Lehrter Station (4 page)

A minute later the game was underway, and it was looking as if he’d been right. Far from being ‘so slow you could hear them think’, the Russian players were soon swarming towards the Chelsea goal, passing their way through their opponents with a deftness and speed which left the crowd gasping. Within minutes shots had hit the goalkeeper, the side netting and the post, and the Russians around Russell were almost purring with pleasure at the lesson their countrymen were teaching the English team.

For twenty minutes they did everything but score. And then, after hitting the post for a second time, they conceded at the other end – Tommy Lawton, much to Nemedin’s disgust, forcing the ball from the Dynamo keeper’s hands and setting it up on a plate for Len Goulden. When a stupid mistake at the back gifted Chelsea another goal, the sense of injustice was almost too much for Russell’s companions to bear. And, rubbing salt
into the wound, the Dynamos contrived to miss a penalty just before half time, the left-winger hammering his shot against the post. When the teams disappeared beneath them with the score at two-nil, Russell couldn’t recall a less appropriate scoreline.

On his right, Shchepkin seemed less put out that most of his compatriots; on his left, Nemedin was muttering darkly to himself, which probably boded ill. The NKVD were hard enough to deal with when things were going their way.

Nemedin, however, proved able to set aside his disappointment. ‘We have two jobs for you,’ he told Russell once their mini-conference was underway, the two Russians leaning sideways until all three heads were only inches apart. ‘First, you will make contact with several German comrades in Berlin, some of whom you know, some of whom you don’t. We want to know where these comrades stand on several crucial issues. There has been a lot of discussion in the German Party about a “German Road to Socialism”. This is acceptable, but only insofar as it doesn’t become an anti-Soviet road. We want to know how these men feel about this in particular, and where their loyalties lie. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ Russell said. He did. Perfectly.

‘You will be supplied with all the relevant information when you reach Berlin.’

‘Uh-huh. And the second job?’

‘You will offer your services to American Intelligence. They are desperately trying to recruit Berliners, and you will obviously appeal to them. But you will of course be working for us.’

Russell was conscious for a moment of the Russians sitting in the next row down. They were also NKVD, he assumed. He was probably surrounded by a dozen of them. ‘You want me to function as a double agent inside American intelligence,’ he said.

It wasn’t a question, but Nemedin answered it anyway. ‘Yes.’

It was no worse than he’d feared, but that was little consolation. ‘You expect me to move back to Berlin?’

‘Of course.’

Russell risked a slight demurral. ‘Moving to Berlin is not a simple matter these days. And I have a family to consider. We would all need somewhere to live.’

‘Of course, but we’re assuming the Americans will take care of such matters.’ Nemedin seemed relieved, as if he’d been expecting more basic objections. ‘It would look suspicious if we openly organised your return. But these are details for you and Comrade Shchepkin to discuss.’

‘We will take care of you,’ Shchepkin interjected, ‘but not openly. Fräulein Koenen will soon be offered a job in Berlin – a prominent part in a film. And we will help you with exclusive stories. It is crucial that you remain a credible journalist.’

They were thinking things through, Russell thought. ‘And what if the Americans turn me down?’ he asked.

‘Comrade Shchepkin will discuss contingencies with you,’ Nemedin replied, with the slightest hint of impatience. ‘Mr Russell, what is your opinion of the current international situation?’

‘It’s another war waiting to happen.’

‘Mmm. And there can only be one winner – you agree?

‘Yes,’ seemed the diplomatic answer. ‘But it make take a while,’ Russell added, hoping to maintain some sort of reputation for realism. ‘The Americans have their atomic bomb now.’

‘We shall soon have one ourselves,’ Nemedin said dismissively, ‘and partly thanks to your own efforts. But you have correctly identified the principal enemy of world socialism. The British are finished,’ he said contemptuously, his blue eyes scanning the vast crowd. ‘The Americans are all that matter now, and you will help us there.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Russell said, in a resolutely deadpan tone. He wondered who the man was trying to convince – his brand new agent or himself? Nemedin was investing a lot in him, and clearly had mixed feelings about it. The Russian’s career might soar as a result, but he clearly resented his dependence on a foreign bourgeois. And if things went wrong, he would show no mercy.

The teams were coming out beneath them. ‘Do you have any questions?’ Nemedin asked, in a tone that invited none.

Why pick on me, was the one that came to mind, but he already knew the answer.

