Spy Line

18

Afterwards I looked back and saw that weekend in Berlin as the beginning of the end, but I don't know how much of that view was hindsight. At the time, it seemed unusual simply because of the hectic way in which meeting followed meeting and the way Frank Harrington – always something of a mother hen – became so flustered that he was phoning me in the middle of the night, and then admitting that he'd forgotten what he was calling about.

Not that any of the meetings decided anything very much. They were typically casual Berlin Field Unit conferences at which Frank presided in his inimitably avuncular style and smoked his foul-smelling pipe and indulged in long rambling asides about me or my father or the old days or all three together.

It was on Sunday morning that Frank first gave me an inkling of what was happening. Dicky was not there. He had left a message to say he was showing Tessa 'round the town', although what Dicky knew about Berlin could be written on the head of a pin and still leave plenty of room for the Lord's Prayer.

It was just me and Frank. We were in his study in the big house at Grunewald. He had a secretary there and some of the top secret material was filed there. It gave Frank an excuse for a day at home now and again. That incredible and unforgettable study! Although I could not identify any single object as having its origins in the sub-continent, this room could have been the Punjab bungalow of some pukka regimental officer, some hero of the Mutiny just back from hunting the nimble blackbuck with cheetahs. Shuttered against the daylight, the dim lamps revealed a fine military chest with magnificent brass fittings, the mounted horns of some unidentified species of antelope, a big leather-buttoned sofa and rattan furniture; all of it bleached, creaky or worn, as such things become in the tropics. Even the sepia portrait of the sovereign seemed to have been selected for her resemblance to the young Victoria. The room expressed all Frank's secret longings, and like most people's secret longings they had no basis in reality.

Even Frank was at his most regimental, with a khaki safari shirt, slacks and plain brown tie. He'd been tapping the map with his fountain pen and asking me questions of a sort that usually were the concern of other technical grades. 'What do you know about the East Berlin Autobahn entrances?' he said.

He indicated the wall upon which two large maps had been fixed. They were a new addition and rather spoiled the 'great days of the Raj' décor. One was a map of east Germany, or the German Democratic Republic, the rather Orwellian name its rulers prefer. Like an island in this communist sea, our Sectors of Berlin were bridged to the West by three long Autobahnen. Used by motorists of both East and West, these highways were a favoured place for clandestine meetings. Smugglers, spies, journalists and lovers all arranged brief and dangerous rendezvous at the roadside. And consequently the DDR made sure the roads were policed constantly night and day.

The second map – the one Frank was tapping upon – was a Berlin street map. The whole city, not just the West. It was remarkably up to date, for I immediately noticed the projected changes to the Autobahn entrances, including the yet to be built turn-off which would – some time in the dun and distant future – provide the West with a new control point on the south side of the city. Rumours said the East Germans wanted the West to pay a great deal of money for it. That was the usual way that anything got done.

'I don't use them,' I said. 'I always fly nowadays.'

'Pity.' He looked at the street map and with his pen showed me the old Berliner Ring and the route that East Berliners took when joining the Autobahn from their side of the city.

'There was a general directive about us using the Autobahn,' I reminded him gently. There was a fear that departmental employees, with heads full of secrets, might be kidnapped on the Autobahnen. It was not a groundless fear. There was a whole filing case full of unsolved mysteries: motorists who started out on the long drive to the Federal Republic and were never seen again. There was no way for the West's authorities to investigate such mysteries. We had to grin and bear it. Meanwhile, those who could fly, flew.

'I want you to drive back down the Autobahn this time,' said Frank.

'When?'

'I'm waiting to hear.' His pipe stem was tapped against his nose in what I suppose was a gesture of confidentiality. 'Someone is coming out.'

'Through Charlie?' That would mean a non-German.

'No. You'll pick them up on the Autobahn,' said Frank. I waited for some explanation or expansion but he gave neither. He continued to look at the street map and then said, 'Ever heard of a man named Thurkettle? American.'

'Yes,' I said.

'You have?' Unless Frank had been attending drama lessons since our previous meeting, he was completely taken aback by this revelation. Clearly he'd not heard about my escapade in Salzburg. 'Tell me about him.'

