Now it was Leuschner's son Willi behind the bar. We'd been kids together. Not Wilhelm, not Willy, but Willi. I remembered how exasperating he'd always been about adults getting his name right. Willi had the same kind of big moustache his father had worn – the same sort of moustache the Kaiser had worn, and many of his subjects too, until people started thinking that big curly moustaches made you look like a Turk.

The young Leuschner greeted me as I entered. 'How goes it, Bernd?' he said. He had that manner bartenders learn – an arm's-length friendliness that reserved the right to toss you into the street should you get drunk.

'Hello, Willi. Has Posh Harry been in?'

'Not for a long time. He used to come in a lot – he brought some good business too – but he shares an office in Tegel now. He likes to be near the airport, he said, and I don't see him so much.'

It was then that Posh Harry arrived. He arrived at the appointed time; he was a very punctual man. I suppose, like me, he'd learned that it was a necessary part of dealing with Germans.

He was wearing a superb camel-hair overcoat and a grey trilby. They didn't go well together, but Posh Harry had swagger enough to carry off anything. He could have come in wearing a baseball cap and creased pyjamas and Willi Leuschner would still have greeted him with the awed respect I heard in his voice this time. 'I was just saying how much we like to see you here, Herr Harry.' Even Willi didn't know Posh Harry's family name; it was one of Berlin 's best-kept secrets. When Posh Harry replied, it was in flawless German and the chirruping Berlin accent.

It was Willi who showed us to a-quiet table at the back. Willi was shrewd; he could recognize those customers who wanted to sit near the window and drink wine and those who wanted to sit at the back and drink whisky. And those who wanted to sit somewhere where they couldn't be overheard. To get those seats you had to drink champagne; but German champagne would do.

'We want to set up a meeting, Harry,' I said when Willi had served us our Sekt, written the price of it on a beer mat which he slapped on the table, and gone back to his place behind the bar.

'Who's we?' said Posh Harry, toying with the beer mat in such a way as to ensure that I could see what it was costing me.

'Not too many of those big questions, Harry. Let's get the details right and you collect the money, okay?'

'That's the way I like to do it,' said Harry. He smiled. He had the wide toothy smile of the Oriental.

'We're holding a KGB man; he has the working name of Stinnes. We caught him in a red-hot situation.'

'Am I permitted to ask what is a red-hot situation?'

'We caught him mugging a little old lady in a sweet shop.'

'Is this on the level, Bernie?' Now it was the serious face and low sincere voice of the professional. I could see why he did so well at it; he could make you think he really cared.

'No, a lot of it is not on the level, but our KGB friends will know what's what. You tell them that we're holding Stinnes in a hard-room and that we're kicking shit out of him.'

'You want me to say you personally are involved?'

'Yes, you tell them that Bernie Samson is kicking shit out of Erich Stinnes, on account of the way he was held in Normannenstrasse last year by this same individual. Revenge, tell them.'

An old man came in. He was wearing tails complete with top hat, and playing a concertina. He was a famous Berlin character – the 'Gypsy Baron', they called him. In the cafés along the Ku-damm he played the music the foreign tourists liked to hear – Strauss, Lehar, and a selection from Cabaret – but this was a place for Berliners, so he kept to their kind of schmalz.

'And?'

'And you felt they should know about it.'

'Okay.' He was a master of inscrutable faces.

'Let them chew it over for five minutes and then say that London Central are finished with this character. London Central will be handing him over to Five unless some better offer came up from somewhere else – like Moscow.'

'When?' said Posh Harry, reaching for the dripping-wet bottle from the ice bucket and pouring more for us both.

'Very soon. Very, very soon. There is no chance that Five would deal with Moscow, so time is vitally important. If they were interested in having Stinnes back, you could get me to a meeting to discuss his release.'

'Here?' He used a paper towel to mop up the ice water he'd dripped over the table,

'His release here in Berlin. But first I want the meeting,' I said.

'With?'

'With my wife. And whoever she wants to bring along.'

'What's the deal, Bernie? You release the Russkie – what do you want in return? Or is kicking shit out of Russkies something you're giving up for Lent?'

'They'll know what I want in return. But I don't want that anywhere on the record, so don't even start guessing,' I said. 'Now, in the course of conversation, you'll make sure they know that Bret Rensselaer has been given an important promotion and a special job. You don't know exactly what it is, but it all came about because he was the one who brought Stinnes down. He was the one who nailed him to the wall. Got it?'

'It's not difficult, Bernie. It's a shame to take the money.'

'Take the money anyway.'

'I shall.'

'The meeting is to be over this side. I suggest the VIP suite on the top floor of the Steigenberger Hotel. It's good security; there's room to move… car parking is where you can see it… you know.'

'And the food is excellent. That might appeal to them.'

'And the food is excellent.'

'They'll probably want to send someone to inspect the room.'

'No problem,' I said.

'Timing for the exchange?'

'We'll have their man Stinnes available in the city.'

'I mean… you'll want to do this immediately the meeting ends, won't you? This is not one of those fancy setups where they come over the bridge for the TV cameras ten days later?'

'Immediate. And complete secrecy; both sides.'

'Your wife, you say? I'll go over there today. Maybe I could wrap up this whole deal by the weekend.'

'Good thinking, Harry. I'll be at Lisl Hennig's this evening. Phone me there anyway; let me know what's happening. Have you got the phone number?'

'Are you kidding? Your wife, eh?' The concertina player finished playing 'Das war in Schöneberg im Monat Mai …' and took a bow. Posh Harry eased his chair back and applauded loudly. He smiled at me to show how happy he was. It was a bigger smile this time; I could count his gold teeth.

'She'll be the one to talk to, Harry.'

'I think I can find her.'

'If I know her the way I think I do, she will have planned the whole business; she'll be sitting by the phone waiting for you to call.' I got to my feet, I'd said enough.

'It's like that, is it?'

'The script is all written, Harry. We just have to read our parts.'

Harry pulled a bundle of paper money from his back pocket and paid for the champagne. The tip was far too generous, but the Department would pay.

'That material I gave you – was it good?' he asked.

'It was Spielmaterial,' I replied.

'I'm sorry about that,' he said. 'Some you win, some you lose, and some…'

'… Some get rained out,' I finished for him.

He shrugged. I should have guessed that he had had no real faith in it; he'd given it to me for nothing. That was not Posh Harry's style.