'There it is, Herr Samson. Dad said you always wanted it.' He dropped a heavy white envelope on to the plastic table-top.

'Hello, Bruno,' I said, looking up at him. Apart from a small wispy moustache he looked very much like Theo had looked in the old days. I didn't touch the envelope.

'He told me to give it to you. It's the Blutorden. ' He spat it out — Blood Order — with all the contempt he could muster. It was a medal — one of the rarest of the Nazi decorations — and Theo had had one in his collection since he was a schoolkid. I'd desperately wanted to add it to my modest little collection.

'Thanks, Bruno. Will you have coffee? Or a drink?'

'He'll never survive prison. You know that don't you?' He stood over me and ignored the invitation.

'Did you see him?' I said.

'You bastard. Are you satisfied now?'

'Did you see him?'

'Yes, they let me see him. He was crying.' Bruno let me absorb that one. 'He was sitting hunched up, with his arms round his knees. Sitting in the visitor's room sobbing his heart out . . . like a child.'

'Had They hurt him?'

'What do you care? No, they hadn't hurt him. They hadn't tortured him the way your rotten Western newspapers say our detectives torture their prisoners. And if you'd left him alone he would be free and happy.'

'He's sick,' I said. 'They'll probably let him out soon.'

'You come into people's lives and interfere, and make them miserable and stir up the shit. And where does it get you?'

'It wasn't like that, Bruno,' I said. 'Your father wanted to help.'

Bruno Forster looked around to be sure we weren't being overheard. He had come through to the West on his S-Bahn train and I suppose they would ask him to account for every minute of his time. The S-Bahn management made sure their staff weren't wandering around in the Western Sector of the city, for the managers were also vetted and kept under the strict scrutiny of the Stasi. That's how the system worked.

'Open your present,' he said.

'How is your mother?' I could feel the medal through its wrapping but I didn't open the envelope. It was as if by accepting the legacy I would be hastening poor Theo's demise.

'My mother won't talk to me. I talk to her but she looks at me and doesn't reply.'

'She loves your Dad.'

'She blames me.' He gave a short angry laugh. 'They both do.' His indignation came out with a rush. 'You come along, and you tear the family apart. You tell them about the West. You tell them freedom is everything. You encourage the old man to help these maniacs who want to overthrow the State. I warned him over and over again. My mother takes him along to the Church and involves him and then, when he's in trouble, who do they blame? Not themselves or you. They blame me!'

I fingered the envelope and I could feel the ribbon to which the medal was attached. Alone of all the Nazi medals it was worn on the right breast pocket, its ribbon threaded through the buttonhole.

'I'm a socialist,' said Bruno. 'I'm loyal to my country. The DDR is a good place to live. They try. We have proper medical care and jobs for life. No crime, none of the perversion and hell you've made in the West. I tell my DDR friends that if they came over here and saw it for themselves they'd see the filth and the misery. They'd see how brainwashed your wretched workers are. They'd see the people living on the streets, the drugs and the horrors . . .'

'But they can't,' I said. 'They can't come over here and see anything. You built the Wall.'

'I've got to go back to work. I haven't got time to argue.'

'No, well maybe I've been brainwashed into thinking freedom is everything,' I said. I restrained the desire to tell him that it was the filthy pollution — and the appalling working conditions at the government-owned cycle factory-that had brought his father prematurely to the point of death.

'Open it up.' He tapped the envelope. 'Dad made me promise to give it to you. He told me over and over. I don't know why you'd want it.' As he looked around another thought struck him. 'How did he know you'd be here? And how did you know I'd come?'

'I guessed you might look in here. A lot of the S-Bahn workers look in here for a schnapps or a coffee.'

But he wasn't to be fooled. 'This place is a drop, isn't it? Your bloody spy system! Is this how Dad's network communicated with you? Is that how you told them you were coming? The S-Bahn?'

'Don't even start thinking about it, Bruno. You live in a place where even thoughts can be severely punished.'

Perhaps he was persuaded by that argument, for as he got to his feet he repeated his Party line about the West's exploited workers and about me in particular. 'You are a hyena, Samson,' he said softly, so that his voice was almost a hiss. 'You live on the corpses of good people who believe your damned fairy tales.'

'Perhaps you are right, Bruno,' I said. I'd known him since he was an infant in knitted hats and waving a rattle. I remember crossing Checkpoint Charlie bringing him a pushchair from the Ka-De-We department store. It only just fitted into the back of my car, and the frontier police were about to seize it from me until I gave them four cartons of American cigarettes. It was a foolish risk, for in those days the guards would sometimes react fiercely to any sort of attempted bribery.

'You couldn't leave him in peace could you? Not even when he was sick.' He took a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. 'You call yourself his friend?'

I recognized his ranting for what it was: grief at the prospect of losing his Dad, and regret that his ill will had meant missing so many precious years with his parents. I didn't answer.

'A Nazi medal,' said Bruno. 'It's an appropriate gift. I'm glad I gave it to you in person.'

I knew he wouldn't stay more than a few minutes; his masters became suspicious of prolonged delays in the West.

9

Hennig Hotel, West Berlin.

After my bruising encounter with Theo's son I went to Tante Lisl's hotel. The room I used was under the roof, reached by a steep flight of narrow wooden stairs originally intended only for the use of servants. It was midday. I closed the curtains against the daylight, undressed and went to bed. I needed sleep but sleep did not come easily; the cramped little room held vivid memories for me, not only of my school days with Theo but of my father and of the day he died. Exhaustion finally claimed me and I did not wake up until late afternoon. I remained in bed for another half hour or so, hoping that someone would appear with comforts like broth and Bratwurst, but no one came. When I phoned the office to be sure no new emergency had developed Lida told me that her attempts to reach me had been met with someone telling her that I needed rest. Fortunately she had handled the office routine without my assistance.

Lida showed a disconcerting insight into everything that went on in the office. She told me that a query had arisen concerning someone who had checked out a BMW motorcycle the previous evening without entering into the book the required details of the driving license and authorization code. In a voice devoid of any emotion she reported having told the motor pool to mark it 'special arrangement for Mr. Harrington.' That meant that she could just nod it through without it attracting further attention. Lida was a treasure.

My head ached, my eyes were difficult to open fully, and my mouth was dry. I pulled on an old roll-neck sweater and corduroy pants and picked my way down the creaking little staircase, along the landing, and downstairs to find something to eat. There was no one about; this was not the time of year for tourists, and businessmen found reasons to stay home when the Christmas season approached. From now onwards there was a slack period until the Berlin Film Festival in February. Lisl prospered in the Festival: her hotel had a reputation for being lucky. Directors, producers and even well-known actors and actresses thronged here because over the years so many of her guests had won the Silver Bear and all sorts of other awards. The two big expensive suites on the first floor were particularly lucky ones, so she said, although I'd noticed that when anyone asked which winners had slept in them, and won which prize at which Festival, Lisl always became somewhat vague.