It was full of men sawing at rashers of bacon and dribbling egg down their chins. Fried grease in its gaseous, liquid, and solid forms filled the air, lay congealing on the tables and covered the walls. England, Russell thought. He had a sudden memory of a similar cafe just outside Victoria Station, where hed eaten his last meal before service in France. Twenty-one years ago.
Russell bought two large cups of tea and two aptly named rock cakes. Paul nibbled at the edges of his, rightfully fearing for his teeth, but liked the tea once hed added four teaspoons of sugar. The cake is terrible, he told his father in German, causing several sets of less-than-friendly eyes to swivel their way.
Do you know anything about football? Russell asked the nearest man in English.
Maybe.
Are there any games on in London tomorrow?
Arsenal are playing Chelsea, another man volunteered.
At Highbury?
Of course.
And the games still kick off at three? Ive been working abroad for a while, he added in explanation.
So we see, the first man said with a leer. Yeah, they still kick off at three.
Thanks. Would you like to see a game tomorrow? he asked Paul. Arsenal are playing Chelsea.
His sons eyes lit up. Arsenal are the best!
They finished their teas, abandoned the half-excavated rock cakes, and picked their way through the vegetable market, taking particular care outside the peel-strewn frontage of a banana wholesaler. It was getting dark now, and Russell wasnt sure where he was. Looking for a street sign they found one for Bow Street.
Bow Street, Paul echoed. This is where Chief Inspector Teal brings the men hes arrested.
Away to their left a blue light was shining. They walked up the street and stood across from the forbidding-looking police station, half-expecting the fictional inspector to emerge through the double doors, busily chewing on a wad of Wrigleys as he adjusted his bowler hat.
Back on the Strand they found the Stanley Gibbons stamp shop was still open, and Paul spent a happy twenty minutes deciding which packets of cheap assorted stamps he most wanted. Russell looked in the catalogue for the ones Wiesner had given him in payment and was surprised to find how valuable they were. He wondered how many pounds-worth were nestling behind the stickers in their safety deposit box.
Zarah was more talkative at dinner than he ever remembered, and seemed newly determined to encourage the idea of his marrying her sister. She and Lothar accompanied them on their after-dinner walk this time, and Lothar, like Paul, seemed enthralled by the huge glittering river and its never-ending procession of barges and other boats. Russell and Zarah agreed upon their plans for Saturday: shopping in the morning, football for him and Paul in the afternoon, dinner with Jenss embassy friend for her and Lothar in the evening. When they said goodnight outside her and Lothars room, she thanked him warmly for his help. Theyd almost become friends, Russell thought. Effi would be amazed.
Paul was yawning, but Russell felt far too restless for sleep. Bedtime for you, he told his son. Im going back downstairs for a drink. I wont be long.
Youre just going downstairs?
Yes. No stamp-smuggling tonight. Just a drink.
Paul grinned. All right.
For a Friday night, the cocktail lounge seemed unusually empty. Russell bought a pint of bitter, parked himself on a stool at the end of the bar, and played with a beer mat. The taste of the English beer made him feel nostalgic. He had thought about taking Paul out to Guildford, to show him the house where hed spent most of his own boyhood, but there wouldn't be time. The next trip perhaps, if there was one.
He pictured the house, the large garden, the steeply sloping street hed walked to school each day. He couldn't say hed had a happy childhood, but it hadn't been particularly unhappy either. He hadn't appreciated it at the time, but his mother had never really settled in England, despite almost thirty years of trying. His fathers inability or unwillingness to recognize that fact had undermined everything else. There had been a lot of silence in that house.
He should write to her, he thought. A quick trip to reception provided him with a few sheets of beautifully embossed Savoy writing paper, and he ordered another pint. But after telling her where he was and why, and sketching out the plot of Effis new film, he could think of nothing else to say. She hadn't seen Paul since he was four, and it would take a book to explain him and their relationship.
He comforted himself with the knowledge that her letters to him were equally inadequate. On those rare occasions when, as adults, theyd been together, they had both enjoyed the experiencehe was sure of thatbut even then theyd hardly said anything to each other. His mother wasnt much of a talker or a thinker, which was why she had never liked Ilse. She and Effi, on the other hand, would probably get on like a house on fire. They were doers.
A shadow crossed the paper as a man slid onto the stool next to his. He had short, dark, brilliantined hair, a sharpish face with a small moustache, and skin that looked unusually pink. He looked about twenty, but was probably older.
John Russell? he asked.
Oh God, Russell thought. Here we go again. I think youre mistaking me for someone else, he said. Im Douglas Fairbanks Jr.
Very good, the man said admiringly. Can I get you another drink?
No thanks.
Well, I think Ill have one, he said, raising a finger to the distant barman.
Are you old enough? Russell asked.
His new companion looked hurt. Look, theres no need to be offensive. Im just. . . . He paused to order a Manhattan. Look, I think you know Trelawney-Smythe in Berlin.
Weve met.
Well, he passed your name on to us, and. . . .
Who might you be?
War Office. A department of the War Office. My names Simpson. Arnold Simpson.
Right, Russell said.
Simpson took an appreciative sip of his Manhattan. We checked up on youwe have to do that, you understandand it looks as if Trelawney-Smythe was right. You are a perfect fit. You speak German like a native, you have family and friends there, you even have Nazi connections. Youre ideally placed to work for us.
Russell smiled. You may be right about means and opportunity, but wheres the motive. Why would I want to work for you?
Simpson looked taken aback. How about patriotism? he asked.
Im as patriotic as the next businessman, Russell said wryly.
Ah. Very good. But seriously.
I was being serious.
Simpson took a larger sip of the Manhattan. Mr. Russell, we know your political history. We know youve been badgering the Berlin Embassy about a Jewish family. Whatever you write for the Soviets, we know you dont like the Nazis. And theres a war coming, for Gods sake. Dont you want to do your bit to defeat them?
Mr. Simpson, cant you people take no for an answer?
Now the young man looked affronted. Of course, he said. But. . . .
Goodnight, Mr. Simpson.
THEY SPENT THE FIRST PART of Saturday morning following Zarah in and out of clothes stores on Bond Street, the second scouring Hamleys for the stimulating toys which Dr. McAllister had recommended. They found nothing which Zarah considered suitable in either. German toys are much better, she announced with a satisfied air on the Regents Street pavement, and Paul agreed with her. There had been no dead soldiers, and those still breathing had been markedly inferior to the ones back home.
They parted at midday, Russell and Paul wending their way through the streets beyond Oxford Street to the trolleybus terminus at Howland Street. The 627 took them up the Hampstead, Camden, and Seven Sisters Roads to Finsbury Park, where the pubs were already overflowing with men en route to the match. It was a cold afternoon, the would-be spectators exhaling clouds of breath and clapping their gloved hands together as they threaded their way down the back streets to the field. A rosette seller offered red and white for Arsenal, blue and white for Chelsea, and Paul wanted both. Covering the field, eh? the man asked with a grin. He had a red and white scarf wrapped around his head, and a flat cap rammed on top of it.