Rather to his surprise, he felt more sanguine about his new espionage career than he had when the Soviets first came to call. Wondering why, he realised what had changed. While the Nazis had flourished, he’d had no ethical room for manoeuvre. Helping them, or hindering their enemies, were not things he could live with. Or not with any sense of self-worth. But that black-and-white world had vanished with Hitler, and the new one really was in shifting shades of grey. He could make arguments for and against any of the major players; in helping one or the other he had no sense of supporting good against evil, or evil against good. If, in personal terms, Yevgeny Shchepkin was almost a kindred spirit, and Scott Dallin someone from a distant unfriendly planet, he had no illusions about Stalin’s Russia. And though American help was his only way out of the Soviet embrace, that didn’t mean he wanted a world run by money and big business.
His instructions were to stay on the edge of the crowd, and wait for contact to be made. He started around the perimeter, looking out for Shchepkin, and trying to ignore the repeated offers of items for sale. In less than a minute he was obliged to decline nylons, butter, soap powder and an Iron Cross First Class, all at allegedly once-only prices.
He saw Shchepkin before the Russian saw him, which had to be a first — in the past the other man had made a habit of appearing at Russell’s shoulder with almost magical abruptness. He had half-expected to see Nemedin too, and was relieved to see Shchepkin alone. ‘I see they’ve let you out on your own,’ he greeted the Russian.
Shchepkin smiled. He looked better than he had in London, the skin less stretched, the eyes less darkened. He was wearing a worn dark suit, with a patterned black scarf and grey trilby. ‘Let’s find somewhere to sit down,’ he said. ‘My knees are killing me.’
They found an overturned bench which seemed sound, and which still bore traces of the legend denying its use to Jews. Sitting down, Russell felt somewhat exposed, but then he didn’t suppose it mattered if they were seen together. The Russians knew he was working for them, and so did the Americans.
‘I should give you a brief who’s who of the local NKVD,’ Shchepkin began.
‘Why?’
‘Because you should know who you’re dealing with,’ the Russian said with some asperity. The boss here in Berlin is Pavel Shimansky. He’s not a bad man all told, and he’s a survivor — he’s already outlasted Yagoda and Yezhov, and Beria’s made no move against him yet. That may be because Shimansky has friends I don’t know about, or it may be because he lets his deputy — Anatoly Tsvetkov — do what he likes. Tsvetkov is one of Beria’s Georgians, and he is a nasty piece of work. Nemedin is his deputy, and you’ve met him.’
‘How is Comrade Nemedin?’
‘He’s hopeful. And very watchful. My room has been searched twice since I got here.’
‘Did they find anything?’
‘Of course not,’ Shchepkin said, as if his professionalism had been brought into question.
‘Where are you living?’
‘Out in Kopenick. There’s a hotel by the river which we’ve taken over.’
‘I know it. We went boating there before the war. But I don’t suppose your people do that.’
‘You’d be surprised. But let’s get to business.’ Shchepkin placed a folded newspaper on the bench between them. ‘The list of the men we need vetting is inside. They’re all Party members. And there’s a couple more that Fraulein Koenen is working with. We’d like her opinion on them.’
Russell bristled. ‘That wasn’t part of the deal.’
‘No, but ask her anyway. She only has to deal in generalities. We just want a sense of where their loyalties lie.’
‘She’ll refuse.’
‘Perhaps. If she does, then we may have to think again. But I presume you’ve explained the situation to her — your situation, I mean.’
‘Of course.’
‘Then she may surprise you. In my experience women are more hard-headed about such things than men.’
He might be right, Russell thought, as an emaciated dog sniffed round his shoes. ‘I’ll ask her.’
The dog gave them both a reproachful look, and trotted off across the allotments.
‘Good. Now, your list. There are five comrades on it. Two of them you know — Gerhard Strohm and Stefan Leissner…’
‘He survived?’ Leissner was the Reichsbahn official who’d given him and the young Soviet scientist Varennikov a hiding-place back in April. After the latter’s death Russell had come upon Leissner lying just outside his bombed office with his right leg almost severed. He’d loosened and re-tightened the unconscious man’s tourniquet, but there’d been no time to do anything more.
‘Leissner? He lost a leg, but he’s alive. And he has an important job — he’s virtually running the railways in our zone.’
‘He didn’t strike me as the disloyal type.’
‘Maybe not. But he’s certainly being tested — orders keep arriving from Moscow to tear up his tracks and ship them east as reparations.’
‘Ah.’
‘Yes. Two of the others should provide no problem, but Manfred Haferkamp — have you met him?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He was a Party convenor in the Hamburg docks. In 1933 he escaped to Finland, and eventually turned up in Moscow. He taught at the International School for several years, but was arrested during the Yezhovshchina and sent to a labour camp in the North. In 1940 he was one of the German comrades that Stalin handed over to Hitler as part of the Pact. He managed to survive almost five years in Buchenwald, and after his release he chose to live here in Berlin rather than return to Hamburg. We don’t know why.’
‘Has anyone asked him?’
‘He claims this is where Germany’s future will be decided.’
‘Hard to argue with that.’
‘No, but it tells us nothing of how he envisages that future.’
‘With or without a Russian hand on every German shoulder? With his history, he’s hardly likely to have a framed portrait of the Great Leader on his bedroom wall.’
‘Probably not, though stranger things have happened. But we’re expecting you to find out.’
Russell made a face.
‘And you must do a thorough job,’ Shchepkin insisted. ‘I know you. You’re already sympathising with this man, and wondering how you’ll be able to satisfy both Nemedin and your own conscience. Perhaps by reporting enough to demonstrate doubts, but not enough to get the man shot. And yes, that may be possible. But be careful. Nemedin is a clever bastard, and he enjoys catching people out. He and Tsvetkov need this information, but sometimes I get the feeling that Nemedin would get more satisfaction out of skewering us.
‘What’s he got against me?’
‘Everything. You’re an ex-communist with a bourgeois lifestyle and a film star wife. None of which you seem to be ashamed of.’
‘I was on my best behaviour.’
‘Then God help us. Look, he’s dangerous. To both of us. Don’t underestimate him.’
‘Okay, okay, I’ve got the message.’ And he had. His earlier thoughts on pain-free espionage already seemed dated. He couldn’t imagine betraying someone as decent as Strohm, but who knew what the price of refusal might be. And who might have to pay it. Effi’s film and Thomas’s business would certainly be among the casualties.
Shchepkin was asking him whether he’d seen the Americans.
‘I left a message for their man — Dallin, do you know him?’
‘Of him. He’s not one of their brightest.’
‘No. Anyway, I left my address with them on Sunday, and he still hasn’t got back to me.’
Shchepkin shook his head. ‘Amateurs,’ he muttered disapprovingly.
‘I suppose I should remind him I’m here, Russell said. ‘When do we meet again?’