Stattin Station

thirty-five with large blue eyes and a born-to-pout mouth. She was wearing black.

He introduced himself, let her choose their table in a lonely corner, and murmured 'an accident' in response to her questioning look at his bandaged head. His expressions of regret for her recent loss were shrugged aside - either she was putting a very brave face on widowhood or she was less bothered than he was.

'How long were you married?' Russell asked, purely out of curiosity. Sullivan had never mentioned a wife.

'Almost two years,' she answered, once the waitress had taken his coupons and gone off in search of coffee and cake. 'He was very good to me,' she added almost grudgingly. 'He was taking me to Italy once he had the money from those papers.'

Russell managed not to look surprised. 'Italy?' he asked.

'Away from the war,' she explained. 'And winters like this.'

'So what information do you have for me?' Russell asked.

The waitress arrived with their coffees and a creamy-looking confection that IG Farben had probably created between batches of synthetic rubber.

She took a bite and made a face. 'I think you already have the information,' she said, after wiping her lips. 'You do have Patrick's papers, don't you? Well, I want my share of whatever it is they're worth. I was his wife.'

'I don't have his papers,' Russell told her.

She wasn't convinced. 'Look, I'm sorry I told the police that Patrick was meeting you at Stettin Station. I was flustered.'

'I still don't have any of your husband's papers. What makes you think I do?'

She gave him a hard stare. 'Well, the police turned our flat upside-down looking for something, and what else were they looking for? So they weren't on the... you know, when they found him...'

'The people who killed your husband must have taken them.'

'I don't think so. If they did, why are they watching me?'

'What? How do you...'

'There are men watching me. There's a car outside our building all day. I called that Kriminalinspektor and he said it wasn't his people. So who else can it be?'

A good question, Russell thought. Was this why Kuzorra thought there was still something to find? 'Did they follow you here?' he asked, looking round. He couldn't remember any suspicious-looking characters entering the cafe since her arrival.

'No,' she said. 'I left by the back entrance, and I made sure no one followed me onto the U-Bahn.'

She was, Russell realised, smarter than she looked.

'Look,' she said, 'I don't know whether to believe you or not. When Patrick left home that morning he had the briefcase with him, so he must...'

Russell stopped listening. The strange direction from which Sullivan had appeared at Stettin Station - it suddenly made sense. The ticket... he must have found a chance to drop it, or more likely swallow it.

She was looking at him, expecting an answer.

'Your husband wasn't carrying anything when those men led him away,' he said truthfully. And Kuzorra, he realised, had made no mention of it. 'Did you tell the police about the briefcase?'

'No, of course not. They wouldn't let me sell the papers. They might even arrest me for knowing about them.'

'Maybe he left them in safe keeping at one of the foreign press clubs,' Russell improvised. 'I'll make some discreet enquiries. What does it look like?'

She said nothing, but the suspicion in her eyes was eloquent enough. 'I won't cut you out,' he said reassuringly. 'If I find the papers, and if we can sell them, then we'll split the proceeds 50-50. Fair enough?'

She wanted to protest, but was clever enough to know that he held all the cards. 'All right,' she said grudgingly.

It was a brown leather briefcase with two straps. Sullivan's initials were embossed in gold above the lock.

Russell walked her back to the U-Bahn station, watched her disappear down the steps, and sought out a public telephone. Over recent months the Gestapo had taken to cutting off the American Consulate whenever the mood seemed right, but on this particular day they must have been harassing other innocents. He got straight through, and persuaded the telephonist to summon Joseph Kenyon.

'I need to see you and Dallin,' he told the diplomat.

'Now?' Kenyon asked.

'Tomorrow morning will do,' Russell said, remembering his promise to be home by five.

There was a pause. 'Say ten o'clock,' Kenyon said. 'I'll try and round up Scott.'

'Good.'

Russell only realised that he'd forgotten to visit the hospital as he let himself into the flat. Effi was not yet back, but his son would be home from school. He unhooked the phone and dialled the Grunewald number. Paul himself answered, and sounded genuinely pleased to hear from his father.

Their usual Saturday afternoon get-together had, however, once again fallen victim to the insatiable appetite of the Hitlerjugend. The whole day had been taken over for a 'terrain game' in Havelland, and, as if that wasn't enough, four further hours on Sunday morning had been set aside for training in the laying of telephone cables. Russell sometimes wondered if Germany's youth would have any energy left by the time they were called up, but Paul seemed unfazed by the fullness of his weekend. 'Could we go to the game on Sunday afternoon?' he asked. 'I should be finished in time.'

Russell was delighted. They hadn't been for a while - Paul had not seemed keen, and Russell found it hard to feel enthusiastic about football in the middle of a war, though this was not a view shared by his fellow Berliners. Attendances had swollen over the last year, despite the fact that many of the best players and a high proportion of the regular fans were strewn across Europe at the Wehrmacht's bidding. 'I'd like that,' he said.

'So would I,' Paul agreed, and their goodbyes were imbued with the sort of simple father-son camaraderie that both had once taken for granted. A few minutes later Effi walked in, and was suitably shocked by his bandaged head. 'What...'

'It's nothing,' he reassured her. 'Someone took a shot at me. Just a crease. I'm fine.'

'Someone took a shot at you?'

'In Prague.'

'Have you seen a doctor?'

'In Prague. A Czech doctor. I meant to go today but...'

'Let me look at it.'

'There's no need...'

'Sit down!'

He did as he was told, and she began unwinding the bandage.

'How's the filming going?' he asked.

'I don't want to talk about it. Not until I've had a drink anyway. And I'm afraid I still haven't got to the shops; we'll have to eat out.' The bandage was off, and the wound seemed clean enough. She felt relieved, but also frightened at the closeness of the shave. 'And stop trying to change the subject. Who was it shot you? And why?'

'The Czech Resistance.'

'Well, they're rotten shots. This doesn't look too bad.'

'The worst bit is having to explain the bandage to everyone I meet.'

She smiled in spite of herself, and went into the bathroom. 'One of those woolly ski caps we bought in Innsbruck would cover it up,' she said, rifling through the medicine cabinet.

'Yes. And add a hint of sartorial joie de vivre to Ribbentrop's press conferences.'

She emerged with a new dressing. 'Now tell me the whole story.'

He gave her a detailed precis of his twelve hours in Prague.

'You were lucky,' she said when he was finished. 'And I don't just mean with the bullet.'