'You didn't get me over here just to tell me all this stuff about Rensselaer having an affair with Fiona, did you, Werner?'

'No. I wanted to ask you about the office. You're the only person I know who sees Frank Harrington to talk to him on equal terms.'

'I don't see him on equal terms,' I said. 'Frank treats me like I'm a twelve-year-old child.'

'Frank is very patronizing,' said Werner. 'In Frank's day, they were all Cambridge pansies or Greek scholars, like Frank, who thought a little job in the intelligence service would be a good way to earn money while they wrote sonnets. Frank likes you, Bernard. He likes you very much. But he could never reconcile himself to the idea that a tough little Berlin street kid like you could take over the job he's doing. He's friendly with you, I know. But how do you think he really feels about taking orders from someone without a classical education?'

'I don't give him orders,' I said, to correct the record.

'You know what I mean,' said Werner. 'I just want to know what Frank has got against me. If I've done something to make him annoyed, okay. But if it's a misunderstanding, I want a chance to clear it up.'

'What do you care about clearing it up?' I said. 'You've got some racket going that's going to give you a villa in Marbella and Rioja and roses for the rest of your days. What the hell do you care about this clearing up misunderstandings with Frank?'

'Don't be dumm, Bernie,' he said. 'Frank could make a lot of trouble for me.'

'You're imagining things, Werner.'

'He hates me, Bernie, and he's frightened of you.'

'Frightened?'

'He's frightened at the idea of you taking over from him. You know too much – you'd ask too many questions, awkward questions. And all Frank cares about these days is keeping himself pure for his index-linked pension. He'll do nothing to prejudice that, never mind all that stuff he gives you about how friendly he was with your father.'

'Frank is tired,' I said. 'Frank has got the " Berlin blues". He doesn't hate anyone. He doesn't even hate the Communists any more. That's why he wants to go.'

'Didn't you hear me tell you that Frank Harrington has blocked your appointment here?'

'And didn't you hear me tell you that that was all bloody rubbish? I'll tell you why they don't use you any more, Werner. You've become a gossip, and that's the worst thing that can happen to anyone in this business. You tell me stupid rumours about this and about that, and you tell me that no one likes you and you can't understand why. You need to pull yourself together, Werner, because otherwise you'll have to add me to that long list of people who don't understand you.'

Werner was hunched over the table, the bulky overcoat and fur collar making him look even bigger than he really was. When he nodded, his chin almost touched the table. 'I understand,' he said. 'When I first realized my wife had betrayed me, I couldn't say a civil word to anyone.'

'I'll call you, Werner,' I said, getting to my feet. 'Thanks for the coffee.'

'Sit down,' said Werner. His voice was soft, but there vas an urgency that transcended our bickering. I sat down. Two men had entered the café. The younger Leuschner had been checking the levels of the bottles of drink arrayed under the big mirror. He turned round and smiled the sort of smile that is the legacy of ten years behind a bar. 'What's it to be?' Nervously he wiped the pitted marble counter, which was one of the very few things in the café that had survived the war as well as the Leuschner brothers. 'Would you like to eat? I can give you Bratwurst with red cabbage, or roast chicken with Spätzle.'

The men were thirty-year-old heavyweights, with robust shoes, double-breasted raincoats and hats with brims big enough to keep rain from dripping down the neck. I caught Werner's eye. He nodded; they obviously were policemen. One of them picked up the plastic-faced menu that had been put before them. Young Leuschner twirled the end of the big Kaiser Wilhelm moustache that he'd grown to make himself look older. Now, with his balding head, he didn't need it any more. 'Or a drink?'

'Chocolate ice cream,' said one of the men in a voice that dared anyone to be surprised.

'Schnaps,' said the other.

Leuschner chose from one of the half-dozen varieties of strong clear liquor and poured a generous measure. Then he put two scoops of ice cream into a dented serving dish and supplied napkin and spoon. 'And a glass of water,' mumbled the man, who'd already begun to gobble the ice cream. His companion turned to rest his back against the edge of the counter and look casually round the room as he sipped his drink. Neither man sat down.

I poured milk into my cup, in order to provide myself with something to do, and stirred it with care. The man eating the ice cream finished it in record time. The other muttered something inaudible, and both men came across to the table where I was sitting with Werner.

'You live near here?' said the chocolate ice cream.

'Dahlem,' said Werner. He smiled, trying to hide his resentment.

'That's a nice place to live,' said the ice-cream cop. It was difficult to decide how much was pleasantry and how much was sarcasm.

'Let's see your papers,' said the second man. He was leaning all his weight on the back of my chair and I could smell the Schnaps on his breath.

Werner hesitated for a moment, trying to decide whether anything was to be gained by making them prove they were policemen. Then he brought out his wallet.

'Open up the case,' said the ice cream, pointing to the document case Werner had placed on the seat beside him.

'That's mine,' I said.

'I don't care if it belongs to Herbert von Karajan,' said the cop.

'But I do,' I said. This time I spoke in English.

He glanced at my face and at my English clothes. I didn't have to spell it out that I was an officer of the 'protecting powers'. 'Identification?'

I passed to him the Army officer's card that identified me as a Major Bishop of the Royal Engineers. He gave me a bleak smile and said, 'This identification expired two months ago.'

'And what do you think might have happened since then?' I said. 'You think I've changed into someone else?'

He gave me a hard stare. 'I'd get your identification brought up to date if I was you, Major Bishop,' he said. 'You might find the next policeman you encounter suspects you of being a deserter or a spy or something.'

'Then the next policeman I encounter will make a fool of himself,' I said. But by that time both men were moving off across the room. The ice cream dropped a couple of coins onto the counter as he passed.

'Bloody Nazis,' said Werner. 'They picked me because I'm a Jew.'

'Don't be a fool, Werner.'

'Then why?'

'There could be a million reasons why a cop asks for papers. There could be some local crime… a recognized car nearby… someone with a description like you.'

'They'll get the military police. They'll come back and make us open the case. They'll do it just to show us who's the boss.'

'No, they won't, Werner. They'll go down the street to the next café or bar and try again.'

'I wish you weren't so damned obstinate.'

'About what?'

'Frank Harrington. This is the way he keeps the pressure up.'

'Have you ever stopped to think how much it costs to keep a man under surveillance? Four men and two cars on eight-hour shifts working a five-day week. We're talking about a minimum of six men and three cars. The cars must be radio-equipped to our wavelength, so that rules out rented ones. The men must be trained and vetted. Allowing for insurance and special pensions and medical schemes all Department employees have, each man would cost well over a thousand Deutschemark. The cars cost at least another thousand each. Add another thousand for the cost of backup and we're talking about Frank spending ten thousand marks a week on you. He'd have to hate you an awful lot, Werner.'