He was halfway there when a flaw in Giminich's story occurred to him. It was all very well claiming that Grashof had failed to make their appointment; the problem was, Canaris would want his letter back. The same letter which Giminich had casually torn open and pocketed. How could he explain its disappearance?
On the train home he had considered, and then dismissed, the option of defying Giminich and telling Canaris the truth. Now, walking along the bank of the ice-edged Landwehrkanal, he considered it again. He would be giving Canaris reason to trust him, and reason to proceed with the Swiss arrangement. But the latter would have to happen before the SD got wind of his betrayal, which wasn't very likely. The fact that Giminich had already known all the details of his treff with Grashof pointed to an SD mole in the higher reaches of the Abwehr. No, he couldn't tell the truth.
So what lie should he tell? He reached a final decision as the aide led him up to Piekenbrock's office. The Colonel seemed busy as ever, endlessly shuffling papers in an apparently vain attempt to secure some workable order. He listened to Russell's brief account, shrugged, and warned that the Admiral might have further questions at a later date. Russell asked the Colonel to remind Canaris of the Swiss arrangement which they had discussed the previous week. He was halfway to the door when Piekenbrock remembered the letter.
'I burned it,' Russell admitted. 'When Grashof failed to appear I became worried that someone might know of the letter, and try to steal it. Since the Admiral wrote it I didn't think he would need reminding of its contents.'
Piekenbrock considered this explanation for a few worrying moments, but then accepted it. 'You destroyed it completely?'
'Of course. I flushed the ashes down a toilet,' he added, hoping that he was not overdoing it. Or that Giminich would post it back to Canaris. '
Excellent,' Piekenbrock said absent-mindedly, as if he had suddenly realised how easily an outbreak of arson could clear his own desk.
Outside the building, Russell's immediate sense of relief soon turned to something more ambivalent. He had managed to avoid betraying Giminich, but that might just encourage the SD man to come back with another daring wheeze from the SS Book of Adventures. The Abwehr might still agree to set him up in Switzerland, but time was probably short, and they didn't seem in much of hurry. It was beginning to seem as if a swift American entry into the war offered him his best chance of safety, albeit one that neither included Effi nor guaranteed a prompt exit from the Reich.
Of course, much might have happened since he last heard or read an uncensored news report, and, given that he was still employed to write the stuff, he supposed he should bring himself up to date. The Foreign Press Club on Leipziger Platz was the nearest source of relatively uncensored news, and if that failed to provide, one could always find a journalist or three in the Adlon Bar. Even if they were only Italians.
The Press Club was deserted, the foreign newspapers four days old. He walked up Hermann-Goering-Strasse, wondering what had happened outside Moscow in those four days, and remembering a Sunday years before, waiting with an anxious Paul for the evening papers to arrive at the local kiosk with the football results. Hertha had lost.
The Russians, apparently, had not. Ralph Morrison was in the Adlon Bar, typing noisily away at a corner table on his brand new portable and ignoring the dirty looks being cast in his direction. 'They've hit real trouble,' he told Russell in what could only be described as a joyous whisper.
'The Germans?'
'Of course the goddamned Germans. They're up to their necks in snow, their tanks won't move, their planes won't fly... It's Napoleon all over again.'
'What's the source?'
'Wehrmacht. It's the goods, believe me. There are whole divisions coming down with frostbite.'
Russell felt a warm glow spreading up from his stomach, and fought back the desire to cheer out loud. 'What are their press people saying?' 'Oh, the usual crap. "Heavy fighting", "titanic struggle", you know the stuff. But they've given up claiming advances. And you can see it in their eyes. They know.'
'What about North Africa?'
'Harder to say. If I were a cynical man...'
'Perish the thought.'
'...I'd say neither the British nor the Germans have any idea who's winning. And I mean the ones who are fighting, the ones who you might think would know.'
'And the Pacific?'
