David Downing - Lehrter Station

He was glad that Fehse was gone, or grateful at least that someone had stopped him. He hadn’t pulled the trigger himself, but felt responsible nevertheless. Which brought the number of men he had killed to a chilling six.

He had thought murdering Nemedin would haunt him, but it hadn’t, not really. And neither would Fehse. If he was haunted by anything, it was leaving the boy on the mountain. Sometimes that awful cry of grief seemed to echo through the ruins.

There had been no repercussions over Nemedin, no public complaints from the Soviets, no desperate Shchepkin banging on his door. None of which had surprised him. Nemedin might conceivably have confided in someone, but it seemed unlikely — the man had been far too sure of himself.

He would be replaced of course. There would be another Nemedin looming over Shchepkin’s shoulder, probably just as suspicious, and possibly not so careless. They would have to deal with whoever it was, and Russell would have to deal with Dallin, until Shchepkin found the magic spade that would dig them out of their hole.

He had hoped that the need for fancy footwork would vanish with the war, but life and the Soviets had had other ideas, and he would have to keep on dancing. Maybe he and Effi could emulate those winners of Depression-era dance marathons, and be the very last couple with their feet still twitching.

Dallin on Thursday, Shchepkin on Friday — what was it Eliot had said about measuring his life in coffee spoons? He seemed to be measuring his in espionage trysts.

But Miriam’s father had decided to live, and the family had a flat of their own. Thomas was due back on Saturday with Hanna and Lotte, and Effi was leaving on Monday, intent on returning with Rosa, Zarah and Lothar. Only Paul seemed keen to stay in England, but at least his son seemed happy. A father could hardly ask for more.

Even his stock as a journalist seemed to be rising. According to Solly, his reporting of the Jewish exodus was the talk of Fleet Street.

And best of all, it seemed like he and Effi had found each other again, where it mattered, in the heart.

After walking through the trees for an hour or so, he turned for home. As he rounded the corner into Vogelsangstrasse a scrawny cat ran across the road and disappeared into the rubble.

It was the first he’d seen since their return, a fitting partner for the first bird, which had flown past their window that morning.

Maybe Berlin would rise again.