How Babylon kept going was one of Berlin 's many unsolved mysteries. Even on a gala night alcohol sales didn't pay the rent. The sort of people who sat out front and watched the show were not big spenders: their livers were not up to it. They were the geriatrics of Berlin 's underworld; arthritic ex-burglars, incoherent con-men and palsied forgers; men whose time had long since passed. They arrived too early, nursed their drinks, leered at the girls, took their pills with a glass of water and told each other their stories of long ago. There were others of course: sometimes some of the smart set – Berlin 's Hautevolee in fur coats and evening dress – popped in to see how the other half lived. But they were always on their way to somewhere else. And Babylon had never been a fashionable place for 'the young': this wasn't a place to buy smack, crack, angel-dust, solvents or any of the other powdered luxuries that the Mohican haircut crowd bartered upstairs on the street. Rudi was fanatically strict about that.

'For God's sake stop rattling that ice around. If you want another drink, say so.'

'No thanks, Rudi. I'm dead tired, I've got to get some sleep.'

'Can't you sit still? What's wrong with you?'

'I was a hyper-active child.'

'Could be you have this new virus that's going around. It's nasty. My manager is in the clinic. He's been away two weeks. That's why I'm here.'

'Yes, you told me.'

'You're so pale. Are you eating?'

'You sound like my mother,' I said.

'Are you sleeping well, Bernd? I think you should see a doctor. My fellow in Wannsee has done wonders for me. He gave me a series of injections – some new hormone stuff from Switzerland – and put me on a strict diet.' He touched the lemon slice floating in the glass of water in front of him. 'And I feel wonderful!'

I drank the final dregs of my scotch but there was no more than a drip or two left. 'I don't need any doctors. I'm all right.'

'You don't look all right. You look bloody ill. I've never seen you so pale and tired-looking.'

'It's late.'

'I'm twice your age, Bernd,' he said in a voice that mixed self-satisfaction and reproof. It wasn't true: he couldn't have been more than fifteen years older than me but I could see he was irritable and I didn't argue about it. Sometimes I felt sorry for him. Years back Rudi had bullied his only son into taking a regular commission in the Bundeswehr. The kid had done well enough but he was too soft for even the modern army. He'd taken an overdose and been found dead in the barrack room in Hamburg. The inquest said it was an accident. Rudi never mentioned it but everyone knew that he'd blamed himself. His wife left him and he'd never been the same again after losing the boy: his eyes had lost their sheen, they'd become hard and glittering. 'And I thought you'd cut out the smoking,' he said.

'I do it all the time.'

'Cigars are not so dangerous,' he said and puffed contentedly.

'Nothing else then?' I persisted. 'No other news?'

'Deputy Führer Hess died…' he said sarcastically. 'He used to live in Wilhelmstrasse – number forty-six – after he moved to Spandau we saw very little of him.'

I'm serious,' I persisted.

'Then I must tell you the real hot news, Bernd: you! People are saying that some maniac drove a truck at you when you were crossing Waltersdorfer Chaussee. At speed! Nearly killed you, they say.'

I stared at him. I said nothing.

He sniffed and said, 'People asked what was a nice boy like Bernd Samson doing down there where the world ends. Nothing there but that ancient checkpoint. You can't get anywhere down there: you can't even get to Waltersdorfer, there's a Wall in the way.'

'What did you say?' I asked.

'I'll tell you what's there, I told them. Memories.' He smoked his cigar and scrutinized the burning end of it as a philatelist might study a rare stamp. 'Memories,' he said again. 'Was I right, Bernd?'

'Where's Waltersdorfer Chaussee?' I said, 'Is that one of those fancy streets in Nikolassee?'

'Rudow. They buried that fellow Max Busby in the graveyard down there, if I remember rightly. It took a lot of wheeling and dealing to get the body back. When they shoot someone on their side of the Wall they don't usually prove very cooperative about the remains.'

'Is that so?' I said. I kept hoping he'd insist upon me having another shot of his whisky but he didn't.

'Ever get scared, Bernd? Ever wake up at night and fancy you hear the footsteps in the hall?'

'Scared of what?'

'I heard your own people have a warrant out for you.'

'Did you?'

' Berlin is not a good town for a man on the run,' he said reflectively, almost as if I wasn't there. 'Your people and the Americans still have military powers. They can censor mail, tap phones and jail anyone they want out of the way. They even have the death penalty at their disposal.' He looked at me as if a thought had suddenly come into his mind. 'Did you see that item in the newspaper about the residents of Gatow taking their complaints about the British army to the High Court in London? Apparently the British army commander in Berlin told the court that since he was the legitimate successor to Hitler he could do anything he wished.' A tiny smile as if it caused him pain. ' Berlin is not a good place for a man on the run, Bernd.'

'Who says I'm on the run?'

'You're the only man I know who both sides would be pleased to be rid of,' said Rudi. Perhaps he'd had a specially bad day. There was a streak of cruelty in him and it was never far from the surface. 'If you were found dead tonight there'd be ten thousand suspects: KGB, CIA, even your own people.' A chuckle. 'How did you make so many enemies, Bernd?'

'I don't have any enemies, Rudi,' I said. 'Not that kind of enemies.'

'Then why do you come here dressed in those old clothes and with a gun in your pocket?' I said nothing, I didn't even move. So he'd noticed the pistol, that was damned careless of me. I was losing my touch. 'Frightened of being robbed, Bernd? I can understand it; seeing how prosperous you are looking these days.'

'You've had your fun, Rudi,' I said. 'Now tell me what I want to know, so I can go home and get some sleep.'

'And what do you want to know?'

'Where the hell has Lange Koby gone?'

'I told you, I don't know. Why should I know anything about that schmuck?' It is not a word a German uses lightly: I guessed they'd had a row, perhaps a serious quarrel.

'Because Lange was always in here and now he's missing. His phone doesn't answer and no one comes to the door.'

'How should I know anything about Lange?'

'Because you were his very close pal.'

'Of Lange?' The sour little grin he gave me made me angry.

'Yes, of Lange, you bastard. You two were as thick…'

'As thick as thieves. Is that what you were going to say, Bernd?' Despite the darkness, the sound of the piano and the way in which we were both speaking softly, the dancers seemed to guess that we were quarrelling. In some strange way there was an anxiety communicated to them. The smiles were slipping and their voices became more shrill.

'That's right. That's what I was going to say.'

'Knock louder,' said Rudi dismissively. 'Maybe his bell push is out of order.' From upstairs I heard the loud slam of the front door. Werner Volkmann came down the beautiful chrome spiral staircase and slid into the room in that demonstratively apologetic way that he always assumed when I was keeping him up too late. 'All okay?' I asked him. Werner nodded. Kleindorf looked round to see who it was and then turned back to watch the weary dancers entangle umbrellas as they danced into the non-existent wings and cannoned against the wall.

Werner didn't sit down. He gripped a chairback with both hands and stood there waiting for me to get up and go. I'd been at school, not far from here, with Werner Jacob Volkmann. He remained my closest friend. He was a big fellow and his overcoat, with its large curly astrakhan collar, made him even bigger. The ferocious beard had gone – eliminated by a chance remark from Ingrid, the lady in his life – and it was my guess that soon the moustache would go too.