Once inside, he gave his name and asked to see someone about an American passport for his son. The receptionist gave him a quick worried look and disappeared through a door behind her desk. She returned a minute or so later with the sort of smiling young man that Russell imagined was found on Californian beaches. His blond hair was almost bleached, his tan a tribute to Berlin's summer. 'This way,' he said, beckoning Russell through the door. 'I've been expecting you. My name's Michael Brown,' he added.
They climbed to an office on the second floor. 'This was Blucher's palace,' the young man said. 'You know, the guy at Waterloo.'
'Before my time,' Russell told him.
'So, do you have anything for me?'
Russell explained what had happened in Prague, and handed over The Good Soldier Schweik. 'I've written the contact name and address on the flyleaf, so all you have to do is get it to the department in Washington.'
'Of course.' Brown was leafing through the book with the air of someone searching for secrets.
'Do you have any messages for me?'
Brown looked surprised. 'None.'
'So, for German consumption, you're being difficult about giving my son a passport, and you've told me to come back in a couple of weeks. All right?'
'Sure.'
Russell got to his feet. 'Nice to meet you.'
A neatly-uniformed maid answered the door on Altonaer Strasse. Was Frau Umbach expecting him?
'Frau Grostein is,' Russell said, wondering who the hell Frau Umbach was.
'Wait there,' the maid said, shutting the door in his face.
She returned a few moments later to beckon him in. 'This way,' she said, leading him down a hallway, through a very modern-looking kitchen, and out into a small, secluded courtyard garden. Sarah Grostein was sitting at an iron table, under a pergola draped in deep red roses. She was wearing a simple blouse and slacks, smoking what smelt like a Turkish cigarette, and halfway through writing a letter. Her mass of wavy brown hair certainly looked feminine, but in all other respects she fell lamentably short of the official ideal of Nazi womanhood.
'Mr Russell,' she said, offering him a chair.
'Frau Umbach?' he asked.
She grimaced. 'I should have told you. My friend has decided I should use my maiden name. For obvious reasons.'
'I got your message.'
'Good. Freya wants to meet you. And so does Wilhelm, come to that.'
'Why?'
She smiled. 'I think he's looking for some publicity, but...'
'For what?'
'He can tell you that. Are you busy this evening, around six o'clock? That was one of the times they offered me.'
He hated giving up precious time with Effi , but she would understand. 'I'm free.'
'I'll confirm it with them this afternoon. You have a car?'
'Of a sort.'
'You can pick me up then. Say five-thirty.'
'Fine.' He considered telling her about Gorodnikov, but decided it would be safer to have that conversation in the car.
As she led him back to the front door, he caught a glimpse of a Kandinsky on the living room wall. 'Doesn't your friend object to the painting?' he asked.
'He likes it,' she said simply, and opened the door.
'Five-thirty,' he reiterated over his shoulder.
The Hanomag looked particularly down-at-heel in its current surroundings. The luxury models which usually lined Altonaer Strasse were nowhere to be seen, but not, Russell suspected, because they were out on military manoeuvres with the Wehrmacht. Those cars would have been hidden away for the duration at their owners' country homes.
A tap on the fuel gauge revealed that the Hanomag was running low on petrol. The big garage on Muller-Strasse was almost on his way to Kuzorra's, and had a public telephone he could use to call the studio.
The garage was open, but would only sell him five litres of petrol. There was a shortage, the manager told him, with the air of someone explaining something for the umpteenth time. The military had first claim on what there was, and everyone was running short. All over Berlin regular customers were getting ten litres, strangers five. He should go to his local garage, and not waste too much time about it - the autobahn service stations had already run dry.
Russell took his five litres and pulled over beside the telephone to call the studio. The woman who answered seemed only half-there, but managed to repeat Russell's name and message back to him. 'That's for Effi Koenen,' he repeated. 'Oh,' she said, as if it was the first time she'd heard the name.
He drove on to Kuzorra's, wondering whether he'd even reach his local garage with this much petrol in the tank. Maybe the SD had stores set aside for their best agents. He couldn't imagine the Gestapo running dry - cruising up and down streets looking ominous was what made them happy.
Frau Kuzorra's welcome seemed chillier than before, and her husband, en-sconced in his usual chair, could only manage the wryest of smiles. The man looked older, Russell thought, as he refused Frau Kuzorra's half-hearted offer of coffee.
'I won't waste your time,' Kuzorra said once Russell was seated. 'I have to give up this enquiry.'
'Why?' Russell asked simply.
'I will tell you, but I ask you not to repeat any of this. Except to Herr Schade, of course. And please ask him not to repeat it to anyone else.'
'I will.'
Kuzorra leant back in his chair. 'A few days ago I received a visit from an old colleague - a man whom I disliked intensely when we worked out of the same office. He is still on the job, a Kriminalinspektor now. He was always a brown-noser - an old term, and one that gained a double meaning when Hitler's thugs started running things on the streets.'
Frau Kuzorra muttered something under her breath.
'In my own home I will speak the truth,' Kuzorra told her. He turned back to Russell. 'I won't tell you the man's name because it's not relevant. Anyway, he came to see me last Sunday - he was waiting outside when we returned from church. He told me there had been complaints from railway staff at Silesian Station - and from some of the stall-owners - that I had been harassing them. He wanted to know why I was trying to cause trouble over some miserable Jewish girl. Her disappearance - if she really had disappeared - was police business, and I should keep out of it. I argued with him, said the police had done nothing. He just smiled and said they had done everything that needed doing, and that there was no need for a retired private detective to waste his time on such a business. I said it was my time to waste, and my living to earn. He said not anymore, that my license to operate as a private detective had been withdrawn. I tell you, the bastard was really enjoying himself. And there was more. If I carried on with the investigation I would be putting our pensions at risk. Our pensions, you understand. Not just my police pension, but both our pensions from the state. We could not live without them. So...' He spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. 'I am sorry.'
'So am I,' Russell said. He was wondering whether Thomas had also been leaned on. 'The last message you left for me - you said Miriam had been seen with a man.'
'I have been told to tell you I discovered nothing,' Kuzorra said, 'so please, be careful how you use what I tell you. The witness...it wouldn't help you to know who he is. This witness thought he recognized Miriam from the picture you gave me.' He took it out of his wallet and gave it back to Russell. 'He wasn't absolutely sure, but he thought it was her. And he saw her talking to a man. A man he has seen before at Silesian Station. He's about fifty, average height, a little overweight perhaps. He has closely-cropped grey hair, a little like mine, the man said.' The detective ran a hand across his grey stubble. 'And eyebrows which are darker than his hair. He was wearing some sort of dark blue uniform - my witness thought it might be a chauffeur's.