Stattin Station (20 page)
He handed it back.
'Your meeting will be at the Sramota Cafe. It's on the river, close to the Smetana Bridge. Grashof will be sitting on the terrace, the very last table along from the entrance. You should arrive at exactly two o'clock, with the latest issue of
Signal
.'
'What if it's raining? Or snowing even?'
'It's a glassed-in terrace.'
'What if someone beats us to that table?'
'They won't. This is all taken care of; you just have to be there. Greet Grashof like he was an old friend, order a coffee, sit and chat for ten, fifteen minutes. Before you arrive, you will have hidden this letter -' Piekenbrock passed a wax-sealed and unaddressed envelope across the desk '- in your magazine. Grashof will have his own copy, and it should not prove difficult to switch them over.'
'Elementary,' Russell murmured. The Admiral's penchant for the old traditions had scuppered his plan to steam the missive open. 'Will there be anything in his copy?'
'No.'
Russell put the envelope in his inside jacket pocket. 'Is that it?'
'You will need your train tickets and visa,' Piekenbrock said, handing over another envelope. 'You will find some local currency for your expenses. More than enough, I'm sure. Do you have any questions?'
He had several, but none that Piekenbrock could or would answer. He shook his head.
'Then have a good journey.'
Russell resumed his walk along the Landwehrkanal for another few hundred metres, before climbing the steps at the Potsdamer Strasse Bridge and strolling northward at a leisurely pace towards Leipziger Platz and the Press Club. He felt unreasonably cheerful, and could only assume it was the play of sunlight working its usual magic.
A couple of dozing Italians and one self-important Romanian were the press club's only customers, and Russell had the English-language newspapers all to himself. Not that they offered any real enlightenment. Some thought the battles in Russia were going well for the Germans, with the battles in North Africa going better for the British; while others thought the opposite on both counts.
He walked up Wilhelmstrasse to the Foreign Ministry. Braun von Stumm was again presiding, a sure sign that the regime was short of good news. The subject of Rostov's fall - and the unknown extent of the subsequent German retreat - was evaded with all the usual finesse: von Stumm simply refused to talk about it. The attack on Moscow was still said to be going well, but there were no new towns in the 'captured' column - German troops were simply 'closer to the capital'. Leafing back through his notebook, Russell found more of the same. The previous day they had 'taken more ground', the day before that 'further progress had been made'. The fall of Istra provided the last specific tidemark, and that had been five days ago. Were they hoarding news of advances for maximum later effect, or had they really run out of steam? His mind said the latter, his heart feared the former.
He headed homeward, stopping off at the Press Club to file a near-perfect copy of the Germans' own official release. There were no caveats he could add which the censors would pass, and the gaps in the German version hardly seemed to need pointing out.
Back at the flat, he packed an overnight bag. A pair of trousers had gone missing - Effi must have taken a sack of washing to the laundry without telling him, and then forgotten to collect it. He rescued the half-read
Tristram Shandy
from under the bed and eventually dug up the street map of Prague he had bought in 1939. The flat felt cold and empty, and he hung on later than he should, hoping that Effi would arrive home. She didn't, and the slowness of the tram to Anhalter Station would have caused him to him miss his train, had it not been delayed by an hour. Russell asked a convenient Reichsbahn employee whether dinner on the train would be better than dinner in the Anhalter buffet, and was told to draw his own conclusions from the prominent sign regretting the lack of a dining car. Others had obviously bothered to read it, and the station buffet was packed. Ordering took forever, leaving the time for eating seriously curtailed. Forced to run for the train, Russell quickly realised that every seat was taken, and that even space in the corridors was at a premium. He finally squeezed himself into a small corner beside a draughty corridor connection, feeling slightly nauseous and very out of breath.
It was not a very auspicious beginning. But at least he wasn't carrying anything for the comrades on this trip. Canaris might have occasional problems remembering who his country was fighting, but the Abwehr was still one of the most powerful organisations in Germany, and working for it should be relatively risk-free. He would, he admitted, be happier if he knew what was in the letter, but removing and invisibly replacing the Admiral's seal was beyond him. And whatever it said, it wouldn't have anything to do with him. Or so he assumed - for all he knew the message concealed within was a simple 'Shoot the messenger'. Unlikely, though. It would have been easier to shoot him in Berlin.
