Zoo Station (29 page)

He gave her the British entry visas for the three children, and explained why she was being refused.

She smiled sadly at that. I thought that must be the reason, she said, but it doesnt matter now. Take this back, she added, handing over Alberts visa. Someone else can take his place.

He also gave her the safety deposit box key, and a piece of paper containing two names and addresses. This is the bank where the box is, and this is my agent in London, Solly Bernstein. Get the girls to memorize it all, and then burn it, he said. And I think it would probably be safer for you to keep the key yourself. Solly has another one, and they can use that when they get to London.

She stared at the writing, as if it were in a foreign language.

Have you seen Albert? he asked.

She shook her head. But hes all right.

AFTER LEAVING EFFI AT THE STUDIO
early the next morning, he took the car back to her street and walked to Zoo Station. With an hour to wait for the Warsaw train, he had breakfast in the buffet before climbing up to the eastbound platforms. It was the first time, he realized, that hed been up there since McKinleys death. He had no idea where the American had gone under his train, and a morbid search for telltale signs came up empty. If there was one thing at which the Germans were good, it was cleaning up after themselves.

He put five pfennigs in a toasted almond machine, and walked down the platform eating from his cupped hand. It was a misty morning, the trees in the Tiergarten fading by stages into nothing. Some geese flew across the glass dome of the station, squawking noisily, heading God-knew-where for late February. There were few finer sights, Russell thought, as their V-formation curled and furled like a banner in the wind. He remembered the seagulls at the
Bismarck
launching, and laughed out loud.

The Warsaw train arrived, empty save for the few who had boarded at Charlottenburg. Russell found his seat by the time it reached Friedrichstrasse, and dropped off to sleep as the last of the southeastern suburbs slid past his window. Dimly aware of the stop at Frankfurt-am-Oder, he was roused by officialdom for the customs stops on either side of the Polish border, and spent the rest of the journey staring out of the restaurant car window. A wintry sun had finally burned off the mists, and the rye and potato fields of Prussias lost province stretched away into the distance, interrupted only by the occasional dirt-track or farm, the odd meandering stream.

The train rolled into Posenor Pozna?, as the plethora of signs proclaimeda few minutes early. Russell took a taxi from the forecourt to the Bazar Hotel, where hed booked a room. Just the one night? the receptionist asked incredulously, as if the charms of Posen required weeks to appreciate. Just the one, Russell agreed, and was shown rather begrudgingly to an adequate first-floor room. There were only a few hours of light remaining, so he went straight back out again, pausing only to examine the display in the lobby, which documented the hotels pre-war role as a hotbed of Polish nationalism.

The town, though pleasant enough, suffered in comparison to Cracow. Its churches were not quite as beautiful, its streets not quite as charming, its squarethe Stary Ryneknot quite as grand. As he wandered somewhat aimlessly around the city center he noticed several faded German names on streets and buildings, but the German language was still audible on those same streets, along with Polish and Yiddish. It would take another war, Russell thought, before the winners could take it all.

He dined in the hotel restaurant. The veal escalopes
zrazikis
were excellent, the wine surprisingly good, but neither could dispel his deepening depression. It wasnt just McKinley and Wiesner; he had hardly spent two waking hours with Effi since Rugen Island, and his contact with Paul since returning from England had consisted of two friendly, but brief, telephone conversations. And here he was in darkest Posen, waiting for Shchepkin to go through one of his cloak-and-dagger mating rituals.

He went back to his room, hoping against hope for a simple knock on the door. An hour or so later he got one, but it wasnt Shchepkin. A short woman in a long skirt and blouse brushed past him and into the room before he could say anything.

Close the door, Mr. Russell, she said. The language was definitely German, but not a sort that Russell had ever heard before.

The woman had roughly parted blond hair which just failed to reach her shoulders, blue eyes, thin lips, and heavily accented cheekbones. In another life she might have been attractive, Russell thought, but in this one she wasnt really trying. She wore no make-up, and her cream-colored blouse badly needed a wash. He now remembered seeing her on the other side of the dining-room, arguing with one of the waiters.

John Russell, she said, as much to herself as him. I am your new contact.

Contact with whom? he asked. It was hard to imagine her as a Gestapo agent provocateur, but how would he know?

My name is Irina Borskaya, she said patiently. I am here in place of Comrade Shchepkin, she added, glancing around the room and finding a chair.

Has something happened to Comrade Shchepkin? Russell asked.

He has been reassigned. Now, please sit down Mr. Russell. And let us get down to business.

Russell did as he was told, feeling a pang of sorrow for Shchepkin. He could see him on the Cracow citadelYou really should wear a hat! But why assume the worst? Perhaps he really had been reassigned. Stalin couldnt kill everyone whod ever worked for him.

He pulled the latest article out of his briefcase and handed it over. She took a cursory glance at the first page and placed it in her lap. You were asked to talk to armament workers.

He recounted his visit to the Greiner Works, the conversations he had had with Labor Front officials and ordinary workers. She listened intently but took no notes. Is that all? she said when he was finished.

For the moment, Russell said. Where is your accent from? he asked, partly out of curiosity, partly to take her mind off his skimpy research.

I was born in Saratov, she said. In the Volga region. Now, we have another job for you.

Here it comes, Russell thoughtthe point of the whole exercise.

We need you to collect some papers from one of our people and bring them out of Germany.

Not a chance, Russell thought. But refuse nicely, he told himself. What sort of papers? he asked.

That doesnt concern you.

It does if you expect me to bring them out.

They are naval plans, she said grudgingly.

