Stattin Station (27 page)
The detective's eyes took in the briefcase. 'Patrick Sullivan's?' he asked.
There was no point in denying it. Russell passed the briefcase across the counter. 'It only occurred to me this afternoon,' he said, as Kuzorra began unfastening the straps. 'But I did claim it was mine. I said I'd lost the ticket. My friend here was just being helpful.'
Kuzorra looked unconvinced. He opened the bag, briefly rifled through its contents, and closed it again. The expression on his face was more disappointed than angry. 'How did you know what to look for?' he asked.
'His wife. She let slip he was carrying a briefcase when he left home.' 'I think we'd better have a talk down at the Alex,' Kuzorra decided. 'It's time I heard the whole story in one go. Having you read me a new chapter every few days is getting more than a little tiresome.'
Russell opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it. The car was outside, Kuzorra's driver enjoying a cigarette in the falling snow. They skidded their way out of the forecourt and headed east on Invalidenstrasse before turning south onto Rosenthaler. It took only ten minutes to reach the Alex, and almost as long again tramping corridors and stairs to reach Kuzorra's office on the police building's top floor. The room was crowded but not cluttered, and a framed photograph of the detective's late wife stood on the shelf behind the main desk, allowing her to look out over his shoulder.
Kuzorra took his own seat, gestured Russell into the other, and reopened the briefcase.
'If you read the first one you'll get the idea,' Russell said helpfully.
The detective said nothing in reply, but did look up after working his way through the first document. 'Are they all like this?'
'All except for the last page.'
As Kuzorra read that, Russell watched the sequence of emotions crossing the detective's face - curiosity, anger, disgust, a bottomless grief. At last he looked up, and their eyes met.
The telephone rang.
Kuzorra listened, glanced briefly up at Russell, said 'Very well', and broke the connection. 'Stay here,' he said, 'I'll be back in a few minutes.'
What now? Russell wondered. Would he be handed over to the Gestapo or the SD? He reminded himself that he hadn't done anything seriously illegal. And Kuzorra would help if he could - not because he liked Russell, but because they hated the same people.
The minutes stretched by. He listened to the low hum of the building, the occasional footfalls in the corridor outside. The snow was still falling past the window, the courtyard below a square of ghostly light. He was supposed to be meeting Effi at the Chinese restaurant at seven, which was less than half an hour away. He was going to be late, at the very least. He considered using Kuzorra's phone, but had no idea how to get an outside line.
It was almost seven when the detective finally reappeared. He closed the door firmly behind him and leaned back against it. 'They have you, John,' he said quietly.
'What?' Russell asked, his stomach in freefall.
'I was called downstairs because they know you've been involved in my case,' Kuzorra continued. 'The Gestapo are out looking for you. At your home, the press clubs, the hotels...'
'Why?'
'Espionage.'
Russell was reminded of the day in Flanders, more than twenty years earlier, when he had first understood the expression 'almost choking with fear'.
'Your trip to Prague, someone recognised you. An informer, I think. He tied you to the communist resistance there, and the Gestapo have been showing your picture to communists they have in the camps. One man's refusal to recognise you wasn't very convincing, and they eventually got him to talk about things that happened more than two years ago. A meeting you had in the Tiergarten, naval papers you were supposed to collect in Kiel and pass on to the Reds.'
Russell remembered that day in the Tiergarten, the young man with the shaking hands who said his name was Gert.
'They showed your photograph around in Kiel as well, and someone else recognised you, a woman who was there when the papers were handed over.'
Geli, her name had been. Russell just stared at the detective. His mind seemed reluctant to work.
'What were you going to do with the papers in the briefcase?' Kuzorra asked.
Russell shook his head, hoping to set his brain in motion. 'There's a man at the US Consulate who wants them. He doesn't like big business types who betray their country. The last page I thought I'd keep for myself, and tell the world when I got out.' He managed a wry smile. 'Not that that seems very likely now.'
Kuzorra gave him a long hard look. 'I can probably get you out of the building,' he said eventually, 'but that's all I can do.'
'It sounds like a start,' Russell said. He could hear the brittleness in his own voice. Where the hell was he going to go?
