Spy Line. Len Deighton

operator from Rostock who was locked in the trunk. They say his relatives in Toronto, Canada, had paid for the escape.’

      ‘The guards opened the trunk of a diplomatic car?’ asked Werner.

      ‘No. They didn’t have to,’ said Lange grimly. ‘Maybe that poison gas was only intended to give some young escaper a bad headache but when the trunk was opened on this side, the fellow inside was dead. Hear about that, Bernard?’ he asked me.

      ‘Not the way you tell it,’ I admitted.

      ‘Well that’s what happened. I saw the car. There were ventilation holes drilled into the trunk from underneath to save an escaper from suffocating. The guards must have known that, and known where the vents were.’

      ‘What happened?’ asked Werner.

      ‘The quick-thinking African diplomat turned around and took the corpse back to East Berlin and into his embassy. The corpse became an African national by means of pre-dated papers. Death in an embassy: death certificate signed by an African medico so no inquiries by the East German police. Quiet funeral. Buried in a cemetery in Marzahn. But here’s the big boffola: not knowing the full story, some jerk working for the Foreign Affairs Committee of the Volkskammer thinks a gesture of sympathy is required. So – on behalf of the government and people of the DDR – they send an enormous wreath in which the words “peace, trust and friendship” are made from miniature roses. It was only on the grave for a day or two then it was discreetly removed by someone from the Stasi.’ Lange laughed loudly. ‘Cheer up, Bernie,’ he said and laughed some more.

      ‘I thought you’d have good news for me, Lange. I thought things had eased up.’

      ‘And don’t imagine going through Hungary or Czechoslovakia is any easier. It’s tight everywhere. When you read how many people have been killed crossing the Wall you should add on the hundreds that have quietly bled to death somewhere out of sight on the other side.’

      ‘That’s good tea, Gerda,’ I said. I never knew whether to call her Mrs Lange or Gerda. She was one of those old-fashioned Germans who prefer all the formalities: on the other hand she was married to Lange.

      ‘Bringing someone out, Bernie?’ said Lange. ‘Someone rich, I hope. Someone who can pay.’

      ‘Werner’s brother-in-law in Cottbus,’ I said. ‘No money, no nothing.’

      Werner, who knew nothing of any brother-in-law in Cottbus, looked rattled but he recovered immediately and backed me up gamely. ‘I’ve promised,’ said Werner and sat back and smiled unconvincingly.

      Lange looked from one of us to the other. ‘Can he get to East Berlin?’

      ‘He’ll be here with his son,’ Werner improvised. ‘For the Free German Youth festival in summer.’

      Lange nodded. Werner was a far better liar than I ever imagined. I wondered if it was a skill that he’d developed while married to the shrewish Zena. ‘You haven’t got a lot of time then,’ said Lange.

      ‘There must be a way,’ said Werner. He looked at his watch and got to his feet. He wanted to leave before I got him more deeply involved in this fairy tale.

      ‘Let me think about it,’ said Lange as he got Werner’s coat and hat. ‘You didn’t have an overcoat, Bernie?’

      ‘No,’ I said.

      ‘Aren’t you cold, Bernard?’ said Gerda.

      ‘No, never,’ I said.

      ‘Leave him alone,’ said Lange. He opened the door for us but before it was open wide enough for us to leave he said, ‘Where’s the other half of that banknote, Bernard?’

      I gave it to him.

      Lange put it in his pocket and said, ‘Half a banknote is no good to anybody. Right, Bernie?’

      ‘That’s right, Lange,’ I said. ‘I knew you’d quickly tumble to that.’

      ‘There’s a lot of things I quickly tumble to,’ he said ominously.

      ‘Oh, what else?’ I said as we went out.

      ‘Like there not being a Freie Deutsche Jugend festival in Berlin this summer.’

      ‘Maybe Werner got it wrong,’ I said. ‘Maybe it was the Gesellschaft für Sport und Technik that have their Festival in East Berlin this summer.’

      ‘Yeah,’ said Lange, calling after us in that hoarse voice of his, ‘and maybe it’s the CIA having a gumshoe festival in West Berlin this summer.’

      ‘Berlin is wonderful in the summer,’ I said. ‘Just about everyone comes here.’

      I heard Lange close the door with a loud bang and slam the bolts back into place with a display of surplus energy that is often the sign of bad temper.

      As we were going downstairs Werner said, ‘Is it your wife Fiona? Are you going to try to get her out?’

      I didn’t answer. The time switch plopped and we continued downstairs in darkness.

      Vexed at my failure to answer him, Werner said somewhat petulantly, ‘That was my hundred marks you gave Lange.’

      ‘Well,’ I explained, ‘it’s your brother-in-law isn’t it?’

       4

      Some men are born hoteliers, others strive to acquire hotels, but Werner Volkmann was one of those rare birds who have a hotel thrust upon them. It would be difficult to imagine any man in the whole world less ready to become a hotel manager than my good friend Werner Volkmann. His dedication to Tante Lisl, the old woman who had brought him up when he was orphaned, compelled him to take over from her when she became too old and sick to continue her despotic reign.

      It was not a sumptuous establishment but the neighbourhood could hardly be more central. Before the war it had been Lisl’s family home, set in the fashionable New West End. In 1945 the division of the city between the Russians and the Western Allies had made Der Neuer Westen the centre of ‘capitalist Berlin’.

      Werner was making changes, but sensitive to Lisl’s feelings, for she was still in residence and monitored every new curtain and every drip of paint, the modifications did little to change the character of this appealing old place where so much of the interior was the same as it had been for fifty or more years.

      After we left Lange Koby’s apartment that evening I let Werner persuade me to move in to his hotel. There was little reason to suffer the dirt and discomfort of my Kreuzberg slum now that Frank Harrington had demonstrated his office’s ability to put a finger out and reach me any time they chose.

      Before going to bed Werner offered me a drink. We walked through the newly refurbished bar – there was no one else there – to the small office at the back. He poured me a big measure of scotch whisky with not much soda. Werner drank soda water with just a splash of Underberg in it. I looked around. An amazing transformation had taken place, especially pleasing for anyone who’d known Werner back in the old days. It had become a den and Werner’s treasures had miraculously resurfaced. There was a lion’s head: a moth-eaten old fellow upon whose wooden mounting some drunken wag had neatly inscribed felis leo venerabilis. Next to it on the wall hung an antique clock. It had a chipped wooden case upon the front panel of which a bucolic scene was unconvincingly depicted. It ticked loudly and was eight minutes slow but it was virtually the only thing he possessed which had belonged to his parents. Hanging from the ceiling there was the model Dornier flying boat that Werner had toiled so long to construct: twelve engines, and if you lifted up each and every cowling the engine detail could be seen inside. I remember Werner working on those tiny engines: he was in a vile temper for over a week.

      We’d done no more than say how well Lange looked and what a fierce old devil he was when Ingrid Winter came into