Zoo Station (36 page)
Authors: David Downing
Tags: #Mystery, #Detective, #Germany, #Journalists, #Espionage, #Mystery & Detective, #Journalists - Germany - Berlin, #Fiction - Mystery, #Recruiting, #Mystery & Detective - General, #General, #Germany - History - 1933-1945, #Berlin, #Suspense, #Americans - Germany - Berlin, #Historical, #Americans, #Fiction, #Spies - Recruiting, #Spy stories, #Spies
The immigration official took one look at his passport and gestured to a man in plain clothes behind him. Gestapo. This way, Herr Russell the man said, without looking at his passport. He walked across to a large table, where another man in plain clothes was waiting.
Put your suitcase on the table, the first man said. He had long hair for the Gestapo, and an almost likable face. As he opened the suitcase, Russell noticed that his fingernails badly needed trimming.
Could I have your name and rank? Russell asked.
Ascherl,
Kriminalassistent
, he said without looking up.
He took out the clothes with more care than Russell had, and piled them on the other end of the table. Effis script was placed on the top. Then he ran his hands round the inside of the suitcase, obviously looking for a way of accessing the false bottom. Borskaya had been behind him when he opened it in the hotel room, Russell remembered.
How do you open it? Ascherl asked him.
Russell looked perplexed. Its open.
The hidden compartment, the Gestapo officer said patiently.
Russell tried to look even more perplexed. What are you talking about?
Ascherl turned to his subordinate. Your knife, Schneider.
Schneider pulled out a large pocket-knife. Ascherl looked at the suitcase for a moment, ran his hand along inside it, then abruptly turned it upside down, pressed in the knife, and patiently sawed from one side of the bottom to the other. This hidden compartment, he said, reaching in a hand.
His look of triumph faded as his scrabbling hand failed to find anything in it. Two more cuts and he was able to wrench back a section of the reinforced leather bottom and shine a torch inside.
Where is it? he asked patiently.
Where is what? Russell replied, trying to sound bewildered. Most of the others in the room were watching them now, eager to see how the situation played out.
Let me put it another way, the Gestapo officer said. What reason do you have for carrying a suitcase with a hidden compartment?
I didnt know it had one. I only bought it yesterday, from a Jew in Prague. He smiled, as if the answer had just occurred to him. The bastard probably used it to smuggle valuables out of the Reich.
Undoubtedly, Ascherl said.
Russell was still thanking heaven for his inspiration when he noticed a new face in the roomone of the customs officials from the day before. The man was looking straight at him, with an expression on his face that seemed part indignation, part amusement.
But you are from Berlin, Ascherl continued. Did you travel to Prague without a suitcase?
It fell apart when I was there. I needed a new one. Russell braced himself for an intervention by the customs official, but there was none.
And this Jew just happened along?
No, theres a market, like the ones they used to have in Berlin. The customs official was still looking at him, still saying nothing. Was it possible that he didnt remember this suitcase from the day before?
Your wallet, please, the Gestapo officer said.
Russell handed it over, and watched him remove the currencya few Czech notes, some Reichsmarks, the clip of Swiss Francs.
Where did these come? Ascherl asked.
I wrote an article for a Soviet paper, and they paid me in Swiss Francs. Several months ago now. I thought they might be useful in Prague. The SD knows all about this, he added. Look, he said, indicating the wallet, can I show you something?
Ascherl handed it back, and Russell pulled out the folded sheet of Sturmbannfuhrer Kleists letter.
As the Gestapo man read it, Russell watched his face. If the list had been found in the hidden compartment then the letter could have been ignored. As it was, all Ascherl had was a story full of holes that he couldnt fill in. Would he keep on trying, and risk offending the big boys on Wilhelmstrasse?
I see, he said finally, and looked up at Russell. It seems we are all victims of the same plot. We received information . . . well, I wont go into that. It looks as though the Reds have tried to set you up.
The suitcase was suspiciously cheap, Russell admitted. Across the room the customs official was still watching, still doing his Mona Lisa impersonation.
Its not worth much now, Ascherl said, surveying his knifework.
Russell smiled. You were doing your duty, as any friend of the Reich would wish.
Ascherl smiled back. We have others. Confiscated from Jews. Perhaps we can find you another one with a hidden compartment. Schneider?
Ascherls assistant disappeared into an adjoining room and reemerged almost immediately with two suitcases. Russell chose the smaller of the two, and packed it with his clothes and Effis script. The customs official had disappeared.
But not for long. As Russell came out of the building the man fell into step beside him. Nice suitcase, he said.
Russell stopped.
Im getting married next month, the man said, carefully positioning himself between Russell and any watchers in the building they had just left.
Russell took out his wallet, removed the clip of Swiss francs, and handed it over. A wedding present?
The man smiled, gave him an ironic click of the heels, and strode away.
Russell walked on toward the train. The snow was heavier now, tumbling down through the pools of light, flakes clinging to the glistening wire. He could feel the sweat on his body slowly turning to ice.
The train, it seemed, was waiting only for himthe whistle shrilled as he stepped aboard. He made his way forward through the swaying cars, slumped into the reclining seat, and listened to the rhythmic clatter of the wheels, rolling him into the Reich.