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When he saw the guard stationed on the East Berlin border, he didn’t need to be reminded that they didn’t welcome tourists. He entered another building that hadn’t seen a splash of paint since the wall had gone up, and where no one had given a thought for old, tired, or infirm visitors who might just want to sit down. Another queue, another wait, longer this time, before he eventually handed over his passport to a young customs officer who did not greet him with good evening, sir, in any language.
The official slowly turned each page of his passport, clearly mystified by how many countries this foreigner had visited in the last four years. After he’d turned the final page, he raised the palm of his right hand in the air, like a traffic policeman, and said, “Stay,” clearly the one word of English he knew. He then retreated to the back of the room, knocked on a door marked Kommondant, and disappeared inside.
It was some time before the door opened again, and when it did, a short, bald-headed man appeared. He looked about the same age as Giles, but it was hard to be sure because his shiny, double-breasted suit was so out of date it might have been his father’s. His graying shirt was frayed at the collar and cuffs, and his red tie looked as if it had been ironed once too often. But the surprise was his command of English.
“Perhaps you would come with me, Mr. Barrington,” were his opening words.
“Perhaps” turned out to be an order, because he immediately turned on his heel and headed toward his office without looking back. The young official lifted the counter lid so Giles could follow him.
The official sat down behind his desk, if a table with a single drawer can be described as a desk. Giles sat opposite him on a hard wooden stool, no doubt a product of the same factory.
“What is the purpose of your visit to East Berlin, Mr. Barrington?”
“I’m visiting a friend.”
“And the name of this friend?”
Giles hesitated, as the man continued to stare at him. “Karin Pengelly.”
“Is she a relative?”
“No, as I said, a friend.”
“And how long are you intending to stay in East Berlin?”
“As you can see, my visa is for one week.”
The official studied the visa for a considerable time, as if hoping to find an irregularity, but Giles had had the document checked by a friend at the Foreign Office who confirmed that every little box had been filled in correctly.
“What is your profession?” asked the official.
“I’m a politician.”
“What does that mean?”
“I used to be a Member of Parliament, and a Foreign Office minister, which is why I’ve traveled so much in recent years.”
“But you are no longer a minister, or even a Member of Parliament.”
“No, I am not.”
“One moment please.” The official picked up a phone, dialled three numbers and waited. When someone answered, he began a protracted conversation of which Giles couldn’t understand a word, but from the man’s deferential tone, he was in no doubt that he was addressing someone far more senior than himself. If only Karin had been there to translate for him.
The official began to make notes on the pad in front of him, often followed by the word Ja. It wasn’t until after several more Jas that he finally put the phone down.
“Before I stamp your visa, Mr. Barrington, there are one or two more questions that need to be answered.”
Giles attempted a weak smile as the official looked back down at his pad.
“Are you related to Mr. Harry Clifton?”
“Yes, I am. He’s my brother-in-law.”
“And are you a supporter of his campaign to have the criminal Anatoly Babakov released from prison?”
Giles knew that if he answered the question honestly, his visa would be revoked. Couldn’t the man understand that for the past month he’d been counting the hours until he saw Karin again? He was sure Harry would appreciate the dilemma he was facing.
“I repeat, Mr. Barrington, do you support your brother-in-law’s campaign to have the criminal Anatoly Babakov released?”