I briefly told Frank about Thurkettle without going into detail about my task in Salzburg.

'He's here,' said Frank.

'Thurkettle?' It was my turn to be surprised.

'Arrived by air last night. I told London but I got only an "acknowledgement and no further action" signal. I'm wondering if London knows all this you've just told me.'

'Yes, they do,' I said.

Frank frowned. 'We both know how signals get spiked and forgotten,' he said. 'They should at least let me tell the Americans and the police.'

'You can tell them off the record,' I said.

'That might bounce and get me into hot water.' Frank was something of an expert at finding reasons for inaction. 'If Thurkettle has come here on some secret mission for the Yanks, and London has been informed in the usual way, well!…'He shrugged.'They might be displeased to find I've told all and sundry.'

'On the other hand,' I said, 'if Thurkettle has come to town to blow away one of the CIA's golden boys, they might feel that one routine signal to London was an under-reaction.'

'It was a confidential,' said Frank. 'My informant was someone who I can absolutely not name. If London, or the CIA office, demand details of the identification I will find myself having one of those wretched arguments that I hate so much.' He looked at me and I nodded. 'What do you think this fellow's here for, Bernard?'

'No one seems to be sure who Thurkettle works for. The prevailing wisdom – if Joe Brody is anyone to go by – is that he's a hit man who works for anyone, that is to say anyone who comes up with the right target for the right price. Brody says the KGB have used him over the past two years. If Thurkettle was on his way to see our friends in Normannenstrasse, he'd fly into Schönefeld.'

'You mean he's targeting someone here in the West?' Frank screwed his face up. 'I can't put a tail on him. I don't know where he's gone, and even if I did know I simply haven't got the resources.'

' West Berlin isn't on the way to anywhere,' I said. 'No one conies here en route to anywhere; they come here and go back again.'

'You're right. Perhaps I should send London a reminder.' He used his clenched fist to brush up the ends of his moustache. To the casual observer it looked as if he was giving himself two quick punches on the nose: perhaps that's what he thought London was likely to give him if he persisted. 'I'll leave it for the weekend; they might respond again.'

Good old Frank: never hesitate to do nothing. 'Phone the old man,' I suggested.

'The D-G? He hates being disturbed at home.' He scratched his cheek and said, 'No, I'll leave it for the time being. But I'm disturbed by what you told me, Bernard.'

I realized that my description of Thurkettle's activities had put Frank into a difficult position. Until talking with me he still had the chance to plead ignorance of anything concerning the man or the danger that he might present to Allied personnel here. I wondered if I should suggest that we both forget what I'd said but Frank could be very formal at tunes. Despite the friendship that went back to my childhood – or even because of it – he might consider such a suggestion treasonable and insulting. I decided not to take a chance on it.

'One thing I still haven't got clear, Frank,' I said. He raised an eyebrow. 'You sent Teacher to get me, and had me sit in on Larry Bower and the old apparatchik. Why?'

Frank smiled. 'Didn't Larry explain that?'

'No,' I said. 'Larry didn't explain anything.'

'I thought it might be something that would interest you. I remembered that you were handling Stinnes at one time.'

'Why not simply show me the transcript?'

'Of the debriefing?' Pursed lips and a nod, as if this was a novel and most interesting suggestion. 'We could have done that; yes.'

'Would you like to hear what I think?' I said.

'Of course I would,' said Frank with that suppressed irony with which a doting parent might indulge a precocious child. 'Tell me.'

'I kept thinking about it. I wondered why you would give me a close look at a still active agent. That's not the way the training manual says it's done.'

'I don't always go by the training manual,' said Frank.

'You are not contrary or perverse, Frank,' I said. 'What you do, you do with a purpose.'

'What's eating you, Bernard?'

'You didn't invite me to that safe house in Charlottenburg to hear the debriefing and see Valeri,' I said. 'You brought me over there so that Valeri could see me. See me close up!'

'Werner is a German national

'Yes, killed.' Frank looked again at the map, as if searching for something, but I think he was trying to avoid my eyes. 'Jeremy has the gun for that purpose.'

'Poor bloody agent,' I said.

'All concerned are aware of what's at stake,' said Frank stiffly. 'Including the agent.'

