in the government and diplomatic district, the bar was a favourite haunt of journalists hoping to pick up gossip. It would not have been Volodya’s choice of rendezvous. But he could not afford to miss this chance. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But I’m not going to be seen talking to either of you in that place. I’ll follow you in, identify Heinrich, then follow him out and accost him later.’
‘Okay. I’ll drive you there. My car’s around the corner.’
As they walked to the other end of the alley, Werner told Volodya Heinrich’s work and home addresses and phone numbers, and Volodya committed them to memory.
‘Here we are,’ said Werner. ‘Jump in.’
The car was a Mercedes 540K Autobahn Kurier, a model that was head-turningly beautiful, with sensually curved fenders, a bonnet longer than an entire Ford Model T, and a sloping fastback rear end. It was so expensive that only a handful had ever been sold.
Volodya stared aghast. ‘Shouldn’t you have a less ostentatious car?’ he said incredulously.
‘It’s a double bluff,’ Werner said. ‘They think no real spy would be so flamboyant.’
Volodya was going to ask how he could afford it, but then he recalled that Werner’s father was a wealthy manufacturer.
‘I’m not getting into that thing,’ Volodya said. ‘I’ll go by train.’
‘As you wish.’
‘I’ll see you at the Adlon, but don’t acknowledge me.’
‘Of course.’
Half an hour later, Volodya saw Werner’s car carelessly parked in front of the hotel. This cavalier attitude of Werner’s seemed foolish to him, but now he wondered whether it was a necessary element of Werner’s courage. Perhaps Werner had to pretend to be carefree in order to take the appalling risks required to spy on the Nazis. If he acknowledged the danger he was in, maybe he would not be able to carry on.
The bar of the Adlon was full of fashionable women and well-dressed men, many in smartly tailored uniforms. Volodya spotted Werner right away, at a table with another man who was presumably Heinrich von Kessel. Passing close to them, Volodya heard Heinrich say argumentatively: ‘Buck Clayton is a much better trumpeter than Hot Lips Page.’ He squeezed in at the counter, ordered a beer, and discreetly studied the new potential spy.
Heinrich had pale skin and thick dark hair that was long by army standards. Although they were talking about the relatively unimportant topic of jazz, he seemed very intense, arguing with gestures and repeatedly running his fingers through his hair. He had a book stuffed into the pocket of his uniform tunic, and Volodya would have bet it contained poetry.
Volodya drank two beers slowly and pretended to read the
Recruiting informers was the hardest part of Volodya’s work. Precautions were difficult to take because the target was not yet on side. The proposition often had to be made in inappropriate places, usually somewhere public. It was impossible to know how the target would react: he might be angry and shout his refusal, or be terrified and literally run away. But there was not much the recruiter could do to control the situation. At some point he just had to ask the simple, blunt question: ‘Do you want to be a spy?’
He thought about how to approach Heinrich. Religion was probably the key to his personality. Volodya recalled his boss, Lemitov, saying: ‘Lapsed Catholics make good agents. They reject the total authority of the Church only to accept the total authority of the Party.’ Heinrich might need to seek forgiveness for what he had done. But would he risk his life?
At last Werner paid the bill and the two men left. Volodya followed. Outside the hotel they parted company, Werner driving off with a squeal of tyres and Heinrich going on foot across the park. Volodya went after Heinrich.
Night was falling, but the sky was clear and he could see well. There were many people strolling in the warm evening air, most of them in couples. Volodya looked back repeatedly, to make sure no one had followed him or Heinrich from the Adlon. When he was satisfied he took a deep breath, steeled his nerve, and caught up with Heinrich.
Walking alongside him, Volodya said: ‘There is atonement for sin.’
Heinrich looked at him warily, as at someone who might be mad. ‘Are you a priest?’
‘You could strike back at the wicked regime you helped to create.’
Heinrich kept walking, but he looked worried. ‘Who are you? What do you know about me?’
Volodya continued to ignore Heinrich’s questions. ‘The Nazis will be defeated, one day. That day could come sooner, with your help.’
‘If you’re a Gestapo agent hoping to entrap me, don’t bother. I’m a loyal German.’
‘Do you notice my accent?’
‘Yes – you sound Russian.’
‘How many Gestapo agents speak German with a Russian accent? Or have the imagination to fake it?’
Heinrich laughed nervously. ‘I know nothing about Gestapo agents,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned the subject – very foolish of me.’
‘Your office produces reports of the quantities of armaments and other supplies ordered by the military. Copies of those reports could be immeasurably useful to the enemies of the Nazis.’
