'No government statement here?'
'Not a word. They're playing this close to their chests.'
'Sounds serious.'
Slaney grunted. 'The British and French don't seem to think so. Their delegation left for Moscow yesterday. Guess how they're getting there?'
'They can't have gone by train?'
'Worse. They've taken a boat, and the slowest one they could find. Some obsolete warship with a top speed of twelve knots. They should be in Moscow by the middle of the month.'
'It would be quicker to walk,' Russell observed.
'Jim Danvers came up with a good line,' Normanton said. 'He said the British and French had missed the boat by catching it.'
'Not bad at all,' Slaney agreed. 'Remind me to steal it.'
Two hours later and several marks poorer, Russell drove back through the wet and empty streets to Neuenburger Strasse. Would Hitler and Stalin really do a deal, he wondered? Both would have a mountain of words to eat, but the advantages were obvious. A free hand for Hitler, time for Stalin. Poland kaput.
The only message by the unhooked telephone was for Dagmar, the blonde waitress on the third floor. 'Siggi is desperate,' Frau Heidegger had written. 'He must see you tomorrow.' Dagmar was obviously not at home, and probably sleeping with Klaus. He would get an update from Frau Heidegger in the morning.
The stairs seemed endless. It was less than twenty-four hours since the sand dryer, but it seemed a lot longer. After taking off his jacket he extracted the slip of paper with Hornak's suggested contact details from his wallet. How long before they were safe to use, he wondered, now that the local Gestapo had come calling? Friday morning was grey as Berlin stone, and the giant swastikas on Wilhelmstrasse hung limp in the humid air. In the Kranzler Cafe the waiters seemed more interested in arguing with each other than in serving their customers, and Russell's coffee was lukewarm. The newspapers lauded the imprisonment of a Wittenberge worker for laziness, but conspicuously failed to mention either Danzig or Soviet-German relations.
Time to earn your living, Russell told himself. The Bristol Hotel had a convenient bank of public telephones, and while the booths lacked the luxurious fittings of those in the Adlon, they were much less frequented by his fellow journalists. He settled down on a cushioned seat to make his calls.
Over his years in Berlin, Russell had met a lot of influential people in government, arts and the media. Most leaned to the left politically, and many had lost their jobs when the Nazis came to power; some had even left the country. But a surprising number were still in the same positions, keeping their heads down and waiting for the whole shocking business to blow over. Self-preservation was an obvious priority, and precluded open criticism, but briefings off the record were another matter. The urge to stick spokes in the Nazi wheel was surprisingly widespread.
Sometimes, though, there was no dirt to dish. After speaking to a dozen people, Russell was no nearer to knowing how likely a Nazi-Soviet agreement might be. Some of his contacts had laughed at the idea, others had thought it possible, but only one man – an economist who worked for the Trade Ministry – had anything definite to tell him. A trade agreement between the two countries was a racing certainty, the man said, but there was no guarantee that a political deal would follow.
He dropped in on the Adlon Bar to make sure no official briefings were imminent, and checked his wire service. A three word message had arrived the previous night from San Francisco: 'How about Silesia?'
'How about it?' Russell muttered to himself, but he saw his editor's point. As far as the international community was concerned, Danzig looked like a soluble problem. The Poles might not like it, but Danzig was, in the last resort, a German city. A bilateral deal that included its peaceful absorption into the Reich would not involve the Poles in giving up any of their own territory.
Upper Silesia was a different matter. Poland had been reformed in 1918 from the debris of the German, Austrian and Russian Empires, and any reversal of that process could only be seen as a national death-knell. If Hitler went for Upper Silesia – or for any of the other so-called 'lost territories' – his intent would be crystal-clear. So what was happening down there? Was the border between the two Silesias as tense as Poland's border with Danzig? It would be worth a trip to find out.
Russell went back to the Hanomag, collected the The Good Soldier Schweik from under the seat, and walked round the southern side of Pariser Platz to the new American Embassy. As usual, a long line of anxious-looking Jews stretched around the corner from the front entrance on Herman Goering Strasse. They were queuing, if Russell's memory served him right, for the right to enter America in 1944.
Once inside, he gave his name and asked to see someone about an American passport for his son. The receptionist gave him a quick worried look and disappeared through a door behind her desk. She returned a minute or so later with the sort of smiling young man that Russell imagined was found on Californian beaches. His blond hair was almost bleached, his tan a tribute to Berlin's summer. 'This way,' he said, beckoning Russell through the door. 'I've been expecting you. My name's Michael Brown,' he added.
They climbed to an office on the second floor. 'This was Blucher's palace,' the young man said. 'You know, the guy at Waterloo.'
'Before my time,' Russell told him.
'So, do you have anything for me?'
Russell explained what had happened in Prague, and handed over The Good Soldier Schweik. 'I've written the contact name and address on the flyleaf, so all you have to do is get it to the department in Washington.'
'Of course.' Brown was leafing through the book with the air of someone searching for secrets.
'Do you have any messages for me?'
Brown looked surprised. 'None.'
'So, for German consumption, you're being difficult about giving my son a passport, and you've told me to come back in a couple of weeks. All right?'
'Sure.'
Russell got to his feet. 'Nice to meet you.'
A neatly-uniformed maid answered the door on Altonaer Strasse. Was Frau Umbach expecting him?
'Frau Grostein is,' Russell said, wondering who the hell Frau Umbach was.
'Wait there,' the maid said, shutting the door in his face.
She returned a few moments later to beckon him in. 'This way,' she said, leading him down a hallway, through a very modern-looking kitchen, and out into a small, secluded courtyard garden. Sarah Grostein was sitting at an iron table, under a pergola draped in deep red roses. She was wearing a simple blouse and slacks, smoking what smelt like a Turkish cigarette, and halfway through writing a letter. Her mass of wavy brown hair certainly looked feminine, but in all other respects she fell lamentably short of the official ideal of Nazi womanhood.
'Mr Russell,' she said, offering him a chair.
'Frau Umbach?' he asked.
She grimaced. 'I should have told you. My friend has decided I should use my maiden name. For obvious reasons.'
'I got your message.'
'Good. Freya wants to meet you. And so does Wilhelm, come to that.'
'Why?'
She smiled. 'I think he's looking for some publicity, but…'
'For what?'
'He can tell you that. Are you busy this evening, around six o'clock? That was one of the times they offered me.'
He hated giving up precious time with Effi, but she would understand. 'I'm free.'
'I'll confirm it with them this afternoon. You have a car?'
'Of a sort.'
'You can pick me up then. Say five-thirty.'
'Fine.' He considered telling her about Gorodnikov, but decided it would be safer to have that conversation in the car.
As she led him back to the front door, he caught a glimpse of a Kandinsky on the living room wall. 'Doesn't your friend object to the painting?' he asked.