collar turned up and the required blue scarf. A pair of glasses? None of it would help if Albert insisted on vibrating with rage.

And where was he going to pick him up? Not at the flat, that was for sure. Somewhere crowded? Only if it was somewhere a Jew didn't stick out like a sore thumb, and places like that were thin on the ground. And the police would be looking for hima Jew who knocked down a Gestapo officer with a table lamp was going to be high on their wanted list. Theyd probably taken his picture in Sachsenhausen, and now all the Orpo stations would have copies hanging on their walls.

He parked the car in the Wiesners street and went up. The girls were outstarting to say their goodbyesand their mother seemed exhausted by grief and worry. Russell told her about Alberts Monday appointment in Gorlitz, and his own role as chauffeur. Tell him to join the visa queue outside the British Embassy between twelve and oneas one Jew among several hundred he should be invisible. Ill walk by and collect him soon after one. He should be wearing workingmens clothes, nothing too smart. But a decent coat on top of them for the queue. People try to look their best for the Embassy.

I will tell him.

He must be there, Russell insisted. If hes not, thats it. We wont be given a second chance.

Hell be there.

And I think Ive got you a visa. You should be able to go with the girls next Thursday.

She looked as though she was having trouble believing it all. Well know by then? About Albert?

We should, he said. One way or the other.

RUSSELLS WEEKEND FOLLOWED THE FAMILIAR pattern, but thoughts of the week ahead kept hitting him from behind, sending his stomach into momentary freefall. It wasnt every week he delivered a fugitive from the Gestapo to the communist underground, went looking for military secrets in a dockside bar, and played some lethal form of hunt the parcel with the border police. The only time he could remember feeling like this was in the trenches, on those few occasions when hed been ordered over the top. What had he gotten himself into?

Paul was too distracted himself to notice his fathers distraction. On Saturday they did the rounds of Berlins best toy shops, so that Paul could provide Russell with some useful hints on which birthday presents to surprise him with. On Sunday they went to another away game, at Viktoria Berlins stadium in Steglitz, and came away delighted with a fortunate draw. Paul was still full of the trip to London, and eager to know when they could visit his grandmother in New York. Maybe this summer, Russell said, surprising himself. But why not? The money was there.

Effi noticed. On Saturday evening they went to a comedy theatre revue involving friends of hers, and he twice needed prodding to join in the applause. An hours dancing in one of the halls off Alexanderplatz took his mind off everything else, but on the drive home he almost drove through a red light at Potsdamerplatz.

Whats eating you? she asked.

As they drove along the southern edge of the Tiergarten he gave her the whole story of his dealings with Shchepkin and Borskaya, ending with the request to take out the documents, and his realization that he could use the situation to help the Wiesners. Seduced by my own cleverness, he admitted. And now I feel like digging myself a very deep hole and hiding in it.

Like a fox?

More like a rabbit.

She took his right hand and squeezed it.

Glancing to his right, he could see the worry in her face. I cant back out now, he said.

Of course not. Why dont we stop here? she added.

He pulled up under the trees, and turned to face her.

You couldn't go on the way you were, she said.

What do you mean?

She took his hand again. You know what I mean, she insisted.

And he did.

MONDAY WAS A RUSH. Effi insisted on coming to the Embassy with himeveryone says I look Jewish, so theyll think Im his sisterand then displayed her usual inability to be ready on time. Once Russell had finally gotten her to the car, he suddenly remembered, with another downward lurch of his stomach, that hed forgotten to tell Eva Wiesner about the blue scarf. A ten-minute search for something suitable in the KaDeWe on Wittenbergerplatz made them five minutes late, a derailed tram in Potsdamerplatz five minutes more. Russell had a mental picture of a Gestapo officer walking along beside the queue, then suddenly stopping and pointing at Albert.

They left the car on Dorotheenstrasse and walked the single block to the Unter den Linden. Across the wide, now-lindenfrei, avenue, they could see the queue stretching up Wilhelmstrasse past the side of the Adlon. There were no uniforms in sight, no pointing fingers, no scuffle in progress.

They crossed Unter den Linden and walked toward the end of the queue. Albert was about ten from the back, standing close to the stone building on his right, but making no effort to conceal himself. When he saw Russell he simply walked out of the queue. This is hopeless, he said to no one in particular. Ill come back tomorrow.

We were looking for you, Russell said. The cars this way, he added, thinking that hed seen pantomimes with more convincing scripts. Several facial expressions in the queue offered unwelcome confirmation of this opinion.

But there was no sign of the audience that mattered. The three of them walked back to Dorotheenstrasse.

In the back, Russell told Albert, indicating the tight space behind the seats. He drove three blocks down Dorotheenstrasse, turned right onto the much busier Friedrichstrasse, and headed south toward Hallesches Tor. He dropped Effi off by the elevated station.

Be careful, she said, as she kissed him goodbye through the drivers window. Ill see you tonight.

I hope so, Russell thought. He glanced across at Albert, who was now sitting beside him. The boy looked about sixteen.

How old are you? he asked.

I was eighteen last month.

The age I was when I went to war, Russell thought. A tram swung in front of him, causing him to brake sharply. Concentrate, he told himself. An accident now really would be fatal.

They drove past Tempelhof as a small plane took off, then under the Ringbahn and on toward Mariendorf, the city growing thinner with each mile. A police car went past in the opposite direction, two plainclothes Kripo men chatting in the front seats, but that was all. Twenty minutes after leaving Dorotheenstrasse they were out on the lake-strewn Mittelmark, passing under a completed section of the orbital autobahn.

So far, so good, Russell thought.

My mother gave me the message from my father, Albert said, breaking the silence. What exactly did he say?

Russell repeated what he remembered.

They beat him badly, didn't they? Albert asked.

Yes, they did.

Albert fell silent again. They passed through Zossen, where a surfeit of signs pointed would-be visitors in the direction of General Staff HQ. The complex of buildings came into view, and Russell found himself wondering which maps the planners had on the tables that day. Poland, most likely, and all points east.

He wondered if the Soviets would put up a fight. Their German operation was hardly impressivea boy with shaky hands and a man in Kiel they couldn't risk. Where had all the communists gone? Seven years ago theyd been slugging it out with the Nazismillions of them. Some would still be lying in wait for the right moment, but most, he suspected, had simply turned their backs on politics. He hoped that whoever was waiting in Gorlitz knew what the hell he was doing.

Where have you been staying? he asked Albert, once they were back in open country.

Its better you dont know, the boy said.

It probably is, Russell agreed.

Silence descended again. Albert seemed calm enough, Russell thought. Calmer, in fact, than he felt himself. At least the car was behaving, its engine purring smoothly as they cruised along the mostly deserted road at 65 kph. Everyone else had chosen the autobahn.

The sky to the south seemed clearer, which suggested a cold, clear night. Did that augur well or badly for an illicit border crossing? Visibility would be better for everyonepursuers and pursued. He tried to remember what phase the moon was in, and couldn't.

Albert had rescued the Beobachter from the floor between them. Why do you read this rubbish? he asked, scanning the front page.

To know what theyre doing, Russell said.

Albert grunted disapproval.

Which reminds me, Russell went on. Theres a piece in there about the crisis in Ruthenia. . . .

Ruthenia? Wheres that?

Its part of Czechoslovakia. Look, you need to know this stuff. Czechoslovakia is more than Czechs and Slovaks. Theres Moravians and Hungarians and God knows who else. And Ruthenians. The Germans are encouraging all these groups to rebel against the Czechoslovak government, in the hope that theyll provoke a major crackdown. Once that happens, theyll march in themselves, saying that theyre the only ones who can restore order and protect these poor victimized minorities.

All right.

And the Czech government has started taking action against the Ruthenians. Read the piece. See how pleased the Germans are. This is not the sort of behavior that any government could tolerate in a neighboring state, etc.you can practically see them rubbing their hands with glee. Theyre preparing the ground. So keep an eye on the news. Dont hang around in Prague any longer than you have to, or youll find Hitlers caught up with you.

