Russell was astonished. How recent is this information?
It isnt. The dossier has nothing later than 1919, so she probably gave up politics when she got married. But that wont help her. An eights an eightthats what their man told me. . . .
Trelawney-Smythe?
Youve met him. No exceptions, he said.
Russell didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I dont suppose it matters, he said, before explaining about Albert.
Half an hour later he was back in Friedrichshain. This time Frau Wiesner opened the door, and managed a slight smile as she let him in. After brushing aside his condolences, she sat him down and made them both coffee. He was a wonderful man, she said. And nothing can take that away from him, or from me.
He gave her the British entry visas for the three children, and explained why she was being refused.
She smiled sadly at that. I thought that must be the reason, she said, but it doesnt matter now. Take this back, she added, handing over Alberts visa. Someone else can take his place.
He also gave her the safety deposit box key, and a piece of paper containing two names and addresses. This is the bank where the box is, and this is my agent in London, Solly Bernstein. Get the girls to memorize it all, and then burn it, he said. And I think it would probably be safer for you to keep the key yourself. Solly has another one, and they can use that when they get to London.
She stared at the writing, as if it were in a foreign language.
Have you seen Albert? he asked.
She shook her head. But hes all right.
AFTER LEAVING EFFI AT THE STUDIO early the next morning, he took the car back to her street and walked to Zoo Station. With an hour to wait for the Warsaw train, he had breakfast in the buffet before climbing up to the eastbound platforms. It was the first time, he realized, that hed been up there since McKinleys death. He had no idea where the American had gone under his train, and a morbid search for telltale signs came up empty. If there was one thing at which the Germans were good, it was cleaning up after themselves.
He put five pfennigs in a toasted almond machine, and walked down the platform eating from his cupped hand. It was a misty morning, the trees in the Tiergarten fading by stages into nothing. Some geese flew across the glass dome of the station, squawking noisily, heading God-knew-where for late February. There were few finer sights, Russell thought, as their V-formation curled and furled like a banner in the wind. He remembered the seagulls at the Bismarck launching, and laughed out loud.
The Warsaw train arrived, empty save for the few who had boarded at Charlottenburg. Russell found his seat by the time it reached Friedrichstrasse, and dropped off to sleep as the last of the southeastern suburbs slid past his window. Dimly aware of the stop at Frankfurt-am-Oder, he was roused by officialdom for the customs stops on either side of the Polish border, and spent the rest of the journey staring out of the restaurant car window. A wintry sun had finally burned off the mists, and the rye and potato fields of Prussias lost province stretched away into the distance, interrupted only by the occasional dirt-track or farm, the odd meandering stream.
The train rolled into Posenor Pozna?, as the plethora of signs proclaimeda few minutes early. Russell took a taxi from the forecourt to the Bazar Hotel, where hed booked a room. Just the one night? the receptionist asked incredulously, as if the charms of Posen required weeks to appreciate. Just the one, Russell agreed, and was shown rather begrudgingly to an adequate first-floor room. There were only a few hours of light remaining, so he went straight back out again, pausing only to examine the display in the lobby, which documented the hotels pre-war role as a hotbed of Polish nationalism.
The town, though pleasant enough, suffered in comparison to Cracow. Its churches were not quite as beautiful, its streets not quite as charming, its squarethe Stary Ryneknot quite as grand. As he wandered somewhat aimlessly around the city center he noticed several faded German names on streets and buildings, but the German language was still audible on those same streets, along with Polish and Yiddish. It would take another war, Russell thought, before the winners could take it all.
He dined in the hotel restaurant. The veal escalopeszrazikiswere excellent, the wine surprisingly good, but neither could dispel his deepening depression. It wasnt just McKinley and Wiesner; he had hardly spent two waking hours with Effi since Rugen Island, and his contact with Paul since returning from England had consisted of two friendly, but brief, telephone conversations. And here he was in darkest Posen, waiting for Shchepkin to go through one of his cloak-and-dagger mating rituals.
He went back to his room, hoping against hope for a simple knock on the door. An hour or so later he got one, but it wasnt Shchepkin. A short woman in a long skirt and blouse brushed past him and into the room before he could say anything.
Close the door, Mr. Russell, she said. The language was definitely German, but not a sort that Russell had ever heard before.
The woman had roughly parted blond hair which just failed to reach her shoulders, blue eyes, thin lips, and heavily accented cheekbones. In another life she might have been attractive, Russell thought, but in this one she wasnt really trying. She wore no make-up, and her cream-colored blouse badly needed a wash. He now remembered seeing her on the other side of the dining-room, arguing with one of the waiters.
John Russell, she said, as much to herself as him. I am your new contact.
Contact with whom? he asked. It was hard to imagine her as a Gestapo agent provocateur, but how would he know?
My name is Irina Borskaya, she said patiently. I am here in place of Comrade Shchepkin, she added, glancing around the room and finding a chair.
Has something happened to Comrade Shchepkin? Russell asked.
He has been reassigned. Now, please sit down Mr. Russell. And let us get down to business.
Russell did as he was told, feeling a pang of sorrow for Shchepkin. He could see him on the Cracow citadelYou really should wear a hat! But why assume the worst? Perhaps he really had been reassigned. Stalin couldn't kill everyone whod ever worked for him.
He pulled the latest article out of his briefcase and handed it over. She took a cursory glance at the first page and placed it in her lap. You were asked to talk to armament workers.
He recounted his visit to the Greiner Works, the conversations he had had with Labor Front officials and ordinary workers. She listened intently but took no notes. Is that all? she said when he was finished.
For the moment, Russell said. Where is your accent from? he asked, partly out of curiosity, partly to take her mind off his skimpy research.
I was born in Saratov, she said. In the Volga region. Now, we have another job for you.
Here it comes, Russell thoughtthe point of the whole exercise.
We need you to collect some papers from one of our people and bring them out of Germany.
Not a chance, Russell thought. But refuse nicely, he told himself. What sort of papers? he asked.
That doesnt concern you.
It does if you expect me to bring them out.
They are naval plans, she said grudgingly.
Russell burst out laughing.
What is so amusing? she asked angrily.
He told her about Shchepkins comment in Danzignone of those naval plans Sherlock Holmes is always having to recover.
She wasnt amused. This is not a Sherlock Holmes storythe comrade in Kiel has risked his life to get a copy of the German fleet dispositions for the Baltic.