No, he didn't.
You are sure about that.
One hundred percent.
The Gestapo man looked skeptical, but said nothing.
One more thing, Oehm said. Herr McKinleys sister will be arriving in Berlin on Wednesday. To take the body home. . . .
Hows she getting here so quickly? Russell asked.
She is apparently flying across the Atlantic. The Americans have these new flying-boatsClippers I believe theyre calledand though theyre not yet in public service, there are frequent trials. Proving flights, they call them. . . .
Yes, yes, the Gestapo man murmured, but Oehm ignored him.
I am a flyer myself, he told Russell. Weekends only, of course.
We all need hobbies, Russell agreed. But how has McKinleys sister wangled a flight on one these. . . .
Clippers. I imagine Senator McKinley used his influence to get his niece a place on one of them.
Senator McKinley?
Tyler McKinleys uncle. Oehm noticed the surprise in Russells face. You did not know his uncle was a US Senator?
Like I said, we werent exactly friends. He could understand why McKinley had kept quiet about itthe boy would have hated anyone thinking he owed anything to family connections. But he was amazed that none of his fellow American journalists had spilled the beans. They must have assumed Russell knew.
As I was saying, Oehm continued, his sister will arrange for the body to be sent home and collect her brothers effects. I was hoping you could be here when we talk to her, as an interpreter and someone who knew her brother.
I can do that.
Her plane from Lisbon arrives around eleven. So, if you could be here at one?
I will be. Is that all?
Yes, Herr Russell, that is all. Oehm smiled at him. The Gestapo man gave him the merest of nods.
Russell retraced his steps to the main entrance. As he emerged into the open air he took a deep breath in and blew it out again. One thing was certainthey hadn't found the letter.
He crossed the square and walked into a cafe underneath the Stadtbahn tracks which he occasionally patronized. After ordering a couple of frankfurters and a kartoffelsalad he perched on a stool by the window, cleared a hole in the condensation, and looked out. No one had followed him in, but was anyone loitering outside? He couldn't see anyone obvious, but that didn't mean much. He would have to make sure by going through Tietz, pulling a variation of the same trick he and McKinley had pulled in the Neukolln KaDeWe. But it would have to look like an accident. He didn't want them thinking hed lost them on purpose.
The food tasted bad, which was unusual. It was the taste in his mouth, Russell thought. Fear.
He crossed the road and walked into Tietz, heading for the rank of telephone booths that he remembered outside the stores ground floor tea room. Ensconced in the first booth, he looked back along the aisle he had just walked. No one looked furtive. He dialed Effis number.
She answered on the second ring. Youre back. I had the police. . . .
I know. Ive just come from the Alex. Im sorry you got. . . .
Oh, it was no problem. They didn't break anything. I was just worried about you. Are you really upset? You didn't know him that well, did you?
No, I didn't. I feel sad, though. He was a nice enough man.
Are you coming over?
Yes, but itll be a few hours. Say around six. I have to see someone.
Okay.
Ill see you then.
I love you.
I love you, too.
He replaced the receiver and scanned the aisle again. Still nothing. A taxi, he decided. From this side of the station, where there were often only two or three waiting.
He was in luckthere was only one. Friedrichstrasse Station, he told the driver, and watched through the rear window as they swung round beneath the railway and headed down Kaiser Wilhelmstrasse. There was no sign of pursuit. At Friedrichstrasse he hurried down the steps to the U-bahn platform, reaching it as a Grenzallee train pulled in. He stepped aboard, standing beside the doors until they closed, but no one else emerged through the platform gates.
The train pulled out and he sunk into the nearest seat. Should he be waiting for darkness? he wondered. Or would that be even riskier? He had no real idea, and felt shaken by how important such a decision could be.
Neukolln was the lines penultimate stop. Russell climbed up to the street, where the loudspeakers were broadcasting Hitlers long-awaited speech to the Reichstag. A small crowd had gathered around the one outside KaDeWe, faces overcast as the sky. The Fuhrers tone was calm and reasonable, which suggested he was just warming up.