I have the names of people in Prague, Albert insisted. They will tell me.

Good. But remember Kristallnachtand what a surprise that was, even after five years of persecution. If I were you, Id head for Hungary as soon as I could. Once youre there you can work out the best way to England.

I dont think I will be going to England. My plan is to go to Pales-tine.

Oh, Russell said, taken by surprise. Does your mother know?

Of course. I am a man now. I must do what is best for the whole family. When I get work and somewhere to live, I can send for them.

Immigration is restricted.

I know that. But we will find a way.

If theres a war, theyll stop it altogether.

Then we will wait.

They were entering Kottbus now, and Russell concentrated on not drawing attention to his driving. But the market town seemed caught in its afternoon nap, and they were soon back in open country. A few kilometers more, and they passed under the Silesian autobahn. Their road grew suddenly busier, and a sign announced that they were 93 kilometers from Gorlitz.

It was not yet three oclock. At this rate they would arrive far too early. They needed one of those stopping places with a view which the Germans loved so much.

The Germans, Russell repeated to himself. After fifteen years of living there, of feeling a little more German each year, the process seemed to have slipped into reverse. Lately, he seemed to be feeling a little less German each day. But not more English. So what did that make him?

Why are you doing this? Albert asked him.

Russell just shrugged. Who knows?

The reason I aska year ago, before Kristallnacht, I used to wonder how people could be so cruel, but I never questioned why someone was kind. Now its the opposite. I can see all sorts of reasons why people are cruel, but kindness is becoming a mystery.

He was six years older than Paul, Russell thought. Just six years. He tried to think of an adequate answer to Alberts question.

Whatever the reason, I thank you anyway, Albert said. My family thanks you.

I think there are many reasons, Russell said. Some good, some not so good. Some I dont understand myself. I like your family. Maybe its as simple as that. And maybe, he thought, any half-decent family in the Wiesners situation would have been enough to push him off his fence.

The phrase I used to be a good journalist passed through his mind, leaving him wondering where it had come from. This had nothing to do with journalism. He thought about McKinleys papers, uselessly hidden in the poste restante, and came, with a sudden lift of the heart, to a realization so obvious that he couldn't believe he had missed it. If he was going to risk his life and liberty for a few military secrets, then why not take out McKinleys papers as well? He had only one head to cut off.

The road was climbing now, the sky almost cloudless. Around ten kilometers from Gorlitz Russell found the stopping place he had been looking for, a wide graveled ledge overlooking a pretty river. Eager to stretch, they both got out, and Russell ran through the arranged script for the Gorlitz buffet. Once you are in Prague, the first thing you must dothe first thingis to telephone me. Your mother wont leave Germany until she knows youre safe.

You havent given me the number, Albert said sensibly.

Russell made him repeat it several times, wondering as he did soand hating himself for ithow long the boy would resist a Gestapo interrogation.

Albert seemed to know what he was thinking. I wont give you up, he said simply.

None of us know what well do in a situation like that.

I wont get into a situation like that, Albert said, pulling a grubby-looking Luger from his coat pocket.

Oh shit, Russell thought, glancing left and right in search of approaching traffic and barking Put it away! The road was blissfully empty. Thats. . . . he started to say, and stopped himself. What right did he have to give the boy advice? Albert had been in Sachsenhausen once, and his father had died there. It wasnt hard to see why going out in a blaze of gunfire seemed preferable to going back.

He breathed out slowly. You have to leave the coat with me, he said. Wont the gun be obvious in your jacket pocket?

Ill put it in my belt, Albert said, and did so. He then took the coat off and offered Russell a 360-degree turn, like a model at a fashion show. The gun didn't show.

Back in the car, Albert pulled a workingmens cap from a pocket of the discarded coat, and Russell reached into the KaDeWe bag for the blue scarf. The recognition signal, he explained, and Albert wrapped it around his neck, reminding Russell of Paul on a skating trip.

They drove on, the sky a deepening blue as dusk approached, the mountains slowly creeping above the southern horizon. As they reached the outskirts of Gorlitz it occurred to Russell that anyone with a brain would have studied a plan of the townthe last thing he wanted to do was ask directions to the station. Go to the town center and look for signs, he told himself. The Germans were good at signs.

He picked up some tram tracks and followed them in what seemed the obvious direction. After passing several large industrial concerns, the road narrowed through a handsome arch and arrived at a wide street full of old buildings. There were theaters, statues, a large water fountainin any other circumstances, Gorlitz would be worth an afternoon stroll.

There! Albert said, indicating a sign to the station.

They drove down a long straight street, toward what looked like a station. It was. The station building was about a hundred meters long, the entrance to the booking hall right in the center. There were lighted windows to the left of this entrance, and steam billowing out of two large vents.

Russell pulled the car to a halt behind a Reichsbahn parcels truck. The buffet, he said, pointing it out. Therell be an entrance from the booking hall.

It was ten to five.

Albert just sat there for a few seconds, then turned to shake Russells hand.

The boy looked nervous now, Russell thought. Safe journey, he said.

Albert climbed out and, without a backward look, headed toward the entrance. There was nothing furtive about his strideif anything it was too upright. He leapt up the two steps and in through the doorway.

Start driving, Russell told himself, but he didn't. He sat there watching as the minutes passed. Two men in SA uniform emerged, laughing at something. A man ran in, presumably late for a train. Only seconds later a spasm of chuffs settled into the accelerating rhythm of a departing engine.

He imagined Albert sitting there, and wondered whether hed tried to buy a coffee. If he had, he might have been refused; if he hadn't, some power-mad waiter might have tried to move him on. He imagined a challenge, the gun pulled out, the sound of shots and a frantic Albert flying out through the doorway. Russell wondered what he would do. Pick him up? Race out of Gorlitz with the police in hot pursuit? What else could he do? His mouth was suddenly dry.

And then Albert did come out. There was another man with him, a shortish man in his forties with graying hair and a very red nose, who shifted his head from side to side like an animal sniffing for danger. The two of them walked across to the small open truck with a timber load which Russell had already noticed, and swung themselves up into their respective cab seats. The engine burst into life and the truck set off down the street, leaving a bright tail of exhaust hanging in the cold evening air.

Left Luggage

AFTER LEAVING GORLITZ, Russell took the next available chance to telephone Effi. A brass band was practicing in the first bar he tried, but with receiver and hand clamped tight against his ears he could just about hear the relief in her voice. Ill be waiting, she said.

He chose the autobahn north from Kottbus, hoping to speed the journey, but an overturned vehicle in a military convoy had the opposite effect. By the time he reached Friedrichshain it was almost nine oclock. Frau Wiesner could hardly have opened the door any faster if shed been waiting with her hand on the knob.

He was collected, Russell said, and her lips formed a defiant little smile.

Sit down, sit down, she said, eyes shining. I must just tell the girls.

Russell did as he was told, noticing the bags of clothing piled against one wall. To be given away, he supposedthere was no way they would be allowed to take that much with them. He wondered if the Wiesners had any more valuables to take out, or whether the bulk of the family assets had been concealed behind the stickers in Achievements of the Third Reich. It occurred to him that Germanys Jews had several years experience in the art of slipping things across the German border.

And my visa has arrived, Frau Wiesner said, coming back into the room. By special courier from the British Embassy this afternoon. You must have some influential friends.

I think you do, Russell told her. Im sure Doug Conway had a hand in it, he explained, somewhat untruthfully. There seemed no reason for her to know about his deals with Irina Borskaya and Trelawney-Smythe. But there is something you might be able to do for me, he added, and told her what he wanted. She said she would ask around.

He left her with a promise to drive over the moment Albert phoned, and a plea not to worry if the wait lasted more than a day. If they still hadn't heard anything by Thursday he knew shed be reluctant to leave, even though they both knew that in this context no news was almost certain to be bad news.

