LITMIR.BIZ

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Just lie back and go to sleep.’ He passed me a half-bottle. ‘Cognac. Pour it over yourself.’

      The rain was torrential as, minutes later, we drove through an area where every house had been demolished, creating a no-man’s-land protected from the West by barbed-wire fences. Of course, the Berlin Wall had not been built in those days. There was a red and white barricade, two Vopos in old Wehrmacht raincoats, rifles slung. I lay back in the seat and closed my eyes.

      Konrad braked to a halt and one of the men, a sergeant, came forward. ‘In and out, Konrad,’ he said. ‘Who’s your friend?’

      ‘My cousin from Ireland.’ Konrad offered my Irish passport. ‘Pissed out of his mind.’ The aroma of good cognac proved it. ‘I’ve got those American cigarettes you wanted. Marlboros. I could only manage a thousand, I’m afraid.’

      The sergeant said, ‘My God!’, thrust my passport back and took the five cartons Konrad offered. ‘Come again.’

      The bar lifted and we drove forward into the bright lights of West Berlin.

      In my uncle’s flat, Konrad helped himself to whisky and held out a hand. ‘Give me the envelope.’

      I did as I was told. ‘What is it?’

      ‘You don’t need to know.’

      I started to get indignant but then decided he was right.

      ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask. You told me I was a bagman for the SAS. I was given the job by a Major Wilson, but by a strange coincidence, you’re involved. Why is that?’

      ‘It’s no coincidence – grow up! Everything fits like a jigsaw. Let me fill you in on the facts of life. Twenty-one SAS is comprised of weekend soldiers, everything from lawyers to cab drivers and most things in between. A hell of a range of languages. Twenty-two Regiment, the regulars, spends its time shooting Chinese in Malaya and Arabs in the Oman and things like that. People in Twenty-one are odd-job men like you. You were coming to Berlin, it was noted. You were useful.’

      ‘And expendable?’

      ‘Exactly, and a coincidence that I was lurking in the family background.’

      ‘You probably saved my life.’

      ‘Oh, you managed.’ He laughed. ‘You’ll be back at that favourite ballroom of yours in a few days, picking up girls, and none of them will know what a desperate fellow you are.’

      ‘So that’s it,’ I said. ‘I just go back?’

      ‘That’s about the size of it. Wilson will be quite pleased.’ He finished his Scotch. ‘But do me a favour. Don’t come back to Berlin. They’ll be waiting for you next time.’

      He moved to the door and opened it. I said, ‘Will there be a next time?’

      ‘As I said, Twenty-one uses people for special situations where they fit in. Who knows?’ For a moment he looked serious. ‘They turned you down, but that was from the flashy bit. The uniform, the beret, the badge that says: Who Dares Wins.’

      ‘But they won’t let me go?’

      ‘I’m afraid not. Take care,’ and he went out.

      He was accurate enough. I went through a totally sterile period, then numerous jobs, college, university, marriage, a successful teaching career and an equally successful writing career. It was only when the Irish Troubles in Ulster really got seriously going in the early seventies that I heard from Wilson again after I’d written a successful novel about the situation. He was by then a full colonel, ostensibly in the Royal Engineers when I met him in uniform, although I doubted it.

      We sat in the bar of an exclusive hotel outside Leeds and he toasted my success in champagne. ‘You’ve done very well, old chap. Great book and so authentic.’

      ‘I’m glad you liked it.’

      ‘Not like these things written by television reporters and the like. Very superficial, whereas you – well, you really understand the Irish, but then you would. I mean, an Orange Prod, but with Catholic connections. Very useful that.’

      I was aware of a sense of déjà vu, Berlin all over again.

      I said carefully, ‘What do you want?’

      ‘Nothing too much. You’re doing an appearance in Dublin next week, book signings, television?’

      ‘So?’

      ‘It would be very useful if you would meet one or two people for us.’

      I said, ‘Nearly twenty years ago, I met someone for you in Berlin and nearly got my head blown off.’

      ‘Another side to that. As I recall, it was the other chap who took the flak.’ He smiled. ‘Interesting that. It never gave you a problem, just like the Russians.’

      ‘They’d have done worse to me,’ I said. ‘They shouldn’t have joined.’ I took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘What am I supposed to do, repeat the performance, only in the Liffey this time instead of the Spree?’

      ‘Not at all. No rough stuff. Intermediary, that’s you, old chap. Just speak to a few people, that’s all.’

      I thought about it, aware of a certain sense of excitement. ‘You’ve forgotten that I did my ten years in the Army Reserve and that ended some time ago.’

      ‘Of course it did, but you did sign the Official Secrets Act when you joined Twenty-one.’

      ‘Which threw me out.’

      ‘Yes, well, as I said to you a long time ago, it’s more complicated than that.’

      ‘You mean, once in, never out?’ I stubbed out my cigarette. ‘Konrad said that to me in Berlin. How is he, by the way? I haven’t seen him for some time.’

      ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Very active. So, I can take it you’ll co-operate?’

      ‘I don’t seem to have much choice, do I?’

      He emptied his champagne glass. ‘No need to worry. Easy one, this.’

      No rough stuff? Easy one, this? Five trips for the bastard, bombs, shooting, glass on the streets, too many bad Saturday nights in Belfast until that eventful day when men with guns in their pockets escorted me to the airport with the suggestion that I not come back. I didn’t, not for years, and interestingly enough, I didn’t hear again from Wilson, although in a manner of speaking, I did, through the obituary page in the Daily Telegraph, his photo staring out at me, only he was a brigadier, not a colonel and his name wasn’t Wilson.

      Dawn came over the Cornish coast with a lot of mist, as I stood on the little balcony of the bedroom at the Hanged Man. A long night remembering. My wife still slept as I dressed quietly and went downstairs to the lounge bar. She’d been right, of course. The German connection was what I needed on this one and that meant Konrad Strasser. I hadn’t spoken to him for a few years. My uncle’s death, and my German aunt’s, had tended to sever the connection, but I had his number on what I called my essential card in my wallet. Damp but usable. I got it out and just then the kitchen door opened and Zec Acland looked in.

      ‘Up early.’

      ‘And you.’

      ‘Don’t sleep much at my age. Just made a pot of tea.’

      ‘I’ll be in shortly. I’d like to make a phone call. Hamburg. Don’t worry, I’ll put it on the bill.’

      ‘Hamburg. That’s interesting. Early there too.’

      ‘Another older man. He probably doesn’t sleep much either.’

      Acland returned to the kitchen, I sat on a stool at the bar, found my card and dialled the number. As I remembered, Konrad had been born in 1920, which made him seventy-seven. His wife was dead, I knew that. A daughter in Australia.

      The

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