‘I can’t wait that long.’
‘I know,’ Effi said. She found herself remembering John’s stories of Irish children who’d emigrated to America in the past century, exchanged letters for decades, but never actually seen their parents again. Heartbreaking.
‘So what can I do?’ Lisa repeated, defeat in her tone.
‘Sometimes there’s nothing you can do. And John did say she seemed very happy.’
Lisa seemed almost to wince. ‘Well, that’s something. Everything really.’ She turned her gaze to the street again, where an overcrowded tram was passing. ‘There’s nothing worse than losing a child,’ she added, sounding almost surprised.
They parted with promises to keep in touch, but Effi doubted they would. When she got home there was a hand-posted letter from Max Grelling waiting for her on the mat. He had samples of the documents she’d asked for, and now only needed a photograph of Uschi.
After lunch Russell took the U-Bahn south to Steglitz, where Operation Claptrap was based. A year into the peace BOB had stumbled across a biddable Polish doctor, set him up in his own VD clinic, and supplied him with enough precious penicillin to actually cure his patients. He didn’t need to advertise-catching VD was a court martial offence in the Red Army, and once word spread that relief was on offer in the privacy of the American sector, Russians of all ranks came flocking.
A fluent Russian-speaker, Doctor Kaluzny was given a camera for photographing any documents carelessly left in pockets or bags, and guidance in which questions he should casually ask the patients. He then filled in forms which his control-in this case, Russell-scoured for anything useful.
Reading the latest batch in a nearby bar, Russell found nothing of interest-just a stream of young men with identical physical symptoms, and the sort of complaints which life in any army tended to provoke. The prospect of a court martial certainly scared them, but mostly they were there because they were terrified their girlfriends at home would find out. When it came to military secrets, the best most could manage was the name of their sergeant.
When they were both in Berlin, Russell and Shchepkin usually met at the same time and place. Bad practice in theory, but since both sides knew of their meetings any attempt at subterfuge seemed gratuitous. So later that morning Russell made his usual trek to the northeastern corner of the Tiergarten, where the open black market had flourished in the immediate post-war years, and where a panoramic sweep of the eyes could take in the gutted Reichstag, a deforested park and the Soviet monument to the Unknown Rapist.
It was a warm day, and Shchepkin was wearing a lightweight charcoal suit and open white shirt. It was the first time Russell had seen him in daylight for more than three months, and the Russian looked a lot more drawn than he remembered.
‘A lovely day,’ was Shchepkin’s opening remark.
‘For some. Your people have been hounding Effi again.’
Shchepkin didn’t look surprised. ‘What has happened?’
Russell went through the sequence of events-Effi’s appeal to Tulpanov, the withdrawal of her Leading Actor ration card, the threatened review of Rosa’s adoption.
Shchepkin listened without interrupting, occasionally shaking his head. ‘I doubt there’s anything I can do,’ he said. ‘But I wouldn’t worry about your daughter-that sounds like an empty threat to me. I can’t see them bringing up your wife’s career in Nazi films when they’ve just been saluting her in ours; and as for the father-you have evidence of his death?’
‘Several affidavits.’
‘Well, then. The important thing is for Effi to keep away from Eva Kempka and the whole Sonja Strehl business. It’s clear to me that someone important wants something kept quiet.’
‘So it wasn’t a suicide?’
‘I don’t know, and I’m happy to remain in ignorance. Tell Effi she’s playing with fire.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Succeed. Now, we have a more pressing problem to deal with. Schneider wants more from you.’
‘More what? Personal hygiene advice?’ From their only meeting, Russell had deduced an aversion to water, soap, or both.
Shchepkin gave him an exasperated look. ‘This man is a danger to us.’
‘I thought you outranked him.’
‘I do, but the friends he’s been cultivating out-rank me. And the last meeting I attended, several supported his point of view.’
‘Which is what exactly?’
‘A more aggressive approach.’
‘But what does that actually mean?’
‘I don’t know, and I doubt that he does either. He’s restless. And he doesn’t think we’re making any progress.’
‘I’ve only just got back. And I thought it was agreed that I was a long-term investment, that I’d need several years to gain enough trust from the Americans to make myself really useful.’
‘According to Schneider, it has been several years, and that far from trusting you more, the Americans are losing faith in you.’
‘Where does he get that from?’
‘I don’t know. Have you done anything to annoy them lately?’
‘Nothing special.’
Shchepkin sighed. ‘Well, we need to boost your reputation, before one side or other decides to abandon their long-term investment.’
‘And cash me in?’
‘And cash us in.’
‘Point taken. So, how do we make the Americans love me more?’
‘I’ll see what I can get out of my GRU contact,’ Shchepkin said. ‘If he knows the names of any upcoming fake defectors, then you can give them up. Which will remind the Americans of how useful you are, without upsetting Tikhomirov and Schneider.’
‘Okay.’
‘But we also need to give my bastards something to crow about-the names of some American agents in our zone would do. But not ex-Nazis-it has to be people they might actually care about.’
‘But I …’
‘Yes, you would be condemning them to death. Or Wismut if they’re lucky.’
‘Where the hell is Wismut?’
‘It’s not a place; it’s our uranium mining stock company in Saxony. Look, John, this is a war we’re fighting, and all these people are soldiers. There are no innocents in our business-one way or another, they all chose to get involved. Like I did. Like you did. Remember that.’
‘Oh, I do, believe me.’ Shchepkin rarely called him by his first name, and when he did it was always for emphasis.
‘Good. I shall expect the names next week. Is there anything else?’ The Russian seemed unusually eager to get going.
‘Yes,’ Russell remembered. ‘Johannsen wants to know what your people are planning for Berlin. We assume you know about the currency reform.’
‘Of course. And I think our response is still being discussed. One thing I do know is that our people will soon be leaving the Kommandatura.’
‘For good?’ If the Soviets abandoned the Four-Power Council, that would mean the end of joint decision-making in Berlin.
Shchepkin shrugged. ‘Who knows? If the Allies agree to exempt Berlin, then perhaps we’ll return.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘A shut-down, most likely.’
‘Meaning?’
‘No road or rail transport, in or out.’
‘A siege.’
‘More or less.’
Russell considered the implications. How would the Western sectors feed themselves? Where would they get the fuel for heat and electricity from? You couldn’t bring coal in by air. It was hard to see what the Western Allies could do, but surely they wouldn’t just throw in the towel? And if they tried to break the siege by force, then another war would erupt. He said as much.
‘It’s possible,’ Shchepkin agreed.
‘But what about the atomic bomb?’
‘Maybe Stalin knows something we don’t.’
‘A Soviet bomb.’
‘Why not?’
Why not indeed? There was nothing backward about Soviet scientists, and they’d had a lot of help from German colleagues and sympathetic spies, himself among them. It was buying his family’s safety with German atomic papers that had placed Russell at the MGB’s mercy, because if the bargain was ever disclosed, the Americans would probably arrest him for treason.