Stattin Station

'There is no difficulty here,' Giminich interrupted. 'As a resident of the Reich you are obliged, like everyone else, to obey its laws, and treason is most definitely against those laws. If Canaris and Grashof are innocent then that will become clear, and no harm will be done, while if they do prove to be traitors, you will have done the Reich a useful service. What is the problem?'

They had him, Russell thought. He had only one more card, and it was a low one. 'When we met at Prinz- Albrecht-Strasse you said my loyalty did me credit.'

Giminich smiled. 'And so it did. But the situation has changed. Where treason is concerned, loyalty becomes a very risky business, something to weigh very carefully. Your cooperation in this matter would certainly remove any doubts about your own position.'

'And if I refuse?' Russell asked.

Giminich shrugged. 'Would threats help you make up your mind?'

'Let's just say I like to know exactly where I stand.'

'Very well. You may have thought that we had forgotten about you since 1939. Your file is a long one, Herr Russell, well-researched and very up-to-date. Your girlfriend, your son, your Jew-lover of a brother-in-law and his son - their lives could all get a lot more difficult. You yourself would forfeit any chance of leaving Germany, and, at best, undergo imprisonment as an enemy alien for the duration of the war. I think we can agree, here, just between us, that this will be a long war. The United States will doubtless join in eventually, but the Atlantic is very wide, and they will find it as hard to cross as we shall. A stalemate seems very likely, and many years for you to regret refusing your services in this matter.'

'No' was not an option, Russell thought. It very rarely was where the Sicherheitsdienst was involved. 'You've convinced me,' he told Giminich. Maybe something would occur to him over the next few hours, some devious means of sabotaging the intended trap that could not be blamed on him, but it didn't seem very likely.

'Excellent,' Giminich said. 'We have reserved a room for you at the Alcron Hotel. Untersturmfuhrer Schulenburg will take you there now, and then to the Sramota Cafe for your treff with Herr Grashof. Anything you require, please ask. Once your part is over, your time is your own. The hotel room is yours until tomorrow, though I believe your return ticket is for this evening.'

'It is. And I do need to be back in Berlin tomorrow.' He didn't, but insisting that he still had an agenda of his own made him feel slightly less helpless.

Schulenburg led him outside to where an ancient-looking black saloon was waiting. Two more men in suits were sitting in the front seats, both of whom looked like Czechs. The Untersturmfuhrer had not opened his mouth in the station office, and his directions to the driver revealed a surprisingly deep voice. He ushered Russell into the back seat and joined him there, absent-mindedly pressing down on his unruly ginger thatch.

The streets of Prague seemed sombre to Russell, but that might just have been the overcast sky. According to the BBC, Heydrich's executioners had hardly enjoyed a moment's rest since early November, but as Russell knew only too well from Berlin, the sufferings of a small minority could pass almost unnoticed by their fellow citizens.

They had reached Jindoisska Street, which now bore the name Heinrichsgasse. As in 1939, giant swastikas adorned the upper facade of the Post Office and nearby Deutsches Haus, but traffic was noticeably lighter. There were a couple of trams in the distance, but no cars beyond their own. As they turned onto Wenzelsplatz another black saloon could be seen parked further up the slope, but that was all - this piece of occupied Europe had apparently exhausted its petrol ration.

Lepanska Street had also been re-christened, but Russell failed to catch the new name. The dark, rectangular and depressingly modern Alcron seemed unchanged from 1939, when he had eschewed it and its predominantly German clientele in favour of the Europa.

Once inside the impression improved, although sharing the small lift with two violently sneezing SS officers was hardly conducive to good health. His room, it turned out, was actually two - a sitting room, with a child's bed, leading into a large bedroom. Both had large windows overlooking the canyon-like street.

Russell looked at his watch - it was ten to ten. He had just over four hours to figure some way out of his and Grashof's predicament. Breakfast would be a start.

'I'd like some coffee,' he told Schulenburg. 'And something to eat. A couple of rolls will do.'

The Untersturmfuhrer seemed momentarily upset by the audacity of this request, but managed to recover himself. He opened the door, relayed the request to someone outside, and shut it once more.

'Have you been in Prague long?' Russell asked him cheerily.

'That's no business of yours,' was the surly reply.

'Just trying to be friendly,' Russell said lightly.

'We are not friends.'

No indeed, Russell thought. Silence it was. He sat down in a convenient armchair, stretched out his legs and waited for breakfast to arrive. Thinking was always hard work without coffee.

He suddenly realised that they hadn't provided him with the requisite copy of Signal. Had Giminich slipped up? Surely Grashof would notice if he turned up without one, but what would he do?

The coffee arrived, along with rolls, real butter and real jam. Russell could hardly believe it, but the Untersturmfuhrer, clearly used to such luxuries, left most of his on the plate. The coffee was no better than Berlin's - but then Prague was just as far from Brazil.

Feast over, Russell asked if he could lie down in the adjoining room. Schulenburg took a long look round, presumably to make sure there were no telephones, semaphore paddles or carrier pigeons available for Russell's use. He then granted permission, contingent on the door remaining open.

Russell laid himself out on the bed, closed his eyes, and tried to think. What was Giminich expecting to happen? Grashof would accept the legitimacy of the fake message without query, and perhaps incriminate himself still further by sending an indiscreet message back to Canaris. All of which would be overheard by the SD - a listening device under the table in all likelihood. Knowing which table the meeting was arranged for, they only had to bug the one.

But unless the relevant technology had improved out of all recognition there was no way the SD could record the conversation. So why not just make one up? Why go to all this trouble to get real evidence of guilt? Because, he realised, they needed the real evidence to convince Grashof's 'influential supporters' in Berlin. There would be someone with 'neutral' credentials listening in with the SD operatives, Russell guessed. Someone from the Foreign Office or Wehrmacht.

Once Grashof had incriminated himself, he would be immediately arrested, and the focus would shift back to Berlin. Moving against Canaris would take time - someone of his stature couldn't be arrested without the Fuhrer's agreement, and the latter was notoriously difficult to get hold of, what with his bizarre sleeping hours and penchant for military briefings that lasted longer than the campaigns concerned. And despite Giminich's promise, Russell couldn't see himself being set free until Canaris was beyond warning.

How could he break this chain of events? He would get no chance of warning anyone ahead of time - Schulenburg would be sticking to him like a ginger limpet.

Was there any way of presenting the message that would cause Grashof to smell a rat, yet not cast suspicion on Russell himself? By making faces? Kicking the man's leg under the table? It was hard to imagine that Giminich had neglected such possibilities. There would be people watching, probably droves of them, all with high-powered binoculars. There might even be lip-readers in case the microphones failed.

Could he remain faithful to the script provided, yet undermine the words with inappropriate tones and emphases? It would be risky. An inadequate grasp of the German language would be the only possible excuse, and Giminich knew only too well that he spoke it like a native.

But what else was there? Could he warn Grashof with his eyes? He tried a warning look at the ceiling, and found his mouth was hanging open. Ridiculous.

What was left - telepathy?

There was nothing. Should he have refused? He still could. If he followed Giminich's orders he would, in all likelihood, be condemning a man to death. Against that, Grashof and Canaris were likely to remain firmly fixed in Heydrich's crosshairs with or without his own involvement. Not a noble argument, but a reasonable one. And why should he sacrifice his own future - not to mention those of his extended family - for Grashof and Canaris, who must