“Mielke’s story. Or rather, my Mielke story. If I hadn’t been to the Central Criminal Court that day, I might not have thought it worth going to Tegel Prison a couple of weeks later to question one of the four SA defendants. And if I hadn’t gone to Tegel that day, I might never have seen some SA men piling out of a bar in Charlottenburg and followed them. In which case, I’d never have seen Erich Mielke or saved his life. That’s what I mean.”

“Given everything that happened afterward,” said Hamer, “we’d all have been a lot better off if you’d just let him get killed.”

“But that would mean I’d never have had the pleasure of your acquaintance, Agent Hamer,” I said.

“Less of the ‘Agent,’ Gunther,” said Scheuer. “From now on, we’re all of us just gentlemen, okay?”

“Does that include Herr Hamer?”

“Keep riding me, Gunther, you arrogant German bastard,” said Hamer, “and see where it gets you. I almost hope Erich Mielke doesn’t come. Just to bring you down a size or two. Not to mention the pleasure of seeing you come up short on twenty-five thousand bucks.”

“He’ll come,” I said.

“How do you really know that?” said Hamer.

“Because he loves his father, of course. I wouldn’t expect you to understand something like that, Hamer. You’d have to know who your father is to love him.”

“Hamer,” said Scheuer. “I’m ordering you not to answer that. And Gunther? That’s enough.” He pointed at the road ahead. “Where now?”

“Left on Quitzowstrasse, and then right onto Putlitzstrasse.”

We drove west with the Ringbahn on our right, keeping pace with the little red and yellow train that clattered toward Putlitzstrasse Station, moving along the green verge and overgrown track like two snooker balls. The redbrick station with its tall arched window and tower was more medieval abbey than rail terminus.

Dusk was fast approaching, and under the weak, greenish gaze of the praying mantis streetlamps of the Föhrer Brücke, we drove into Wedding. With its textile works, breweries, and massive electronics factories, Wedding had been the industrial heart of Berlin and a communist stronghold. Back in 1930, forty-three percent of Wedding voters, many of them soon to be made unemployed by the Great Depression, had voted for the KPD. Once it had been one of the most overcrowded bezirks in Berlin; now, with long winter nights fast approaching and no sign of the economic revival that had come to the American sector, Wedding looked almost deserted, as if all had been taken away to the ships of the conquerors. In truth, Berlin had always gone to bed early, especially in winter, but never in the late afternoon.