Winter of the World (39 page)

Volodya groaned. The Adlon was Berlin’s swankiest hotel. It was located on Unter den Linden. Because it was in the government and diplomatic district, the bar was a favourite haunt of
journalists hoping to pick up gossip. It would not have been Volodya’s choice of rendezvous. But he could not afford to miss this chance. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But
I’m not going to be seen talking to either of you in that place. I’ll follow you in, identify Heinrich, then follow him out and accost him later.’

‘Okay. I’ll drive you there. My car’s around the corner.’

As they walked to the other end of the alley, Werner told Volodya Heinrich’s work and home addresses and phone numbers, and Volodya committed them to memory.

‘Here we are,’ said Werner. ‘Jump in.’

The car was a Mercedes 540K Autobahn Kurier, a model that was head-turningly beautiful, with sensually curved fenders, a bonnet longer than an entire Ford Model T, and a sloping fastback rear
end. It was so expensive that only a handful had ever been sold.

Volodya stared aghast. ‘Shouldn’t you have a less ostentatious car?’ he said incredulously.

‘It’s a double bluff,’ Werner said. ‘They think no real spy would be so flamboyant.’

Volodya was going to ask how he could afford it, but then he recalled that Werner’s father was a wealthy manufacturer.

‘I’m not getting into that thing,’ Volodya said. ‘I’ll go by train.’

‘As you wish.’

‘I’ll see you at the Adlon, but don’t acknowledge me.’

‘Of course.’

Half an hour later, Volodya saw Werner’s car carelessly parked in front of the hotel. This cavalier attitude of Werner’s seemed foolish to him, but now he wondered whether it was a
necessary element of Werner’s courage. Perhaps Werner had to pretend to be carefree in order to take the appalling risks required to spy on the Nazis. If he acknowledged the danger he was in,
maybe he would not be able to carry on.

The bar of the Adlon was full of fashionable women and well-dressed men, many in smartly tailored uniforms. Volodya spotted Werner right away, at a table with another man who was presumably
Heinrich von Kessel. Passing close to them, Volodya heard Heinrich say argumentatively: ‘Buck Clayton is a much better trumpeter than Hot Lips Page.’ He squeezed in at the counter,
ordered a beer, and discreetly studied the new potential spy.

Heinrich had pale skin and thick dark hair that was long by army standards. Although they were talking about the relatively unimportant topic of jazz, he seemed very intense, arguing with
gestures and repeatedly running his fingers through his hair. He had a book stuffed into the pocket of his uniform tunic, and Volodya would have bet it contained poetry.

Volodya drank two beers slowly and pretended to read the
Morgenpost
from cover to cover. He tried not to get too keyed up about Heinrich. The man was thrillingly promising, but there was
no guarantee he would co-operate.

Recruiting informers was the hardest part of Volodya’s work. Precautions were difficult to take because the target was not yet on side. The proposition often had to be made in
inappropriate places, usually somewhere public. It was impossible to know how the target would react: he might be angry and shout his refusal, or be terrified and literally run away. But there was
not much the recruiter could do to control the situation. At some point he just had to ask the simple, blunt question: ‘Do you want to be a spy?’

He thought about how to approach Heinrich. Religion was probably the key to his personality. Volodya recalled his boss, Lemitov, saying: ‘Lapsed Catholics make good agents. They reject the
total authority of the Church only to accept the total authority of the Party.’ Heinrich might need to seek forgiveness for what he had done. But would he risk his life?

At last Werner paid the bill and the two men left. Volodya followed. Outside the hotel they parted company, Werner driving off with a squeal of tyres and Heinrich going on foot across the park.
Volodya went after Heinrich.

Night was falling, but the sky was clear and he could see well. There were many people strolling in the warm evening air, most of them in couples. Volodya looked back repeatedly, to make sure no
one had followed him or Heinrich from the Adlon. When he was satisfied he took a deep breath, steeled his nerve, and caught up with Heinrich.

Walking alongside him, Volodya said: ‘There is atonement for sin.’

Heinrich looked at him warily, as at someone who might be mad. ‘Are you a priest?’

‘You could strike back at the wicked regime you helped to create.’