Frank turned and looked at me now. His blunt-ended moustache was completely grey these days, prank was too old to be involved with Operations. Too old, too squeamish, too weary, too good-hearted. Whatever it was, the strain on him showed in his face.

'It's all right, sir,' said the ever-helpful Teacher. 'We'll do whatever has to be done.'

Teacher's face was lined too, but Teacher was not old nor weary. Teacher was a tough little bastard in a way that I'd not recognized before. They'd chosen him well for this job.

Frank seemed not to hear Teacher. It was as if it were just me and Frank in the room. 'Okay, Bernard?' he just said softly. I looked Frank in the eyes and I knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that it was Fiona who was going to be picked up on the Autobahn. It was Fiona who knew what might have to be done to prevent her being interrogated by the professional torturers at Normannenstrasse. And Teacher was there in case I hesitated when it was time to pull the trigger.

'Yes, Frank,' I said. 'It's okay.'

On the Sunday evening there was a big party at Lisl's. The printed invitations said it was to celebrate the opening of the newly refurbished premises. On this pretext Werner had obtained the support of a number of his suppliers, and the invitations, like the paper napkins and some of the other objects in evidence, bore the trademarks of breweries and distillers.

Now that it was almost summer, and the evenings had lengthened, Werner's plan was to hold the party in a huge tent he'd had erected in the courtyard at the back of the hotel. But all afternoon the sky had darkened and by evening there was torrential rain falling from an endless overcast. Only the most intrepid guests ventured into the chilly tent, and the inauguration was celebrated indoors.

But it was something more than the official reopening of the hotel. And it was Frank's presence at the party at Lisl's on Sunday evening that told me that he felt the same way. Frank was past retirement, soon he would be gone. Looking back on it afterwards, I saw that he regarded it as his very own gala finale. Frank had never shared my love for Lisl, and despite all evidence to the contrary, he persisted in blaming Werner for that old 'Baader Meinhof fiasco for which Frank had taken a share of criticism. But even Frank knew that List's was the only place in Berlin to celebrate, and having decided that, he was at his most ebullient and charming. He even wore fancy costume: the Duke of Wellington!

'It's the end of an era,' said Lisl. We were sitting in her little study. This was the room in which Lisl spent so much of her life now that walking had become so painful for her. Here she had breakfast, and played bridge and looked at the account books and gave favoured residents a measured glass of sherry when they came to pay their bills. On the wall there was a picture of Kaiser Wilhelm, on the mantelpiece a hideous ormolu clock, and around the table where she took breakfast four carved Venetian-style figure-of-eight dining chairs, all that remained of her parents' grand dining room.

Now she never sat in her beloved chairs; she was in a functional steel wheelchair that she could manoeuvre at such high speed that Werner had fixed a small bulbhorn to it.

The noise of the party came loudly through the tightly closed door. I don't know whose idea it was to use Lisl's wind-up gramophone and her collection of ancient 78s to provide the music, but it had been hailed as the ultimate in chic, and now Marlene was purring 'Falling in Love Again' against a honky-tonk piano for what must have been the fifth consecutive time. Werner had predicted that it wouldn't be loud enough but it was loud enough.

Even Lisl had sought refuge from the dedicated and unrelenting playfulness that Berliners bring to their parties. Open on the floor there was a very old suitcase that had belonged to my father. It dated from the days before designer labels, when such things were properly made. The outside was pale green canvas with leather for the handle, the binding and the corners. The lining was calico. Inside it there were his papers: bills, accounts, newspaper clippings, a couple of diaries, a silk scarf, even the British army uniform tunic that he so seldom wore. I was rummaging through it while Lisl sat in her wheelchair, sipped her sherry and watched me. 'Even his gun,' she said. 'Be careful with it, Bernd. I hate guns.'

'I noticed it,' I said. I took it from its leather holster. It was a Webley Mark VI, a gigantic revolver that weighed about two and a half pounds, the sort of weapon that the British Army had been hanging on its officers since the First World War. It was blue and perfect, I doubt if my father had ever fired it. There was a box of ammunition too. Nickel jacket.455 inch rounds 'for service use'. The label was dated 1943 and the seal was unbroken.

