David Downing - Lehrter Station

‘Maybe someone just walked in and took it.’

‘I doubt it. They may not always check papers at the gate, but they would if the face was unfamiliar.’

That, Russell thought, begged all sorts of questions.

He spent the afternoon writing, and was watching the street for the Soviet bus when Scott Dallin turned in through the gate. ‘Let’s walk,’ were the American’s first words. He was seething with anger.

Russell put on his coat, wrote a short note to Effi, and went out to join him. It hadn’t snowed that day, but the temperature seemed about right, and the sky seemed to be slowly filling with the stuff. Dallin didn’t say another word until they reached the corner, and started down Konigin-Luise-Strasse in the direction of the Grunewald.

‘You remember me saying that our two intelligence organisations would operate best if they maintained their separate identities?’

‘Something along those lines.’ This was obviously a rather big bee in Dallin’s bonnet.

‘But we do have to get on with each other.’

‘I wish you luck.’

‘It’s nothing to do with luck. It’s about not crapping in each other’s garden.’

‘I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about,’ Russell said, although a suspicion was growing.

‘I’ve spent half the morning on the line to Washington, listening to some Ivy League asshole tick me off for messing with Sherman Crosby’s plan to see off the Russians. Now do you know what I’m talking about?’

‘Not exactly.’

They crossed Kronprinzenallee and started up the lane which led into the trees.

‘The black marketeer who you thought was responsible for your friend Kuzorra’s imprisonment…’

‘And his death.’

‘You’re to leave him alone.’

‘Why the hell should I?’

Dallin stopped and turned to face Russell. ‘Because I goddamn tell you to,’ he almost shouted. ‘And if that’s not enough, because he’s working for us. In fact I’m reliably informed that he’s one of our key people in this whole goddamn city.’

The American losing his temper helped Russell keep his. ‘What does “reliably informed” mean? Who told you, and how do you know you can trust them? I can prove that Fehse — that’s Geruschke’s real name — ran the holding centre in Leipzig that shipped all the local Jews to Auschwitz, even those that bribed him not to with money or sexual favours. He’s a drug-dealer and a pimp. He’s been stockpiling insulin to push up the price while children are dying of diabetes. The Jews he supposedly helps are ex-Nazis with stolen Jewish identities…’ He broke off to let a worried-looking German hurry by with his dog.

‘Even if all that were true…’

‘Why the hell would I make it up!?’

Now Russell’s explosion calmed Dallin down. ‘Even if all that were true, apparently we need him. You can’t always choose your allies — we just fought a war with the Reds, for Chrissake. And I won’t be telling you again. Leave the man alone, however big a bastard he is. Don’t go near him, don’t write about him, don’t pass the story on — we’ll know if you do, and nothing will make it into print. Forget about him. For your own sake as much as your country’s.’

‘For my own sake?’

‘According to Crosby, Geruschke was ready to kill you once, but agreed to let you go when they told him you were working for us. Crosby had no need to do that, and I doubt he would again.’

‘So if next time Geruschke really does kill me, he won’t get so much as a slap on the wrist?’

‘There won’t be a next time. Get it into your head — he’s off-limits. If he’s as evil as you say he is, then he’ll end up paying one way or another. Leave vengeance to God.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘Well, if Geruschke doesn’t kill you, Crosby probably will. And if by some miracle you survive, you’ll certainly be off my payroll. But I’m assuming you do want to serve your country. That’s what you told Lindenberg in London.’

‘Of course I do,’ Russell said automatically. What would happen to him and Shchepkin if the Americans kicked him out? What would Nemedin do come to that? His use to the Soviets would be over, and he couldn’t imagine their gratefully letting him go. A silver-plated bullet seemed likelier than a gold watch.

He needed to think. He needed to talk to Effi, although he guessed what she would say — that Kuzorra had saved his life, and wouldn’t want him throwing it away over someone like Fehse. Which was probably true. But the detective deserved some sort of justice, and so did Fehse’s other victims.

‘It sticks in the throat,’ he told Dallin, ‘but you’ve made yourself clear. I’ll let him be.’

Effi was still not back when Russell got home, but Thomas was ensconced in his study, having just returned from his family Christmas in the countryside. Hanna and Lotte were following on after the New Year, which seemed reason enough for a celebratory drink. ‘I bought it from an American soldier on the platform at Erfurt,’ Thomas explained, as he opened the bottle of bourbon. ‘For a king’s ransom, but I felt it would help me deal with the Russians.’

‘You’re not going to waste it on them?’

‘No, of course not. Each time they almost drive me to distraction I shall remember that this little beauty is waiting at home.’

‘It won’t last long then.’

‘Probably not.’ He filled two short glasses that Russell recognised from pre-war days, and handed one over. ‘Gesundheit!’

‘Gesundheit,’ Russell echoed. The bourbon tasted wonderful. ‘So you had a good Christmas?’

‘Wonderful. For all the reasons you’d expect. And it was so good to get away from ruins for a while. How was your trip to Vienna?’

‘That was just the beginning.’ He filled Thomas in on what had happened since, concluding with the news that Miriam’s husband and children were his latest lodgers.

‘So Leon and Esther have grandchildren,’ Thomas murmured. ‘Which doesn’t bring Miriam back, but…’

The way he said it drew Russell’s eyes to the black-framed photograph of Joachim on the mantelpiece.

‘He’d have been twenty-four in a few weeks’ time,’ Thomas said in an even voice. ‘Now that the war’s over, with all that we know of what happened in the East, his death seems… I don’t know, even crueller, I suppose. I only hope he did nothing terrible. Nothing he had to take with him’

‘Joachim was a good boy,’ Russell said, acutely conscious of how inadequate it sounded.

Thomas just nodded. ‘Most of them were.’ He managed a sad smile. ‘I don’t want to live in the past — that’s not really life, is it? But sometimes… You know, when I got back to Berlin in August I borrowed one of the firm’s Russian lorries and drove out to where Ilse and Matthias died. I don’t know why really. I just felt like sharing the last things they’d seen. And it was such a beautiful stretch of road, especially in summer. I got out and walked around, and I started thinking about when we were young, Ilse and I, and all the good times we had growing up. She could drive me mad, but God I loved her. I remembered her bringing you home for the first time — an Englishman for heaven’s sake, and an even more self-righteous communist than she was. But Ilse insisted that we get along, and in the end she had her way. And when the two of you split up, she was determined that it shouldn’t affect our friendship, and she made damn sure that it didn’t.’

‘I never knew that.’

‘Ilse was special.’

‘That I did know.’

Thomas shook his head and reached for a refill. ‘I wonder what she’d think of the family firm printing German schoolbooks written by the Soviets.’