'Hello,' the familiar voice answered.
'It's me.'
'Hello you. Where are you?'
'At Neuenburger Strasse. I just got here.'
'How was Prague?'
'Interesting. How are things?'
'Fine, but I'm really tired, John. I was on my way to bed when the telephone rang.'
'Oh.'
'I'm sorry, but you wouldn't enjoy me this evening. I've been grumpy all day. These five o'clock starts are killing me.'
'Tomorrow, then.'
'Of course. But come as early as you can. We're shooting on Saturday as well. We're so behind. The producer's pulling out large clumps of his hair, and he can't afford to lose any.'
'Okay. I love you.'
'You too.'
Russell took the suitcase up to his rooms and dumped it on the bed. The apartment matched his mood, which didn't bode well for an evening in. It was only ten to nine - the Adlon Bar would still be busy.
The blanket of cloud was hastening the light's departure. The Hanomag started first go, and he drove it down to Belle Alliance, intent on heading up Wilhelmstrasse. Reaching the circle he changed his mind, and followed the gently snaking Landwehrkanal to Lutzow-Platz before cutting north across the western end of the Tiergarten. The address Sarah Grostein had given him was an elegant three-storey building on Altonaer Strasse, between the elevated Stadtbahn and the bridge over the Spree. He parked a few doors down and walked up towards it. Light showed around the drawn curtains of two windows on the first floor, but the ground floor was dark. He dropped the lion-headed knocker against its base a couple of times, but there was no response from inside. He thought about knocking louder, but his instincts told him it was bad idea.
He walked back to the car. Looking up as he opened the door he saw the curtains twitch open, revealing a silhouetted head and shoulders. It looked like the SS officer he had seen outside the Universum, but he couldn't be sure.
Call in during the day, the message had said. He had assumed she'd meant the day of the message, but he had been wrong.
The curtain closed again, and Russell waited a few moments before driving off. He had parked between streetlights, and didn't think he'd been seen, but he didn't want to advertise his presence by starting the engine. Let them get back to whatever it was they were doing.
In motion once more, he followed the Spree to Sommer Strasse, cut past the Brandenburg Gate into Pariser Platz, and pulled up in front of the Adlon. There were hardly any cars on Unter den Linden - in fact the traffic had been light all evening. Commandeered by the army, he supposed, and now axle-deep in Silesian mud. 'But not you' he told the Hanomag, tapping its steering-wheel.
The Adlon Bar was not exactly hopping - a party of lugubrious-looking Swedish businessmen, a mixed group of SS and Kriegsmarine officers, a spattering of lone foreigners staring into their glasses and pining for the days when a night in Berlin spelled entertainment. And in the corner, playing rummy, Dick Normanton and Jack Slaney.
Their steins were full, so Russell took them a couple of chasers. 'Who's winning?' he asked, just as Normanton went down with a triumphant flourish.
'The bloody English are winning,' Slaney complained, writing it down on the score sheet. 'That's two marks and forty pfennigs,' he said.
'Last of the big-time gamblers,' Russell murmured. 'Can I join in?'
'You'll need twenty pfennigs,' Normanton told him, shuffling the cards.
'So, what's new?' Russell asked. 'I only just got back from Prague,' he added in explanation.
'How are the Czechs doing?' Slaney asked.
'As well as can be expected.'
'There's more trouble in Danzig,' Normanton said, dealing out the cards. 'The Poles won't let the Danzig Germans sell their herrings and margarine in Poland until the Danzig Germans accept their new customs officers. So the Danzig Germans are muttering darkly about opening their frontier with East Prussia and selling the stuff there.'
'Are the East Prussians short of herrings and margarine?' Russell asked.
Normanton laughed. 'Who knows?'
'Who cares?' Slaney added, arranging his cards.
'So we're waiting to see who backs down?' Russell asked.
'That's about it. But I can't see Hitler going to war over herring and margarine. It's not exactly a rallying cry, is it?'
'The important stuff 's happening in Moscow,' Slaney said. 'Molotov met the German Ambassador this morning, and was a damn sight more affable with him than he was with the French and British ambassadors yesterday.'
'Any hard information on what they discussed?' Russell asked.
'None. Lots of rumours though: the Germans are willing to give the Soviets a free hand in the Baltic states, they'll share Poland with the Soviets if the Poles make the mistake of starting a war. According to our man in Moscow, the German Ambassador had the nerve to tell Molotov that the anti-Comintern Pact isn't aimed at the Soviets.'
'Then who the hell is it aimed at?'
'That's what Molotov asked. The Ambassador told him there was no point in dwelling on the past. One of the Soviets leaked this to our guy because he couldn't believe his ears, and wanted a second opinion.'
'No government statement here?'
'Not a word. They're playing this close to their chests.'
'Sounds serious.'
Slaney grunted. 'The British and French don't seem to think so. Their delegation left for Moscow yesterday. Guess how they're getting there?'
'They can't have gone by train?'
'Worse. They've taken a boat, and the slowest one they could find. Some obsolete warship with a top speed of twelve knots. They should be in Moscow by the middle of the month.'
'It would be quicker to walk,' Russell observed.
'Jim Danvers came up with a good line,' Normanton said. 'He said the British and French had missed the boat by catching it.'
'Not bad at all,' Slaney agreed. 'Remind me to steal it.'
Two hours later and several marks poorer, Russell drove back through the wet and empty streets to Neuenburger Strasse. Would Hitler and Stalin really do a deal, he wondered? Both would have a mountain of words to eat, but the advantages were obvious. A free hand for Hitler, time for Stalin. Poland kaput.
The only message by the unhooked telephone was for Dagmar, the blonde waitress on the third floor. 'Siggi is desperate,' Frau Heidegger had written. 'He must see you tomorrow.' Dagmar was obviously not at home, and probably sleeping with Klaus. He would get an update from Frau Heidegger in the morning.
The stairs seemed endless. It was less than twenty-four hours since the sand dryer, but it seemed a lot longer. After taking off his jacket he extracted the slip of paper with Hornak's suggested contact details from his wallet. How long before they were safe to use, he wondered, now that the local Gestapo had come calling?
Friday morning was grey as Berlin stone, and the giant swastikas on Wilhelmstrasse hung limp in the humid air. In the Kranzler Cafe the waiters seemed more interested in arguing with each other than in serving their customers, and Russell's coffee was lukewarm. The newspapers lauded the imprisonment of a Wittenberge worker for laziness, but conspicuously failed to mention either Danzig or Soviet-German relations.
Time to earn your living, Russell told himself. The Bristol Hotel had a convenient bank of public telephones, and while the booths lacked the luxurious fittings of those in the Adlon, they were much less frequented by his fellow journalists. He settled down on a cushioned seat to make his calls.
