Lehrter Station

by David Downing

  ‘In a prison camp.’

  ‘Did they tell you that?’

  ‘No, it just seems logical.’

  It did. And almost just. Almost. ‘And you’re happy to let them get on with it?’

  ‘Happy overstates it,’ Isendahl admitted, ‘but then again, I’m not in the business of rescuing Nazis. Are you?’

  It was a fair enough question. And the answer, Russell realised, was no.

  * * *

  Effi was already asleep by the time he got home, and already gone when he woke in the morning. In the old days he would have made his leisurely way down to Kranzler’s on Unter den Linden, read the papers, sipped his way through at least one cup of excellent coffee, and basked in the life of a freelance journalist in Europe’s most exciting city. But that was then – he was, he realised, dwelling more in the past than was healthy. Maybe ruins encouraged nostalgia.

  He was not looking forward to meeting Shchepkin, and realised that was unusual. Asking himself why, he decided that he’d always seen himself as a self-employed, independent sort of spy. A permanent place on Stalin’s payroll evoked very different feelings.

  The sun was shining as he emerged from the Potsdamerplatz U-Bahn station, but the chill in the air was appreciably sharper than on the previous day. The home of Europe’s first traffic lights was still a wreck, but several reconstruction gangs were at work behind the shattered facades of the perimeter, the dust from their efforts hanging red in the bright blue sky.

  Russell walked up the old Hermann-Göring-Strasse and into the Tiergarten. The open-air market seemed as popular as ever, and would doubtless remain so until the occupation authorities created the conditions for something more legal. As he arrived, he noticed two women proudly bearing away a precious square of glass. Berliners were only allowed to glaze one room per dwelling, but people were travelling out into the country, removing windows from their own or others’ cottages, and bringing them back to the city to sell.

  Shchepkin appeared halfway through his second circuit, and the two of them retired to the same bench as last time.

  Russell placed his copy of the Allgemeine Zeitung between them.

  ‘Your report is inside?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Anything else worth reading?’ Shchepkin asked, looking down at the American-sponsored newspaper.

  ‘There’s an article about the adoption of orphans. It seems that Germans prefer them blond.’

  ‘That’s hardly news.’

  ‘No.’ Perhaps the Nokmim were right, Russell thought.

  ‘So have you seen all five men?’

  ‘Not Leissner. He’s out of town. He’ll be back this weekend, but I’m leaving town myself, so he’ll have to wait.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Russell explained about the Haganah offer. ‘You did say you wanted a working journalist.’

  ‘We do. And I’m sure that Leissner can wait. So what about the others?’

  Russell went through the list. ‘Junghaus and Trenkel – the planner and the propagandist – you won’t have any trouble with either of them. Ströhm will argue for what he thinks is right, but only until a decision has been made. He’ll always accept Party discipline because he can’t imagine life outside the Party. Haferkamp is a bomb waiting to go off, but I assume you know that already – he told me he’d published an article outlining his views.’

  ‘It was only just brought to our attention,’ Shchepkin said. ‘The German comrades like to keep their disputes to themselves.’

  ‘Even Ulbricht’s pro-Soviet bunch?’

  ‘Especially them. They’re afraid that opposition in their own ranks reflects badly on themselves.’

  ‘Well Haferkamp’s only a journalist. Maybe the Party could find him a job in the sports department.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He gave Russell an enigmatic smile. ‘I hope you’ve been completely honest in your appraisals.’

  ‘Of course I have,’ Russell lied. ‘There seemed no point in anything else. A man like Haferkamp has no future in the KPD – he just hasn’t realised it yet. He’ll be happier filing football reports.’

  ‘And the names we provided for Fräulein Koenen?’

  ‘She says they’re pathetically grateful to your people for the chance to make their film, and that they hardly ever mention politics – just the occasional anti-American gibe. And that when they remember they belong to the Party, no one could be more loyal.’

  Shchepkin snorted. ‘The worst kind – when people like that wake up, they always get really angry. But thank you, and thank Fräulein Koenen.’ He tapped his fingers on the folded newspaper. ‘Have you given the Americans a copy?’

