defendants. And if I hadn't gone to Tegel that day I might never have seen some SA men piling out of a bar in Charlottenburg and followed them. In which case I'd never have seen Erich Mielke or saved his life. That's what I mean.'

'Given everything that happened afterwards,' said Hamer, 'we'd all have been a lot better off if you'd just let him get killed.'

'But that would mean I'd never have had the pleasure of your acquaintance, Agent Hamer,' I said.

'Less of the 'Agent', Gunther,' said Scheuer. 'From now on we're all of us just gentlemen, okay?'

'Does that include Herr Hamer?'

'Keep riding me, Gunther, you arrogant German bastard,' said Hamer, 'and see where it gets you. I almost hope Erich Mielke doesn't come. Just to bring you down a size or two. Not to mention the pleasure of seeing you come up short on twenty- five thousand bucks.'

'He'll come,' I said.

'How do you really know that?' said Hamer.

'Because he loves his father, of course. I wouldn't expect you to understand something like that, Hamer. You'd have to know who your father is to love him.'

'Hamer,' said Scheuer. 'I'm ordering you not to answer that. And Gunther? That's enough.' He pointed at the road ahead. 'Where now?'

'Left on Quitzow Strasse, and then right onto Putlitz Strasse.'

We drove west with the Ringbahn on our right, keeping pace with the little red and yellow train that clattered toward Putlitzstrasse station, moving along the green verge and overgrown track like two snooker balls. The red brick station with its tall arched window and tower was more medieval abby than rail terminus.

Dusk was fast approaching, and under the weak, greenish gaze on the praying-mantis street lamps of the Foherer Bruche we drove into Wedding. With its textile works, breweries and massive electronics factories. Wedding had once been I he industrial heart of Berlin and a communist stronghold. Back in 1930, forty-three per cent of Wedding voters, many of them soon to be made unemployed by the Great Depression, had voted for the KPD. Once it had been one of the most overcrowded bezirks in Berlin; now, with long winter nights fast approaching and no sign of the economic revival that had come to the American sector, Wedding looked almost deserted, as if all had been taken away to the ships of the conquerors. In truth, Berlin had always gone to bed early, especially in winter, but never in the late afternoon.

Scheuer hammered the steering wheel with excitement as he turned us onto Trift Strasse. 'I can't believe we're really gonna get this guy,' he said. 'We're gonna get Mielke.'

'Fuck, yeah,' said Frei and whooped loudly.

The three of them sounded like a basketball team trying to rouse themselves for an important game.

'If only you knew, Gunther,' said Scheuer, 'what this guy is capable of. He likes to torture people himself. Did you know that?'

I shook my head.

'Les Bauer,' continued Scheuer, 'a Party member since 1932, he was arrested in 1950 and Mielke beat him like a dog. The Russians sentenced Bauer to death, and the only reason he's still alive is because Stalin is dead. And Kurt Muller, head of the KPD in Lower Saxony: the Stasi lured him to East Berlin for a Party meeting and then accused him of being a Trotskyite. Mielke tortured him, too. Poor Muller has spent the last four years in solitary confinement in the Stasi's own prison at Halle. The Red Ox they call it. And you don't want to know what Mielke's done to the CIA agents they've caught. Mielke's a real Gestapo type. They say he has a bust of Felix Dzerzhinsky in his office. You know? The first Bolshevik secret police chief. Believe me, this guy Mielke makes your friend Heydrich look like an amateur. If we get Mielke we can cripple the whole Stasi.'

I'd heard it – or something like it – before and I hardly cared. This was their war, not mine. Probably the Stasi thought the CIA 'fascists' were just as bad.

As we neared the end of Trift Strasse I told Scheuer to turn right onto Miiller Strasse.

'That's Wedding Platz, just ahead,' I said.

Approaching the apartment building on the corner of Schulzenstrasse, Hamer, kneeling behind us, said, 'What a dump. I can't imagine why anyone would want to swap a cottage in Schonwalde to live here.'

Scheuer, who had been to the apartment himself, said, 'Really it's not so bad inside.'

'Well, I don't get it.'

I shrugged. 'That's because you're not a Berliner, Hamer. Erich Mielke's father has lived in and around this area all his life. It's in the bone. Like the allegiance to a tribe or a gang. For an old Berlin communist like Stallmacher this is the centre of German communism. Not police headquarters in East Berlin. And I wouldn't be at all surprised if he has some old friends who live in these very streets. That's a big thing for Berliners. Community. I don't expect you get that much where you come from. You have to trust your neighbours in order to be neighbourly.'

Scheuer stopped the van and turned in his seat. A few metres away, the ambulance containing our security came to a halt.

'All right, listen up,' said Scheuer. 'This is a stake-out. And we could be here for a while until Erich junior shows up. No one mentions the Company. Once again, there's to be no Company names and no Company language. And nobody uses profanity. From now on we're members of an American bible school. And the first thing we take out of this van is a box of bibles. Okay. Let's go and get this bastard.'

But as we entered the building and trooped up the stone stairs I almost hoped that Erich Mielke wouldn't come at all and that everything might stay the same as before. My heart was beating loudly now. Was it just the effort of climbing two flights of stairs with a box of bibles in my arms, or something else? In my imagination I already saw the scene that lay ahead of us and felt a twinge of regret. I told myself that if only I'd remained in Cuba I would never have landed in the hands of the CIA and all of this might have been avoided. That even now I might have been reading a book in my apartment on Malecon, or enjoying the pleasures that were to be had in Omara's body at the Casa Marina. Was Mister Greene still there, juggling breasts? Sometimes we just don't know when we're well off. And, for the first time in a long time I wondered about poor Melba Marron, the little rebel chica who'd shot the sailor on my boat. Was she in an American prison? For her sake I hoped so. Or was she back in Havana and at the mercy of the corrupt local police, as she had feared? In which case she might very likely be dead.

What was I doing here?

'Why did you have to suggest bibles?' Hamer grunted loudly as he put the box he'd been carrying down on the landing outside the first-floor apartment's door. He looked at the door with obvious displeasure. 'You sure about this place, Gunther? I've seen better-looking slums than this place.'

'Actually,' I said, 'there's a very nice view of the gasworks from the sitting room window.'

But in my imagination I saw only the CIA surrounding Mielke as he arrived to visit his father and I heard only their snarling pleasure as they bundled him into the apartment, snapped handcuffs on his wrists, hauled a canvas bag over his head and tripped him onto the floor. Maybe they would kick and abuse him the same way I had been kicked and abused until something in me had broken, the way they had wanted it broken. And I realised that I had at last become the thing that I abhorred; that I had crossed an invisible line of decency and honour: I was about to become the fascist I'd always detested.

'Stop complaining,' said Scheuer, glancing anxiously up the stairs at the landing above where he believed Erich Stallmacher's apartment was located.

I found the set of keys given to me by the landlord, and slid one into the strong Dom lock. The key turned and I pushed at the heavy grey door. A strong smell of floor polish greeted our nostrils as we entered our apartment. I waited in the largish hallway until the last of the Amis was inside and then closed the door. Then I locked it, carefully.

'What the fuck?' Agent Hamer's voice contained a tremor.

Agent Scheuer turned back to the locked door and was felled by a blow from a Makarov pistol to the back of the head.

Agent Frei was already in handcuffs. His face was pale and worried-looking.

There were six of them waiting for us in the apartment. They wore cheap grey suits and dark shirts and ties. All of them were armed with pistols – Soviet automatics with cheap plastic handles, but no less deadly for

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