Nemedin took his silence for acquiescence. ‘Then that is all,’ he said, leaning back in his seat to watch the game re-start.

Russell decided he might as well enjoy the game and depress himself later. There would be plenty of time to run through the likely consequences of what he’d just been told..

The Dynamos started the second half the way they’d started the first, repeatedly bearing down on the Chelsea goal, only to waste their chances. This time, however, the sustained pressure paid off, and one of their forwards finally scored with a fine shot. The Russians around Russell leapt to their feet, and he found himself doing the same.

The Dynamos had recovered their confidence, and soon scored an equaliser. Chelsea responded, going ahead once more, but as the last fifteen minutes ticked away the Russians looked less tired than their opponents, and another equaliser followed with five minutes remaining. Nemedin thumped the seat in front in his excitement, causing its Russian occupant to swing angrily round, and then do a double-take when he recognised the source of his ire.

The Soviets almost scored a winner, but had to settle for a draw, and the men around Russell seemed happy enough. All the British press experts had been wide of the mark, and the visitors had come away with a clear moral victory. The collie in the Kremlin would be one happy dog.

Nemedin rose and moved away, without so much as a look. ‘We all leave for Cardiff tomorrow afternoon,’ Shchepkin told Russell, ‘so you and I must meet in the morning. We’re staying at the Imperial Hotel in Russell Square, and when I looked out of the window this morning I noticed a mobile canteen in the park. Can we meet there, say eleven o’clock?’

He waited only for Russell’s nod, then also hurried off.

On the long bus ride home, Russell went over what had been said, and wondered what to tell the others. They all knew why he’d been
invited to Stamford Bridge, but he decided to save the inevitable family discussion until after his meeting with Shchepkin. And maybe not until he’d made contact with the Americans. Another meeting he wasn’t looking forward to. He sometimes wondered whether he should simply throw in the towel and go into hiding for the rest of his life. If his press contacts could be believed, South America was working for the Nazis.

At home, the women and children were on the floor, playing a board game that Lothar had made in class that day, with Paul watching from an armchair. Russell shook his head in response to Effi’s questioning look, and went out to make a pot of tea. Paul joined him in the kitchen to ask about the game, having heard the BBC radio coverage of the second half. It wasn’t until eight-thirty, with the children in bed and
It’s That Man
Again
finished on the radio, that Russell and Effi could walk down to the local pub for a private conversation. It was a clear night, and there was no sign of the local boy gangsters.

The public bar was crowded and full of smoke, the saloon much more sparsely populated. ‘So what are their plans for you?’ Effi asked, once they’d settled in a secluded corner.

Russell told her everything that Nemedin had told him.

‘You’re going back,’ Effi said, with traces of both resentment and wistfulness.

‘For how long?’ she asked.

‘God knows. I can’t see them running out of useful things for me to do.’

‘So they’re expecting you to finger any independent-minded German comrades, and then spy on the Americans for them?’

‘That’s about it.’

‘Oh, John.’

‘I know.’

‘And they spelt out what will happen if you say no?’

‘They didn’t have to.’

‘Are you sure of that?’ She wasn’t quite sure what she’d expected, but it hadn’t been as bad as this.

‘Ninety-nine per cent. Nemedin made sure to mention my contribution to their atomic research, just in case I’d blocked it out. If he tells the world, my credibility as a journalist will be shot to pieces. And that’s the very best I could expect – the Americans might charge me with treason.’

‘Okay,’ Effi agreed, ‘but how would it help the Russians to publicise your involvement? And maybe they don’t want the world to know that they’ve got those German secrets. Perhaps they’re bluffing.’

Russell smiled. ‘Perhaps. But if they are, and I call them on it, I don’t think they’ll hold up their hands and say “ah, you’ve got us there.” They’ll just find some other way of exerting pressure, and invite me to think again. None of us would be safe. At least while I’m doing their bidding in Berlin, the rest of you will be able to get on with your lives here. And once I’m there, maybe I can find some way out of it all.’

She gave him an exasperated look, and reached for his hand. ‘I don’t
want
to get on with my life without you.’

‘I was hoping you felt that way, because the bastards have invited you too.’

‘What do you mean?’

He told her about the imminent offer of a film role.

‘What sort of film?’ she asked, both pleased and suspicious.

‘They didn’t give me any details.’

‘Oh. But why, do you think?’

