David Downing - Zero Station

“Your wallet, please,” the Gestapo officer said.

Russell handed it over, and watched him remove the currency-a few Czech notes, some Reichsmarks, the clip of Swiss Francs.

“Where did these come?” Ascherl asked.

“I wrote an article for a Soviet paper, and they paid me in Swiss Francs. Several months ago now. I thought they might be useful in Prague. The SD knows all about this,” he added. “Look,” he said, indicating the wallet, “can I show you something?”

Ascherl handed it back, and Russell pulled out the folded sheet of Sturmbannfьhrer Kleist’s letter.

As the Gestapo man read it, Russell watched his face. If the list had been found in the hidden compartment then the letter could have been ignored. As it was, all Ascherl had was a story full of holes that he couldn’t fill in. Would he keep on trying, and risk offending the big boys on Wilhelmstrasse?

“I see,” he said finally, and looked up at Russell. “It seems we are all victims of the same plot. We received information… well, I won’t go into that. It looks as though the Reds have tried to set you up.”

“The suitcase was suspiciously cheap,” Russell admitted. Across the room the customs official was still watching, still doing his Mona Lisa impersonation.

“It’s not worth much now,” Ascherl said, surveying his knifework.

Russell smiled. “You were doing your duty, as any friend of the Reich would wish.”

Ascherl smiled back. “We have others. Confiscated from Jews. Perhaps we can find you another one with a hidden compartment. Schneider?”

Ascherl’s assistant disappeared into an adjoining room and reemerged almost immediately with two suitcases. Russell chose the smaller of the two, and packed it with his clothes and Effi’s script. The customs official had disappeared.

But not for long. As Russell came out of the building the man fell into step beside him. “Nice suitcase,” he said.

Russell stopped.

“I’m getting married next month,” the man said, carefully positioning himself between Russell and any watchers in the building they had just left.

Russell took out his wallet, removed the clip of Swiss francs, and handed it over. “A wedding present?”

The man smiled, gave him an ironic click of the heels, and strode away.

Russell walked on toward the train. The snow was heavier now, tumbling down through the pools of light, flakes clinging to the glistening wire. He could feel the sweat on his body slowly turning to ice.

The train, it seemed, was waiting only for him-the whistle shrilled as he stepped aboard. He made his way forward through the swaying cars, slumped into the reclining seat, and listened to the rhythmic clatter of the wheels, rolling him into the Reich.