The blackout screens on the windows were firmly fixed in place, and Russell was suddenly reminded of a long coffin, rumbling south towards a distant funeral.
Soon after eleven the train reached Dresden, where most of the passengers got off, and Russell was finally able to stretch his limbs on a very cold platform. Several carriages were detached from the rear of the train and, much to his astonishment, replaced by a Czech dining car. There were no meals on offer, but the range of alcoholic drinks seemed wider than that found in Berlin's better hotels. Russell treated himself to three glasses of slivovitz, and sat for the better part of an hour enjoying the views of moonlit mountains in the unscreened windows.
Finding a line of unoccupied seats to lie down on proved surprisingly easy, and he dozed off for a couple of hours. Woken at the Sudeten junction of Usti by the slamming of doors, he noticed that some but not all of the station signs bore the new German name of Aussig. A trip to the waterless toilet indicated that the train was now virtually empty - visas for Heydrich's Protectorate were either hard to come by or in low demand. He was almost asleep again when the train reached the essentially meaningless border, and officialdom required a long and overly suspicious perusal of his papers.
The next few hours were spent in that unsatisfying netherworld between sleep and wakefulness, and as light began filtering around the blackout screens he made his way back to the dining car, where the fields of the Protectorate were now visible. The counter was closed, but Russell could smell the coffee, and a short burst of abject begging persuaded the old Czech in charge to supply him with a cup. It was the best he had drunk for several months, and would prove the undisputed highlight of his trip to Prague.
The train pulled into Masaryk Station - now renamed Hiberner Station - almost two hours late. Russell was supposed to be returning that evening on the same train, but had decided to take a hotel room in any case - after his adventures in Prague two years earlier he had no desire to spend his day wandering the streets, where someone might recognise him. The same risk applied to the Europa Hotel, but any of the other establishments on the long and inappropriately-named Wenceslas Square should prove safe enough. He was just wondering what the new German name might be when he saw the two leather coats waiting at the ticket barrier.
He told himself they were waiting for someone else, but didn't really believe it.
'Herr Russell,' the shorter of the two stated.
There seemed no point in denying it. 'That's me.'
'Come this way please.'
Russell followed, conscious of the other man walking behind him, and of the scrutiny of their Czech audience. He felt an absurd inclination to start goose-stepping, but managed to restrain himself.
They walked through one office and into another. The latter was obviously home to the local transport police, but none were there. Perched on the edge of one desk, arms folded across his stomach, was Obersturmbannfuhrer Giminich of the
Sicherheitsdienst
. On the edge of the other, in probably unconscious imitation of his superior, was a younger man. He was also wearing a smart dark suit, but the classy effect was spoiled by his gingery blond hair, which several litres of grease had failed to flatten.
'Good morning, Herr Russell,' Giminich said. 'Welcome to the Protectorate.'
'Good morning,' Russell replied.
'Please give me the letter which Admiral Canaris entrusted you with.'
Russell took the envelope from his inside jacket pocket and handed it over.
Giminich examined the Admiral's seal with interest. 'You have no idea of the contents?'
'None whatsoever. As you can see, the seal is unbroken.'
Giminich broke it, and removed what looked like a single sheet half-covered in type. After reading it through he passed the letter to his junior.
'What does it say?' Russell asked, intent on emphasising his ignorance of the contents.
Giminich ignored the question. 'This is Untersturmfuhrer Schulenburg,' he told Russell. 'You will be spending the morning with him.'
'Why?'
'Ah. Perhaps we should begin at the beginning. Please, take a seat,' he added, indicating one of the upright chairs. 'Your meeting with Johann Grashof is at the Sramota Cafe, at two o'clock, the furthest table from the entrance. Yes?'
'You are well informed,' Russell said dryly.
'Much better than yourself, I imagine. What do you know about Johann Grashof?'
'That he's an officer in the Abwehr. Apart from that, absolutely nothing.'
