Alistair walked through Berlin, passing by lads twirling their caps on the streets, old women chatting about their weather; their mouths chattering quicker than their old legs could carry them, and a few young couples going to see the beautiful German capital. Alistair didn't so much as glance at the passer-bys or at the architecture that surrounded him, closing him in the world of the late 1930s, where war did not hang in the air but nationalism did. He was on his way to Herr Braunschweig-Sokolov, who currently only went by 'Braunschweig' due to the russophobia in Germany. He was a retired translator, and had spent most of his life traveling between Moscow and Berlin, in some people's mouths a die-hard communist, in others a loyal supporter of the nazi-movement. Alistair did not care which one he was, or if he was neither, he just wanted to know what he needed to know to get to the Soviet Capital. Herr Braunschweig was low-profile, he was long forgotten at the Reichstag, and among most of the politicians or politically engaged persons his name had long faded from memory. Alistair had found him in a list of russo-german translators online, he'd been towards the bottom of the list, although he'd claimed to have once translated something for Lenin.
Alistair needed to ask him several things. For one, how could he best get to Moscow? Secondly, how he could get to Stalin himself, and thirdly, how in hell he was supposed to communicate with the soviet leader if he didn't speak more than a few meager words in russian. Herr Braunschwig-Sokolov seemed the most qualified man to ask and, due to his retirement, his low profile left only slim chances for Alistair to be found out as a traitor.
He'd practiced a cover story; Kurt Lewitski, a polish bolschewik who wished to return to the Soviet Union, but had no name and face in Germany. A translator for german-to-english, but no knowlage of the russian language and only little of polish due to having lived in the United States for a large number of years. He'd choosen a polish identity because it was neither german nor russian, and he'd stayed with translator and a history in the states because lies are much less detectable the more truth they hold.
Herr Braunschweig lived in a small Gasse, in Berlin, nameless although there was a titel on the board showing the way, and the number of his apartment was so faded that one had to count the doors to find the number 9. Alistair knocked. After a minute he knocked again.
The door creaked open.
The man who's face appeared in the slightly opened door. He peered over the hook-and-chain at the stranger who stood on his doorstep. "Who are you?" He asked warily. Alistair just smiled and held out his hand.
"Someone who'd rather not say his name on the street. May I invite myself inside?" The second he'd looked at the old man he'd seen that this man could sniff out a lie two miles away. He was not the kind of man to try and bluff in front of.
"Why did you come to me?" The old man asked. Alistair shrugged and took another step closer to the door.
"I wouldn't dare to say it outside." He smiled again. After a second the door opened wide.
"Come in, and we'll talk in the hallway."
Alistair accepted the invite and entered the house, closing the door behind him. He stood next to the coat hanger, Herr Braunschweig stood in front of the door that lead from the entry to the rest of the apartment, blocking it. They looked at each other for a second, then Alistair began to introduce himself.
"My name is of no importance, you wouldn't have heard of me, but if you'd like to know I'll tell you my first; Alistair." He held out his hand and his wary counterpart shook it. "I'm here because I want to travel to Moscow, I have no Identity, neither in Germany nor the Soviet Union. I'm against the bolschewiks and the nazis and the last thing I want is a war. Due to a series of fortunate events I know something that everyone else doesn't know, and I'd like to tell it to Comerade Stalin. I think it would save a lot of lives."
"And how am I supposed to help you?" The retired translator asked with a furrowed brow. He couldn't detect a lie but it didn't sound very plausible, why would a man who knew such a thing (if it was really as great as he claimed) come to him, a retired and nameless translator?
"Because you lived on the road between Moscow and Berlin. I need to get through. And, unfortunatly, I need to find someone who'll introduce me to Comerade Stalin, because I cannot walk into the Kremlin; I'll be arrested and shot dead. You'll have contacts there; and maybe one of them has the honor of a worthy audience like Comerade Stalin himself?"
"I certainly do." The German-Russian admitted. "And I could tell you several ways to get to Moscow without ever needing any kind of identity. But why should I help you? What's in it for me?"
"Nothing but a clean conscience."
"Why?"
"Because there's going to be a six year war across Europe, and if I can get to Stalin, I might be able to shorten it to a two-year war."
Alistairs words were spoken sincerily, Braunschweig noticed it. But the fact that he lead him into his home, conversed with him, agreed to his plan and sent him only to the best of his comerades was thank to more than Alistair's wit and cunning; the aftertaste of the first world war still lay on Braunschweigs tongue; he'd never forget the smell of bullets in the air, the sound and shudder of the bombs impacting the soil, and, in the past few months, he'd started to taste the bitter air of war again as any retirée would feel the weather change in their bones. He did not want a war.
In fact, a war was the last thing he wanted.