He told her about the imminent offer of a film role.
‘What sort of film?’ she asked, both pleased and suspicious.
‘They didn’t give me any details.’
‘Oh. But why, do you think?’
‘Who knows? Perhaps they think I’ll be happier in Berlin with you. Or just more vulnerable. And both would be true.’
Could she leave Rosa with Zarah, Effi wondered. And if not, could they take her with them? She couldn’t shake the feeling that Berlin was the last place on earth this girl would want to live.
‘And there’s another thing,’ Russell told her. ‘They want me working as a journalist. The Soviets will feed me good stories, and probably the Americans too. And if either of them try to stop me from telling the truth, I can tell them that an independent voice is the best cover a spy could possibly have. So at least I’ll get my professional life back. Which is something. Not a lot, but something.’
‘Yes,’ Effi agreed, though she found herself thinking he was clutching at straws. If so, there were probably worse straws to clutch at. But what did she want herself? To act again? Yes, she did, but more than anything else she wanted some sort of resolution concerning Rosa’s father. For the girl of course, but also for herself. And in Berlin she could find out what had happened to him. ‘We always knew we’d go back,’ she said, trying to cheer him up.
Absent fathers
Russell arrived early at his namesake’s Square, and found the mobile canteen. A dozen or so metal tables were spread out across the threadbare grass, and he chose what seemed the most remote. The Imperial Hotel was visible through the trees to his right, but no Dynamos were leaning out of its windows.
The morning papers were full of praise for the Russian tourists. The no-hopers of the previous morning had become ‘the greatest side ever to visit this island, playing football as it was meant to be played.’ Much was made of the Dynamos’ willingness to interchange positions ‘without getting in each other’s way’, a revolutionary tactic which had completely flummoxed their English opponents.
There was other English news of interest — a sweet ration bonus promised for Christmas, and a Parliamentary statement by the Foreign Secretary Ernest Bevin which reaffirmed British opposition to increasing the number of Jewish refugees allowed into Palestine. Those already there were striking in protest.
More to the point, there was news from Berlin. Two political rallies had been held on the previous evening, with both attracting audiences of around four thousand. At one, the German Communist leader Wilhelm Pieck had suggested that his party, the KPD, should share a manifesto and electoral pact with their old rivals, the Social Democrat SPD. At the other meeting, the latter’s leader Otto Grotewohl had pledged ‘close collaboration’ between the two parties, and had declared that ‘capitalism no longer existed.’
‘In your dreams,’ Russell murmured to himself. What was Moscow playing at, and how would it affect his own task in Berlin? If Stalin was encouraging the German left to unite around a moderate line, then the Russians could hardly complain about German comrades who pursued a relatively independent path. Half his job description might already be redundant, which would certainly be good news. Though on reflection it seemed probable that the NKVD would still want the information, if only for future use.
The other news from Berlin was dispiriting — the first snow had fallen, of what promised to be a desperate winter. He put the paper aside and glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven o’clock.
There was no one else waiting at the canteen counter, but he felt reluctant to pay for two teas — the NKVD had called this meeting, and they could supply the bloody refreshments.
There had been several tables occupied when he arrived, but now there were only two. A couple of secretaries had their heads bent over a newspaper, and were giggling at something or other, their heads shaking like a pair of maracas. A few feet away from them, a remarkably smug-looking nanny was staring into space, idly rocking the pram parked beside her.
A flash of white hair caught Russell’s attention — Shchepkin was crossing Southampton Row. The Russian was lost from view for several moments, then reappeared inside the park. No one seemed to be following him, but for all Russell knew there were pairs of binoculars trained on them both. Either Nanny was the head of MI5, or she had him hidden in the pram.
Espionage could be dangerous, immoral, even romantic. But it was almost always faintly ridiculous.
Shchepkin smiled as he walked up, and shook Russell’s hand. After wiping the seat with his handkerchief, he sat down and viewed their surroundings.
Why are we meeting here?’ Russell wondered out loud. ‘A bit public, isn’t it? Now the people watching you will be checking up on me.’
Shchepkin smiled. ‘It’s almost as public as a football stadium,’ he observed.
‘Ah, that’s the point, is it?’
‘Of course. If the British tell the Americans about your meetings with us, it will increase your credibility as a double agent.’
Russell followed the thought for a few seconds, then let it go. There seemed all sorts of flaws in the reasoning, but then intelligence people used a different form of logic to ordinary human beings. If indeed logic came into it.
‘Comrade Nemedin is also a football fan,’ Shchepkin added, as if that explained the choice of Stamford Bridge as a meeting place. ‘And Dynamo are the team of the NKVD.’
‘And I expected he wanted to see me in the flesh,’ Russell realised. ‘See what he was getting for his blackmail.’
‘Yes, he did,’ Shchepkin agreed, ignoring the flash of bitterness. ‘Not that he learnt anything from the encounter. He doesn’t understand people like you — or like me, for that matter. People who were there at the beginning, people who knew what it was all for, before the things that mattered were locked away for safekeeping. The Nemedins of this world see themselves as guardians, but they have no real notion of what they’re guarding. They find it hard enough to trust each other, let alone people like us.’
‘Does it matter?’ Russell asked. ‘He’s got me where he wants me, hasn’t he?’
Shchepkin took another look around, as if to reassure himself that no one was within listening distance. ‘Yes, it matters. His lack of understanding makes it easier for us to manipulate him, but his lack of trust will make him extremely sensitive to the possibility of betrayal.’
‘Is that what we’re planning?’ Russell asked with a smile.
‘I hope so,’ Shchepkin said earnestly. ‘I’m right in assuming that you haven’t changed your mind, that you’ll go along with Nemedin’s plan?’
‘I don’t seem to have any choice.’
‘No,’ Shchepkin agreed, ‘not for the moment…’
An ailing bus thundered past them on the nearby road, drowning him out. The windows were still draped with anti-blast netting, Russell noticed.
‘But there’s no future in it,’ Shchepkin went on. ‘Double agents, well, they usually end up betraying themselves. Like jugglers — no matter how good they are, sooner or later their arms get tired.’
Russell gave him a wry smile. ‘You’re not feeling sorry for me, are you?’
‘No. Nor for myself, but we’re both in trouble, and we’re going to need each other’s help to have any chance of getting out of it.’
‘Why are you in so much trouble?’ Russell asked. ‘You never told me why you were arrested last year.’
‘That’s much too long a story. Let’s just say I ended up supporting the wrong people. But I was more careful than most of my friends were, and unlike most of them, I survived. Stalin and his Georgian cronies believe I still have some uses, or I wouldn’t be here, but like you I’m something of a diminishing asset. And like you, I need to get out before it’s too late.’
‘Why not take a boat train?’ Russell suggested flippantly. ‘There’s a whole wide world out there, and I find it hard to believe that a man with your experience couldn’t lose himself if he really tried.’
It was Shchepkin’s turn to smile. ‘I’m sure I could, but there are other people to consider. If I disappeared,