  ‘Not yet, but I will.’ He would have to give Dallin the same report, just to be on the safe side – he had no idea how much information the Americans shared with the British, and he hadn’t forgotten Shchepkin’s warning of Soviet moles in MI5 and MI6. He could always give the Californian a fuller verbal report. ‘The Americans have found a task for me,’ he told Shchepkin. ‘Have you ever heard of a chemist named Theodor Schreier?’ he asked, half hoping that the Russian would say no.

  ‘Yes,’ Shchepkin answered, clearly interested.

  ‘Well the Americans want him, and they’ve more or less ordered me to go and fetch him.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘I doubt it. They’re hoping you can find out how well he’s being guarded.’

  Shchepkin seemed lost in thought for some time.

  ‘Well?’ Russell asked eventually.

  ‘Yes, we’re sitting on Schreier. He’s agreed to work in our country, in Yaroslavl, if I remember correctly. His laboratory is being packed up for moving. I don’t know the details, but the procedure is the same in all such cases – two men with him around the clock, in three shifts. For his protection,’ the Russian added wryly.

  ‘That doesn’t sound good,’ Russell observed.

  ‘Mmm, no. But why? – that’s the question. The Americans must have a thousand Schreiers. Just to deny us, I suppose. Why are they being so petty?’

  Russell let that go. ‘I’ve been wondering whether this has more to do with me – or us – than Schreier. I think they’re testing us. Giving us a chance to prove our loyalty.’

  ‘You’re learning,’ Shchepkin said. ‘And speaking of proving our loyalty, I’ll have something for them in a few weeks. But in the meantime…’

  ‘Can you help me?’

  ‘I don’t see how. And I will have to tell Nemedin about this.’

  ‘Why, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Because our lives will be forfeit if he hears it from somebody else. We can’t assume you’re his only American source.’

  Russell supposed not.

  ‘It depends on how important Schreier is,’ Shchepkin went on, ‘whether we really need his skills or might just find them useful. If he’s expendable, then perhaps I can convince Nemedin that it’s in our interests to let you take him. Your success will please your American control, and the more he trusts you, the more use you will eventually be to Nemedin. Or so he will think. You must remember,’ the Russian said, turning towards him for emphasis, ‘we need to keep proving our loyalty to both sides.’

  Yes, Russell thought, after you through the looking glass. Shchepkin’s world made him feel dizzy.

  He reverted to practicalities. ‘So Nemedin will remove the guards?’

  ‘Oh no, that would make the Americans suspicious. How many men are you coming with? And when?’

  ‘Saturday evening. No numbers have been mentioned.’

  ‘I would send a four-man team,’ Shchepkin said, as if this was the sort of operation he organised every week. ‘There shouldn’t be any problems, especially if the guards have been told to only offer token resistance.’

  It sounded promising, until Russell remembered the original premise. ‘What if Schreier is vital to the future of the Soviet Union?’

  ‘Then he won’t be there when you come to call. Other than that, I don�
��t know. If I was in charge I’d put on some kind of show, and make sure you got marks for trying, but if I suggest that to Nemedin he’ll find some reason to do something else. He doesn’t trust me any better than he trusts you.’

  ‘That’s almost an honour. So let me get this straight – when I arrive at wherever it is I’ll either find Schreier and two amenable guards or no Schreier and… what?’

  ‘Whatever Nemedin decides. You’ll be safe enough – he may not like you, but you’re still his best hope of a career boost. And he’s not impulsive – if he ever comes after you it won’t be on a whim.’

  ‘That’s comforting. So what do I tell Dallin?’

  ‘Just say that I thought there’d be two guards, and that if there’s anything I can do to help without raising suspicions then I’ll do it.’

  ‘Okay. Now, something personal. Just before the end of the war, here in Berlin, Effi was asked to shelter a Jewish girl whose mother had just died. She’s still with us, and we’re trying to find out what happened to her father. His name is – or was – Otto Pappenheim, and someone of that name was given a transit visa to Shanghai via Moscow sometime in the six months before Hitler attacked you. Is there any way you could confirm that he actually took the trip? And if he did, whether he ever came back. We’re not at all sure he’s the right Otto Pappenheim, so knowing his age would be useful – there must have been a date of birth on the visa.’