Heinrich kept walking, but he looked worried. ‘Who are you? What do you know about me?’

Volodya continued to ignore Heinrich’s questions. ‘The Nazis will be defeated, one day. That day could come sooner, with your help.’

‘If you’re a Gestapo agent hoping to entrap me, don’t bother. I’m a loyal German.’

‘Do you notice my accent?’

‘Yes – you sound Russian.’

‘How many Gestapo agents speak German with a Russian accent? Or have the imagination to fake it?’

Heinrich laughed nervously. ‘I know nothing about Gestapo agents,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned the subject – very foolish of me.’

‘Your office produces reports of the quantities of armaments and other supplies ordered by the military. Copies of those reports could be immeasurably useful to the enemies of the
Nazis.’

‘To the Red Army, you mean.’

‘Who else is going to destroy this regime?’

‘We keep careful track of all copies of such reports.’

Volodya suppressed a surge of triumph. Heinrich was thinking about practical difficulties. That meant he was inclined to agree in principle. ‘Make an extra carbon,’ Volodya said.
‘Or write out a copy in longhand. Or take someone’s file copy. There are ways.’

‘Of course there are. And any of them could get me killed.’

‘If we do nothing about the crimes that are being committed by this regime . . . is life worth living?’

Heinrich stopped and stared at Volodya. Volodya could not guess what the man was thinking, but instinct told him to remain quiet. After a long pause, Heinrich sighed and said: ‘I’ll
think about it.’

I have him, Volodya thought exultantly.

Heinrich said: ‘How do I contact you?’

‘You don’t,’ Volodya said. ‘I will contact you.’ He touched the brim of his hat, then walked back the way he had come.

He felt exultant. If Heinrich had not meant to accept the proposition he would have rejected it firmly. His promising to think about it was almost as good as acceptance. He would sleep on it. He
would run over the dangers. But he would do it, eventually. Volodya felt almost certain.

He told himself not to be overconfident. A hundred things could go wrong.

All the same, he was full of hope as he left the park and walked in bright lights past the shops and restaurants of Unter den Linden. He had had no dinner, but he could not afford to eat on this
street.

He took a tram eastwards into the low-rent neighbourhood called Friedrichshain and made his way to a small apartment in a tenement. The door was opened by a short, pretty girl of eighteen with
fair hair. She wore a pink sweater and dark slacks, and her feet were bare. Although she was slim, she had delightfully generous breasts.

‘I’m sorry to call unexpectedly,’ Volodya said. ‘Is it inconvenient?’

She smiled. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Come in.’

He stepped inside. She closed the door, then threw her arms around him. ‘I’m always happy to see you,’ she said, and kissed him eagerly.

Lili Markgraf was a girl with a lot of affection to give. Volodya had been taking her out about once a week since he got back to Berlin. He was not in love with her, and he knew that she dated
other men, including Werner; but when they were together she was passionate.

After a moment she said: ‘Have you heard the news? Is that why you’ve come?’

‘What news?’ Lili worked as a secretary in a press agency, and always heard things first.

‘The Soviet Union has made a pact with Germany!’ she said.

That made no sense. ‘You mean with Britain and France, against Germany.’

‘No, I don’t! That’s the surprise – Stalin and Hitler have made friends.’

‘But . . .’ Volodya tailed off, baffled. Friends with Hitler? It seemed crazy. Was this the solution devised by the new Soviet foreign minister, Molotov? We have failed to stop the
tide of world Fascism – so we give up trying? Did my father fight a revolution for that?

(iii)

Woody Dewar saw Joanne Rouzrokh again after four years.

No one who knew her father actually believed he had tried to rape a starlet in the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. The girl had dropped the charges; but that was dull news, and the papers had given it
little prominence. Consequently, Dave was still a rapist in the eyes of Buffalo people. So Joanne’s parents moved to Palm Beach and Woody lost touch.

Next time he saw her it was in the White House.

Woody was with his father, Senator Gus Dewar, and they were going to see the President. Woody had met Franklin D. Roosevelt several times. His father and the President had been friends for many
years. But those had been social occasions, when FDR had shaken Woody’s hand and asked him how he was getting along at school. This would be the first time Woody attended a real political
meeting with the President.

