Russell wondered whether exceptions were made for scribes of Mongolian or Paraguayan descent. ‘I’m not asking as a journalist. I’m here as a friend of the man you arrested.’
‘Are you a relative?’
‘No…’ Russell began, realising his mistake too late. He should have said Kuzorra was a cousin. Or something.
‘Then I cannot help you.’
‘Can you tell me who can?’
‘You could apply to our headquarters at Baden-Baden.’
‘That’s four hundred miles away.’
The man shrugged. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, sounding anything but.
Russell shook his head, walked out, and stomped angrily downstairs to the lobby. He was still seething when a hand slapped him on the shoulder, and a much friendlier French face appeared in front of his own. ‘John Russell! What are you doing here? You look like someone just slept with your girlfriend.’
It was Miguel Robier, a French journalist whom he’d met the previous winter, when both were commuting between Eisenhower’s Rheims HQ and the Allied front lines. They had enjoyed each other’s company, sharing tastes in wine and political cynicism.
Russell explained about Kuzorra, and the interview he’d just had.
‘Ah, Jacques Laval. He doesn’t like Americans. Or anyone, for that matter. Do you have a few minutes? Let me see what I can do.’
Russell waited and hoped, hugging himself for warmth and watching drizzle drift past the open doorway.
Ten minutes later Robier was back, looking triumphant. ‘I have the story. Not from Laval — I know someone in military liaison. He says your friend Kuzorra was arrested for being a member of the SS — is that possible?’
Russell shook his head. ‘Anything’s possible. In fact I seem to remember that all senior police officers had SS ranks by the end of the war. But that’s…’
‘It gets more interesting,’ Robier interrupted him. ‘Our people arrested him at the request of the Americans — which, by the way, might be why Laval was even less helpful than usual. Anyway, it’s almost two weeks now, and the Americans still haven’t sent anyone to interview him. Our people have already sent them two reminders.’
‘Is he here?’ Russell asked.
‘No. He’s out at Camp Cyclop.’
‘Where?’
‘It’s our military base. Out in Wittenau.’
‘Okay, thanks. So, how are your family?’
They shared personal news and contact details, and agreed to meet up for a drink before Miguel’s return to France. They probably wouldn’t, Russell thought, as he headed on up Mullerstrasse to the Ringbahn station, but it wouldn’t really matter — their paths were bound to cross again. He had long ago lost count of his chance encounters with other journalists.
One thing seemed clearer with each passing day — who was in charge of western Berlin. The Americans were deciding not only who could work in the British zone, but who should be arrested in the French. And no one seemed to find this strange, let alone feel impelled to protest, unless the sulking of men like Laval was counted as such. The war had only been over six months, but the British and the French were already irrelevant — there were only two real powers in the city, or in the wider continent. And as luck would have it, he was working for both.
If the Americans had arranged Kuzorra’s arrest, they could just as easily arrange his release. A meeting with Scott Dallin seemed indicated.
By the time Russell reached the American HQ on Kronprinzenallee, the drizzle had stopped, and there were hints of sunlight in the western sky. After asking for Colonel Dallin he settled down for a long wait, but was only halfway through the lead story in the Allgemeine Zeitung when a corporal came to collect him.
Dallin’s office was high at the back, with a distant view of the Grunewald. The Californian had grown a moustache since Russell had last seen him, and the golden-brown hair was long enough to flaunt its waves. The visual effect was Gatsby-ish, but this son of privilege had none of that character’s easy charm. ‘Where have you been?’ was his first irritated question.
‘I’ve been waiting for your call,’ Russell replied, taking the unoffered seat in front of the other man’s desk. ‘I left a number and address downstairs.’
Dallin grasped his nose between two fingers and sighed. ‘I never received them. But…’ He brought both palms down on his desk. ‘Let’s get on with it.’ He gave Russell a cold look. ‘You can probably imagine how I felt when London told me they were sending you.’
‘Relieved? Ecstatic?’
Dallin grunted. ‘You haven’t changed. So, please, let’s start from the beginning. Give me one good reason why I should believe the story you told Lindenberg.’
‘He did.’
‘He’s in London, and he doesn’t know you like I do. You used to be a communist, you flirted with the Nazis. You even worked for us to buy yourself a US passport. Is there any intelligence organisation you haven’t worked for?’
‘The Japanese. Look, Colonel, I never, as you put it, flirted with the Nazis — every dealing I ever had with the bastards was a matter of necessity. I did used to be a communist, but so did a lot of other people back then. And there are a lot of honourable men still out there who call themselves communists — most of them were fighting Hitler long before Pearl Harbour. But I left the Party almost twenty years ago, mostly because I didn’t like what was happening in Russia then, and now it’s ten times worse. I’m sure you and I have our differences, but we’re on the same side now.’
Dallin looked less than convinced. ‘So what made the Soviets think you would work for them?’
‘I promised them I would. They had my son in a POW camp, and in return for his release I said I would spy for them. I had no choice if I ever wanted to see him again.’
Dallin steepled his hands as he considered this. ‘All right,’ he said finally, with almost palpable reluctance.
They really were desperate, Russell thought. Dallin had been told to enlist him, and was either letting off steam or trying to convince himself that he had nothing to lose. Probably both. The American would give Russell enough rope to either hang himself or tie the Soviets in knots. A win-win situation.
‘So have you been in contact with the Russians?’ Dallin asked.
‘Yes. I saw Shchepkin the other day. He’s my Soviet contact.’
‘How do you spell that,’ Dallin asked, reaching for his fountain pen. Like Russell’s old boss in Heydrich’s Sicherheitsdienst, he favoured green ink.
He repeated the name. ‘Anyway, the NKVD wants me to check out several high-ranking German comrades. I’ve seen one already. His name’s Gerhard Strohm — he was a member of the communist underground during the war, and I knew him slightly back in ’41. He was actually born in America, but he’s lived here since he was about thirteen. He’s very disillusioned with the Soviets. And I think he might be recruitable in the long term. I’ve found out he’ll be voted onto the KPD Central Committee next spring, so he’d be an excellent asset.’
‘That sounds promising,’ Dallin said, placing his hands behind his head. He seemed pleasantly surprised, but was doing his best not to show it.
‘It is,’ Russell agreed. ‘And from what Strohm told me, there are a quite a few others. The Russians are supporting the German communists who spent the war in Moscow, and they’re not giving the ones who stayed in Germany a look-in. The second group are really ticked off. So there’s quite an opportunity for us.’
‘That sounds good.’
‘And there’s another friend who could be very useful, but I’ve run into a problem with him. His name’s Uwe Kuzorra,’ Russell went on, watching in vain for any sign that the name was familiar. ‘He used to be a detective in the criminal police, and he owes me a few favours. But the French have arrested him for some reason or other, and they won’t let me visit him. A French friend looked into the matter for me, and he says that we asked for him to be arrested.’
‘We?’
