have known the risks they were taking, and who were apparently betraying a regime they had freely chosen to serve? When it came down to it, he had no real idea whether these two men were enemies of the Reich or just enemies of Heydrich. The evidence for Grashof being a genuine friend of the resistance seemed strong, but Russell still found it hard to imagine Canaris actually working against his own country. The best bet was that Heydrich was using Grashof's real guilt to smear his real adversary.
Not that it really mattered, because Russell had no intention of risking his own future for theirs. There was no honourable way out of this particular predicament. If a risk-free chance to help Grashof came up, he would take it. Maybe even a low-risk chance. Very low-risk. But that was all. He would have to play it by ear, hope that something went wrong, and live with himself if it didn't. The Abwehr was not his family.
He got up off the bed to explore the adjoining bathroom. A turn of the tap produced hot water, and he decided that taking a bath might cheer him up. The suspicious Schulenburg explored the room for secret exits, then left him to it. It felt like a victory, though he knew it was nothing of the sort.
Drying himself off with a huge soft towel, he felt renewed pangs of hunger. With rolls that good, who knew what Prague had to offer in the way of real meat and vegetables? Like all Berliners in recent months he had, he realised, fallen in thrall to his taste buds. 'What about lunch?' he asked Schulenburg.
The Untersturmfuhrer was unsympathetic: 'You can eat afterwards.' Russell went back to waiting, and the search for a flaw in Giminich's plan. None occurred to him. His thoughts wandered, taking him back to his last time in Prague, and his clandestine contacts on Washington's behalf with the still-gestating resistance movement. He had no idea whether those contacts had borne lasting fruit, or whether any of those involved were still alive. The resistance would be hard-pressed now, and those still at large would be lying low, waiting for Heydrich's storm to blow over. He remembered the execution he had witnessed, the lifeless corpse collapsing into the sand.
'Time to go,' Schulenburg said from the doorway.
Collecting the man in the corridor, they went down to the car, where the fourth member of the original party was half asleep behind the wheel. Jerked awake by Schulenburg's sarcastic greeting, the driver started the engine and roughly released the clutch, causing the car to take off like a frightened horse. Russell found himself wondering whether his guards would be stupid enough to drop him off at the cafe door.
The answer was no. They drove to the eastern end of the Legii Bridge, which now bore the name of the Czech composer Smetana. At a quarter to two Schulenburg pulled a copy of
The bridge was a long one, crossing two arms of the charcoal-coloured river and the island of bare trees that lay between them. It was on this island that Russell had met his first resistance contact in the summer of 1939, but today the paths were as empty as the trees, and the sun nowhere to be seen. In fact it was beginning to rain, and the dark forbidding castle high to his right was rapidly disappearing behind a curtain of mist.
Once beyond the island Russell could see the line of establishments on the far bank, their illuminated interiors brightly glowing in the overall gloom. The Sramota Cafe was the last in line, its outside terrace covered by an awning of ironwork and glass. Russell felt a faint stirring of hope - the clatter of rain on such a roof might hide their conversation from Giminich's microphones.
It was still only ten to two when he reached the steps leading down from the bridge to the quay. He stopped and leaned on the parapet, only too aware that he was getting wetter, but determined not to miss a single trick. The more time he gave the SD for making mistakes, the more likely they were to make one.
A man appeared in the distance, walking down from the direction of the Charles Bridge. Identification was impossible in the gloom, but the general build was consistent with Grashof's. The man entered the Sramota Cafe.
With enormous reluctance Russell resumed his journey, descending the slippery stone steps and making his way along the cobbled quayside. The rain was now swirling above the dark river, masking the far bank from view. It had turned into what the English called a 'filthy day' - the SD would need more than high-powered binoculars to see through this lot. Assuming that the watchers were far away. They might be in the back of the cafe, or sitting at a nearby table.
Russell reached the outer door and swung it open. There were several customers visible in the warmer interior of the cafe, but only one man, wrapped in raincoat and scarf, at the far end of the covered terrace. Johann Grashof.
Russell walked slowly towards the Abwehr officer. The windows to his left offered those in the cafe proper an excellent view of those on the terrace, and there were several obvious hiding places for microphones - on the bottom of the table, inside the suspiciously early bunches of Christmas holly, among the decorative ironwork which supported the glass roof. The patter of the falling rain was depressingly muted.
'Good day,' Grashof said politely.
'Good day,' Russell echoed, sitting down and placing his sodden magazine beside the other man's copy. Grashof's expression invited him to say more.
There was no way out of it.
'The Admiral says that you're in danger, and advises you to run.'
Grashof's lip curled slightly, as if he found the message amusing. 'I don't understand,' he said, though his eyes told a different story. 'In danger from what? Run where? What does he mean?'
This wasn't in the script, and neither was the Luger which Grashof suddenly brought into view, leaving the hand that held it resting on the metal table.
'Who are you?' Grashof asked.
'I am John Russell. The man you came here to meet.'
'I came here to meet a man of that name. Can you prove that you're John Russell?'
Russell took out his papers and handed them across the table, wondering what the SD eavesdroppers were making of this unexpected turn.
'These look like forgeries,' Grashof announced. 'Who are you really?' 'John Russell.'
'I don't think so. Are you a foreign agent?'
'Of course not. I...'
'Then I can only assume that you're an impostor in the pay of the
'I know nothing of...'
'Well, please tell whoever hired you that their scheme has failed. As all their attempts will, for one very simple reason. I am not and never have been a traitor.'
Grashof was enjoying himself. He had been tipped off, of course, an eventuality which hardly seemed surprising in hindsight. A lot of ordinary Czechs had witnessed Russell's virtual arrest at Masaryk Station, and several members of the Czech resistance whom he'd met in 1939 had worked at the nearby depot. News of the SD's intervention had been passed on to Grashof, and the Abwehr officer had made up his own little speech for the hidden microphones.
Of course the very fact of a tip-off had treason written all over it, but Grashof had certainly made the best of a bad situation. Russell felt like congratulating him, but decided to wait until after the war. Giminich would be furious.
Moments later, the man himself emerged from inside the cafe, trailing leather coats and SS uniforms in his wake.
Grashof's fingers momentarily tightened on the Luger's butt, and for one dreadful second Russell expected to die in the crossfire. Then the fingers relaxed and retreated from the weapon, with Grashof settling for an ironic smile. 'You must be the ringmaster of this particular circus,' he said, addressing Giminich.
'You are required for questioning,' the latter said, gesturing two of the uniforms forward.
'By whose authority?'
'That of the
'Then of course I am happy to oblige.' Grashof got to his feet. 'May I take my gun?'
'No,' Giminich said. 'The Petschek Palace,' he told the uniforms, who escorted Grashof out onto the quay.
