“It’s called the special regime because the measures are intended to keep out spies, diversionists, terrorists, and smugglers. In other words, people like us.” He smiled at his own little joke. “We’ll be crossing at Checkpoint Alpha. At Helmstedt. It’s the largest and busiest crossing point because it allows for the shortest land route between West Germany and West Berlin. It’s one hundred and eighty-five kilometers through East Germany to Berlin. The road runs through a fenced corridor that’s heavily guarded. A bit like No Man’s Land, if you remember that, and almost as dangerous, so if we have a breakdown, on no account get out of the car. We wait for assistance, no matter how long that takes. If you get out, you risk being shot, and people do get shot. The border police—the Grepos—are particularly trigger-happy. Do I make myself clear?”

“Abundantly clear, Herr Grottsch. Thank you.”

“Good.” Grottsch cocked an ear at the air and nodded his appreciation. “What a pleasure, to listen to Mendelssohn again. And not to be worried that one was being unpatriotic.”

“He was German, wasn’t he?” I said. “From Hamburg.”

“No, no,” said Grottsch. “Mendelssohn was a Jew.”

Wenger nodded and lit a cigarette. “That’s right,” he said. “He was. A Jew from Leipzig.”

“Of course,” Grottsch went on, “going in is one thing. Getting out is quite another. Inspection pits, mirrors, there’s even a mortuary where they can look inside coffins to check if an occupant who wanted to be buried in West Germany is really dead. Even Mendelssohn couldn’t leave these days without the proper paperwork. And he’s been dead for a hundred years.”

“Your lady friend,” said Wenger. “Fräulein Dehler. You’ll be pleased to know she’s still at the same address. But she’s no longer a dressmaker. She now runs a nightclub called The Queen on Auguste-Viktoria Strasse.”

“A straight kind of place?”

“As straight as they go.”