On the other side of the city, Effi welcomed him with an intense embrace, and insisted on hearing every detail. Later, as they were going to bed, Russell noticed a new film script on the dressing table and asked her about it. It was a comedy, she told him. Twenty-three lines, four come-on smiles, and no jokes. The men got those. But at least it was pointless, a quality which Mother had taught her to admire.

The next morning, Russell left her propped up in bed happily declaiming her lines to an empty room, and drove home to Neuenburgerstrasse. There was no sign of Frau Heidegger, and no messages on the board, from either Albert or the Gestapo. He went up to his room and read the newspaper, his door propped open in case the phone rang. Jews had been forbidden from using either sleeping or restaurant cars on the Reichsbahn, on the grounds, no doubt, that they would appreciate their hunger more if they were kept awake.

He heard Frau Heidegger come in, the clink of the bottles as she set them beside her door. It was Tuesday, Russell realizedskat night. With Effi not working, and his own weekends given over to espionage, he was beginning to lose track of the days. He went down to warn her about his expected call, and paid the price in coffee.

Back upstairs, the hours ticked by with agonizing slowness, and the only calls were for Dagmar, the plump little waitress from Pomerania who had taken McKinleys room. She, not unusually, was out. According to Frau Heidegger she sometimes came in at 3:00 in the morning with beer on her breath.

Russell nipped out to buy some eggs while Frau Heidegger kept guard, and cooked himself an omelette for dinner. Most of the other tenants returned home from work, and the concierges arrived, one by one, bottles in hand, to play skat. The waves of merriment reached higher up the stairs as the evening went on, but the telephone refused to ring, and Russell felt his anxiety grow. Where was Albert? Sitting in some border lockup waiting to be picked by the Gestapo? Or lying dead in some frozen mountain meadow? If so, he hoped the boy had managed to take some of the bastards with him.

The skat party broke up soon after 10:30, and once the other concierges had passed noisily into the street Frau Heidegger took the phone off the hook. Russell went to bed and started reading the John Kling novel which Paul had loaned him. The next thing he knew, it was morning. He walked briskly down to Hallesches Tor for a paper, skipping through it on the way back for news of spies or criminals apprehended on the border. As he replaced the phone a red-eyed Frau Heidegger emerged with an invitation to coffee, and they both listened to the morning news on her peoples radio. The Fuhrer had recovered from the slight illness which had caused the cancellation of several school visits on the previous day, but no young Jews named Albert had been picked up trying to cross into Czechoslovakia.

The morning passed at a snails pace, bringing two more calls for Dagmar and one from Effi, wanting to know what was happening. Russell had no sooner put the phone down after her call than it rang again. Forgot something? he asked, but it was Alberts voice, indistinct but unmistakably triumphant, which came over the line.

Im in Prague, it said, as if the Czech capital was as close to heaven as its owner had ever been.

Thank God, Russell shouted back. What took you so long?

We only came across last night. Youll tell my mother?

Im on my way. And theyll be on the train tomorrow.

Thank you.

Youre welcome. And good luck.

Russell hung up the phone and stood beside it, blissfully conscious of the relief spreading out through his limbs. One down, three to go. He called Effi back with the good news and then set off for the Wiesners.

Frau Wiesner looked as if she hadn't slept since he had left her on Monday, and when Russell told her Albert was in Prague she burst into tears. The two girls rushed to embrace her and started crying too.

After a minute or so she wiped her eyes and embraced Russell. A last coffee in Berlin, she said, and sent the two girls out to buy cakes at a small shop on a nearby street which still sold to Jews. Once they were out of the door, she told Russell she had one last favor to ask. Disappearing into the other room, she reemerged with a large framed photograph of her husband and a small suitcase. Would you keep this for me? she asked, handing him the photograph. It is the best one I have, and Im afraid they will take it away from me at the border. Next time you come to England. . . .

Of course. Where is he, your husband? Did they bury him at Sachsenhausen?

I dont know, she said. I did not tell you this, but on Monday, after the visa came, I gathered my courage, and I went to the Gestapo building on Prinz Albrechtstrasse. I asked if his body could be returned to me, or if they could just tell me where he is buried. A man was called for, and he came down to see me. He said that my son could claim my husbands body, but I could not. He said that was the legal position, but I knew he was lying. They were using my husbands body as bait to catch my son.

Sometimes the Nazis could still take your breath away.

And this, she continued, picking up the suitcase, is what you asked for on Monday. She put it on the table, clicked it open, and clicked again, revealing the false bottom. The man who made this was a famous leather craftsman in Wilmersdorf before the Nazis, and he has made over a hundred of these since coming to Friedrichshain.

And none have been detected?

He doesnt know. Once Jews have left they dont come back. A few have written to say that everything went well, but if it hadn't. . . .

They would be in no position to write.

Exactly.

Russell sighed. Well, thank you anyway, he said, just as the girls came back with a box of assorted cream cakes. They insisted on Russell having the first pick, then sat round the table happily licking the excess cream from their lips. When he suggested driving them to the station the next day, he could see how relieved Frau Wiesner was, and cursed himself for not putting her mind at rest at sooner. How else could they have gotten there? Jews were not allowed to drive, and most cabdrivers wouldn't carry them. Which left public transport, and a fair likelihood of public abuse from their fellow passengers. Not the nicest way to say goodbye.

The train, she said, was at 11:00, and he was back the next morning at 9:30. The girls squeezed into the back with their small bags, Frau Wiesner in the front with a suitcase on her lap, and as they drove down Neue Konigstrasse toward the city center Russell could feel all three of them craning their necks and filling their memories with the sights of their disappearing home.

Effi was waiting at the Zoo Station entrance, and all five of them walked up to the westbound express platform. A pale sun was shining, and they stood in a little knot waiting for the train to arrive.

You didn't tell me Albert was going to Palestine, Russell said to Eva Wiesner.

I should have, she admitted. Distrust becomes a habit, Im afraid.

And you? he asked.

I dont know. The girls prefer England. The clothes are better. And the movie stars.

Youll come see us in England? Marthe asked him in English.

I certainly will.

And you as well, Marthe told Effi in German.

Id love to.

The Hook of Holland train steamed in, hissing and squealing its way to a stop on the crowded platform. Russell carried Eva Wiesners suitcase onto the train, and found their assigned seats. Much to his relief, there were no Stars of David scrawled on the girls seatbacks. Once the three of them were settled he went in search of the car attendant, and found him in the vestibule. Look after those three, he said, pointing them out and wedging a five hundred Reichsmark note in the mans outside pocket.

The attendant looked at the Wiesners again, probably to reassure himself that they werent Jews. Fortunately, Eva Wiesner looked as Aryan as anyone on the train.

Russell rejoined Effi on the platform. The signals were off, the train almost ready to go. A piercing shriek from the locomotives whistle brought an answering scream from an animal in the adjoining zoo, and the train jerked into motion. The girls waved, Eva Wiesner smiled, and they were gone. Russell and Effi stood arm in arm, watching the long train as it rumbled across the iron bridge and leaned into the long curve beyond. Remember this moment, Russell told himself. This was what it was for.

AFTER A QUICK LUNCH with Effi in the Uhlandeck Cafe he set off for Kiel. The Berlin-Hamburg autobahn was still under construction, which left him with the old road through Schwerin and Lubeck, around 350 kilometers of two-lane highway across the barely undulating landscape of the North German plain. After three hours of this he began to wonder whether the train would have been better. The car had seemed a safer bet, but only, he realized, because he had fallen for the juvenile notion that it made escape seem more feasible. In reality, he had about as much chance of outrunning the Gestapo in the Hanomag as an Aryan sprinter had of outrunning Jesse Owens.

He arrived in Kiel soon after dark, stopped at the railway station to buy a town guide at one of the kiosks, and studied it over a beer in the station buffet. Kiel itself stretched north along the western shore of a widening bay which eventually opened into the Baltic. Gaarden was on the other side of the bay, accessible by steam ferry or a tram ride around its southern end.