'But you know what he looks like?'
'Yes, I was shown a photograph.'
'Would it surprise you to know that Grashof is a traitor to the Reich?'
'It would.'
Giminich brought his two palms together and balanced his chin on the ends of his fingers. 'Earlier this year certain information was leaked to the British Embassy in Belgrade, information that only three people had access to. Two were away when the leak occurred, but the third - Grashof - was considered above suspicion by Berlin. Then, two months ago, a captured Czech terrorist admitted that he and his organisation had been receiving information from a Wehrmacht source. He had not met this source himself, but he claimed that another terrorist - one that we already had in custody - had met the man. This terrorist was questioned, and eventually produced a vague description - he said he had only met our suspect in the blackout. As before, the description and the information passed on pointed to one of three men, and, as before, two of those men were quickly able to prove their innocence. And once again the third man was Grashof.'
'So why is he still at large?'
Giminich nodded, as if conceding a point. 'The case is not quite complete,' he admitted. 'Herr Grashof has several influential supporters, and they have found it extremely difficult to believe in his treachery. But now, with your assistance, we will soon have enough evidence to convince even the most sceptical.'
Russell couldn't help grimacing.
'You will keep your appointment with him, but deliver a different message. You will tell him, using these exact words: "The Admiral says that you're in danger, and advises you to run".'
'But...'
'You will then ask Grashof if he has any final message for the Admiral. Do you understand?'
Only too well, Russell thought. If Grashof accepted the instruction, he would be condemning both himself and Canaris. And once the two men were revealed as traitors, then those who carried messages between them were unlikely to receive any favours; Russell's own hopes of a comfortable Swiss exile would certainly be over, along with any chance of seeing Effi while the war lasted. And worse than that was a distinct possibility. 'I understand what you'd like me to do,' he said, 'but as I'm sure you can see, this puts me in a very difficult position. I have no personal knowledge of this man Grashof, but I find it hard to believe that Admiral Canaris is a traitor to the Reich...'
'There is no difficulty here,' Giminich interrupted. 'As a resident of the Reich you are obliged, like everyone else, to obey its laws, and treason is most definitely against those laws. If Canaris and Grashof are innocent then that will become clear, and no harm will be done, while if they do prove to be traitors, you will have done the Reich a useful service. What is the problem?'
They had him, Russell thought. He had only one more card, and it was a low one. 'When we met at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse you said my loyalty did me credit.'
Giminich smiled. 'And so it did. But the situation has changed. Where treason is concerned, loyalty becomes a very risky business, something to weigh very carefully. Your cooperation in this matter would certainly remove any doubts about your own position.'
'And if I refuse?' Russell asked.
Giminich shrugged. 'Would threats help you make up your mind?'
'Let's just say I like to know exactly where I stand.'
'Very well. You may have thought that we had forgotten about you since 1939. Your file is a long one, Herr Russell, well-researched and very up-to-date. Your girlfriend, your son, your Jew-lover of a brother-in-law and his son - their lives could all get a lot more difficult. You yourself would forfeit any chance of leaving Germany, and, at best, undergo imprisonment as an enemy alien for the duration of the war. I think we can agree, here, just between us, that this will be a long war. The United States will doubtless join in eventually, but the Atlantic is very wide, and they will find it as hard to cross as we shall. A stalemate seems very likely, and many years for you to regret refusing your services in this matter.'
'No' was not an option, Russell thought. It very rarely was where the
Sicherheitsdienst
was involved. 'You've convinced me,' he told Giminich. Maybe something would occur to him over the next few hours, some devious means of sabotaging the intended trap that could not be blamed on him, but it didn't seem very likely.
'Excellent,' Giminich said. 'We have reserved a room for you at the Alcron Hotel. Untersturmfuhrer Schulenburg will take you there now, and then to the Sramota Cafe for your
treff
with Herr Grashof. Anything you require, please ask. Once your part is over, your time is your own. The hotel room is yours until tomorrow, though I believe your return ticket is for this evening.'
'It is. And I do need to be back in Berlin tomorrow.' He didn't, but insisting that he still had an agenda of his own made him feel slightly less helpless.
