As he turned back to the door he noticed a piece of paper that had slipped down between the filing cabinet and Irma’s desk. He bent down and retrieved it, scanning it idly as he did so. It was a letter, addressed to Irma as Head of Freitang school, from the Director of the Lehrner Institute. He knew of the Institute; it was a local orphanage. In recent years, like similar institutions across Germany, it had been almost overwhelmed by the number of unaccompanied children who had arrived with the refugees flooding into Germany under Chancellor Merkel’s open-door policy. The Lehrner was unable to accommodate all of its quota of children, and had made a public appeal for private households to offer accommodation to some of the older children. The Institute retained responsibility for the children’s welfare but in many cases a close, almost fostering relationship developed between the children and their hosts. The brightest and most promising of the orphanage children were selected by the Freitang school for fast-track tuition, so Irma had many dealings with the orphanage as a result.
The opening sentence caught his eye, and piqued his curiosity. He read on:
Dear Frau Nimitz
I write further to our telephone conversation of last week about the enquiry from Herr and Frau Gravenstein. I accept of course your point that since the young man who has sparked these inquiries is legally an adult, you are no longer responsible for him or obliged to monitor his movements and activities. Notwithstanding this, I would be most grateful for any information you can provide. You will appreciate that the Gravensteins are worried because they have not heard from a young man they consider to be almost a surrogate son. I have tried to reassure them by relaying your message that he has resettled in North America of his own accord, and that it is entirely his decision whether to communicate with them or not. As you have pointed out it would not be appropriate for me to intervene in any way.
But on a strictly human level, I would appeal to you. If indeed the young man has chosen to seek his fortune in America, would it not be possible to supply the Gravensteins with at least a postal address, so that they could perhaps write to him? Then of course he could make his own decision about whether he wished to reply and continue to have contact with the family. Perhaps you would agree with me that it is not in the best interests of our child refugee programme that those who have generously offered and given their help should feel rejected and ignored.
I hope you will forgive this personal appeal, but truly, the pain this has caused the Gravensteins is quite affecting.
Something niggled at Dieter as he finished reading. The letter was oddly phrased, more a personal appeal than a professional inquiry. Marthe Ritzenbach must be a very humane woman, he thought, to be so troubled by the family’s disquiet about this young man they had housed. But why had Irma not been more forthcoming? Surely there would be no harm in letting the Gravensteins know more about the young man.
He remembered now that a group of immigrant students from Freitang had gone to America the summer before. Had one of them stayed on for some reason? Why? And why had it been allowed? It seemed very odd, and when he heard the door opening downstairs and realised Irma had come home, he thought he would ask her about the letter. But he immediately thought better of it, envisaging her outrage that he had been ‘snooping’, and quickly put the letter back where he had found it, caught between the desk and the filing cabinet. When Irma came upstairs he was back in their bedroom, changing his clothes before they went downstairs to make supper.
12
The Delphine was a small hotel on a quiet side street off Wilhelmstrasse in the arty Kreuzberg part of town. It boasted three stars, which indicated that its rooms were clean if slightly threadbare, and each had its own ‘en suite’ bathroom – though in this case the term meant a tiny space just large enough to accommodate a shower, a wash basin and a lavatory on which it was impossible for anyone of average height to sit without banging their knees on the shower. Other than two small towels, some neatly wrapped little bars of soap and a small plastic kettle with tea bags, UHT milk and sugar in paper tubes, the room lacked any amenities.
The place seemed just about right for Liz Ryder, the cover Liz Carlyle was using for her visit to Berlin to meet Mischa, just as she had done on the trip to Tallinn. Her mother had recently died, so Liz Ryder was now free to spend some time travelling, seeing parts of Europe that she had not visited. She was the sort of woman who went on cultural tours and city breaks, and who would not have considered splashing out on luxury hotels. The Delphine would therefore do nicely, thought her alter ego Liz Carlyle.
At least the bed was comfortable; Liz kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bedspread. Should she be out getting to know Berlin, she wondered sleepily. I’m sure that’s what Liz Ryder would be doing. ‘A city renowned these days for its vibrant artistic life and trendsetting culture,’ she murmured to herself, quoting the guidebook, but she was tired after the journey and the flight (which had been delayed) and soon fell asleep.
She was woken by her phone ringing. ‘Hello,’ she said cautiously.
‘Is that Liz Ryder?’
‘It is.’
‘It’s Sally – Sally Mortimer. Mr Arbuthnot told me you were visiting. Would you like to meet for a coffee or a drink?’
‘That would be very nice,’ said Liz, recognising the name of her contact from the MI6 Station at the Embassy.
‘Great,’ said Sally. ‘There’s a little wine bar just round the corner from your hotel, on the Stresemannstrasse. It’s called Oskar’s. Shall we meet there in an hour?’
‘Perfect. See you there,’ said Liz, smiling to herself at the name of Arbuthnot. No plain Mr Smith or Brown for Geoffrey Fane.
Liz took a shower in her tiny bathroom, reflecting on how invigorating it was to be out in the field again after so much time spent recently behind her desk. She still had moments of sadness and loneliness when she thought about Martin Seurat, her much-loved partner who had been tragically killed in Paris nearly two years ago, but for the most part she was quite happy being on her own. She wasn’t sure how long she would feel that way though, and for the first time since Martin’s death she had considered agreeing to what she supposed was a ‘date’ with a most unpolicemanlike Chief Constable. She’d met him in Manchester when they had worked together on a counter-terrorist operation where, she reflected, he had probably saved her life. Recently he had moved to Suffolk, and had left a message on her answer phone suggesting they meet up sometime. She realised guiltily that had been over a month ago and she hadn’t called him back.
As she dried herself on the inadequate towels she remembered that she had neglected to tell her very-much-alive mother that she was going away. Still, if all went to plan, Liz would be back in her Pimlico flat the following evening. She would ring her mother then.
Forty-five minutes later, Liz left the hotel with the stirrings of the excitement she always felt when she was working undercover on an operation. She knew it would only take her a few minutes to get to Oskar’s so she walked slowly. It was early evening but some of the shops were still open, with a few late customers around. Liz window-shopped apparently aimlessly, though a close observer would have noted how she lingered at the fronts with large curved windows, and a professional observer might have concluded that she was using the windows to keep an eye on what was going on behind her. She seemed to conclude that nothing was amiss, for she turned with no hesitation into Stresemannstrasse. There she walked past Oskar’s without so much as a glance, but when she reached the corner she crossed the road and doubled back and went straight into the wine bar.