I thought Id take it with me in the suitcase. Camouflage. And one of your publicity shots would be good.
She went and got one, a head and shoulders shot taken a couple of years earlier.
Your face would distract anyone, he said.
IT WAS STILL DARK when Russell woke and he lay there for a while, listening to Effis breathing and enjoying the warmth of her body. At 7:30 he forced himself out of bed, washed and dressed in the bathroom, and finally woke her to say goodbye as she had insisted he must. She enfolded him in a sleepy embrace, then swung her legs out of bed and arched her back in a huge stretch. As he descended the stairs she stood in her nightdress by the half-open door, blowing him a farewell kiss.
Berlin was already waking to another working week. The Avus Speedway was busy, but only in the other direction, and he reached Potsdam well before 9:00. After parking the Hanomag near the main post office in Wilhelmplatz, he lingered over breakfast in the coffee shop next door. The newspapers, as expected, were reveling in the misery of the Czechs.
At ten past 9:00 he presented himself at the poste restante desk, and signed for the familiar envelope. Walking back to the Hanomag, he felt like a man whod just been handed a ticking bomb. Not to worry, he thoughthed soon have two.
The drive back was slower, and it was past 10:00 when he turned off the Kudamm and saw the glass roof of Zoo Station framed by the buildings on either side of Joachimsthaler Strasse. He parked the Hanomag near the Tiergarten gate which he and Gert had used, inserted the folded envelope in his inside coat pocket, picked up the suitcase, and walked back to the nearest station entrance.
There was a line for the left luggage, but no sign of the police, or of anyone loitering suspiciously. When his turn came Russell handed over his ticket, watched the clerk disappear, and waited for a thousand sirens to go off. A child in the queue behind him suddenly screeched, making him jump. A train rumbled overhead, but the roof didn't fall. The clerk returned with the suitcase, took Russells money, and handed it over.
Next stop was the mens toilet. The cubicles were small, and entering one with two suitcases required a level of planning which was almost beyond him. He clattered his way in, locked the door behind him, and sat on the seat for a few moments to recover what fragments of equanimity he still retained. The walls didn't reach to the ceiling, but the adjoining cubicles were both empty, at least for the moment.
He stood up, put the smaller suitcase on the toilet seat, and opened it up. After unclicking the false bottom, he removed the three maps he had copied, replaced them with McKinleys papers, and closed the bottom. A brief struggle then ensued, as he fought to open the other suitcase in what little remaining space the cubicle had to offer. Half its contents ended up on the floor, but all were eventually transferred to the smaller suitcase, which was now satisfyingly full. After checking that the three maps were in his coat pocket he closed both suitcases, pulled the chain, and fought his way out of the cubicle.
The man at the left luggage looked surprised to see him again, but accepted the empty suitcase without comment, and handed him a new ticket. On the platform above he waited for a westbound Stadtbahn, thinking that this was where McKinley had died and where the Wiesners had left Hitler behind. On the far platform a man was angrily shaking the toasted almond machine, just as another man had been doing at Friedrichstrasse on the morning he returned from Danzig.
His train pulled in and out again, skirting the northern edge of the Tiergarten, crossing and re-crossing the Spree on its three-stop journey to Friedrichstrasse. Russell went out through the less-frequented car park entrance and walked briskly toward the embassy. His steps on the pavements sound unusually loud, and every car that kept on going seemed like a gift from God. Halfway across the Unter den Linden he decided that if anyone challenged him now, he would sprint through the embassy doors and never come out again.
But no one did. As before, he asked the receptionist for Unsworth and Unsworth for Trelawney-Smythe. The latter looked at the three maps as if he couldn't believe his luck. Where did you get them? he demanded.
A comrade in Kiel, was all Russell would tell him. A one-off, he added. There wont be any more.
But how do I know these are genuine?
I guess you dont. But they are. And your people must have ways of confirming at least some of it.
Perhaps.
Russell took a meaningful look at his watch. I have a train to catch.
And where are you off to this time? Trelawney-Smythe asked, sounding almost friendly.
Prague.
Ah, joining Adolfs reception committee.
I hope not.
Dropping in on Unsworth to say goodbye, he was told much the same. And the British guarantee of Czechoslovakia? Russell asked sarcastically.
Without Slovakia there is no Czechoslovakia, Unsworth said. And therefore no guarantee.
Neat, Russell said.
Very, Unsworth agreed.
Out on the street, Russell hailed a passing taxi. Anhalter Bahnhof, he told the driver. It seemed as if he and Hitler were heading in the same direction.
THE TRAIN TO PRAGUE left at noon, and was scheduled to arrive in the Czech capital shortly before 7:00. Russell boarded it with a sinking sensation in his stomach, and an alcohol-rich lunch in the dining car did nothing to improve matters.
The lunchtime editions carried the news that the Slovak premier Monsignor Tiso had been invited to Berlin. He had, over the past couple of days, seemed surprisingly reluctant to tip over the Czech apple-cart, and the Fuhrer was doubtless anxious to offer him some kindly advice. Their trains would cross at some point, Russell guessed. He would watch the passing windows for a prelate with a death wish.
Speaking of which. . . . he reminded himself that the Wiesners were in London, that foreigners were hardly ever searched, that the next life was bound to be better than this one. He fought off a momentary impulse to quit the train at Dresden, the only stop before the frontier. If he did, the Soviets would probably come looking for him with murder in mind. And he could hardly have blamed thema deal was a deal.
As the train wound its way up the upper Elbe valley toward the frontier he compiled a compendium of possible explanations for the material in his false-bottomed suitcase that even a reefer-smoking Neville Chamberlain would have found impossible to believe. As Gert had said, the important thing was not to be searched.
As the train slowed for the border inspection his heart speeded up. They came to a halt in a wide ravine, shared by double tracks and the loud, foaming river. The snow-speckled walls of the valley rose steeply on either side, and the long, low building which housed the emigration and customs services was partly suspended over the rushing waters. The river ruled out escape in one direction, and the tall electrified fence beyond the tracks precluded any hope of flight in the other. Like rats in a maze, Russell thoughtonly one way to go.
The loudspeakers suspended from the searchlight pylons crackled into life. All passengers were requested to leave the train and form a line on the narrow strip of tarmac alongside the tracks.
There were about 200 people in the queue, Russell reckoned, and they were filing into the building at a gratifying rate. Just a quick look at documents, he thought, and on we go. Beside him the train lurched forward, ready to pick up its passengers on the other side. Without its comforting presence Russell felt suddenly vulnerable.
Finally, he could see through the doorway. Uniformed officers sat behind two desks, while others hovered in the background, sizing up potential prey. Further on, two pairs of officers stood behind tables, searching through bags and suitcases. The first hurdle presented itself. The officer looked at his passport, and then at his face. Your name? he asked, and for a split second Russells mind was a terrifying blank.