'No one finds a cloud in a silver lining better than you do,' Russell agreed.
They were halfway through dessert - an applecake seriously lacking in apple - when the waiter came round warning the diners that the broadcast was about to begin. He had hardly disappeared when inspirational music began pouring from the speakers.
'Ribbentrop's speech,' Russell remembered. 'Into every life...'
They were onto their ersatz coffees by the time the Foreign Minister began his peroration. Continuing their own conversation proved impossible. 'It's impossible to tune him out,' Thomas said. 'I've actually been thinking about him lately...'
'Why, for God's sake?'
'I've come to see him as the essential Nazi. The absolute distillation of Naziness. And that's why you can't get away from his voice - it's as if the whole system is doing the talking.'
'I would have thought the Fuhrer would take the starring role.'
'He would, he would. No, Ribbentrop isn't a star, much though he'd like to be. He's the Nazi everyman. He loves himself to death, he's not very clever but he thinks he is, he prides himself on his logic and reeks of prejudice, and above all he's crushingly boring.'
'After the war you should write his biography.'
Thomas's laugh was cut short by something he saw over Russell's shoulder. 'Behave,' he whispered, and rose from his chair, hand outstretched. Russell turned to see a tall, greying man with a chiselled face in the uniform of an SS Gruppenfuhrer.
Thomas introduced them, and invited the Gruppenfuhrer to share their table. Much to Russell's relief, the man was with his own party. Russell listened as the other two made arrangements for an afternoon's sailing on the Havel, Ribbentrop's voice droning away behind them.
'It was good to meet you, Herr Russell,' the Gruppenfuhrer said, shaking his hand again. 'You are not a sailor like your brother-in-law?'
'No, but I can see the attraction.'
'You must join us one weekend. Perhaps in the spring when the weather is kinder.'
'Perhaps,' Russell agreed with a smile. He watched the man walk back to his table, where two other black-uniformed officers were waiting for him. 'What powerful friends you have,' he murmured.
'I'll probably be needing them,' Thomas replied. 'Believe it or not, once you get that man out of his uniform and onto a boat he's a decent enough chap.'
'Some of them are.'
'Not that it matters much,' Thomas said. 'Decent or not, the lever that works is self-interest. And since things started looking iffy in Russia, people like the Gruppenfuhrer have started worrying about the world after the war. They're still not expecting defeat, mind you, but they do sense the possibility, and they're looking for some sort of insurance. Being nice to people like me, who've never had anything to do with the Nazis, is one way they can keep a foot in the other camp. Just in case.'
'And that gives you names to wave at the Gestapo.'
'It does. I don't like most of these people, in or out of uniform, but being nice to them doesn't exactly cost me anything.' He looked at his watch. 'I'd better be getting back. I doubt they'll visit us again this week, but I like to be on hand.'
As they stood on the steps outside prior to parting, Thomas looked up at the clear blue sky. 'The English will be back tonight,' he predicted. 'They won't miss the chance of embarrassing Ribbentrop while his guests are in town.'
Thomas headed for the U-Bahn at Friedrichstrasse Station, while Russell went towards Unter de Linden and the Adlon. Ribbentrop's voice rose and fell with each loudspeaker he passed, like ripples of an intermittent headache. Until only a year or so ago people had gathered beside speakers at moments like these, but nowadays they just hurried by, as if the voice was driving them onwards. In the Adlon bar there was no escape, and people were simply shouting above the speech. Russell talked to a couple of his Swedish colleagues, who confirmed his opinion that no other news would be allowed to challenge the Foreign Minister's speech that day. Since he had the entire text in his pocket - copies had been handed out at the noon press conference - there seemed little point in waiting around. He sat himself down at a vacant table and wrote a simple summary of the speech interspersed with ample quotes. An honest evaluation would not be allowed, but should in any case be superfluous. If Russell's readers on the other side of the Atlantic were dim enough to take Ribbentrop's fantasies seriously then he could only wish them a speedy recovery.
His job as a Berlin correspondent was over, he decided. Some time in the next few days he should take the trouble to resign.
Other work beckoned. He stopped off at the Abwehr headquarters on his way home, and was taken straight to Canaris's office. The Admiral seemed slightly surprised that he was willing to visit Prague, a reaction which set faint alarm bells ringing in his mind. Russell told himself it was only Canaris's diffident manner, and chose to ignore them. The arrangements for his meeting with Johann Grashof had still not been finalised, and he was told to see Piekenbrock on Monday morning, prior to catching the overnight train. The promise of air travel was unfortunately rescinded - the Luftwaffe had nothing to spare.
Arriving home before dark, he found Effi memorising her GPU lines, and an unusually aromatic casserole simmering on the stove. 'It's nearly the end of the month, so I went mad with our ration coupons,' she explained. And there was a message from the American Consulate. 'A man named Kenyon wants to see you tomorrow, at ten if you can make it. He said it was about contingencies,' she added. 'Whatever that means.'
Russell had no idea. He had met Kenyon a couple of times: once at the American Consulate in Prague in the summer of 1939, and again a few months later after the diplomat's transfer to Berlin. As far as Russell knew, the man had nothing to do with American intelligence, although that might have changed. Or perhaps Dallin had asked for Kenyon's help in persuading Russell to contact the Air Ministry official Franz Knieriem. If so, he'd been wasting his time.
They did, however, have excellent coffee at the Consulate. After ringing and leaving a message for Kenyon that he'd see him the following morning, Russell decided to phone his son. Paul seemed happy to talk for a change, albeit mostly about his growing proficiency with guns. That Saturday, it turned out, he was taking part in a Hitlerjugend shooting tournament, and wouldn't be able to see his father. Russell was surprised and upset by the momentary sense of relief this news caused, and almost welcomed the more lasting feelings of guilt which swiftly followed.
Effi, he decided, had heard enough of his agonising in recent days. 'Are you still feeling okay about that script?' he asked.
'It's wonderful,' she said. 'It's a comedy, and either no one's noticed or no one dares to say so. My only worry is that fifty years from now people will think I was taking it seriously. I was thinking - you know those people who dig deep holes in the ground and bury a box of typical things with the date...'
'Time capsules.'
'That's it. Well, I thought I could bury this script with my comments on it.'
'Why not? Let's just hope there are no Nazis around in fifty years to dig it up, particularly if we're still here and the film's become a classic.' She stuck her tongue out at him.
'I don't think you ever told me the storyline.'
'I did, but you were half asleep at the time.'
'Tell me again.'
'All right. I am Olga...'
'A Russian.'
'A White Russian. I think they must be further up the race table. Anyway, my parents were killed by the GPU...'
'Which has been the NKVD for almost ten years.'
'That sounds like the sort of detail the writers would have missed. But stop interrupting.'