'I spent a couple of hours at the station on the Thursday evening, but no one of that description met the train which Miriam had taken. So I went back on the Friday. More in hope than expectation, but there he was. At least, I think so. My witness doesn't work on Fridays, so I had no way of confirming that this was the man he saw with Miriam. But this man matched the description, except for the fact that he wasn't wearing a uniform. He did spend a long time on the concourse, scanning all the arriving passengers as if he was looking for someone. He didn't speak to anyone though, and there were several attractive young women whom he might have approached. After the passengers from the 9pm arrival had all gone through, he simply turned on his heel and walked out through the main entrance. He had a car - a big one - parked on Stralauer Platz, and I managed to see the number plate as he drove off.' Kuzorra looked sheepish. 'But by the time I'd dug out a pencil I'd forgotten most of it - my memory isn't what it was, I'm afraid. I am sure the number ended in thirty-three - that's not a number I'm likely to forget.'
The year Hitler got a proper job, Russell thought. The year Kuzorra lost his. 'Why do you think your colleague came to lean on you?' he asked.
'I don't know. Just spite, perhaps. He heard about the investigation - may-be someone at Silesian Station really did complain - and he felt like making a point. Police detectives get very territorial, even the best of them, and this one's scum. Maybe he just couldn't bear the thought that someone was trying to help a Jew. Or he's been holding a grudge against me for heaven knows what reason and finally found a way of getting his own back. Who knows?
'The other possibility is more worrying, at least as far as you're concerned. Let's say that the man I followed to his car really did have something to do with the girl's disappearance. If he noticed my interest... I mean, I have no idea how he could have found out who I am, but if he had friends in high places, or he works for someone who does, then my old Kripo colleague could simply be the messenger. One who enjoyed delivering the message of course, but not the instigator.'
Russell considered this possibility, and didn't like where it took him. 'Thank you,' he said, getting to his feet. 'You've sent your bill to Schade & Co?'
'No. I...'
'Send it. You've done the work.'
'It's here,' Frau Kuzorra said, appearing beside him with a neatly-typed invoice.
'I'll pass it on to Herr Schade,' Russell told her.
Kuzorra was also on his feet, offering his hand. 'If you ever find her, I'd like to know,' he said.
'You will.'
Back in the car Russell took out the Rosenfeld family photograph and looked at Miriam. 'What kind of a mess are you in?' he asked her.
It was a little after three-thirty - time for a short stop-off at the Adlon before picking up Sarah Grostein. None of his friends were in the bar when he arrived, sparking fears that he was missing a major story, but another journalist told him that boredom had driven them upstairs for a poker session.
After some deliberation, Russell phoned Schade & Co from a booth in the lobby. Thomas was out of his office, but his secretary managed to track him down.
Russell asked him if he'd had any visits from the authorities.
'No. Why?'
'Because they resent your interference in what is clearly a police matter. And I must say, I tend to agree with them.'
Thomas was never slow on the uptake. 'I suppose you're right.'
'Well, they've certainly convinced Kuzorra.'
'I take it he's quit.'
'He has. And I think we should give up on it too. We're not even certain the girl ever reached Berlin.'
'That's true. All right. What else can we do, anyway?'
'Good. We're agreed. Now, about that fishing trip we were going to take - we need to talk about it. Can I come over tomorrow lunchtime?'
'Yes. Good. I'll get the maps out.'
'Okay. Bye.' Russell clicked the line dead and burst out laughing.
Sarah Grostein was waiting for his knock. 'I must be back by eight,' she said as they walked to the car. She had changed since the morning, and was now wearing what Russell's English aunt called a sensible skirt. Her hair was tied back, and her face bore no signs of make-up. She was wearing low-heeled shoes, which only seemed to emphasise how tall she was.
'Where are we going?' Russell asked, starting the car.
'Didn't I tell you? Friedrichshain. The park. The cafe near the Konigsthor entrance - do you know it?'
'I once took Albert Wiesner there for a coffee and a fatherly chat.'
She laughed. 'Did he listen?'
'No, not really. He enjoyed his cream cake though.'
'He's in Palestine now.'
'I know. I had a letter from his sisters a few weeks ago. They're doing well.'
'Thanks to you.'
'They earned it.'
'Yes, but...' She fell silent as Russell squeezed the Hanomag between a tram and a parked car, then changed the subject. 'Was it you knocked on my door last night?' she asked.
'Yes, I'm sorry. I misunderstood your message. I hope it didn't...'
'No. I told him someone was knocking on the neighbour's door. '
'He looked out of the window.'
'Yes, he saw your car.' She took out a cigarette.
They were on Invalidenstrasse in the Friday rush-hour, and the miserly number of motorists could hardly believe their luck. Russell wondered what the Wehrmacht was doing with all the cars. There weren't that many generals to drive around.
'I have some news for you,' he said. 'I had to go to the Soviet Embassy last week on other business - journalistic stuff - and I passed your request to the relevant person. They'll check you out with Moscow, of course, and with whatever's left of the KPD leadership. Assuming that all goes okay,' he said, glancing across at her, 'they want me to be your contact here in Berlin.'
She looked surprised at this. 'I didn't realize...' she began.
He thought about explaining his involvement, and decided against. She didn't need to know.
'It sounds like a good idea,' she said at last. 'We are people who could have met and become friends in ordinary circumstances.'
He glanced at her, wondering if that was true. 'You've got my number,' he said. 'And I'll give you my girlfriend's as well. But please, only use hers in an emergency. She's not involved in this.'
They sat in silence for the rest of the journey. Every so often she flicked the ash from her cigarette out of the window, but seemed too lost in thought to actually smoke. The sun appeared behind them as they drove east on Lothringer Strasse, and by the time they reached the entrance to the Friedrichshain park the sky was rapidly turning blue. Freya and Wilhelm Isendahl were waiting by the sculptures of Hansel and Gretel at the foot of the Marchen-Brunnen waterfalls.
They looked like the ideal Nazi couple. Freya's shoulder-length blonde hair framed an open face, very blue eyes and a ready smile. Her clothes and shoes were both attractive and practical, and her skin had the freshness of innocence. Wilhelm was equally good-looking, but several years older. His neatly-parted hair was a darker shade of blonde, and his eyes were green. The long nose and full mouth reminded Russell, somewhat unfortunately, of Reinhard Heydrich. Which raised all sorts of interesting questions.
Both were wearing wedding rings.
They introduced themselves, Sarah and Wilhelm exchanging nods of recognition. Walking on into the park Russell remembered his last visit with Albert Wiesner. The trees had been bare, the grass flecked with snow, and Albert had been silently daring every passer-by to call him a Jew. The cafe owner had risen to the challenge, and initially refused to serve them.
Russell suspected that Wilhelm Isendahl was every bit as angry, but that his defiance took a different form. Wilhelm simply assumed his right to equality, as worthy of his human status as any paid-up member of the master-race. The lack of stereotypical Jewish features helped, but the self-belief came from within. When they reached the cafe, which was now sporting a large 'Jews prohibited' sign, Wilhelm shared a joke with the proprietor and helped Russell carry the coffees back to their table.