It was five o'clock the next morning when Moskvin called him on the phone. 'Come immediately,' said Moskvin, and Stinnes hurried out into the brittle pinkness of early morning and reached the cottage within eight minutes.
'What's happening?' asked Stinnes.
'He's here,' said Moskvin. 'Bernard Samson arrived about midnight. The back-up team in the van spotted him. We brought him inside as easily as anything.'
'Where is he now?'
'Upstairs. Don't worry, he's tied up. I let the back-up team go. Maybe that was a mistake.'
'What do you want me for?' asked Stinnes.
I'm not getting anywhere with my questions,' admitted Moskvin. 'I think it's time he faced another interrogator.'
'What have you asked him?'
Moskvin smashed his fist against his open hand in frustration. 'I know that Samson woman is a British spy. I know it and I'll squeeze it out of her husband if it's the last thing I do.'
'Oh, so that's the line of questioning,' said Stinnes. To him it seemed the stupid obsession of a man who had repeatedly told him how much he objected to taking orders from any woman.
There was no way that Moskvin could miss the ridicule in his colleague's voice, but he'd become used to the superior attitude that Stinnes always showed towards him. 'Go up and talk to him. Play mister nice guy.'
When Stinnes went upstairs, Moskvin followed him. Moskvin was not able to sit still downstairs and wait for results: he had to see what was happening. He stood in the doorway behind Stinnes.
The front upstairs room was very small and much of the space was taken up by a small bed. It was pushed against the wall and there were cushions on it so it could be used as a sofa. In the corner there was a dressing table with a large mirror in which the captive was reflected.
I'm going to undo this gag and I want you to…' Stinnes started and then stopped abruptly. He looked round at Moskvin and back to the captive. 'This is not Bernard Samson,' he told Moskvin.
The man tied to the chair was named Julian MacKenzie. He was a probationer who worked for the Department. Bernard Samson had told him to trace the movements of the black girl. He'd done so ail too efficiently. MacKenzie was fully conscious and his eyes showed his fear as Moskvin waved the pistol in the air.
'What do you mean?' said Moskvin angrily. He grabbed Stinnes's arm in his huge hand and dragged him back into the narrow corridor. Then he closed the door. It was dark. The only glimmer of light was that escaping from the room downstairs.
'I mean it's not Bernard Samson,' said Stinnes quietly.
'Who is it?' said Moskvin, shaking him roughly.
'How the hell would I know who it is?'
'Are you positive?'
'Of course I am. Samson is about fifteen years older than this kid. I've seen Samson close-to. I know him well. Of course I'm positive.'
'Wait downstairs. I'll find out who this one is.'
As Stinnes went downstairs he heard Moskvin shouting and there were replies from the young man that were too quiet to hear properly. Stinnes sat down in the armchair and took The White Company from his pocket but found he just kept reading the same paragraph over and over. Suddenly there was the loud bang of the.44 Magnum. A scream. More shots. Stinnes leapt to his feet, worried that the noise would wake up the whole neighbourhood. His first instinct was simply to clear out, but he was enough of a professional to wait for the other man.
Moskvin came down the stairs so slowly that Stinnes was beginning to wonder if he'd shot himself or been injured by a ricochet. Then Moskvin lurched into the room. His face was absolutely white, even his lips were bloodless. He dumped his pistol on the dresser and put out a hand to steady himself on the edge of the kitchen table. Then he leaned over and vomited into the sink.
Stinnes watched him but kept well back. Moskvin pushed the gun aside and retched again and again. Finally, slowly and carefully, he wiped his face on a towel and then ran the water into the sink. That's done,' said Moskvin, trying to put on a show of bravado.
'Are you sure he's dead?' said Stinnes. Taking his time he looked out of both windows. There was no sign that the noise of the shot had attracted any interest from the neighbouring cottages.
'I'm sure.'
'Then let's get out of here,' said Stinnes. 'Can you make it to the boat?'
'Damn your stupid smiling face,' said Moskvin. 'I'll have the last laugh: you just wait.'
But Stinnes wasn't smiling: he was wondering how much longer he could endure the stupid antics of this brutal peasant.
In Berlin that evening, Fiona went to the State Opera. The indispensable Hubert Renn could always produce an opera or concert ticket for her at short notice, and this afternoon she'd suddenly noticed that it would be the last chance to catch the much-discussed avant-garde production of Der Freischütz.
She sat entranced. It was one of her favourite operas. This extraordinary selection of simple folk melodies and complex romanticism gave her a brief respite from work. For a brief moment it even enabled her to forget her worries and loneliness.
The interval came. Still engrossed with the music, she couldn't endure the scrum around the bar and there were a lot of West Berliners here tonight, easily distinguished by their jewellery and flamboyant clothes. She turned away to wander through the lobby and look at the exhibition – 'Electricity for tomorrow' – atmospheric photos of power-generating stations in the German Democratic Republic. She was looking at the colour print of a large concrete building reflected in a lake when someone behind her said, 'There you go, sweetheart! How about a glass of white wine?'
She turned and was astounded to see Harry Kennedy standing there with two glasses of wine in his hands and a satisfied smile on his face. The show really starts in the intermission, doesn't it?'
Her first reaction was not pleasure. She had been dreading an encounter with some old friend, colleague or acquaintance on the street, who would recognize her. Now it had happened and she felt as if she was going to faint. Rooted to the spot, her heart beat furiously. She felt the blood rush to her face and looked down so that he wouldn't see the flush of her cheeks.
He saw the effect he'd had. 'Are you all right? I'm sorry… I should have…'
'It's all right,' she said. She was quite likely to be under surveillance. If so, her reaction to this meeting would be noted and recorded.
Harry spoke hurriedly to save her from speaking. 'I knew you wouldn't miss Der Freischütz, I just knew. Oh boy, what a production, the pits, isn't it? And what about those trees! But what a great voice he has.'
'What are you doing here, Harry?' she said carefully and calmly.
'Looking for you, honey-child.' He handed the wine to her and she took it. I'm sorry to leap on you this way.'
'I don't understand you…'
'I live here,' he said.
'In the East?' She drank some wine without tasting it. She hardly knew what she was doing. She didn't know whether to keep talking or cut him dead and walk away.
'I'm here for a year now. A professor from the Charité Hospital was in London and came to see the work we were doing at the clink. They invited me to spend a year working here. They are not paying me but I finagled a little grant… Enough to keep me going for the year. I was glad to escape from those jerks in London and I suspect the clinic was glad to get rid of me.'
'Here in East Berlin?' She drank more wine. She needed a drink and it gave her a chance to study him. He looked even younger than she remembered him: his wavy hair more wavy, and the battered face looking even more battered as he worried how she would react.
'Yeah. At the Charité. And I knew you wouldn't miss Der Freischütz. I have been here for every performance… I love you, Fiona sweetheart. I had to find you.' Again he stopped.
'You came for every performance?'
'You once said it was your favourite opera.'