Kuzorra inserted the sheaf of papers, fastened the straps on the briefcase, and handed it across. 'Your chances of making use of this are better than mine,' he said. 'Are you ready?'
'As I'll ever be,' Russell told him. His mind was still straining to catch up.
Out in the blissfully empty corridor, Kuzorra hesitated for a second, then chose a direction. 'Try to look less like a hunted animal,' he murmured as they walked towards the distant stairwell. A typewriter was clacking behind one door, voices audible behind another, but that was all.
They reached the top of the stairs at the same time as another uniformed officer. He brushed past them, offering Kuzorra a cursory greeting but hardly glancing at Russell. If questions were asked, the latter realised, the detective would find it difficult to explain why he had chosen to escort a wanted man off the premises. 'I do know the way out,' Russell said, as they hurried down the stairs. 'There's no point in us both being caught.'
'If that was true, I'd still be in my office,' Kuzorra said bluntly. 'You won't get out the way we came in.'
'If you say so.' He had counted eight flight of stairs when Kuzorra turned off down a brightly-lit corridor and headed, if Russell's directional sense was still functioning, for the interior courtyard. Another couple of turns and they seemed to be heading back towards the main frontage on Dircksenstrasse. A man in a long white coat and rubber gloves suddenly emerged in front of them, gave them an indifferent glance, and disappeared through an opposite doorway. A faint whiff of formaldehyde told Russell that they were close to the morgue, and he suddenly recognised the seating area where he'd waited more than two years previously with Eleanor McKinley before viewing her brother's body. The lost property department beyond was unstaffed, the No.2 door to the main street bolted shut for the night.
'Do you know where you are?' Kuzorra asked, as he gently pulled back the bolts.
'Yes. And thanks,' Russell said, offering his hand 'Good luck,' the detective said, shaking it firmly but briefly. As he opened one side of the double doors, a flurry of snow blew in.
Russell stepped out into the darkness, heard the door shut behind him, and fought back a rising sense of panic. One step at a time, he told himself. Turn right. Walk down to the square. Catch a train or a tram. Each step along the front of the police building seemed fraught with danger, those that carried him across the front of the No.1 entrance almost impossibly so; but no voices suddenly cried out, and no car suddenly screeched to a halt beside him.
A train, he told himself, as one rattled its way along the elevated lines to his left. He had to get out of Berlin, and trains from Alexanderplatz Station served all corners of the Reich. He had enough money on him, and he had his papers. They would surely be good for a few hours more - the Gestapo wouldn't know that he'd been warned. There would be men waiting at the flat, maybe at the press clubs, at the Adlon. And probably at his son's home, he thought with a sinking heart.
And Effi. Could he leave without at least trying to say goodbye? He couldn't read his watch in the darkness, but she would probably still be waiting for him at the Chinese restaurant. He could telephone her there, he thought, and hurried his pace towards the station.
The public booths on the street level concourse all seemed occupied, but a woman emerged from one just as he arrived. He picked up the still-warm receiver and, after another moment's panic, remembered the number. He dialled it, hoping that Ho Lung would answer. The young man's Chinese-accented German might be barely decipherable, but it was the only German on offer.
He was in luck. 'This is John Russell,' he said, as slowly and distinctly as he could manage. 'Is Fraulein Koenen there? We were supposed to meet at seven.'
'I go see,' Ho Lung said, and there was a loud thunk as he put the mouthpiece down.
As he stared out through the glass door at the milling people, the concourse clock caught Russell's eye. It was a few minutes past eight. Surely Effi would have gone home by this time.
He heard Ho Lung pick up the earpiece. 'She go,' the young man said. 'One minute, maybe two.'
Russell took a deep breath. 'Ho Lung, please, can you do me a big favour? Go after her, and bring her back. I need to talk to her. A matter of life and death, believe me.'
'Oh. But where? Which street?'
'She will be walking east, past the Universum, towards the Memorial Church. Please.'
'Okay.'
Russell sank down onto the booth seat. He had a mental picture of Ho Lung leaving the restaurant, hurrying down the snow-covered boulevard, cursing himself in Chinese for agreeing to this mad search in almost total darkness.
