Masaryk Station (John Russell) (28 page)

‘But not working this week?’ Russell said, barely managing to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

‘Oh he’s working. He’s on Claptrap and the cleaners for the next few days.’

By the time he met Shchepkin, Russell’s panic had subsided. Before leaving the Föhrenweg building he had heard from Johannsen that Frankfurt would be on the line next morning, and that once their questions had been answered Merzhanov would be allowed to leave Berlin. Which left Stafford and the money as the next hurdles to overcome. Since Stafford was out in Steglitz dealing with Claptrap he shouldn’t present any immediate problem, but the lack of
money certainly did. Russell and Effi didn’t have $3,000, and he very much doubted whether Thomas did either.

‘I thought you told me that only some people paid for this Croat’s services,’ Shchepkin said, once the problem had been broached.

‘Only Catholics travel free,’ Russell told him. ‘And they’re mostly fellow Croats or OUN Ukrainians like Palychko.’

‘Couldn’t you pass Merzhanov and his girlfriend off as Ukrainians?’

Russell beamed at Shchepkin. ‘Why not? I could even have him tattooed.’

He got back home to find that the Czech Embassy had welcomed Effi with open arms. ‘They could hardly believe it when I told them I wanted to visit Císař, with a view to working with him—one official gave me heartfelt speech about how few foreigners appreciated Czech culture, and another wittered on about how international socialism moves in mysterious ways. Or something like that. Anyway, you just have to go in and sign something, and you can pick up both our visas.’

‘Your friend Lisa should have been so lucky.’

‘Don’t. When I saw her off this morning she looked like death.’

‘Well I don’t know about international socialism, but something must move in mysterious ways—if she hadn’t come to see you we’d never have got the papers in time for next Wednesday.’

Next morning, Russell entered the building on Föhrenweg with some trepidation. Had some evil genie persuaded Johannsen to change his mind and switch Russell’s duties with Stafford’s? But there was only Eustis in the room below, and when the telephone call came through from Frankfurt it was Russell doing the interpreting. The man at the other end seemed barely interested in what Merzhanov knew—the two plants had been arrested, and doubtless
offered a much more immediate source of intelligence. Once he had elicited a few extra nuggets of fictional information the Frankfurt agent was happy to flaunt his laurels. ‘You people should leave this stuff to the professionals,’ he said in parting, only slightly in jest.

Russell went up to Johannsen’s office. ‘So can I move him now?’

‘Where to? I told you—we’re out of money.’

‘I’ll take him down to Salzburg, pass him and his wife off as Ukrainians.’

Johannsen smiled, but shook his head. ‘I need you here.’

‘Why? You’ve got Stafford back now.’

Johannsen did a double-take. ‘I assumed you knew. He was found dead outside his billet last night. Someone after a few cigarettes, it looks like.’

‘Shit.’ Russell took a deep breath. He wanted to ask for details, but didn’t trust his voice. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry about that, but Merzhanov’s given us a lot, and he’ll be just as dead if we don’t get him out of the city. And I promised him safety, or he wouldn’t have given us anything. I’ll only be gone for the weekend.’

Johannsen sighed. ‘Oh, all right. But be here Monday morning.’

‘I will.’ Russell got up to leave, and only stopped himself when halfway through the door. He had to know. ‘Was Stafford single?’

‘A wife and two children,’ Johannsen told him. ‘I’ll be writing the letter this evening.’

Gerhard Ströhm sat at his desk, feeling disinclined to begin his day’s work. He had always been a conscientious worker, and still completed each task with exemplary efficiency, but the symposium on Rugen Island had stripped the process of any remaining joy. Annaliese had noticed the change on his return, and since that day he had tried to be cheerful at home, a far from impossible task now that the swell of her belly offered growing proof of their child-to-be. But at work he
made less of an effort, despite the looks from his fellow-workers. He was in an ideological sulk, and no matter how often he resolved to shake himself out of it, somehow it persisted.

The nature of his current work did nothing to help. Everyone at the office knew the crisis was upon them—it was their job to make it tangible—but the starting gun had still not been fired. Breaking the rail link between Berlin and the Western zones wasn’t exactly difficult as all it required was a red signal at either end of the tracks that traversed the Soviet zone. But if Stalin had really decided on such a drastic step, he hadn’t yet told his German comrades.

