“She was my great-aunt.”

“Where did you last see Walli Franck?”

“In San Francisco.”

“The address, please.”

Dave hesitated. This was getting nasty.

“Answer, please. Walli Franck is wanted for murder.”

“I last saw him in Buena Vista Park. That’s on Haight Street. I don’t know where he lives.”

“Do you realize that it is a crime to obstruct the police in the course of their duty?”

“Of course.”

“And that if you commit such a crime in East Germany, you may be arrested and tried and put in jail here?”

Dave was suddenly frightened, but he tried to remain calm. “And then millions of fans all over the world would demand my release.”

“They will not be allowed to interfere with justice.”

Fitz put in: “Are you sure your comrades in Moscow would be pleased with you for creating a major international diplomatic incident over this?”

The tall man laughed scornfully, but he was not convincing.

Dave had a flash of insight. “You’re Hans Hoffmann, aren’t you?”

The interpreter did not translate this, but instead said quickly: “His name is of no concern to you.”

But Dave could tell by the tall man’s face that his guess had been right. He said: “Walli told me about you. His sister threw you out, and you’ve been taking revenge on her family ever since.”

“Just answer the question.”

“Is this part of your revenge? Harassing two innocent men on their way to a funeral? Is that the kind of people you Communists are?”

“Wait here, please.” Hans and his interpreter left the room, and Dave heard from the other side of the door the sound of a bolt being shot.

“I’m sorry,” Dave said. “This seems to be about Walli. You would have been better off on your own.”

“Not your fault. I just hope we don’t miss the funeral.” Fitz took out his cigar case. “You don’t smoke, Dave, do you?”

Dave shook his head. “Not tobacco, anyhow.”

“Marijuana is bad for you.”

“And I suppose cigars are healthy?”

Fitz smiled. “Touché.”

“I’ve had this argument with my father. He drinks Scotch. You parliamentarians have a clear policy: all dangerous drugs are illegal, except the ones you like. And then you complain that young people won’t listen.”

“You’re right, of course.”

It was a big cigar, and Fitz smoked it all and dropped the stub in a stamped-tin ashtray. Eleven o’clock came and went. They had missed the funeral for which they had flown from London.

At half past eleven the door opened again. Hans Hoffmann stood there. With a little smile he said: “You may enter East Germany.” Then he walked away.

Dave and Fitz found their car. “We’d better go straight to the house, now,” said Fitz. He gave the driver the address.

They drove along Friedrich Strasse to Unter den Linden. The old government buildings were fine but the sidewalks were deserted. “My God,” said Fitz. “This used to be one of the busiest shopping streets in Europe. Look at it now. Merthyr Tydfil on a Monday.”