‘What happened to the Australian?’ Hawn asked, though he was more interested in the man’s voice and accent than in his story. It had been about halfway through that Hawn had got it: pure, straightforward, genteel North London Jewish. The explanation, of course, was simple: his family had escaped from Nazi Germany and settled in England; then the war over, they had returned, as faithful comrades, to that rump of Germany where others were building the Workers’ State. It only surprised Hawn that the man had managed to keep his accent so intact. No doubt he had regular contacts with London — diplomatic, pseudo-diplomatic, or some other cover that Colonel Kardich and his friends had devised.
Perhaps Hawn’s beating bad left his appetite for life temporarily jaded: for he found that sitting face to face with a Communist secret agent — who had probably worked most of his adult life against Hawn’s own country, and yet who was perhaps a few years younger than himself — not so much dramatic or intriguing, as rather embarrassing. He could think of nothing to say; nor was he much inclined to, since every syllable filled his mouth with the taste of antiseptic.
Their host, who had still not introduced himself or asked for their names, quickly broke the silence: ‘Oh, the Australian? Well, they worked him over a bit, then they threw him out. I think they were scared of him. I say, I’m sorry, would you both like a drink?’ He bounded off the bed and went towards his grip bag. ‘I’ve got some Scotch — bit of a rarity in these God-forsaken spots.’ He paused. ‘Only I don’t think there’ll be enough glasses.’ He went into the bathroom and came out with a couple of tooth mugs. ‘Bugger — as I thought — only two.’
‘We’ll share one,’ Hawn told him.
‘I’m Sam, by the way,’ the man said, bending down over the bed and opening his grip bag: ‘Sam Hanak.’ Hawn noticed that his movements were leisurely, and that he was rather large around the hips. He certainly didn’t look like a dangerous adversary. ‘’Fraid there’s no soda,’ he went on, taking out an unopened bottle of Scotch. ‘Germans don’t believe in soda. Have to be tap water.’
‘We’ll have it neat,’ said Hawn, squinting carefully at the pale, plump features next to the bed. ‘My name’s Tom, and this is Anna.’
‘Tom — Anna — one straight whisky coming up for the two of you!’ Formal introductions were clearly no part of his game. ‘And if you don’t mind me saying so, Tom, you look as though you need it.’ He filled their glass to the brim — ‘Whoops! You can see I’ve never worked as a barman.’
‘What do you work as?’ Hawn said.
‘Ah, that’s a mighty question — a question that calls for mighty answers. Let us partake of the Demon Drink, before we bare our souls to each other. You’d better take the first sip — I’m spilling it.’
Hawn winced as the whisky seared his lips and bruised gums. He wiped the antiseptic off the glass and carried it over to Anna, his eyes watering with pain.
Sam Hanak had poured himself a more modest dose. ‘Chin-chin! To happy days!’
‘With two Vopos on the door, and a Colonel of the secret police waiting downstairs, Sam? Don’t they make you nervous?’
‘Nervous? My dear fellow, one must look upon the guardians of the State as the guardians of the People. The People are you and me.’ He gave Hawn a sideways grin. ‘Mustn’t let a little punch-up sour one’s broad philosophy of the world.’
‘And what particular world is that?’
‘There is only one world. We fight and squabble, and sometimes we even try and kill each other. Jolly silly. We’re all citizens together.’
‘And what country are you a citizen of, Sam?’
Hanak had stopped in the middle of the room, his glass half raised to his lips. A light flush had spread across his smooth cheeks. ‘Do I detect the tiniest ring of hostility in that question? Or is it just the brutal instincts of the questing journalist?’
‘It was a simple enough question. And you should be able to give me a simple enough answer.’
‘Then I shall answer you. I am a citizen of the world. No, I jest. I will give you the correct answer, but first I am obliged to ask you some questions. You see, those passports of yours are a bloody nuisance. I mean, you were taking enough liberties coming here in the first place — considering the sort of game you’re playing. But when you barge in with false documents, you’re not only making it perishing difficult for yourselves — you’re making it pretty bloody difficult for the authorities here.’
‘Now listen to me, Herr Hanak.’ Hawn was sitting forward, gripping what was left of the whisky in both hands, feeling the acids and adrenalin beginning to stir through his sluggish blood. ‘I’ve still got a bit of kick left in me. And if you think you can answer my questions with a little pep talk about how we’ve upset the authorities here, and what a nuisance we’ve been and so on, I don’t mind reserving that kick for you.
‘What the hell are you up to? Who’s playing you along? Kardich? The Central Committee of the East German Workers’ Party? Or someone else? Do you know somebody called Wohl? Acts like a playboy and calls himself an international lawyer? Yes, you know him. You’re in his class, just about. Nice and breezy and anonymous.
‘But first you’ll tell me how you knew our passports were forged. Or rather, how Kardich knew. We picked up our visas at the border, with Wohl as our escort. At what point did they decide we were impostors?’
‘You mean, the East Germans?’ The young Jew sipped his whisky and stared