Russell walked on, following a trail of street names familiar from the week before. It was a good thing he recognized these, because the area seemed utterly different by daylight, its workshops and factories bursting with noisy activity, its cobbled streets full of rumbling lorries. Most of the workplaces were broadcasting the speech to their employees, and Hitlers words seeped out through doors and over walls, a promise here, a threat there, a piece of self-congratulation sandwiched in between. Stopping for a moment on a bridge across the Neukollner-Schiffahrtkanal, Russell heard fragments of the speech tossed around on the breeze, like the puffs of windstrewn smoke belching from the myriad chimneys.
Schonlankerstrasse was empty, the block door wide open. He walked in and knocked on Theresa Jurissens door. There was no answer. He knocked again with the same result, and was wondering what to do when footsteps sounded on the stairs. It was her.
Her face registered alarm, and then anger. Without speaking, she opened her door and gestured him in. Marietta was sitting exactly where she had been on his last visit, still drawing, still oblivious. What do you want? Theresa asked, the moment the door was closed behind her.
Im sorry, he said. I know this is dangerous for you, but not coming might have been more dangerous. He told her about McKinleys death. Could the police connect you? he asked. Did you ever write to him?
No, she said. Never.
What about the document you told us about?
I sent it, but thats all. I gave no name or address.
Russell sighed in relief. When did you send it?
Last week. Thursday afternoon.
McKinley had received it. He must have. Russell explained why he had asked. They havent found it, he told her. He must have hidden it somewhere.
Theres nothing to connect me, she said. Except you, she added, the look of alarm back on her face.
They wont hear about you from me, Russell promised her, hoping he could live up to such an assurance.
Thank you, she said doubtfully, as if she wasnt that sure either. And their secret will stay secret, she added, as much to herself as to him.
Looks like it.
She nodded, her view of the world confirmed.
Ill be going, he said.
Let me make sure theres no one about, she cautioned him. A few moments later she returned. Its all clear.
Russell smiled goodbye at a closing door and began the long walk back to the center of Neukolln. The Fuhrer was well into his stride now, each torrent of words reinforced by the sound of his fist hammering at the lectern. By the time Russell reached KaDeWe the listening crowd had spilled into the street, all eyes raised to the crackling loudspeaker, as if Hitler would emerge genie-like from the mesh, a head spouting venom on a shimmering tail.
IT WAS DARK BY THE TIME he reached Effis flat. She was wearing a dress he hadn't seen before, deep red with a black lace collar. And she wanted to eat out, at a Chinese restaurant which had opened a few weeks earlier at the Halensee end of the Kudamm.
Ive been learning my lines, she announced as they walked downstairs. Would you hear me later?
It was a peace offering, Russell realized. Love to, he told her.
They walked through to the Kudamm and took a westbound tram. The wide pavements were crowded with home-going workers, the restaurants and cinemas gearing up for the evening as the shops closed d
own. Alighting at Lehninerplatz they found the Chinese restaurant already filling up. Goering eats here, Effi said, as if in explanation.
He eats everywhere, Russell said. And this is on me, he added.
Effi gave him a look.
Ive sold a lot of work lately, he explained.
They were shown to their table, which stood beneath a huge scroll of dragons. Russell picked up the menu, hoping it was in German, but needn't have bothered.
Let me order, Effi said.
Include beer, Russell insisted. He was still feeling tense, he realized. And maybe still a little in shock. Sitting there, half-listening as Effi questioned the waiter, he found himself imagining McKinleys deaththe moment of falling, of realization. Of terror. How was your weekend? he asked.
