That evening Russell told Esther what he’d learned from Kuzorra and Isendahl, that Miriam had given birth to a child in either 1940 or 1941, and that both had been alive in early 1942. Esther had listened with her usual composure, made sure that she had understood him correctly, and then sat in thoughtful silence, as if carefully weighing what it did and didn’t mean.
First thing on Monday morning, Russell arrived at the French administrative HQ on Mullerstrasse. Major Giraud proved willing to see him, but, as Jentzsch had feared, knew nothing of Kuzorra or the reasons for his arrest. Thinking he was being helpful, he took Russell upstairs and introduced him to Jacques Laval, the man who’d been so singularly obstructive on his last visit.
Russell refused to be daunted. He told the cold-eyed Frenchman that he’d been to see Uwe Kuzorra at the detention centre in Wittenau, and was pleased to note the momentary look of surprise in the other man’s eyes. ‘I’m writing a story about his arrest,’ he lied glibly, ‘and the treatment he’s receiving at French hands. As far as I can tell, no date has been set for a hearing or trial.’
‘That is quite usual,’ Laval replied. ‘We only have the people to conduct a few cases at a time. Even the Americans have this problem. Your friend will just have to wait his turn. Now…’
Russell noticed the slight sneer in Laval’s voice when he mentioned the Americans. ‘You arrested Kuzorra because the Americans told you to,’ he said coldly. ‘Are you holding onto him out of spite?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Then why? Why hasn’t he been handed over to them?’
‘He will be.’
‘When they snap their fingers, perhaps.’
‘When they make an official request.’
Russell laughed. ‘Monsieur Laval, let me tell you what my story will be. That you are holding a wholly innocent man in custody, with no intention of giving him a fair hearing or trial. And that you’re not doing this in the interests of France, but because the Americans have ordered you to. Is that a fair summary of the situation?’
‘We don’t take orders from the Americans.’
‘Then give me the name of the American who wanted Kuzorra arrested, so I can ask him why the man’s been left to rot out at Camp Cyclop.’
Laval considered, but only for a second. He had, Russell guessed, no qualms about holding an innocent man for as long as expedience dictated, but a public reputation for sucking up to the Americans was not something he wanted to defend at Parisian dinner parties. ‘Colonel Sherman Crosby,’ he said, almost biting out the syllables.
‘Thank you,’ Russell said, and left it at that.
He made the long trip back to Dahlem — he was, he reckoned, covering more miles each day than he had with Patton — and asked for a brief meeting with Dallin. ‘I can give you five minutes,’ he was told on reaching the intelligence chief’s office.
‘I’ve found out who had the French arrest Kuzorra,’ Russell began.
‘Who’s Kuzorra?’
‘My detective friend. We agreed he’d be an asset to any Berlin network.’
‘Did we? So who was it had him arrested?’
‘Colonel Sherman Crosby.’
‘Ah.’
The name had made Dallin sit up, Russell noticed. And the look on his face suggested a rival. Had the Americans decided to imitate the Nazis and Soviets, and create their own perpetual feud between competing intelligence services? He sincerely hoped not. Four years earlier he had almost been crushed between Canaris and Heydrich, and was not keen to repeat the experience.
He suggested that Dallin talk to Crosby. ‘Ask him why him why he wanted Kuzorra arrested. And whether the name Rudolf Geruschke means anything to him. He’s a black marketeer that Kuzorra was investigating, and one of the letters denouncing Kuzorra came from one of his employees.’
‘I can ask,’ Dallin agreed, almost too readily. ‘Come back this evening. Say five ’o’clock.’
It was now almost two. Russell walked round to the Press Club on Argentinischeallee in search of lunch and some news of the local journalists. The former met all expectations, but the latter was harder to come by. In pre- war days Berlin’s foreign press corps had shared watering holes with its German counterpart, but under the occupation there seemed little in the way of mixing. Fortunately for Russell, one of the older American scribes had run into a German colleague, Wilhelm Fritsche, whom they both knew from pre-war days. Fritsche was keeping ‘office’ in one of the re-opened coffee shops at the eastern end of the Ku’damm.
Russell took to the buses again, wondering where he could find a bicycle. According to Thomas, the Russians had stolen most of the city’s supply in the spring, and broken them learning to ride.
He found the coffee shop without too much trouble, and saw Fritsche and another man right at the back. Fritsche had never been a Nazi, but, like any German journalist who wanted to work in the Thirties, had kept his true political opinions to himself.
He was surprised to see Russell. ‘I thought you’d escaped from Berlin.’
‘I had.’ For about the twentieth time since his return, Russell went over his and Effi’s recent history. Fritsche had heard of Effi’s film, and seemed encouraged by the fact that it was being made. So did his younger companion, who introduced himself as Erich Luders. He was also a journalist, and exactly the one that Russell was seeking. Luders, as Fritsche announced with a mentor’s pride, was investigating Berlin’s black marketeers.
Most of the big operators were Germans, the young journalist told Russell, but they all had powerful friends in one or more of the occupation authorities. Rudolf Geruschke was one of the most successful. He used muscle when he had to, but generally preferred a more discreet approach, buying people off rather than burying them. He had businesses in all four sectors, but none of the occupation authorities seemed inclined to interfere with his activities, and neither did the German police.
Russell asked if Luders had heard of Kuzorra.
‘He was an exception, and Geruschke managed to get him arrested. Why? Do you know him?’
‘He’s an old friend,’ Russell admitted. ‘I went to see him on Saturday at the French camp in Wittenau.’ He told Luders what Kuzorra had told him.
‘Off the record?’ Luders asked.
‘On,’ Russell decided. He didn’t think Kuzorra would mind a little publicity. ‘When are you planning to file?’
‘Too soon to say. When I’ve got enough dirt, I guess. Maybe I’ll give Kuzorra a visit myself.’
Russell was reminded of Tyler McKinley, the young American journalist killed by the Gestapo in 1939 for digging up dirt on their political masters. Seeing the eagerness in Luders’ eyes, he worried for the young man. Things had changed since 1939, but not that much.
Delayed by another disabled tram on the way back to Dahlem, he had time to reflect on the paucity of his own journalistic output — personal matters, an all-too-active espionage career and Berlin’s convalescent public transport were taking up every hour he had. He needed to get something written, but when? He had to complete the interviews for Shchepkin, and he couldn’t just abandon Kuzorra. But then maybe Dallin would have something for him.
When he reached the American’s office he found him about to leave, bound for some formal function in what looked like a borrowed monkey suit. ‘I talked to Crosby,’ Dallin said, hustling Russell towards the stairs. ‘He says they asked the French to pick up Kuzorra after several people denounced him. And that the only reason he hasn’t been interviewed is the backlog of cases they’re having to deal with.’
‘Did you tell him that at least one of the denouncers was an employee of the man Kuzorra was investigating?’
‘I did. He said he’d look into it. When I asked him what he knew about Geruschke, he said he knew the man was a black marketeer, but that Berlin was full of them. Which sounds fair enough. And apparently this one has a habit of helping Jews.’
Russell was sceptical. ‘Do you trust him? Crosby, I mean.’
They had reached the main entrance. ‘No,’ Dallin said eventually, ‘but there’s nothing more I can do. Your friend will have to wait his turn.’
‘That’s not good,’ Russell said, following him out.
