Stattin Station

been reduced to scarecrows by the clothing shortage - though he did have a tendency to wear the sort of colours that suited sunny California rather better than corpse-grey Berlin.

Money was the obvious reason. Dallin had grown up in Santa Barbara the son of a water tycoon, so one of Russell's friends at the Consulate had told him. He had attended an Ivy League college in the East, and encountered no apparent problems in securing a plum post in the diplomatic service. When he had arrived in Berlin a year or so ago it had been his first trip out of America, and it had showed. Dallin wasn't stupid, but he knew very little and didn't seem sufficiently aware of that fact. His obvious doubts about Russell probably stemmed from reading the official file and discovering his communist past. A man like Dallin would have no idea how anyone good or intelligent could become a communist, and would therefore assume that the man in question was either a knave or a fool. And since Russell was obviously not a fool, the odds on his being a knave of some sort had to be high.

'Imagine how cold it's getting outside Moscow,' Russell said.

'I guess that's something,' Dallin agreed. 'But let's get this over with. What's the word from the Admiral?'

'He has some figures for you,' Russell said, pulling a folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket and passing it over. 'Oil and manpower. Oil and manpower shortages, to be precise.'

Dallin studied the figures, and let out a low whistle. 'These don't look so good for Adolf.'

'If they're true, they're not.'

'You think they're faked? An under-estimate, I suppose.'

Russell shrugged. 'I've no way of knowing, but my guess is not.'

'So why pass them on? It's an admission of weakness.'

'Ah. The second half of the message is that Stalin is considering a separate peace. Provided Moscow doesn't fall, that is - Uncle Joe will only negotiate from a position of strength.'

Dallin thought for a moment. 'I don't get it,' he said eventually. 'Is there a connection?'

'Canaris doesn't mind you - us - supporting the British, in fact he wants that to continue, because one thing he dreads is a German victory in the West. But he doesn't want us joining up with the Russians, because the other thing he dreads is a German defeat in the East. So his main aim is to prevent that happening, to keep the two wars separate. The statistics are supposed to convince us that the Soviets will avoid defeat whether we help them or not, and the separate peace rumour - which is almost certainly a fiction - suggests that helping them would be against our own interests, and that any tanks we send them might eventually be used against us.'

Dallin looked suitably confused. 'Does the Admiral know which side he's on?'

'Good question. He hates communists as much as he hates Nazis, and he probably hates democrats too. But now that the Kaiser's gone there's not much else on offer. I think the only thing you can say for certain about Canaris is that he is a German patriot. He wants Germany - his Germany, not Hitler's - to survive the war, and that will only happen if the Russians and their German communist allies are kept at arm's length, and if Hitler and the Nazis are deposed, allowing Canaris and a few like-minded generals to strike a deal with the West. None of which is impossible, but as a sequence of events you'd have to say it was pretty unlikely.'

'Oh, I don't know,' Dallin said, rubbing his hands together. 'Look how eager you Brits were to push Hitler east, until someone in London had the bright idea of guaranteeing Poland.'

'True, but Churchill wouldn't do a deal last year, and I'd say Britain's position is stronger now than it was then.'

'Unless Moscow really does fall.'

'It won't.'

'You have some private intelligence?'

'Nope. Just a hunch.' Or just wishful thinking, he thought to himself. 'What have you got for the Admiral?' he asked.

'Only one thing really. We want the Admiral to understand that if the Japs attack us in Asia, we won't just meet them head on, we'll also declare war on Germany. Tell him that we'll have no choice, because our strategic plan calls for fighting and winning a European war before we deal with the Nips.'

'Is that true?'

'Who knows? But if the Germans believe it, it might encourage them to restrain the Japanese for a few months more. And if the Japs don't take any notice and attack us, Hitler might reckon we're going to attack him anyway, and be fool enough to get his declaration in first. Which would save Roosevelt the job of persuading Congress that the two wars were one and the same.'

'Nice,' Russell said. 'How are things going in Washington? With the Japanese, I mean?'

'Time is definitely running out, which brings me to another matter. You remember Franz Knieriem?'

It was not a name that Russell had been hoping to hear. 'Vaguely,' he lied.

'He was one of the men on that list you were given in New York, back in '39. An official at the Air Ministry. You decided against contacting him.'

'I remember.'

'Why?'

Russell thought back. He had engineered an innocent meeting with the man, and had decided to take it no further. The credentials had been perfect - an ex-Social Democrat with a brother who had died in Dachau, an effusive character reference from an old colleague now living in America - and the possibility of gaining access to restricted Air Ministry files had certainly appealed to Washington; but Russell had formed an instinctive distrust of the man. Franz Knieriem, he had decided, might well be the death of him.

But how to explain that to Dallin? 'I just didn't trust him,' he said, knowing how inadequate it sounded.

'Nothing stronger than that?' Dallin predictably asked. 'Because we need you to try again. We'll probably be out of here in a few weeks, and the chance will be gone. Look, I'll tell you what we need to know and why. Last June, when Hitler was in Florence, he told Mussolini that he would have a trans-Atlantic bomber ready for service by the end of this year. One that could make it to New York and back from the Azores. Now we haven't found a trace of this bomber, and it may just be a figment of Hitler's imagination, but, something like this, we have to be sure. New Yorkers don't want to be settling down to a Yankee game next season and suddenly find there are German bombers overhead.'

'It doesn't sound very plausible, does it?'

'No, but we can't afford to ignore the possibility.'

And I can't afford to take the risk, Russell thought.

'If the guy calls the Gestapo, you can just make a run for the Consulate,' Dallin suggested, as if this was something people did every day.

'They'd come in and get me.'

'Why? The cat would be out of the bag, and creating a diplomatic incident wouldn't put it back in again.'

'And my girlfriend? You've already told me that there's nothing you could do for her.'

'There isn't. At least, I don't think so. Let me have another try, see what I can do. In the meantime, will you at least think about it? If we get into the war, you'll be separated from your girlfriend anyway.'

'I'll give it some thought,' Russell said, seeing no point in a blank refusal.

But he had no desire to contact Knieriem again. The way things were going, Dallin and Company would soon be gone, and he was confident he could string the matter out until they were.

It was getting dark when the studio limousine dropped Effi off at the main entrance of the Elisabeth Hospital. She had been visiting the wounded once a week for a couple of months now, a willing participant in Goebbels' latest campaign to raise morale among the troops. There were supposed to be three of them there tonight, but the other two had cried off, one actress claiming a headache, the other a queasy stomach. The experience was generally depressing, but it was only a couple of hours, and Effi had felt like flaying them.

An orderly insisted on escorting her through the maze of corridors, happily chatting as they walked - he seemed to remember her films better than she did. Reaching the first of the military wards, she announced her arrival to the staff nurse, Annaliese Huiskes, whom she knew from previous visits.

'Anyone you particularly want me to see?' Effi asked.

'No. Just as many as you can manage. They'll all be delighted.'

A bit of an exaggeration, Effi thought, as she headed for the visitor-less bed. There were always quite a few who were happy to see her, but some had visitors of their own, and others simply turned their heads in mute