'That's everything. Klara made sure that all your father's things were packed in his case. So that's all apart from the footstool, the mattress and the set of Dickens.'

'Thank you, Lisl.'

'The end of an era,' she mused sadly. 'Werner taking over the hotel. The changes to the rooms. You taking your father's things. I'm a stranger here now, a stranger in my own home.'

'Don't be silly, Lisl. Werner loves you. He's only done it all for you.'

'He's a good boy,' she said sadly, not grudging him her affection but reluctant to abandon the self-pity she so relished.

There was a sudden increase in the noise of the party as Werner came in and shut the door behind him. Werner was dressed as a knight in full armour. Expediently the armour was fashioned entirely of fabric cunningly embroidered with gold and silver wire to reproduce the intricate decoration on etched and gilt metal. He looked magnificent, even Lisl thought so. Lisl looked equally splendid in a long brightly patterned dress that – acording to the rental company's label – was that of a thirteenth-century noblewoman, and was based upon the stained glass figures of Augsburg Cathedral. It included diadem and wimple and a light but voluminous cloak. Whatever the integrity of the design she made a fine figure alongside Werner, the wheelchair providing her with an imposing throne. I thought he might have chosen his costume and hers with filial congruity in mind but he later confided that it was the only garment he could find in her size that was also bright crimson. Lisl loved vivid colours.

'It's a madhouse out there,' said Werner as he stood against the door and caught his breath. His face was pink with excitement and exertion. 'I brought you some more champagne.' He had the bottle in his hand and he poured some for both of us. 'Absolutely ghastly.'

'It sounds ghastly,' I said, although I had long grown used to the way in which Werner organized this sort of frenzied fancy dress party, and then went around all evening saying how much he hated it.

He looked at me. 'I wish you'd put on your costume,' he said. He'd selected an amazing mid-nineteenth-century costume for me that was called 'the Biedermeier gentleman' on the box. It came complete with a frock coat and high hat. I suspected that Werner had chosen it with a certain sardonic glee that I had no intention of sustaining.

'I'm all right like this,' I said. I was wearing a battered grey suit, my only concession to the party being one of Werner's more colourful bow ties.

'You're so bloody English,' said Werner, not unkindly.

'Sometimes I am,' I admitted.

'There must be a hundred and fifty people out there,' he told me. 'Half of them gatecrashers. The word got around I suppose; they're all in costume.' It was typical of him that he should show a trace of pride that so many should want to gatecrash his party. 'Do you want the Duchess to tell your fortune, Lisl?'

'No, I don't, ' said Lisl.

'They say she's a witch,' said Werner as if that was a recommendation.

'I don't want to know the future,' said Lisl. 'When you get to my age the future holds nothing but heartbreak and pain.'

'Don't be a misery, Lisl,' said Werner, who dared to go much further with her than I would ever do. 'I'm going to make sure you meet people.'

'Go away!' said Lisl. 'I'm talking to Bernd.'

Werner looked at me and gave a tiny grin. 'I'll be back,' he promised and returned to the party which was getting louder every minute. He stood in the open doorway for long enough for me to see the crowded dance floor. There was a frenzied crowd of dancers all elaborately costumed – Germans take fancy dress parties as seriously as they take every other social activity from opera-going to getting drunk – and waving their arms in the air more or less in tune with the music. Sequined chorus girls, a Roman Senator, Karl May's Old Shatterhand and two squaws danced past wriggling and smiling. Jeremy Teacher – dressed as a thin elegant curly-haired gorilla – was dancing with Tessa, who was in a long diaphanous yellow dress with long antenna bobbing above her head. Teacher was holding her tight and talking: Tessa was wide-eyed and nodding energetically. It seemed an unlikely combination. The door closed.

'What time will they go home?' Lisl asked me.

'It won't go on very late, Lisl,' I promised, knowing full well that it would go on very late indeed.

'I hate parties,' said Lisl.

'Yes,' I said, although I could see she had already decided to go and circulate. She preferred to be pushed round in her wheelchair. It gave her an added sense of majesty. I supposed I'd have to do it but I knew she'd find a way of making me look a bloody fool while doing so.