Miserable. You know I hate going to parties on my own. All the women I know were lining up to ask if youd left menone of them asked whether Id left youand all the men were trying to work out how available I was, without actually asking. Every conversation was fraught with significance. Every dance was a means to an end. I couldn't just be for a single moment. When I go to something like that with you, I can just enjoy myself. She sighed. Anyway, the party went to about six, so I got to bed about seven, and the Kripo started hammering on the door at about nine. So I wasnt in a good mood. And I was upset for you too. I know you liked him, even if he was a bit Rin Tin Tin-like. And I could just see it too. Zoo Station gets so crowded on a Saturday evening. She watched a tray of food go by, and sniffed at the passing aroma. And Zarahs such a misery as well. Shes convinced theres something wrong with Lothar. I tell her shes jumping to conclusions, that hes probably just a slow learner. She was herself, according to Muti. But shes convinced theres something wrong. Shes made an appointment with a specialist.
When for? Russell asked.
Oh, I dont know. Next week sometime. I think she said Monday. Why?
Just wondered. The arrival of their drinks gave Russell a few seconds to think. He couldn't say anything, he realized. And he probably didn't need to. Zarahs husband Jens was a Party official, and Russell couldn't believe the Nazis would start killing their own children. And if he did say anything to Effi, and she said something to Zarah, then he might end up in a Gestapo cellar trying to explain where hed gotten his information from.
You look worried, Effi said.
Ive heard a few rumors, thats all. Just journalist talk probably. The word is that the governments thinking of tightening up the Law on the Prevention of Hereditary Diseases. Sanctioning mercy killing when the parents agree.
She gave him an angry look. Theres nothing wrong with Lothar, she said. And even if there was, Zarah would never agree to. . . . I cant believe you think. . . .
I dont. But Jens is a Nazi, after all. He believes in all this purification of the race nonsense.
Effi snorted. Maybe he does. But if he tried to take Lothar away from Zarah shed never forgive him. And he knows it.
Okay.
And theres nothing wrong with Lothar, she insisted once more.
HE READ THE FUHRERS SPEECH next morning on his way home for a change of clothes. The editorials were calling it a major contribution to world peace, and the speech certainly seemed accommodating by Hitlers standards. There were friendly references to Poland and the non-aggression pact between the two countries. There was a marked absence of attacks on the Soviet Union. Only one passage chilled Russell to the bone, and that concerned the Jews, who were only likely to start a war in Hitlers frenzied imagination. If they did, the result would not be the Bolshevization of the earth and victory for the Jews but the annihilation of the Jewish race in Europe. Russell wondered how the Wiesners felt reading that, even if Hitler was not speaking about physical annihilation. At least he hoped he wasnt. He remembered Alberts words in the Friedrichshain park: Theyll just kill us. . . . Whos going to stop them?
Frau Heidegger had listened to the speech and found only grounds for optimism. Therell be an agreement with the Poles, she said. Like the one with the Czechs at Munich. And then therell be nothing more to fight over.
Russell said he hoped she was right.
The police were back yesterday, she went on. Herr McKinleys sister will be here on Wednesday or Thursday to collect his things.
I know, Russell told her. They want me to interpret for them.
Thats nice, Frau Heidegger said.
Once upstairs, Russell bathed, changed, and worked for a couple of hours planning his transport piece for Pravda. Autobahns and the peoples car, streamlined trains and new U-bahn lines, the latest Dornier flying boats. Perhaps a hint of regret for the passing of the Zeppelins, he thought, but absolutely no mention of the Hindenburg.
He fried up a potato omelette for lunch, found a dusty bottle of beer to accompany it, and reluctantly considered the prospect of interviewing Hitlers armament workers for Stalin. It could be done, he supposed, but hed have to be damn careful. Start off by talking to the Party people in the factory, the managers and Labor Front officials. Only move out onto the metaphorical lake if the ice feels really solid. Dont do a McKinley.
He thought about the missing letter. If he was going to take a look around the Americans room it had to be today.
He walked down to the ground floor, and tapped on Frau Heideggers open door. Have you still got a spare key for Tylers room? he asked. I loaned him some books, and it would be awkward searching for them when his sisters here, so I thought I could slip in and get them today. You dont need to come up, he added quickly, hoping that Frau Heideggers bad knees would triumph over her curiosity.
