Berlin Game. Len Deighton

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      ‘And you stopped me from going,’ I said.

      ‘Your dad told me not to take you.’

      ‘But you went over there, Werner. And old Silas went with you.’ So my father had prevented my going over there the night they sealed the sector. I didn’t know until now.

      ‘We went across about four-thirty that morning. There were Russian trucks, and lots of soldiers dumping rolls of barbed wire outside the Charité Hospital. We came back quite soon. Silas said the Americans would send in tanks and tear the wire down. Your dad said the same thing, didn’t he?’

      ‘The people in Washington were too bloody frightened, Werner. The stupid bastards at the top thought the Russkies were going to move this way and take over the Western Sector of the city. They were relieved to see a wall going up.’

      ‘Maybe they know things we don’t know,’ said Werner.

      ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘They know that the service is run by idiots. But the word is leaking out.’

      Werner permitted himself a slight smile. ‘And then, about six in the morning, you heard the sound of the heavy trucks and construction cranes. Remember going on the back of my motorcycle to see them stringing the barbed wire across Potsdamerplatz? I knew it would happen eventually. It was the easiest fifty marks I ever earned. I can’t think why Mr Gaunt took my bet.’

      ‘He was new to Berlin,’ I said. ‘He’d just finished a year at Oxford, lecturing on political science and all that statistical bullshit the new kids start handing out the moment they arrive.’

      ‘Maybe you should go and lecture there,’ said Werner with just a trace of sarcasm. ‘You didn’t go to university did you, Bernie?’ It was a rhetorical question. ‘Neither did I. But you’ve done well without it.’ I didn’t answer, but Werner was in the mood to talk now. ‘Do you ever see Mr Gaunt? What beautiful German he spoke. Not like yours and mine – Hochdeutsch, beautiful.’

      Werner, who seemed to be doing better than I was, with his export loan business, looked at me expecting a reply. ‘I married his niece,’ I said.

      ‘I forgot that old Silas Gaunt was related to Fiona. I hear she is very important in the Department nowadays.’

      ‘She’s done well,’ I said. ‘But she works too hard. We don’t have enough time together with the kids.’

      ‘You must be making a pot of money,’ said Werner. ‘Two of you senior staff, with you on field allowances … But Fiona has money of her own, doesn’t she? Isn’t her father some kind of tycoon? Couldn’t he find a nice soft job for you in his office? Better than sitting out here freezing to death in a Berlin side street.’

      ‘He’s not going to come,’ I said after watching the barrier descend again and the border guard go back into his hut. The windscreen had misted over again so that the lights of the checkpoint became a fairyland of bright blobs.

      Werner didn’t answer. I had not confided to him anything about what we were doing in his car at Checkpoint Charlie, with a tape recorder wired into the car battery and a mike taped behind the sun visor and a borrowed revolver making an uncomfortable bulge under my arm. After a few minutes he reached forward and wiped a clear spot again. ‘The office doesn’t know you’re using me,’ he said.

      He was hoping like hell I’d say Berlin Station had forgiven him for his past failings. ‘They wouldn’t mind too much,’ I lied.

      ‘They have a long memory,’ complained Werner.

      ‘Give them time,’ I said. The truth was that Werner was on the computer as ‘non-critical employment only’, a classification that prevented anyone employing him at all. In this job everything was ‘critical’.

      ‘They didn’t okay me, then?’ Werner said, suddenly guessing at the truth: that I’d come into town without even telling Berlin Station that I’d arrived.

      ‘What do you care?’ I said. ‘You’re making good money, aren’t you?’

      ‘I could be useful to them, and the Department could help me more. I told you all that.’

      ‘I’ll talk to the people in London,’ I said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

      Werner was unmoved by my promise. ‘They’ll just refer it to the Berlin office, and you know what the answer will be.’

      ‘Your wife,’ I said. ‘Is she a Berliner?’

      ‘She’s only twenty-two,’ said Werner wistfully. ‘The family was from East Prussia …’ He reached inside his coat as if searching for cigarettes, but he knew I wouldn’t permit it – cigarettes and lighters are too damned conspicuous after dark – and he closed his coat again. ‘You probably saw her photo on the sideboard – a small, very pretty girl with long black hair.’

      ‘So that’s her,’ I said, although in fact I’d not noticed the photo. At least I’d changed the subject. I didn’t want Werner quizzing me about the office. He should have known better than that.

      Poor Werner. Why does the betrayed husband always cut such a ridiculous figure? Why isn’t the unfaithful partner the comical one? It was all so unfair; no wonder Werner pretended his wife was visiting relatives. He was staring ahead, his big black eyebrows lowered as he concentrated on the checkpoint. ‘I hope he wasn’t trying to come through with forged papers. They put everything under the ultraviolet lights nowadays, and they change the markings every week. Even the Americans have given up using forged papers – it’s suicide.’

      ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ I told him. ‘My job is just to pick him up and debrief him before the office sends him to wherever he has to go.’

      Werner turned his head; the bushy black hair and dark skin made his white teeth flash like a toothpaste commercial. ‘London wouldn’t send you over here for that kind of circus, Bernie. For that kind of task they send office boys, people like me.’

      ‘We’ll go and get something to eat and drink, Werner,’ I said. ‘Do you know some quiet restaurant where they have sausage and potatoes and good Berlin beer?’

      ‘I know just the place, Bernie. Straight up Friedrichstrasse, under the railway bridge at the S-Bahn station and it’s on the left. On the bank of the Spree: Weinrestaurant Ganymed.’

      ‘Very funny,’ I said. Between us and the Ganymed there was a wall, machine guns, barbed wire, and two battalions of gun-toting bureaucrats. ‘Turn this jalopy round and let’s get out of here.’

      He switched on the ignition and started up. ‘I’m happier with her away,’ he said. ‘Who wants to have a woman waiting at home to ask you where you’ve been and why you’re back so late?’

      ‘You’re right, Werner,’ I said.

      ‘She’s too young for me. I should never have married her.’ He waited a moment while the heater cleared the glass a little. ‘Try again tomorrow, then?’

      ‘No further contact, Werner. This was the last try for him. I’m going back to London tomorrow. I’ll be sleeping in my own bed.’

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