‘I can’t wait that long.’
‘I know,’ Effi said. She found herself remembering John’s stories of Irish children who’d emigrated to America in the past century, exchanged letters for decades, but never actually seen their parents again. Heartbreaking.
‘So what can I do?’ Lisa repeated, defeat in her tone.
‘Sometimes there’s nothing you can do. And John did say she seemed very happy.’
Lisa seemed almost to wince. ‘Well, that’s something. Everything really.’ She turned her gaze to the street again, where an overcrowded tram was passing. ‘There’s nothing worse than losing a child,’ she added, sounding almost surprised.
They parted with promises to keep in touch, but Effi doubted they would. When she got home there was a hand-posted letter from Max Grelling waiting for her on the mat. He had samples of the documents she’d asked for, and now only needed a photograph of Uschi.
After lunch Russell took the U-Bahn south to Steglitz, where Operation Claptrap was based. A year into the peace BOB had stumbled across a biddable Polish doctor, set him up in his own VD clinic, and supplied him with enough precious penicillin to actually cure his patients. He didn’t need to advertise—catching VD was a court martial offence in the Red Army, and once word spread that relief was on offer in the privacy of the American sector, Russians of all ranks came flocking.
A fluent Russian-speaker, Doctor Kaluzny was given a camera for photographing any documents carelessly left in pockets or bags, and guidance in which questions he should casually ask the patients. He then filled in forms which his control—in this case, Russell—scoured for anything useful.
Reading the latest batch in a nearby bar, Russell found nothing of interest—just a stream of young men with identical physical symptoms, and the sort of complaints which life in any army tended to provoke. The prospect of a court martial certainly scared them, but mostly they were there because they were terrified their girlfriends at home would find out. When it came to military secrets, the best most could manage was the name of their sergeant.
When they were both in Berlin, Russell and Shchepkin usually met at the same time and place. Bad practice in theory, but since both sides knew of their meetings any attempt at subterfuge seemed gratuitous. So later that morning Russell made his usual trek to the northeastern corner of the Tiergarten, where the open black market had flourished in the immediate post-war years, and where a panoramic sweep of the eyes could take in the gutted Reichstag, a deforested park and the Soviet monument to the Unknown Rapist.
It was a warm day, and Shchepkin was wearing a lightweight charcoal suit and open white shirt. It was the first time Russell had seen him in daylight for more than three months, and the Russian looked a lot more drawn than he remembered.
‘A lovely day,’ was Shchepkin’s opening remark.
‘For some. Your people have been hounding Effi again.’
Shchepkin didn’t look surprised. ‘What has happened?’
Russell went through the sequence of events—Effi’s appeal to Tulpanov, the withdrawal of her Leading Actor ration card, the threatened review of Rosa’s adoption.
Shchepkin listened without interrupting, occasionally shaking his head. ‘I doubt there’s anything I can do,’ he said. ‘But I wouldn’t worry about your daughter—that sounds like an empty threat to me. I can’t see them bringing up your wife’s career in Nazi films when they’ve just been saluting her in ours; and as for the father—you have evidence of his death?’
‘Several affidavits.’
‘Well, then. The important thing is for Effi to keep away from Eva Kempka and the whole Sonja Strehl business. It’s clear to me that someone important wants something kept quiet.’
‘So it wasn’t a suicide?’
‘I don’t know, and I’m happy to remain in ignorance. Tell Effi she’s playing with fire.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Succeed. Now, we have a more pressing problem to deal with. Schneider wants more from you.’
‘More what? Personal hygiene advice?’ From their only meeting, Russell had deduced an aversion to water, soap, or both.
Shchepkin gave him an exasperated look. ‘This man is a danger to us.’
‘I thought you outranked him.’
‘I do, but the friends he’s been cultivating out-rank me. And the last meeting I attended, several supported his point of view.’
‘Which is what exactly?’
‘A more aggressive approach.’
‘But what does that actually mean?’
‘I don’t know, and I doubt that he does either. He’s restless. And he doesn’t think we’re making any progress.’