I locked up the suitcase. 'Come on, Lisl,' I said. 'Let's go and look round.'

'Must we?' she said, and was already looking in the mirror to inspect her make-up. Then the door opened again. There was a short smiling man standing there.

At first I thought he was in a specially elaborate costume that included face-black. Then I recognized Johnny the Tamil. He looked different; he was wearing gold-rimmed glasses. He laughed. 'How wonderful!' he said. 'How wonderful!' I thought he must be referring to the party but he seemed almost not to notice that the party was going on at all. Perhaps he was stoned. 'Wonderful to find you, Bernard,' he said. 'I've looked all over town.'

'I heard the cops got you,' I said.

He looked at me over his glasses. 'I was lucky. There was the cruise missiles demonstration. Three hundred arrests. They needed the space in the cells. They threw me out.' His German had not improved but I'd got used to his accent.

'I'll get you a drink,' I offered. Behind him, through the open door I spotted the Duke of Wellington holding tight to a rather gorgeous geisha. For a fleeting moment I thought it was Daphne Cruyer, but as she turned her head and smiled at Frank I knew it wasn't.

'No. I must go. I brought this for you.' He gave me a large dog-eared envelope. I opened it. There was a plastic box that looked a bit like a small radio. 'It's Spengler's…' said Johnny. 'He wanted you to have it. It's his chess computer.'

'Thanks.'

'He always said that if anything happened to him I could have his glasses and you could have his computer. That's all he had,' Johnny added unnecessarily. 'The cops took his passport.'

'For me? Are you sure?'

'I'm sure. Spengler liked you. I put new batteries in.'

'Thanks, Johnny. Do the glasses suit you?' He looked quite different in the glasses.

'No, they make everything blurred. But they are stylish, aren't they?'

'Yes, they are,' I said. 'This is Tante Lisl. Have a drink?'

'Hello, Tante Lisl,' He seemed baffled at the idea that Lisl might really be my aunt but he didn't question it. 'No. I must go, Bernard.'

'Did they find out who killed Spengler?' I asked.

'They haven't even found out his real name or where he came from. No one cares about him, except us.'

He waved and was gone. Lisl had made no attempt to follow the conversation. 'You should be careful who you mix with in this town,' she said. 'It's not like London.'

Lisl, who, as far as I knew, had never been to London, had been saying that to me since I was six years old, and brought Axel Mauser back to see my Nazi medal collection.

Johnny's visit was over so quickly that I forgot to give him some cash. With people like Johnny a few marks go a long way. Goodness knows what time and trouble he'd spent in tracking me down. He'd even stolen new batteries for me: long-life batteries, the very best. I suppose he got them from Wertheim. He liked stealing from Wertheim: he said it was a quality shop.

In the event it was Werner who trundled Lisl around the party as she bowed graciously, offered her hand to be kissed or gave a regal wave, according to the degree of approval she extended to these merrymaking guests.

I took my father's suitcase down to the cellar but when I got there I sat down for a few minutes. I was aware of the absurdity of hiding away from Werner's party, aware too of the derision I'd face from Werner if he found me down here.

But I didn't want to be upstairs with a hundred and fifty exhilarated people most of whom I didn't know, in disguises I couldn't penetrate, celebrating the end of something I didn't want to say goodbye to.

I went and sat in the little hideaway next to the boiler room, a place I used to come to do my homework when I was a child. There was always a bright light and a tall pile of old newspapers and magazines in here. Reading them, instead of doing my homework, was one of the reasons I'd become so good at German that I could often beat all the German kids in vocabulary tests and essay writing.

I did the same thing now. I took a newspaper from the top of the big pile and sat down on the bench to read it. There was a story about the discovery of buried nerve gas at Spandau. It had been there since the Second World War.

'Bernard, darling! What are you doing here? Are you ill?'

'No, Tessa. I just wanted to get away from it all.'

'You really are the limit, Bernard. The limit. The limit.' She repeated the words as if she found some pleasure in saying them. Her eyes were wide and moist. I realized that she was stoned. Not drunk on alcohol. She was on something more powerful than that. 'Really the limit,' she said again. She extended her arms. The almost transparent yellow cloth was attached to her wrists so that she became a butterfly. The bright light made her a whirling shadow on the whitewashed wall.