The telephone demanded another infusion of cash, and Russell leapt back to his feet, frantically rummaging through his pockets for the necessary pfennigs. Several coins fell to the floor, but there was enough in his hand to prolong the call. He squatted down to retrieve the others, and rose to his feet just as an impatient-looking woman tapped on his door. He raised five fingers and turned his back on her.
'John,' Effi said, in the tone of someone who'd been kept waiting for an hour.
'The Gestapo are after me,' he said without preamble. 'Kuzorra tipped me off, and I assume they're waiting at Carmerstrasse. I've got to get out of Berlin, but I want to see you before I go...'
'Why are they after you?' she asked, wondering as she did so where such a sensible question had come from. 'How serious is it?'
'The business two years ago. It couldn't be more serious.'
'But where can you go?'
'I've no idea, but...'
'Where shall we meet?' she interjected.
They were both about fifteen minutes from Zoo Station. The buffet would be crowded at this time of night, but it was also well lit. 'Zoo Station, the eastbound platform,' he decided.
'Where are you?' she asked.
He told her.
'I've got a better idea,' she said. 'You remember that bar on Friedrichstrasse, just up from the station? Siggi's. Let's meet there.'
'But...'
'I'll explain later. Trust me.'
'All right.'
'I'll make sure I'm not being followed.'
There was a click as she hung up the phone. Why Friedrichstrasse, he wondered. He hung up his own earpiece, and thought about calling Paul. He felt an intense need to tell his son, to prepare him for what was coming, to say how sorry he was. But he knew he couldn't. The Gehrts' line might be tapped by now, and the less he implicated them the better.
The same applied to Thomas.
A different woman was now raising a hand to tap the window. He acknowledged her and exited the booth, scanning the concourse for uniforms and leather coats. There were none in sight, but if they were watching the main line stations they would be at the entrance to the platforms. Was that why Effi had vetoed Zoo Station? If so, she was proving a lot quicker on her feet than he was.
He could take the S-Bahn to Friedrichstrasse, but a tram would probably be safer. Back out on Alexanderplatz he waited impatiently for one to arrive. Behind him the huge bulk of the police building was screened by snow and darkness, but he could almost feel its presence, as if the energy of all those men engaged in tracking him down was sweeping out across the city like a psychic searchlight.
The tram came. It wasn't full, and everyone on board had the opportunity to examine him and raise the alarm. No one did. He was just another German heading home.
The tram rumbled slowly down Konigstrasse, its thin blue headlights revealing nothing but rails and snow. With no visual clues as to location, the passengers were all cocking their ears for familiar sounds, like the echoing rumbles provided by the bridges across the Spree River and Canal. Thinking he had made out the vague silhouette of the Franzosische Church, Russell got off at the next stop and found himself close to Friedrichstrasse.
He walked north towards the station, passing Cafe Kranzler and crossing the snow-swept Unter den Linden. Continuing up Friedrichstrasse, he passed under the iron railway bridge and eventually singled out Siggi's Bar from the line of blacked-out premises beyond. The light inside was momentarily blinding, but his eyes soon adjusted and took in the usual Sunday evening customers - a group of older men playing skat, several individual soldiers with female company, a couple of men in a corner who looked to be holding hands under the table.
Assuming Effi was taking the S-Bahn, the trip should take her about half an hour, which meant another ten minutes. He ordered whatever was passing for schnapps, and drank it down in one gulp. He ordered another, and took that to one of the tables, ignoring the middle-aged barman's obvious desire for a chat. He looked like one of those men who were always recognising Effi.
Not that this would matter unless Russell's own name, and his association with hers, had already been broadcast on the radio. It didn't seem likely, but the possibility had obviously occurred to Effi as well - she arrived with hat pulled almost over her eyes, scarf wrapped round her mouth and nose.
'Let's go,' she said through the scarf, before Russell had time to offer her a drink. Outside on the pavement she grabbed him tightly by the arm and began steering him back towards the station.
'Where are we going?' he asked, amused in spite of himself.
'Wedding,' she said succinctly.
'Wedding?' It was north Berlin's most down-at-heel area, full of factories and old apartment blocks. Before the Nazis it had been a KPD fortress.