They went in through the main entrance of the West Wing, passed through the entrance lobby, and stepped into a large waiting room; and there she was.

Woody stared at her in delight. She had hardly changed. With her narrow, haughty face and curved nose she still looked like the high priestess of an ancient religion. As ever, she wore simple
clothes to dramatic effect: today she had on a dark-blue suit of some cool fabric and a straw hat the same colour with a big brim. Woody was glad he had put on a clean white shirt and his new
striped tie this morning.

She seemed pleased to see him. ‘You look great!’ she said. ‘Are you working in DC now?’

‘Just helping out in my father’s office for the summer,’ he replied. ‘I’m still at Harvard.’

She turned to his father and said deferentially: ‘Good afternoon, Senator.’

‘Hello, Joanne.’

Woody was thrilled to run into her. She was as alluring as ever. He wanted to keep the conversation going. ‘What are you doing here?’ Woody said.

‘I work at the State Department.’

Woody nodded. That explained her deference to his father. She had joined a world in which people kowtowed to Senator Dewar. Woody said: ‘What’s your job?’

‘I’m assistant to an assistant. My boss is with the President now, but I’m too lowly to go in with him.’

‘You were always interested in politics. I recall an argument about lynching.’

‘I miss Buffalo. What fun we used to have!’

Woody remembered kissing her at the Racquet Club Ball, and he felt himself blush.

His father said: ‘Please give my best regards to your father,’ indicating that they needed to move on.

Woody considered asking for her phone number, but she pre-empted him. ‘I’d love to see you again, Woody,’ she said.

He was delighted. ‘Sure!’

‘Are you free tonight? I’m having a few friends for cocktails.’

‘Sounds great!’

She gave him the address, an apartment building not far away, then his father hurried him out of the other end of the room.

A guard nodded familiarly to Gus, and they stepped into another waiting room.

Gus said: ‘Now, Woody, don’t say anything unless the President addresses you directly.’

Woody tried to concentrate on the imminent meeting. There had been a political earthquake in Europe: the Soviet Union had signed a peace pact with Nazi Germany, upsetting everyone’s
calculations. Woody’s father was a key member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, and the President wanted to know what he thought.

Gus Dewar had another subject to discuss. He wanted to persuade Roosevelt to revive the League of Nations.

It would be a tough sell. The USA had never joined the League and Americans did not much like it. The League had failed dismally to deal with the crises of the 1930s: Japanese aggression in the
Far East, Italian imperialism in Africa, Nazi takeovers in Europe, the ruin of democracy in Spain. But Gus was determined to try. It had always been his dream, Woody knew: a world council to
resolve conflicts and prevent war.

Woody was 100 per cent behind him. He had made a speech about this in a Harvard debate. When two nations had a quarrel, the worst possible procedure was for men to kill people on the other side.
That seemed to him pretty obvious. ‘I understand why it happens, of course,’ he had said in the debate. ‘Just like I understand why drunks get into fistfights. But that
doesn’t make it any less irrational.’

But now Woody found it hard to think about the threat of war in Europe. All his old feelings about Joanne came back in a rush. He wondered if she would kiss him again – maybe tonight. She
had always liked him, and it seemed she still did – why else would she have invited him to her party? She had refused to date him, back in 1935, because he had been fifteen and she eighteen,
which was understandable, though he had not thought so at the time. But now that they were both four years older, the age difference would not seem so stark – would it? He hoped not. He had
dated girls in Buffalo and at Harvard, but he had not felt for any of them the overwhelming passion he had had for Joanne.

‘Have you got that?’ his father said.

Woody felt foolish. His father was about to make a proposal to the President that could bring world peace, and all Woody could think about was kissing Joanne. ‘Sure,’ he said.
‘I won’t say anything unless he speaks to me first.’

A tall, slim woman in her early forties came into the room, looking relaxed and confident, as if she owned the place; and Woody recognized Marguerite LeHand, nicknamed Missy, who managed
Roosevelt’s office. She had a long, masculine face with a big nose, and there was a touch of grey in her dark hair. She smiled warmly at Gus. ‘What a pleasure to see you again,
Senator.’