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.
A quarter hour went by, and then another. It was getting dark outside, and Russell guessed that the Embassy was now closed for the day. A cursory investigation of the cardboard boxes revealed that each was full of Hershey bars. He pocketed a couple for the children, and, after another fifteen minutes had ticked by, a couple more for the adults to share.
The young man returned, looking pleased with himself. ‘Follow me,’ he said.
They traipsed down a corridor, and descended several flights of stairs. The unmarked basement room into which Russell was ushered had no ordinary windows, but a deep ceiling well in one corner offered proof there was still some light outside. The colonel behind the neatly-organised desk looked around forty, and none too pleased to see him. His head was as close to shaved as made no difference, and his face seemed equally short on sympathy. The grey eyes, though, were conspicuously alert. Not a fool, Russell decided.
A folder bearing his own name was lying on the desk.
‘John Russell,’ the colonel said, as if curious to hear how it sounded. His accent was Midwestern.
‘And you are?’ Russell asked.
‘Colonel Lindenberg. The attaché who deals with intelligence matters,’ he added wryly. ‘I believe you have a proposal for me.’
‘Yes. I’ve worked for your Government before, and I’d like to do so again. In Berlin.’
‘Yes? Why now? We asked you to work for us in 1942, but you refused. What’s changed your mind?’
Russell considered explaining his earlier refusals and decided there wasn’t any point – the reasons he’d given at the time would be in the file. ‘I think I have a better appreciation now of
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.
A quarter hour went by, and then another. It was getting dark outside, and Russell guessed that the Embassy was now closed for the day. A cursory investigation of the cardboard boxes revealed that each was full of Hershey bars. He pocketed a couple for the children, and, after another fifteen minutes had ticked by, a couple more for the adults to share.
The young man returned, looking pleased with himself. ‘Follow me,’ he said.
They traipsed down a corridor, and descended several flights of stairs. The unmarked basement room into which Russell was ushered had no ordinary windows, but a deep ceiling well in one corner offered proof there was still some light outside. The colonel behind the neatly-organised desk looked around forty, and none too pleased to see him. His head was as close to shaved as made no difference, and his face seemed equally short on sympathy. The grey eyes, though, were conspicuously alert. Not a fool, Russell decided.
A folder bearing his own name was lying on the desk.
‘John Russell,’ the colonel said, as if curious to hear how it sounded. His accent was Midwestern.
‘And you are?’ Russell asked.
‘Colonel Lindenberg. The attaché who deals with intelligence matters,’ he added wryly. ‘I believe you have a proposal for me.’
‘Yes. I’ve worked for your Government before, and I’d like to do so again. In Berlin.’
‘Yes? Why now? We asked you to work for us in 1942, but you refused. What’s changed your mind?’
Russell considered explaining his earlier refusals and decided there wasn’t any point – the reasons he’d given at the time would be in the file. ‘I think I have a better appreciation now of
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