'A matter of days. I'm packed, and I advise you to do the same. If we're not out of here by the middle of next week I'll be really surprised.'
'What's actually happened?'
'It's what hasn't happened. The Japs made a last offer, which Washington turned down flat. Now Roosevelt's made a counter-offer, one that requires the Japs to slice off their own balls and eat them. And guess what? They haven't replied. Unless you count the various armadas heading down past China.'
'They started the Russo-Japanese War with a surprise attack.'
'Well, this one won't be much of a surprise.'
A drink, Russell thought, but he was only halfway to the bar when Uwe Kuzorra filled the doorway leading to reception.
'I'd like a few words,' the detective said. 'Not here though. My car's outside.'
'No assistant today,' Russell noted as they crossed the pavement. The police Opel was empty.
'No,' Kuzorra agreed. 'How was Prague?'
'Stimulating.'
'Somebody hit you?' the detective asked, staring at the bandage.
'Don't ask,' Russell said, and somewhat to his surprise Kuzorra didn't.
They settled into the front seats and Russell gazed through the windscreen at the Brandenburg Gate as the detective searched his pockets for matches.
'So how's the case going?' Russell asked. He was still smiling inside at the news from Moscow.
'Not so good. Stimulating, though. I gave Schwering the number of the Mercedes, and he came back about half an hour later with some ridiculous story about it being burnt out in an accident on the Avus Speedway. I gave one of my own men the same job - without telling Schwering, of course - and he tracked the car down in fifteen minutes.'
'SD?'
Kuzorra blew out smoke. 'No, as it happens. It's registered to Fordwerke, the German subsidiary of the American corporation.' He turned his head to look at Russell. 'Now why would people like that want Herr Sullivan dead?'
'I don't know,' Russell said, 'but I could offer a guess.'
'Be my guest.'
Russell ignored the sarcastic tone; in Kuzorra's shoes he would probably have found himself a pain in the arse. 'Sullivan knew most of the German business leaders with American ties. He was called in - or called himself in - whenever Americans came over for meetings, either here or in Switzerland.
You know, nice hotels, good food, the high life in general. He helped with the interpreting, particularly when one side or another was anxious to keep the discussion under wraps. Mostly the language side of things, but the cultural stuff too - making sure they all understood each other.'
'I get the picture.'
'Well, imagine a few things. One, those American businesses with interests in Germany are afraid that American entry into the war will seriously dent their profits. Two, they reach some sort of secret deal which allows them to carry on doing business with their German subsidiaries, and Sullivan's there when they reach it. Three, Sullivan decides he's had enough of the Nazis and wants to go home. But given that he's been defecating on the United States from a great height for several years he badly needs a sweetener, something that'll buy his way back into the good graces of the US government.'
'With you as the go-between.'
'He asked to meet me. I do know he wanted to go home, but the rest is guesswork. I don't know what sort of deal he had in mind.'
Kuzorra thought about it. 'The American Government cares about this stuff?' he eventually asked.
'So I'm told.'
'So the German subsidiaries of these American businesses killed Sullivan to stop him blowing the whistle on them.'
'Hmm.' Kuzorra began another search for his matches.
'I don't think you want to solve this one,' Russell told him.
'Oh, but I do.'
'Pressure from above?'
'You heard the Reichsminister the other morning.'
'Can't you have a private chat with him?'
Kuzorra grunted. 'And say what? He won't be satisfied with guesses. If I'm going to accuse one of Germany's biggest industrial concerns of murder then I'm going to need some proof. There are no forensics, no witnesses, and the motive you've just offered me sounds like Soviet propaganda.'
'What about the car?'
'I imagine it has been burnt out by now.'
They stared at the Brandenburg Gate for a little bit longer. 'I still think there's something to find,' Kuzorra said at last. 'Schwering's bouncing round the office like a man who's terrified of missing something.'
'What'll you do if you find it first?'
