Read Masaryk Station (John Russell) for Free Online Page B

area, sharing something that made them both laugh. Annaliese jumped up when she saw Ströhm, and enfolded him in a happy embrace. Effi followed suit, with her usual spontaneous warmth.
    ‘I just dropped in my way home,’ she told him. ‘Mostly to invite the two of you to Thomas’s house for lunch on Sunday week. He doesn’t trust the post anymore, and he didn’t dare ring you at work, in case someone listened in and thought you were plotting with the SPD.’
    Ströhm smiled. ‘As if. And we’d love to come, wouldn’t we?’ he asked Annaliese.
    ‘I’ve already accepted.’
    ‘And you can bring us up-to-date on Soviet intentions,’ Effi said, tongue in cheek. She liked Ströhm, but he was sometimes too serious for words.
    ‘Of course. Will John be there?’
    She shook her head. ‘Not as far as I know. He’s still in Trieste.’
    ‘What’s he doing down there?’
    ‘Researching a story on Nazi escape routes. Or so he claims. Every letter he sends me, he boasts about the beautiful weather. He keeps saying he’ll be back in a week or so …’ She changed tack. ‘Gerhard, I went to Sonja Strehl’s funeral on Tuesday, and there were all sorts of rumours doing the rounds. About how she died, I mean. You haven’t heard anything?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I just wondered. She wasn’t exactly a friend, but I knew her for a long time, and I liked her.’
    ‘I’ll keep my ears open,’ Ströhm promised. ‘But don’t expect too much. The last rumour I heard was about a missing coal train, which someone claimed the French had taken back to France. He might have been right—we still haven’t found it.’
    At the villa above Trieste, Thursday proved depressingly similar to previous days. Perhaps even less entertaining, as Kuznakov and his interrogators were each growing increasingly irritated with the other’s refusal to give way. Dempsey and Farquhar-Smith wouldn’t move the Russian westwards until he’d proved he had something to give; and Kuznakov refused to offer anything tangible until he was safe, as he put it, in American territory. Trieste, though nominally under joint control, was apparently too close to Yugoslavia to qualify. ‘Full of MGB,’ Kuznakov insisted, with almost a hint of pride. He was more than ready to talk about life in the Soviet Union, and here his script seemed somewhat inconsistent, mixing fervent denunciations of communism with occasional, almost compulsive, mentions of Soviet achievements. And throughout it all Kuznakov puffed away on his dreadful cigarettes, of which he seemed to have an endless supply.
    The only excitement of the day came late, when a vehicle was suddenly heard entering the compound. This time Kuznakov did look alarmed, and so did Farquhar-Smith. ‘It’s the CIA guy,’ Dempsey told them, ‘I forgot to tell you he was coming. It’s Russell here he wants to see.’
    ‘What for?’ Russell asked, heart sinking.
    ‘He’ll fill you in. We might as well wrap this up for today.’ Dempsey went to the door, summoned a soldier to take Kuznakov back to his room, and disappeared. A minute later he was back. ‘The Colonel’ll see you on the terrace,’ he told Russell.
    The man in question was tall, grey-haired, probably in his early forties. He was wearing civilian clothes—quite a smart suit, in fact.He rose from a wrought-iron chair, offered Russell a hand, and introduced himself as, ‘Bob Crowell, CIA.’
    The terrace was at the side of the villa, overlooking a steep drop, and with a distant view of the sea through the pines.
    As Russell sat down, a soldier appeared with two bottles of beer. ‘If you don’t want one, I’ll drink both,’ Crowell told him. Despite being middle-aged, he had the air of a grown-up kid.
    ‘I think I could manage one,’ Russell said. ‘So what brings you here?’
    Crowell ignored the question. ‘How’s it going with Kuznakov?’ he wanted to know, as if Russell was doing the interrogating.
    ‘He’s eager to leave the Balkans