She saw a figure at the far end of the bridge, and immediately knew it was Jäger even though his back was to her – his out-of-fashion haircut was recognisable anywhere. When he’d radioed in requesting the meeting, his voice had held an almost frightened tone. Here, he was dwarfed by nature – by the strange, almost mystical rock formations, enveloped in swirling columns of mist, and the sheer drop of hundreds of metres to the Elbe Valley below.

*

It took Müller a few minutes to reach him, winding down a circuitous path. Then she began the walk across the bridge itself towards the figure of the man her career had been so closely entwined with. She couldn’t help feeling that career was now in its death throes – this, however it played out, felt like the final act. The location Jäger had chosen had the magnificence of an open-air theatre, and perhaps – therefore – it was an appropriate stage.

Only when she got nearer, and the man turned – hearing her footsteps, echoing against the valley walls below – did she realise what was going on.

She’d walked straight into a trap.

This wasn’t Jäger. Just someone dressed exactly like him – probably wearing a wig from the Stasi’s disguise box. Instinctively, she began to reach for her shoulder holster.

‘Freeze!’ shouted the man, drawing his own handgun. A Makarov. She was close enough to recognise it. So even though it wasn’t Jäger, he almost certainly was a Stasi agent – one she didn’t recognise. ‘Put your hands above your head, Comrade Müller.’

She did as she was told, but at the same time glanced round to see if there was an escape route, back along the way she’d just come.

There wasn’t. Another man was blocking the other end of the bridge. And he – too – held a raised gun.

But this was someone she did recognise. The English businessman from the Interhotel in Dresden. Brian Jones, namesake of the long-dead Rolling Stone. Only clearly he wasn’t a businessman at all – and his real name probably wasn’t Brian Jones.

So the trap hadn’t just been laid by the Stasi. They were obviously working hand-in-hand with the British Secret Intelligence Service.

She was in its jaws – both sides determined to stop her from bringing Southwick’s research to the audience it deserved.

The Stasi man spoke next. ‘We need Southwick’s research paper, Comrade Müller. We know you have it. It really isn’t a police matter. Unless you hand it over to us, your career will be as good as over. In fact, that will probably be the least of your troubles. So could you hand it to me now, please?’

As he spoke, she saw him slip the safety catch on the Makarov.

She knew then that it was all over.