would be better than dinner in the Anhalter buffet, and was told to draw his own conclusions from the prominent sign regretting the lack of a dining car. Others had obviously bothered to read it, and the station buffet was packed. Ordering took forever, leaving the time for eating seriously curtailed. Forced to run for the train, Russell quickly realised that every seat was taken, and that even space in the corridors was at a premium. He finally squeezed himself into a small corner beside a draughty corridor connection, feeling slightly nauseous and very out of breath.
It was not a very auspicious beginning. But at least he wasn't carrying anything for the comrades on this trip. Canaris might have occasional problems remembering who his country was fighting, but the Abwehr was still one of the most powerful organisations in Germany, and working for it should be relatively risk-free. He would, he admitted, be happier if he knew what was in the letter, but removing and invisibly replacing the Admiral's seal was beyond him. And whatever it said, it wouldn't have anything to do with him. Or so he assumed - for all he knew the message concealed within was a simple 'Shoot the messenger'. Unlikely, though. It would have been easier to shoot him in Berlin.
The blackout screens on the windows were firmly fixed in place, and Russell was suddenly reminded of a long coffin, rumbling south towards a distant funeral.
The Petschek Palace
Soon after eleven the train reached Dresden, where most of the passengers got off, and Russell was finally able to stretch his limbs on a very cold platform. Several carriages were detached from the rear of the train and, much to his astonishment, replaced by a Czech dining car. There were no meals on offer, but the range of alcoholic drinks seemed wider than that found in Berlin's better hotels. Russell treated himself to three glasses of slivovitz, and sat for the better part of an hour enjoying the views of moonlit mountains in the unscreened windows.
Finding a line of unoccupied seats to lie down on proved surprisingly easy, and he dozed off for a couple of hours. Woken at the Sudeten junction of Usti by the slamming of doors, he noticed that some but not all of the station signs bore the new German name of Aussig. A trip to the waterless toilet indicated that the train was now virtually empty - visas for Heydrich's Protectorate were either hard to come by or in low demand. He was almost asleep again when the train reached the essentially meaningless border, and officialdom required a long and overly suspicious perusal of his papers.
The next few hours were spent in that unsatisfying netherworld between sleep and wakefulness, and as light began filtering around the blackout screens he made his way back to the dining car, where the fields of the Protectorate were now visible. The counter was closed, but Russell could smell the coffee, and a short burst of abject begging persuaded the old Czech in charge to supply him with a cup. It was the best he had drunk for several months, and would prove the undisputed highlight of his trip to Prague.
The train pulled into Masaryk Station - now renamed Hiberner Station - almost two hours late. Russell was supposed to be returning that evening on the same train, but had decided to take a hotel room in any case - after his adventures in Prague two years earlier he had no desire to spend his day wandering the streets, where someone might recognise him. The same risk applied to the Europa Hotel, but any of the other establishments on the long and inappropriately-named Wenceslas Square should prove safe enough. He was just wondering what the new German name might be when he saw the two leather coats waiting at the ticket barrier.
He told himself they were waiting for someone else, but didn't really believe it.
'Herr Russell,' the shorter of the two stated.
There seemed no point in denying it. 'That's me.'
'Come this way please.'
Russell followed, conscious of the other man walking behind him, and of the scrutiny of their Czech audience. He felt an absurd inclination to start goose-stepping, but managed to restrain himself.
They walked through one office and into another. The latter was obviously home to the local transport police, but none were there. Perched on the edge of one desk, arms folded across his stomach, was Obersturmbannfuhrer Giminich of the
'Good morning, Herr Russell,' Giminich said. 'Welcome to the Protectorate.'
'Good morning,' Russell replied.
'Please give me the letter which Admiral Canaris entrusted you with.'
Russell took the envelope from his inside jacket pocket and handed it over.
Giminich examined the Admiral's seal with interest. 'You have no idea of the contents?'
'None whatsoever. As you can see, the seal is unbroken.'
Giminich broke it, and removed what looked like a single sheet half-covered in type. After reading it through he passed the letter to his junior.
'What does it say?' Russell asked, intent on emphasising his ignorance of the contents.
Giminich ignored the question. 'This is Untersturmfuhrer Schulenburg,' he told Russell. 'You will be spending the morning with him.'
'Why?'
'Ah. Perhaps we should begin at the beginning. Please, take a seat,' he added, indicating one of the upright chairs. 'Your meeting with Johann Grashof is at the Sramota Cafe, at two o'clock, the furthest table from the entrance. Yes?'
'You are well informed,' Russell said dryly.
'Much better than yourself, I imagine. What do you know about Johann Grashof?'
'That he's an officer in the Abwehr. Apart from that, absolutely nothing.'
'But you know what he looks like?'
'Yes, I was shown a photograph.'
'Would it surprise you to know that Grashof is a traitor to the Reich?'
'It would.'
Giminich brought his two palms together and balanced his chin on the ends of his fingers. 'Earlier this year certain information was leaked to the British Embassy in Belgrade, information that only three people had access to. Two were away when the leak occurred, but the third - Grashof - was considered above suspicion by Berlin. Then, two months ago, a captured Czech terrorist admitted that he and his organisation had been receiving information from a Wehrmacht source. He had not met this source himself, but he claimed that another terrorist - one that we already had in custody - had met the man. This terrorist was questioned, and eventually produced a vague description - he said he had only met our suspect in the blackout. As before, the description and the information passed on pointed to one of three men, and, as before, two of those men were quickly able to prove their innocence. And once again the third man was Grashof.'
'So why is he still at large?'
Giminich nodded, as if conceding a point. 'The case is not quite complete,' he admitted. 'Herr Grashof has several influential supporters, and they have found it extremely difficult to believe in his treachery. But now, with your assistance, we will soon have enough evidence to convince even the most sceptical.'
Russell couldn't help grimacing.
'You will keep your appointment with him, but deliver a different message. You will tell him, using these exact words: 'The Admiral says that you're in danger, and advises you to run'.'
'But...'
'You will then ask Grashof if he has any final message for the Admiral. Do you understand?'
Only too well, Russell thought. If Grashof accepted the instruction, he would be condemning both himself and Canaris. And once the two men were revealed as traitors, then those who carried messages between them were unlikely to receive any favours; Russell's own hopes of a comfortable Swiss exile would certainly be over, along with any chance of seeing Effi while the war lasted. And worse than that was a distinct possibility. 'I understand what you'd like me to do,' he said, 'but as I'm sure you can see, this puts me in a very difficult position. I have no personal knowledge of this man Grashof, but I find it hard to believe that Admiral Canaris is a traitor to the Reich...'
