David Downing - Lehrter Station

‘This is Comrade Nemedin,’ Shchepkin announced, in a tone which left no doubt of the man’s importance.

‘Major Nemedin,’ the man corrected him. His blue eyes were a definite contender for the coldest that Russell had ever seen. ‘Mister Russell,’ the Russian said in acknowledgement, before turning his attention back to the pitch.

‘We will talk business at half-time,’ Shchepkin told Russell.

‘Right.’

‘How do you like living in London?’ Shchepkin asked him in Russian. Nemedin, Russell guessed, did not speak English.

‘I’ve been in better places,’ Russell replied in the same language. ‘It’ll take a lot more than six months to make up for the last six years.’

‘Did you grow up here?’

‘No, in Guildford. It’s about thirty miles away. To the southwest. But my father worked in London, and we used to come up quite often. Before the First War.’ He had been thinking about those visits lately. On one occasion he and his parents had been caught up in a suffragette rally. To his father’s chagrin and his mother’s great amusement.

Down below them the Dynamos were leaving the pitch. The crowd was now over the inner fence of the greyhound track, and, despite the best efforts of the police, creeping towards the touch and goal lines. On the far side a woman was being lifted across a sea of heads towards a posse of waiting St John Ambulancemen.

‘How are your family?’ Russell asked Shchepkin.

‘Oh.’ The Russian looked disconcerted for a moment, but soon recovered. ‘They are in good health, thank you. Natasha is training to be a teacher.’

‘Good,’ Russell said. They both knew that Nemedin was listening to every word, but Russell felt childishly intent on not being cowed into silence. ‘And how long have you been in London?’

‘Since the Sunday before last. We came with the team.’

‘Of course.’ Russell shifted his attention to Nemedin. ‘And how do you like it here, Major?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Nemedin replied, as if he’d heard a different question. ‘Are they going to force them back?’ he asked, indicating the crowds below.

‘I think they’ll be happy with keeping them off the pitch,’ Russell told him.

‘But… is this normal? There is no control.’

Russell shrugged. Where the English were concerned, the controls were internal. ‘Do you like football?’ he asked the Russian.

‘Of course.’

‘Will the Dynamos do well, do you think?’

‘Yes, I think so. If the referee is fair.’

There was a sound of breaking glass away to their right. Someone had fallen through the grandstand roof, and presumably landed in someone else’s lap. It wasn’t a long drop, so Russell doubted that anyone had died.

The two teams were filing out now: Chelsea in a change strip of red, the Dynamos carrying bouquets of flowers. They lined up facing each other, and those in the seats rose to their feet as the Royal Marines band launched into the Soviet national anthem. The crowd was respectful to a fault, and the wave of emotion which rolled across the stadium was almost palpable, as minds went back to those months when their two nations were all that stood between the Nazis and global domination. The Americans and their economy had certainly played crucial roles in the Allied victory, but if Britain had broken in 1940, or the Soviet Union in 1941, all their efforts might well have been in vain.

‘God Save The King’ followed, and the moment it died away the eleven Dynamo players stepped forward and presented the bouquets to their blushing Chelsea counterparts. A storm of laughter engulfed the stadium, leaving most of the Russell’s immediate neighbours looking bemused. In the seats below one man shouted that it must be Chelsea’s funeral.

A minute later the game was underway, and it was looking as if he’d been right. Far from being ‘so slow you could hear them think’, the Russian players were soon swarming towards the Chelsea goal, passing their way through their opponents with a deftness and speed which left the crowd gasping. Within minutes shots had hit the goalkeeper, the side netting and the post, and the Russians around Russell were almost purring with pleasure at the lesson their countrymen were teaching the English team.

For twenty minutes they did everything but score. And then, after hitting the post for a second time, they conceded at the other end — Tommy Lawton, much to Nemedin’s disgust, forcing the ball from the Dynamo keeper’s hands and setting it up on a plate for Len Goulden. When a stupid mistake at the back gifted Chelsea another goal, the sense of injustice was almost too much for Russell’s companions to bear. And, rubbing salt into the wound, the Dynamos contrived to miss a penalty just before half time, the left-winger hammering his shot against the post. When the teams disappeared beneath them with the score at two-nil, Russell couldn’t recall a less appropriate scoreline.

On his right, Shchepkin seemed less put out that most of his compatriots; on his left, Nemedin was muttering darkly to himself, which probably boded ill. The NKVD were hard enough to deal with when things were going their way.

Nemedin, however, proved able to set aside his disappointment. ‘We have two jobs for you,’ he told Russell once their mini-conference was underway, the two Russians leaning sideways until all three heads were only inches apart. ‘First, you will make contact with several German comrades in Berlin, some of whom you know, some of whom you don’t. We want to know where these comrades stand on several crucial issues. There has been a lot of discussion in the German Party about a “German Road to Socialism”. This is acceptable, but only insofar as it doesn’t become an anti-Soviet road. We want to know how these men feel about this in particular, and where their loyalties lie. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ Russell said. He did. Perfectly.

‘You will be supplied with all the relevant information when you reach Berlin.’

‘Uh-huh. And the second job?’

‘You will offer your services to American Intelligence. They are desperately trying to recruit Berliners, and you will obviously appeal to them. But you will of course be working for us.’

Russell was conscious for a moment of the Russians sitting in the next row down. They were also NKVD, he assumed. He was probably surrounded by a dozen of them. ‘You want me to function as a double agent inside American intelligence,’ he said.

It wasn’t a question, but Nemedin answered it anyway. ‘Yes.’

It was no worse than he’d feared, but that was little consolation. ‘You expect me to move back to Berlin?’

‘Of course.’

Russell risked a slight demurral. ‘Moving to Berlin is not a simple matter these days. And I have a family to consider. We would all need somewhere to live.’

‘Of course, but we’re assuming the Americans will take care of such matters.’ Nemedin seemed relieved, as if he’d been expecting more basic objections. ‘It would look suspicious if we openly organised your return. But these are details for you and Comrade Shchepkin to discuss.’

‘We will take care of you,’ Shchepkin interjected, ‘but not openly. Fraulein Koenen will soon be offered a job in Berlin — a prominent part in a film. And we will help you with exclusive stories. It is crucial that you remain a credible journalist.’

They were thinking things through, Russell thought. ‘And what if the Americans turn me down?’ he asked.

‘Comrade Shchepkin will discuss contingencies with you,’ Nemedin replied, with the slightest hint of impatience. ‘Mr Russell, what is your opinion of the current international situation?’

‘It’s another war waiting to happen.’

‘Mmm. And there can only be one winner — you agree?