He’d come back unexpectedly a day early from a preparatory workshop. The classic scenario. It was eight in the morning, the apartment in Schmargendorf was empty; Nadja and Timmy were at school. The bed he sank into hadn’t been made and it smelled of sweat. Of scent.

And of condom.

He found it on Nadja’s side between the sheets. Empty, but unrolled.

She didn’t deny it and he didn’t blame her. During the long period they’d spent apart because of his work he’d had urges too, but he had drowned them with adrenaline. Nadia’s only option for entertainment was an affair.

Martin had never found out who the guy was, nor did he ever want to know. Two weeks after his discovery of the condom they decided that his next operation would be his last. He’d even offered to quit his job straight away, but Nadja knew how much was at stake. He’d spent a quarter of a year cultivating a new identity as a drug addict and habitual offender. His arm had been dotted with needle marks, some of which were still visible today. The Polish authorities they were working with wanted to plant him in a prison for dangerous criminals in Warsaw, in the cell of a notorious neo-Nazi, the head of a band of traffickers. Martin was to win his confidence so as to obtain information relating to the people-trafficking ring he was running. He was convinced that the heroin he’d had to inject himself with in front of the Nazi was partially responsible for the blackouts he sometimes suffered in moments of extreme physical or emotional stress. At the time it was crucial that his cover wasn’t blown.

If beforehand he’d known what would happen, he’d never have got involved with this supposedly final operation. Nadja and he had agreed that afterwards he should apply for a desk job. He’d given his promise and then treated her and Timmy to a three-week leg of a world cruise. This holiday was to distract her as much as possible from the thought that her husband was risking his life for one last time. And pretending to his son for one last time that he was going abroad to work as a tour guide.

Martin glanced again at the name plate that had set this chain of memories in motion, knocked on the door of the ship’s infirmary and waited until it opened.