Russell decided to look for a hotel near the stationnothing too posh, nothing too seedy, and full of single businessmen leading relatively innocent lives. The Europaischer Hof, on the road which ran alongside the station, met the first two requirements, and on a busy day might have met the third. As it was, several lines of hopeful keys suggested the hotel was half empty, and when Russell asked for a room the receptionist seemed almost bemused by the scope for choice. They settled on a second floor room at the front, which looked out across the glass roof of the station, and the seagull colony which had been founded on it.

The hotel restaurant showed no signs of opening, so Russell walked north down the impressive Holstenstrasse and found an establishment with a decent selection of seafood. After eating he walked east in the general direction of the harbor, and found himself at the embarkation point for the Gaarden ferry. The ferry itself had left a few seconds earlier and was churning across the dark waters toward the line of lights on the far side, some half a kilometer away. Looking left, up the rapidly widening bay, Russell could see what looked like a large warship anchored in midstream.

He stood there for several minutes enjoying the view, until the icy wind became too much for his coat to cope with. Back at the hotel he had a nightcap in an otherwise deserted bar, went to bed, and fell asleep with surprising ease.

He woke early, though, and found that the Europaischer Hof considered breakfast an unnecessary luxury. There were, however, plenty of workingmens cafes selling hot rolls and coffee around the station. By eight he was driving through the town center, heading for the northern suburb of Wik, where the main harbor for merchant ships was situated. He had already finished his article on German sailors, but the Gestapo werent to know that, and he needed an honest reason for being in Kiel. Over the next couple of hours he talked to sailors in the cafes on the Wik waterfront, before moving on to the eastern end of the Kiel Canal, which lay just beyond. There he watched a Swedish freighter pass through the double locks which protected the canal from tidal changes, chatting all the while with an old man who used to work there, and who still came to watch. Driving back along the western shore of the haven Russell got a better view of the warship hed seen the night before. It was the recently commissioned Scharnhorst, and its guns were lowered toward the deck, as if apologizing for their existence. Two U-boats were tied up alongside.

He wasnt hungry but had lunch anyway, along with a couple of beers to calm his nerves, before following the tracks of the Wellingdorf tram through Gaarden. The Germania Bar wasnt hard to spotas Gert had said, it was almost opposite the main gate of the Deutsch Werke shipyardand there was no shortage of places to leave the car. The bar itself was on the ground floor of a four-storey building, and seemed remarkably quiet for a lunch hour. He drove another few hundred meters toward Wellingdorf before turning and retracing the route back to Kiel.

With Pauls birthday in mind, he spent the rest of the afternoon looking round the shops in the town center. The two toy emporiums he found were uninspiring, and hed almost given up when he came across a small nautical shop in one of the narrower side streets. Pride of place in the window display had been given to a model of the Preussen which, as Paul had once told him, was the only sailing ship ever built with square sails on five masts. The price made him wince, but the model, on closer inspection, looked even better than it had in the window. Paul would love it.

Russell carefully carried the glass case back to the car, did his best to immobilize it in the back, and covered it with the small rug hed bought for Effis use on Rugen Island. He checked his watchanother five hours until his appointment at the Germania Barand went back to the Europaischer Hof, hoping to wile the time away with a nap. Despite the unexpected bonus of a hot bath, he found sleep impossible, and just lay on the bed watching the room grow darker. Around five oclock he turned on the lights and expanded the notes hed made that morning.

At seven he walked across to the station for something to eat and another beer, eschewing a second with some difficulty. The concourse was full of boisterous sailors in Scharnhorst caps, presumably going on leave.

Back at the hotel, he collected his suitcase, handed in his key, and walked out to the Hanomag. As he headed for Gaarden the road seemed empty, but Gaarden itself was getting ready for Friday night, the open doorways of numerous bars and restaurants spilling light across the cobbled street and tramlines. There were a lot of sailors in evidence, a lot of women awaiting their pleasure, but no sign of the police.

He parked up against the shipyard wall and sat for a minute, examining the Germania Bar. Conversation and laughter drifted out through the open door, along with a smell of fried onions. Light edged the closed curtains in all but one of the upstairs windows; in the darkened exception a man could be seen leaning out, a cigarette bobbing between his lips. It was a brothel, Russell realized. And it was three minutes to eight.

Heart in mouth, he climbed out of the Hanomag, checked it was locked, and waited for a tram to pass before crossing the road. The bar was bigger inside than the outside suggested, with two walls of booths, a few tables and a small area for dancing should anyone feel the need. It was plusher than hed expected, and cleaner. The booths were bound in leather, the bar itself highly polished. There were several young sailors to be seen, but most of the men, like Russell, were either entering or enjoying middle age inside their respectable overcoats. He took his off, seated himself in one of the two remaining empty booths, and laid Martin Chuzzlewit face up on the table.

Good book? the waitress asked him. Chuzzlewit, she said with a laugh, what sort of name is that?

English, he told her.

That explains it. What would you like?

He ordered a Goldwasser, and looked around the room. A few faces had looked his way when he entered, but no one had shown any obvious interest since. One of the sailors stood up, playfully pulled his female companion to her feet, and headed for a door in the back wall. As it opened, the bottom of a staircase came into view.

The Goldwasser arrived, and a female companion shortly thereafter. She was about his age, thin verging on scrawny, with dark-circled eyes and a tired smile. Buy me a drink, Herr Russell, she suggested in a low voice, before he could say he was waiting for someone else. She leaned across the table, put a hand over his, and whispered: After weve had a drink well go upstairs, and youll get what you came for.

He ordered her drink, a sweet martini.

I am Geli, she said, stroking his hand with an absentminded air. And what are you doing in Kiel?

Im a journalist, he said, joining the charade. Im writing a story about the widening of the Kiel Canal.

Extra width is always good, she said wryly. Lets go up. I can see youre impatient.

He followed her up two flights of stairs, watching the hem of her red dress swish against her black-stockinged calves. There were four rooms on the second floor, and pleasure was being noisily taken in at least one of them. Through the open door of a bathroom he caught sight of a plump blond wearing only black stockings and a garter belt, drying herself with a towel.

In here, Geli said, opening a door and gesturing him in. Ill be back in a few minutes, she added, closing it behind him.

There was a window that overlooked an alley, and a threadbare carpet that covered half the wooden floor. A bare light bulb illuminated a large unmade bed which was supported in one corner by a pile of books. On the beds wooden headboard someone had written Goebbels was here, and someone else had added So thats how I got this disease. Enough to put anyone off, Russell thought.

The door opened and a man came in, closely followed by Geli. He was younger than her, but not by much. He had fair hair, blue eyes, and skin which had seen too much sun and wind. He was wearing a sailors greatcoat.

He shook Russells hand, and sat down heavily on the bed, causing it to creak alarmingly. Geli stood with her back to the window, half-sitting on the sill, watching him unpick the seam of his coat lining with a penknife. It only took a few seconds. Reaching inside he pulled out a small sheaf of papers and handed them over to Russell.

It looked like a small sheaf, but there were more than thirty sheets of text and diagrams, all copied out onto the thinnest available paper. These are not the originals, Russell thought out loud.

If they were, the Navy would know they were gone, the man said wearily, as if he was explaining matters to a particularly obtuse child.

Are there other copies? Russell asked.

One. For your successor, should you fail.

And then youll need another one for his successor.

The man offered him a grudging smile. Something like that.

Can I ask you a question?

Go ahead.

Why not send this out by radio?

The man nodded at the papers. Look at it. By the time we got that lot out every triangulation van in Germany would be banging on our door. And you cant convey maps by radio, not with any ease. He offered a fleeting smile. We used to post stuff to the Soviet Embassy in Berlin, but they got wise. They open everything now. Everything.

Russell folded the papers in two and stuffed them into his inside pocket. I have a better hiding place in my car, he explained.

Thank God for that. Look, I must go before. . . .

There was a sudden roar from below. The stormtroopers have arrived, Geli said. Dont worry, she told Russell, theyre not here for you.