'I'll take it to Goebbels, have the satisfaction of wiping the smile off the little rat's face, and humbly agree with whatever plan he comes up with for saving his own reputation.'
'Little victories,' Russell said, reaching for the door.
'The only ones we get,' Kuzorra agreed, turning the key in the ignition. Back inside the hotel, Russell decided lunch was more pressing than the Foreign Office press conference. The quality of the food gave him reason to regret the decision, but the briefing, as he discovered on reaching the Press Club an hour or so later, had been equally dire. Von Stumm had offered no new information worth the name, and had treated the assembled foreign journalists to twenty minutes of pathetic bluster. 'I almost felt sorry for him,' one of the Americans admitted, as if that alone was cause for bitterness.
The hubbub in the bar made Russell's head hurt, reminding him that he still hadn't seen a doctor. The Elisabeth Hospital was only a ten-minute walk away, and he had just decided to pay it a visit when a member of the Press Club staff appeared in the doorway, holding a letter. Spotting Russell, he walked across to deliver it. 'This arrived yesterday,' he said.
The envelope was addressed to John Russell, c/o the Foreign Press Club, Leipziger Platz. The letter was from Frau Marianne Sullivan. She had 'vital information', and wanted to meet him for their 'mutual benefit.' A telephone number was attached.
Russell headed for the booth on the ground floor, but changed his mind at the last moment. Collecting his coat, he walked across Potsdamer Platz to the main line station and found a booth there. The phone rang three times before she answered. Her voice sounded tired, almost cynical, but perked up a little when he told her who he was. Yes, she could meet him that afternoon. She lived in Dahlem, but he couldn't come to her flat. Did he know Wilmersdorf? There was a coffee shop named Werner's on the Hohenzollerndamm, about a hundred metres from the Fehrbelliner Platz U-Bahn station, going towards the city centre.
He said he could find it.
'At three o'clock,' she stipulated. 'I'll be carrying one of Patrick's books.'
'I'll be there.'
Another broken-down tram was gumming up the tracks, and he arrived almost fifteen minutes late. The coffee shop had clearly seen better times, but it wasn't alone in that, and an aura of middle-class respectability still clung, somewhat shabbily, to the mostly female clientele. None of the women had books on display though, and he was beginning to wonder whether he'd been stood up when she finally appeared in the doorway, one of Sullivan's novels clasped to her chest. She was younger and prettier than Russell had expected - a small thin blonde of about thirty-five with large blue eyes and a born-to-pout mouth. She was wearing black.
He introduced himself, let her choose their table in a lonely corner, and murmured 'an accident' in response to her questioning look at his bandaged head. His expressions of regret for her recent loss were shrugged aside - either she was putting a very brave face on widowhood or she was less bothered than he was.
'How long were you married?' Russell asked, purely out of curiosity. Sullivan had never mentioned a wife.
'Almost two years,' she answered, once the waitress had taken his coupons and gone off in search of coffee and cake. 'He was very good to me,' she added almost grudgingly. 'He was taking me to Italy once he had the money from those papers.'
Russell managed not to look surprised. 'Italy?' he asked.
'Away from the war,' she explained. 'And winters like this.'
'So what information do you have for me?' Russell asked.
The waitress arrived with their coffees and a creamy-looking confection that IG Farben had probably created between batches of synthetic rubber.
She took a bite and made a face. 'I think you already have the information,' she said, after wiping her lips. 'You do have Patrick's papers, don't you? Well, I want my share of whatever it is they're worth. I was his wife.'
'I don't have his papers,' Russell told her.
She wasn't convinced. 'Look, I'm sorry I told the police that Patrick was meeting you at Stettin Station. I was flustered.'
'I still don't have any of your husband's papers. What makes you think I do?'
She gave him a hard stare. 'Well, the police turned our flat upside-down looking for something, and what else were they looking for? So they weren't on the... you know, when they found him...'
'The people who killed your husband must have taken them.'
