The curtain closed again, and Russell waited a few moments before driving off. He had parked between streetlights, and didn't think he'd been seen, but he didn't want to advertise his presence by starting the engine. Let them get back to whatever it was they were doing.
In motion once more, he followed the Spree to Sommer Strasse, cut past the Brandenburg Gate into Pariser Platz, and pulled up in front of the Adlon. There were hardly any cars on Unter den Linden - in fact the traffic had been light all evening. Commandeered by the army, he supposed, and now axle-deep in Silesian mud. 'But not you' he told the Hanomag, tapping its steering-wheel.
The Adlon Bar was not exactly hopping - a party of lugubrious-looking Swedish businessmen, a mixed group of SS and Kriegsmarine officers, a spattering of lone foreigners staring into their glasses and pining for the days when a night in Berlin spelled entertainment. And in the corner, playing rummy, Dick Normanton and Jack Slaney.
Their steins were full, so Russell took them a couple of chasers. 'Who's winning?' he asked, just as Normanton went down with a triumphant flourish.
'The bloody English are winning,' Slaney complained, writing it down on the score sheet. 'That's two marks and forty pfennigs,' he said.
'Last of the big-time gamblers,' Russell murmured. 'Can I join in?'
'You'll need twenty pfennigs,' Normanton told him, shuffling the cards.
'So, what's new?' Russell asked. 'I only just got back from Prague,' he added in explanation.
'How are the Czechs doing?' Slaney asked.
'As well as can be expected.'
'There's more trouble in Danzig,' Normanton said, dealing out the cards. 'The Poles won't let the Danzig Germans sell their herrings and margarine in Poland until the Danzig Germans accept their new customs officers. So the Danzig Germans are muttering darkly about opening their frontier with East Prussia and selling the stuff there.'
'Are the East Prussians short of herrings and margarine?' Russell asked.
Normanton laughed. 'Who knows?'
'Who cares?' Slaney added, arranging his cards.
'So we're waiting to see who backs down?' Russell asked.
'That's about it. But I can't see Hitler going to war over herring and margarine. It's not exactly a rallying cry, is it?'
'The important stuff 's happening in Moscow,' Slaney said. 'Molotov met the German Ambassador this morning, and was a damn sight more affable with him than he was with the French and British ambassadors yesterday.'
'Any hard information on what they discussed?' Russell asked.
'None. Lots of rumours though: the Germans are willing to give the Soviets a free hand in the Baltic states, they'll share Poland with the Soviets if the Poles make the mistake of starting a war. According to our man in Moscow, the German Ambassador had the nerve to tell Molotov that the anti-Comintern Pact isn't aimed at the Soviets.'
'Then who the hell is it aimed at?'
'That's what Molotov asked. The Ambassador told him there was no point in dwelling on the past. One of the Soviets leaked this to our guy because he couldn't believe his ears, and wanted a second opinion.'
'No government statement here?'
'Not a word. They're playing this close to their chests.'
'Sounds serious.'
Slaney grunted. 'The British and French don't seem to think so. Their delegation left for Moscow yesterday. Guess how they're getting there?'
'They can't have gone by train?'
'Worse. They've taken a boat, and the slowest one they could find. Some obsolete warship with a top speed of twelve knots. They should be in Moscow by the middle of the month.'
'It would be quicker to walk,' Russell observed.
'Jim Danvers came up with a good line,' Normanton said. 'He said the British and French had missed the boat by catching it.'
'Not bad at all,' Slaney agreed. 'Remind me to steal it.'
Two hours later and several marks poorer, Russell drove back through the wet and empty streets to Neuenburger Strasse. Would Hitler and Stalin really do a deal, he wondered? Both would have a mountain of words to eat, but the advantages were obvious. A free hand for Hitler, time for Stalin. Poland kaput.
The only message by the unhooked telephone was for Dagmar, the blonde waitress on the third floor. 'Siggi is desperate,' Frau Heidegger had written. 'He must see you tomorrow.' Dagmar was obviously not at home, and probably sleeping with Klaus. He would get an update from Frau Heidegger in the morning.
The stairs seemed endless. It was less than twenty-four hours since the sand dryer, but it seemed a lot longer. After taking off his jacket he extracted the slip of paper with Hornak's suggested contact details from his wallet. How long before they were safe to use, he wondered, now that the local Gestapo had come calling?
Friday morning was grey as Berlin stone, and the giant swastikas on Wilhelmstrasse hung limp in the humid air. In the Kranzler Cafe the waiters seemed more interested in arguing with each other than in serving their customers, and Russell's coffee was lukewarm. The newspapers lauded the imprisonment of a Wittenberge worker for laziness, but conspicuously failed to mention either Danzig or Soviet-German relations.
Time to earn your living, Russell told himself. The Bristol Hotel had a convenient bank of public telephones, and while the booths lacked the luxurious fittings of those in the Adlon, they were much less frequented by his fellow journalists. He settled down on a cushioned seat to make his calls.
Over his years in Berlin, Russell had met a lot of influential people in government, arts and the media. Most leaned to the left politically, and many had lost their jobs when the Nazis came to power; some had even left the country. But a surprising number were still in the same positions, keeping their heads down and waiting for the whole shocking business to blow over. Self-preservation was an obvious priority, and precluded open criticism, but briefings off the record were another matter. The urge to stick spokes in the Nazi wheel was surprisingly widespread.
Sometimes, though, there was no dirt to dish. After speaking to a dozen people, Russell was no nearer to knowing how likely a Nazi-Soviet agreement might be. Some of his contacts had laughed at the idea, others had thought it possible, but only one man - an economist who worked for the Trade Ministry - had anything definite to tell him. A trade agreement between the two countries was a racing certainty, the man said, but there was no guarantee that a political deal would follow.
He dropped in on the Adlon Bar to make sure no official briefings were imminent, and checked his wire service. A three word message had arrived the previous night from San Francisco: 'How about Silesia?'
'How about it?' Russell muttered to himself, but he saw his editor's point. As far as the international community was concerned, Danzig looked like a soluble problem. The Poles might not like it, but Danzig was, in the last resort, a German city. A bilateral deal that included its peaceful absorption into the Reich would not involve the Poles in giving up any of their own territory.
Upper Silesia was a different matter. Poland had been reformed in 1918 from the debris of the German, Austrian and Russian Empires, and any reversal of that process could only be seen as a national death-knell. If Hitler went for Upper Silesia - or for any of the other so-called 'lost territories' - his intent would be crystal-clear. So what was happening down there? Was the border between the two Silesias as tense as Poland's border with Danzig? It would be worth a trip to find out.
Russell went back to the Hanomag, collected the The Good Soldier Schweik from under the seat, and walked round the southern side of Pariser Platz to the new American Embassy. As usual, a long line of anxious-looking Jews stretched around the corner from the front entrance on Herman Goering Strasse. They were queuing, if Russell's memory served him right, for the right to enter America in 1944.