Zoo Station

other. He would keep that for Paul.

He thought about his son as the tram ground its way northwest toward Friedrichshain. On the telephone two nights earlier Paul had used all the right words to describe a thrilling weekend with the Jungvolk, but there had been a different story in the tone. Or had there? Maybe it was just that adolescent reticence which psychiatrists were so full of these days. He needed a proper talk with the boy, which made that weekends summons to Cracow all the more annoying. And to make matters worse, Hertha were at home that Sunday too. Paul could always go with Thomas, but . . . an away game, he thought suddenly. He could take Paul to an away game the following Sunday. A real trip. He could see no reason why Ilse would object.

And Cracow would be interesting, if nothing else. He had already booked his sleeper tickets and hotel room, and was looking forward to seeing the city for the first time. Both his agents had loved the Germanys Neighbours idea, so he thought there would be some money in it, too.

He reached the Wiesners stop, walked the short distance to their block, and climbed the stairs. Dr. Wiesner, who he hadn't seen for a couple of weeks, opened the door. He looked noticeably more care-worn, but managed a smile of welcome. I wanted to thank you for talking to Albert, he said without preamble. And Id like to ask you another favor. I feel awkward doing thisand please say no if its too difficultbut, well, I am just doing what I must. You understand?

Russell nodded. What now, he wondered.

Wiesner hesitated. He also seemed more unsure of himself, Russell noticed. And who could blame him?

Is there any way you could check on the rules for taking things out of the country? For Jews, I mean. Its just that they keep changing the rules, and if I ask what they are then theyll just assume Im trying to get around them.

Of course, Russell said. Ill let you know on Friday.

Wiesner nodded. One person I know asked about a miniature which had been in his family for a hundred years, and they simply confiscated it, he went on, as if Russell still needed convincing.

Ill let you know, Russell said again.

Yes, thank you. Im told theres a good chance that the girls will be allowed to go, and Id like to . . . well, provide for them in England. You understand?

Russell nodded.

Very well. Thank you again. I mustnt take up any more learning time. He stepped to the adjoining door and opened it. Girls, come. He said it gruffly, but the smile he bestowed on them as they trooped in was almost too full of love. Russell remembered the faces on the Danzig station platform, the sound the woman had made. A different Mother, he thought.

The two girls fell on the Daily Mail.

You can keep it, apart from the back page he told them, and explained that he wanted the picture for his son.

Tell us about your son, Marthe said. In English, of course, she added.

He spent the next twenty minutes talking and answering questions about Paul. The girls were sympathetic to the philatelist, indulgent toward the football fan and lover of modern transport, dismissive of the toy soldier collector. They were particularly impressed by the tale of how, around the age of five, he had almost died of whooping cough. Telling the story, Russell felt almost anxious, as if he wasnt sure how it was going to end.

He turned the tables for the second half of the lesson, inviting them to talk about their own histories. He regretted this almost instantly, thinking that, given their situation, this was likely to prove upsetting for them. They didn't see it that way. It wasnt that they thought the familys current difficulties were temporary; it was more a matter of their knowing, even with all their problems, that they had more love in their lives than most other people.

It was one of the nicest hours he had ever spent, and walking back to the tram stop on Neue Konigstrasse he reminded himself to thank Doug Conway for the introduction the next time he saw him.

The opportunity soon presented itself. Back at the apartment, he found a message from Conway, asking him to call. He did so.

Conway didn't sound like his usual self. One of our people would like a word, he said.

What about? Russell asked warily.

I dont know. Im just the messenger.

Ah.

Could you come in, say, tomorrow morning, around eleven?

I suppose so.

Id like to see you, too. Were leaving, by the way. Ive been posted to Washington.

When? And why havent you told me?

Im telling you now. I only heard a couple of days ago. And were going in a couple of weeks.

Well Im sorry to hear that. From a purely selfish point of view, of course. Is it a promotion?

Sort of. Touch of the up, touch of the sideways. Anyway, were having a dinner for a few people on the thirdthats next Fridayand I hoped you and your lady friend could come.

Oh, Effi will be. . . . Working, he was going to say. But of course she wouldn'tBarbarossa would be over, and Mother didn't start shooting until the thirteenth. Ill ask her, he said. Should be okay, though.

THE CAFE KRANZLER WAS full of SS officers the next morning, their boots polished to such perfection that any leg movement sent flashes of reflected light from the chandeliers dancing around the walls. Russell hurried through his coffee and, with half an hour to burn, ambled down Unter den Linden to the Schloss. The Kaisers old home was still empty, but the papers that morning were full of his upcoming eightieth birthday party in Holland. Come back, all is forgiven, Russell murmured to himself.

After the Unter den Linden the British Embassy seemed an oasis of languor. The staff drifted to and fro, as if worried they might be caught speeding. Was this the new British plan? Russell wondered. Slow the drift to war by slowing the diplomats?

Doug Conway eventually appeared. One of our intelligence people wants to talk to you, he said quietly. Nothing formal, just a chat about things. Russell grunted his disbelief, and Conway had the grace to look embarrassed. Not my ideaIm just the messenger.

You said that yesterday.

Well, I am. Look, Ill take you up. Hes a nice enough chap. His names Trelawney-Smythe.

It would be, Russell thought. He had a pretty good idea what was coming.

Trelawney-Smythes office was a small room high at the back of the building, with a compensating view of the Brandenburg Gate. Conway introduced Russell and withdrew. Trelawney-Smythe, a tall dark-haired man in his thirties with a worried-looking face, ushered him to a seat.

Good of you to come, he began, rifling through papers on his overcrowded desk. Russell wondered if Sturmbannfuhrer Kleist gave private lessons in desk arrangement. Ah, Trelawney-Smythe said triumphantly, extracting a copy of Pravda from the mess. A handwritten sheet was attached with a paper clip.

My latest masterpiece, Russell murmured. Why was it, he wondered, that British officialdom always brought out the schoolboy in him? After reading one of the Saint stories Paul had asked him why the Saint was so fond of prodding Chief Inspector Teal in the stomach. Russell had been unable to offer a coherent explanation, but deep down he knew exactly why. He already wanted to prod Trelawney-Smythe in something.

The other man had unclipped the handwritten sheet from the newspaper and carefully stowed the paper clip away in its rightful place. This is a translation of your article, he said.

May I see it? Russell asked, holding out a hand.

Somewhat taken aback, Trelawney-Smythe handed it over.

Russell glanced through it. They had printed it more or less verbatim. He handed it back.

Mr. Russell, Im going to be completely frank with you, Trelawney-Smythe said, unconsciously echoing Sturmbannfuhrer Kleist.

Dont strain yourself, Russell thought.

You used to be a member of the British Communist Party, correct?