Schulenburg led him outside to where an ancient-looking black saloon was waiting. Two more men in suits were sitting in the front seats, both of whom looked like Czechs. The Untersturmfuhrer had not opened his mouth in the station office, and his directions to the driver revealed a surprisingly deep voice. He ushered Russell into the back seat and joined him there, absent-mindedly pressing down on his unruly ginger thatch.
The streets of Prague seemed sombre to Russell, but that might just have been the overcast sky. According to the BBC, Heydrich's executioners had hardly enjoyed a moment's rest since early November, but as Russell knew only too well from Berlin, the sufferings of a small minority could pass almost unnoticed by their fellow citizens.
They had reached Jindoisska Street, which now bore the name Heinrichsgasse. As in 1939, giant swastikas adorned the upper facade of the Post Office and nearby Deutsches Haus, but traffic was noticeably lighter. There were a couple of trams in the distance, but no cars beyond their own. As they turned onto Wenzelsplatz another black saloon could be seen parked further up the slope, but that was all - this piece of occupied Europe had apparently exhausted its petrol ration.
Lepanska Street had also been re-christened, but Russell failed to catch the new name. The dark, rectangular and depressingly modern Alcron seemed unchanged from 1939, when he had eschewed it and its predominantly German clientele in favour of the Europa.
Once inside the impression improved, although sharing the small lift with two violently sneezing SS officers was hardly conducive to good health. His room, it turned out, was actually two - a sitting room, with a child's bed, leading into a large bedroom. Both had large windows overlooking the canyon-like street.
Russell looked at his watch - it was ten to ten. He had just over four hours to figure some way out of his and Grashof's predicament. Breakfast would be a start.
'I'd like some coffee,' he told Schulenburg. 'And something to eat. A couple of rolls will do.'
The Untersturmfuhrer seemed momentarily upset by the audacity of this request, but managed to recover himself. He opened the door, relayed the request to someone outside, and shut it once more.
'Have you been in Prague long?' Russell asked him cheerily.
'That's no business of yours,' was the surly reply.
'Just trying to be friendly,' Russell said lightly.
'We are not friends.'
No indeed, Russell thought. Silence it was. He sat down in a convenient armchair, stretched out his legs and waited for breakfast to arrive. Thinking was always hard work without coffee.
He suddenly realised that they hadn't provided him with the requisite copy of
Signal
. Had Giminich slipped up? Surely Grashof would notice if he turned up without one, but what would he do?
The coffee arrived, along with rolls, real butter and real jam. Russell could hardly believe it, but the Untersturmfuhrer, clearly used to such luxuries, left most of his on the plate. The coffee was no better than Berlin's - but then Prague was just as far from Brazil.
Feast over, Russell asked if he could lie down in the adjoining room. Schulenburg took a long look round, presumably to make sure there were no telephones, semaphore paddles or carrier pigeons available for Russell's use. He then granted permission, contingent on the door remaining open.
Russell laid himself out on the bed, closed his eyes, and tried to think. What was Giminich expecting to happen? Grashof would accept the legitimacy of the fake message without query, and perhaps incriminate himself still further by sending an indiscreet message back to Canaris. All of which would be overheard by the SD - a listening device under the table in all likelihood. Knowing which table the meeting was arranged for, they only had to bug the one.
But unless the relevant technology had improved out of all recognition there was no way the SD could record the conversation. So why not just make one up? Why go to all this trouble to get real evidence of guilt? Because, he realised, they needed the real evidence to convince Grashof's 'influential supporters' in Berlin. There would be someone with 'neutral' credentials listening in with the SD operatives, Russell guessed. Someone from the Foreign Office or Wehrmacht.
Once Grashof had incriminated himself, he would be immediately arrested, and the focus would shift back to Berlin. Moving against Canaris would take time - someone of his stature couldn't be arrested without the Fuhrer's agreement, and the latter was notoriously difficult to get hold of, what with his bizarre sleeping hours and penchant for military briefings that lasted longer than the campaigns concerned. And despite Giminich's promise, Russell couldn't see himself being set free until Canaris was beyond warning.
