“Either they’re after you for something, buddy,” he said, “or they’re after me.”

“You? What have you done?”

“The gasoline in this car is PX,” shouted my driver. “Occupation personnel only. So is the car. And so are the cigarettes and booze and nylons in the trunk.”

“Great,” I said. “Thanks a lot. I really want to be in trouble with the police on the day of my mother’s funeral.” It was just something to say to make him feel bad.

“Don’t worry,” he said, with a big, well-brushed grin. “They gotta catch us first. And this car has the edge on a Jeep with four elephants in it. So long as they don’t radio in for an intercept car we’ll probably lose them. Besides, an American has to drive that IPV. That’s the rule. Our vehicle, our driver. And American drivers aren’t usually crazy. Now, if it was the Ivan driving, we might have a problem. Those Ivans are the craziest drivers you ever saw.”

Having been driven before by a Russian, I knew he wasn’t exaggerating.

We hurtled through the eastern approaches to the city center. The Jeep kept us in sight as far as the railway line before we lost them.

“Here,” I said, tossing some banknotes onto the backseat as we skidded around Modena Park. “Let me out on the corner. I’ll walk the rest of the way. My nerves can’t stand it.”

I jumped out, slammed the door shut, and watched the Cadillac sprint away with a loud squeal of tires along Zaunergasse. I walked after it, onto Stalin Platz, and then down Gusshausstrasse, back to my hotel. It felt like it had been quite a morning. But my day had hardly started.

I had a light lunch and then went back up to my room for a rest before going to meet Vera Messmann at the bank. I hadn’t been lying on my bed for long when there was a light knock at the door, and thinking it was the maid, I got up and opened it. I recognized the man standing there from the funeral. For a moment I thought I was going to receive another earful of abuse about how I had brought disgrace on the Gruen family name. Instead the man snatched off his hat respectfully and stood holding the brim tightly in front of him like the reins on a small pony and cart.

“Yes?” I said. “What do you want?”

“Sir, I was your mother’s butler, sir,” he said, in what I suppose was a Hungarian accent. “Tibor, sir. Tibor Medgyessy, sir. May I speak with you a moment, please, sir?” He glanced nervously along the hotel corridor. “In private, sir? Just a few minutes, sir. If you’d be so kind.”