Free Masaryk Station (John Russell) by David Downing Page A

fucking moron, that’s what.’
    ‘So fire me.’
    Youklis gave him a contemptuous look. ‘What the hell were you doing sleeping in a separate room?’
    ‘Surviving, as it turned out.’
    ‘Here and now, that doesn’t seem like such a great outcome.’
    Russell just about kept his temper. ‘May I remind you that Bob here told me there was—and I quote—“nothing dangerous” about this job. There was no mention of potential assassins. And while we’re at it—how did they know where to find him? Northern Italy’s not exactly awash with Ukrainian death squads, so my guess is that one of your people let the cat out of the bag. And probably for the best of reasons, that they didn’t enjoy seeing the bastard escape justice.’
    ‘It sounds like you were tempted yourself. And maybe succumbed.’
    ‘I didn’t tell anyone,’ Russell lied.
    ‘But you’re happy enough that he’s dead.’
    ‘I don’t consider him a great loss to humanity, no.’ Unbidden, Russell had a mental picture of Palychko’s fingers, poised above the chess board.
    ‘Well, he’s a real loss to our cause.’
    ‘You might consider what that says about us.’
    Youklis flashed Russell another angry look. ‘It says that we do what we have to.’
    ‘Yeah? Well you don’t do it very well. And I don’t like being blamed for other people’s incompetence. Are we done here?’
    ‘Just about. I’m told that our people in Berlin put a high value on your services, but I’m fucked if I can see why.’
    ‘Then send me back there. What do you need me for here now that Kuznakov’s gone?’
    ‘You have a job to do in Belgrade, I believe. If you manage that better than you’ve managed this, then we’ll think about it. But I’m not making any promises.’
    Russell got to his feet. Another retort came to mind, but why waste any more breath?

    Monday morning in Berlin, and it looked as if spring had been deferred again. A blanket of grey cloud hung just above the rooftops, or, in many cases, the tops still awaiting new roofs. The news was just as depressing: Over the weekend the Soviets had suddenly cut off the Western sectors’ milk supply, claiming a sudden shortfall of petrol and labour. The Western authorities were told they were welcome to pick up the milk themselves, but while they scrambled to find the necessary fleet of trucks, several thousand babies were going hungry.
    Few believed the Soviet excuses; for most, it was just one more twist in a growing campaign of harassment. The only real question was how long this operation would last, and how far Stalin’s cronies were willing to go.
    Quite a way, Effi thought, as she waited for Eva Kempka outside the Ku’damm café. If a government was willing to target babies, then who could think themselves safe?
    As usual on those rare occasions when she arrived earlier than the person she was meeting, Effi remembered all the times she had kept people waiting, and she resolved to do better in future. It never worked, of course.
    She was almost ready to admit defeat when Eva finally arrived, out of breath and full of apologies. With a few drops of rain in the air, they took a table inside, and ordered coffees from a waitress who looked about fourteen. These days nearly everyone in Berlin seemed either too young or too old.
    Eva seemed more nervous than she had at the funeral, and kept glancing at the doorway to the street. ‘A man came to see me,’ she said, as if in explanation.
    ‘Who?’ Effi asked. ‘What did he want?’
    ‘He never gave me his name, and I was too agitated to ask. He implied he was a friend of the family—Sonja’s family, I mean. But he didn’t actually say so.’
    ‘What did he say?’
    ‘That I was upsetting the family.’
    ‘How? What have you been doing?’
    Eva stole another glance at the door. ‘Just talking to people, asking questions.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Oh, colleagues. I mean, I haven’t spoken to the newspapers, or anything like that.’
    Effi digested