Stattin Station (30 page)

'He's done it,' Russell murmured with deep satisfaction. If ever the prospect of another nation entering a war was cause for celebration, then this was that moment. It was all over bar the dying, he thought.

Next morning a letter arrived for Rolf Vollmar. Its message was short and extremely sweet - 'The Kaiser Bar, Schwedter Strasse, 7pm on December 13. Ask for Rainer.'

Russell took a deep breath. Perhaps they would get out after all.

'That's tomorrow,' Effi pointed out.

'I'll go to Knieriem this evening. Just after dark.'

'Tell me if I'm being stupid,' Effi said, 'but surely the best you can get from this man is information. I mean, he's not going to have official documents at his home, is he? So there'll be nothing to show the comrades. You might just as well make something up.'

'That had occurred to me,' Russell admitted. 'If the worst comes to the worst, and Knieriem won't cooperate, that's what I'll have to do. But the real facts will come out eventually, and if it turns out that I've given false information to the Soviets there will be consequences. If Hitler loses this war, then Stalin will win it, and the NKVD will be settling a lot of old scores. I don't want us to be one of them. So while there's a chance of getting them the right information I think we should take it.'

'I suppose that makes sense,' she agreed reluctantly.

'Besides,' he added with a smile, 'I'd like to do something for the war effort.'

Franz Knieriem lived in Charlottenburg, about halfway between the S-Bahn station of that name and the Bismarckstrasse U-Bahn station. It would have been quicker to take the overground train, but Russell felt safer in the overcrowded U-Bahn. He also needed a public toilet without a resident attendant, and the only one he knew in central Berlin was secreted away next to the suburban platforms at Potsdam Station.

The first leg on the U-Bahn was uneventful. He got a seat, wedged the large travel bag between his legs, and hid behind his paper until the time came to change at Leipzigerstrasse. Another stop, and he was soon wending his way across the Potsdam Station concourse. Reaching the chosen toilet, he shut himself in a cubicle, waited until the man next door had departed, and pulled the SS uniform from the bag. The
Sicherheitsdienst
were as likely to wear plain clothes as uniforms, but someone like Knieriem would probably ask to see identification if he was wearing the latter. The uniform spoke for itself.

Back at Prinz-Eugen-Strasse he had tried it on, and discovered that the sleeves and trousers were overlong. Effi had shortened the former, and the latter now disappeared into the shiny boots. He placed the peaked cap on his head, rammed his own suit jacket and trousers into the travel bag, and waited a few minutes, hoping to ensure that anyone who had seen him arrive would not be around to watch him depart.

He flushed and walked out, just as another man entered the toilet. The latter saw him and instantly looked away. Russell admired himself in the mirror, and couldn't help noticing that the new arrival was suffering a little stage fright at the adjoining urinal. 'Heil Hitler,' he murmured spontaneously, inducing a strangled echo from the other man.

If the Nazis didn't get him, his sense of humour would.

He walked back out onto the concourse, and down the steps to the U-Bahn platform. His fellow-passengers seemed disinclined to jostle him, and some even managed ingratiating smiles. Two trains and twenty-five minutes later he was climbing out onto Bismarckstrasse. It was fully dark now, and the overcast sky blotted out moon and stars. He had memorised the way to Knieriem's house before leaving, but checked it with a kiosk proprietor before heading off into the even darker side streets. What he most looked forward to in the world beyond Germany was a night full of bright lights and laughter.

It took him about ten minutes to find the street and the house. Rather to his surprise, a young woman in a
Nachrichtenhelferinnen
uniform answered his knock on the door.

'I wish to see Herr Knieriem,' Russell said, with the air of someone who expected compliance.

She flushed for no apparent reason. 'Oh, I'm just going out. Is my father expecting you?'

'No,' he said, walking past her and into the spacious hallway. 'Please tell him Sturmbannfuhrer Scheel wishes to see him.'

She disappeared, leaving Russell to congratulate himself for not trusting an old Social Democrat. Anyone with a daughter keen enough to join an army auxiliary unit was unlikely to be handing out military secrets.

