Silesian Station

'It's like summer in Batum,' Gorodnikov said. 'Have you ever been in Ba-tum?'

Russell had not.

'It is like this. All summer. You English call it sticky, I believe.'

'We do. So have you heard from Moscow?'

'Yes, of course,' the Russian said, sounding offended at the mere question.

'So what do they want me to tell the Germans?'

'You are to say that we accept offer, that we agree to pay you good money for any information concerning German plans that involve the Soviet Union - military, economic, anything. You must say that we are most interested in German intentions towards us, that we worry about attack.'

'All right. And your side of the bargain?'

'Yes, yes. They will give you what you ask for.' Gorodnikov was shuffling through his fan for the right piece of paper. 'Someone likes you in Moscow, yes?'

'That's good to know.'

'Maybe. Maybe not. Depends who it is.'

'True.'

'Ah, here it is,' he said, extracting one sheet and putting the others down. 'Moscow agrees to help you escape from Germany. You and your lady friend. But only in real emergency. You understand? Not for holiday in the sun.'

'I understand.' And Russell did - the Soviets would get him and Effi out of Germany, but only once he'd proved his worth, and only if the Nazi authorities were actually snapping at their heels. The Soviets had nothing to gain by helping them out any sooner.

He asked for the contact number.

'We shall get to that. First, a small job you must do for us.'

Russell's heart sank a little deeper. 'What sort of small job?'

'You will go to Stettin, and see a woman there. Let me explain.' Gorodnikov leant forward, elbows on the desk and fingers interlocked. The Soviets, he told Russell, had had an agent in the Stettin docks, a man named Bern-hard Neumaier. The Gestapo had arrested him on the previous Saturday, and he had died under interrogation in Sachsenhausen on Wednesday. A couple of weeks before his arrest Neumaier had told the regular courier that his girlfriend was pregnant. He had asked the Party to look after her if anything happened to him. Her name was Erna Kliemann.

'Does she know he's dead?' Russell asked.

'We do not know.'

'Does the Gestapo know about her?'

'Our best information is that Neumaier gives nobody up. A brave man, if that is true.'

Russell hoped it was. If it wasn't, and her name had slipped out under tor-ture, then the Gestapo would be waiting for someone to turn up. 'Why not send the regular courier?' he asked.

'If Neumaier tells the Gestapo anything, then this man is compromised. And he knows many names.'

Perfect, Russell thought. He tried another tack. 'Why risk anyone?'

'The woman needs to know that Neumaier is dead. If she go to authorities with questions - bad for her and bad for us. We not know what Neumaier tells her - maybe nothing, maybe everything. If she says nothing, then good for her and good for us. And we want to give her help.' He passed an unsealed envelope across the desk; it was stuffed with twenty-Reichsmark notes. 'We look after our people,' Gorodnikov said defiantly, as if daring Russell to deny it.

The money would help, Russell agreed. 'Why not send it?' he suggested innocently.

'Not possible to send money without explain,' Gorodnikov told him. 'She must learn how much Neumaier care for her.'

Of course, Russell thought. The money would only keep her quiet if she knew where it came from.

'And too urgent for post,' Gorodnikov added pointedly.

'When do you expect me to go?' Russell wanted to know.

'Today.'

'Oh no...'

'It will only take few hours. Two hours there, two hours back - you dine in Berlin.'

'I...'

'You want way out of Germany for you and your girlfriend. This is what Moscow expect in return.'

Russell considered. It could be a lot worse, he thought. There was nothing illegal about carrying an envelope full of cash, and if there was any sign of a watch on the woman's home he could just walk away. And the reward had to be worth it. 'All right,' he said, pocketing the envelope. 'What's her address?'

Gorodnikov had already written it out. 'You must remember and destroy before you arrive in Stettin,' he advised.

'I will. Now what about that contact number?'

Gorodnikov printed out a telephone number and passed it across. 'You ask for Martin.'

Russell looked at the number, and recognized it. It was the photographic studio in Neukolln which he often used. Miroslav Zembski, the man who owned and ran it, had to be Martin. Russell had known Zembski was a communist before the Nazi takeover, but had assumed that the fat Silesian's willingness to fake him a passport earlier that year had simply been for old times' sake. Now he knew otherwise - Zembski was still on the active list. Another double life. Another reason for hope. 'I have some information for you,' he told Gorodnikov. 'A KPD cell, here in Berlin. It has had no contact with the leadership for four years, and...'

'This is a matter for the KPD.'

'One of the women has become the lover of a high-ranking SS officer. She says she has access to information that will be very useful to you.'

'Ah. This woman's name?'

'Sarah Grostein.'

'A Jew?'

'Her husband Richard was a Jew. And a prominent member of the KPD.'

Gorodnikov wrote the name down. 'I look into.' He looked up. 'If Moscow says yes, they will expect you to be woman's contact.'

'I'd rather you contacted her directly.'

'You know her. And the SD not object to you coming here. They tell you to come here!'

It made sense. 'We'll see,' he said weakly.

Sasha was summoned to show him out. As he walked down the marble stairs Russell remembered Sarah Grostein's comment about life and death decisions. Had he just taken several more?

There was an autobahn to Stettin, but Russell decided to give the Hanomag a rest. Erna Kliemann probably lived in one of the city's less salubrious districts, where cars and their occupants tended to be conspicuous. And the train would be just as quick.

He arrived in Stettin soon after five. After obtaining directions for Lastadie, he walked up the west bank of the wide Oder to catch a tram across the Hansa Bridge. A five minute ride brought him to Grosse Lastadie, the dockland suburb's main street, where a helpful old woman pointed him in the direction of the junction with Schwangstrasse. No.14 was fifty metres down, a house with three storeys of living space above a small workers' restaurant and a tobacconist. The former was already closed for the day, and the proprietor of the latter was busy locking up. The entrance to the rooms above lay between them.

It was the sort of area the Nazi authorities liked to visit in strength, but Russell carefully scanned the surrounding windows, and ostentatiously examined the piece of paper he had inscribed with her address and a made-up name, before heading across the street and in through the open front doors. The smell in the stairwell, an unhappy blend of boiled cabbage and tobacco, pursued him upwards, growing stronger with each flight of creaking treads. Room 7 was right at the top, and a small piece of paper bearing a neatly-in-scribed 'E. Kliemann' was pinned beside the door. There was no answer to his knock.

A second, louder knock brought no response from inside, but the door behind him opened to reveal a young boy in his school uniform. 'Erna's not back yet,' the boy announced.

'Do you know when she will be?' Russell asked.

'She goes to her sister most days. She's usually back by eight o'clock.'

It wasn't much gone six - he'd have to come back. 'Thank you,' Russell said. 'I'll try again later.'

'You are most welcome,' the boy told him.