Merely slowing things down was more complicated, particularly if you wanted to pretend that the slow-down wasn’t deliberate, and even more so if you weren’t sure what you wanted the other side to believe. And the Soviets kept changing their minds, first insisting that ‘technical difficulties’ be blamed for interruptions in the rail service, then claiming that they’d limited interzonal traffic in order to protect the local economy from the contagion of Western currency reform. And while one moment stressing that such measures were temporary, at others they strongly implied that only a change in Western behaviour could guarantee a restoration of the status quo. It sometimes seemed as if the Soviets were playing with the Western allies, but Ströhm had the sneaking suspicion that they were simply incapable of reaching a decision.

In the meantime, the harassment went on. Passenger trains now left from Friedrichstrasse, whose short platforms dictated the removal of four coaches. Single freight wagons were rejected for minor mistakes in their labelling, causing whole trains to be shunted aside. Crews were ordered to present their personal belongings for inspection, which might only take a few minutes, but the stoppages soon began to add up.

Ströhm was tired of it all. He had always thought that the
Western powers’ foothold in Berlin made it harder for the Soviets to let go, but now he was beginning to wonder—perhaps it was only the Western presence which prevented the Russians from tightening their grip. Either way, he wanted to know. ‘If there has to be a showdown,’ he told one colleague over lunch, ‘then let’s have it now. And Moscow should be open about it. Tell the Western Allies that they’re stopping all traffic to Berlin, and tell them what they can do to get it started again. The British and Americans started all this with their currency reform, and they can end it by coming back to the table and agreeing a four-power solution. I would understand that. More to the point, the people of Berlin would understand it. But “technical difficulties”? No one believes this nonsense. They just think we’re liars.’

His colleague gave him a pitying look. ‘This is a difficult time,’ he agreed, and changed the subject.

Back at his desk, Ströhm went through the press release he had written that morning, explaining the sudden rash of mechanical defects in the wagon fleet. He sighed, and resisted the temptation to crumple up the piece of paper. He had nothing against deception—for much of his life his survival had rested on his ability to deceive his enemies. But was that what he was doing now? He seemed to spend most of his time deceiving the people he supposedly served.

After dropping Rosa off at school on Friday morning, Effi and Russell walked to the Czechoslovak Embassy on Rauch Strasse. She was met by smiles, he by frowns, but both their travel permits had been approved. Císař was looking forward to discussing a future collaboration with Effi, and happy to answer her husband’s follow-up questions. The new Ministry of Culture had booked them into a hotel not far from the director’s home.

With their new papers safely stowed away in Russell’s pocket, the
two of them walked down to Tauentzien Strasse, where Effi had shopping had to do. The pavements were crowded for ten in the morning, particularly given the dearth of goods on display in store windows, but Effi wasn’t surprised. ‘Zarah said it was like this on Wednesday,’ she said. ‘With all the rumours of currency reform, everyone’s spending what money they have while it’s still worth something.’

As if to prove her point, a woman walked by with an exceptionally ugly table lamp under each arm.

‘I guess we’re the lucky ones,’ Russell said. The Americans had always paid him in dollars, and Thomas had helped Effi shift some of her earnings into Swiss francs. Whatever transpired over the next few weeks, they would be all right. At least in terms of money.

The theatrical shop wasn’t overwhelmed with customers—bulk-buying makeup supplies as a hedge against inflation had obviously not caught on. Effi went in to replenish her personal stocks, which she hadn’t used since the war. Then she’d been ageing her own appearance; making Janica look younger would be more of a challenge.

Russell waited outside, watching other shoppers walk by. The procession of faces—most agitated or shut down, very few smiling—got him thinking about the city and its recent history. In the 1920s, when he had come here to live, there had been few places in the world more exciting, either politically or culturally. Then the Nazis had re-cast it as the capital of their swelling boil of an empire, and their enemies had reduced it to rubble. For three years the politics and culture had grown interesting once more, but there was no doubt in Russell’s mind that the shutters were coming back down. So what now, division or Soviet takeover? Which sort of prison would it be?

Back at the flat, he barely had time to pack a small bag before
kissing Effi goodbye and setting out for Föhrenweg. Merzhanov and the ordered jeep were waiting for him, the former looking smart in American civvies. The Russian wore a wary expression on his face during their chauffeur-driven journey to Tempelhof, as if he couldn’t quite believe his luck.

