Stattin Station

'Don't ask,' Russell said, and somewhat to his surprise Kuzorra didn't.

They settled into the front seats and Russell gazed through the windscreen at the Brandenburg Gate as the detective searched his pockets for matches.

'So how's the case going?' Russell asked. He was still smiling inside at the news from Moscow.

'Not so good. Stimulating, though. I gave Schwering the number of the Mercedes, and he came back about half an hour later with some ridiculous story about it being burnt out in an accident on the Avus Speedway. I gave one of my own men the same job - without telling Schwering, of course - and he tracked the car down in fifteen minutes.'

'SD?'

Kuzorra blew out smoke. 'No, as it happens. It's registered to Fordwerke, the German subsidiary of the American corporation.' He turned his head to look at Russell. 'Now why would people like that want Herr Sullivan dead?'

'I don't know,' Russell said, 'but I could offer a guess.'

'Be my guest.'

Russell ignored the sarcastic tone; in Kuzorra's shoes he would probably have found himself a pain in the arse. 'Sullivan knew most of the German business leaders with American ties. He was called in - or called himself in - whenever Americans came over for meetings, either here or in Switzerland.

You know, nice hotels, good food, the high life in general. He helped with the interpreting, particularly when one side or another was anxious to keep the discussion under wraps. Mostly the language side of things, but the cultural stuff too - making sure they all understood each other.'

'I get the picture.'

'Well, imagine a few things. One, those American businesses with interests in Germany are afraid that American entry into the war will seriously dent their profits. Two, they reach some sort of secret deal which allows them to carry on doing business with their German subsidiaries, and Sullivan's there when they reach it. Three, Sullivan decides he's had enough of the Nazis and wants to go home. But given that he's been defecating on the United States from a great height for several years he badly needs a sweetener, something that'll buy his way back into the good graces of the US government.'

'With you as the go-between.'

'He asked to meet me. I do know he wanted to go home, but the rest is guesswork. I don't know what sort of deal he had in mind.'

Kuzorra thought about it. 'The American Government cares about this stuff?' he eventually asked.

'So I'm told.'

'So the German subsidiaries of these American businesses killed Sullivan to stop him blowing the whistle on them.'

'German, American - it doesn't matter. This is just money talking. These people don't let national loyalties get in the way of making a profit.'

'Hmm.' Kuzorra began another search for his matches.

'I don't think you want to solve this one,' Russell told him.

'Oh, but I do.'

'Pressure from above?'

'You heard the Reichsminister the other morning.'

'Can't you have a private chat with him?'

Kuzorra grunted. 'And say what? He won't be satisfied with guesses. If I'm going to accuse one of Germany's biggest industrial concerns of murder then I'm going to need some proof. There are no forensics, no witnesses, and the motive you've just offered me sounds like Soviet propaganda.'

'What about the car?'

'I imagine it has been burnt out by now.'

They stared at the Brandenburg Gate for a little bit longer. 'I still think there's something to find,' Kuzorra said at last. 'Schwering's bouncing round the office like a man who's terrified of missing something.'

'What'll you do if you find it first?'

'I'll take it to Goebbels, have the satisfaction of wiping the smile off the little rat's face, and humbly agree with whatever plan he comes up with for saving his own reputation.'

'Little victories,' Russell said, reaching for the door.

'The only ones we get,' Kuzorra agreed, turning the key in the ignition. Back inside the hotel, Russell decided lunch was more pressing than the Foreign Office press conference. The quality of the food gave him reason to regret the decision, but the briefing, as he discovered on reaching the Press Club an hour or so later, had been equally dire. Von Stumm had offered no new information worth the name, and had treated the assembled foreign journalists to twenty minutes of pathetic bluster. 'I almost felt sorry for him,' one of the Americans admitted, as if that alone was cause for bitterness.

The hubbub in the bar made Russell's head hurt, reminding him that he still hadn't seen a doctor. The Elisabeth Hospital was only a ten-minute walk away, and he had just decided to pay it a visit when a member of the Press Club staff appeared in the doorway, holding a letter. Spotting Russell, he walked across to deliver it. 'This arrived yesterday,' he said.

The envelope was addressed to John Russell, c/o the Foreign Press Club, Leipziger Platz. The letter was from Frau Marianne Sullivan. She had 'vital information', and wanted to meet him for their 'mutual benefit.' A telephone number was attached.

Russell headed for the booth on the ground floor, but changed his mind at the last moment. Collecting his coat, he walked across Potsdamer Platz to the main line station and found a booth there. The phone rang three times before she answered. Her voice sounded tired, almost cynical, but perked up a little when he told her who he was. Yes, she could meet him that afternoon. She lived in Dahlem, but he couldn't come to her flat. Did he know Wilmersdorf? There was a coffee shop named Werner's on the Hohenzollerndamm, about a hundred metres from the Fehrbelliner Platz U-Bahn station, going towards the city centre.

He said he could find it.

'At three o'clock,' she stipulated. 'I'll be carrying one of Patrick's books.'

'I'll be there.'

Another broken-down tram was gumming up the tracks, and he arrived almost fifteen minutes late. The coffee shop had clearly seen better times, but it wasn't alone in that, and an aura of middle-class respectability still clung, somewhat shabbily, to the mostly female clientele. None of the women had books on display though, and he was beginning to wonder whether he'd been stood up when she finally appeared in the doorway, one of Sullivan's novels clasped to her chest. She was younger and prettier than Russell had expected - a small thin blonde of about thirty-five with large blue eyes and a born-to-pout mouth. She was wearing black.

He introduced himself, let her choose their table in a lonely corner, and murmured 'an accident' in response to her questioning look at his bandaged head. His expressions of regret for her recent loss were shrugged aside - either she was putting a very brave face on widowhood or she was less bothered than he was.

'How long were you married?' Russell asked, purely out of curiosity. Sullivan had never mentioned a wife.

'Almost two years,' she answered, once the waitress had taken his coupons and gone off in search of coffee and cake. 'He was very good to me,' she added almost grudgingly. 'He was taking me to Italy once he had the money from those papers.'

Russell managed not to look surprised. 'Italy?' he asked.

'Away from the war,' she explained. 'And winters like this.'

'So what information do you have for me?' Russell asked.

The waitress arrived with their coffees and a creamy-looking confection that IG Farben had probably created between batches of synthetic rubber.

She took a bite and made a face. 'I think you already have the information,' she said, after wiping her lips. 'You do have Patrick's papers, don't you? Well, I want my share of whatever it is they're worth. I was his wife.'

'I don't have his papers,' Russell told her.

She wasn't convinced. 'Look, I'm sorry I told the police that Patrick was meeting you at Stettin Station. I was flustered.'

'I still don't have any of your husband's papers. What makes you think I do?'