‘I’ve found out who had the French arrest Kuzorra,’ Russell began.
‘Who’s Kuzorra?’
‘My detective friend. We agreed he’d be an asset to any Berlin network.’
‘Did we? So who was it had him arrested?’
‘Colonel Sherman Crosby.’
‘Ah.’
The name had made Dallin sit up, Russell noticed. And the look on his face suggested a rival. Had the Americans decided to imitate the Nazis and Soviets, and create their own perpetual feud between competing intelligence services? He sincerely hoped not. Four years earlier he had almost been crushed between Canaris and Heydrich, and was not keen to repeat the experience.
He suggested that Dallin talk to Crosby. ‘Ask him why him why he wanted Kuzorra arrested. And whether the name Rudolf Geruschke means anything to him. He’s a black marketeer that Kuzorra was investigating, and one of the letters denouncing Kuzorra came from one of his employees.’
‘I can ask,’ Dallin agreed, almost too readily. ‘Come back this evening. Say five ’o’clock.’
It was now almost two. Russell walked round to the Press Club on Argentinischeallee in search of lunch and some news of the local journalists. The former met all expectations, but the latter was harder to come by. In pre-war days Berlin’s foreign press corps had shared watering holes with its German counterpart, but under the occupation there seemed little in the way of mixing. Fortunately for Russell, one of the older American scribes had run into a German colleague, Wilhelm Fritsche, whom they both knew from pre-war days. Fritsche was keeping ‘office’ in one of the re-opened coffee shops at the eastern end of the Ku’damm.
Russell took to the buses again, wondering where he could find a bicycle. According to Thomas, the Russians had stolen most of the city’s supply in the spring, and broken them learning to ride.
He found the coffee shop without too much trouble, and saw Fritsche and another man right at the back. Fritsche had never been a Nazi, but, like any German journalist who wanted to work in the Thirties, had kept his true political opinions to himself.
He was surprised to see Russell. ‘I thought you’d escaped from Berlin.’
‘I had.’ For about the twentieth time since his return, Russell went over his and Effi’s recent history. Fritsche had heard of Effi’s film, and seemed encouraged by the fact that it was being made. So did his younger companion, who introduced himself as Erich Luders. He was also a journalist, and exactly the one that Russell was seeking. Luders, as Fritsche announced with a mentor’s pride, was investigating Berlin’s black marketeers.
Most of the big operators were Germans, the young journalist told Russell, but they all had powerful friends in one or more of the occupation authorities. Rudolf Geruschke was one of the most successful. He used muscle when he had to, but generally preferred a more discreet approach, buying people off rather than burying them. He had businesses in all four sectors, but none of the occupation authorities seemed inclined to interfere with his activities, and neither did the German police.
Russell asked if Luders had heard of Kuzorra.
‘He was an exception, and Geruschke managed to get him arrested. Why? Do you know him?’
‘He’s an old friend,’ Russell admitted. ‘I went to see him on Saturday at the French camp in Wittenau.’ He told Luders what Kuzorra had told him.
‘Off the record?’ Luders asked.
‘On,’ Russell decided. He didn’t think Kuzorra would mind a little publicity. ‘When are you planning to file?’
‘Too soon to say. When I’ve got enough dirt, I guess. Maybe I’ll give Kuzorra a visit myself.’
Russell was reminded of Tyler McKinley, the young American journalist killed by the Gestapo in 1939 for digging up dirt on their political masters. Seeing the eagerness in Luders’ eyes, he worried for the young man. Things had changed since 1939, but not that much.
Delayed by another disabled tram on the way back to Dahlem, he had time to reflect on the paucity of his own journalistic output — personal matters, an all-too-active espionage career and Berlin’s convalescent public transport were taking up every hour he had. He needed to get something written, but when? He had to complete the interviews for Shchepkin, and he couldn’t just abandon Kuzorra. But then maybe Dallin would have something for him.
When he reached the American’s office he found him about to leave, bound for some formal function in what looked like a borrowed monkey suit. ‘I talked to Crosby,’ Dallin said, hustling Russell towards the stairs. ‘He says they asked the French to pick up Kuzorra after several people denounced him. And that the only reason he hasn’t been interviewed is the backlog of cases they’re having to deal with.’
‘Did you tell him that at least one of the denouncers was an employee of the man Kuzorra was investigating?’
‘I did. He said he’d look into it. When I asked him what he knew about Geruschke, he said he knew the man was a black marketeer, but that Berlin was full of them. Which sounds fair enough. And apparently this one has a habit of helping Jews.’
Russell was sceptical. ‘Do you trust him? Crosby, I mean.’
They had reached the main entrance. ‘No,’ Dallin said eventually, ‘but there’s nothing more I can do. Your friend will have to wait his turn.’
‘That’s not good,’ Russell said, following him out.
‘That’s the way it is.’ Dallin stopped and raised both hands to close the subject. ‘And we have something else to talk about,’ he added, lowering his voice. ‘I have a job for you. There’s a man in the Soviet sector who we need to bring out. Theodor Schreier.’
‘Why can’t he just take a bus?’ was the first question that came to mind.
‘Because he’s being watched by the Russians. And if he tries to come over they’ll probably arrest him, and ship him off to Moscow.’
‘Who is he? What does he do?’
‘He’s a research chemist — something to do with polymers, whatever they are. They’re important apparently, and this man was the best in his field. He worked for I.G. Farben.’
‘So why haven’t they whisked him off already?’
‘We don’t know, which is one good reason for haste. What I need from you — from your man Shchepkin, that is — is whatever he knows about the surveillance operation. We’re going to bring Schreier out, but we’d rather not do it in a hail of bullets.’
‘That’s all you want from me?’
‘We’ll also need you for the actual extraction.’
It sounded like a trip to the dentist’s, and might prove a lot more painful — the ‘hail of bullets’ reference was hardly encouraging. But Dallin was looking steadily at him — this was a test, Russell realised, and one that he had to pass. ‘I’m not seeing Shchepkin until Friday,’ he said, ‘and ‘I’ve no way of contacting him before then.’
‘When on Friday?’
‘In the morning.’
‘That’s okay. We’re looking to bring Schreier out on Saturday evening.’
‘What if Shchepkin doesn’t know anything?’
‘Then you’ll have to wing it.’
Russell smiled. ‘Say I succeed — will you have another go at Crosby for me?’
‘If we succeed,’ Dallin said slowly, ‘then I’ll be able to argue the case for taking on more locals, whatever their crimes in the past.’
‘Sounds fair,’ Russell said. It wasn’t much, but it was the best he was likely to get.
As he reached home, Effi was seeing off a smiling British sergeant. ‘And what have you been doing in my absence?’ he asked her.
‘Entertaining the British Army,’ she told him, leading the way back in. ‘He brought a letter from Rosa and Zarah,’ she said happily over her shoulder, ‘and I had to give him something in return.’
‘A biscuit, I hope.’
‘Twenty cigarettes, actually.’
‘What’s in the letter?’
‘You can read it,’ she said, passing it over.
Zarah’s handwriting was almost florid, Rosa’s small and fastidious. The latter stressed how hard she was working at school, described London’s recent weather in enormous detail, and listed the meals that Zarah had taught her to cook. A long line of kisses was addressed to them both. Zarah reported that Rosa had cried for two nights following their departure, but seemed much better since, and was still doing well at school. A letter from Berlin would help, she added pointedly. Lothar had come down with a cold, but seemed to be on the mend, and Paul had taken Marisa to the theatre. He was, Zarah thought, very much in love. And he was also taking his ‘man of the house’ responsibilities seriously, constantly asking if there was anything he could do to help.