I said nothing. I noticed that he was wringing his hands again, the way he had in his office earlier that day.

'I never go that way,' he added as if he owed me an explanation. 'No matter how much longer it takes me or where I want to get to, I never go that way. Until tonight, I haven't been back on that section of autobahn since it happened.'

'I'm sorry if it upset you, Dr Munte.'

'I should have done it years ago,' he said. 'At last I've got rid of those terrible old nightmares.'

'That's good,' I said, although I knew he'd only exchanged old ones for new.

I was tired by the time I got back to Rolf Mauser's place in Prenzlauer Berg. But I observed the customary precautions and parked Werner's Wartburg round the corner and sat in it for a few moments scanning the area before locking up.

The streets were empty. The only sounds came from the elevated railway trains on Schönhauserallee and the occasional passing car or bus. There was no parking problem where Rolf Mauser lived.

A glimmer of light in the entrance to the apartment building was provided by a low-power bulb situated too high to be cleaned. It illuminated the broken floral-patterned floor tiles and, on the wall, a dozen or more dented metal boxes for mail. On the left was a wide stone staircase. To the right a long narrow corridor led to a metal-reinforced door that gave on to the courtyard at the rear of the building. At night the metal door was locked to protect the tenants' bicycles, and to prevent anyone disturbing the peace by using the rubbish bins or the ash-cans.

I knew there was someone standing there even before I saw the slight movement. And I recognized the sort of movement it was. It was the movement a man made when his long period of waiting is at last near an end.

'Don't do anything,' said a whispered voice.

I inched back into the shadow and reached in my pocket for a knife, the only weapon I would risk in a town where stop searches were so common.

'Bernie?' It was Werner, one of the few Germans who called me anything other than Bernd.

'What is it?'

'Did anyone see you come in?'

'No. Why?'

'Rolfs got visitors.'

'Who?'

There came the sound of two cars arriving. When two cars arrive together at a residential block in Prenzlauer Berg, it is not likely to be a social call. I followed Werner quickly down the narrow corridor, but he could not get the door to the courtyard open. Two uniformed policemen and two men in leather overcoats came into the entrance and shone their flashlights at the names on the mailboxes.

'Mauser,' said the younger of the uniformed cops, directing the beam of his torch on one of the boxes.

'Master detective,' growled a leather-coated man in mock admiration. As he turned, the light of the torch showed him to be a man of about thirty-five with a small Lenin-style goatee beard.

'You said number nineteen,' said the young policeman defensively. 'I took you to the address you gave me.' He was very young, and had the sort of Saxon accent that sounds comical to most German ears.

The boss ordered me to be here fifteen minutes ago,' growled Lenin in the hard accent of working-class Berlin. 'I should have walked.'

'You still would have ended up at the wrong address,' said the cop, his Saxon accent stronger than before.

The leather-coated man turned on him angrily. 'Maybe someone told you it's a softer touch being drafted into the police service than into the Army. I don't care that your daddy is a Party bigshot. This is Berlin. This is my town. Shut up and do as you're told.' Before the young conscript could reply, the leather-coated man started up the stairs. The other three followed him, and his harangue continued. 'Wait till this KGB Colonel arrives. You'll jump then, boys, you'll jump then.'

Werner was still twisting the handle of the door to the yard when he realized that the cops were not going to shine their lights and discover us at the end of the corridor. That was a close thing,' he said.

'What's going on?'

'Two of them; Stasis. Upstairs in Rolfs apartment. They got here about three hours ago. You know what that means.'

'They're waiting for someone.'

'They're not waiting for someone,' said Werner grimly. 'They're waiting for you. Did you leave anything in the apartment?'

'Of course not.'

'Let's get out of here,' said Werner.

'Do you think they'll have a guard posted outside?'

'Let me go first. My papers are good ones.'

'Hold it a minute.' I could see a shadow, and then a cop came into view. He moved into the doorway as if he might have heard our voices, and then went outside again.

We waited a few more minutes and then the four security policemen brought Rolf Mauser downstairs to the car. Rolf was making a lot of noise; his voice came echoing down the stairwell long before he came into sight.

'Let me go. What's all this about? Answer my questions. How dare you handcuff me! This could wait till morning. Let me go!'

Rolfs angry shouting must have been heard in every apartment in the building. But no one came to the door. No one came to see what was happening.

The front door crashed closed and we heard Rolfs voice in the empty street before the sound of the cars' engines swallowed his protests.

Only after the police had departed with their prisoner did the apartment doors upstairs open. There were whispered questions, and even quieter answers, for a few minutes before all went completely quiet.

That's the only way to do it,' I said. 'A silent prisoner might just as well confess. Rolfs shouting might make them pause to think. That might give us a chance to do something to help him.'

'He didn't shout to convince them he was innocent,' said Werner. 'He was shouting to warn you off.'

'I know,' I said. 'And there's nothing we can do to help him, either.' Was Rolf Mauser Fiona's first victim, I wondered. And would I be the next one?

25

Officially, Werner Volkmann had no accommodation in East Berlin, but his riverside warehouse in Friedrichshain, with an office on the ground floor, contained four upstairs rooms that he had converted into comfortable living quarters, complete with tiny kitchen and a sitting room. It was against government regulations for him to stay overnight there – no one could let a guest stay the night without police permission – but because Werner was earning foreign exchange nothing was ever said about his little 'home'.

Werner unlocked the massive warehouse door using three keys. 'Refrigerators, colour TV sets, real – made in the USA – blue jeans, Black and Decker drills, all the most sought-after delights of the decadent West are stored here from time to time,' he said, explaining the need for the complex locks.

'Black and Decker drills?'

'To improve and enlarge living accommodation. Or, better still, fix up some little weekend place that they are legally permitted to sell.' He went up a steep staircase and unlocked another door.

'Plenty of Black and Decker here,' I said looking at the newly decorated hall hung with two well-framed watercolours: a contorted nude and a crippled clown. I bent closer to see them. German Expressionist painters, of course. There is something in their tragic quality that touches the soul of Berliners.

'Nolde and Kirchner,' said Werner, taking off his coat and hanging it on an elaborate mahogany hallstand. 'Not your sort of thing, I know.'

'But worth a packet, Werner,' I said. I looked round and saw some fine pieces of antique furniture. Werner had always been a clever forager. At school he'd been able to get American candy bars, pieces of broken tanks, military badges, roller-skate wheels and all the other treasures that schoolboys wanted then.