'None whatsoever. As you can see, the seal is unbroken.'
Giminich broke it, and removed what looked like a single sheet half-covered in type. After reading it through he passed the letter to his junior.
'What does it say?' Russell asked, intent on emphasising his ignorance of the contents.
Giminich ignored the question. 'This is Untersturmfuhrer Schulenburg,' he told Russell. 'You will be spending the morning with him.'
'Why?'
'Ah. Perhaps we should begin at the beginning. Please, take a seat,' he added, indicating one of the upright chairs. 'Your meeting with Johann Grashof is at the Sramota Cafe, at two o'clock, the furthest table from the entrance. Yes?'
'You are well informed,' Russell said dryly.
'Much better than yourself, I imagine. What do you know about Johann Grashof?'
'That he's an officer in the Abwehr. Apart from that, absolutely nothing.'
'But you know what he looks like?'
'Yes, I was shown a photograph.'
'Would it surprise you to know that Grashof is a traitor to the Reich?'
'It would.'
Giminich brought his two palms together and balanced his chin on the ends of his fingers. 'Earlier this year certain information was leaked to the British Embassy in Belgrade, information that only three people had access to. Two were away when the leak occurred, but the third - Grashof - was considered above suspicion by Berlin. Then, two months ago, a captured Czech terrorist admitted that he and his organisation had been receiving information from a Wehrmacht source. He had not met this source himself, but he claimed that another terrorist - one that we already had in custody - had met the man. This terrorist was questioned, and eventually produced a vague description - he said he had only met our suspect in the blackout. As before, the description and the information passed on pointed to one of three men, and, as before, two of those men were quickly able to prove their innocence. And once again the third man was Grashof.'
'So why is he still at large?'
Giminich nodded, as if conceding a point. 'The case is not quite complete,' he admitted. 'Herr Grashof has several influential supporters, and they have found it extremely difficult to believe in his treachery. But now, with your assistance, we will soon have enough evidence to convince even the most sceptical.'
Russell couldn't help grimacing.
'You will keep your appointment with him, but deliver a different message. You will tell him, using these exact words: "The Admiral says that you're in danger, and advises you to run".'
'But...'
'You will then ask Grashof if he has any final message for the Admiral. Do you understand?'
Only too well, Russell thought. If Grashof accepted the instruction, he would be condemning both himself and Canaris. And once the two men were revealed as traitors, then those who carried messages between them were unlikely to receive any favours; Russell's own hopes of a comfortable Swiss exile would certainly be over, along with any chance of seeing Effi while the war lasted. And worse than that was a distinct possibility. 'I understand what you'd like me to do,' he said, 'but as I'm sure you can see, this puts me in a very difficult position. I have no personal knowledge of this man Grashof, but I find it hard to believe that Admiral Canaris is a traitor to the Reich...'
'There is no difficulty here,' Giminich interrupted. 'As a resident of the Reich you are obliged, like everyone else, to obey its laws, and treason is most definitely against those laws. If Canaris and Grashof are innocent then that will become clear, and no harm will be done, while if they do prove to be traitors, you will have done the Reich a useful service. What is the problem?'
They had him, Russell thought. He had only one more card, and it was a low one. 'When we met at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse you said my loyalty did me credit.'
Giminich smiled. 'And so it did. But the situation has changed. Where treason is concerned, loyalty becomes a very risky business, something to weigh very carefully. Your cooperation in this matter would certainly remove any doubts about your own position.'
'And if I refuse?' Russell asked.
Giminich shrugged. 'Would threats help you make up your mind?'
'Let's just say I like to know exactly where I stand.'
'Very well. You may have thought that we had forgotten about you since 1939. Your file is a long one, Herr Russell, well-researched and very up-to-date. Your girlfriend, your son, your Jew-lover of a brother-in-law and his son - their lives could all get a lot more difficult. You yourself would forfeit any chance of leaving Germany, and, at best, undergo imprisonment as an enemy alien for the duration of the war. I think we can agree, here, just between us, that this will be a long war. The United States will doubtless join in eventually, but the Atlantic is very wide, and they will find it as hard to cross as we shall. A stalemate seems very likely, and many years for you to regret refusing your services in this matter.'
'No' was not an option, Russell thought. It very rarely was where the Sicherheitsdienst was involved. 'You've convinced me,' he told Giminich. Maybe something would occur to him over the next few hours, some devious means of sabotaging the intended trap that could not be blamed on him, but it didn't seem very likely.
'Excellent,' Giminich said. 'We have reserved a room for you at the Alcron Hotel. Untersturmfuhrer Schulenburg will take you there now, and then to the Sramota Cafe for your treff with Herr Grashof. Anything you require, please ask. Once your part is over, your time is your own. The hotel room is yours until tomorrow, though I believe your return ticket is for this evening.'
'It is. And I do need to be back in Berlin tomorrow.' He didn't, but insisting that he still had an agenda of his own made him feel slightly less helpless.
Schulenburg led him outside to where an ancient-looking black saloon was waiting. Two more men in suits were sitting in the front seats, both of whom looked like Czechs. The Untersturmfuhrer had not opened his mouth in the station office, and his directions to the driver revealed a surprisingly deep voice. He ushered Russell into the back seat and joined him there, absent-mindedly pressing down on his unruly ginger thatch.
The streets of Prague seemed sombre to Russell, but that might just have been the overcast sky. According to the BBC, Heydrich's executioners had hardly enjoyed a moment's rest since early November, but as Russell knew only too well from Berlin, the sufferings of a small minority could pass almost unnoticed by their fellow citizens.
They had reached Jindoisska Street, which now bore the name Heinrichsgasse. As in 1939, giant swastikas adorned the upper facade of the Post Office and nearby Deutsches Haus, but traffic was noticeably lighter. There were a couple of trams in the distance, but no cars beyond their own. As they turned onto Wenzelsplatz another black saloon could be seen parked further up the slope, but that was all - this piece of occupied Europe had apparently exhausted its petrol ration.
Lepanska Street had also been re-christened, but Russell failed to catch the new name. The dark, rectangular and depressingly modern Alcron seemed unchanged from 1939, when he had eschewed it and its predominantly German clientele in favour of the Europa.
Once inside the impression improved, although sharing the small lift with two violently sneezing SS officers was hardly conducive to good health. His room, it turned out, was actually two - a sitting room, with a child's bed, leading into a large bedroom. Both had large windows overlooking the canyon-like street.
Russell looked at his watch - it was ten to ten. He had just over four hours to figure some way out of his and Grashof's predicament. Breakfast would be a start.
'I'd like some coffee,' he told Schulenburg. 'And something to eat. A couple of rolls will do.'