failed in Russia, that only the infantry can win it for them now.'
'Do they have the infantry?'
Russell shrugged. 'My guess would be not, but that may be wishful thinking.'
As he ate, another likely consequence of the German emphasis on tanks and tank-supportive planes occurred to him. If German production had all been geared to blitzkrieg over the last few years, there was no chance of Hitler having a fleet of long-range bombers up his sleeve. Russell could understand why Dallin and his Washington bosses were worried: their country was accustomed to immunity from such threats, and the appearance of German bombers in the skies above Manhattan would certainly wreak havoc in the American psyche. But there was no substance to this particular piece of paranoia, and nothing to be gained from his seeking out Franz Knieriem.
Nothing for the Americans, that was. He might earn himself a few points by showing willing. He could at least find out whether the man was still living at the same address - there was no risk in that. And there was always the chance that Knieriem had moved, which would give him grounds for further procrastination. If his luck was really in, the address was now a bomb site.
The slivers of sausage actually tasted quite good, unlike the cabbage and potatoes which tasted of salt and little else.
A waiter materialised at his elbow. 'A call for you, sir,' he said. 'In reception.'
It was his ex-wife Ilse. 'You always told me I could reach you there,' she said, 'but I never quite believed it.'
'Now you know.'
'It's Paul,' she told him. 'He's said something he shouldn't have at school, and...'
'What did he say?'
'I don't know. I'll find out when he gets home. But they want to see his parents, and Matthias is in Hannover.' Paul's stepfather, a thoroughly respectable German businessman, usually acted in loco parentis where the authorities were concerned. 'I'd rather not go alone,' Ilse added.
'What time?' Russell asked.
'Six o'clock. Say half past five here.'
'I'll be there.'
'Thanks.'
Russell replaced the earpiece. Another missed press conference performance at Promi, he thought. Another silver lining. But what about the cloud - what had Paul been saying?
Russell left plenty of time for the endless ride out to Grunewald, but one tram broke down and the driver of the next seemed unwilling to risk a speed of more than ten kilometres an hour. Getting round the city grew more frustrating by the day, except for those with the right connections. Arriving ten minutes late at the Gehrts' house, he found Matthias's Horch staring out of an open garage door, its numberplate adorned with the priceless red square which allowed its owner the luxury of continuing use. Russell felt like unscrewing the numberplate there and then, but a written permit was also required.
Ilse opened the door before he had time to ring the bell. She looked worried.
'Well?' Russell asked. 'What's it all about?'
'Two jokes, and one was about Hitler. Paul should know better.'
'Where is he?'
'In his room.'
Russell climbed the stairs, wondering what sort of reception he was going to get. Over the last few months his fourteen-year-old son had seemed increasingly exasperated with him, as if Russell just didn't get it - whatever it was. Ilse thought it age-related, but the boy didn't seem to behave the same way with her or his stepfather, and Russell knew that his being English, and the complications which that had necessarily caused in Paul's German life, had more than a little to do with their recent difficulties. But there was nothing Russell could do about that. 'It's like your snoring,' Effi had told him when they talked about it. 'I want to murder you, and knowing you can't help it makes it even worse. I can't even blame you.'
He crossed the large landing, and put his head around Paul's half-open door. His son was doing his homework, tracing one of the maps in his Stieler's Atlas. 'Another fine mess you've got yourself into,' Russell
'Do they have the infantry?'
Russell shrugged. 'My guess would be not, but that may be wishful thinking.'
As he ate, another likely consequence of the German emphasis on tanks and tank-supportive planes occurred to him. If German production had all been geared to blitzkrieg over the last few years, there was no chance of Hitler having a fleet of long-range bombers up his sleeve. Russell could understand why Dallin and his Washington bosses were worried: their country was accustomed to immunity from such threats, and the appearance of German bombers in the skies above Manhattan would certainly wreak havoc in the American psyche. But there was no substance to this particular piece of paranoia, and nothing to be gained from his seeking out Franz Knieriem.
Nothing for the Americans, that was. He might earn himself a few points by showing willing. He could at least find out whether the man was still living at the same address - there was no risk in that. And there was always the chance that Knieriem had moved, which would give him grounds for further procrastination. If his luck was really in, the address was now a bomb site.
The slivers of sausage actually tasted quite good, unlike the cabbage and potatoes which tasted of salt and little else.
A waiter materialised at his elbow. 'A call for you, sir,' he said. 'In reception.'
It was his ex-wife Ilse. 'You always told me I could reach you there,' she said, 'but I never quite believed it.'
'Now you know.'
'It's Paul,' she told him. 'He's said something he shouldn't have at school, and...'
'What did he say?'
'I don't know. I'll find out when he gets home. But they want to see his parents, and Matthias is in Hannover.' Paul's stepfather, a thoroughly respectable German businessman, usually acted in loco parentis where the authorities were concerned. 'I'd rather not go alone,' Ilse added.
'What time?' Russell asked.
'Six o'clock. Say half past five here.'
'I'll be there.'
'Thanks.'
Russell replaced the earpiece. Another missed press conference performance at Promi, he thought. Another silver lining. But what about the cloud - what had Paul been saying?
Russell left plenty of time for the endless ride out to Grunewald, but one tram broke down and the driver of the next seemed unwilling to risk a speed of more than ten kilometres an hour. Getting round the city grew more frustrating by the day, except for those with the right connections. Arriving ten minutes late at the Gehrts' house, he found Matthias's Horch staring out of an open garage door, its numberplate adorned with the priceless red square which allowed its owner the luxury of continuing use. Russell felt like unscrewing the numberplate there and then, but a written permit was also required.
Ilse opened the door before he had time to ring the bell. She looked worried.
'Well?' Russell asked. 'What's it all about?'
'Two jokes, and one was about Hitler. Paul should know better.'
'Where is he?'
'In his room.'
Russell climbed the stairs, wondering what sort of reception he was going to get. Over the last few months his fourteen-year-old son had seemed increasingly exasperated with him, as if Russell just didn't get it - whatever it was. Ilse thought it age-related, but the boy didn't seem to behave the same way with her or his stepfather, and Russell knew that his being English, and the complications which that had necessarily caused in Paul's German life, had more than a little to do with their recent difficulties. But there was nothing Russell could do about that. 'It's like your snoring,' Effi had told him when they talked about it. 'I want to murder you, and knowing you can't help it makes it even worse. I can't even blame you.'
He crossed the large landing, and put his head around Paul's half-open door. His son was doing his homework, tracing one of the maps in his Stieler's Atlas. 'Another fine mess you've got yourself into,' Russell
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