my wife and daughter would pay the price. I need a way out which includes them.’
Russell gave the Russian a thoughtful look, and then suggested tea. He needed time to think, and a trip to the counter seemed the only way to get it. Through all the years they’d known each other, Shchepkin had never come close to admitting such disaffection with the regime he served. Why now? Was his recent imprisonment the reason, or was that exactly what Russell was supposed to think?
And did the man take sugar? He put several lumps in each saucer and carried them back to the table.
‘Have you finally lost your faith?’ he asked the Russian in a casual tone, as if they were discussing less weighty matters than the overriding purpose of Shchepkin’s adult existence.
‘You could say that,’ the Russian replied in like manner. ‘You may think that only a fool would have carried on believing in the Soviet Union as long as I did. I sometimes think so myself. But then many intelligent men still trust in far less believable gods.’ He gave Russell a quizzical look. ‘I see you need convincing. Well, let me you tell you when I saw the… I was going to say “light”, but darkness seems more appropriate. It was in October 1940…’
‘When your people handed the German comrades over to the Nazis…’
‘No, that was shameful, but it came a few months later. My moment of truth — believe it or not — came when the leadership decided to abolish scholarships. A less-than-world-shattering measure, you might think, one that killed nobody. But this measure made it impossible for the children of the poor — of the workers and the peasants — to get a higher education, and in doing so it turned the clock back all the way to Tsarism. Almost overnight, power and privilege were hereditary once more. Everyone knew that the sons and daughters of those now in power would automatically take the reins from their parents. We had become what we set out to overthrow.’
‘I didn’t even know such a measure had been passed,’ Russell admitted. He could understand the effect it would have had on someone like Shchepkin.
‘We are going to have to trust each other,’ Shchepkin told him.
‘Okay,’ Russell agreed, convinced at least of the need.
‘In the short run, we can help each other. As long as you’re useful to Nemedin, we’ll both be relatively safe, and I think we can make sure you will be. You must go to the Americans, as Nemedin told you to, but you must also tell them everything. Offer yourself to them as a double agent — I’m sure you can come up with personal motives, but they’ll probably take you whatever you say. They’re desperate for people who know Berlin and Berliners, and they won’t trust you with any important information, not at first. So what do they have to lose? And soon you’ll be able to win them over by getting them stuff they can’t get anywhere else.’
‘And where will I get that from?’ Russell asked. He was beginning to wonder whether all those months in the Lubyanka had weakened Shchepkin’s brain.
‘From me.’
‘You will betray your country?’ Russell half-asked, half-stated. He supposed it had been implicit in all that the Russian had said, but he still found it hard to believe.
‘It doesn’t feel like betrayal,’ Shchepkin told him. ‘When Vladimir Ilyich told us that the Revolution had no country, I believed him.’
‘Okay. So that’s how we survive in the short run. But I’m still the juggler with tiring arms, remember? How do we persuade Stalin to leave me alone, and let you and your family go?’
‘That’s harder. And I can only think of one possibility — we need something on them which trumps everything else. A secret so damaging that we could buy our safety with silence.’
‘Is that all?’ Russell asked sarcastically. He had found himself hoping that Shchepkin had a plan with some chance of success.
‘It won’t be easy,’ the Russian agreed. ‘But we’ll be working for people with secrets, and trading them ourselves — we’ll have to keep our eyes and ears open, follow any thread that looks promising. It may take years, but I can’t see any other way out. Can you?’
‘No,’ Russell admitted. This one didn’t look too promising, but Shchepkin knew his world best, and any hope at all was better than none.
‘Then, let us work together. I will see you in Berlin.’
‘Okay. When do you expect me to start?’
‘As soon as possible. Once you reach Berlin, you will go to the Housing Office at the junction of Neue Konig and Lietzmann. You know where that is?’
‘Of course. But we’re counting our chickens a bit — what if the Americans won’t take me on?’
‘They will. But if by any chance they refuse, then come to our embassy here — I will leave instructions. In the last resort, we will get you there.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Now I must go — our train is at two.’
‘When’s the game — Saturday?’
‘I think so. The football is nothing to do with me — I check the hotels, arrange excursions, look at the police arrangements.’
It was the first time Russell could remember the Russian actually volunteering information about himself. It seemed a good omen.
Shchepkin made to leave, then abruptly turned back. ‘One last thing. I forgot to tell you. Make sure the Americans keep your mutual arrangement from the British — the NKVD have several plants in MI6.’ That bombshell dropped, he walked off across the park without a backward look, leaving Russell to ponder his brave new future. He wished he’d had one of those new-fangled recording machines, so that he could listen to Shchepkin’s reasoning again. Over the years the Russian had never been less than convincing, but Russell knew from bitter experience that some things were always spelt out better than others. What were the hidden catches in this scheme, he wondered. Other, that is, than the obvious one, that he’d need acting lessons from Effi to pull it off.
He decided to visit the American Embassy that afternoon, while he could still remember the script. Working his way through the streets around the British Museum, he wondered whether Shchepkin declaring war on Nemedin was good news or bad. Letting himself get sucked into a war between competing sections of Soviet intelligence seemed, at first glance, like a poor career move. But it might give him room to manoeuvre, play off one against the other. Or give them both a reason to kill him.
After lunch at his usual Corner House, he walked down Oxford Street and turned left at Selfridges. The American Embassy had moved to Grosvenor Square in 1938, and he had visited it several times since, mostly in connection with his own pragmatic adoption of US citizenship. The welcome had seldom been effusive — Americans might, as they sometimes claimed, be the friendliest people on God’s earth, but only when encountered on their home turf.
He opted for the direct approach. ‘I need to see the attache who deals with Intelligence matters,’ he told the young man on reception.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No.’
‘Then I suggest…’
‘He will want to see me. Tell him John Russell has a proposal for him.’
The man gave him another look, and decided to pass the buck. ‘Please take a seat,’ he said, and reached for the telephone. Two minutes later another, younger man descended the stairs, and led Russell back up to a small office half full of cardboard boxes, where he laboriously transcribed every detail from Russell’s US passport. He then stared at the photograph, as if wondering whether he should sketch a rough copy. Apparently deciding against, he told Russell to wait where he was, and stalked off down the corridor.
A quarter hour went by, and then another. It was getting dark outside, and Russell guessed that the Embassy was now closed for the day. A cursory investigation of the cardboard boxes revealed that each was full of Hershey bars. He pocketed a couple for the children, and, after another fifteen minutes had ticked by, a couple more for the adults to share.
The young man returned, looking pleased with himself. ‘Follow me,’ he said.
They traipsed down a corridor, and descended several flights of stairs. The unmarked basement room into which Russell was ushered had no ordinary windows, but a deep ceiling well in one corner offered proof there was still some light outside. The colonel behind the neatly-organised desk looked around forty, and none too pleased to see him. His head was as close to shaved as made no difference, and his face seemed equally short on sympathy. The grey eyes, though, were conspicuously alert. Not a fool, Russell decided.
A folder bearing his own name was lying on the desk.
