His curiosity finally overcame his caution. He took the passport from her and flicked it open at the ID page. His own face stared back at him, a faint smile on his lips. The passport said he was Tadeo Radice, born in Trieste. He studied it attentively, moving it back and forward to let the light catch it. Then he turned back to the beginning and looked through it. Finally, he met Carol’s eyes, his gaze serious. ‘Where did you get the photograph?’ he said.

‘That was the easy part. A news magazine did an interview with you last year, remember? Part of a series about Berlin businessmen who had seized the opportunity of reunification to build a new empire? I pulled it up out of their on-line archives and scaled down one of the pics. So, tomorrow? Why don’t you call me in the morning?’ She fished in her bag again and came out with a business card that simply gave her name and mobile phone number. ‘I really do think we should talk.’ She handed him the card, gave him the full hundred-watt smile and watched the play of emotions in his eyes again.

He held out the passport to her. ‘Very interesting.’

Carol shook her head. ‘It’s no use to me. Keep it. You never know when it might come in handy.’ She stood up and straightened her dress, smoothing it down over her hips in a consciously sexual gesture. ‘Call me,’ she said, heading for the door. She grasped the handle then turned. ‘Otherwise, you’ll never see me again.’

As she stepped back into the corridor, Carol became conscious of her body once more. The adrenaline that had kept her so firmly in control inside the opera box was starting to bleed away, leaving her weak-kneed and worn out. But she couldn’t afford to relax yet. If Radecki was anything like as good as he was supposed to be, he would have arranged for someone to pick her up when she left his box, and to stick with her. She and Petra had discussed how they would handle that. Petra would hang well back, but close enough to make sure Carol got into a cab and to check out who was on her tail. Petra would try to follow the followers, but would take no risks of discovery.

Exhausted though she was, she acted as nonchalant as she could manage and made her way down to the cloakroom to stand in line and collect her coat. Or rather, Caroline Jackson’s coat, a luxuriously soft lambskin that managed the trick of fashionable elegance coupled with the kind of warmth that early spring in Berlin demanded. Without looking around to see if she could spot the expected tail, she strolled out of the Staatsoper and stood by the kerb, looking for a passing taxi.