They fuck our women, fuck our country, and soon theyll be fucking all of Europe, the man said. But well have them in the end. He shook Russells hand again and wished him good luck. Ill see you later, he told Geli, and slipped out of the door.

Just wait a few minutes, she told Russell, and Ill take you down.

They were long minutes, but they eventually passed. As they went down a stormtrooper was coming up, almost dragging a girl in his wake. Slow down, Klaus, Geli pleaded with him. Shell be no use to you unconscious. He grinned at her, as if the girls consciousness were neither here nor there.

The noise from the bar had grown deafening. The back door might be better, Geli said, and led him out through a bright but empty kitchen. Just right and right again, she said, and closed the door behind him, removing most of the light. Russell felt his way along the back wall to the buildings corner, from where he could make out the dimly lit road. As he started down the side of the building a silhouette loomed in the mouth of the alley, a man in high boots, with cap on head.

Russell froze, heart thumping in his chest. The man was moving toward him, reaching for something with his hand. . . .

His trouser buttons. A couple of meters into the alley he turned, pulled out his penis and, with a loud exhalation, arced a fierce stream of dull golden piss against the wall. Russell stood there, petrified of any movement, wondering when it would ever end. A ship in the bay sounded a long and mournful blow on its horn, but still the piss streamed out, forcing the man to shift his feet away from the spreading lake.

The arc finally collapsed. The stormtrooper gave a few pumps for luck, stuffed himself back into his trousers, and headed for the alley entrance. And then he was gone.

Russell hurried forward, hoping to escape before someone else had the same idea. He almost stepped in the prodigious puddle, but reached the entrance without mishap. His car was sitting across the road, hopelessly sandwiched between the two open trucks which had brought the stormtroopers.

He hurried across, climbed in, and started the engine. Five or six maneuvers later, he was still only halfway out. The temptation to ram the trucks was almost overwhelming, but he doubted whether the Hanomag had the weight to move them if he did. Fighting back desperation, he shifted the car, inch by inch, further into the road. He was almost there when several stormtroopers emerged from the door across the road and started shouting at him. He was about to try a final, metal-scraping, lunge for freedom when he realized they were killing themselves with laughter. They had hemmed him in as a practical joke.

He opened the window and made a wry face, acknowledging their brilliant sense of humor. Three more maneuvers and he was free, Uturning the Hanomag in front of them with a triumphant raise of the hand. As he headed south toward the center of Gaarden he could see them happily waving goodbye in his rearview mirror.

His hotel bed was waiting for him, but it didn't seem far enough away. He wanted, he realized, to get out Kiel, and as quickly as possible. It was still only 9:00, time enough to find a small guesthouse in a small town, somewhere between there and Lubeck.

He took the more northerly of the Lubeck roads, and once in open country found a wide verge on which to pull over. With ears alert for approaching traffic he turned on the car light, opened up the false bottom of the suitcase, and placed the papers inside. He had planned to copy them for the British that night, but hed need a whole weekend to copy this lot. He would have to be selective. Theyd be none the wiser.

About ten kilometers further on he found the town and guesthouse for which he was looking. It wasnt much more than a village bar, but the woman who ran it was happy to provide him with a room. It was my sons, she said, without explaining where hed gone. The sundry toys and books suggested he was expected back.

Once locked in, Russell retrieved the papers from the false bottom and skimmed through them. They were what Irina Borskaya had claimed they werea detailed rundown of the German Navys current and contingency disposition in the Baltic. Most of the key information seemed to be included in the three maps which accompanied the text, and Russell set out to copy these. The British, he thought, should be thankful for small mercies.

The maps were highly detailed, and it took him almost four hours to finish his work. He felt as if he had only just gotten to sleep when the landlady knocked on his door suggesting breakfast, and it was indeed only seven oclock. Still, breakfast was good, and the sun was already above the horizon. Her son, it transpired, had joined the Navy.

Russell set out for Berlin soon after 9:00, papers and copies hidden in the false bottom, the suitcase itself wedged under the eye-catching model of the Preussen. There was no need, of courseno roadblock, no spot-checks, no officious small-town policemen eager to find fault with a car bearing a Berlin license plate. Soon after 1:00 he parked the Hanomag outside Zoo Station, pulled out the suitcase, and nervously carried it in to the left luggage.

Nice day, the clerk said, taking the case and handing over a numbered ticket.

So far, Russell agreed. He rang Effi from the telephone stand along the hall and told her things had gone to plan. She sounded as relieved as he felt. Im going home to collect some clean clothes and do a bit more shopping for Paul, he told her. Ill see you about six.

She told him they had tickets for a revue at one of the smaller theaters near Alexanderplatz, and he tried, in vain, to sound enthusiastic. Im just tired, he explained. Ill be fine by then.

He certainly felt safer with the suitcase squirreled away in Zoo Stations cavernous left luggage. There was always the ticket of course, but if worse came to worse that was small enough to eat. Back at the car, he examined the model ship for the first time in daylight, and congratulated himself on his choiceit really was beautiful.

Frau Heidegger thought so too, and conjured up a bright red ribbon which shed been saving for such an eventuality. There were messages from both his agents: Jake Brandon had sent a sarcastic wire from New York demanding copy, and Solly Bernstein had phoned to tell Russell that his friends had arrived in London. He was still smiling when he reached his third floor room.

After a much-needed bath and change of clothes, he piled several more changes into his usual suitcase and carried it out to the car. Lunch at Wertheim was followed by a leisurely stroll around the toy department, and the acquisition of two other gifts in which Paul had expressed an interest. A book shop further down Leipzigerstrasse supplied a third. He was probably spending too much, but he might never get another chance.

He managed to stay awake through the revue, but was unable to conceal his dismay when Effi suggested dancing. She took pity on him. I know whatll wake you up, she said as they climbed the stairs to her flat, and she was right. Afterward, she showed him what she had bought for Paulthe gorgeous encyclopedia of animals which he had admired on their last visit to the zoo shop.

Next morning they joined several hundred other Berliners on the sidewalk of the Kudamm, well-wrapped against the cold at their outside table, rustling newspapers, sipping coffee, and nibbling cake. This was how it used to be, Russell thoughtordinary Germans doing ordinary things, enjoying their simple civilized pleasures.

His newspaper, though, told a different story. While hed been slinking round Kiel the Czechs had lost patience with the German-backed Slovaks, sacking their provincial government and arresting their prime minister. The Beobachter was apoplecticwhat nation could countenance such a level of disturbance just beyond its borders? Some sort of German intervention seemed inevitable, but then it always had. If the separatists won then Czechoslovakia would disintegrate; if denied, their campaign would simply continue. Either set of circumstances would generate enough turmoil for Hitlers purposes.

Looking up from his paper, the sidewalk cafe-dwellers no longer seemed content in their simple pleasures. They looked tense, weary, anxious. They looked as though a war was hanging over their heads.

After lunch with Effi he drove over to Grunewald, dropped off his presents, and gave his son a birthday hug. Twenty minutes later they were picking up Thomas in Lutzow and heading for the Plumpe. Thomass son Joachim had started his arbeitsdienst the previous week, and was repairing roads in the Moselle valley.

The weather was fine, but the team proved incapable of providing Paul with a birthday present. They lost 2-0, and were lucky not to lose by more. Pauls despondency didn't last long: By the time they were halfway home he was full of the party in prospect, and forgetful of Herthas dark betrayal.

Effi was already there when they arrived, talking happily to Thomass fourteen-year-old daughter Lotte. Over the next hour around a dozen of Pauls friendsall of them malewere delivered by their parents, some in their Sunday best, some, for reasons best known to the parents, in their Jungvolk uniforms. The games they played seem surprisingly violent, but that, Russell supposed, was part of the same depressing mindset. At least they hadn't replaced pin the tail on the donkey with pin the nose on the Jew. Yet. He would write a piece on children for the Ordinary Germans, series, he decided. When he got back from Prague.

