‘No, it just seems logical.’
It did. And almost just. Almost. ‘And you’re happy to let them get on with it?’
‘Happy overstates it,’ Isendahl admitted, ‘but then again, I’m not in the business of rescuing Nazis. Are you?’
It was a fair enough question. And the answer, Russell realised, was no.
Effi was already asleep by the time he got home, and already gone when he woke in the morning. In the old days he would have made his leisurely way down to Kranzler’s on Unter den Linden, read the papers, sipped his way through at least one cup of excellent coffee, and basked in the life of a freelance journalist in Europe’s most exciting city. But that was then — he was, he realised, dwelling more in the past than was healthy. Maybe ruins encouraged nostalgia.
He was not looking forward to meeting Shchepkin, and realised that was unusual. Asking himself why, he decided that he’d always seen himself as a self-employed, independent sort of spy. A permanent place on Stalin’s payroll evoked very different feelings.
The sun was shining as he emerged from the Potsdamerplatz U-Bahn station, but the chill in the air was appreciably sharper than on the previous day. The home of Europe’s first traffic lights was still a wreck, but several reconstruction gangs were at work behind the shattered facades of the perimeter, the dust from their efforts hanging red in the bright blue sky.
Russell walked up the old Hermann-Goring-Strasse and into the Tiergarten. The open-air market seemed as popular as ever, and would doubtless remain so until the occupation authorities created the conditions for something more legal. As he arrived, he noticed two women proudly bearing away a precious square of glass. Berliners were only allowed to glaze one room per dwelling, but people were travelling out into the country, removing windows from their own or others’ cottages, and bringing them back to the city to sell.
Shchepkin appeared halfway through his second circuit, and the two of them retired to the same bench as last time.
Russell placed his copy of the Allgemeine Zeitung between them.
‘Your report is inside?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Anything else worth reading?’ Shchepkin asked, looking down at the American-sponsored newspaper.
‘There’s an article about the adoption of orphans. It seems that Germans prefer them blond.’
‘That’s hardly news.’
‘No.’ Perhaps the Nokmim were right, Russell thought.
‘So have you seen all five men?’
‘Not Leissner. He’s out of town. He’ll be back this weekend, but I’m leaving town myself, so he’ll have to wait.’
‘Where are you going?’
Russell explained about the Haganah offer. ‘You did say you wanted a working journalist.’
‘We do. And I’m sure that Leissner can wait. So what about the others?’
Russell went through the list. ‘Junghaus and Trenkel — the planner and the propagandist — you won’t have any trouble with either of them. Strohm will argue for what he thinks is right, but only until a decision has been made. He’ll always accept Party discipline because he can’t imagine life outside the Party. Haferkamp is a bomb waiting to go off, but I assume you know that already — he told me he’d published an article outlining his views.’
‘It was only just brought to our attention,’ Shchepkin said. ‘The German comrades like to keep their disputes to themselves.’
‘Even Ulbricht’s pro-Soviet bunch?’
‘Especially them. They’re afraid that opposition in their own ranks reflects badly on themselves.’
‘Well Haferkamp’s only a journalist. Maybe the Party could find him a job in the sports department.’
‘Maybe.’ He gave Russell an enigmatic smile. ‘I hope you’ve been completely honest in your appraisals.’
‘Of course I have,’ Russell lied. ‘There seemed no point in anything else. A man like Haferkamp has no future in the KPD — he just hasn’t realised it yet. He’ll be happier filing football reports.’
‘And the names we provided for Fraulein Koenen?’
‘She says they’re pathetically grateful to your people for the chance to make their film, and that they hardly ever mention politics — just the occasional anti-American gibe. And that when they remember they belong to the Party, no one could be more loyal.’
Shchepkin snorted. ‘The worst kind — when people like that wake up, they always get really angry. But thank you, and thank Fraulein Koenen.’ He tapped his fingers on the folded newspaper. ‘Have you given the Americans a copy?’
‘Not yet, but I will.’ He would have to give Dallin the same report, just to be on the safe side — he had no idea how much information the Americans shared with the British, and he hadn’t forgotten Shchepkin’s warning of Soviet moles in MI5 and MI6. He could always give the Californian a fuller verbal report. ‘The Americans have found a task for me,’ he told Shchepkin. ‘Have you ever heard of a chemist named Theodor Schreier?’ he asked, half hoping that the Russian would say no.
‘Yes,’ Shchepkin answered, clearly interested.
‘Well the Americans want him, and they’ve more or less ordered me to go and fetch him.’
‘Alone?’
‘I doubt it. They’re hoping you can find out how well he’s being guarded.’
Shchepkin seemed lost in thought for some time.
‘Well?’ Russell asked eventually.
‘Yes, we’re sitting on Schreier. He’s agreed to work in our country, in Yaroslavl, if I remember correctly. His laboratory is being packed up for moving. I don’t know the details, but the procedure is the same in all such cases — two men with him around the clock, in three shifts. For his protection,’ the Russian added wryly.
‘That doesn’t sound good,’ Russell observed.
‘Mmm, no. But why? — that’s the question. The Americans must have a thousand Schreiers. Just to deny us, I suppose. Why are they being so petty?’
Russell let that go. ‘I’ve been wondering whether this has more to do with me — or us — than Schreier. I think they’re testing us. Giving us a chance to prove our loyalty.’
‘You’re learning,’ Shchepkin said. ‘And speaking of proving our loyalty, I’ll have something for them in a few weeks. But in the meantime…’
‘Can you help me?’
‘I don’t see how. And I will have to tell Nemedin about this.’
‘Why, for God’s sake?’
‘Because our lives will be forfeit if he hears it from somebody else. We can’t assume you’re his only American source.’
Russell supposed not.
‘It depends on how important Schreier is,’ Shchepkin went on, ‘whether we really need his skills or might just find them useful. If he’s expendable, then perhaps I can convince Nemedin that it’s in our interests to let you take him. Your success will please your American control, and the more he trusts you, the more use you will eventually be to Nemedin. Or so he will think. You must remember,’ the Russian said, turning towards him for emphasis, ‘we need to keep proving our loyalty to both sides.’
Yes, Russell thought, after you through the looking glass. Shchepkin’s world made him feel dizzy.
He reverted to practicalities. ‘So Nemedin will remove the guards?’
‘Oh no, that would make the Americans suspicious. How many men are you coming with? And when?’
‘Saturday evening. No numbers have been mentioned.’
‘I would send a four-man team,’ Shchepkin said, as if this was the sort of operation he organised every week. ‘There shouldn’t be any problems, especially if the guards have been told to only offer token resistance.’
It sounded promising, until Russell remembered the original premise. ‘What if Schreier is vital to the future of the Soviet Union?’
‘Then he won’t be there when you come to call. Other than that, I don’t know. If I was in charge I’d put on
