'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.'
'Okay.'
'Whatever they're called, they killed my parents. Or one of them did, and I've joined the organisation with the secret intention of tracking him down. I'm also an amazing violinist, by the way, and as the film begins I'm in Riga to give a recital for the International Women's League. I'm in mid-performance when some old man in the audience starts shouting that the League is financed by Jewish interests in Moscow. His proof is that a top GPU agent named Bokscha is also in Riga. Get it? Jews and Bolsheviks hand in glove!
'It gets less subtle as it goes on,' she went on. 'Needless to say, Bokscha is the man who killed my parents. He falls in love with me of course, and we roam around Europe with him organising sabotage and murders on the Kremlin's behalf and me waiting for the perfect moment to betray him. All his meetings are in the same dark cellar, which has portraits of Lenin and Stalin on the walls. The people he's plotting with are almost always Jews, and they laugh a lot together about how stupid and vulnerable everyone else is. Do you detect a theme here? Oh, and there's a sub-plot about this Latvian couple whom I befriend. They're forced to spy for the Soviets, and eventually end up imprisoned in Rotterdam, purely, as far as I can see, so that they can be set free by our invading army. By this time Bokscha and I are both dead. First I tell Moscow that he's a traitor and get him shot, and then I admit to joining the GPU under false pretences and get myself shot. Clever, eh?
'I see what you mean about a lack of subtlety.'
'It's complete nonsense from beginning to end, and I can hardly wait to start shooting.'
'Monday, yes?' Russell asked, dipping a spoon into the casserole.
'Yes.'
'Any location stuff?'
'All indoors for the first few weeks. Mostly the cellar, in fact.'
Russell laughed. 'This is ready,' he said, taking the casserole off the stove.
They were still eating when the air raid warning sounded, and Effi insisted on clearing her plate before they walked to the local shelter. This was a very different type of district to the one where the Blumenthals lived, and the local warden was as obsequious as theirs had been officious. Most of the adults had pained expressions on their faces, as if they found it hard to believe that such inconvenience was really necessary. Their children were better behaved than their Wedding counterparts, but seemed to laugh a lot less. It was after midnight before the all-clear sounded, freeing them all to grumble their way back up to the street. On Thursday morning, Russell's tram downtown passed evidence of the previous night's raid, the wreck of a three-storey building like a broken tooth in an otherwise healthy row, roofless and gutted, surrounded by shards of broken glass. A few wisps of smoke were still rising from the ruin, and a sizable crowd was gathered outside, watching as the civil engineers made the neighbouring buildings safe. It was a sign of how little impact the RAF campaign was having, Russell thought, that one bombed house could still attract so much interest.
He had not been inside the American Consulate for several months, and was struck by how empty it seemed. Now that voluntary emigration was forbidden, the long Jewish queues had disappeared, and with Germany and the US fighting an undeclared war in the Atlantic the Consulate's diplomatic business had shrunk to almost nothing. Many diplomats had presumably been sent home.
Russell could smell the coffee as he waited for Joseph Kenyon, but that was the closest he got. The young bespectacled diplomat came down the stairs in his overcoat, and ushered his visitor back out onto the street. 'We keep finding new microphones,' he explained, 'so these days we just use the building for keeping warm. All our business is done outdoors.'
They walked up to the Spree, which at least made a change from the
Tiergarten. The sun was out, but the brisk wind sweeping in from the east more than cancelled it out, and both men were soon rubbing their gloved hands and hugging themselves to retain a little warmth. They followed the river to the left, walking past the Reichstag and around the long bend opposite Lehrter Station. Kenyon seemed hesitant about raising whatever it was he had in mind, so Russell asked him if he had any inside dope about the negotiations with Japan.
'Off the record?'
Russell nodded.
'There are no real negotiations. Tokyo wants more than Washington can give, and vice versa. Sooner or later the balloon will go up, probably sooner. I don't know this for certain, but I imagine Washington is playing for time, because with each month that goes by our re-armament programme makes us a little stronger and the economic embargo makes them a little weaker. They know this as well as we do, of course, and I don't think they'll wait for long. I expect an attack before Christmas.'
'But on whom?'
'That's the big question. If oil's as big a problem for them as we think it is, they have to attack the Dutch East Indies – it's the only source within reach. And if they attack the Dutch they're bound to attack the British – you can't expect to take Sumatra without taking Singapore first. Which raises the big question – could they afford to leave us alone in the Philippines, knowing that we could cut their new oil lifeline any time we chose? I don't think so. They'll have to go for us as well.'