‘I’ve only just got back. And I thought it was agreed that I was a long-term investment, that I’d need several years to gain enough trust from the Americans to make myself really useful.’
‘According to Schneider, it has been several years, and that far from trusting you more, the Americans are losing faith in you.’
‘Where does he get that from?’
‘I don’t know. Have you done anything to annoy them lately?’
‘Nothing special.’
Shchepkin sighed. ‘Well, we need to boost your reputation, before one side or other decides to abandon their long-term investment.’
‘And cash me in?’
‘And cash us in.’
‘Point taken. So, how do we make the Americans love me more?’
‘I’ll see what I can get out of my GRU contact,’ Shchepkin said. ‘If he knows the names of any upcoming fake defectors, then you can give them up. Which will remind the Americans of how useful you are, without upsetting Tikhomirov and Schneider.’
‘Okay.’
‘But we also need to give my bastards something to crow about—the names of some American agents in our zone would do. But not ex-Nazis—it has to be people they might actually care about.’
‘But I …’
‘Yes, you would be condemning them to death. Or Wismut if they’re lucky.’
‘Where the hell is Wismut?’
‘It’s not a place; it’s our uranium mining stock company in Saxony. Look, John, this is a war we’re fighting, and all these people are soldiers. There are no innocents in our business—one way or another, they all chose to get involved. Like I did. Like you did. Remember that.’
‘Oh, I do, believe me.’ Shchepkin rarely called him by his first name, and when he did it was always for emphasis.
‘Good. I shall expect the names next week. Is there anything else?’ The Russian seemed unusually eager to get going.
‘Yes,’ Russell remembered. ‘Johannsen wants to know what your people are planning for Berlin. We assume you know about the currency reform.’
‘Of course. And I think our response is still being discussed. One thing I do know is that our people will soon be leaving the Kommandatura.’
‘For good?’ If the Soviets abandoned the Four-Power Council, that would mean the end of joint decision-making in Berlin.
Shchepkin shrugged. ‘Who knows? If the Allies agree to exempt Berlin, then perhaps we’ll return.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘A shut-down, most likely.’
‘Meaning?’
‘No road or rail transport, in or out.’
‘A siege.’
‘More or less.’
Russell considered the implications. How would the Western sectors feed themselves? Where would they get the fuel for heat and electricity from? You couldn’t bring coal in by air. It was hard to see what the Western Allies could do, but surely they wouldn’t just throw in the towel? And if they tried to break the siege by force, then another war would erupt. He said as much.
‘It’s possible,’ Shchepkin agreed.
‘But what about the atomic bomb?’
‘Maybe Stalin knows something we don’t.’
‘A Soviet bomb.’
‘Why not?’
Why not indeed? There was nothing
backward about Soviet scientists, and they’d had a lot of help from German colleagues and sympathetic spies, himself among them. It was buying his family’s safety with German atomic papers that had placed Russell at the MGB’s mercy, because if the bargain was ever disclosed, the Americans would probably arrest him for treason.
And the Russians had the uranium—as Shchepkin had just said, there were important mines in their German zone. If a point was reached where the atomic arsenals cancelled each other out, the Red Army could then presumably roll right over the Western armies.
Except the Russians really had been ripping up the railways in eastern Germany. Which made no sense at all if they intended marching westward. Their willingness to fight another war had to be a bluff. But would the Americans have the sense to call it? Or the balls? Russell guessed they would soon find out.
Was this why no one seemed eager to reconstruct the city? he asked himself, casting his eye across the still-serrated skyline. Why bother if another battle was coming?
BOB’s HQ in Berlin was an innocent-looking mansion on Föhrenweg, a quiet, leafy Dahlem street not five minutes walk from Thomas’s and Hanna’s. There were more floors underground than above, and the starkly lit interrogation suite on the second floor of the basement reminded Russell of a ship deck below the waterline.
