But it turned out he was just a cineaste and fan, a decent Czech man with a wife and two children who had seen her recent films and admired them. He had recognised her soon after they left Prague, but had been too shy to approach her.
Russell’s train reached the Austrian border soon after two. As the train slowed down he wondered whether he should pass through border inspection ahead of Janica, and put himself clear of any subsequent fall-out, or stay behind her in the queue, and know for certain how she had fared.
It all proved academic. As he could soon see through his window, a spanking new border post was under construction on the site of the old, and the inspectors emerging from a grounded old carriage were clearly intent on boarding the train. They started at the back, and took around twenty minutes to reach Russell’s carriage. His documents were scrutinised with great care, his bag rifled through, but he had the feeling their hearts weren’t it-in the new Czechoslovakia a foreigner leaving was a problem solved.
They would look a lot closer at Janica.
After they’d passed through into her coach, he nervously waited for sounds of trouble, his eyes fixed on the corridor connection ahead, in case she erupted through it. ‘I’ve never seen this woman before,’ he murmured to himself in rehearsal. Would they believe him? They couldn’t prove otherwise, but would that worry them?
Each minute that passed with no sign of alarm left him feeling a little more confident, and then, mercy of mercies, he saw the two officials and their military minder walking back across the tracks towards their temporary office. Without a woman in tow.
Almost immediately, the train clanked into motion, and within seconds it was rumbling across the small river that marked the border. They were out of Czechoslovakia, and into Austria’s Soviet Zone, which should be a good deal safer. The Russians were too busy trying to stop their own fleeing nationals to worry overmuch about one Czech woman. And few Soviet officials would know a dud Czechoslovak ID from a genuine one.
Russell even managed an hour or so’s sleep as the train chugged on towards Vienna. It was a minute to five when they crossed the Danube, two minutes past when the train wheezed to a grateful halt in the roofless Nordbahnhof. He found Janica waiting for him on the platform, suitcase in hand. ‘Take my arm,’ he said.
There were uniforms at the barrier, but either they were waiting for someone specific, or only had a watching brief. No tickets or papers were being inspected, and no one approached them as they calmly walked through to the forecourt, where a line of taxis was waiting. Theirs had seen better days, and its driver looked about eighty. ‘Stephansplatz,’ Russell told him, deeming it wise to seek sanctuary in the international sector.
‘You have dollars?’ the driver asked, without starting the cab. He was probably used to passengers arrived from Prague without convertible currency.
‘I have dollars,’ Russell admitted.
The driver smiled and let in the clutch. Soon they were passing the Riesenrad Ferris wheel and heading down Prater Strasse towards the Danube Canal bridge. As they crossed the latter, Russell felt a huge sense of relief-for the moment, at least, they were beyond the reach of the Soviets. As if to reinforce that feeling, an international patrol drove past in a jeep, the Russian sat beside the French driver, the Anglo-Americans perched in the back.
Janica, he saw, was staring wide-eyed at the Viennese ruins. ‘But the war’s been over for years,’ she said.
He told her she should see Berlin.
They were almost at Stephansplatz when Russell remembered the hotel on Johannesgasse that he’d stayed in three years earlier, and redirected the driver. It was still standing, and offered more in the way of discretion than the American Press Club. She looked it over with ill-concealed distaste. ‘Is there nothing better?’ she asked.
‘It’s only for a few hours,’ Russell promised.
He told the desk clerk the same and got a predictable leer in return.
‘There’s only one bed,’ Janica complained when she saw their room.
‘It’s all yours,’ Russell told her. ‘I’m off to see about our train to Salzburg.’
‘Tonight?’
‘If possible. Aren’t you in a hurry to see Merzhanov?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Okay. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t go out.’
‘Where would I go? I haven’t any money.’
He left her curled up on the bed, probably hoping for a more prosperous future. Outside, his first port of call was the Central Exchange, and the familiar room with the long-distance connection. Effi’s train had been due in an hour before his, so by this time she should be home.
The phone in the Carmer Strasse flat rang for a long time, and he was beginning to hope she’d gone straight on to Zarah’s when at last she picked up. ‘Who is this?’ the familiar voice asked.
The sense of relief was strong enough to take his breath away. ‘It’s me. You didn’t have any trouble then?’
‘Not too much. Only a mild panic. Everything all right at your end?’
‘So far.’
‘Do you still think you might be back tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow or Saturday. Was Rosa pleased to see you?’
‘Very. I think she was really worried.’
‘Tell her I miss her.’
‘All right.’
He hung up, and just sat there for several moments, smiling into space.
The CIC offices were a few blocks west in the American sector, or had been the previous year. Russell walked to the house in question, hoping that the local CIA hadn’t got around to absorbing their local rivals, the way they had in Berlin, but hadn’t in Trieste. His luck was in-the Viennese CIC was still parading its own independence, and the duty officer that evening was a man he’d dealt with before. Russell explained about Janica, and their need to reach Salzburg. Could the two of them take the Mozart train that night?
‘Not a chance,’ Jack Dearlove told him cheerfully. ‘You know it’s Americans Only, and these days the Russians check everybody. This girl of yours will need American papers and a new wardrobe, and that will take several days to arrange. Even with them, you’ll spend the whole trip praying that no one starts asking her questions in English.’
‘Shit,’ Russell muttered.
‘But no worries, eh,’ Dearlove said with a grin. ‘The Russians get tough; we get airborne. There’s a morning shuttle from Salzburg now, leaves there at eight, here at ten. In the morning take a cab out to Meissner Park-that’s where the airstrip is. I’ll let them know you’re coming.’
Russell thanked him profusely, and walked back towards the city centre. This was the way things were going, he thought-intelligence people flying where and when they wanted, while ordinary joes formed orderly queues at frontier posts. Well, he might as well enjoy it while he could-if everything went according to plan, he’d soon be a civilian himself.
Janica looked like she’d been dozing when he got back, but perked up at the promise of a meal. It was a hot summer evening, and they ate at an outdoor restaurant in the Stadtpark, where she batted away his queries concerning her family history, and plied him with questions about life in America. She ate surprisingly sparely, but drank several glasses of wine, and seemed somewhat unsteady walking back. In the hotel lobby, she looked almost scornful when Russell paused at the reception desk to rent a second room.
They shared breakfast at a nearby cafe, and a cab out to Meissner Park. ‘I’ve never been on an aeroplane,’ she admitted, as they drove across the grass to what looked like a makeshift control tower. She sounded more curious than nervous.
The usual DC-3 touched down about ten minutes later. This was the last trip, the pilot told them. Now that the Russian blockade of Berlin had begun, their squadron was being sent north. His luck was holding, Russell thought, but the German capital’s might have run out. He asked the pilot for specifics, but came up empty. ‘They’ve locked it up tight,’ he said. ‘On the ground, that is; they can’t blockade the fucking sky.’