I had a Smith & Wesson that I left in Lisl's safe, together with some other personal things. 'Yes,' I said. 'Why?'

'A KGB hit team went through about thirty minutes ago. It was a reliable identification. They don't send a hit team unless they mean business. I can't help worrying that you might be targeted.'

'Thanks, Frank. I'll take the usual precautions.'

'Stay where you are tonight. I'll send a car for you in the morning. Be very careful, Bernard. I don't like the look of it. Eight o'clock okay?'

'Eight o'clock will be very convenient,' I said. 'Good night, Frank. See you in the morning.' I'd turned the radio down while talking on the phone; now I made it louder. It was a Swedish station playing a Bruckner symphony; the opening chords filled the room.

'You people in the pill business work late,' said Lisl sarcastically when I rang off.

Herr Koch had held his ministerial job throughout the Nazi period by not giving way to curiosity or being tempted to such impetuous remarks. He smiled and said, 'I hope everything is in order, Bernard.'

'Everything is just fine,' I told him.

He got up and went to the radio to switch it off.

'Thank you, darling,' said Lisl.

'Bruckner,' explained Herr Koch. 'When they announced the disaster at Stalingrad, the radio played nothing but Beethoven and Bruckner for three whole days.'

'So many fine young boys…' said Lisl sadly. 'Put on a record, darling. Something happy – "Bye, bye, Blackbird".'

But when Herr Koch put a record on, it was one of his favourites, 'Das war in Schoneberg im Monat Mai...'.

'Marlene Dietrich,' said Lisl, leaning back and closing her eyes. 'Schön!'

28

'They're coming through Checkpoint Charlie now.' I recognized the voice that came through the tiny loudspeaker, although I couldn't put a name to it. It was one of the old Berlin Field Unit hands. He was at the checkpoint watching the KGB party coming West for the meeting. Three black Volvos.'

I was using my handset radio to monitor the reports. I heard someone at this end say, 'How many of them?'

Standing alongside me in the VIP suite of the Steigenberger Hotel, Frank said, 'Three Volvos! Jesus Christ! It's a bloody invasion!' Frank had committed himself, but now that it was actually happening he was nervous. I'd told him to have a drink, but he'd refused.

'All of a sudden it's green,' said Frank, still looking out of the window to the street far below us. ' Berlin, I mean. The winters always seem as if they'll never end. Then suddenly the sunshine conies and you notice the chestnut trees, magnolias, flowers everywhere. The grey clouds and the snow and ice are gone, and everywhere is green.' That's all he said, but it was enough. I realized then that Frank loved Berlin as I loved it. All his talk of wanting to get away from here, to retire in England and never think about Berlin again, was nonsense. He loved it here. I suppose it was his imminent retirement that had made him face the truth; packing up his Ellington records, separating his personal possessions from the furniture and things that belonged to the residence, had made him miserable.

'Three drivers plus nine passengers,' said the voice.

'Who is that?' I asked Frank. 'I recognize the voice, I think.'

'Old Percy Danvers,' said Frank. It was a man who'd worked here in my father's time. His mother was German from Silesia, father English: a sergeant in the Irish Guards.

'Still working?'

'He retires next year, just a few months after me. But he's remaining here in the city,' said Frank wistfully. 'I don't know how the office will manage without Percy.'

'Who's getting Berlin when you go?' I asked. I sipped the whisky I needed to face them. Would Fiona really come?

'There was talk of Bret taking over.'

'That won't happen now,' I said.

'I don't care who comes here,' said Frank. 'As long as I get away.'

I looked at him. Now both of us knew it wasn't true. Frank smiled.

Then Bret Rensselaer came back from the phone, and I said, 'Nine of them; they just came through Checkpoint Charlie. They'll be here at any time.' Behind Bret there was a German kid – Peter – who'd been assigned to provide Bret's personal protection. He was a nice kid, but he took it too seriously, and now he wouldn't let Bret out of his sight.

Bret nodded and joined us for a moment at the window before sinking into one of the soft grey suede armchairs. The VIP suite at the Steigenberger runs the whole length of the building, but the entrance to it is inconspicuous, and many of the hotel's residents don't even know it exists. For that reason the suite is used for top-level meetings both commercial and political and by publicity-shunning tycoons, politicians, and film stars. There's a dining room at one end and an elegant office area at the other. In between there's a TV lounge, sitting room, bedrooms, and even a small room where the waiters can open champagne and prepare canapés.

Champagne and canapés were ready for the KGB party, but higher on the list of priorities were the extra locks, the security devices and doors that close off this part of the top floor, and the suite's private elevator that would enable the KGB delegates to arrive and depart without mixing with the other hotel guests.

'What is their weakest point?' said Bret, speaking from behind us as if talking to himself. Bret had recovered some of his confidence by now. He had the American talent for bouncing back; all he'd needed was a hot shower, clean linen, and the sports pages of the Herald Tribune.

I didn't answer, but Frank said, 'Fiona.'

'Fiona?' Did I hear resentment in Bret's voice? Was there a proprietorial tone that came from some affection Bret still had for her? 'Fiona is their weakest point? What do you mean, Frank?'

Frank turned around and went and sat in the armchair opposite Bret. Ever since I'd brought Bret into Frank's house in Grunewald there had been a distance, almost a coldness, between the two men. I couldn't decide to what extent it was a latent hostility and to what extent it was embarrassment, a sign of Frank's concern for the humiliation that Bret was suffering.

Frank said, 'She is a latecomer to their organization. Some of them probably still view her with suspicion; no doubt all of them have some kind of hostility towards her.'

'Is that view based upon received reports?' said Bret.

'She's a foreigner,' said Frank. 'Putting her in charge over there means that everyone's promotion expectations are lessened. Compare her position with ours. We've all known each other many years. We know what we can expect from each other, both in terms of help and hindrance. She is isolated. She has no long-term allies. She has no experience of what actions or opinions can be expected from her colleagues. She is constantly under the microscope; everyone around her will be trying to find fault with what she does. Everything she says will be examined, syllable for syllable, by people who are not in sympathy with what she's doing.'

'She's a Moscow appointment,' said Bret. Again there was some indefinable note of something that might have been affection or even pride. Bret looked at me, but I looked at my drink.

Frank said, 'All the more reason why the staff in her Berlin office will resent her.'

'So what are you proposing?' Bret asked Frank.

'We must give her the opportunity to negotiate while separated from the rest of her people. We must give her a chance to speak without being overheard.'

'That won't be easy, Frank,' I said. 'You know why they send such big teams. They don't trust anyone to be alone with us.'

'We must find a way,' said Frank. 'Bernard must move the chat onto a domestic plane. There must be something he could talk to her about.'