England had consisted of two friendly, but brief, telephone conversations. And here he was in darkest Posen, waiting for Shchepkin to go through one of his cloak-and-dagger mating rituals.
He went back to his room, hoping against hope for a simple knock on the door. An hour or so later he got one, but it wasnt Shchepkin. A short woman in a long skirt and blouse brushed past him and into the room before he could say anything.
Close the door, Mr. Russell, she said. The language was definitely German, but not a sort that Russell had ever heard before.
The woman had roughly parted blond hair which just failed to reach her shoulders, blue eyes, thin lips, and heavily accented cheekbones. In another life she might have been attractive, Russell thought, but in this one she wasnt really trying. She wore no make-up, and her cream-colored blouse badly needed a wash. He now remembered seeing her on the other side of the dining-room, arguing with one of the waiters.
John Russell, she said, as much to herself as him. I am your new contact.
Contact with whom? he asked. It was hard to imagine her as a Gestapo agent provocateur, but how would he know?
My name is Irina Borskaya, she said patiently. I am here in place of Comrade Shchepkin, she added, glancing around the room and finding a chair.
Has something happened to Comrade Shchepkin? Russell asked.
He has been reassigned. Now, please sit down Mr. Russell. And let us get down to business.
Russell did as he was told, feeling a pang of sorrow for Shchepkin. He could see him on the Cracow citadelYou really should wear a hat! But why assume the worst? Perhaps he really had been reassigned. Stalin couldn't kill everyone whod ever worked for him.
He pulled the latest article out of his briefcase and handed it over. She took a cursory glance at the first page and placed it in her lap. You were asked to talk to armament workers.
He recounted his visit to the Greiner Works, the conversations he had had with Labor Front officials and ordinary workers. She listened intently but took no notes. Is that all? she said when he was finished.
For the moment, Russell said. Where is your accent from? he asked, partly out of curiosity, partly to take her mind off his skimpy research.
I was born in Saratov, she said. In the Volga region. Now, we have another job for you.
Here it comes, Russell thoughtthe point of the whole exercise.
We need you to collect some papers from one of our people and bring them out of Germany.
Not a chance, Russell thought. But refuse nicely, he told himself. What sort of papers? he asked.
That doesnt concern you.
It does if you expect me to bring them out.
They are naval plans, she said grudgingly.
Russell burst out laughing.
What is so amusing? she asked angrily.
He told her about Shchepkins comment in Danzignone of those naval plans Sherlock Holmes is always having to recover.
She wasnt amused. This is not a Sherlock Holmes storythe comrade in Kiel has risked his life to get a copy of the German fleet dispositions for the Baltic.
Then why not risk it again to bring them out? Russell argued.
His life is worth something, she said tartly, and quickly realized that she had gone too far. He is too valuable to risk, she amended, as if he might have mistaken her meaning.
Then why not send someone else in to get them?
Because we have you, she said. And we have already established that you can come and go without arousing suspicion. Were you searched on your way here, or on your way to Cracow?
No, but I wasnt carrying anything.
She put the article on the carpet beside her chair, crossed her legs and smoothed out the skirt on her thigh with her left hand. Mr. Russell, are you refusing to help us with this?
Im a journalist, Comrade Borskaya. Not a secret agent.
She gave him an exasperated look, delved into her skirt pocket, and brought out a rather crumpled black and white photograph. It was of him and Shchepkin, emerging from the Wawel Cathedral.
Russell looked at it and laughed.
You are easily amused, she said.
So they tell me. If you send that to the Gestapo I might get thrown out of Germany. If I get caught with your naval plans itll be the axe. Which do you think worries me more?
If we send this to the Gestapo you are certain to be deported, certain to lose your son and your beautiful bourgeois girlfriend. If you do this job for us, the chances of your being caught are almost nonexistent. You will be well-paid, and you will have the satisfaction of supporting world socialism in its struggle against fascism. According to Comrade Shchepkin, that was once important to you.
Once. The clumsiness of the approach angered him more than the blackmail itself. He got up off the bed and walked across to the window, telling himself to calm down. As he did so, an idea came to him. An idea that seemed as crazy as it was inevitable.
He turned to her. Let me sleep on this, he said. Think about it overnight, he explained, in response to her blank expression.
She nodded. Two PM in the Stary Rynek, she said, as if shed had the time and place reserved.
Its a big square, Russell said.
Ill find you.
SUNDAY WAS OVERCAST BUT DRY. Russell had coffee in one of the many Stary Rynek cafes, walked up past Garbary station to the Citadel, and found a bench overlooking the city. For several minutes he just sat there enjoying the view: the multiplicity of spires, the Warta River and its receding bridges, the smoke rising from several thousand chimneys. See how much peace the earth can give, he murmured to himself. A comforting thought, provided you ignored the source. It was a line from Mayakovskys suicide note.
Was his own plan a roundabout way of committing suicide?
Paul and Effi would miss him. In fact, he liked to think theyd both be heartbroken, at least for a while. But he was neither indispensable nor irreplaceable. Paul had other people who loved him, and so did Effi.
All of which would only matter if he got caught. The odds, he thought, were probably on his side. The Soviets would have no compunction about risking him, but their precious naval plans were another matterthey wouldn't risk those on a no-hope adventure. They had to believe it would work.
But what did he know? There could be ruses within ruses; this could be some ludicrously Machiavellian plot the NKVD had thought up on some drunken weekend and set in motion before they sobered up. Or everyone concerned could be an incompetent. Or just having a bad day.
Shit, he muttered to himself. He liked the idea of the Soviets having the German fleet dispositions for the Baltic. He liked the idea of doing something, no matter how small, to put a spoke in the bastards wheels. And he really wanted the favors he intended to ask in return.
But was he fooling himself? Falling for all the usual nonsense, playing boys games with real ammunition. When did self-sacrifice become a warped form of selfishness?
There were no answers to any of this, he realized. It was like jumping through an open window with a fuzzy memory of which floor you were on. If it turned out to be the ground floor, you bounced to your feet with an heroic grin. The fifth, and you were jam on the pavement. Or, more likely, a Gestapo courtyard.
A life concerned only with survival was a thin life. He needed to jump. For all sorts of reasons, he needed to jump.
He took a long last look at the view and started back down the slope, imagining the details of his plan as he did so. A restaurant close to the Stary Rynek provided him with a plate of meat turnovers, a large glass of Silesian beer, and ample time to imagine the worst. By two oclock he was slowly circling the large and well-populated square, and manfully repressing the periodic impulse to simply disappear into one of the adjoining streets.
She appeared at his shoulder halfway through his second circuit, her ankle-length coat unbuttoned to reveal the same skirt and blouse. This time, he thought, there was worry in the eyes.
