Masaryk Station (John Russell) (25 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Just Thomas?’

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

‘Annaliese?’

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

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

‘Nothing serious.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Here in Berlin?’

‘Maybe, maybe not.’

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

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

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

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

‘We meet on Fridays.’

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

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

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

‘It’s been a long time,’ Effi said.

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

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

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

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

‘I can’t wait that long.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Several affidavits.’

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

‘So it wasn’t a suicide?’

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

‘I’ll try.’

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

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

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

‘I thought you outranked him.’

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

‘Which is what exactly?’

‘A more aggressive approach.’

‘But what does that actually mean?’

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

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

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

‘Where does he get that from?’

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

‘Nothing special.’

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

‘And cash me in?’

‘And cash us in.’

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

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

‘Okay.’

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

‘But I …’

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

‘Where the hell is Wismut?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And if they don’t?’