LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER SIX

      I flew to Berlin four days later.

      After landing at Tempelhof I took a cab ride, courtesy of a Turkish driver who ran red lights and had a death wish, and booked into a modest hotel in Friedrichstrasse, close to Unter Den Linden. I’d changed my appearance by bleaching my dark hair blond and wearing a pair of fashionably oversized glasses with clear lenses. I wore a navy suit, shirt, no tie, and a wool blend overcoat with velvet revere collar favoured by bankers and high-end estate agents. Playing by Moscow Rules, the highest level of tradecraft, I checked the lobby to make sure that nobody struck a discordant note. It was just me and two receptionists – one male, one female.

      The Israelis are the best in the business but I believed that, even if they cottoned on to my new whereabouts, I’d be long gone before they got a bead on me. At least that’s what I hoped. To be safe, once I’d entered my room, I checked it for listening devices and explosives, starting at the door, including the lock, and making a close examination of the carpet, ceiling, window and, Mossad’s speciality, the telephone. I did the same in the bathroom. Afterwards, I measured the distance from the second floor to the ground below and mapped out an escape route. If I ran into trouble on this excursion, there would be no help from Messrs Heckler & Koch. I was flying solo.

      Satisfied with the room, I took out the file and recommitted to memory what passed for an obituary on Lars Pallenberg. I freely admit that he was not what I expected. For a start, he had blond hair and looked more like an economics lecturer than an artist. Fine-boned, he had blue eyes, even features and a reflective expression suggesting that he was a man of intelligence and given to introspection. I guessed he was a sensitive soul. Is this what had turned McCallen on? If so, it put me out of the running. Probably my height, around five eleven, Pallenberg did not look particularly fit or like the kind of guy who worked out. Standing still and lifting a paintbrush is not the same as moving fast and lifting a semi-automatic.

      McCallen had also thoughtfully provided me with a rundown of Dieter Benz, Pallenberg’s old art school friend and right-wing agitator. Sleepy-eyed, with the dissolute appearance of a habitual drug user, his expression concealed ruthless intelligence. He’d been arrested countless times for racial abuse and incitement to violence against foreigners. This was the peripheral stuff. Security services suspected that he was plotting a campaign of terror, targets and locations unspecified. Reading his profile, it seemed to me that Benz had retro leanings, harking back to the 1970s and ‘golden age’ of the Baader-Meinhof group. I could see how men like him drew parallels. Replace the opposition to the war in Vietnam with the war in Afghanistan; disgust with rampant capitalism, evidenced by a number of spectacular bank raids at the time, with the current crisis in the banking system. Hatred of Jews was also on his agenda, but added to his hate-list were immigrants of any persuasion, and Muslims. Germany had done its fair share to offer sanctuary to others. It hadn’t always gone as smoothly as it might. The average German was sick of propping up sick European states so, for Benz, part of his pitch was an easy play to a disgruntled German electorate.

      Once I’d got everything straight in my mind, I called Pallenberg’s grieving family. A woman, who I assumed was Gisela Pallenberg – Lars’s mother – answered the phone in German. I started off by asking whether she spoke English.

      ‘Ja, a little.’

      ‘My name is Stephen Porter. I knew Lars well.’

      ‘An English friend?’ Surprise, then hope, flared in her voice.

      ‘I’ve been travelling through Russia for the past few months and have only recently heard the news of his death.’

      ‘We are so terribly shocked. We still don’t really know what happened.’

      ‘Would it be possible for me to come and visit?’

      ‘You are here in Berlin?’

      ‘For a few days, yes.’

      ‘Then you must come. Can you visit tomorrow?’

      ‘Of course, what time?’

      ‘Wait one moment.’

      I listened to a muffled exchange that grew in sound and clarity. A man came on the line, Werner Pallenberg, I guessed, his delivery gruff and final. ‘Mr Porter?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘My wife is mistaken. We have no wish to see you.’

      ‘But –’

      ‘That’s all we have to say. Goodbye.’

      I don’t easily do ‘no’. Had Mrs Pallenberg opened her heart to me, I’d have respected the woman’s sensibilities and taken the next flight back. But she hadn’t. She’d been overruled.

      The next morning I took breakfast in the hotel dining room and around ten o’clock stepped out onto the street and headed towards Unter den Linden under a chilly, two-tone sky. Like a greyhound released from its trap, I buzzed with excitement. It was good to be out and about in a city that was foreign, yet familiar to me, and I quickly made my way down what was arguably the most famous street in Berlin. Here, statues stared down from the tops of buildings like Roman gods watching over the mortals below. Heading east, I crossed over where the River Spree intersects and passed the Marienkirche, a lonely church overshadowed by its near neighbour, the Fernsehturm, or Television Tower, on my right.

      Most of Berlin is clean and free from litter but there are odd pockets of resistance. Karl-Liebnecht-Strasse is a busy road flanked by large, unattractive grey buildings, like old containers rusting away, covered in graffiti and in the process of demolition. Whether it was

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