Overseas Assignment
London/Berlin, May 1977
Having finally sold the law firm after mother had died, once the dust had settled in the wake of Jenny's death, I'd pretty much gone back to journalism full time, under my Mikael Cuijper persona. However, until now I'd steered well clear of the Greater German Reich, preferring to report from the Balkans and Russia's Eurasian provinces, many of which had started rumbling about breaking away from the Soviet Union over the last ten years, much to the unhappiness of their masters in the reconstructed Moscow. The fact that I could bring a knowledge of international law to my reporting had given me a good reputation, both in journalistic circles and with the reading public, and I made a decent living reporting jointly for Die Beeld, an Afrikaans newspaper based in Johannesburg, and the Daily Telegraph in England.
Despite my improving international reputation, however, I was still surprised when Mikael Cuijper was invited to take up an assignment with the Berlin Press Corps. It came to me through my association with the Telegraph, although no doubt my editor in Jo'burg would be equally happy to receive stories from me from the GGR. The main issue was whether I should take it, given my less than stellar history with the powers that be in Berlin. It was over thirty years since I'd been thrown out of Germany on my ear, but what had happened in Bucharest rather more recently had made it abundantly clear that Kasimir Ritter, at least, knew Mikael Cuijper and Ian Cushing were the same person. The gamble was whether Mikael Cuijper's current visibility would be enough to protect me against any action they might choose to take against Ian Cushing.
A week before I had to make my decision, I raised the matter with Simon Rathbone, over drinks at the In and Out Club. Laurence's son had taken over as my main contact within the SIS a couple of months before, when Matthew Gifford had been promoted within the service to another position, and it suited us both well. I needed to keep fewer secrets from a fellow member of the Group, and he had become a major sounding board for me, much as his father had been before him. We discussed the pros and cons for some time, before coming to the conclusion that it was worth the risk, especially as it would give him someone in Berlin with a different perspective than normal. Still, it had been a while since I'd been on assignment primarily as agent, rather than a journalist - normally it was the other way around, with me submitting the occasional report if I came across something interesting - so in advance of my departure, he sent me to Buckinghamshire for a few days, to get me brushed up on current procedures, and set up my reporting lines.
By the evening before my departure I was actually quite excited at the prospect. Admittedly, I'd had to squash my inner thrill seeker, which had kicked into overdrive during my retraining - I'd learned many years ago that an adrenaline rush can be seductive, but it doesn't make you smart - but once I'd got a grip on that, I was able to look at things more dispassionately. It was about eight in the evening and I was finishing packing for the potential six-month trip, and puzzling over the best way to pack my dinner suit (we'd been given a tip-off in advance that formal wear would occasionally be required), when I heard the doorbell ring. Surprised, as I wasn't expecting anyone, I headed downstairs, and looked through the spyhole. Wolf was standing outside, not looking entirely happy, so I took a deep breath and opened the door.
"I got an interesting letter from your lawyer this morning," he commented, as he came inside.
"Oh?" I answered, as we went through into the lounge and I poured us both a brandy, before we sat in our usual seats.
Being May, the fire wasn't lit, but Mrs Adair, the woman who cleaned and tidied the house for me a couple of days a week, had put a beautiful flower arrangement of reds and gold in the fireplace earlier in the week, which warmed and cheered the lounge almost as much as flames would have done. It was a pity I'd miss the best of it.
"It asked me to confirm in writing that I was happy to accept my usual responsibilities regarding the Power of Attorney for the Cushing Foundation and your personal estate, for the duration of your absence overseas. I was a little surprised."
"Why? I'm in and out of England quite a bit nowadays."
"Yes, but usually you tell me in advance that you're going, and you hadn't mentioned it. So I thought I'd pop round and just confirm whether I'd been sent the letter in error."
Of course he hadn't been sent it in error. The lawyer had just posted it a couple of days earlier than I'd asked him to. Even though Wolf was reasonably calm-natured on the whole, certain things were pretty much guaranteed to push his buttons, anything to do with Germany being the biggie. Therefore, knowing just how well I expected him to take my new assignment, I'd been planning for Simon to let him know where I was after I got to Berlin, once we knew for sure that the Gestapo hadn't picked me up at Tempelhof. After all, the last thing I wanted before I flew out was a stand-up argument with my son.
"You didn't have to make the trip over," I commented, "you could have just called."
"Ah, but then, Mihai, I wouldn't have been able to look you in the eye and ask you where you're going."
He sat back in his chair and looked directly at me, obviously taking in any physical clues I might give away, as well as what I said, and I knew I wouldn't be able to bluff him. There are times when I wish my son wasn't such a good reader of people. I'm not bad...he's uncannily good.
