Reilly smiled thinly as if such a thing were inconceivable—which only served to make the rest of us think that it was—and changed the subject with undiplomatic dexterity. “Tell me about yourself, Mr. Wolf,” he said. “You interest me more and more.”

“There’s not a lot to tell. Less of a novel and more of a short story, you might say. And not a very interesting one at that.” I gave Reilly the blue-penciled, redacted version of the kind he was probably used to sending in triplicate to his political masters. Just about every bit of it was untrue, apart from the fact that I’d once been a cop in Berlin, and every time I repeated it I was almost convinced I had as much talent for fiction as Somerset Maugham himself. Maybe I did, too; being a writer always looks like a good job to have when you’re as dishonest as I am.

“You’re not a Communist, I trust?” said Reilly. He said the word as if such a thing would have been impossible among civilized men.

“No, I always hated the Communists. Especially after nineteen seventeen.”

“Still, I expect you were probably quite left-wing when you were a young man back in Germany.”

“I was a Social Democrat when the Nazis came to power, if that’s what you mean. They thought that was left wing. Then again they were Nazis. Interestingly the Communists thought Social Democrats were as bad as Nazis. Being a Social Democrat in nineteen thirty-three wasn’t a political choice so much as a predicament.”

“Where are you now, politically?”

“Same place. Middle of the road. Neither fish nor fowl. As far as that goes in a country like France. Given the French love of empire, I’m not sure there can be any center ground in a country like this.” I shrugged. “Mind you, the same could be said of England.”

Reilly nodded patiently. “What do you usually do when you’re not working?”

“Play bridge. Drink too much. Stay out of the sun during the day. Read a lot. I’m more suited to the night, I think.”

“Been back to Berlin lately?”

“No, and I can’t see myself going, either. Not since they surrounded it with the GDR, a lot of barbed wire, and a tissue of lies.”

“Pardon me for asking this in your presence, Willie. Have you ever been queer, by any chance, Mr. Wolf?”

“No.”

“What about spying? Ever done any of that?”

“Spying?”

“What I mean is, have you ever undertaken any clandestine activities?”

“Only at the Grand Hôtel. When I’m not muscle for Mr. Maugham I work as a concierge. I’m often to be found looking through keyholes. I like to keep an eye on blondes to see if they’re natural or not.”

“What’s the verdict?”

“These days most of them are faking it.”