Russell burst out laughing.

What is so amusing? she asked angrily.

He told her about Shchepkins comment in Danzignone of those naval plans Sherlock Holmes is always having to recover.

She wasnt amused. This is not a Sherlock Holmes storythe comrade in Kiel has risked his life to get a copy of the German fleet dispositions for the Baltic.

Then why not risk it again to bring them out? Russell argued.

His life is worth something, she said tartly, and quickly realized that she had gone too far. He is too valuable to risk, she amended, as if he might have mistaken her meaning.

Then why not send someone else in to get them?

Because we have you, she said. And we have already established that you can come and go without arousing suspicion. Were you searched on your way here, or on your way to Cracow?

No, but I wasnt carrying anything.

She put the article on the carpet beside her chair, crossed her legs and smoothed out the skirt on her thigh with her left hand. Mr. Russell, are you refusing to help us with this?

Im a journalist, Comrade Borskaya. Not a secret agent.

She gave him an exasperated look, delved into her skirt pocket, and brought out a rather crumpled black and white photograph. It was of him and Shchepkin, emerging from the Wawel Cathedral.

Russell looked at it and laughed.

You are easily amused, she said.

So they tell me. If you send that to the Gestapo I might get thrown out of Germany. If I get caught with your naval plans itll be the axe. Which do you think worries me more?

If we send this to the Gestapo you are certain to be deported, certain to lose your son and your beautiful bourgeois girlfriend. If you do this job for us, the chances of your being caught are almost nonexistent. You will be well-paid, and you will have the satisfaction of supporting world socialism in its struggle against fascism. According to Comrade Shchepkin, that was once important to you.

Once. The clumsiness of the approach angered him more than the blackmail itself. He got up off the bed and walked across to the window, telling himself to calm down. As he did so, an idea came to him. An idea that seemed as crazy as it was inevitable.

He turned to her. Let me sleep on this, he said. Think about it overnight, he explained, in response to her blank expression.

She nodded. Two PM in the Stary Rynek, she said, as if shed had the time and place reserved.

Its a big square, Russell said.

Ill find you.

SUNDAY WAS OVERCAST BUT DRY.
Russell had coffee in one of the many Stary Rynek cafes, walked up past Garbary station to the Citadel, and found a bench overlooking the city. For several minutes he just sat there enjoying the view: the multiplicity of spires, the Warta River and its receding bridges, the smoke rising from several thousand chimneys. See how much peace the earth can give, he murmured to himself. A comforting thought, provided you ignored the source. It was a line from Mayakovskys suicide note.

Was his own plan a roundabout way of committing suicide?

Paul and Effi would miss him. In fact, he liked to think theyd both be heartbroken, at least for a while. But he was neither indispensable nor irreplaceable. Paul had other people who loved him, and so did Effi.

All of which would only matter if he got caught. The odds, he thought, were probably on his side. The Soviets would have no compunction about risking him, but their precious naval plans were another matterthey wouldnt risk those on a no-hope adventure. They had to believe it would work.

But what did he know? There could be ruses within ruses; this could be some ludicrously Machiavellian plot the NKVD had thought up on some drunken weekend and set in motion before they sobered up. Or everyone concerned could be an incompetent. Or just having a bad day.

Shit, he muttered to himself. He liked the idea of the Soviets having the German fleet dispositions for the Baltic. He liked the idea of doing something, no matter how small, to put a spoke in the bastards wheels. And he really wanted the favors he intended to ask in return.

But was he fooling himself? Falling for all the usual nonsense, playing boys games with real ammunition. When did self-sacrifice become a warped form of selfishness?

There were no answers to any of this, he realized. It was like jumping through an open window with a fuzzy memory of which floor you were on. If it turned out to be the ground floor, you bounced to your feet with an heroic grin. The fifth, and you were jam on the pavement. Or, more likely, a Gestapo courtyard.

A life concerned only with survival was a thin life. He needed to jump. For all sorts of reasons, he needed to jump.

He took a long last look at the view and started back down the slope, imagining the details of his plan as he did so. A restaurant close to the Stary Rynek provided him with a plate of meat turnovers, a large glass of Silesian beer, and ample time to imagine the worst. By two oclock he was slowly circling the large and well-populated square, and manfully repressing the periodic impulse to simply disappear into one of the adjoining streets.

She appeared at his shoulder halfway through his second circuit, her ankle-length coat unbuttoned to reveal the same skirt and blouse. This time, he thought, there was worry in the eyes.

She managed to leave the question unspoken for about thirty meters, and then asked it with almost angry abruptness: So, will you do this job for us?

With one condition, Russell told her. I have a friend, a Jewish friend, in Berlin. The police are looking for him, and he needs to get out of the country. You get him across the border, and I will do the job for you.

And how are we supposed to get him across the border? she asked, suspicion in her tone.

The same way you always have, Russell said. I was in the Party myself onceremember? I knew people in the Pass-Apparat, he added, stretching the truth somewhat. Everyone knew about the escape routes into Belgium and Czechoslovakia.

That was many years ago.

Not according to my information, Russell bluffed.

She was silent for about fifty meters. There are a few such routes, she admitted. But they are not safe. If they were, we would not be asking you to bring out these papers. Maybe one person in three gets caught.

In Berlin its more like three out of three.

She sighed. I cant give you an answer now.

I understand that. Someone will have to contact me in Berlin to make the arrangements for my friends journey, and to give me the details of the job you want me to do. Tell your bosses that the moment my friend calls me from outside the Reich, I will collect your papers from wherever they are and bring them out.