They did. Make sure you bring it back, she told him.
McKinleys room was still suffused with the faint odor of his Balkan tobacco. As Frau Heidegger had intimated, the room was almost preternaturally tidy, and now he knew why the Kripo had refrained from leaving their usual mess. A senators nephew! No wonder they were on their best behavior.
The clothes were neatly put away: shirts, jacket and suit in the wardrobe, socks and underwear in drawers. There was a small pile of papers on the deskleft for show, Russell guessed. He remembered two great towers of paper on his last visit. The desk, too, had been mostly emptied. One drawer contained a single eraser, another, three pencils. It was as if the Kripo had decided to spread things out.
There was no obvious reduction in the number of books, but the lines on the shelves seemed anything but neat. Each had been taken out and checked for insertions, Russell assumed. Well, at least that meant he didn't have to.
The same applied to the floorboards. The Kripo werent amateurs. Far from it.
He sat on McKinleys bed, wondering why hed imagined he could find something which they couldn't. The shelf above the headboard was full of crime novels, all in English. More than fifty, Russell guessed: Dashiell Hammett, Edgar Wallace, Dorothy L. Sayers, several authors he hadn't heard of. There were around a dozen Agatha Christies, and a similar number of Saint books. Russells earlier notion that McKinley had stolen an idea from one of these stories still seemed a good one, but the only way of finding out for certain was to go through them all, and that would take forever.
And what would he do with the letter if he found it? He had no proof of its authenticity, and without such proof there was little chance of anonymously arranging its publication outside Germany. He would have to guarantee it with what was left of his own reputation, either risking arrest by doing so inside Germany or forfeiting his residence by doing so from the safety of England. Neither course appealed to him. And their secret will stay secret, he murmured to himself. He took one last look around the room and took the key back to Frau Heidegger.
EARLY THAT EVENING HE telephoned Paul. The conversation seemed unusually awkward at first. His son seemed happy to talk, but there was something in his voice which worried Russell, some faint edge of resentment that was quite possibly unconscious. His Jungvolk group had spent much of Saturday making model gliders out of balsa wood and glue, something which Paul had obviously enjoyed, and on the comi
ng Saturday they were visiting an airfield to examine the real thing. At school a new music teacher had given them a talk on the different types of music, and how some of themjazz for examplewere fatally tainted by their racial origins. He had even played several pieces on the school gramophone, pointing out what he called animal rhythms. I suppose hes right, Paul said. I mean, jazz was invented by negroes, wasnt it? But most of my friends thought the records he played were really good, he admitted.
Russell searched in vain for an adequate response.
What are you doing? Paul asked, somewhat unusually.
This and that, Russell said. Paul was probably too old to have nightmares about falling under trains, but it wasnt worth the risk. Actually Im looking for something that someone hid, he said. If the Saint wants to hide something, how does he do it? he asked, not really expecting an answer.
What sort of thing?
Oh, money, a letter. . . .
Thats easy. He sends it to himself. At awhat do you call it?
Poste restante.
Thats it. He sends diamonds to himself in Getaway and The High Fence. And he does it in another story, I think. I cant remember which, though. . . .
Russell was no longer listening. Of course. If McKinley had forgotten the Saints trick, then Theresas use of the poste restante would have reminded him. His heart sank. There was no way of collecting anything from a poste restante without identification. McKinleys sister could probably get access, but only by asking permission from the police.
Dad, are you listening?
Yes, sorryI think youve solved it for me.
Oh.
And Im reading the book you loaned me, he added, eager to please his son.
Isnt it great?
Its pretty good, Russell agreed, though hed only read thirty pages. I havent got far, he admitted, hoping to ward off a cross-examination. Ill talk to you about it on Saturday.
Okay. On Sunday are we getting the train from Anhalter Bahnhof?
I expect so. Ill let you know. Actually, a different means of transport was suggesting itself.
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