It was five to twelve, and Russell wondered when he should check the buffet - the outside entrance was only really convenient for railwaymen coming from the goods yard, but there was always a chance that Sullivan had slinked in that way. He would give it another ten minutes.
The last few passengers for Stettin hurried by, the whistle sounded, and the distant locomotive went into a momentary fit, blasting steam in all directions before finding its feet and easing its load away. The drumming on the roof seemed louder in the subsequent silence, and Russell blessed the fact that the U-Bahn would take him to Alexanderplatz. By the time he met Effi the rain might have stopped.
Suddenly he saw Sullivan, cutting across the concourse from the same direction as the arriving local passengers some ten minutes earlier. Had he been on that train? It seemed unlikely that he would have chosen to live north of the city when Radio Berlin was situated thirty kilometres to the south. And if he had, where had he been for the last ten minutes? In a toilet?
Not that it mattered. Russell watched Sullivan walk into the buffet without a backward glance - the broadcaster clearly had no qualms about a possible tail. He would give it a minute, he decided, and only set himself in motion once the second hand of the station clock had stuttered its way around the dial. He was about ten metres from the buffet doors when two young men hurried in through the main station entrance, eyes flashing in all directions, clearly searching for someone or something. They were wearing neither leather coats nor formal uniforms, but Russell was willing to bet they knew people who did. He adjusted his route and speed accordingly, walking slowly past the open buffet doors towards the main entrance. As he passed the doors he caught a glimpse of the two men bearing down on an unsuspecting Sullivan.
Russell walked on through the wide archway of the main entrance, and stopped among the people waiting for the rain to slacken or stop. There was a Mercedes 260 parked in front, its busy windscreen wiper offering pulsatory glimpses of the man behind the wheel. He seemed to be studying his manicure. When several footfalls sounded behind Russell, he didn't turn his head, just waited until the three men were past him, splashing their way across to the parked car. He only saw Sullivan's face as one of the young men hustled him into the back seat. The broadcaster looked more angry than frightened.
The car pulled away and, as it turned towards the forecourt exit on Invalidenstrasse, Russell had a clear view of the rear numberplate. Stepping further back into the archway, he jotted it down in his notebook.
It was still raining when he emerged from the U-Bahn at Alexanderplatz, still raining when Effi's tram arrived at the stop twenty minutes later. Russell made to get on, but she urged him back off again. 'I've lost the boot- maker's address,' she said. 'I know which street he lives on, but this doesn't seem like a day for knocking on lots of doors.'
'No,' he agreed.
'I've also lost my umbrella,' she added plaintively. 'I thought you could take me somewhere nice for lunch instead.'
'How about the Adlon? I have to call in at the Consulate.' As they waited for a tram back up Konigstrasse he told her about Sullivan, the arranged meeting and the events at Stettin Station.
'Thank God they didn't catch you with him,' was her first reaction. 'But what if he tells them he was there to meet you?'
'Why should he? He'd only incriminate himself. No, I'm safe enough. They'd have had to catch us in the act, flash bulbs popping as the documents were handed over.'
'Yes?' she half asked, as if not quite convinced.
'Yes,' he insisted, hiding the fact that he wasn't either.
The tram arrived and dropped them a few minutes later on Behrenstrasse, several hundred very wet metres from the Adlon. A waiter fan of Effi's insisted on bringing towels for their hair, and took their coats away to be dried while they ate. 'I thought you said this place had gone downhill,' Effi whispered.
'Look around you,' Russell told her. There were only about twenty people in the huge dining room, and most of them were in uniform.
'And the food is somewhat variable.'
But today was one of the better days, and being there with Effi brought back fond memories of pre-war times, when the Adlon had still functioned as a cosmopolitan island in a cheerless German sea.
After eating they moved into the bar, where some of Russell's colleagues were already ensconced. The Foreign Ministry press conference had yielded fresh news of Soviet reverses, with Tula supposedly surrounded and Moscow threatened from the south. By contrast, the latest releases on the situation in North Africa had seemed less confident, as if the authorities were preparing the ground for possible failure. Dr Schmidt had spent most of the briefing rubbishing British claims that the allied delegations now departing Berlin were mere 'puppets' of the Germans, but in vain. 'You could see that part of him really liked the idea of their being puppets,' one of the Americans explained, 'so his denials weren't that convincing.'
Russell left Effi with a colleague and a bilious-looking cocktail, and made a dash through the rain to the adjacent Consulate.
Kenyon came down to meet him, and invited him back out into the shelter of the portico. 'I can't see any suspicious wires,' he said, examining the column-supported roof. 'Can you?'
'Not even one,' Russell agreed. The rain was still falling steadily, running in sheets down the side of the Brandenburg Gate.
'So?' Kenyon asked, one hand emerging from one pocket with a packet of cigarettes, the other from the other pocket with the silver lighter.
'He was arrested,' Russell said. 'At least I assume so.' He went through the sequence of events. 'I didn't see them show him any identification, but that would have happened in the buffet. There was no struggle of any kind, no guns. Sullivan looked furious, but he went with them willingly enough.' Kenyon exhaled a lungful of smoke, and thought for a few moments. 'Was he carrying anything?' he eventually asked.
'Only a newspaper. He must have had the documents in an inside pocket.'
'Whatever they were,' Kenyon murmured, apparently to himself. 'And I don't expect we'll ever find out now. Which sticks in my craw. If American businesses really are planning on supplying the enemy after an official declaration then I'd happily see their bosses taken out and shot.'
'Those guys always survive.'
Kenyon stubbed out his cigarette and stared out at the rain. 'They do, don't they? But let me dream. If Sullivan does get back in touch, and if by some miracle he still has those proofs he was talking about, I'll fix up another meeting.'
'Okay,' Russell said, shaking his hand. Back at the Adlon he found Effi deep in conversation with the waiter who'd provided the towels. They were talking about the film she'd been making when Russell first met her. 'They don't seem to write such good stories these days,' the waiter admitted. 'Too much politics,' he added in a whisper.
The telephone rang at six in the morning, which was rather early for a Sunday. Russell decided to ignore it, but Effi was worried it might be Zarah, and leapt out of bed to answer. Much to her disgust, it was for him. Rainer Duhnke was a German journalist whom Russell had known since the early thirties, and the two of them had made a habit of passing on stories which suited their own national readerships.
'I've just had a tip-off from a friend at the Alex,' Duhnke said, 'and you seemed like the right person to tell. They've just found Patrick Sullivan's body in the Tiergarten.'
Russell felt a momentary pang of sadness. 'Do you know where exactly?'
'Between the Neuer See and the Landwehrkanal. It's still there - nothing can happen until it gets light. So if you get down there now...'
'Thanks, Rainer.'
'What is it?' Effi wanted to know.
He told her as he dressed.
'Be careful,' she said.
'No need. I'm only wearing my journalist hat.'
It still seemed very dark outside, but as he turned onto Hardenberg Strasse a pale grey glow was noticeable in the eastern sky, and by the time he reached the bridge over Landwehrkanal the world was taking visible shape once more. Three black cars were already lined up on the Tiergartenufer, with one uniformed policeman standing guard. As Russell walked towards them he heard the sound of other cars approaching from the west. Turning, he