Franz Knieriem emerged, kissed his daughter goodbye, and invited Russell through to a spacious, well-heated room at the back of the house. He had lost weight since Russell had last seen him, but he still didn't look like a fighter. Thinning hair, neatly parted down the centre, topped a head that seemed too large for its features - piggy eyes, a knob of a nose, and a small fleshy mouth. Your typical Aryan.

He offered Russell a moist grip, but looked somewhat wary. 'How can I help you, Sturmbannfuhrer?'

Russell lowered himself into a plush armchair. 'Please shut the door, Herr Knieriem. This is a security matter.'

'There's no else in the house.'

'Very well. I belong to the
Sicherheitsdienst
, Herr Knieriem. You know who we are and what we do?'

'You...'

'We protect the Reich from its less visible enemies - spies, Bolsheviks, dissidents of all kinds.'

'But what has that to do with me?'

'Please, Herr Knieriem, do not be concerned. I did not mean to imply that you were such an enemy. The reason for my visit is this - we have information that you are about to be approached by a foreign agent. This man is a German, but he works for the Reds. You yourself were a Social Democrat, I believe?'

'A great many years ago,' Knieriem protested.

'Of course. But the Reds no doubt believe that they can play on past sympathies, and on family loyalties of course - your brother was a communist, was he not?'

'He was, but I can assure you...'

'Of course. You would no more pass on secrets than I would. The point, however, is that this misapprehension on the part of the enemy has presented us with a golden opportunity to mislead him.'

'I don't understand.'

Russell's hopes rose. Knieriem was clearly not the brightest spark in the blackout. 'The information which the Reds are interested in concerns our long-range bomber force. Which you, of course, are in a position to tell them about. If you tell them we will soon have a long-range capability they will believe it. And if you tell them we will not, the same will apply.'

'So what should I tell them?'

'We think dishonesty would be the best policy. You understand?'

'You mean I should tell them that such bombers will soon be ready?' Russell breathed an inner sigh of satisfaction. 'Exactly. But you'll have to say more than that. The more details you can offer, the more convincing the lie will be.'

Knieriem thought about it. 'Well, there
are
plans,' he said. 'The Me264, for example, and there are several other prototypes. The Ju390 looks promising. But none of them will be ready before 1943 at the very earliest, and only in very small numbers even then. I suppose I could speed up the development times for our Red friend, and multiply the production orders.'

'That would be ideal. You could outline the real difficulties that we are having, but then assure him that they have all been overcome. The more details the better.'

'Well, the main difficulty is the lack of resources. The need for more fighters and shorter-range bombers is considered more urgent, so they have a higher priority.' Knieriem smiled almost wistfully.

Russell frowned. 'Perhaps too much detail would be counter-productive. Perhaps it would be better if you simply told the agent that our long-range bombers are almost ready. Give the Reds something to worry about, eh? They can use up all their resources moving their factories another thousand kilometres to the East.'

'When should I expect this man to approach me? He won't come here, will he?'

'Probably not. But once he has contacted you, you must report to me at Wilhelmstrasse 102.'

'And if he doesn't?'

'Then do nothing,' Russell said, levering himself out of the armchair. 'He may be watching to make sure you are not in contact with us. That's why I came here after dark,' he added, as the obvious question dawned in the other man's eyes.

Russell got to his feet, placed the peaked cap on his head, and did up the buttons on his outside coat. 'We are relying on you, Herr Knieriem,' he said by way of farewell. 'Do not fail us.'

Back on the street, he managed to walk twenty metres before virtually exploding with laughter. He was pummelling an adjacent wall with glee when a uniformed man loomed out of the darkness and shone a torch in his face.

'Oh, pardon me,' the man stuttered, extinguishing his torch and hurrying away in the darkness. There were few more disturbing sights than a hysterical Sturmbannfuhrer.

Saturday morning dawned clear and cold. The several centimetres of overnight snow showed no sign of succumbing to the primrose-coloured sun, and children too young for the
Jungvolk
were happily hurling balls of the stuff at each other. Their triumphant peals of laughter and joyous squeals of dismay drifted up from the street like echoes from another world.