There were two defectors to process that Friday afternoon. Both had presented themselves at American barracks on the previous afternoon, one in Schönfeld, the other in Neukölln; but as neither had yet arrived from the military holding cells where they’d spent the night, Russell and his colleague John Eustis spent most of the morning chatting, sweating, and twiddling their thumbs.
Eustis was from Providence, Rhode Island. He had been with CIC for almost four years, and had no compunction in telling all and sundry that the work was beginning to bore him. Which didn’t surprise Russell. Eustis was clever but lazy, and his only real interest in other human beings was what half of them had under their skirts. He was nominally in charge, but usually he allowed Russell to just get on with it—the interrogations took so much longer if every last question and answer was translated. This suited Russell in more ways than one—the job was done quicker, and it was easier for him to pick and choose which pieces of intelligence he passed on, and which little nuggets he squirrelled away.
Their first Russian arrived soon after eleven A.M., loudly complaining that he hadn’t had breakfast. Once this had been provided and eaten it was almost lunch time, and by mid-afternoon, Eustis was beginning to glance at his watch. The second Russian would be waiting a few doors down, and this one seemed incapable of answering the simplest question without setting the scene like a novelist with verbal diarrhoea. He was a long-serving Major in an artillery unit—he had apparently fought his way from the Polish border to Moscow and back again—and would doubtless prove a mine of basic information on the Red Army and its workings, should anyone have the patience to hear him out. By the time several hours had passed, Russell and Eustis were fully agreed that Army Intelligence should be given the chance.
‘Why don’t we leave the second guy till tomorrow?’ Eustis suggested, once the first Russian had been taken away. ‘I’ve got a hot date tonight, and preparation is everything.’
Russell laughed. ‘A fraulein?’
‘No, no. I’ve been there. Sweet but short—not much in it for us, other than the obvious. No, this is an American girl—a general’s daughter, spending the summer with Daddy. She’s gorgeous, and he’s rich, and I hope to God she’s willing.’
‘It’s only four P.M.,’ Russell said, checking his watch. ‘Let’s see the guy at least—maybe we can just move him on, and then you’ll have tomorrow free to show her the city. Johannsen’ll be pissed off if he sees us sneaking off this early.’
Eustis threw up a weary arm in surrender. ‘Okay, let’s see the bastard.’
His name was Konstantin Merzhanov, and he said he was twenty-five years old. With blond hair, blue eyes, and clean-cut features, he could easily have passed for a young American. He described himself as a technician, which seemed boring enough until he mentioned his place of work—the MGB HQ at Karlshorst—and the nature of his expertise, which was cinematic.
Russell was just about to translate these facts for Eustis, when Merzhanov dropped his bombshell. ‘I am in possession of a film,’ the Russian said carefully. ‘A film in which the Minister in charge of the MGB kills a young German woman.’
‘The Minister?’
‘Beria. You know who he is?’
Even Eustis’s ears pricked up at that. ‘Did he say Beria?’
‘Yes,’ Russell said, rapidly thinking on his feet. The Russian mightn’t be saying what Russell thought he was saying, but if he was … ‘He says he’s the devil himself,’ he told Eustis, before turning back to Merzhanov. ‘We’ll talk about your film later,’ he told the Russian. ‘For now, we need your history and personal details, your reasons for wishing to defect.’
Merzhanov gave Russell a doubtful look, but shrugged his acceptance, and over the next hour he answered questions with a precision his predecessor in the chair had so sadly lacked. Russell dutifully translated most of the answers, omitting only the Russian’s references to his time at film school in Moscow, which had been cut short by the German attack in 1941.
At five o’clock Eustis suggested they call it a day, and Russell offered to finish up on his own. ‘A small fish,’ he assured the American. ‘I won’t need much longer.’
Once the door had closed behind his colleague, Russell wasted no time. ‘We can talk about your film now,’ he said. ‘You said it shows Lavrenti Beria killing a German girl. Really killing her, right? This is not a work of fiction?’
‘No, no, this is real.’
‘Okay. So where, when, why?’