'I don't think so. If they did, why are they watching me?'
'What? How do you...'
'There are men watching me. There's a car outside our building all day. I called that Kriminalinspektor and he said it wasn't his people. So who else can it be?'
A good question, Russell thought. Was this why Kuzorra thought there was still something to find? 'Did they follow you here?' he asked, looking round. He couldn't remember any suspicious-looking characters entering the cafe since her arrival.
'No,' she said. 'I left by the back entrance, and I made sure no one followed me onto the U-Bahn.'
She was, Russell realised, smarter than she looked.
'Look,' she said, 'I don't know whether to believe you or not. When Patrick left home that morning he had the briefcase with him, so he must...'
Russell stopped listening. The strange direction from which Sullivan had appeared at Stettin Station - it suddenly made sense. The ticket... he must have found a chance to drop it, or more likely swallow it.
She was looking at him, expecting an answer.
'Your husband wasn't carrying anything when those men led him away,' he said truthfully. And Kuzorra, he realised, had made no mention of it. 'Did you tell the police about the briefcase?'
'No, of course not. They wouldn't let me sell the papers. They might even arrest me for knowing about them.'
'Maybe he left them in safe keeping at one of the foreign press clubs,' Russell improvised. 'I'll make some discreet enquiries. What does it look like?'
She said nothing, but the suspicion in her eyes was eloquent enough. 'I won't cut you out,' he said reassuringly. 'If I find the papers, and if we can sell them, then we'll split the proceeds 50-50. Fair enough?'
She wanted to protest, but was clever enough to know that he held all the cards. 'All right,' she said grudgingly.
It was a brown leather briefcase with two straps. Sullivan's initials were embossed in gold above the lock.
Russell walked her back to the U-Bahn station, watched her disappear down the steps, and sought out a public telephone. Over recent months the Gestapo had taken to cutting off the American Consulate whenever the mood seemed right, but on this particular day they must have been harassing other innocents. He got straight through, and persuaded the telephonist to summon Joseph Kenyon.
'I need to see you and Dallin,' he told the diplomat.
'Now?' Kenyon asked.
'Tomorrow morning will do,' Russell said, remembering his promise to
be home by five.
There was a pause. 'Say ten o'clock,' Kenyon said. 'I'll try and round up Scott.'
'Good.'
Russell only realised that he'd forgotten to visit the hospital as he let himself into the flat. Effi was not yet back, but his son would be home from school. He unhooked the phone and dialled the Grunewald number. Paul himself answered, and sounded genuinely pleased to hear from his father.
Their usual Saturday afternoon get-together had, however, once again fallen victim to the insatiable appetite of the Hitlerjugend. The whole day had been taken over for a 'terrain game' in Havelland, and, as if that wasn't enough, four further hours on Sunday morning had been set aside for training in the laying of telephone cables. Russell sometimes wondered if Germany's youth would have any energy left by the time they were called up, but Paul seemed unfazed by the fullness of his weekend. 'Could we go to the game on Sunday afternoon?' he asked. 'I should be finished in time.'
Russell was delighted. They hadn't been for a while - Paul had not seemed keen, and Russell found it hard to feel enthusiastic about football in the middle of a war, though this was not a view shared by his fellow Berliners. Attendances had swollen over the last year, despite the fact that many of the best players and a high proportion of the regular fans were strewn across Europe at the Wehrmacht's bidding. 'I'd like that,' he said.
'So would I,' Paul agreed, and their goodbyes were imbued with the sort of simple father-son camaraderie that both had once taken for granted. A few minutes later Effi walked in, and was suitably shocked by his bandaged head. 'What...'
'It's nothing,' he reassured her. 'Someone took a shot at me. Just a crease. I'm fine.'
'Someone took a shot at you?'
'In Prague.'
'Have you seen a doctor?'
'In Prague. A Czech doctor. I meant to go today but...'
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