  Shchepkin had a weary look in his eyes. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said.

  They both got up and surveyed the crowd in front of them, as if reluctant to leave each other’s company.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve uncovered any useful secrets lately,’ Russell said.

  ‘No, not yet.’

  * * *

  An hour or so later Russell was sitting in Scott Dallin’s office. In future, Dallin told him, they would meet in less official surroundings – the Grunewald seemed conveniently close. Two reasons were offered. First, that ‘the Russians might know, but we’re not supposed to know that they know.’ Second, that Crosby had been asking questions about Russell. His interest might be completely innocent – Crosby might simply want to recruit him – but the more separate their two organisations were, the better Dallin liked it.

  Why, Russell wondered, did governments delight in creating competing intelligence organisations? They always – always – ended up spending more time fighting each other than the enemy.

  ‘So what did Comrade Shchepkin have to say?’ Dallin asked.

  Russell trotted out the pre-arranged answer.

  ‘A team of four, then’ Dallin said, fulfilling Shchepkin’s prophecy. ‘Brad Halsey will be in command. I’ll get him down here.’ He reached for the internal telephone.

  ‘And the other two?’ Russell asked once he’d put it down.

  ‘A couple of GIs.’

  ‘Out of uniform, I assume.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Shchepkin said that Schreier has agreed to work in the Soviet Union. What if he refuses to come with us?’

  Dallin gave him a disbelieving look. ‘He’ll jump at the chance. Why wouldn’t he?’

  A thought occurred to Russell. ‘It is just him? There’s no wife or girlfriend? No children?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  Amateurs was about right, Russell thought. ‘What if there are? Should we bring them as well?’

  ‘If he wants them to come, then yes, I suppose so.’

  It didn’t seem worth a debate. ‘So we just bring him back on the U-Bahn, and deposit him where?’

  ‘That’ll be up to Brad.’

  Russell supposed it would be. He himself was on probation, useful if they got lost, but otherwise only along for the ride. He wondered out loud whether any of the others spoke German.

  ‘No,’ Dallin told him, causing Russell to wonder what the powers in Washington had been doing for four years. Had Germany’s defeat come as a surprise?

  Brad Halsey arrived. He looked and sounded like a typical Midwestern kid – athletic-looking and open-faced, with neat, almost golden brown hair – but there was someone else behind the bright blue eyes, someone the war had shut down. His opening glance was hardly friendly, causing Russell to wonder how much of his chequered past Dallin had passed on.

  ‘I still don’t have the address,’ Russell told them both.

  ‘It’s in Friedrichshain,’ Halsey answered. ‘Lippehner Strasse 38. Do you know it?’

  ‘I know the street,’ Russell told him. ‘And it must be almost two kilometres from the nearest U-Bahn station.’

  ‘That won’t be a problem. But we need somewhere close by for a rendezvous point. The less time we spend as a group, the less chance the Russians will notice us.’

  Halsey might be a cold fish, but he clearly wasn’t a fool. ‘The western entrance to Friedrichshain Park,’ Russell suggested. ‘It’s about a five minute walk away.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  Dallin also nodded his agreement. ‘And the time?’

  ‘Eight o’clock?’ Halsey suggested. The eyes glittered at the prospect.

  * * *

  Effi was still awake when he arrived home, but only just. ‘If we stay in, I’ll be asleep in an hour,’ she told him. ‘Let’s go out.’

  ‘Okay, but where? Do you have any suggestions?’ Russell asked Thomas, who had followed him in.

  ‘The cabaret on Königin-Luise-Platz is pretty good, and it’s not that far to walk. The Ulenspiegel is better, but…’

  ‘Where’s that?’ Effi asked.

  ‘On Nürnberger Strasse.’

  ‘Too far,’ Russell said. ‘Will you come with us?’ he asked Thomas.

