He was wearing an old loden coat and a hat with a goose feather in the silk band, and you could hear the nails in his shoes from the other side of the street. He was stout and balding and wore a different pair of glasses now. There was, without a doubt, a strong resemblance to Erich Mielke. He was about the same height, too. He checked his fly as if he’d been to the lavatory and walked south toward Kant Strasse. After a decent interval, I followed with one hand on my little knight’s head.

I felt even better now that I was walking alone. Well, almost alone. I glanced around and saw two of them—Frei and Hamer—about thirty meters behind me, on opposite sides of the street. I couldn’t see Scheuer and decided he’d probably gone to fetch the car so that they wouldn’t have to walk when, eventually, we tracked our man to his lair. Americans didn’t like walking any more than they cared to miss a meal. Since I’d started to spend some time with them I had observed that the average American—supposing that these men were average Americans—eats about twice as much as the average German. Every day.

On Kant Strasse the man turned right toward Savigny Platz; then, near the S-Bahn, a train pulled into the elevated station above his head and he broke into a trot. So did I, and I only just managed to buy a ticket and board the train before the doors closed and we were on our way, northeast, toward Old Moabit. Hamer and Frei weren’t so lucky, and just as the train pulled out I glimpsed them running up the stairs of Savigny Platz Station. I might have smiled at them, too, if what I was doing hadn’t felt so vital to my own future and fortune.

I sat down and stared straight ahead and out of the window. All of the old police training was kicking in again: the way to follow a man without making yourself obvious. Mostly, it was about keeping your distance and learning how to tail a man who was behind you as often as he was in front of you—or, as now, in the adjoining carriage. I could see him through the connecting window, still reading his newspaper. That made it easier for me, of course. And the thought that I was well on top of it made the discomfiture that was very likely being experienced by the Amis all the more enjoyable. Scheuer I almost liked, but Hamer and Frei were a different matter. I especially disliked Hamer, if only because of his arrogance and because he seemed to have a real dislike of Germans. Well, we were used to that. But it was still annoying.