She was adjusting her beret, pulling it down over her ears against the wind, and he wondered if she had heard him. ‘I’ll drop you at your hotel in the car.’

He pressed the stone that he had picked up into her hand. ‘Have this as a souvenir.’

The car was one of the embassy fleet, a bonus which he noted with satisfaction as they were more comfortable than most. Their driver seemed a solid, dependable type – but you never knew – with a short back and sides and expensive-looking driving gloves.

He drove them back close to the former East–West crossing point at Friedrichstrasse station and down towards Unter den Linden. There were cranes, delivery lorries, stacked piles of building materials, the glitter of large department store windows and, every now and again, the vista of a derelict building awaiting its restoration.

She watched him absorb this cityscape renaissance. ‘Did you ever lose the faith, Petr?’

The question rubbed him up the wrong way. ‘Are you gloating? But yes, I’ve had to change my mind because everything else has changed.’ He sent her a wintry smile.

‘At least you now have a choice as to what you believe.’

He recollected his mother who, in effect, had had no choices at all.

He wondered how much French the driver understood. ‘Capitalism is no feather bed. It’s inefficient and muddled and just as corrupt. Our system, my system, thought about people first. Yours thinks about money first.’

The car cruised alongside a major building site over which could be seen a forest of scaffolding.

‘Capitalism doesn’t rely on state repression,’ she said. ‘It puts its faith in a free press and an unbiased judiciary.’

Petr was determined to keep things on an even keel. He said lightly: ‘If you say so.’

The traffic had thickened and the car ground to a halt more than once. He craved a cigarette but refrained.

Laure asked if he had found the visits useful, adding, ‘Western companies are still probably suspicious of you.’

He leant back against the comfortable upholstery. ‘They should be. We will undercut them in drug production and those sourcing drugs for the West will be quick to take advantage.’

‘You’re a capitalist at heart.’ The minky-coloured lipsticked mouth issued the tease.

To his shame, he felt almost boneless with desire at the sight and looked away. ‘You like your joke.’

There was a long pause.

She made a noise in the back of her throat which he interpreted as disgust. ‘You were a spy for the StB under the cover of working for Potio Pharma. I didn’t know that at the time.’ She looked at him. ‘I do now.’

He touched her arm. ‘Laure, be careful with your accusations. They could get you into bad trouble.’ At his touch, she froze. ‘The StB was a plain-clothes secret police force. Not a spying outfit. Check your facts.’