Paul seemed happy and popular, which was definitely something to celebrate. The adultsIlse and Matthias, Thomas and his wife Hanna, Russell and Effisat together in the huge kitchen, drinking Matthiass excellent wine. They smiled and laughed and toasted each other, but the talk was of happier times in the past, of how things used to be. At one point, watching Ilse as she listened to somebody else, Russell had a mental picture of her in Moscow fifteen years earlier, eyes alive with hopes of a better world. Now all of them were backing into the future, frightened to look ahead. They had their own bubble, but for how long?

The evening ended, bringing tomorrow that much closer. After congratulating each other on how well their presents had been received, both he and Effi lapsed into silence for most of the journey home. They were turning into her street when she suddenly suggested accompanying him to Prague.

No, he said. Theres no point in us both taking the risk. He switched off the car. And youre a Germantheyd try you for treason. Theyd have more options with me.

Like what?

Oh, I dont know. Swapping me for one of their spies, maybe.

Or just shooting you.

I doubt it. But I think having you there would make me more nervous. And more likely to give myself away.

She searched his face, and seemed satisfied with what she found. All right, she said. Its no fun just waiting by the phone, you know.

I know.

Upstairs, he noticed the script on her dressing table and had an idea. Can you get another copy for yourself? he asked.

I dont see why not. I could say I burned the first one in a fit of despair. But why?

I thought Id take it with me in the suitcase. Camouflage. And one of your publicity shots would be good.

She went and got one, a head and shoulders shot taken a couple of years earlier.

Your face would distract anyone, he said.

IT WAS STILL DARK when Russell woke and he lay there for a while, listening to Effis breathing and enjoying the warmth of her body. At 7:30 he forced himself out of bed, washed and dressed in the bathroom, and finally woke her to say goodbye as she had insisted he must. She enfolded him in a sleepy embrace, then swung her legs out of bed and arched her back in a huge stretch. As he descended the stairs she stood in her nightdress by the half-open door, blowing him a farewell kiss.

Berlin was already waking to another working week. The Avus Speedway was busy, but only in the other direction, and he reached Potsdam well before 9:00. After parking the Hanomag near the main post office in Wilhelmplatz, he lingered over breakfast in the coffee shop next door. The newspapers, as expected, were reveling in the misery of the Czechs.

At ten past 9:00 he presented himself at the poste restante desk, and signed for the familiar envelope. Walking back to the Hanomag, he felt like a man whod just been handed a ticking bomb. Not to worry, he thoughthed soon have two.

The drive back was slower, and it was past 10:00 when he turned off the Kudamm and saw the glass roof of Zoo Station framed by the buildings on either side of Joachimsthaler Strasse. He parked the Hanomag near the Tiergarten gate which he and Gert had used, inserted the folded envelope in his inside coat pocket, picked up the suitcase, and walked back to the nearest station entrance.

There was a line for the left luggage, but no sign of the police, or of anyone loitering suspiciously. When his turn came Russell handed over his ticket, watched the clerk disappear, and waited for a thousand sirens to go off. A child in the queue behind him suddenly screeched, making him jump. A train rumbled overhead, but the roof didn't fall. The clerk returned with the suitcase, took Russells money, and handed it over.

Next stop was the mens toilet. The cubicles were small, and entering one with two suitcases required a level of planning which was almost beyond him. He clattered his way in, locked the door behind him, and sat on the seat for a few moments to recover what fragments of equanimity he still retained. The walls didn't reach to the ceiling, but the adjoining cubicles were both empty, at least for the moment.

He stood up, put the smaller suitcase on the toilet seat, and opened it up. After unclicking the false bottom, he removed the three maps he had copied, replaced them with McKinleys papers, and closed the bottom. A brief struggle then ensued, as he fought to open the other suitcase in what little remaining space the cubicle had to offer. Half its contents ended up on the floor, but all were eventually transferred to the smaller suitcase, which was now satisfyingly full. After checking that the three maps were in his coat pocket he closed both suitcases, pulled the chain, and fought his way out of the cubicle.

The man at the left luggage looked surprised to see him again, but accepted the empty suitcase without comment, and handed him a new ticket. On the platform above he waited for a westbound Stadtbahn, thinking that this was where McKinley had died and where the Wiesners had left Hitler behind. On the far platform a man was angrily shaking the toasted almond machine, just as another man had been doing at Friedrichstrasse on the morning he returned from Danzig.

His train pulled in and out again, skirting the northern edge of the Tiergarten, crossing and re-crossing the Spree on its three-stop journey to Friedrichstrasse. Russell went out through the less-frequented car park entrance and walked briskly toward the embassy. His steps on the pavements sound unusually loud, and every car that kept on going seemed like a gift from God. Halfway across the Unter den Linden he decided that if anyone challenged him now, he would sprint through the embassy doors and never come out again.

But no one did. As before, he asked the receptionist for Unsworth and Unsworth for Trelawney-Smythe. The latter looked at the three maps as if he couldn't believe his luck. Where did you get them? he demanded.

A comrade in Kiel, was all Russell would tell him. A one-off, he added. There wont be any more.

But how do I know these are genuine?

I guess you dont. But they are. And your people must have ways of confirming at least some of it.

Perhaps.

Russell took a meaningful look at his watch. I have a train to catch.

And where are you off to this time? Trelawney-Smythe asked, sounding almost friendly.

Prague.

Ah, joining Adolfs reception committee.

I hope not.

Dropping in on Unsworth to say goodbye, he was told much the same. And the British guarantee of Czechoslovakia? Russell asked sarcastically.

Without Slovakia there is no Czechoslovakia, Unsworth said. And therefore no guarantee.

Neat, Russell said.

Very, Unsworth agreed.

Out on the street, Russell hailed a passing taxi. Anhalter Bahnhof, he told the driver. It seemed as if he and Hitler were heading in the same direction.

THE TRAIN TO PRAGUE left at noon, and was scheduled to arrive in the Czech capital shortly before 7:00. Russell boarded it with a sinking sensation in his stomach, and an alcohol-rich lunch in the dining car did nothing to improve matters.

The lunchtime editions carried the news that the Slovak premier Monsignor Tiso had been invited to Berlin. He had, over the past couple of days, seemed surprisingly reluctant to tip over the Czech apple-cart, and the Fuhrer was doubtless anxious to offer him some kindly advice. Their trains would cross at some point, Russell guessed. He would watch the passing windows for a prelate with a death wish.

Speaking of which. . . . he reminded himself that the Wiesners were in London, that foreigners were hardly ever searched, that the next life was bound to be better than this one. He fought off a momentary impulse to quit the train at Dresden, the only stop before the frontier. If he did, the Soviets would probably come looking for him with murder in mind. And he could hardly have blamed thema deal was a deal.

As the train wound its way up the upper Elbe valley toward the frontier he compiled a compendium of possible explanations for the material in his false-bottomed suitcase that even a reefer-smoking Neville Chamberlain would have found impossible to believe. As Gert had said, the important thing was not to be searched.

As the train slowed for the border inspection his heart speeded up. They came to a halt in a wide ravine, shared by double tracks and the loud, foaming river. The snow-speckled walls of the valley rose steeply on either side, and the long, low building which housed the emigration and customs services was partly suspended over the rushing waters. The river ruled out escape in one direction, and the tall electrified fence beyond the tracks precluded any hope of flight in the other. Like rats in a maze, Russell thoughtonly one way to go.

The loudspeakers suspended from the searchlight pylons crackled into life. All passengers were requested to leave the train and form a line on the narrow strip of tarmac alongside the tracks.

There were about 200 people in the queue, Russell reckoned, and they were filing into the building at a gratifying rate. Just a quick look at documents, he thought, and on we go. Beside him the train lurched forward, ready to pick up its passengers on the other side. Without its comforting presence Russell felt suddenly vulnerable.

