They stopped on the fourth floor, where Max opened a door to a two-story living room and loft. “Just a studio. I’m afraid it’s not furnished, but the electricity and plumbing are in and the rent is free.” Ceremoniously he handed the door key to Arkady. “We’ll be two stories up.”

Irina said, “The main thing is that you’ll be safe.”

“Thanks,” Arkady said.

Max gathered Irina into the elevator. He had her, which was thanks enough.

The Key had freshly stamped, sharp serrations, perfect to unlock the heart, Arkady thought, if you worked diligently in between the ribs.

No bed, bedding, chairs or bureau. Dry walls angled seamlessly into hardwood floors. The bathroom was all tiles gleaming like teeth. The kitchen had a stove but no utensils. If he’d had food, he could have held meat in his hands above the flame.

Steps echoed out of proportion to every move he made. He listened for sounds from two stories above. In Munich he had dreaded the possibility that Irina was sleeping with Max. Now, overhead, he had the certainty. What was Max’s apartment like? Extrapolating, Arkady pictured the finish on the walls, the polish on the floors. He could imagine the rest.

He asked himself if he should have stayed in Munich.

Choice was the luxury of casting a vote, trying on shoes, lingering over a menu and deciding between red caviar and black.

He’d had to come to Berlin. If he hadn’t he would have lost Irina, not to mention Max. This way he had them both. Like a man who is proud he wears so much rope around his neck.

The elevator was locked. Arkady took the emergency stairs down to the garage, where he wedged the door open and stepped out onto the street. Though Friedrichstrasse was a major thoroughfare, its street lamps were as dim as curb lights. Except for himself, the sidewalk was empty. Anyone awake was in the West.

He spotted the point of a television tower and immediately knew that Alexanderplatz was to his right, West Berlin to his left. The mental map he had was out of date by a decade or so, but no major city in Europe was as unchanged as East Berlin in the last forty years. The advantage of the Soviet model was that construction and upkeep were kept to a minimum, so Soviet memories tended to be excellent.

Munich had been new territory to Arkady. Not Berlin. Day after day, his military assignment had been to monitor British and American radio patrols as they drove through the Tiergarten to Potsdamer Platz, along Stresemann to Checkpoint Charlie, then on to Prinzenstrasse and back. He followed them from the moment they left their motor pool. It was his own daily ride.

It didn’t matter how fast Arkady walked. Jealousy stayed with him, a shadow that walked ahead in giant steps, shrank at the next lamp, then jumped out again.