‘That’s harder. And I can only think of one possibility — we need something on them which trumps everything else. A secret so damaging that we could buy our safety with silence.’
‘Is that all?’ Russell asked sarcastically. He had found himself hoping that Shchepkin had a plan with some chance of success.
‘It won’t be easy,’ the Russian agreed. ‘But we’ll be working for people with secrets, and trading them ourselves — we’ll have to keep our eyes and ears open, follow any thread that looks promising. It may take years, but I can’t see any other way out. Can you?’
‘No,’ Russell admitted. This one didn’t look too promising, but Shchepkin knew his world best, and any hope at all was better than none.
‘Then, let us work together. I will see you in Berlin.’
‘Okay. When do you expect me to start?’
‘As soon as possible. Once you reach Berlin, you will go to the Housing Office at the junction of Neue Konig and Lietzmann. You know where that is?’
‘Of course. But we’re counting our chickens a bit — what if the Americans won’t take me on?’
‘They will. But if by any chance they refuse, then come to our embassy here — I will leave instructions. In the last resort, we will get you there.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Now I must go — our train is at two.’
‘When’s the game — Saturday?’
‘I think so. The football is nothing to do with me — I check the hotels, arrange excursions, look at the police arrangements.’
It was the first time Russell could remember the Russian actually volunteering information about himself. It seemed a good omen.
Shchepkin made to leave, then abruptly turned back. ‘One last thing. I forgot to tell you. Make sure the Americans keep your mutual arrangement from the British — the NKVD have several plants in MI6.’ That bombshell dropped, he walked off across the park without a backward look, leaving Russell to ponder his brave new future. He wished he’d had one of those new-fangled recording machines, so that he could listen to Shchepkin’s reasoning again. Over the years the Russian had never been less than convincing, but Russell knew from bitter experience that some things were always spelt out better than others. What were the hidden catches in this scheme, he wondered. Other, that is, than the obvious one, that he’d need acting lessons from Effi to pull it off.
He decided to visit the American Embassy that afternoon, while he could still remember the script. Working his way through the streets around the British Museum, he wondered whether Shchepkin declaring war on Nemedin was good news or bad. Letting himself get sucked into a war between competing sections of Soviet intelligence seemed, at first glance, like a poor career move. But it might give him room to manoeuvre, play off one against the other. Or give them both a reason to kill him.
After lunch at his usual Corner House, he walked down Oxford Street and turned left at Selfridges. The American Embassy had moved to Grosvenor Square in 1938, and he had visited it several times since, mostly in connection with his own pragmatic adoption of US citizenship. The welcome had seldom been effusive — Americans might, as they sometimes claimed, be the friendliest people on God’s earth, but only when encountered on their home turf.
He opted for the direct approach. ‘I need to see the attache who deals with Intelligence matters,’ he told the young man on reception.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No.’
‘Then I suggest…’
‘He will want to see me. Tell him John Russell has a proposal for him.’
The man gave him another look, and decided to pass the buck. ‘Please take a seat,’ he said, and reached for the telephone. Two minutes later another, younger man descended the stairs, and led Russell back up to a small office half full of cardboard boxes, where he laboriously transcribed every detail from Russell’s US passport. He then stared at the photograph, as if wondering whether he should sketch a rough copy. Apparently deciding against, he told Russell to wait where he was, and stalked off down the corridor.
A quarter hour went by, and then another. It was getting dark outside, and Russell guessed that the Embassy was now closed for the day. A cursory investigation of the cardboard boxes revealed that each was full of Hershey bars. He pocketed a couple for the children, and, after another fifteen minutes had ticked by, a couple more for the adults to share.
The young man returned, looking pleased with himself. ‘Follow me,’ he said.
They traipsed down a corridor, and descended several flights of stairs. The unmarked basement room into which Russell was ushered had no ordinary windows, but a deep ceiling well in one corner offered proof there was still some light outside. The colonel behind the neatly-organised desk looked around forty, and none too pleased to see him. His head was as close to shaved as made no difference, and his face seemed equally short on sympathy. The grey eyes, though, were conspicuously alert. Not a fool, Russell decided.
A folder bearing his own name was lying on the desk.
‘John Russell,’ the colonel said, as if curious to hear how it sounded. His accent was Midwestern.
‘And you are?’ Russell asked.
‘Colonel Lindenberg. The attache who deals with intelligence matters,’ he added wryly. ‘I believe you have a proposal for me.’
‘Yes. I’ve worked for your Government before, and I’d like to do so again. In Berlin.’
‘Yes? Why now? We asked you to work for us in 1942, but you refused. What’s changed your mind?’
Russell considered explaining his earlier refusals and decided there wasn’t any point — the reasons he’d given at the time would be in the file. ‘I think I have a better appreciation now of what the Russians are capable of.’
‘Because of what you saw in Berlin?’
‘That, and what I’ve read and heard about their behaviour in other parts of Europe.’
Lindenberg was looking at the file. ‘The Soviets allowed you to accompany the Red Army into Berlin, and then refused to let you report from there,’ he said, looking up with a smile of disbelief.
‘That’s what happened,’ Russell lied. ‘I tried to tell it the way I’d seen it, and they weren’t having it.’
‘That I can understand. But they let you go, and you’ve written nothing about it since.’
‘That was the deal,’ Russell said with a shrug. ‘My family for my silence.’
‘If the Soviets know you that well, what good would you be to us?’
‘Ah, now we come the interesting part. The Soviets have asked me to work for them, and guess what they want me to do? They want me to offer my services to you.’
Lindenberg smiled at that. ‘Okay, I can understand why they’d want a guy of their own in our organization, but why would they choose a journalist who they’ve just had to gag?’
Had that been a knowing smile, Russell wondered. Did Lindenberg already know of his meeting with the Russians? ‘Several reasons,’ he answered. ‘One, there’s hardly a stampede of applicants for a job like that. Two, they think I’m competent. Three, they know I’m having trouble finding work here, and that I want to go back to Berlin. Four, they know from experience that they can buy me off. What they don’t know is that my family is the only thing I’d sell myself for, and they’ll be safe here in England.’
Lindenberg picked up a pen and started rotating it through the fingers of his right hand. ‘Let’s go back to the beginning,’ he said. ‘You’re telling me that your reason for joining us is a new-found resentment of the Soviets?’
‘I didn’t say it was the only reason. My motives are mixed, like most people’s. I want to do my bit, maybe not so much for the West as for Berlin. It’s my home, and it’s been through hell, and it deserves better than a Russian takeover. And I want to help myself. I want to work as a journalist again, and that’s not going to happen here.’
‘Berlin’s no picnic these days.’
‘I know. But if I’m on your payroll, I won’t have to worry about food and accommodation.’