"You see, I have a feeling that the only reason why you wouldn't tell me, is because you knew I wouldn't like the answer."
"I've been invited to join the Berlin Press Corps," I said, finally, knowing there wasn't any point dissembling, "I fly out in the morning."
His reaction was pretty much exactly what I'd expected, which is why I'd ducked telling him.
"Are you crazy?" he asked, incredulous.
"Not last time I checked," I answered, trying to sound light hearted about it, but well aware that his tension level had racked right up.
"This is the stupidest idea you've come up with since I've known you," he said, as annoyance overtook incredulity, "You, of all people, CANNOT safely take an assignment in the GGR."
"It's Mikael Cuijper whose been invited, not Ian Cushing," I pointed out.
"Because that's so much better," he snapped, "what the Hell were you thinking?"
"That Cuijper has gained himself enough of a reputation nowadays not to get locked up the moment he steps off the plane. Even your countrymen balk at disappearing internationally-recognised journalists. Especially ones they've invited to the Fatherland."
"There's always a first time. Kasimir bloody Ritter is based in Berlin, and he knows exactly who Mikael Cuijper really is. Hell, Ritter probably arranged for it in the first place."
"You sound mistrusting of your former countrymen," I commented, mildly.
"Don't bait me, Mihai. You know damned well I'm right."
"I'm not willing to live in fear of him forever," I answered hearing my own annoyance, and I consciously tried to calm myself, "I'll be fine as long as I keep my nose clean."
"Because that's so very likely to happen."
"Give me credit for having half a brain."
"Half a brain is about all you have if you think this is a good idea," he said, angrily, "I know you. When you climb up on your high horse, you pursue things to the end like a terrier worrying a rat."
"It'll be fine," I answered, trying to sound reassuring, "I'm only going to be in Berlin a few months. It's a general assignment: political, social, day-to-day stuff."
"Think, damn you! You don't do 'day-to-day' stuff. You're a war correspondent! This has trap written all over it, you bloody fool. If you can't see that, then it's a wonder that you've lived this long."
He was actually on his feet now, glaring down at me, and his accent was becoming more pronounced, as it often did when he was upset or stressed.
"You're being paranoid," I answered, remaining seated but looking up at him.
"No...I'm not. If you get invited to go to the front lines, can you honestly tell me that you won't go? That if you see something that offends you, you won't speak out?"
"You're reading too much into this."
"If you really believe that, then you're not just a fool. You're delusional."
"I know how thin the ice I'm going to be on is. Trust me."
"Trust you? How can I possibly trust you when you weren't even going to tell me you were going...No, don't bother to answer that."
In the nearly nine years of our acquaintance, I'm not sure I'd ever seen him so angry. He was literally shaking with rage, and I looked at him feeling chastened, and to be honest, a little nervous, given that he is physically considerably stronger than me, and trying not to appear as guilty as I felt. After all, I thoroughly deserved his ire.
"I'm sorry, Wolf," I said, getting to my feet and trying to sound more conciliatory.
"Screw you, Ian," he said, vehemently, dashing his glass to the fireplace, where it shattered into a hundred crystal pieces, "when you get flung in the basement of Prinz Albrecht Strasse, don't expect me to bail you out."
And before I could stop him, he was heading for the front door. I hesitated for too long, trying to decide whether to try to stop him, and by the time I moved it was too late. The door had been slammed in my face. I moved to open it and go after him, but outside I heard him revving the engine of the Audi, and moments later he sped out of the mews, barely clearing the electronic gate as it opened, leaving me staring at his departing tail lights.
I sighed as I watched him go, annoyed at myself more than him. He was right. Just then I didn't deserve his trust. I debated whether to give him half an hour to get home and then call to apologise, but quickly came to the conclusion that he would need longer than that to cool down. However, hopefully I'd be able to contact him once I got to Berlin.
* * * * * *
I arrived at Tempelhof after lunch the following day, to be met by an efficient-looking representative of the Ministry of Propaganda. I suppose that should have boded poorly about how meaty the assignment was (or wasn't) going to be to start out with, but as they did oversee the media in all its forms, they were the logical organisation to welcome a group of incoming journalists to the glorious Fatherland.
We were taken to the Grand Hotel for the first night - which is admittedly not the Adlon, but is at least one of the better ones near the Brandenburg Gate - and given an extensive briefing pack. This included the schedule for our the "induction course" on journalistic good conduct, etc, which would be held at the Propaganda Ministry the following morning. Obviously we really were going to be limited to reporting on day-to-day stuff. There was also a residential itinerary, which suggested that we would be put up in the hotel for a week, while our more permanent apartments were readied after the departure of those we were replacing in the rotation. My cynical side commented to the rest of me that no doubt they were also intending to renew any bugs they had installed at the same time.