‘Who knows? Perhaps they think I’ll be happier in Berlin with you. Or just more vulnerable. And both would be true.’

Could she leave Rosa with Zarah, Effi wondered. And if not, could they take her with them? She couldn’t shake the feeling that Berlin was the last place on earth this girl would want to live.

‘And there’s another thing,’ Russell told her. ‘They want me working as a journalist. The Soviets will feed me good stories, and probably the Americans too. And if either of them try to stop me from telling the truth, I can tell them that an independent voice is the best cover a spy could possibly have. So at least I’ll get my professional life back. Which is something. Not a lot, but something.’

‘Yes,’ Effi agreed, though she found herself thinking he was clutching at straws. If so, there were probably worse straws to clutch at. But what did she want herself? To act again? Yes, she did, but more than anything else she wanted some sort of resolution concerning Rosa’s father. For the girl of course, but also for herself. And in Berlin she could find out what had happened to him. ‘We always knew we’d go back,’ she said, trying to cheer him up.

R
ussell arrived early at his namesake’s Square, and found the mobile canteen. A dozen or so metal tables were spread out across the threadbare grass, and he chose what seemed the most remote. The Imperial Hotel was visible through the trees to his right, but no Dynamos were leaning out of its windows.

The morning papers were full of praise for the Russian tourists. The no-hopers of the previous morning had become ‘the greatest side ever to visit this island, playing football as it was meant to be played.’ Much was made of the Dynamos’ willingness to interchange positions ‘without getting in each other’s way’, a revolutionary tactic which had completely flummoxed their English opponents.

There was other English news of interest – a sweet ration bonus promised for Christmas, and a Parliamentary statement by the Foreign Secretary Ernest Bevin which reaffirmed British opposition to increasing the number of Jewish refugees allowed into Palestine. Those already there were striking in protest.

More to the point, there was news from Berlin. Two political rallies had been held on the previous evening, with both attracting audiences of around four thousand. At one, the German Communist leader Wilhelm Pieck had suggested that his party, the KPD, should share a manifesto and electoral pact with their old rivals, the Social Democrat SPD. At the other meeting, the latter’s leader Otto Grotewohl had pledged ‘close collaboration’ between the two parties, and had declared that ‘capitalism no longer existed.’

‘In your dreams,’ Russell murmured to himself. What was Moscow playing at, and how would it affect his own task in Berlin? If Stalin was encouraging the German left to unite around a moderate line, then the Russians could hardly complain about German comrades who pursued a relatively independent path. Half his job description might already be redundant, which would certainly be good news. Though on reflection it seemed probable that the NKVD would still want the information, if only for future use.

The other news from Berlin was dispiriting - the first snow had fallen, of what promised to be a desperate winter. He put the paper aside and glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven o’clock.

There was no one else waiting at the canteen counter, but he felt reluctant to pay for two teas – the NKVD had called this meeting, and they could supply the bloody refreshments.

There had been several tables occupied when he arrived, but now there were only two. A couple of secretaries had their heads bent over a newspaper, and were giggling at something or other, their heads shaking like a pair of maracas. A few feet away from them, a remarkably smug-looking nanny was staring into space, idly rocking the pram parked beside her.

A flash of white hair caught Russell’s attention – Shchepkin was crossing Southampton Row. The Russian was lost from view for several moments, then reappeared inside the park. No one seemed to be following him, but for all Russell knew there were pairs of binoculars trained on them both. Either Nanny was the head of MI5, or she had him hidden in the pram.

Espionage could be dangerous, immoral, even romantic. But it was almost always faintly ridiculous.

Shchepkin smiled as he walked up, and shook Russell’s hand. After wiping the seat with his handkerchief, he sat down and viewed their surroundings.

Why are we meeting here?’ Russell wondered out loud. ‘A bit public, isn’t it? Now the people watching you will be checking up on me.’

Shchepkin smiled. ‘It’s almost as public as a football stadium,’ he observed.

‘Ah, that’s the point, is it?’

‘Of course. If the British tell the Americans about your meetings with us, it will increase your credibility as a double agent.’

Russell followed the thought for a few seconds, then let it go. There seemed all sorts of flaws in the reasoning, but then intelligence people used a different form of logic to ordinary human beings. If indeed logic came into it.

‘Comrade Nemedin is also a football fan,’ Shchepkin added, as if that explained the choice of Stamford Bridge as a meeting place. ‘And Dynamo
are
the team of the NKVD.’

