Beyond the window, mist draped the meadows and shrouded the trees. The sun would probably soon break through, but it was already hot in the carriage, and even with the toplights open, the air was oppressively close. Russell took off his jacket, and tried not to worry about Effi.
Assuming she didn’t run into trouble, and he successfully shipped the other two off, what did they need to do next? Did they have to send Beria a copy of the film, or would merely describing its contents be enough? How else could they have known about the events in question? From the other woman, of course, assuming she survived. But hearsay wouldn’t be enough. They had to provide proof of the film’s existence-a presentation copy was the only way. And now he came to think of it, several copies might make all the difference-if they hid them in different countries, Beria would have a hell of a job tracking them down. And even if he did, he could never be certain he had them all.
But they couldn’t make copies themselves, and whoever did so would need to be in on the secret. Effi might know someone from her work whom she could trust with something like this. A political innocent would be best; someone who’d never heard of Beria, and who wouldn’t recognise him.
Outside the train, the sun was busy dispersing the mist, and conjuring pinpoints of light from the dew-sodden fields. Russell decided he would visit the buffet car, partly for the exercise and partly for a drink, but mostly because he wanted to check on Janica. With his StB shadow a few steps behind him, all he could see on the way forward was the back of her head, but when he returned half an hour later they swapped innocent glances. She looked like she hadn’t a care in the world, but then she wasn’t married to Effi.
Effi’s train was about ten minutes away from the German border when the man reappeared. He was about fifty, she guessed; he was smartly dressed and looked more like a Czech than a German. Early in the journey he had walked slowly past the compartment, given her a lingering look, and moved on out of sight. Now he repeated the process, this time with the faintest of smiles.
It all brought back the war. All those hours, days, weeks she’d spent permanently on edge, waiting for the knock on the door, the tap on the shoulder, the car pulling up in the street outside. She’d thought that life was over, but here it was again. How did John stand it, year after year?
They had to leave, get as far away as they could. Russell had always believed the Soviets would punish a desertion, that either they’d tell the Americans how he’d bought his family’s freedom with atomic secrets, and so bring a treason charge down on his head, or they’d simply kill him, along with heaven knew how many other members of the family. He could be right-he usually was when it came to expecting the worst-but just this once he might be wrong. Maybe it was time to call their bluff. From a great distance, if that proved possible. Effi knew Stalin had sent someone all the way to Mexico to kill Trotsky, but Russell, much as she loved him, was much smaller fry. And if they were going to live in fear, they might as well do it in Hollywood.
The train was slowing down. Effi reached up for the overnight bag in the luggage rack, and pulled it down beside her. She couldn’t think of any reason why they should question the four reels of film. Her papers were in order; she was travelling first class courtesy of a communist Culture Ministry; these same four reels had been in the bag when she entered the country two days ago. And she would top it all off with a winning smile, she reminded herself. John had insisted on one of those.
She stepped down on to the cinder path and joined the stream of passengers heading toward the inspection hall. It was only as she passed through the doorway that she realised who was behind her-the man from the corridor.
Her heart skipped a beat, but he did nothing more threatening than stand there in the queue. The urge to turn and challenge him was strong, but she knew she mustn’t. If he was StB, then what would she gain? If he wasn’t, then what was the point? She would merely be making herself conspicuous.
So she kept her face forward, aware of his breathing, aware of his feet on the move each time the queue shuffled forwards, until an official in front of her commanded all her attention.
He went through her papers, asked to place her bag on the table, and began to empty its contents. After opening one can and exposing its reel, he repeated the process with the other three, and asked her something in Czech.
She shrugged her incomprehension and offered up the winning smile, but the official was already walking away, having signalled by hand that she should stay where she was. Behind her, she could feel the queue sighing with impatience.
The official was back almost instantly, a German-speaking colleague in tow. He extracted one film from its tin. ‘What are these?’ he asked her.
‘They’re audition reels,’ she told him. ‘I’m an actress. I’ve been to visit one of your directors-a man named Jaromir Cisar. He’s thinking of casting me in one of his films, and he wanted to see examples of my work.’
The official had never heard of Cisar.
‘It was all arranged by your Ministry of Culture. They will confirm what I say.’
The man looked at the film in his hand, said something in Czech to his colleague, and strode off again.
A third official returned with him, and took his turn staring at the films.
‘The names of the films are on the boxes,’ Effi volunteered. ‘Each one contains a few scenes, which I use for audition purposes.’
The man looked at her, then back at the films. ‘You will have to leave these with us,’ he finally said in German. ‘Once they have been examined, we will send them on to Berlin.’
Neither Effi nor Russell had foreseen this eventuality-they had both been too busy worrying that she would be held. ‘But I need them,’ Effi protested. ‘I have an appointment to show them in the morning,’ she lied.
‘I’m sorry,’ the man said. ‘But we have only your word for it that you’re an actress.’
‘But that’s ridiculous …’
A voice behind her started speaking in Czech. It was the man who’d been watching her on the train.
I’m done for, she thought.
‘This gentleman says he can vouch for you being an actress,’ the third official told her.
She turned to face him.
‘And of course I’ve heard of Jaromir Cisar,’ he added in German.
‘Thank you,’ she said, but he was speaking to the Czech official again.
‘I suggested he telephone the Ministry of Culture,’ he eventually told her, ‘but he doesn’t want to hold the train up. So he says you can take your films.’
‘Oh thank you so much.’ She turned back to the official. ‘Dekuji,’ she said, with a second flash of the winning smile. Resisting the impulse to shovel her possessions back into the overnight bag, she carefully restored them one at a time, before striding out through the exit door.
In the German building a hundred metres farther down the track, each official had his own Russian shadow. Here, too, her baggage was searched, the boxes opened, but this time her explanation had official backing. Comrade Tulpanov had sanctioned her trip, she told the German official, and he should refer any queries to Berlin.
He started to tell his shadow, but was cut short. Presumably the Russian had understood her German, because his hand now waved her though.
She walked back out into the sunshine, and on towards the waiting train.
It left about ten minutes later, and not long after that her saviour appeared in the compartment doorway. ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes. And thank you again.’
‘Could I buy you a drink?’
It seemed churlish to refuse, and perhaps unwise-she still harboured a faint suspicion that he’d saved her for purposes of his own.