Yes. No stamp-smuggling tonight. Just a drink.
Paul grinned. All right.
For a Friday night, the cocktail lounge seemed unusually empty. Russell bought a pint of bitter, parked himself on a stool at the end of the bar, and played with a beer mat. The taste of the English beer made him feel nostalgic. He had thought about taking Paul out to Guildford, to show him the house where hed spent most of his own boyhood, but there wouldn't be time. The next trip perhaps, if there was one.
He pictured the house, the large garden, the steeply sloping street hed walked to school each day. He couldn't say hed had a happy childhood, but it hadn't been particularly unhappy either. He hadn't appreciated it at the time, but his mother had never really settled in England, despite almost thirty years of trying. His fathers inability or unwillingness to recognize that fact had undermined everything else. There had been a lot of silence in that house.
He should write to her, he thought. A quick trip to reception provided him with a few sheets of beautifully embossed Savoy writing paper, and he ordered another pint. But after telling her where he was and why, and sketching out the plot of Effis new film, he could think of nothing else to say. She hadn't seen Paul since he was four, and it would take a book to explain him and their relationship.
He comforted himself with the knowledge that her letters to him were equally inadequate. On those rare occasions when, as adults, theyd been together, they had both enjoyed the experiencehe was sure of thatbut even then theyd hardly said anything to each other. His mother wasnt much of a talker or a thinker, which was why she had never liked Ilse. She and Effi, on the other hand, would probably get on like a house on fire. They were doers.
A shadow crossed the paper as a man slid onto the stool next to his. He had short, dark, brilliantined hair, a sharpish face with a small moustache, and skin that looked unusually pink. He looked about twenty, but was probably older.
John Russell? he asked.
Oh God, Russell thought. Here we go again. I think youre mistaking me for someone else, he said. Im Douglas Fairbanks Jr.
Very good, the man said admiringly. Can I get you another drink?
No thanks.
Well, I think Ill have one, he said, raising a finger to the distant barman.
Are you old enough? Russell asked.
His new companion looked hurt. Look, theres no need to be offensive. Im just. . . . He paused to order a Manhattan. Look, I think you know Trelawney-Smythe in Berlin.
Weve met.
Well, he passed your name on to us, and. . . .
Who might you be?
War Office. A department of the War Office. My names Simpson. Arnold Simpson.
Right, Russell said.
Simpson took an appreciative sip of his Manhattan. We checked up on youwe have to do that, you understandand it looks as if Trelawney-Smythe was right. You are a perfect fit. You speak German like a native, you have family and friends there, you even have Nazi connections. Youre ideally placed to work for us.
Russell smiled. You may be right about means and opportunity, but wheres the motive. Why would I want to work for you?
Simpson looked taken aback. How about patriotism? he asked.
Im as patriotic as the next businessman, Russell said wryly.
Ah. Very good. But seriously.
I was being serious.
Simpson took a larger sip of the Manhattan. Mr. Russell, we know your political history. We know youve been badgering the Berlin Embassy about a Jewish family. Whatever you write for the Soviets, we know you dont like the Nazis. And theres a war coming, for Gods sake. Dont you want to do your bit to defeat them?
Mr. Simpson, cant you people take
Now the young man looked affronted. Of course, he said. But. . . .
Goodnight, Mr. Simpson.
THEY SPENT THE FIRST PART of Saturday morning following Zarah in and out of clothes stores on Bond Street, the second scouring Hamleys for the stimulating toys which Dr. McAllister had recommended. They found nothing which Zarah considered suitable in either. German toys are much better, she announced with a satisfied air on the Regents Street pavement, and Paul agreed with her. There had been no dead soldiers, and those still breathing had been markedly inferior to the ones back home.
They parted at midday, Russell and Paul wending their way through the streets beyond Oxford Street to the trolleybus terminus at Howland Street. The 627 took them up the Hampstead, Camden, and Seven Sisters Roads to Finsbury Park, where the pubs were already overflowing with men en route to the match. It was a cold afternoon, the would-be spectators exhaling clouds of breath and clapping their gloved hands together as they threaded their way down the back streets to the field. A rosette seller offered red and white for Arsenal, blue and white for Chelsea, and Paul wanted both. Covering the field, eh? the man asked with a grin. He had a red and white scarf wrapped around his head, and a flat cap rammed on top of it.
The match itself was a disappointmentanother point in Germanys column as far as Paul was concerned. It was hard to argue with him: If this was the best football in the world, then the world of football was in trouble. There was none of the magic England had shown in Berlin nine months earlier. In fact, both teams seemed markedly less endowed with basic skills than poor old Hertha.
What Paul did find fascinating was the crowd. He had no way of appreciating the wit, but he reveled in the sheer volume of noise, and the swirling currents of emotion which rose and fell all around him. Its so. . . . he began, as they crunched their way out across the carpet of roasted peanut shells, but an end to the sentence eluded him.
At the Arsenal station they shared a seemingly endless tunnel to the platform with several thousand others, and their Piccadilly Line train was full to bursting until it reached Kings Cross. After the relative spaciousness of the U-bahn, the train itself seemed ancient, airless, and claustrophobicanother point in the German column.
They walked back to the Strand through Covent Garden Market, and ate another delicious dinner in the Savoy restaurant. Paul was quiet, as if busy absorbing his impressions of the last two days. He seemed, Russell thought, more German somehow. But that, he supposed, was only to be expected in England. He hadn't expected it, though.
On the way to breakfast next morning he stopped off at reception to consult the hotels
Its beautiful, Paul said, and Russell felt a ridiculous surge of pride in his native country. Paul was right. The German streamliners reeked of speed and power, but this train had a grace they lacked. One mark at least for England.
Back at the Savoy they packed, took a last look at the Thames, and joined Zarah and Lothar in the lobby. The car was on time, the Sunday roads empty, and they arrived almost two hours early. While Paul stood with his face glued to the window, Russell scanned the
It was the same aeroplane and crew which had brought them over. This time though, the clouds were lower, the flight rockier, the view more restricted. Jens, waiting for them at Tempelhof, hugged Zarah and Lothar as if theyd been away for weeks and thanked Russell profusely. He also offered to take Paul home, but Russell