Effi insisted on breakfast in bed, but the urge to get up soon proved irresistible. While she agonised over what they should take, he wrote an account of what Knieriem had inadvertently told him, and added those sheets to the ones from Sullivan's briefcase. It was still only hearsay, but it seemed more authoritative in black and white. That done, he went out and reconnoitred the route they would take that evening. The thought of getting lost in the dark and missing their appointment was too dreadful to contemplate.

Returning an hour and a half later, he found Effi content to leave almost everything behind. Neither of them could make up their mind about the SS uniform, but its bulk eventually told against it. They also decided to leave most of Effi's cash in its hiding place under the floorboards - having that much money on them would rouse suspicion in even the dimmest official. In the end they packed only the slim sheaf of papers, enough food for a few meals and a single change of clothing for each of them. It didn't seem much to be leaving Berlin with, particularly if one was a successful film actress, and Russell lamented Effi's probable loss of a lifetime's earnings.

'I'll get most of it back after the war,' she said. 'Zarah and I opened an account in her name about a year ago, and I've moved a lot of my savings into that.'

Russell shook his head. 'Please don't tell me you've been taking flying lessons, and that there's an aeroplane waiting somewhere nearby.'

'Unfortunately not.'

The afternoon dragged on, the sun finally disappearing behind the school on the next street. They sat by the window with the blackout screens pulled back, watching the city slowly darken as the minutes ticked by. As the time for leaving approached, a pale light on the roofs opposite reflected the rising of the moon. Would that help or hinder their escape, Russell wondered. There was no way of knowing.

They left at a quarter past six. Effi had seen no point in taking the keys to the apartment, but Russell thought it far from certain that the comrades would agree to help them. No promises had yet been made. All they had was a meeting. They might be back in a couple of hours.

The walk took them past block after block of run-down apartments, past the bakery that filled the air with its nostalgic odours, past still-humming electrical works and an abandoned-looking chocolate factory. By the time they reached Gesundbrunnen Station a three-quarter moon was hanging over the Plumpe and, as they crossed the bridge overlooking the locomotive roundhouse, the snow-covered roofs to the east stretched away in a jumble of luminescence.

The Kaiser Bar was huddled in deep shadow on the eastern side of Schwedter Strasse. The interior looked as if it hadn't been decorated since before the first war, and the old, leather-lined booths that stretched along one wall were as faded and worn as the only customers - two old men playing dominoes at a table on the other side of the room. Pride of place behind the sparse-looking bar belonged to a group photograph of Hertha's championship-winning team of 1931.

The middle-aged man behind the bar wished them welcome in a less than welcoming tone.

'We're here to see Rainer,' Russell told him.

After lifting an eyebrow in apparent surprise, the barman disappeared through a door at the back. He re-emerged only seconds later with finger beckoning.

Walking through, Russell and Effi found themselves in a large windowless room. There was a second door on the far side, and most of the available floor-space was occupied by upright wooden chairs in various states of decrepitude. A Party meeting room, Russell assumed. Like the Party, it had seen better days.

Two men were waiting for them. One was about Russell's age, a burly, balding man with worn hands and a leathery face that had spent most of its days outdoors. The other was probably in his early twenties, wiry and snub-nosed with a shock of dark hair. Given Strohm's job and known connections, it seemed fairly certain that both were Reichsbahn employees.

The older man invited them to sit. 'This is John Russell,' he said, as if others were present who needed to know. 'And this is Effi Koenen,' the slightest edge of distaste colouring his intonation. 'An excellent disguise,' he added.

'That was the intention,' she said coldly.

Russell gave her a warning glance.

'I believe you have something for us,' the man said to him.

'And you are?' Russell asked.

The man offered a thin smile. 'You know whom I represent. You don't need a name.'

Russell shrugged, removed the folded sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket, and handed it over.

The man read it through twice, and reached the same conclusion as Effi. 'You could have made this up.'

'I could,' Russell agreed. 'But I didn't.'