Close to, Petr saw that she had become truly beautiful. The younger Laure had been fresh, tousled and bohemian and wore ill-advised low-cut tops and tight jeans. Now, thinner and with shadows in her eyes, she had been completed and was something else. More mysterious, less open. He glanced down at her left hand. No ring.

David Brotton, the boss, was clearly experienced at this sort of encounter. He proffered a clean, square hand. ‘How do you do?’ He glanced at Laure. ‘What sort of boss?’

‘I was an au pair for Petr and his family. We lived in Paris and in Prague,’ replied Laure.

More likely than not, this was information with which David Brotton was already familiar. All three of them in this conversation knew that Laure’s history would have been turned inside out and hung out to dry before she obtained work in anything like a British Embassy.

‘And very welcome she was, too. She was a life-saver when my wife became ill and ended up staying to help us much longer than we had originally agreed.’

He kept his gaze steady. The odds were that Laure and Brotton were both spooks, or on the edge of that world. The British MI6, and most other countries, embedded spies in the embassies.

‘She’s a life-saver here too,’ said David Brotton gallantly. ‘The best cultural attaché I’ve ever had.’

A couple of girls were circulating with trays of drinks. They were dressed in tight black dresses and frilly aprons and were being masterminded by a man in a shiny suit. Laure accepted a drink from one of them. ‘Those dresses look uncomfortable,’ she said.

‘I think our hosts wanted their Western guests to feel at home.’

David Brotton laughed. ‘And we do.’ He glanced at them both. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’

Left alone, Petr and Laure took their time to begin. Eventually, she drank a mouthful of the passable gin and tonic and said, ‘Bonjour, Petr.’

‘“The best cultural attaché I’ve ever had”?’

‘You wouldn’t believe,’ she said, composed and professional, only her eyes betraying any emotion.

As ever, they spoke in French.

‘What are you doing in Berlin?’

‘I’m here at the invitation of my friend Herman Ludz. He is working for a big pharma firm in which I have an interest.’

Laure glanced in the direction of a chunky balding man, wearing a purple tie, surrounded by acolytes. ‘Ex-Stasi,’ she said. ‘But you’ll know that.’ She allowed a second to elapse. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything other.’

‘We all have histories,’ he replied.

She acknowledged the point with a nod. ‘Isn’t it odd how history is not concerned with justice? Many of the ex-Stasi have got themselves very good jobs. Marketing. Insurance.’

‘Is that so very odd? Those jobs need organized people. And administrators. Who else? They’re lucky to have a trained cadre to step in.’

‘You always were a practical person.’ She sounded very dry.