Shchepkin sighed. 'It will buy us time. Though I agree it will be hard to explain.'
'Ah, go on. If you can get away with calling collectivization and five million dead an advance towards socialism, then a pact with the devil should be a piece of cake.'
Shchepkin stopped and looked at him, a strange look on his face. 'You know, I never realized before just how angry you are.'
'Aren't you? When we met in 1924...is this where you hoped we would be fifteen years later?'
'No, of course not. But this is where we are. A dream that hasn't come true is not necessarily dead. And there are many comrades still willing to die for ours.'
'Yes, but...'
'You remember Fritz Lohr, the sailor you met in Kiel?'
'I never knew his name.'
'He died without telling them yours. He jumped out of a third floor window at the Gestapo headquarters in Hamburg.'
Russell was shocked. At the sudden intrusion of death, at the horrible realization that his own life had been hanging by a torturer's thread, and he hadn't even known it. 'When?' he asked.
'In May, I think. Perhaps early June.'
Russell could see the man's face, his utter belief in what he was fighting for. And his companion, the prostitute Geli, with her dark-ringed eyes and cynical smile. What had happened to her?
'And this woman in Berlin,' Shchepkin continued relentlessly. 'Sarah Grostein. She seems willing to risk her life for the cause.'
'She is,' Russell agreed. Almost too willing.
'What is she like?'
'Clever. Determined. Resourceful. And she feels she has nothing to lose. An ideal agent.'
'And you like her,' Shchepkin said.
It was not a question, but Russell answered it anyway. 'Yes, I do.'
They had reached the side of a small lake. A tall fountain was spraying water into the air, crafting rainbows.
'Let me speak as a friend,' Shchepkin said. 'I understand why you find it hard to trust us, but hear me anyway. When we talked in Danzig and Krakow I asked if you planned to take sides in the coming war. Do you remember your answer?'
Russell did. 'I said not if I could help it.'
'Exactly. But you have changed in the last eight months, and maybe your answer has too.'
Russell smiled at him, and gestured him to a nearby seat. 'Perhaps it has,' he admitted. 'There's a man in Breslau,' he continued after they had both sat down. 'His name is Josef Mohlmann, and he's the Reichsbahn Deputy-Director of Operations for South-eastern Germany. I don't know his home address, but it shouldn't be difficult to find out. He was an SPD member, and he thinks it was a mistake to fight the communists rather than the Nazis. He's recently lost his wife, he's lonely, and he drinks too much. I think he's in a position to give you advance warning of any invasion, and I think he will if you approach him in the right way.'
Shchepkin was staring intently at him, his lower lip glistening slightly. 'How did you meet this man?'
'By accident,' Russell lied. This didn't seem the moment to explain his connections to American intelligence. 'I could be wrong about him, but I don't think so.'
Shchepkin massaged his chin with the fingers of his left hand. 'Perhaps you could approach him?'
'No, it needs to be a fellow German. One who'll convince him that betrayal is the only way to save their country.'
Shchepkin thought about this. 'You are right,' he said at last. He turned to face Russell. 'So can I persuade you to visit Moscow?'
Russell held his gaze. 'Let me ask you something. As a friend. Can you guarantee my safety? That I won't be arrested and shipped off to Siberia for thwarting Comrade Borskaya's little plot?'
'Of course. For one thing, you are a well-known journalist. For another, you are useful to us, and have just proved as much. Why would anyone wish to send you to Siberia?'
It fell somewhat short of a guarantee, but it made sense. Of a sort. And Moscow did seem like the place for an East European correspondent to be at this moment in history. Russell sighed at the thought of another endless train journey. 'All right,' he said. 'Since you asked so nicely.'
Shchepkin delved into his inside pocket and brought out some papers. 'Your ticket and your visa. The train leaves at two.'
As it rumbled across the Vistula Bridge, Russell stretched out in his first class compartment and went back over the conversation, wondering at the skill with which Shchepkin had manipulated him. The sort-of-apology for Borskaya's betrayal - regrettable, of course, but these things happened, and one could hardly criticise over- enthusiasm, particularly when the person responsible had just been shot. The touch of flattery - encouraging him to relate his own resourcefulness at the Czech border. And the tugs at his conscience provided by the dead Fritz Lohr and the living Sarah Grostein, made more compelling by what sounded - and perhaps even was - a genuine plea for help. There had even been an appeal to his journalistic greed - the 'scoop' in Moscow dangled in front of him like a big fresh carrot.
And, Russell realized, there had been no hint of a threat. Which, contrarily, felt much more threatening. Shchepkin was a master, no doubt about it.
The train made good time across the plains and low hills of eastern Poland. Here too the fields were bursting with grain, but there were no signs of urgency in the harvesting, no gangs of students or soldiers helping the farmers. Reckoning the food would be better on this side of the border, Russell ate an early dinner, and was just sipping the last of his coffee when the train emerged from a stretch of forest and eased past a huge sign bearing the slogan 'Workers of the World Unite'. Behind it a wide swathe of cleared land stretched towards a barbed wire barrier lined with watchtowers. Beyond that, the Soviet border authorities at Niegoreoje were waiting to check each visitor's credentials.
Russell's passport and visa were given the most cursory of glances, almost, he joked to himself, as if they were expecting him. A first class sleeper compartment was waiting for him in the Soviet train, complete with beautifully starched sheets and a bar of Parisian soap - the sort of accoutrements that any member of the Romanov family would have taken for granted. Russell hoped there was no one he knew on the train.
Darkness fell as his fellow-passengers queued to enter the workers' state, and it was almost nine by the time the train got underway. This was usual, his coach attendant assured him - they would only be the usual two hours late reaching Moscow. Russell considered a drink in the restaurant car, but decided his body was in more need of sleep.
The bed was surprisingly comfortable, but anxieties over Effi kept him awake. Once he had realized he wouldn't be back by Friday, he'd been afraid she would try something on her own. Another attempt at following Eyebrows perhaps, or something more dangerous which he hadn't even thought of. Before leaving Warsaw he had tried to wire her, but all communications with Berlin had been cut, and he'd been forced to send a message via his London agent Solly Bernstein. The man had never taken a holiday as long as Russell knew him, but there was always a first time. 'Please, Effi ,' he murmured. 'Be sensible.'
It was almost ten in the morning when the train rolled into Moscow's Byelorusskaya Station, and Russell emerged into the stifling heat of the Soviet capital. He was looking forward to a first ride on Moscow's famous new Metro, but a uniformed NKVD driver was waiting for him at the platform entrance, eyes shifting to and fro between the arriving passengers and the photograph he held in one hand.
'Citizen Russell?' he asked politely, using the non-Party form of address.
'Yes.'
'Come with me please,' he said, with the precision of someone who'd learnt the phrase in the last hour or so.
The sleek black car that was waiting outside looked custom-made for American gangsters, with its thick glass windows and wide running boards. His chauffeur opened the back door, but Russell mimed his wish to sit up front. He hadn't been in Moscow since 1924 and he wanted a good view of what Stalin had done with it. 'Which hotel are we going to?' he asked, but got no answer.
He tried again five minutes later, when it became obvious that they were driving out of the city rather than
