David Downing - Lehrter Station

‘She’d appreciate the irony.’

Thomas grunted. ‘I read today that Hitler was evil incarnate, but that Stalin is God’s gift to the working man.’

‘Well, 50 % wasn’t such a bad mark when I was at school.’

It started snowing around noon the next day, and persisted through the afternoon. By the time Russell stepped down onto the Jannowitzbrucke platform, several centimetres had fallen, and descending the outside staircase required considerable caution. That danger averted, he walked slowly westwards along the shell-gapped Spree promenade, eyes peering out through the curtain of snow for any lurking figures. There were none on either side of the yellow-lit shop that Shchepkin had specified, but having passed it on the other side of the road he hesitated before turning back. Shchepkin’s reasoning had been clear enough, but that only mattered if his deductions were correct, and Russell wasn’t even sure what they were. He had chosen to trust the Russian, but not with any great confidence. Even now, the impulse to walk away was only restrained by his complete lack of an alternative strategy.

He had told Effi only that he was picking something up. If things went wrong, she would know that he’d fallen foul of the Soviets, but not how or why. He should have told her the full story; his only reason for not doing so was his own awareness of how flimsy it all sounded.

There was no point in putting it off any longer. He patted the pocketed gun for reassurance, and crossed the empty Rolandufer. Through the door of the shop he could see the proprietor, an old man with wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose, sitting behind his threadbare counter. He looked up as Russell entered, and shook out the Soviet-sponsored newspaper that he was reading.

‘Do you have a package for…’ Russell began, then realised he’d forgotten the pre-arranged name. ‘Liefke,’ he suddenly remembered, and almost wished he hadn’t.

The old man found this lapse amusing, but pulled a thickish envelope out from under the counter and held out both hands, one with the package, the other for payment. Russell gave him the cigarettes, stuffed the envelope inside his coat, and let himself back out into the snow. There was a couple walking past on the other side, but Rolandufer seemed otherwise empty.

He headed back towards the station, and gingerly climbed the slippery steps to the westbound platform. There were several other people waiting for a train, but none seemed to be watching him. He turned and looked out across the snow-shrouded Spree at the sparsely lit wasteland beyond. After dark this section of Berlin was about as welcoming as the Minotaur’s cave.

But so far so good. No one had followed him up the steps, and a train was visible in the distance, its headlights gliding round the elevated curve. Another fifteen minutes and he would be at Zoo Station, and in the relative safety of the British sector.

The carriages that pulled in to the snow-covered platform were fuller than he expected. Stepping in through the sliding doors, Russell turned right in search of an empty seat, and found one near the end. As the train pulled out he glanced sideways through the window of the connecting doors, and there was Nemedin, shaking the snow from his hat.

Russell quickly looked away, cold sweat prickling on his back.

His first coherent thought was that he and Shchepkin were done for. His second was to search, like a guilty schoolboy, for some plausible excuse. Could he walk up to the NKVD man and hand him the papers? ‘Oh, I was just looking for you; I got a tip-off that someone had stolen your personnel file and left it in a shop, and I knew you’d want it back.’

Ridiculous. And he was willing to bet that the envelope in his pocket was singularly devoid of personnel files. If Nemedin had known everything in advance, he’d had ample time to remove the incriminating material and replace it with scrap paper. Hadleigh was waiting in vain.

The train was pulling into Alexanderplatz Station, and when the doors opened it took all Russell’s strength not to run howling into the snow. Think, he told himself. What could he do? There was no point in running — if Nemedin knew about Shchepkin’s scheme, then he had enough on them both already. So why was the bastard stringing things out by following him? To find out where Russell was taking the package? Perhaps, although a penchant for sadism seemed just as likely.

The train jerked into motion once more. There had been no shared glances, so Nemedin was probably unaware that Russell had seen him. But how did that help? What could? He and Shchepkin were finished. Unless.

It was him or Nemedin, and he did have the gun. Could he kill the Georgian in cold blood?

If he could manage it, he could live with it.

He would have to lure him somewhere. Away from people. Somewhere quiet, but not so secluded that Nemedin would smell a rat.

The train was pulling in to Borse Station. Where should he get off? He hadn’t been near Borse since April, and all he could see from the window was ruins. Friedrichstrasse was next, and that was always crowded. But Lehrter Station… He could lead Nemedin up past the railway yards, along the streets he’d walked the other week to Hunder Zembski’s garage. There had to be somewhere he could mount an ambush.

It sounded like a plan, but so had Schlieffen’s. He resisted the urge to sneak a look at his pursuer, and tried not to convey the anxiety that was fluttering in his stomach. Perhaps Nemedin had got off. Perhaps his presence at Jannowitzbrucke had been the cruellest of coincidences.

No. He could feel the man’s eyes on him.

The train stopped at Friedrichstrasse, where many got out and many got on. As the doors began to close he caught a glimpse of the snow streaming down through the shattered roof.

He was at the right end of the train for the Invalidenstrasse exit at Lehrter. As the Charite Hospital loomed on the right he got to his feet and went to the door, giving Nemedin plenty of warning.

Once on the platform, he strode rapidly towards the exit without looking back. The snow seemed heavier, a diaphanous curtain of small flakes. Even if Nemedin lost visual contact, he had only to follow the footsteps.

Russell consciously slowed his pace. He couldn’t raise doubts — he needed the Georgian to feel safe, until he had him at his mercy. Not that any would be forthcoming.

He reached the Invalidenstrasse exit, and turning right caught a hint of movement behind him.

A couple of street lamps were burning, and the white flakes drifting past them reminded Russell of a snowglobe he’d once been given for Christmas. There were moving lights in the distance, and the sound of laughter closer at hand. A short way up on the other side, the silhouette of the district court building marked the entrance to Heidestrasse.

He angled his way across the wide boulevard and slipped round the corner. There was only darkness ahead, and he knew this had to be the place. Nemedin would be crazy to follow him further. The man I shall kill, he thought. The title of Effi’s film.

He took the gun from his pocket, checked that it was ready, and stood there waiting in the falling snow.

One, two, three… he began to wonder if he’d imagined it all.

Four, five, six… would he soon be laughing at his own paranoia?

Seven…

Nemedin came round the corner. Slowly, cautiously, but without a gun in his hand. The faint smile vanished the moment he saw Russell, or more particularly his gun.

Russell pulled the trigger, aiming for the heart, and the echoing crash seemed, for an instant, to stop the snow from falling.

Nemedin fell backwards, a look of surprise on his face.

Russell stepped forward, steeled himself, and fired again. As he stood looking down, a snowflake landed on a glazed-over eye.