In the new democratic dawn, these had to be investigated and teams of ‘Puzzle Women’ patrolled long tables on which were arranged thousands and thousands of paper fragments from which they were bidden to construct a new story of Germany from the old ones.

My wife thinks bourgeois thoughts.

I suspect my neighbour of listening to forbidden broadcasts on enemy radio.

Citizen B met a known dissident in Jűdenstrasse.

State snooping, and its findings, was pretty much the same in any country.

The reception was being held on the first floor of a concrete office building in a street close to the site of the former American Chancery in the Mitte district. The heating had been turned up to tropical levels, which resulted in thirsty guests doggedly getting drunk. The room was too large for the number of guests and devoid of comfort. Except for a couple of framed photos of combine harvesters in fields of suspiciously gold corn, the walls were bare. Marooned on the swirly patterned carpet were small groups who did not give an impression that they were enjoying themselves.

Petr was given a guest list but, before he could acquaint himself with its contents, he was waylaid.

‘Hallo.’ A tall, rangy woman in a navy-blue dress with white trimming who he took to be an embassy wife accosted Petr with the confidence of the English landed classes. ‘I’m Sonia.’

‘Petr Kobes.’

‘Not German, I think.’

‘Czech.’

Her expression radiated good humour and drunkenness. ‘English. And I was just wondering if I had transgressed very much in a previous life to find myself in this building which is beyond depressing.’ She lowered her tone. ‘Do you think there are ex-Stasi here?’

‘Without a doubt,’ he replied, attempting to calculate if the disingenuousness was genuine or not.

‘Someone told my husband that when the Stasi headquarters were taken over, they found an international supermarket stuffed with goodies. And those terrible files on everyone, of course. Plus, a whole floor furnished with the most expensive furniture.’

‘Yes, I heard that too.’ Petr managed to glance down at the list in his hand and nearly dropped it. A name had leapt up at him.

An unusual combination of French Christian name and English surname. Laure Carlyle.

He prided himself that he was a man who knew how to control his emotions but, at this moment, he could barely speak. ‘Would you excuse me?’

Sonia shrugged. ‘I’ve frightened you. Well, good luck with Berlin. It’s… it’s not Paris.’ She peered closer at him. ‘Oh dear, you look shell-shocked.’

He did not reply because he was literally not capable.

CHAPTER 15

THERE SHE WAS, ONLY A FEW FEET AWAY.

Even though a decade had passed, it was hard to put into words what had happened to him then. Or describe what had taken place in his heart and mind.