  ‘Yes, why not? I was going to write to Hanna, but I can do that in the morning.’

  ‘Have you heard from her?’ Effi said. ‘How are they?’

  ‘Fine. Well, fed up with the country. And… other things. Hanna and her mother, really. They always got on well enough for a few days, but after a year… I think the strain is beginning to tell. She wants to come home, and so does Lotte.’

  ‘That’s good news,’ Russell said.

  ‘You’ll need us to move out,’ Effi realised.

  ‘It won’t be for weeks but, yes, I was going to talk to you about that. None of the others have anywhere to go, and I thought, well, with your connections, you won’t have any trouble finding somewhere else.’

  ‘I’m sure we won’t,’ Russell reassured him. ‘In fact I think it’s time Effi reclaimed her flat.’

  ‘If I ever have the energy. But of course you have to make room for them. I’ll look into it while you’re away. Now let’s go out before I keel over.’

  The walk took twenty minutes. The food in the next-door café was good, the cabaret just what they needed. Some of the sketches were funnier than others, but all seemed infused with the spirit of a newer Berlin. There was little sentimentality – the new Berliner was a fourteen-year-old with her pram, explaining in verse how she’d come by her baby – exchanging sex for a Hershey bar. And there was little respect for the victors – one sketch lampooned the American decision not to screen the movie Ninotchka in Berlin for fear of upsetting the Russians.

  The one group spared ridicule were the Nazis, which Russell found surprisingly pleasing. Some Germans at least were putting the past behind them. Walking home, he realised that he’d needed an evening like that. One with a future.

  * * *

  Effi was working on Saturday, and Russell found it hard not to dwell on the evening ahead. Writing anything decent proved beyond his powers of concentration, so he had a long lunch at the Press Club, and headed into the city centre. He spent a couple of hours watching Bing and Bob’s Road to Morocco at a recently re-opened cinema off Alexanderplatz, and another couple nursing two weak beers at a bar close by. By seven-thirty he was walking slowly up the southern side of Lippehner Strasse, examining the buildings opposite.

  The street had fared better than most in Friedrichshain, and No. 38 was
one of five adjoining buildings spared by bombs and shells. According to Dallin, Schreier’s apartment was on the third floor, the one at the front on the right. A faint light was gleaming round the edge of the windows.

  Walking on, he noticed a boy of around fifteen watching him from a nearby stoop. The house behind it was a field of rubble. Keeping his eyes on the curtained windows, Russell sat down beside him. ‘Would you like to earn some cigarettes?’

  ‘Doing what? Are you some kind of pervert?’

  Russell couldn’t help smiling. ‘I want to know about the man who lives in that apartment over there.’

  ‘The one with the Ivans?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Is he there now?’

  ‘How many cigarettes are we talking about?’

  ‘A pack.’

  ‘A whole pack?’ the boy exclaimed in surprise.

  Russell felt like offering a short lesson in bargaining tactics, but decided against. ‘A whole pack,’ he confirmed.

  ‘So what do you want to know about him?’

  ‘Is he there?’

  ‘They came back about an hour ago. Him and the Ivans.’

  So Nemedin had been told that Schreier was expendable, Russell thought. Which meant they were expected. He asked how many Russians there were.

  ‘Two. It’s always two. They swap over later.’

  ‘When exactly?’

  The boy shrugged. ‘Who knows what the time is? The Ivans have all of the watches.’

  ‘How do they get here? Do they walk?’

  ‘No, they come in a jeep. They drive up, blow their horn, and wait for the two upstairs to come down. Then they go up, and the other two drive off.’

  Russell took a pack of Chesterfields from his pocket and handed it over. ‘Now go home,’ he said.

  The boy stared at his prize with glowing eyes, like a prospector finding a golden nugget. ‘This is my home,’ he said, and skipped away across the rubble.

  By the time Russell reached the meeting point it was almost eight o’clock. The park stretched away into darkness, and would have been closed if it still had gates. He had met Wilhelm and Freya Isendahl at this entrance in the summer of 1939, and Albert Wiesner six months earlier. Albert was still in Palestine, as far as he knew.