David Downing - Zero Station

At least her film was finished. “I have seen the error of my ways, and a good wife is all I want to be!” she exclaimed as they left the studio. “But only,” she added as they reached the car, “after I’ve slept for at least a week. In the meantime you may wait on me hand and foot.”

Later, he was still working up to telling her about his weekend in Posen when he realized she’d fallen asleep. Which was all for the best, he decided. There’d be time enough for explanations if and when the Soviets said yes. Looking down at her sleeping face, the familiar lips ever-so-slightly curled in a sleeper’s smile, the whole business seemed utterly absurd.

Contact was made on thursday. The buffet clock was reaching toward ten when a man loomed over Russell’s shoulder and almost whispered the prearranged sentence. “Let’s walk,” he added, before Russell had time to declaim on the virtues or otherwise of Martin Chuzzlewit.

The man made for the door with what seemed unnecessary haste, leaving Russell floundering in his wake. He seemed very young, Russell thought, but he looked anonymous enough: average height and build, tidy hair and a typical German face. His suit was wearing at the elbows, his shoes at the heels.

At the station exit the man turned toward the nearest Tiergarten entrance, pausing for a nervous look back as they reached it. Russell glanced back himself: The street was empty. Ahead of them, a few solitary walkers were visible among the leafless trees.

“It’s not a bad day,” the young man said, looking up at the mostly gray sky. “We will walk to Bellevue Station, like friends enjoying a morning stroll in the park.”

They set off through the trees.

“I am Gert,” the young man said. “And it is agreed. We will take your friend across the Czech border, and you will bring the papers to us in Prague.” He fell silent as a steady stream of walkers passed them in the opposite direction-a middle-aged couple and their poodles, a younger couple arm in arm, an older man with a muzzled Doberman-and paused to offer Russell a cigarette on the Lichtenstein Bridge across the Landwehrkanal. His hand, Russell noticed reluctantly, was shaking slightly.

The paths around the Neuersee were mostly deserted, just a couple of women with small children happily feeding the ducks. “You must memorize the arrangements,” Gert said, with the air of someone reading from a script. “Your friend must be in the station buffet at Gцrlitz at five o’clock on Monday afternoon. He must wear workingmen’s clothes, with a blue scarf around his neck. He must not have a suitcase or bag of any kind. When a man asks him if he knows where the left luggage is he should say, ‘Yes, but it’s easier to show you than explain,’ and walk out with that man. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Then repeat what I’ve just told you.”

Russell did so.

“Good. Now for your part. Your contact is in Kiel. Or in Gaarden, to be precise. You must be in the Germania Bar-it’s on the tram route to Wellingdorf, just outside the main entrance to the Deutsche Werke shipyards-at eight PM on Friday the tenth. With your Martin Chuzzlewit.”

“I made it clear to the comrade in Posen that I wouldn’t collect your papers until I knew my friend was safe.”

Gert gave an exasperated sigh. “He will be in Czechoslovakia by Tuesday morning, Prague by the afternoon. You should hear from him that day. Either that, or some of our people have been captured or killed with him. And if that happens, we hope you will honor their memory by honoring the bargain.”

Russell gave him a look. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Of course. Now, you will bring the papers back to Berlin, and then take them on to Prague as quickly as possible-”

“I have to be in Berlin on that Sunday,” Russell said.

“It would be better if you traveled before that. The border guards tend to be less vigilant on a Saturday night.”

“Sorry, it’ll have to be Monday,” Russell said. The Sunday was Paul’s birthday.

Gert controlled himself with a visible effort. “Very well,” he agreed, as if he’d made a huge concession.

“And how do you suggest I carry them?”

This was clearly in the script. “We do not know how many papers there are. If it is a matter of a few sheets, they can be sewn into the lining of your coat or your jacket. If there are a lot, then that will not be possible. If they search you and your luggage they will probably find them. The best thing is not to be searched.”

“And how do I manage that?”

“You probably won’t have to. They only search about one in ten, and foreigners very rarely. As long as you don’t draw attention to yourself, everything should be fine. Now, once you reach Prague, you must check in to the Grand Hotel on Wenceslas Square. You will be contacted there. Is that clear? Now please repeat the details of your treff in Kiel.”

Russell repeated them. “What if no one approaches me on that day?” he asked.

“Then you return to Berlin. Any other questions?” Gert’s hands seemed to be writhing in his coat pockets.

He had none, or none that could be answered. At Bellevue Station they went their separate ways, Gert bounding up the stairs to the eastbound Stadtbahn platform, Russell ambling along the bank of the Spree to the kiosk beneath the Bellevue Schloss. He bought a cup of hot chocolate, took it to a riverside table, and watched a long train rumbling across the bridge to his left. “Everything should be fine,” he told himself in Gert’s Bavarian accent. It was the should which worried him.

His next stop was the British Embassy. Rather than return for the car, he walked down the river to Kurfьrstenplatz, and then along Zellenallee to the Brandenburg Gate and the western end of Unter den Linden. The queue outside the Embassy seemed longer than ever, the atmosphere inside the usual mix of irritation and self-righteousness. He asked to see Unsworth, and was shown up to his office. Once there, he admitted it was Trelawney-Smythe that he really wanted to see. “But I didn’t want to announce the fact in reception,” he explained to Unsworth. “I wouldn’t put it past the Nazis to include an informer or two among the Jews.”

Unsworth looked slightly shocked at the thought, but agreed to escort Russell to the MI6 man’s door. Trelawney-Smythe looked startled to see him, and somewhat put out. “I know why you’re here, and the answer is no. We cannot make exceptions.”

Russell sat himself down. “I take it this room’s secure,” he said.

“We went over the whole building with a fine-tooth comb a few months ago,” Trelawney-Smythe said proudly.

Russell looked up, half expecting to see a microphone hanging from the ceiling. “How interested would the Admiralty be in the German Navy’s Baltic Fleet dispositions?” he asked.

To his credit, Trelawney-Smythe didn’t jump out of his seat. Instead, he reached for his pipe. “Very, I should imagine. After all, if a ship’s in the Baltic it won’t be in the North Sea.”

“That’s the conclusion I came to,” Russell said. He smiled at the other man. “Don’t ask me how, but at some point in the next two weeks I should have my hands on those dispositions. Not to keep, mind you, and not for long. But long enough to copy them out.”

Trelawney-Smythe lit his pipe, puffing vigorously out of the corner of his mouth.

A technique learned in spy school, Russell thought.

“You would be doing a tremendous service to your country,” the other man said in an almost torpid tone.

“But not only for my country. There’s a price.”

“Ah.” Trelawney-Smythe’s eyes narrowed. “You want money,” he said, with the air of a disappointed vicar.

“I want you to make an exception, and come up with a visa for Eva Wiesner. And while you’re at it, I’d like an American passport.”