Their plane was waiting in a distant corner of the airfield, one of many DC-3s parked around the perimeter. Russell’s accreditation saw them straight on board, where seven other passengers were already waiting. They all looked German, but none seemed disposed to exchange any form of eye contact, let alone smile or converse. Merzhanov’s face was now sporting an idiot grin, which only faded as they roared down the runway.

The flight to Rhein-Main took a little under two hours, the wait for their connection to Munich a little over. Another jeep was waiting in the Bavarian capital, and by five o’clock they were crossing the border between the American zones of Germany and Austria. At CIC HQ in Salzburg, Russell found an old acquaintance waiting—he had crossed paths with Major Rick Sewell on several occasions, and as far as he knew he had caused no lasting offence.

‘Johannsen let us know you were coming,’ Sewell said, as he looked Merzhanov over. ‘Sing a good song, did he?’

‘Oh yes,’ Russell agreed. The American had put on weight since their last meeting, the buttons of his tunic straining to contain his new belly.

‘Well, let’s get him tucked up in bed. I’ll drive ’em,’ Sewell told the young corporal who’d collected them from Munich.

‘Yes, sir.’

Sewell, as Russell now remembered, thought jeeps cornered best on two wheels. He hung on grimly as they wove their way through the early evening traffic, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to check that Merzhanov was still with them. Soon they were out of the
city, and jolting along the hilly road which led to the farm the CIC used as a safe house. Russell had been there the previous year, after Sewell’s boss, in dire need of an interpreter, had virtually press-ganged him into helping out.

Behind him, the Russian was staring at the mountains filling the southern horizon the way someone raised in a desert might gaze at an ocean. At that moment he looked the picture of innocence, not the lust-sick deserter and traitor which most of his erstwhile comrades would think him. But what did that matter? As long as he kept his mouth shut. And the film lived up to its billing.

The safe house had a permanent staff of six—two housekeepers and four armed guards on twelve-hour shifts. Merzhanov was introduced to those on duty, shown his private sleeping quarters, and offered dinner. The man looked profoundly pleased with life, Russell thought as he left, like someone who had taken a difficult decision and been thoroughly vindicated. Or would be, once Janica was sharing the bed. Before leaving, Russell had taken Merzhanov aside and forcibly reminded him not to mention the film.

Sewell was chatty on the ride back into town, but Russell wasn’t feeling sociable. ‘I was up at five A.M.,’ he lied glibly, when the American suggested a bar. ‘I can hardly keep my eyes open.’

‘Then I’ll take you to your hotel. Maybe tomorrow.’

‘If I’m still here,’ Russell promised, knowing perfectly well he wouldn’t be. ‘I assume Father Cecelja is still in Alt Aussee?’

‘He is. I guess you’ll need a jeep in the morning.’

‘Yeah, please.’

‘I’ll put your name down at the pool. You remember where it is.’

‘I do.’

‘Okay, then. Sleep well.’

Well, the man couldn’t have been more accommodating, Russell
thought, as he wearily climbed the hotel stairs. And he was likeable enough. So why had he given him the bum’s rush?

An hour or so later, alone in the hotel bar, he asked himself the question again. The answer, he decided, was simple enough—he’d just had enough of men in uniforms.

Alt Aussee was about forty miles to the east, a small village nestling beside an eponymous lake, in the shadow of a stark plateau. The hour’s drive was stunningly beautiful, almost ironically so given the ugliness of the person at the other end.

Father Vilim Cecelja was Draganović’s man in Austria. He was an Ustashe from way back—he had even taken the ritual oath, complete with daggers, candles, crucifixes, and all the other clichés, which allowed him to use the revered title of a ‘Sworn Ustashe’. After the Nazis invaded Yugoslavia he had served as senior military chaplain to the Ustashe militia, officially blessed Pavelić and his odious regime, and he had done nothing to suggest he disagreed with their genocidal goals. In 1944, sensing the game was up, Cecelja had moved to Vienna and founded a new branch of the Croatian Red Cross, which hitherto served as a cover for his work in aiding escapers from Allied justice. In April 1945 he had moved again, this time to Alt Aussee. With Red Cross credentials, new American papers, and Draganović’s support, he had opened the Rat Lines for business.