Deception

excitement, rather than the frailty of old age.

While the water was boiling, he tried in his limited German to get some response from her, conjuring up phrases from his time in Berlin.

‘When’s he coming. . Wann kommt er?’

But she refused to play, staring instead at the saucepan as if too nervous to meet his eyes. When the water was boiled, she made the coffee, then placed sugar alongside his mug. There was no milk. After stirring the saucepan, she poured the black mix into the mug, sniffing in evident pleasure as she did so.

‘Danke.’ He stood up and walked to the window, mug in hand. The coffee was very strong, good, pure Colombian. If he was at all suspicious, he would have begun to think this was all turning into a wild goose chase. But since when did con artists drag someone across Europe, then leave the mark alone with a little old lady to ply him with expensive coffee?

The view of the houses opposite showed cracked walls and peeling window frames. There were no vehicles in the street, merely a bicycle propped against a house further down. Just above the houses rose the church spire, where his car was parked. By leaning close to the glass he could see the length of the street, and, beyond it, the roofs of the town centre.

As he watched, a car drove by. It was a dark-blue Passat with a white mark on the front wing.

Harry felt the hairs move on the back of his neck. ‘I have to go out,’ he said, putting down the mug.

The old lady looked alarmed, and he raised both palms to reassure her. He struggled for the words, hoping they were right. ‘Ich bin gleich wieder da. .’

She seemed to understand, but there was no way of knowing. He left the flat and ran down the stairs, startling a child sitting on a front step. By the time he reached the end of the street, there was no sign of the Passat. He walked back to the church, staying close to buildings, and stopped at the corner. He could see the area in front of the building, and his car. Nearby was a beer delivery truck with the driver hauling himself into the cab.

No sign of the Passat.

Harry wondered if his nerves were getting the better of him. Yet he was certain he’d recognized the car just a few minutes ago. As he turned to leave, the beer truck started up and pulled out on to the street. Behind it was the dark-blue Passat. It was empty.

Harry froze and waited. He wondered if he was being watched right now from another vantage point, and resisted the temptation to turn and scan the surrounding buildings. Moments later a large man in jeans and a leather jacket emerged from a narrow side street and walked over to the Passat. He stood for a moment, staring at Harry’s VW, all the while talking on a mobile phone.

TWENTY-FOUR

When he returned to the flat, Harry found a bear of a man sitting at the table drinking coffee. Although several years younger than the woman, he looked drawn, as if he had not slept in a long time. But he stood up readily enough and offered his hand.

‘Ulf Hefflin,’ he said, and looked awkward, as though he wasn’t sure what to say next. He shrugged and murmured to the old woman, who poured more coffee for Harry before slipping into her coat and leaving.

Hefflin studied Harry from beneath heavy eyebrows. The look was steady, and gave Harry the impression of a sharp mind, in spite of the tired exterior.

‘Did you bring money?’

Harry nodded, relieved that the man was getting to the point. The coffee was strong enough to float a brick and he was already beginning to feel the effects of the caffeine pounding through his system.

Hefflin stood and took a small cardboard box from the top of a cupboard near the kitchen sink. He took out a burgundy-coloured passport and placed it on the table with what seemed almost reverence, then took a mobile from his pocket and placed it alongside.

Harry picked up the passport and turned to the back. Barrow’s photo stared up at him.

‘Where did you get them?’ he asked quietly.

Hefflin motioned him to sit down. ‘Please. . I will tell you what I know.’ He crossed his hands on the table in front of him and looked squarely at Harry. ‘Sylvia, my sister,’ he said, nodding towards the door, ‘has cancer. She needs drugs. Drugs we do not have here. I can get them. . but not easily.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Is that why you want money?’

‘Harry — I may call you Harry?’

‘Of course.’

‘Thank you. I am Ulf. You have heard of the Staatssicherheitsdienst, Harry?’

‘The Stasi? Yes.’

‘They employed many people. Young, old. . ordinary people, some of them. Their job was to watch others. Spies for the state, spying on foreigners, on travellers, dissidents, artists. . but mostly each other.’ He tapped the table nervously. His fingers were strong but clean and smooth, Harry noticed. Not a labourer’s hands.

‘Sylvia and Claus — her husband — both worked for the Stasi,’ Ulf continued. ‘Until the change, of course.’

Harry nodded. ‘They were disbanded. I know.’

‘Disbanded, yes. But life for them is not easy. Many became known after the Wall came down. They suffered — some disappeared. Sure, they did wrong. . they spied on their friends, even their own families. But it was the way of life here. You worked for the state. . and sometimes you found you were working for the Stasi, also.’

‘What has this to do with this passport?’

‘Sylvia worked in a weapons factory. Research and development. The safety systems were non-existent. They were exposed to chemicals.’ He sighed deeply and stared through Harry, remembering.

‘What about you?’ Harry asked.

‘Me?’ Ulf grunted. ‘I was a doctor in the army. Sometimes with the East German army, sometimes with the Russians. . we went where we were told.’ He studied Harry’s face. ‘You were military, too, I think?’

Harry nodded. ‘Yes.’ Ulf being a doctor explained his command of English and the smooth skin of his hands. ‘How much do you want for these?’ he asked, indicating the passport and mobile.

‘Five hundred dollars.’ The answer was calm, unemotional, with just a hint of a reservation in the tone, as if it might be asking too much. . or too little.

Harry counted out the money and pushed it across the table. Added another two hundred. Ulf let it lie, as if good manners wouldn’t allow him to touch it.

‘It is for Sylvia,’ he explained. ‘You understand?’

Harry nodded. ‘Of course.’ He gathered up the passport and phone, adding, ‘For the extra money, I need to know exactly where they were found. Can you take me?’

Ulf looked puzzled and wary. ‘Of course. But why do you want to go there?’

‘Because things like these don’t just appear as if by magic. Someone left them, lost them or threw them away. I’d like to find out which it was.’

On the other side of the street, in the shadow of a doorway, the driver of the Passat watched as Harry Tate and another man came out of the block of flats and walked back towards where Tate had parked his Golf. The watcher hurried back to his car. He was already dialling the number of the man who had hired him.

Ulf refused to say more as Harry drove, other than giving directions. Towards the river, he said. Towards the border. Other than that, he slumped in his seat, rubbing his hands on his knees and staring out at the passing countryside, his expression troubled.

A few minutes later, they left the streets behind them and entered a narrow track leading into open countryside. The land was lower here, and Harry caught a glimpse of water in the distance. The surface was deeply rutted and puddled by recent rain, and the vegetation on either side brushed against the wings of the Golf with a soft hissing sound. When they came in sight of some trees, Ulf signalled for Harry to stop.

‘People do not come down here now,’ Ulf said quietly. ‘Only the young who do not care for history. For others