“Your background,” said the other Frenchman, “makes you ideally suited to be a part of this association. Not that this would be a problem. The Lower Saxony branch of the VdH is under our control. The chairman and several of his members are in the service of the SDECE. And working for us, it goes without saying you’ll be well paid. You’re probably even entitled to some of that POW compensation yourself.”

“And what’s more, we can make all this business with Helmut Knochen go away.” The Insomniac clicked his fingers. “Like that. We’ll put you up at a little boardinghouse in Göttingen. You’ll like Göttingen. It’s a nice town. From there it’s a short car ride down to Friedland.” He shrugged. “If things work out, we could perhaps make the arrangement more permanent.”

I nodded. “Well, it’s been a long time since I saw de Boudel. And naturally, I would like to get out of La Santé. Göttingen’s nice, as you say. And I do need a job. It all sounds very generous, yes. But there is something else I’d like. There’s a woman in Berlin. Perhaps the only person in the whole of Germany who means anything to me. I’d like to go and see her. Make sure she’s all right. Give her some money, perhaps.”

The Insomniac picked up a pencil and prepared to write. “Name and address?”

“Her name is Elisabeth Dehler. When I was last in Berlin, about five years ago, her address was twenty-eight Motzstrasse, off the Ku-damm.”

“You never mentioned her before.”

I shrugged.

“What does she do?”

“She was a dressmaker. Still is, for all I know.”

“And you and she were—what?”

“We were involved for a while.”

“Lovers?”

“Yes, lovers, I suppose.”

“We’ll check out the address for you. See if she’s still at that address. Save you the trouble if she’s not.”

“Thanks.”

He shrugged. “But if she is, we have no objections. It will be difficult. It’s always difficult going in and out of Berlin. Still, we’ll manage.”

“Good. Then we have a deal. If I knew the words, I’d sing ‘The Marseillaise.’”

“A signature on a piece of paper will do for now. We’re not much for singing here at the Swimming Pool.”

“There’s one question I have. Everyone calls this place the Swimming Pool. Why?”

The two Frenchmen smiled. One of them stood up and opened a window. “Can’t you hear it?” he said after a moment. “Can’t you smell it?”

I got up and went to his side and listened carefully. In the distance I could hear what sounded like a school playground.