‘And I expected he wanted to see me in the flesh,’ Russell realised. ‘See what he was getting for his blackmail.’

‘Yes, he did,’ Shchepkin agreed, ignoring the flash of bitterness. ‘Not that he learnt anything from the encounter. He doesn’t understand people like you – or like me, for that matter. People who were there at the beginning, people who knew what it was all for, before the things that mattered were locked away for safekeeping. The Nemedins of this world see themselves as guardians, but they have no real notion of what they’re guarding. They find it hard enough to trust each other, let alone people like us.’

‘Does it matter?’ Russell asked. ‘He’s got me where he wants me, hasn’t he?’

Shchepkin took another look around, as if to reassure himself that no one was within listening distance. ‘Yes, it matters. His lack of understanding makes it easier for us to manipulate him, but his lack of trust will make him extremely sensitive to the possibility of betrayal.’

‘Is that what we’re planning?’ Russell asked with a smile.

‘I hope so,’ Shchepkin said earnestly. ‘I’m right in assuming that you haven’t changed your mind, that you’ll go along with Nemedin’s plan?’

‘I don’t seem to have any choice.’

‘No,’ Shchepkin agreed, ‘not for the moment…’

An ailing bus thundered past them on the nearby road, drowning him out. The windows were still draped with anti-blast netting, Russell noticed.

‘But there’s no future in it,’ Shchepkin went on. ‘Double agents, well, they usually end up betraying themselves. Like jugglers – no matter how good they are, sooner or later their arms get tired.’

Russell gave him a wry smile. ‘You’re not feeling sorry for me, are you?’

‘No. Nor for myself, but we’re both in trouble, and we’re going to need each other’s help to have any chance of getting out of it.’

‘Why are you in so much trouble?’ Russell asked. ‘You never told me why you were arrested last year.’

‘That’s much too long a story. Let’s just say I ended up supporting the wrong people. But I was more careful than most of my friends were, and unlike most of them, I survived. Stalin and his Georgian cronies believe I still have some uses, or I wouldn’t be here, but like you I’m something of a diminishing asset. And like you, I need to get out before it’s too late.’

‘Why not take a boat train?’ Russell suggested flippantly. ‘There’s a whole wide world out there, and I find it hard to believe that a man with your experience couldn’t lose himself if he really tried.’

It was Shchepkin’s turn to smile. ‘I’m sure I could, but there are other people to consider. If I disappeared, my wife and daughter would pay the price. I need a way out which includes them.’

Russell gave the Russian a thoughtful look, and then suggested tea. He needed time to think, and a trip to the counter seemed the only way to get it. Through all the years they’d known each other, Shchepkin had never come close to admitting such disaffection with the regime he served. Why now? Was his recent imprisonment the reason, or was that exactly what Russell was supposed to think?

And did the man take sugar? He put several lumps in each saucer and carried them back to the table.

‘Have you finally lost your faith?’ he asked the Russian in a casual tone, as if they were discussing less weighty matters than the overriding purpose of Shchepkin’s adult existence.

‘You could say that,’ the Russian replied in like manner. ‘You may think that only a fool would have carried on believing in the Soviet Union as long as I did. I sometimes think so myself. But then many intelligent men still trust in far less believable gods.’ He gave Russell a quizzical look. ‘I see you need convincing. Well, let me you tell you when I saw the… I was going to say “light”, but darkness seems more appropriate. It was in October 1940…’

‘When your people handed the German comrades over to the Nazis…’

‘No, that was shameful, but it came a few months later. My moment of truth – believe it or not – came when the leadership decided to abolish scholarships. A less-than-world-shattering measure, you might think, one that killed nobody. But this measure made it impossible for the children of the poor – of the workers and the peasants – to get a higher education, and in doing so it turned the clock back all the way to Tsarism. Almost overnight, power and privilege were hereditary once more. Everyone knew that the sons and daughters of those now in power would automatically take the reins from their parents. We had become what we set out to overthrow.’

‘I didn’t even know such a measure had been passed,’ Russell admitted. He could understand the effect it would have had on someone like Shchepkin.

‘We are going to have to trust each other,’ Shchepkin told him.

‘Okay,’ Russell agreed, convinced at least of the need.

