Bahlow’s monologue about ‘the truth’ had reminded her of her deputy’s divided loyalties. So she probably would have gone on her own anyway, despite the risks. She got her Makarov from her locked desk drawer and slid it into her shoulder holster. ‘I’ve got to meet someone at the Hotel Lilienstein.’

‘Who?’

Müller wasn’t going to admit she didn’t even know the identity of the person who’d summoned her. So she ignored the question. ‘They want to meet one to one. If for any reason I’m not back within a couple of hours or so, perhaps you ought to send a search party. Room six-nineteen.’ With that, she was gone, before Tilsner could insist on going with her.

*

For Müller, it was hardly worth getting a bus or tram. The hotel was little over a kilometre distant – a fifteen-minute walk. She knew she was almost there when she saw the infamous ‘Tin Can’: the Centrum department store which had earned its nickname thanks to its bizarre covering of metallic silver, shaped into honeycomb spikes. The Lilienstein was the next building on the right of the pedestrianised street – the city’s prestigious shopping area.

She managed to avoid reception. Not having the name of her contact might have proved problematical. When she was challenged by the lift attendant – who for all she knew may have been a Stasi agent himself – her Volkspolizei ID seemed to suffice as a passport.

Walking along the sixth-floor corridor, searching out room 619, reminded her of her visit to see the French ‘businessman’ in a similar hotel in Magdeburg a few years earlier. This time was different – she was expected. She’d been lured here, even. She didn’t need to play a role. Nevertheless, as she knocked on the door for room 619 she made sure she used her left hand – her right was gripping the handle of her Makarov.

She wasn’t sure who she expected to open the door. At the back of her mind, she wondered if it might be the man who’d posed as Hauptmann Gustav Weiß. But the door was opened by a smartly dressed man in a dark business suit she’d never seen before.

The man’s eyes were immediately drawn to Müller’s right arm, still attached to the gun in her shoulder holster.

He laughed. ‘It’s all right, Hauptmann Müller. You won’t be needing that. This is just a friendly chat. Won’t you come in?’ His German was precise. Grammatically correct. But almost too perfect – and there was the faintest hint of a foreign accent.

Müller still didn’t release the gun, and swivelled her head left, right, and then behind her – trying to make sure there was no repeat of what had happened at Lotti Rolf’s apartment in Sonnenstein.