PETR RECKONED THAT, ON BALANCE, THE BRITISH WERE probably not seriously interested in his presence in the city. However, having built up to hysterical proportions since the Second World War, the paranoia over Russia and the Eastern European countries would take time to subside and his known past contact with Laure would probably bump him up the list of persons of marginal interest. She would be reporting back.

The ironies were not lost on him.

He was at the Natalya Hotel, waiting for Laure to join him for dinner. Not entirely unexpectedly, she had rung to arrange dinner and suggested the Natalya. ‘It’s famous for its kartoffelpuffer and schnitzel,’ she told him.

Reception was crowded by a large party which had filed in from a coach. Porters bustled across the foyer with luggage trolleys.

As a general rule of thumb, the Russians wore shiny suits and favoured savage haircuts. The Germans were more casually dressed and the men wore signet rings as wedding bands. The Italians had silk ties and the Poles liked leather.

The exchanges were polyglot, there was whiff of a woman’s perfume, not very nice, it had to said, but the cigars smelt good. Out of the blue, there was a spat. One of the Germans at an adjacent table raised his voice. ‘Just fucking market the properties,’ he hissed at his companion. ‘That’s your job.’

Petr noted the instruction ‘to market’. Here was proof the ex-Stasi were in real estate, marketing and insurance, jobs that had not existed in the former GDR. But they all required administrative skills and powers of persuasion in which the Stasi had specialized.

The spat continued. ‘You Wessis come in here with the fancypancy clothes and cars and expect us to do what you wish. Think again.’

Petr caught the eye of the Russian standing next to him. ‘Tribal tensions,’ he murmured in German.

The anonymity of the hotel always loosened tongues.

‘I understand,’ replied the Russian, sighing. ‘At heart, we Russians are imperialists. We want to keep a grip on Eastern Europe like the West does on the West. It is how it is.’

The Natalya was a rare example of a surviving nineteenth-century building. It was not in the best of shape but most of its features – stone carvings and elaborate corbels – were intact.

The foyer was paved with marble slabs, some of which were cracked. Isolated circles of chairs and sofas, whose upholstery had seen better days, had been arranged in groups and a couple of potted figs struggled to survive. A fug of tobacco smoke rose from the bar area. The drinkers, mostly dressed in the same make and colour of raincoat, swarmed around the barman.

The scene reminded him of similar venues in Prague before the Party was ousted, when efforts to make anywhere smart and worldly failed through lack of funds and a terror of being seen to ape the West.