English. And his brother is a taxi driver.' He shifted the gun to his left hand to offer his right.
Russell shook it, but his eyes betrayed him.
'We shall look after his sister,' Hornak said simply. He gave Russell one last penetrating look, and turned away.
'Come,' the young man said, and led the way outside.
The last of the wagons were rolling by, a guard with a glowing pipe standing out on his brake van's veranda.
'How far are we going?' Russell asked once the din had begun to recede.
'Only a few minutes,' Jan said. 'A bad business,' he added, as they climbed the steps towards the road.
'Same time every night,' Russell said, more to himself than his companion.
'The Ostrava freight? It always leave at one. Night-workers use it to check their clocks.'
They walked on.
'What was his name?' Russell asked after a while.
'Zameenik.'
'What will they do with the body?'
The young man gave him a surprised glance, as if this was a particularly stupid question. 'Burn it in a locomotive.'
Jan's brother Karel was due to start his shift at six, and his wife refused to wake him before five, so Russell slept for a couple of hours in one of the parlour armchairs, long enough to stiffen up without feeling noticeably rested. Karel was obviously several years older than Jan, and a good deal heavier. He seemed remarkably cheerful, though, for someone who started work at five in the morning. 'What's the story?' Jan asked. 'If we get stopped, I mean. Where did we pick you up?'
'Do you know anyone in America?' Russell asked. 'Or England?'
'A cousin in London, I think.'
'Say I brought you news from him, and stayed the night.'
'What news?'
They concocted a story between them as Karel drove the Skoda towards the city centre, but didn't need it: the streets were still mostly empty of Czechs, and the Germans had apparently tired of driving round in circles.
Russell walked through the doors of the Europa with some trepidation, half-expecting leather coats in the lobby. There was only a dozing receptionist though, and Russell managed to extract the room key from its hook without waking him. He used the stairs rather than the squeaky lift and let himself into his room. No one was waiting for him. The Gestapo was either ignorant of his participation in the previous night's fun and games, or they were still gathering witness statements. No one in the cafe had seen him, he told himself. The pursuing Germans hadn't seen his face. The chances of being recognized and reported by a Czech passer-by were infinitesimal.
That said, a swift departure from Prague still seemed the prudent course. There was a train at nine, he remembered.
He took a bath, packed, and stood by the window watching the traffic increase. At eight o'clock he went downstairs to check out. The day receptionist was busy with a pastry and had a huge cup of coffee steaming beside her. She took Russell's crowns, stamped his bill and handed him a crumb-flaked copy.
The sky outside was an innocent shade of blue, the temperature close to perfect. He walked down Jindoisska and Dladzena Streets to Masaryk Station, and finally found a German-speaking clerk willing to change his ticket. Out on the concourse he watched prospective passengers walk to their trains with no apparent scrutiny. The usual pair of German soldiers were chatting by the entrance, but there was no sign of the Gestapo.
He boarded the train a couple of minutes before departure, and settled himself in an empty first class compartment. Two German officers swam into view, giving his heart an unwelcome jolt, but moved on to claim the adjoining compartment. They were going home on leave, Russell overheard, and pleased about it.
The train jerked into motion, and Russell sat by the window, retracing his walk from the night before. Both goods yard and locomotive depot were hives of activity, one locomotive pumping smoke as it eased forward in the shed yard. He couldn't help wondering whether it was just burning coal.
He thought about Hornak, and about the Americans. Could the people he'd met in New York really be thinking beyond a war that hadn't even begun? Were they really so worried about the communists? And more to the point, did they really believe that there were people out there who would fight Hitler for them, and then turn round and save them from Stalin? If so, they were dreaming. As far as Russell could see, the only people in Europe with the stomach for a fight were the communists.
Not his problem, he told himself. Hornak and the Americans would doubtless get whatever they could from each other, and any benefit the rest of the world derived from their arrangement was up to the gods. He gazed out of the window at the Bohemian countryside until his eyelids began to droop.
He was woken by an official at the new and largely specious border between Reich and Protectorate, but not required to leave his seat. As the train wound its way round the curves of the upper Elbe he noticed the stream of overladen lorries heading into Germany. How to win friends and influence people, he thought. Stage One - invade their country. Stage Two - steal everything they owned.
The train pulled into Dresden soon after eleven-thirty, and Russell decided on impulse to break his journey. He checked his suitcase into the left luggage and took a cab to the city's Museum of Hygiene. Several years earlier a friend had told him how wonderful it was, and now it seemed like something he could bring his son to one weekend, something German which they could both admire and share.
Walking through the rooms he could see what his friend had meant. There were imaginative exhibits on anatomy, physiology and nutrition, a life-size transparent man whose organs lit up when the appropriate button was pressed. There were models demonstrating muscular movements, a room devoted to vocal organs with an explanation of how tones and timbres were produced, an apparatus for testing the lung capacity of any visitor willing to blow through a cardboard tube.
There was also, as Russell discovered on turning a corner, a new group of exhibits, put together with the same loving care and painstaking attention to detail as all the others, explaining the biological inferiority of the Jew.
He turned on his heel and sought the way out to fresher air.
Another cab carried him back to the station, where a Berlin train was waiting to leave. As it gathered speed towards the capital he sat back, eyes closed, and watched Zameenik's body pitch forward into the sand. The war has already begun, he thought. And everyone has lost.
Leafleteers
The Berlin train proved slower than advertised, spending several long interludes becalmed in the Saxon countryside. A harassed inspector explained that military transports had priority during the summer manoeuvres, and suggested that anyone with a complaint should address it to the General Staff. After that, the rumblings of discontent subsided to a mere murmur.
The train arrived at Anhalter Station soon after seven. The Berlin weather had turned in Russell's absence: the pavements were wet from a recent shower and a grey pall of cloud hung over the city. The taxi rank on Koniggratzer Strasse was bare, so he walked the kilometre and a half to Neuenburger Strasse.
Frau Heidegger had company - another portierfrau from down the street - which were something of a relief. She welcomed him home, passed him his only message, and walked somewhat unsteadily back to the half-empty bottle of schnapps they were sharing. Standing by the only available window in the downstairs hallway, Russell struggled to decipher her scrawl. 'Frau Grostein has found your missing person,' it read. 'If you call in during the day a meeting can be arranged.' He should have asked when the message arrived, he realized, but decided not to risk a second encounter.
There was no message from Kuzorra, which disappointed him. He had hoped the sighting at Silesian Station was a breakthrough, that Kuzorra would have more news for him by this time. Maybe he had, and was just waiting for a visit.
There was nothing from the SD either, no neatly-compiled dossier of lies for him to pass on to the Soviets. They were probably having trouble sorting fiction from truth.
He walked down to the telephone, picked the earpiece and dialled Effi's number.
