We stayed in a villa farther down the street from the club. From my dormer window at the back you could see a small lake. The only sounds were the birds in the trees and the bicycle bells of students going to and from the Free University of Berlin like little couriers of hope for a city I was finding it hard to love again, in spite of the instant service that came with my room in the shape of an obsequious valet in a white mess jacket who offered to bring me coffee and a donut. I declined both and asked for a bottle of schnapps and some cigarettes. Worst of all was the music: hidden speakers playing some honey-voiced female singer who seemed to follow me from the dining room, through the hall, and into the library. It wasn’t particularly loud or obtrusive, but it was there when it didn’t need to be. I asked the valet about it. His name was George and he told me that the singer was Ella Fitzgerald, as if that made it okay.

The furniture looked like it was original to the house, so that was all right, although the water cooler in the library seemed somehow out of place, as did the periodic eructations of air that passed through the water like an enormous belch. It sounded like my own conscience.

The Am Steinplatz restaurant was at 197 Uhlandstrasse, southwest of the Tiergarten, and dated from before the war. The dilapidated exterior of the building belied a restaurant that was good enough to warrant inclusion in the U.S. Army’s Berlin booklet, which meant that the place was popular with American officers and their German girlfriends. There was a bar with a dining room serving a mixture of American and Berlin favorites. The four of us—me and the three Amis—occupied a table window in the dining room. The waitress wore glasses and wore her hair shorter than seemed right, as if it had yet to grow back after some personal disaster. She was German, but she spoke English first, as if she knew that there were few Berliners who could have afforded the prices on the extensive menu. We ordered wine and lunch. The place was still more or less empty, so we knew Erich Stellmacher wasn’t yet there. But it quickly filled up until there was only one table left.

“He probably won’t come,” said Frei. “Not this time. That’s always been my experience of stakeouts. The target never comes the first time.”

“Let’s hope you’re not wrong,” said Hamer. “The food in here’s so damn good I want to come back. Several times.”