Kuzorra paused with his hand on the doorknob. 'It beats chasing blackout robbers. And the expression on Goebbels' face when the penny finally drops should be something to behold.' An hour or so later, Russell walked down to Zoo Station. Searching through the Volkischer Beobachter over the usual unsatisfactory breakfast, he found no mention of Sullivan's unfortunate demise. Someone had given Goebbels pause for thought, and sufficient reason for delaying his planned publicity blitz around the manhunt for Sullivan's killer. By tomorrow, Russell guessed, it would all be over. Sullivan's death would be fictionalised in a suitably edifying light, his killers on to their next mission of mercy. Kuzorra would be off the hook, and so would he.
It was a two-kilometre walk down the Landwehrkanal to the Abwehr headquarters. Yesterday's clear skies had persisted, and the low sun was frequently in his eyes as he walked south-eastwards along the towpath. It was suitably cold for December the first, and hopefully colder outside Moscow. The coal traffic seemed busier than ever, barge after laden barge puttering down the ice-edged canal towards the factories and generating stations in the north-western outskirts. The men at their helms all looked like the Ancient Mariner, dragged out of retirement in the Reich's hour of need.
With the Abwehr building looming in the distance, Russell used the Graf Spee Bridge to switch banks. As he approached the entrance on Tirpitz Ufer, he noticed the usual Gestapo Mercedes 260 parked on the opposite quay. In pre-war days foreign agents of all descriptions had lurked in this vicinity, hopeful of overhearing some useful tidbit of military information, but the real war had put paid to such boyish games, and Russell could only assume that the men in the car were Germans spying on their own countrymen.
At reception he was told to report to Colonel Piekenbrock, and for once the Section 1 chief didn't keep Russell waiting outside. Piekenbrock invited him in, sat him down and even suggested a cup of coffee. Russell accepted the latter, more in hope than expectation, and was only mildly disappointed when a pretty brunette arrived with the usual slop.
Piekenbrock gulped his down with almost inhuman gusto. 'This is Grashof,' he said, handing across a photograph. 'That was taken quite recently.'
Russell studied the picture. A tall-looking man with a gaunt face and short dark hair was standing on Prague's famous Charles Bridge, the Little Quarter and Castle rising behind him. Grashof was wearing glasses, and his lips were slightly curled in the beginnings of a smile. This is a clever man, Russell thought, and wondered what it was in the photograph that led him to that conclusion.
He handed it back.
'Your meeting will be at the Sramota Cafe. It's on the river, close to the Smetana Bridge. Grashof will be sitting on the terrace, the very last table along from the entrance. You should arrive at exactly two o'clock, with the latest issue of Signal.'
'What if it's raining? Or snowing even?'
'It's a glassed-in terrace.'
'What if someone beats us to that table?'
'They won't. This is all taken care of; you just have to be there. Greet Grashof like he was an old friend, order a coffee, sit and chat for ten, fifteen minutes. Before you arrive, you will have hidden this letter -' Piekenbrock passed a wax-sealed and unaddressed envelope across the desk '- in your magazine. Grashof will have his own copy, and it should not prove difficult to switch them over.'
'Elementary,' Russell murmured. The Admiral's penchant for the old traditions had scuppered his plan to steam the missive open. 'Will there be anything in his copy?'
'No.'
Russell put the envelope in his inside jacket pocket. 'Is that it?'
'You will need your train tickets and visa,' Piekenbrock said, handing over another envelope. 'You will find some local currency for your expenses. More than enough, I'm sure. Do you have any questions?'
He had several, but none that Piekenbrock could or would answer. He shook his head.
'Then have a good journey.'
Russell resumed his walk along the Landwehrkanal for another few hundred metres, before climbing the steps at the Potsdamer Strasse Bridge and strolling northward at a leisurely pace towards Leipziger Platz and the Press Club. He felt unreasonably cheerful, and could only assume it was the play of sunlight working its usual magic.
A couple of dozing Italians and one self-important Romanian were the press club's only customers, and Russell had the English-language newspapers all to himself. Not that they offered any real enlightenment. Some thought the battles in Russia were going well for the Germans, with the battles in North Africa going better for the British; while others thought the opposite on both counts.
He walked up Wilhelmstrasse to the Foreign Ministry. Braun von Stumm was again presiding, a sure sign that the regime was short of good news. The subject of Rostov's fall – and the unknown extent of the subsequent German retreat – was evaded with all the usual finesse: von Stumm simply refused to talk about it. The attack on Moscow was still said to be going well, but there were no new towns in the 'captured' column – German troops were simply 'closer to the capital'. Leafing back through his notebook, Russell found more of the same. The previous day they had 'taken more ground', the day before that 'further progress had been made'. The fall of Istra provided the last specific tidemark, and that had been five days ago. Were they hoarding news of advances for maximum later effect, or had they really run out of steam? His mind said the latter, his heart feared the former.
He headed homeward, stopping off at the Press Club to file a near-perfect copy of the Germans' own official release. There were no caveats he could add which the censors would pass, and the gaps in the German version hardly seemed to need pointing out.