Finally, he could see through the doorway. Uniformed officers sat behind two desks, while others hovered in the background, sizing up potential prey. Further on, two pairs of officers stood behind tables, searching through bags and suitcases. The first hurdle presented itself. The officer looked at his passport, and then at his face. Your name? he asked, and for a split second Russells mind was a terrifying blank.

John Russell, he said, as if he hadn't been concentrating.

Birthdate?

That was easier. Eighth of August 1899.

Thank you, the official said, and handed him back his passport. Russell moved on, carefully avoiding all eye contact. Ignore me, he silently pleaded with the customs officials behind the tables.

In vain. You, the nearest said. Open your case, please.

Russell placed it on the table, willing his hands not to shake as he clicked the case open. The man and his blond partner stared for a second at the top layer of clothes, and the partner started digging around with his hands. Whats this? he asked, pulling out Effis script. A Girl from the Mountains?

Its a film script, Russell said. My girlfriends an actress, he added. Her photographs inside.

The partner extracted it and both men took a good look. Ive seen her in something, the first man said.

His partner rubbed his chin with forefinger and thumb. I have, too.

I remember, the first man said. She was the wife of that guy who got killed by the Reds. . . .

The Necessary Sacrifice, Russell suggested helpfully.

Thats the one. And shes your girlfriend?

Uh-huh.

Youre a lucky man, the partner said, replacing the photograph and closing the suitcase.

Russell had never heard a more beautiful click. I know it, he said with a grateful smile. Suitcase in hand, he walked out through the open doorway, repressing the urge to skip and dance.

THE TRAIN PULLED INTO Pragues Masaryk Station at twenty past seven. On the streets it felt more like midnightthey were dark and mostly deserted, as if the citys people were all at home, hunched over their radio sets. He had never seen Wenceslas Square so empty, even at four in the morning.

The Grand was fully operational though, its multilingual staff and art nouveau fittings a match for any barbarian invasion. Russell had stayed there twice before, once in the late 20s and once the previous September, when Chamberlain and Daladier were licking Hitlers boots in Munich. He asked the receptionist if anything crucial had happened in the last seven hours, and was told that it hadn't. Monsignor Tiso, he supposed, was still en route to Berlin.

Russells room was on the first floor, at the back. Apart from the lack of a view it seemed thoroughly adequate. After those few moments at the frontier, though, a pigsty would have seemed adequate, provided it was in Czechoslovakia. He dumped the unopened suitcase on the bed and went back down in search of dinner.

The hotel restaurant also seemed a lot emptier than usual, but the baked carp, fruit dumplings, and South Moravian white wine were all delicious. A walk seemed in order, but he reluctantly decided against onehis train left at 11:40 the following morning and he was anxious for the Soviets to collect their papers. The thought of having to dump them in the Vltava was more than he could bear.

He didn't have long to wait. Shortly before 10:00 he answered a familiar-sounding tap on his door, and found Irina Borskaya anxiously glancing up the corridor. Come in, he said superfluouslyshe had already dodged under his arm. She was wearing the same long, charcoal gray skirt, but a different blouse. Her hair seemed a shade lighter, and this time there was a hint of bright red lipstick on her thin lips.

The papers, she said, sitting down in the upright chair.

Its nice to see you, too, Russell said, opening the suitcase. After dumping his possessions onto the bed, he clicked the false bottom open, removed the sheaf of papers hed picked up in Gaarden, and handed them over.

What are those? she asked, as he placed the envelope containing McKinleys papers on the bedside table.

A story Im working on.

She gave him a disbelieving look, but said nothing. After flicking through the naval dispositions, she reached inside her blouse and brought out a money clip containing Swiss Franc notes. High denomination Swiss Franc notes. We promised to pay you well, she said, as if reprimanding him for any possible doubts he might have had on that score.

Thank you, he said. Its been a pleasure doing business with you.

There is no need for the pleasure to end, she said. We have other work. . . .

No, Russell said firmly. We had a simple dealyou helped my friend out of Germany, I brought your papers to Prague. Were quits. I wish the Soviet Union well, but not well enough to die for it.

Very well, she said, rising from the chair and cradling the papers in one arm. The fact that she had no obvious place to conceal them led Russell to the conclusion that her room was close to his own. If that is how you feel, she told him, then we understand. And we thank you for what you have done.

Somewhat astonished by the ease with which his resignation had been accepted, Russell opened the door for her.

When are you leaving? she asked.

Tomorrow morning.

Then have a good journey. She put her head out, glanced to the left and the right, and walked off down the corridor in the direction of the stairs. The whole encounter had taken less than five minutes.

BEFORE GOING DOWNSTAIRS THE NEXT MORNING Russell wrote a short covering letter to McKinleys editor in San Francisco, explaining how he had come by the papers and offering his own brief summary of their significance. After breakfast in the hotel restaurant he walked around the corner to the main post office on Jind?iska, bought and addressed a large envelope, and asked for the quickest possible delivery. Itll be gone before he gets here, the clerk observed, reading Russells mind. On the afternoon plane to Paris, he added in explanation.

Satisfied, Russell walked back to the Grand, collected his suitcase, and checked out. He was early for the train but he liked Masaryk Station, and he liked the idea of being closer to home.

As it happened, it didn't matter, because he no longer had a seat. Two carriages of the train, including his own, had been commandeered by President Hacha and his swollen entourage. The Czech President, Russell gathered from discussions with sundry railway officials, had also been invited to Berlin, and a heart condition prohibited him from flying. Russell was assured that two extra carriages would be added to the night train, but no one seemed capable of explaining why they couldn't be added to this one.

Oh well, Russell thought, there were many worse places to spend a day than Prague. As President Hacha and his dicey heart were about to find out.

He left the suitcase in the left luggage, took a tram back to the town center, and spent the next couple of hours ambling down the east bank of the river. The Czech flag was still flying from the ramparts of the famous castle, but for how long? A few days at most, Russell thought, and the citys residents seemed to agree with him. As he walked back through the old town in search of a late lunch he noticed rapidly lengthening lines at one baker after another. News of Hachas trip had obviously spread.

This was it, Russell thoughtthe end of any lingering hopes for peace. There was no way of presenting this as part of some grand scheme to bring Germans home to the Reich. Hitler had thrown off the cloak. It was no longer if, but when.

The sight of an orthodox Jew on Narodni Street reminded him of Albert. Long gone, he hoped, but what of Czechoslovakias 100,000 Jews? What were they doing this afternoon? Crowding the stations, loading their carsor just sitting tight and hoping for the best, as so many German Jews had done? This orthodox Jew had a bagful of groceries, and seemed in no hurry to go anywhere.

He thought about what Albert had said during the drive to the Gorlitz, that kindness had become more worthy of note, and more interesting to fathom, than cruelty. It was certainly harder to find.

With darkness falling he sought out a bar, and sampled several different Bohemian beers. Each tasted better than the last. He raised a toast to McKinleys papers, now hopefully resting in some Parisian sorting-office, and another to McKinley himself. From time to time, over the last six weeks, he had found himself wondering why they had killed the young American. It was the wrong question to ask, he realized. It was like asking why they had killed Felix Wiesner. They might have had, or thought they had, particular motives, but the real reason was much simplerthey were killers. It was what they were. It was, in truth, all that they were.

THE COLD AIR STREAMING THROUGH his cabs broken window kept him awake on his way to the station, but once ensconced in the overheated train he soon found himself falling asleep. The jerk of departure woke him for long enough to recline his seat, and the last thing he remembered was that he should have phoned Effi.

The next thing he knew he was waking with a sudden feeling of panic. He looked at his watch. Almost three hours had passedthey had to be nearing the frontier. But that didn't matter anymore, he told himself. His subconscious was obviously stuck on the outward journey.

And then it occurred to him. He had never closed the false bottom. After Borskaya had gone he had just shifted the suitcase onto the floor, and this morning he had simply shoveled all the clothes back in.

