Stattin Station

She gave him a hard stare. 'Well, the police turned our flat upside-down looking for something, and what else were they looking for? So they weren't on the... you know, when they found him...'

'The people who killed your husband must have taken them.'

'I don't think so. If they did, why are they watching me?'

'What? How do you...'

'There are men watching me. There's a car outside our building all day. I called that Kriminalinspektor and he said it wasn't his people. So who else can it be?'

A good question, Russell thought. Was this why Kuzorra thought there was still something to find? 'Did they follow you here?' he asked, looking round. He couldn't remember any suspicious-looking characters entering the cafe since her arrival.

'No,' she said. 'I left by the back entrance, and I made sure no one followed me onto the U-Bahn.'

She was, Russell realised, smarter than she looked.

'Look,' she said, 'I don't know whether to believe you or not. When Patrick left home that morning he had the briefcase with him, so he must...'

Russell stopped listening. The strange direction from which Sullivan had appeared at Stettin Station - it suddenly made sense. The ticket... he must have found a chance to drop it, or more likely swallow it.

She was looking at him, expecting an answer.

'Your husband wasn't carrying anything when those men led him away,' he said truthfully. And Kuzorra, he realised, had made no mention of it. 'Did you tell the police about the briefcase?'

'No, of course not. They wouldn't let me sell the papers. They might even arrest me for knowing about them.'

'Maybe he left them in safe keeping at one of the foreign press clubs,' Russell improvised. 'I'll make some discreet enquiries. What does it look like?'

She said nothing, but the suspicion in her eyes was eloquent enough. 'I won't cut you out,' he said reassuringly. 'If I find the papers, and if we can sell them, then we'll split the proceeds 50-50. Fair enough?'

She wanted to protest, but was clever enough to know that he held all the cards. 'All right,' she said grudgingly.

It was a brown leather briefcase with two straps. Sullivan's initials were embossed in gold above the lock.

Russell walked her back to the U-Bahn station, watched her disappear down the steps, and sought out a public telephone. Over recent months the Gestapo had taken to cutting off the American Consulate whenever the mood seemed right, but on this particular day they must have been harassing other innocents. He got straight through, and persuaded the telephonist to summon Joseph Kenyon.

'I need to see you and Dallin,' he told the diplomat.

'Now?' Kenyon asked.

'Tomorrow morning will do,' Russell said, remembering his promise to be home by five.

There was a pause. 'Say ten o'clock,' Kenyon said. 'I'll try and round up Scott.'

'Good.'

Russell only realised that he'd forgotten to visit the hospital as he let himself into the flat. Effi was not yet back, but his son would be home from school. He unhooked the phone and dialled the Grunewald number. Paul himself answered, and sounded genuinely pleased to hear from his father.

Their usual Saturday afternoon get-together had, however, once again fallen victim to the insatiable appetite of the Hitlerjugend. The whole day had been taken over for a 'terrain game' in Havelland, and, as if that wasn't enough, four further hours on Sunday morning had been set aside for training in the laying of telephone cables. Russell sometimes wondered if Germany's youth would have any energy left by the time they were called up, but Paul seemed unfazed by the fullness of his weekend. 'Could we go to the game on Sunday afternoon?' he asked. 'I should be finished in time.'

Russell was delighted. They hadn't been for a while - Paul had not seemed keen, and Russell found it hard to feel enthusiastic about football in the middle of a war, though this was not a view shared by his fellow Berliners. Attendances had swollen over the last year, despite the fact that many of the best players and a high proportion of the regular fans were strewn across Europe at the Wehrmacht's bidding. 'I'd like that,' he said.

'So would I,' Paul agreed, and their goodbyes were imbued with the sort of simple father-son camaraderie that both had once taken for granted. A few minutes later Effi walked in, and was suitably shocked by his bandaged head. 'What...'

'It's nothing,' he reassured her. 'Someone took a shot at me. Just a crease. I'm fine.'

'Someone took a shot at you?'

'In Prague.'

'Have you seen a doctor?'

'In Prague. A Czech doctor. I meant to go today but...'

'Let me look at it.'

'There's no need...'

'Sit down!'

He did as he was told, and she began unwinding the bandage.

'How's the filming going?' he asked.

'I don't want to talk about it. Not until I've had a drink anyway. And I'm afraid I still haven't got to the shops; we'll have to eat out.' The bandage was off, and the wound seemed clean enough. She felt relieved, but also frightened at the closeness of the shave. 'And stop trying to change the subject. Who was it shot you? And why?'

'The Czech Resistance.'

'Well, they're rotten shots. This doesn't look too bad.'

'The worst bit is having to explain the bandage to everyone I meet.'

She smiled in spite of herself, and went into the bathroom. 'One of those woolly ski caps we bought in Innsbruck would cover it up,' she said, rifling through the medicine cabinet.

'Yes. And add a hint of sartorial joie de vivre to Ribbentrop's press conferences.'

She emerged with a new dressing. 'Now tell me the whole story.'

He gave her a detailed precis of his twelve hours in Prague.

'You were lucky,' she said when he was finished. 'And I don't just mean with the bullet.'

'Not that lucky. Canaris made the Swiss arrangement conditional on my delivering the message.'

'So that's off,' she said, failing to hide her disappointment.

'Not necessarily,' Russell told her. 'I have another idea.'

At ten the following morning he was ringing the doorbell at the American Consulate. A sprinkling of snow had fallen overnight, and both Kenyon and Dallin were waiting in Russian-style overcoats. The three of them walked across Pariser Platz, past the Brandenburg Gate and into the festive-looking Tiergarten.

'Any news?' Russell asked, as three fighters flew past a half-kilometre or so to the north. The BBC news of the previous evening had reported 'rising tension' in the Far East, but nothing more specific.

'No,' Kenyon told him, pausing to light one of his cigarettes. 'But we're still thinking days rather than weeks.'

'What about you,' Dallin asked. 'Have you seen Knieriem yet?'

'I tried,' Russell lied. 'I went round to his house last night, and there were two official cars outside. I think Herr Knieriem has thrown in his lot with the Nazis.'

'That doesn't necessarily follow,' Dallin insisted. 'He could be...'

'I know he could,' Russell interjected. 'But it didn't seem like the right moment to find out.'

They all fell silent as a well-wrapped nanny walked by with her two charges, one still in a pram, the other clasping a snowball and clearly itching to throw it.

'So when are you going back?' Dallin asked, looking warily over his shoulder.

'Maybe tonight, but that's not what I wanted to see you about.' He stopped and turned to Kenyon. 'I think I may know where those documents are, the ones Sullivan was going to give us.'

'Where?' Kenyon asked, his eyes lighting up.

Russell ignored the question and turned to Dallin. 'But I need something from you in exchange,' he told the Intelligence man. 'Remember the idea of setting me up in Switzerland as a channel between you and the Abwehr, and the job I was supposed to do in Prague for Canaris as proof of my usefulness and loyalty? Well, the SD torpedoed the job, and Canaris is probably less fond of me than he was. So I need you to push my case from your end, tell Canaris how useful it would be for you and him to have me there in Switzerland.'