It was seven minutes after three. Using the bag as a seat, he squatted in the shadow of Lenin – the incarnation that used to greet the workers at the Manfred Weiss iron factory – and leaned his head against the hem of the dictator’s overcoat. He was thirsty, light-headed, longing to be rid of the bag and riding the train home to Paris. Would Kurt forgive him? Excuse it all as menopausal adventuring? A somewhat delayed mid-life crisis? He gazed at the toes of his shoes, the sand in the suede. In this heat it was difficult to think things through, and he began to feel like a figure in the far background of a painting, two or three strokes of the brush, no real face at all, there simply for balance or colour, while in the foreground the emperor’s army rode past on their magnificent horses.

It was twenty past before his contact appeared. A tall, darkly dressed figure ambling through the students, another of the famous black bags over his shoulder. It was strange never knowing who would come for you. This one, with his lank hair, his bristly chin, his easy and rather charming smile, looked as though he might play jazz piano in a nightclub.

‘A friend of Françoise?’ he asked, standing at the side of László, though not too close. László got to his feet.

‘To me,’ said the man, gazing up at Lenin, ‘he always looks as if he’s hailing a taxi. But he won’t get one here. Not for a long time.’

‘Where does it go now?’ asked László, nodding to his bag.

‘A little farther,’ said the other. ‘But your part is done. Any trouble?’

‘I don’t feel I’ve done anything at all.’

‘That’s how it should be.’ He put his bag next to László’s. ‘You know, they could plant something here. Grow roses on him. Or is that a very romantic idea?’

‘It’s a good idea,’ said László. ‘But we’ll have to put it to the committee.’

The man chuckled. ‘Of course, Comrade. We must go through the proper channels.’

He reached down and swung László’s bag on to his shoulder.

‘It’s heavy,’ said László.

‘Good. You have a car?’

‘Yes.’

‘You go first.’

‘Do we shake hands?’

‘It’s quite optional,’ said the man. He held out his hand. ‘Until next time.’

In the carpark, Tibor was sharing a story with the driver of the tour bus. The only other vehicle was a small, slightly battered Toyota that presumably belonged to the contact.

‘The heat bothering you?’ asked Tibor, opening the rear door.