'I don't know what a keeper is.'
'They have them in zoos. They look after the animals.'
'Is that what you need, a keeper?'
'Is this Frank's idea?'
'Frank?'
'Don't bullshit me, Teacher. I was taking this town to pieces when you were in knee pants.'
'Frank knows nothing about you coming here,' he said mechanically. It contradicted everything he'd previously said but he wanted to end the conversation by making me realize that he was just obeying instructions: Frank's instructions.
'And Frank keeps out of the way so that he can truthfully tell London that he's not seen me.'
Teacher peered about him and seemed unsure of which way to go. He slowed to read the street signs. I left him to figure it out. Eventually he said, 'And that annoys you?'
'Why shouldn't it?'
'Because if Frank had any sense he'd toss you on to the London plane, and let you and London work it all out together,' said Teacher.
'That's what you'd do?'
'Damned right I would,' said Teacher.
We drove along Heer Strasse, which on a weekday would have been filled with traffic. Every now and again there had been a dusty glint in the air as a flurry offered a sample of the promised snow. Now it began in earnest. Large spiky flakes came spinning down. Time and time again the last snow had come, and still the cold persisted, reminding those from other climates that Berlin was on the edge of Asia.
In what was either carelessness or an attempt to impress me with his knowledge of Berlin, Teacher turned off and tried to find a shortcut round the Exhibition Grounds. Twice he came to a dead end. Finally I took pity on him and directed him to Halensee. Then, as we got to Kurfürstendamm, he sat back in his seat, sighed and said, 'I suppose I am your keeper.'
'And?'
'Frank might like to hear your reactions.'
' Berlin is the heroin capital of the world,' I said.
'I read that in Die Welt,' said Teacher.
I ignored the sarcasm. 'It all comes through Schonefeld airport. Those bastards make sure it keeps moving to this side of the Wall.'
'If it all comes here, then it makes sense that someone might try sending a little of it back,' said Teacher.
'Stinnes is top brass nowadays. He'd have a lot to lose. I can't swallow the idea that he's having an army courier pick up consignments of heroin – or whatever it is – in the West.'
'But?'
'Yes, there is a but. Stinnes knows the score. He's spent a lot of time in the West. He's an active womanizer and some types of hard drugs connect with sexual activity.'
'Connect? Connect how?'
'A lot of people use drugs only when they jump into bed. I could perhaps see Stinnes in that category.'
'So I tell Frank you think it's possible.'
'Only possible; not likely.'
'A nuance,' said Teacher.
'Once upon a time this fellow Stinnes was stringing me along… He told me he wanted to come across to us.'
'KGB? Enrolled?'
'That's what he said.'
'And you swallowed it?'
'I urged caution.'
"That's the best way: cover all the exits,' said Teacher. He was not one of my most fervent admirers. I suspected that Frank had painted me too golden.
'Anyway: once bitten twice shy.'
'I'll tell Frank exactly what you said,' he promised.
'This is not the way to Kreuzberg.'
'Don't get alarmed. I thought I'd give you lunch before you go back to that slum.' I wondered if that too was Frank's idea. Mr Teacher didn't look like a man much given to impulsive gestures.
'Thanks.'
'I live in Wilmersdorf. My wife always has too much food in the house. Will that be okay?'
'Thanks,' I said.
'I've given my expenses a beating this month. I had a wedding anniversary.'
By the time we arrived in Wilmersdorf the streets were wrapped in a fragile tissue of snow. Teacher lived in a smart new apartment block. He parked in the underground car park that served the building. It was well lit and heated: luxury compared with Kreuzberg. We took the elevator to his apartment on the fourth floor.
He rang the bell while opening the door with his key. Once inside he called to his wife. 'Clemmie? Clem, are you there?'
Her voice replied from somewhere upstairs, 'Where the hell have you been? Do you know what time it is?'
'Clemmie – '
She still didn't appear. 'I've eaten my lunch. You'll have to make do with an egg or something.'
Standing awkwardly in the hall he looked at the empty landing and then at me and smiled ruefully. 'Egg okay? Clemmie will make omelettes.'
'Wonderful.'
'I've brought a colleague home,' he called loudly.
His wife came down the stairs, skittish and smiling. She was worth waiting for; young, long-legged and shapely. She touched her carefully arranged hair and flashed her eyes at me. She looked as if her make-up was newly applied. Her smile froze as she noticed some flecks of snow on his coat. 'My God! When does summer come to this damned town?' she said, holding him personally responsible.
'Clemmie,' said Teacher after she'd offered her cheek to be kissed, 'this is Bernard Samson, from the office.'
'The famous Bernard Samson?' she asked with a throaty chuckle. Her voice was lower now and her genial mockery was not unattractive.
'I suppose so,' I said. So much for Teacher's ingenuous inquiry about whether I was married. Even his wife knew all about me.
'Take off your coat, Bernard,' she said in a jokey flirtatious way that seemed to come naturally to her. Perhaps the dour Teacher was attracted to her on that account. She took my old coat, draped it on a wooden hanger marked Disneyland Hotel Anaheim, California and hung it in an antique walnut closet.
She was wearing a lot of perfume and a button-through dress of light green wool, large earrings and a gold necklace. It was not the sort of outfit you'd put on to go to church. She must have been six or eight years younger than her husband and I wondered if she was trying to acquire the pushy determination that young wives need to survive the social demands of a Berlin posting.
'Bernard Samson: secret agent! I've never met a real secret agent before.'
'That was long ago,' said Teacher in an attempt to warn her off.
'Not so long ago,' she said archly. 'He's so young. What is it like to be a secret agent, Bernard? You don't mind if I call you Bernard, do you?'
'Of course not,' I said awkwardly.
'And you call me Clemmie.' She took my arm in a gesture of mock confidentiality. 'Tell me what it's like. Please.'
'It's like being a down-at-heel Private Eye,' I said. 'In a land where being a Private Eye will get you thirty years in the slammer. Or worse.'
'Find something for us to eat, Clemmie,' said Teacher in a way that suggested that his acute embarrassment was turning to anger. 'We're starved.'
'Darling, it's Sunday. Let's celebrate. Let's open that lovely tin of sevruga that you got from someone I'm not allowed to inquire about,' she said.
'Wonderful idea,' said Teacher and sounded relieved at this suggestion. But he still did not look happy. I suppose he never did.
Clemmie went into the kitchen to find the caviar while Teacher took me into the sitting room and asked me what I wanted to drink.
'Do you have vodka?' I asked.
'Stolichnaya, or Zubrovka or a German one?' He set up some glasses.
'Zubrovka.'
'I'll get it from the fridge. Make yourself at home.'
Left alone I looked around. It is not what guests are expected to do but I can never resist. It was a small but comfortable apartment with a huge sofa, a big hi-fi and a long shelf of compact discs – mostly outmoded pop groups – that I guessed were Clemmie's. On the coffee table there was a photo album, the sort of leather-bound tasselled one in which people record an elaborate wedding. It bulged with extra pictures and programmes. I opened it. Every page contained photos of Clemmie: on the athletic field, running the 1,000 metres, hurdling, getting medals, waving silver cups. The pages were lovingly captioned in copperplate writing. Tucked into the back she was to be seen in already yellowing sports pages torn from the sort of local newspaper that carries large adverts for beauty salons and nursing homes. In all the pictures she looked so young: so very very young. She must have been here looking through it when she heard us at the door, and then rushed upstairs to put on fresh make-up. Poor Clemmie.