Winter of the World

Volodya was worried. It seemed that Werner was weakening. ‘It’s the only way to defeat the Nazis,’ he said. ‘You know that.’

‘I do. I made my decision a long time ago. And the Nazis have done nothing to change my mind. It’s hard, that’s all.’

‘I understand,’ Volodya said sympathetically.

Werner said: ‘You asked me to suggest other people who might do for you what I am doing.’

Volodya nodded. ‘People like Willi Frunze. Remember him? Cleverest boy in school. He was a serious socialist – he chaired that meeting the Brownshirts broke up.’

Werner shook his head. ‘He went to England.’

Volodya’s heart sank. ‘Why?’

‘He’s a brilliant physicist and he’s studying in London.’

‘Shit.’

‘But I’ve thought of someone else.’

‘Good!’

‘Did you ever know Heinrich von Kessel?’

‘I don’t think so. Was he at our school?’

‘No, he went to a Catholic school. And in those days he didn’t share our politics, either. His father was a big shot in the Centre Party—’

‘Which put Hitler in power in 1933!’

‘Correct. Heinrich was then working for his father. The father has now joined the Nazis, but the son is wracked by guilt.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He got drunk and told my sister, Frieda. She’s seventeen. I think he fancies her.’

This was promising. Volodya’s spirits lifted. ‘Is he a Communist?’

‘No.’

‘What makes you think he’ll work for us?’

‘I asked him, straight out. “If you got a chance to fight against the Nazis by spying for the Soviet Union, would you do it?” He said he would.’

‘What’s his job?’

‘He’s in the army, but he has a weak chest, so they made him a pen-pusher – which is lucky for us, because now he works for the Supreme High Command in the economic planning and procurement department.’

Volodya was impressed. Such a man would know exactly how many trucks and tanks and machine guns and submarines the German military was acquiring month by month – and where they were being deployed. He began to feel excited. ‘When can I meet him?’

‘Now. I’ve arranged to have a drink with him in the Adlon Hotel after work.’

Volodya groaned. The Adlon was Berlin’s swankiest hotel. It was located on Unter den Linden. Because it was in the government and diplomatic district, the bar was a favourite haunt of journalists hoping to pick up gossip. It would not have been Volodya’s choice of rendezvous. But he could not afford to miss this chance. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But I’m not going to be seen talking to either of you in that place. I’ll follow you in, identify Heinrich, then follow him out and accost him later.’

‘Okay. I’ll drive you there. My car’s around the corner.’

As they walked to the other end of the alley, Werner told Volodya Heinrich’s work and home addresses and phone numbers, and Volodya committed them to memory.

‘Here we are,’ said Werner. ‘Jump in.’

The car was a Mercedes 540K Autobahn Kurier, a model that was head-turningly beautiful, with sensually curved fenders, a bonnet longer than an entire Ford Model T, and a sloping fastback rear end. It was so expensive that only a handful had ever been sold.

Volodya stared aghast. ‘Shouldn’t you have a less ostentatious car?’ he said incredulously.

‘It’s a double bluff,’ Werner said. ‘They think no real spy would be so flamboyant.’

Volodya was going to ask how he could afford it, but then he recalled that Werner’s father was a wealthy manufacturer.

‘I’m not getting into that thing,’ Volodya said. ‘I’ll go by train.’

‘As you wish.’

‘I’ll see you at the Adlon, but don’t acknowledge me.’

‘Of course.’

Half an hour later, Volodya saw Werner’s car carelessly parked in front of the hotel. This cavalier attitude of Werner’s seemed foolish to him, but now he wondered whether it was a necessary element of Werner’s courage. Perhaps Werner had to pretend to be carefree in order to take the appalling risks required to spy on the Nazis. If he acknowledged the danger he was in, maybe he would not be able to carry on.

The bar of the Adlon was full of fashionable women and well-dressed men, many in smartly tailored uniforms. Volodya spotted Werner right away, at a table with another man who was presumably Heinrich von Kessel. Passing close to them, Volodya heard Heinrich say argumentatively: ‘Buck Clayton is a much better trumpeter than Hot Lips Page.’ He squeezed in at the counter, ordered a beer, and discreetly studied the new potential spy.

Heinrich had pale skin and thick dark hair that was long by army standards. Although they were talking about the relatively unimportant topic of jazz, he seemed very intense, arguing with gestures and repeatedly running his fingers through his hair. He had a book stuffed into the pocket of his uniform tunic, and Volodya would have bet it contained poetry.

Volodya drank two beers slowly and pretended to read the Morgenpost from cover to cover. He tried not to get too keyed up about Heinrich. The man was thrillingly promising, but there was no guarantee he would co-operate.