Back at the flat, he packed an overnight bag. A pair of trousers had gone missing – Effi must have taken a sack of washing to the laundry without telling him, and then forgotten to collect it. He rescued the half-read Tristram Shandy from under the bed and eventually dug up the street map of Prague he had bought in 1939. The flat felt cold and empty, and he hung on later than he should, hoping that Effi would arrive home. She didn't, and the slowness of the tram to Anhalter Station would have caused him to him miss his train, had it not been delayed by an hour. Russell asked a convenient Reichsbahn employee whether dinner on the train would be better than dinner in the Anhalter buffet, and was told to draw his own conclusions from the prominent sign regretting the lack of a dining car. Others had obviously bothered to read it, and the station buffet was packed. Ordering took forever, leaving the time for eating seriously curtailed. Forced to run for the train, Russell quickly realised that every seat was taken, and that even space in the corridors was at a premium. He finally squeezed himself into a small corner beside a draughty corridor connection, feeling slightly nauseous and very out of breath.
It was not a very auspicious beginning. But at least he wasn't carrying anything for the comrades on this trip. Canaris might have occasional problems remembering who his country was fighting, but the Abwehr was still one of the most powerful organisations in Germany, and working for it should be relatively risk-free. He would, he admitted, be happier if he knew what was in the letter, but removing and invisibly replacing the Admiral's seal was beyond him. And whatever it said, it wouldn't have anything to do with him. Or so he assumed – for all he knew the message concealed within was a simple 'Shoot the messenger'. Unlikely, though. It would have been easier to shoot him in Berlin.
The blackout screens on the windows were firmly fixed in place, and Russell was suddenly reminded of a long coffin, rumbling south towards a distant funeral. The Petschek Palace
Soon after eleven the train reached Dresden, where most of the passengers got off, and Russell was finally able to stretch his limbs on a very cold platform. Several carriages were detached from the rear of the train and, much to his astonishment, replaced by a Czech dining car. There were no meals on offer, but the range of alcoholic drinks seemed wider than that found in Berlin's better hotels. Russell treated himself to three glasses of slivovitz, and sat for the better part of an hour enjoying the views of moonlit mountains in the unscreened windows.
Finding a line of unoccupied seats to lie down on proved surprisingly easy, and he dozed off for a couple of hours. Woken at the Sudeten junction of Usti by the slamming of doors, he noticed that some but not all of the station signs bore the new German name of Aussig. A trip to the waterless toilet indicated that the train was now virtually empty – visas for Heydrich's Protectorate were either hard to come by or in low demand. He was almost asleep again when the train reached the essentially meaningless border, and officialdom required a long and overly suspicious perusal of his papers.
The next few hours were spent in that unsatisfying netherworld between sleep and wakefulness, and as light began filtering around the blackout screens he made his way back to the dining car, where the fields of the Protectorate were now visible. The counter was closed, but Russell could smell the coffee, and a short burst of abject begging persuaded the old Czech in charge to supply him with a cup. It was the best he had drunk for several months, and would prove the undisputed highlight of his trip to Prague.
The train pulled into Masaryk Station – now renamed Hiberner Station – almost two hours late. Russell was supposed to be returning that evening on the same train, but had decided to take a hotel room in any case – after his adventures in Prague two years earlier he had no desire to spend his day wandering the streets, where someone might recognise him. The same risk applied to the Europa Hotel, but any of the other establishments on the long and inappropriately-named Wenceslas Square should prove safe enough. He was just wondering what the new German name might be when he saw the two leather coats waiting at the ticket barrier.
He told himself they were waiting for someone else, but didn't really believe it.
'Herr Russell,' the shorter of the two stated.
There seemed no point in denying it. 'That's me.'
'Come this way please.'
Russell followed, conscious of the other man walking behind him, and of the scrutiny of their Czech audience. He felt an absurd inclination to start goose-stepping, but managed to restrain himself.
They walked through one office and into another. The latter was obviously home to the local transport police, but none were there. Perched on the edge of one desk, arms folded across his stomach, was Obersturmbannfuhrer Giminich of the Sicherheitsdienst. On the edge of the other, in probably unconscious imitation of his superior, was a younger man. He was also wearing a smart dark suit, but the classy effect was spoiled by his gingery blond hair, which several litres of grease had failed to flatten.
'Good morning, Herr Russell,' Giminich said. 'Welcome to the Protectorate.'
'Good morning,' Russell replied.
'Please give me the letter which Admiral Canaris entrusted you with.'
Russell took the envelope from his inside jacket pocket and handed it over.
Giminich examined the Admiral's seal with interest. 'You have no idea of the contents?'
'None whatsoever. As you can see, the seal is unbroken.'
Giminich broke it, and removed what looked like a single sheet half-covered in type. After reading it through he passed the letter to his junior.
'What does it say?' Russell asked, intent on emphasising his ignorance of the contents.
Giminich ignored the question. 'This is Untersturmfuhrer Schulenburg,' he told Russell. 'You will be spending the morning with him.'
'Why?'
'Ah. Perhaps we should begin at the beginning. Please, take a seat,' he added, indicating one of the upright chairs. 'Your meeting with Johann Grashof is at the Sramota Cafe, at two o'clock, the furthest table from the entrance. Yes?'
'You are well informed,' Russell said dryly.
'Much better than yourself, I imagine. What do you know about Johann Grashof?'
'That he's an officer in the Abwehr. Apart from that, absolutely nothing.'