‘The film was shot at a house just outside Berlin, the one where important visitors stay. Beria came to Berlin in February, and he stayed there for several days. During that time he entertained several girls.’
‘And he was being filmed?’ Russell found this hard to believe.
‘He didn’t know it. All the rooms have hidden cameras, and of course this one should never have been turned on—it was a mistake. But I watched it, and I saw him kill one of the girls. And I knew what I had. This would be great propaganda for the West, yes?’
‘I should think it would,’ Russell said drily. ‘Where is it now?’
‘My girlfriend Janica has it.’
‘And where is she?’
‘In Prague. She’s a Czech.’ He took a dog-eared photograph from his jacket pocket and passed it across. The ‘girl’ looked about thirty, but she wasn’t unattractive, and there was definite intelligence in the gaze she offered the camera. ‘I met her when we liberated the city,’ Merzhanov went on. ‘She was being attacked by some of my comrades, and I managed to rescue her. We’ve been in love ever since.’ The Russian’s eyes were shining, Russell noticed, and when the young man offered a long list of the girl’s qualities and charms he didn’t interrupt.
‘But why does she have the film?’ he quietly asked, once the panegyric was over.
Merzhanov gave him an almost triumphant look. ‘Because I didn’t feel safe keeping it here in Berlin, and because bringing her out will be your only way to get hold of it.’
‘That’s your price?’
‘We don’t want money,’ Merzhanov insisted, as if he wouldn’t soil his hands on the stuff. ‘But you must take us somewhere safe—once the film is made public, they will realise that I must have taken it, and they will try to hunt us down.’
They all said that, Russell thought, but in this case it would be true. The Rat Line came to mind. If he could get them to Draganović’s man outside Salzburg, they would be on their way to safety. Theirs, and his. ‘So how do we contact Janica?’ he asked. ‘What’s her surname?’
‘You don’t need to know that. She will be waiting on the Masaryk Station concourse at five P.M. on Wednesday the sixteenth. With the film
. And you people will bring her out to the West.’
It sounded simple, and maybe it was. It occurred to Russell that a film was easier to get across a border than a woman, and that after she’d handed it over, he could simply leave her there. She would be no position to call the police.
Then again, in the heat of the moment she mightn’t stop to consider her own best interests. And even if she did, Merzhanov would clearly be more than upset, which might prove just as damaging. If the film was to have any value to Russell and Shchepkin, then it had to remain their secret, and the best way of ensuring that was to keep its suppliers happy.
Merzhanov seemed blissfully unaware of the possible flaw in his scheme; but Russell already suspected that Janica had thought the whole thing up, and that she might well have a back-up plan. Well, she wouldn’t need one. A deal was a deal, and Russell would bring her out. Or probably die trying.
‘We must keep this absolutely between us,’ Russell told the Russian. ‘I will tell my boss of course, but no one else. As I’m sure you know, the MGB has spies in this sector—in this building, most likely—and if word of all this gets out, your life won’t be worth a kopek. So you mustn’t mention Beria or the film to anyone. Understood?’
‘Yes,’ Merzhanov said, with only the slightest hint of doubt.
‘It’s for your own safety,’ Russell insisted. BOB’s other Russian-speaker, Don Stafford, wasn’t due back until the following Friday, so Merzhanov’s chance of spilling the beans was minimal, but the need for secrecy was hard to exaggerate. ‘And I’ll need to borrow the photograph,’ Russell said. ‘For new papers,’ he added, when Merzhanov expressed reluctance. The Russian handed it over with the sort of reverence a Biblical scholar might have shown for a first edition of the Sermon on the Mount.
Once Merzhanov had been taken away to new accommodation on the floor below—a cell in all but name, but a comfortable one for all that—Russell just sat there for several minutes, wondering at what had just—apparently—fallen into his lap. This was it, the thing that Shchepkin had named in London’s Russell Square more than three years earlier. He could still him say it: ‘Something on them that trumps everything else; a secret so damaging that we could buy our safety with silence.’
Masaryk Station Page 20
