David Downing - Zero Station

The two lay a couple of feet apart, in the thin pool of light thrown by the block’s entrance lamp. One man was face down, the other face up, with only a glistening mess where his genitals had been.

With a shock, Russell recognized the man’s face. He’d seen him-talked to him even-at one of Effi’s theatrical gatherings. He had no memory of the man’s name, but he’d been nice enough. With a passion for Hollywood movies, Russell remembered. Katherine Hepburn in particular.

“Show’s over,” the SA man was saying loudly. “You saw it. They must have cut each other’s pricks off before they jumped.” He laughed. “You can go in now,” he added.

Russell’s two companions looked like they were in shock. One started to say something, but no sound emerged, and the other just gave him a gentle push on the shoulder. They walked toward their door, giving a wide birth to the two corpses.

“And you?” the SA man shouted at Russell.

“I was just passing,” he said automatically.

“Then keep moving,” the SA man ordered.

Russell obediently turned and walked away, his eyes still full of the mutilated bodies. The bile in his stomach wouldn’t stay down. Supporting himself against a lamppost he retched his supper into the gutter, then leaned against a wall, brain swirling with the usual useless rage. Another crime that would never be punished, another story that begged to be told.

And would he risk losing his son to tell it? No, he wouldn’t.

And was he ashamed of his silence? Yes, he was.

He levered himself off the wall and walked slowly on toward his own courtyard and block. As he reached the entrance he remembered the empty car. It was gone.

Inside, Frau Heidegger seemed, as usual, to be waiting for him. “What was all that noise about?” she asked, then noticed his face. “Herr Russell, you look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“The SA came for a couple of homosexuals in the next block,” he said. There seemed no point in giving her the gory details.

“Oh,” she said, shaking her head in involuntary denial. “I know the men you mean. They… well… it’s not our business, is it?” She ducked back inside her door and re-emerged with an unstamped envelope. “This came for you. A plainclothes policeman delivered it this morning.”

He opened it. The Gestapo wished to see him. Within three days.

“They just want a chat,” he reassured her. “Something to do with my accreditation, I expect.”

“Ah,” she said, sounding less than completely convinced.

Russell shared her misgivings. As he climbed the stairs, he told himself there was nothing to worry about. They’d read his letter to the Soviets, and just wanted to clarify his intentions. If it was anything else, they wouldn’t be delivering invitations and letting him pick the day-they’d be throwing him out of the window.

A frisson of fear shot across his chest, and his legs felt strangely unsteady. Suddenly the photographic book seemed like a very bad idea.

“Ha ho bloody he,” he muttered to himself.

The Gestapo’s invitation TO dance was still on Russell’s desk when he got up the following morning. One Sturmbannfьhrer Kleist was expecting to see John Russell in Room 48, 102 Wilhelmstrasse, within the next 72 hours. No explanation was offered.

It wasn’t actually the Gestapo-102 Wilhelmstrasse was the head-quarters of the Party intelligence organization, the Sicherheitsdienst. Though both were run by Reinhard Heydrich with a cheery disregard for legal niceties, the SD had a reputation for more sophisticated thuggery-same pain, cleaner floors.

He read the letter through again, looking for a more sinister message between the lines, and decided there was none. Shchepkin had said they’d want to talk to him, and they did. It was as simple as that. A friendly warning was waiting in Room 48, and nothing more. Sturmbannfьhrer Kleist would turn out to be a Hertha supporter, and they would chat about what had gone wrong this season.

Still, Russell thought as he shaved, there was no reason to hurry down there. He couldn’t afford to miss the new Chancellery opening at noon, and there was no telling how long the various ceremonies would take. Tomorrow would do. Or even Wednesday.

Back in his room, he picked up the Leica and took a few imaginary photos. It had no flash, but Zembski had said the lens was good enough for indoor shooting as long as he held the camera steady. And he could always ask the Fьhrer for the loan of a shoulder.

Cheered by this thought-feeling, in fact, unreasonably buoyant for someone with an appointment at 102 Wilhelmstrasse-he headed downstairs and out into the gray January morning. As if in response to his mood, a tram glided to a halt at the stop on Friedrichstrasse just as he reached it. Ten minutes later he was ensconced in a Cafй Kranzler window seat, enjoying a first sip of his breakfast coffee as he examined the morning papers.

Foreign Minister Ribbentrop had been talking to the visiting Polish leader, Colonel Beck-now there were two men who deserved each other. The new battle cruiser Scharnhorst had been commissioned at Wilhelmshaven, complete with nine eleven-inch guns, two catapults, and three planes. The new captain’s main claim to fame was his shelling of a Spanish seaside town in 1937, while commanding the pocket battleship Admiral Scheer. On the home front, Pastor Martin Niemoller’s brother Wilhelm had delivered a sermon attacking government policy toward the churches. He had read a list from the pulpit of all those churchmen-including his brother-currently enjoying the state’s hospitality. The newspaper was not sure whether this constituted a crime: “It has recently been established in certain cases,” the editor wrote, “that to read the names of persons in custody may itself be an offense.”

On a more positive note, the French were demonstrating their usual sound sense of priorities. Parisian cinemas had been closed for a week in protest against a new tax on receipts, but a compromise had now been agreed: The taxes would remain in force, but would not be collected.

Russell smiled and looked out of the window, just in time to see two young women walk by, their faces shining with pleasure over some shared secret. The sun was struggling to emerge. Hitler had probably ordered it for noon; a few shafts of light would show off the medieval perfection of his new castle. Russell wondered how far Speer and his mentor had gone. Would it be the usual Greco-Roman monstrosity, or something more ambitious? A Parthenon decked out in runes, perhaps.

Another coffee brought the time to 11:45. He walked to the top of Wilhelmstrasse, and headed down past the Hotel Adlon and serried government buildings to the new Chancellery. After showing his journalist’s pass and invitation to a security guard, Russell took a photo of the crowd already gathering behind the cordon. The security guard glared at him, but did nothing else.

Russell joined the knot of privileged journalists and photographers already gathered around the entrance, almost all of whom he recognized. Somewhat to his surprise, Tyler McKinley was among them. “My editor was keen,” the young American said resentfully, as if nothing else could have persuaded him to bless Hitler’s new building with his presence. Russell gave him an “oh yeah?” look and walked over to Jack Slaney, one of the longer-serving American correspondents. Russell had been in Slaney’s office when the latter’s invitation had arrived, complete with an unsolicited-and presumably accidental-extra. Slaney had been good enough to pass it on: He had been a freelance himself in the dim distant past, and knew what this sort of exclusive could be worth.

“A one-man band,” he muttered, looking at Russell’s camera.