‘In the short run, we can help each other. As long as you’re useful to Nemedin, we’ll both be relatively safe, and I think we can make sure you will be. You must go to the Americans, as Nemedin told you to, but you must also tell them everything. Offer yourself to
them
as a double agent – I’m sure you can come up with personal motives, but they’ll probably take you whatever you say. They’re desperate for people who know Berlin and Berliners, and they won’t trust you with any important information, not at first. So what do they have to lose? And soon you’ll be able to win them over by getting them stuff they can’t get anywhere else.’

‘And where will I get that from?’ Russell asked. He was beginning to wonder whether all those months in the Lubyanka had weakened Shchepkin’s brain.

‘From me.’

‘You will betray your country?’ Russell half-asked, half-stated. He supposed it had been implicit in all that the Russian had said, but he still found it hard to believe.

‘It doesn’t feel like betrayal,’ Shchepkin told him. ‘When Vladimir Ilyich told us that the Revolution had no country, I believed him.’

‘Okay. So that’s how we survive in the short run. But I’m still the juggler with tiring arms, remember? How do we persuade Stalin to leave me alone, and let you and your family go?’

‘That’s harder. And I can only think of one possibility – we need something on them which trumps everything else. A secret so damaging that we could buy our safety with silence.’

‘Is that all?’ Russell asked sarcastically. He had found himself hoping that Shchepkin had a plan with some chance of success.

‘It won’t be easy,’ the Russian agreed. ‘But we’ll be working for people with secrets, and trading them ourselves – we’ll have to keep our eyes and ears open, follow any thread that looks promising. It may take years, but I can’t see any other way out. Can you?’

‘No,’ Russell admitted. This one didn’t look too promising, but Shchepkin knew his world best, and any hope at all was better than none.

‘Then, let us work together. I will see you in Berlin.’

‘Okay. When do you expect me to start?’

‘As soon as possible. Once you reach Berlin, you will go to the Housing Office at the junction of Neue König and Lietzmann. You know where that is?’

‘Of course. But we’re counting our chickens a bit – what if the Americans won’t take me on?’

‘They will. But if by any chance they refuse, then come to our embassy here – I will leave instructions. In the last resort, we will get you there.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Now I must go – our train is at two.’

‘When’s the game – Saturday?’

‘I think so. The football is nothing to do with me – I check the hotels, arrange excursions, look at the police arrangements.’

It was the first time Russell could remember the Russian actually volunteering information about himself. It seemed a good omen.

Shchepkin made to leave, then abruptly turned back. ‘One last thing. I forgot to tell you. Make sure the Americans keep your mutual arrangement from the British – the NKVD have several plants in MI6.’ That bombshell dropped, he walked off across the park without a backward look, leaving Russell to ponder his brave new future. He wished he’d had one of those new-fangled recording machines, so that he could listen to Shchepkin’s reasoning again. Over the years the Russian had never been less than convincing, but Russell knew from bitter experience that some things were always spelt out better than others. What were the hidden catches in this scheme, he wondered. Other, that is, than the obvious one, that he’d need acting lessons from Effi to pull it off.

He decided to visit the American Embassy that afternoon, while he could still remember the script. Working his way through the streets around the British Museum, he wondered whether Shchepkin declaring war on Nemedin was good news or bad. Letting himself get sucked into a war between competing sections of Soviet intelligence seemed, at first glance, like a poor career move. But it might give him room to manoeuvre, play off one against the other. Or give them both a reason to kill him.

After lunch at his usual Corner House, he walked down Oxford Street and turned left at Selfridges. The American Embassy had moved to Grosvenor Square in 1938, and he had visited it several times since, mostly in connection with his own pragmatic adoption of US citizenship. The welcome had seldom been effusive – Americans might, as they sometimes claimed, be the friendliest people on God’s earth, but only when encountered on their home turf.

He opted for the direct approach. ‘I need to see the attaché who deals with Intelligence matters,’ he told the young man on reception.

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No.’

‘Then I suggest…’

‘He will want to see me. Tell him John Russell has a proposal for him.’

The man gave him another look, and decided to pass the buck. ‘Please take a seat,’ he said, and reached for the telephone. Two minutes later another, younger man descended the stairs, and led Russell back up to a small office half full of cardboard boxes, where he laboriously transcribed every detail from Russell’s US passport. He then stared at the photograph, as if wondering whether he should sketch a rough copy. Apparently deciding against, he told Russell to wait where he was, and stalked off down the corridor.