'What is it, Tessa?'

'Your friend Jeremy is looking for you.' She twirled around to enjoy again the fleeting shadows she made.

'Who is Jeremy?'

'You mean, Jeremy who, darting.' She laughed shrilly at her joke. 'Jeremy thing!' She clicked her fingers. 'Jeremy the cultivated ape. Know you not the couplet: He doth like the ape, that the higher he climbs the more he shows his ars. Francis Bacon. You think I'm an untutored wanton, but I went to school and I can quote Francis Bacon with the best of you.'

'Of course you can, Tessa. But you seem a little high yourself.'

'And the more I show my arse? Is that what you mean, Bernard, you rude sod?'

'No, Tessa, of course not. But I think it might be a good idea to get you back to your hotel. Where's Dicky?'

'Are you listening to me, Bernard? Jeremy the ape is desperate to find you. He is going mad. He is in fact going ape!' More laughter; soft but shriller, and a suggestion that hysteria was not far away. The signal has come and you must go.'

'Is that what Jeremy the ape said?'

'The signal has come and you must away.'

'Tessa!' I shook her. 'Listen to me, Tessa. Get a hold of yourself. Where is the ape now?'

'He was trying to get into one of Werner's three-piece lounge suits – blue with a pin stripe – but Werner got angry and wouldn't let him borrow any clothes. They were both shouting. Werner doesn't like him.' She smiled. 'And Werner's suits are too big.'

I said it slowly. 'Where is Jeremy the ape now?'

'You're not going without me. The car's here. Van. Ford van, alovely shade of blue. Diplomatic plates. Outside in the rain. Jeremy the ape is driving. They make good drivers, apes. My father employed one for years. Then he started wanting extra bananas all the time. They can be awfully tiresome, apes. Did I tell you that?'

Outside, the rain was falling in great steel sheets, hammering the road and pounding upon the roof of the Ford van. Jeremy Teacher, still in gorilla costume, was in the driver's seat. He was soaking wet. I asked him what was happening and had to shout to make myself heard above the sound of the rain and thunder. 'Get in,' he said.

'What's happening?' I said for maybe the fourth time.

'What the hell do you think is happening?' he said furiously. 'The bloody signal came through three and a half hours ago!'

'You said a VW van.' He shot me a poisonous look. 'I haven't got my passport,' I said, my mind racing as I thought of all the other things I didn't have.

'Get in! I've got the passports here.' The prospect of going through the checkpoints dressed as a gorilla had obviously put him in a foul temper.

It was then that I noticed that Tessa was dancing about in the rain. She was drenched but she seemed oblivious of the arresting sight she offered as the thin material clung tightly to her body.

It was Tessa dancing round the Ford Transit – added to the sight of a gorilla gunning it while arguing volubly with a civilian who might have been his keeper – that brought other revellers out into the street. They made an astonishing sight in their costumes, and although some of them had umbrellas, many were as indifferent to the downpour as Tessa was.

Werner came too, struggling under the weight of my father's suitcase. He opened the rear door to put it inside and as he was doing so Tessa pushed him aside and climbed into the van, slamming the door with a crash that made the metal body-work sing.

'Let's go!' shouted Teacher.

'Tessa's in the back,' I said.

He looked round and shouted, 'Get out of there, Tessa.'

'I'm coming with you,' she cooed.

'Don't be silly. You haven't got a passport,' said Teacher with a calm politeness that was commendable under the circumstances.

'Oh yes I have,' she said triumphantly. She had produced it from somewhere and was holding it up in front of her to show him. 'Dicky said I was to carry it everywhere while I was here.'

'Get out, you stupid bitch!' He revved the engine as if hoping that would persuade her but it didn't. It simply confirmed that the engine was not firing properly. I had doubts that it would ever complete the journey.

'I won't. I won't.'

'For Christ's sake get her out of there,' shouted Teacher to me.

'Who the hell do you think you are,' I said. 'You get her out.' I recognized one of Tessa's bloody-minded moods and decided to let the intrepid Mr Teacher earn his pay.