The thought of another wrestle with a suitcase in a toilet made him groan, but it had to be done. He took it down from the overhead rack, and carried it out to the vestibule at the end of the car. Shading his eyes with his hands, and sticking his face up against the window, he could just make out the river running beside the tracks.

Inside the toilet he opened the suitcase, threw all the clothes on the floor, and went to close the false bottom.

It was already closed.

He stood there for a few moments, thinking back. When had he done it?

He hadn't.

Clicking it open, he found several sheets of paper hidden inside. Holding the first one up to the dim light of the cubicle, he found that it contained a list of names and addressessix under Ruhr, three under Hamburg. The other sheetsthere were nine of themfollowed a similar pattern. There were almost a hundred people listed, from all the different parts of Germany.

Who were they? No indication was given, none at all. But one thing was certainthe Soviets meant them to be discovered. That was why Borskaya had asked him when he was leaving, Russell thoughtthey had been inserted while he was downstairs at breakfast or out posting McKinleys papers. That was why shed accepted his resignation so easily. And the moneythat worked both ways. Such generosity might keep him working for them, but if it didn't, so much foreign currency would be hard to explain.

The names, he realized, had to be German communistsreal or imaginary. Were these men and women whom Stalin wanted culled, but who were beyond his reach? Or was the list a work of fiction, something to keep the Gestapo busy while the real communists got on with their work? A bit of both, Russell guessed. A few real communists to keep the Gestapo believing, and then the wild goose chase.

He shivered at the nearness of his escape, and realized that the train was slowing down. He shoved the suitcase to the floor, yanked up the lid of the toilet, and started tearing the sheets of paper into smaller and smaller pieces. Once these were all in the bowl he reached for the lever, filled with the sudden dread that it wouldn't work.

It didn't. As beads of cold sweat multiplied on his forehead, Russell worked the lever again. It coughed up some water, but nowhere near enough.

There was a heavy knock on the door. We are approaching the frontier, a German voice said.

Right, Russell shouted back. What should he do? Try and swallow all the bits of paper, along with whatever international germs the toilet bowl had been saving for him? Anything but that.

The train was still decelerating. He looked for some access to the toilets workings, but everything was screwed down. He tried the lever one more time, more out of habit than hope, and for reasons known only to God it flushed. He stood there, reveling in the sight of empty water, until sweet relief gave way to a nightmare vision of Gestapo officers combing the tracks for all the pieces and painstakingly gluing them back together.

Get a grip, he murmured to himself. He picked up the suitcase, clicked the false bottom shut, and covered it with clothing retrieved from the floor. As he left the toilet he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror, and wished he hadn't. He looked deranged.

The train was still moving, the lighted platform of the Czech border point unrolling past the window. It was snowing now, thick flakes drifting down through the cones of light. We are not stopping at the Czech crossing point tonight, the German railway official was saying to a female passenger. No Czechoslovakia, no border, Russell thought. Did that mean they were not stopping at the German border either?

No such luck.

The passengers decanted onto the platform, a long strip of spotlit tarmac in a sea of darkness. As Russell joined the line, a new and highly unwelcome thought occurred to him. If the sheets were meant to be found, there had to have been a tip-off. The false bottom might be empty, but it was still a false bottom.

One explanation seemed workable, but only if the officials on duty were different from the ones he had encountered the day before. As the queue sucked him out of the snow and into the building, he anxiously examined the faces, but there were none he recognized.

The immigration official took one look at his passport and gestured to a man in plain clothes behind him. Gestapo. This way, Herr Russell the man said, without looking at his passport. He walked across to a large table, where another man in plain clothes was waiting.

Put your suitcase on the table, the first man said. He had long hair for the Gestapo, and an almost likable face. As he opened the suitcase, Russell noticed that his fingernails badly needed trimming.

Could I have your name and rank? Russell asked.

Ascherl, Kriminalassistent, he said without looking up.

He took out the clothes with more care than Russell had, and piled them on the other end of the table. Effis script was placed on the top. Then he ran his hands round the inside of the suitcase, obviously looking for a way of accessing the false bottom. Borskaya had been behind him when he opened it in the hotel room, Russell remembered.

How do you open it? Ascherl asked him.

Russell looked perplexed. Its open.

The hidden compartment, the Gestapo officer said patiently.

Russell tried to look even more perplexed. What are you talking about?

Ascherl turned to his subordinate. Your knife, Schneider.

Schneider pulled out a large pocket-knife. Ascherl looked at the suitcase for a moment, ran his hand along inside it, then abruptly turned it upside down, pressed in the knife, and patiently sawed from one side of the bottom to the other. This hidden compartment, he said, reaching in a hand.

His look of triumph faded as his scrabbling hand failed to find anything in it. Two more cuts and he was able to wrench back a section of the reinforced leather bottom and shine a torch inside.

Where is it? he asked patiently.

Where is what? Russell replied, trying to sound bewildered. Most of the others in the room were watching them now, eager to see how the situation played out.

Let me put it another way, the Gestapo officer said. What reason do you have for carrying a suitcase with a hidden compartment?

I didn't know it had one. I only bought it yesterday, from a Jew in Prague. He smiled, as if the answer had just occurred to him. The bastard probably used it to smuggle valuables out of the Reich.

Undoubtedly, Ascherl said.

Russell was still thanking heaven for his inspiration when he noticed a new face in the roomone of the customs officials from the day before. The man was looking straight at him, with an expression on his face that seemed part indignation, part amusement.

But you are from Berlin, Ascherl continued. Did you travel to Prague without a suitcase?

It fell apart when I was there. I needed a new one. Russell braced himself for an intervention by the customs official, but there was none.

And this Jew just happened along?

No, theres a market, like the ones they used to have in Berlin. The customs official was still looking at him, still saying nothing. Was it possible that he didn't remember this suitcase from the day before?

Your wallet, please, the Gestapo officer said.

Russell handed it over, and watched him remove the currencya few Czech notes, some Reichsmarks, the clip of Swiss Francs.

Where did these come? Ascherl asked.

I wrote an article for a Soviet paper, and they paid me in Swiss Francs. Several months ago now. I thought they might be useful in Prague. The SD knows all about this, he added. Look, he said, indicating the wallet, can I show you something?

Ascherl handed it back, and Russell pulled out the folded sheet of Sturmbannfuhrer Kleists letter.

As the Gestapo man read it, Russell watched his face. If the list had been found in the hidden compartment then the letter could have been ignored. As it was, all Ascherl had was a story full of holes that he couldn't fill in. Would he keep on trying, and risk offending the big boys on Wilhelmstrasse?

I see, he said finally, and looked up at Russell. It seems we are all victims of the same plot. We received information . . . well, I wont go into that. It looks as though the Reds have tried to set you up.

The suitcase was suspiciously cheap, Russell admitted. Across the room the customs official was still watching, still doing his Mona Lisa impersonation.

Its not worth much now, Ascherl said, surveying his knifework.

Russell smiled. You were doing your duty, as any friend of the Reich would wish.

Ascherl smiled back. We have others. Confiscated from Jews. Perhaps we can find you another one with a hidden compartment. Schneider?

Ascherls assistant disappeared into an adjoining room and reemerged almost immediately with two suitcases. Russell chose the smaller of the two, and packed it with his clothes and Effis script. The customs official had disappeared.

But not for long. As Russell came out of the building the man fell into step beside him. Nice suitcase, he said.

Russell stopped.

Im getting married next month, the man said, carefully positioning himself between Russell and any watchers in the building they had just left.

Russell took out his wallet, removed the clip of Swiss francs, and handed it over. A wedding present?

The man smiled, gave him an ironic click of the heels, and strode away.

Russell walked on toward the train. The snow was heavier now, tumbling down through the pools of light, flakes clinging to the glistening wire. He could feel the sweat on his body slowly turning to ice.

The train, it seemed, was waiting only for him the whistle shrilled as he stepped aboard. He made his way forward through the swaying cars, slumped into the reclining seat, and listened to the rhythmic clatter of the wheels, rolling him into the Reich.