24

The Pioneer Park is a lavish example of the priority that East Germany gives to sport and leisure. Two square miles of parkland are landscaped into a complex of sports stadiums, running tracks, football and athletic fields, baths, swimming pools, and even.a course for trotting races. I found the main building, and inside its gleaming interior I picked my way past well-equipped gyms and huge indoor pools that came complete with everything from diving instructors to rows of buzzing hair-dryers.

I found G-34I on the third floor and looked through the glass panel before entering. It was a small rehearsal room, beautifully panelled in contrasting wood, and occupied by four elderly men playing Schubert's 'Death and the Maiden' quartet, Dr Munte was sitting at a grand piano but he was not playing. His head was cocked and his eyes closed as he listened to the performance. Suddenly he got up and said, 'No, gentlemen, no. There is no grace there.' He saw me looking through the door but gave no sign of recognition. 'Perhaps we've had too much Schubert tonight. Let's see how well you remember the Haydn Seventy-seven C Major.' He beckoned me into the room and greeted me with a bow and formal handshake while the players sorted out the parts for the quartet.

This is only our third attempt,' he said apologetically. One of the men dropped his music on the floor and had to go on his knees to gather the sheets together again.

'It's a difficult work,' I said.

Munte started them playing, using a delicate movement of both hands; then after watching them with a proprietorial satisfaction, he took me to a room beyond. This second room was larger, its walls lined with neat steel lockers for musical instruments and wooden lockers for clothes.

'You missed "The Trout",' he said. 'I play the piano part for that.'

'Did you get the document?'

He bent his head, still listening to the music coming from the next room. 'The first violin is not up to it any more,' he admitted sadly.

'He's having heat treatment for his finger joints, but I fear it's not helping him a great deal.'

'The document,' I said impatiently. 'Did you bring it?'

'No,' he said. 'I didn't.'

'Why not?'

Before he could answer, the door from one of the other adjoining rehearsal rooms swung open. A plump man came in dragging a small child and a cello, one in each hand. 'Now here's Dr Munte,' said the fat man to his son. 'Ask him how long you need every day.' He turned to us and said, 'Getting the little devil to practise would try the patience of a saint. All he thinks about is American jazz. Talk to him, Dr Munte. Tell him he's got to practise. Tell him he must play real music, German music.'

'If the interest is lacking, the child will never love music, Herr Spengler. Perhaps you should let him do what he wants.'

'Yes, that's the modern way, isn't it,' said the fat man, not bothering to hide his annoyance at Munte's lack of support. 'Well, I don't believe in the modern way. This is not California…'He looked at my appearance and seemed to guess that I was not an East Berliner. But, having decided that I was not a foreigner, he continued: 'We are Germans, aren't we? This is not California – yet. And may the Lord protect us from the sort of things that go on over there in the West. If I say my son is going to practise the cello, he'll do it. Do you hear that, Lothar? You'll practise every night for an hour before you go out to play football with your friends.'

'Yes, Väterchen,' said the boy with affection. He held his father's hand tightly until the man unclasped it in order to get keys from his pocket. The boy seemed reassured by his father's dictum.

The fat man put the cello into a locker and closed the door. Then he locked it with a padlock. 'You're not strong enough for football,' he said loudly as they went out. The little boy grabbed his father's hand again.

'We Germans find reassurance in tyranny,' said Munte sadly. 'That's always been our downfall.'

'The document.'

'The file containing the document you want is now with the clerk to the head of the bank's Economic Committee.'

'Why?' Was the Berlin KGB office already in action?

'It's a big file, Bernd. There could be many perfectly ordinary reasons for his taking it away.'

'Can you get it back from him tomorrow?'

'The normal way is to ask the records office, and wait while they find out where it is. Eventually such files turn up on the desk.'

'You're not suggesting that we wait while the slow wheels of Communist bureaucracy turn for us?'

'I'm not suggesting anything,' said Munte sharply. He obviously identified himself with the slow wheels of bureaucracy and was offended.

'Go to wherever it is tomorrow. Remove this damned handwritten document and bring it to me.'

'How will I explain such an action? The files – even the most ordinary ones – are signed in and out. What would the head of the Economic Committee say if his clerk tells him that I've taken the file – or even come into the office to look at it?'

'For God's sake,' I said angrily. I wanted to shout at him, but I kept my voice low. 'What do you care how extraordinary such actions are? What do you care how suspicious anyone gets? We're talking about one last thing you do before we get you out of here.'

'Yes, you're talking about it,' he said. 'But suppose you see this document and decide it's not something you want. Then you say thank you, and leave me to go back into the office and face the music, while you return to London and tell them I had nothing worthwhile to offer.'

'Very well,' I said. 'But I can't give you an absolutely firm undertaking to get you out until London agree to my request. I can't get you out on my own, you know that. I could tell you a pack of lies but I'm telling you the truth.'

'And how long will that take?'

I shrugged.

'The slow wheels of Western bureaucracy?' he asked sarcastically. He was angry. Fear does that to some people, especially to such introspective sober-faced old men as Munte. It was odd to think of him fearlessly enduring all the dangers of spying for years and then getting so frightened at the idea of living in the West. I'd seen it in other men: the prospect of facing a highly competitive, noisy, quick-moving, kaleidoscopic society and braving its dangers – sickness, crime, poverty – could be traumatic. He needed reassurance. And if I did not reassure him quickly and properly he might suddenly decide he didn't want to go to the West after all. Such things had happened before, not once but many times.

'Preparations must be made,' I said. 'You and your wife will not go to a reception centre for refugees. You'll be VIPs, looked after properly, so that you have no worries. You'll go to Gatow, the military airport, and fly directly to London on an RAF plane – no customs or immigration nonsense. But for all that you'll need documentation, and such things take time.' I said nothing of the dangers of crossing the Wall.

'I'll get it tomorrow,' he said. 'Will Silas Gaunt be there?'

'He'll be there, I'm sure.'

'We were close friends in the old days. I knew your father too.'

'Yes, I know.' Next door there was a pause in the music before the slow movement began.

'Haydn speaks an everlasting truth,' he said.

'You'll be all right once you're there,' I said. 'You'll see old friends and there will be a lot to do.'

'And I will see my son.'

I knew they wouldn't let Munte go to Brazil so readily. There would be long debriefings, and even after six months or so, when trips abroad are sometimes permitted, they wouldn't want him to go to Brazil, with its German colony so infiltrated by East German agents. 'We might be able to get your son to London for you,' I said.

'One step at a time,' he replied. 'I'm not even in London yet.'