He looked at his watch. 'We must go.' With a string of curses he opened his door and got out, but as the rain hit him and soaked his hairy gorilla outfit he changed his mind and climbed back into the driver's seat again.

'Come on, Tessa. We're leaving.'

'I'm coming too,' she said.

'No, you're bloody not!' said Teacher. He switched the heater on to full. His damp costume was obviously chilly.

Then Dicky arrived on the scene. He was dressed as Harlequin, the carefully decorated face, chequered costume and imposing hat a favourite for Germany 's Fasching celebrations. He spotted Tessa and dutifully told us that she was in the back of the van. Teacher gave a loud and angry sigh. Then get her out of it,' he said, abandoning his usual respectful attitude to those set in authority over him.

By now there seemed to be dozens of people in bizarre costumes milling around the van, although in the darkness and the relentless rain it was difficult to be sure who they really were. But they formed such a crush that getting through them, getting the door open and getting Tessa out would be physically difficult even if no one objected to Tessa being manhandled. And if I knew anything about the effects of alcohol on the male psyche, any sort of struggle with Tessa would be enough to start a riot.

There was a flash of lightning. Hordes – in ever more amazing garb – spilled into the street. The commotion round the van had become the party's new attraction. A rain-soaked Frederick the Great was waving both hands in glee, while Barbarossa, his false beard bedraggled, offered his hat to a Roman maiden to protect her coiffure.

I saw the Duchess. She was dressed as a witch, in a pointed hat and a long black gown with occult symbols on the skirt of it. That damned cat was with her despite the heavy rain, its eyes glowing angrily in the darkness. The Duchess was standing in front of the van and began making solemn gestures with her wand. A roll of thunder came in on cue.

'What's that old cow doing?' Teacher asked.

'I think she's casting a spell,' I replied.

'Jesus Christ!' said Teacher, aggravated beyond control. 'Has everyone gone insane?'

Before the Duchess had finished her incantation Harlequin stuck his painted face through the window of the van and said, Teacher is in charge. Remember that, Bernard.' I ignored him. He grabbed my shoulder and in the voice of an exasperated parent talking to a naughty child, he said, 'Look here, Bernard! Do you hear what I said?'

I looked at Dicky's elaborately made up face and his cold little eyes. Years and years of repressed resentment welled up in me. The way in which he'd been promoted over my head, the pompous things he said, his pretentious lifestyle, his readiness to cuckold poor old George and make jokes about it. Now emotion took precedence over common sense. Whatever the consequences, now was the time to react. I pulled my fist back and gave him a solid punch on the rouged nose. Not hard, but it was enough to send him reeling back into the roadway just as another car came past. With incredibly quick response the driver swerved with a sharp squeal of brakes and avoided him. I turned to see him through the window. Dicky still staggered back, hat askew, feet splayed wide apart. His arms were flailing to keep balance, but he fell backwards into the road and his big cocked hat came off.

'Go! Go! We'll sort it out at the checkpoint,' I yelled.

Teacher let in the clutch and there was a squeak of rubber and a sickening bump followed by a woman's scream. I knew immediately what had happened. That bloody cat 'Jackdaw' had gone under the van to shelter from the downpour. Now it was flattened under the rear wheels. We might have hit the Duchess too, but Teacher spun the wheel and narrowly missed her and we sped out into the traffic of the Ku-Damm.

The wet streets shone with the coloured light of the neon signs that summoned tourists to meet the junkies, winos and dropouts who had made the Europa Centre their home. 'Is she still in the back?' said Teacher as we passed the Gedächtniskirche, preserved to remind the nostalgia-prone that old Berlin had its fair share of ugly buildings. Even at this time of night there was plenty of traffic. Teacher gunned the motor a couple of times and after that the engine began firing more efficiently. I suppose the rain must have been afflicting it.

I'm here, darling,' said a voice from the back. 'I can guess who you are going to meet. If you dare to try throwing me out at the checkpoint I'll scream it aloud to the whole world. You wouldn't like that, would you?'

'No we wouldn't like that,' I said.

'This bloody heater's not working,' said Teacher and slapped it with his hairy hand.

'That's a damned convincing costume, Jeremy,' I said admiringly. Tessa giggled softly but Teacher didn't answer.