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,
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
