'Okay, we could try and get across a border. Switzerland is the obvious choice, being neutral, and I have a feeling we could survive in Denmark if we got there. Going east would be suicidal, going west... well, Holland, Belgium and France are all occupied, and we wouldn't be safe until we got to Spain, which is a hell of a long way away. So, Switzerland or Denmark. But how do we get there? We can't use our own papers, and neither of us - as far as I know - has any facility at forging documents.'
'No,' she agreed, walking into the bedroom and rummaging under the bed. 'But I do have these,' she said, pulling out an apparent pile of brown paper. She spread the paper out, revealing the uniform of an SS Sturmbannfuhrer. 'I also have a Luftwaffe pilot, a Reichfrauenschaft official and a nurse,' she added.
Russell shook his head in amazement. 'From the wardrobe department?' he guessed.
'I was spoilt for choice,' she confessed.
'They might come in useful,' he said, 'but without new papers... Any long distance train journey, there are checks every hour or so. And the moment someone asks for ours, we're done for. We wouldn't get a second chance.'
'Oh.'
'We'll have to get some papers from somewhere,' he said. Precisely where was another matter. Zembski's demise, while always unfortunate for Zembski, now also seemed fatal to their own prospects. Russell couldn't look up another Comintern forger in the Berlin telephone directory.
But he did still have a line to the comrades. Strohm could - and probably would - pass on a request for help.
Would they help? Russell felt he was owed - it was, after all, his passing of naval secrets to the Soviets which had put the Gestapo on his tail. Then again, Stalin and his NKVD were not known for their nostalgic sense of gratitude. But he would have to try them. There was no one else. Kenyon would want to help, if only to get his hands on Sullivan's papers, but now that the Gestapo had abandoned all pretence of following the diplomatic rules there was nothing he could actually do.
'I'll go to Strohm,' he said. 'My railwayman,' he added, remembering he had never told Effi the name. 'He may be able to help us, either with getting hold of some papers, or even with getting us out of the country.'
'That sounds good,' she agreed, deciding to share in his confidence. They had to remain positive, or they were lost. She took a peek round the corner of the window screen. 'There's not going to be an air raid tonight, is there?'
'Not unless the British have completely lost their senses.'
'Good. We can wait until morning before turning you into my older brother...'
'Your brother!?'
'My husband died some years ago, and I'm much too old for a fancy man.' She thought for a moment. 'We should probably leave something to suggest that you're sleeping in here, just in case we have visitors.'
'Can't we just bolt the door?'
'We can at night. But it'll look a bit suspicious during the day.'
'You're probably right,' he admitted.
'You know your English saying about clouds having a golden lining?'
'Silver.'
'Whichever. Well, I don't have to get up at half past four in the morning. The limousine driver will bang on our door in vain.'
'The neighbours will be ecstatic.'
She laughed, the first time she had done so that evening. 'I think I'm ready for bed,' she said. 'Not that I think I'll sleep.'
She did though, much to Russell's surprise. If the truth were told, she had amazed him almost daily since their first meeting almost eight years before. He lay awake in the dark unfamiliar room, marvelling at her resourcefulness, fearful of what the future held for them both. At least they still had each other. He told himself how lucky he had been to meet and know her, to be loved by her. All in all, he decided, he had enjoyed a fairly charmed forty-two years on the planet. He had grown up in a rich country at peace; he had, unlike so many of his friends, survived the horror of the trenches with both body and mind intact. He had been there in the thick of things after the war, when the world seemed dizzy with the hope of something better. That dream might have died, but he wouldn't have missed the dreaming. He had mostly enjoyed his work; he had her and a wonderful, healthy son.
The trouble was, he wanted another forty-two years.
He could just about envisage an escape, but the chances were thin. Better of course than those of the Jews, now that Heydrich and Co. were ordering indicator-free pesticides in vast quantities. Europe's Jews looked doomed. Even if Moscow survived, if the Soviets held out and the Americans entered the war against Germany before the year was out, the Nazis would still have time for a killing spree that sane people would struggle to find imaginable. He thought about the briefcase sitting in the other room, and Sullivan's handwritten postscript to all the proof of corporate perfidy. Would the governments in London, Washington and Moscow be convinced? And even if they were, would they care?
They woke together, a sign of change if ever there was one. He made them cups of ersatz coffee and told her what he'd found in Sullivan's briefcase. She sat there, staring into space and wondering at her own lack of surprise.
'We need a newspaper,' Russell announced, once they'd done the usual ablutions and eaten their usual breakfast. 'We need to know if all Berlin is looking for us, or only the Gestapo.'
She greyed his hair and eyebrows, lined his face, and fixed the small moustache, assuring him that the latter wouldn't fall off if he sneezed. 'When we do come to take it off, you'll realise how firmly it's attached,' she added ominously. She also insisted on his wearing gloves and the woolly hat. His head wound was healing faster than he expected, but the tiny lawn in his meadow of hair was something of a giveaway.
'I'll do myself while you're out,' she said, handing him a pair of keys. 'You remember who you are?'
'Rolf Vollmar. From Gelsenkirchen,' he said promptly. 'My house was bombed out by the British, and I'm staying with my sister Eva until I'm fully recovered.'
'Good,' she said. 'Do you know how to get back to the U-Bahn station?'
'I'm sure I can find it.'
'Right outside the door. Then left, right and left again.'
He let himself out and descended the stairs, feeling more than a little nervous. He knew how good Effi was at make-up, how long she had practised the difficult art of using theatrical make-up outside the theatre, but he still found it hard to believe that people would be taken in by his disguise.
There was no sign of the portierfrau, and no one on the snow-covered street. There were plenty of footprints though, large ones for the workers now ensconced in the factories, small ones for the children now at their school desks. There was also a strong smell of bread being baked, which presumably came from a nearby bakery. The odour was actually enticing, which raised the interesting question of what happened to the loaves between factory and shop.
He walked towards the first turning, taking care not to slip on a patch of ice - this was no time for breaking a bone. Effi's insistence on sharing whatever fate had in store had meant a lot to him, but in the cold light of morning he found himself wondering how selfish he was being. Should he just take off, take a local train away from Berlin, and try working his way towards a border in short and hopefully inconspicuous leaps? He might get near enough to try a night crossing on foot. It was possible.
But would it save her? Probably not. They would probably arrest her and torture her. If by some miracle he got out, the Gestapo wouldn't just smile, admit defeat, and move on; that wasn't their style. They'd want someone to punish, and she would be available.
Or was he just frightened of striking out alone?
He didn't know. He would try with Strohm, but he wasn't hopeful. He thought Strohm would agree to carry the message, but the chances of a swift reply, let alone a positive one, seemed remote. The most likely outcome was a long and dangerous wait culminating in refusal. Why would the comrades rush to help him? Unlike two years ago, he had nothing to offer them. They weren't interested in the perfidy of American corporations; they took that for granted.