They reached the wide bridge which carried the Reichsbahn and S-Bahn tracks across the street, and Effi pulled him into a niche beside the closed newspaper kiosk. 'There's something I've kept from you,' she said, placing a hand on each of his shoulders. 'I have an apartment in Wedding. On Prinz-Eugen-Strasse.'
'You what?'
'Well, it's not mine. I rent it. Since the end of last year actually.'
'But...'
'I thought this day would come,' she said simply.
He looked at her, dumbfounded. 'But aren't the neighbours a bit surprised to have a film star living in their block? And won't they...'
'They don't know I'm a film star,' Effi said patiently. 'I don't rent it as myself. I rent it as a fifty-five-year-old woman who spends most of her time with her children on their farm in Saxony, but who wants somewhere to stay in Berlin, where all her old friends are. I didn't go through all those lessons in make-up from Lili Rohde for fun. No one on Prinz-Eugen-Strasse has seen me out of character, and we have to pray that no one sees us going in tonight.'
For the second time that evening, Russell was lost for words.
'We can't hide there for ever,' Effi continued, 'but it should give us a breathing space while we work out what we're going to do.'
'We?'
'Of course "we". But we can discuss all that when we get there. Let's get on the U-Bahn.'
There was no watch on the U-Bahn entrance, but the train was just crowded enough to inhibit further conversation, and neither spoke again before they reached their Leopold platz stop. Russell was still struggling to adjust. How had she arranged all this without his noticing? He had always known that Effi had many strengths, but he had never thought that strategic planning was one of them.
Back on the surface, it seemed noticeably darker than downtown, but Effi picked their way through the grid of streets without apparent difficulty. 'It's not the Adlon,' she said, as they reached the end of Prinz-Eugen-Strasse, 'but there
is
a private toilet. I thought we should see as little of the neighbours as possible. The concierge is old and deaf, which has to help, and the original block warden seemed like a nice man. He was one of my reasons for choosing this place, but he died in the summer. I haven't met his replacement, but the woman across the landing doesn't like him. Her husband is in Russia by the way. From the way she talks I'd say he was a Red in the old days.'
She stopped by the entrance to a courtyard. 'This is it,' she said, pulling her keys from her coat pocket, and heading for the doors on the left hand side. The walls of the buildings rose up into darkness, leaving Russell with the impression that he was standing at the bottom of a deep well.
The key turned smoothly, and Effi pushed into the dimly-lit interior. There was no sight or sound of the
portierfrau
, and they climbed the two flights of stairs to the first floor. Another door, another key, and they were safe inside the apartment.
It was better than Russell had expected. The block's heating was obviously adequate, and the flat, though decidedly cramped, seemed pleasant enough. The living room had space for two armchairs, a side table and two upright chairs. The kitchen, though essentially a passage leading to the small bathroom, had an electric stove and several wall cupboards well-stocked with provisions. 'A film star's perks,' Effi explained. In the bathroom itself, the various elements of her make-up kit were laid out on another narrow table.
The bedroom was just large enough to accommodate a double bed and wardrobe. Opening the latter, Russell was surprised to find a selection of his own clothes, including several of the items he had given up for lost. 'I brought all the photographs of you,' she said behind him. 'I'm afraid they won't have any trouble finding ones of me.'
He turned to embrace her. 'You're absolutely unbelievable,' he said.
'And I bought the Rugen Island jigsaw which we never got round to doing,' she added once their hug had loosened.
He didn't know whether to laugh or weep.
'I'll boil some water,' she said.
He sat down, ran a hand through his hair. He had to convince her to go back, but the thought of losing her seemed scarier than ever. Too much had happened too quickly. Much too much. He got back to his feet intent on pacing, but the room wasn't big enough. A look around the edge of the window screening revealed only darkness.
She brought in two tin mugs of tea. 'No milk, I'm afraid.'
He took his and held her eye. 'Effi, they're only after me. You had no part in the business two years ago, and there's no way they could prove otherwise. Tomorrow morning, you should go back to Carmerstrasse and... in fact, the best thing you can do is go to the Alex and report me missing.'