Next day's induction course was a well-polished affair, run by a senior official from the Ministry by the name of Claudia Keppel, who might be a source to cultivate in the future. Over the years they had no doubt ironed out most of the problems which a bunch of international journalists might bring to their less than open country, and the briefings were conducted with the precision of a military operation, which fitted perfectly with the German mind set.
That evening, I debated trying to call Wolf, given that by then he'd had 48 hours to calm down, which was the point at which I realised I had a major problem in that regard. What good reason could Mikael Cuijper, South African journalist, have to make any form of communication with Wolfgang Dietrich Armand Ulrich, traitor to the GGR? Especially given that I was also moonlighting for the SIS. That would guarantee a very quick trip to Prinz Albrecht Strasse. In the end, I came to the conclusion that I'd just have to send something to him via Simon, when I made my first report.
The next morning we were taken on a Berlin 'orientation' walking tour, which was actually quite helpful, given how much the city had changed since I'd last been there in 1944. As we were escorted around, I noticed two things most of all. First, the atmosphere was less threatening: it was still tense, but the underlying air of violence didn't seem as obvious as it had in the forties. The second was how uniform the population now was: white Anglo-Saxon, with very few exceptions. The Third Reich had apparently succeeded in their aim to make Berlin German, and I wondered if that was true across the country. No doubt I'd find out soon enough.
At 7pm that evening, there was to be a formal reception at the Reichstag, to officially welcome us and say goodbye to the other journalists who were rotating out, and would be leaving over the next couple of days. It was scheduled to be hosted by Gottlieb von Essen, the Propaganda Minister. However, we had also been asked to be on our best behaviour (as if we wouldn't have been a scant two days into a new assignment in a country which had no sense of humour that we were aware of), as there was the possibility that we might be graced with the presence of Führer Schenk.
Graf Claus Schenk I knew of old. We had had dealings during the War, with regard to arranging the fatal mishap suffered by Adolf Hitler in 1941, although needless to say any mention of his involvement in that particular operation had been ruthlessly excised from the record as soon as he left the army and went into politics. However, it had been many years since I'd seen him. I remembered him as young and idealistic, much as I had been back then, but the assessment in Buckinghamshire had been that, since he had replaced Reinhard Heydrich as Führer in 1974, he was a man with a lot to prove, struggling against the weight of his predecessor's reputation, and that made him a potential threat to the status quo in Europe. His position was not helped by the fact that Heydrich remained an important figure within hierarchy of the GGR, with an almost mythical status as one of the last "great visionaries" who had nursed the Third Reich through its infancy to its coming of age. An éminence grise who was ruthless enough to make sure that his successor knew where the power lay.
I headed back to the hotel in plenty of time to get dressed in my formal togs, then I headed downstairs to the lobby around 6.45pm, where I met up with a couple of my co-correspondents. We decided to walk the short distance over to the Reichstag, enjoying the warm May evening. We were met at our destination by a pair of Wehrmacht soldiers in neatly pressed dress uniforms, who scrutinised our invitations and then approved our admittance. As they directed us inside, I was struck by how very young they seemed. Or maybe I was just feeling my 67 years.
The reception was being held the south lobby and function hall, just off the main reception area as we walked up the stairs to the main west doorway. Last time I'd seen the building, it had been a burned out hulk, and I had to admit to being impressed with the restoration. Not that I would have expected differently for the seat of the German government. As I explored, I could see an extensive buffet laid out at one end of the room, and noted that they'd laid on a small chamber orchestra for entertainment. Champagne looked to be flowing liberally, served by young men and women who looked to have been selected as much for their perfect Aryan appearance as their ability to wait on such an august gathering. Germany was putting on its best face for the newcomers here to tell the world about.
Still, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of alarm at the sheer number of uniforms present - both Wehrmacht and SS - and I consciously had to remind myself that they weren't here to take me away. In consequence, I downed my first glass of champagne with some rapidity, before being offered a second, then glanced around looking for people I knew. I quickly spotted Tommy Cassidy, the Telegraph reporter I was replacing and strolled over to him to pass the time of day. He was very genial - he usually is - but as we chatted, I felt an underlying sense of relief from him, that this particular assignment was now someone else's problem. Still, I willingly accepted his offer to take me around and introduce me to various people he'd made the acquaintance of during his year's stay.
As he introduced me to an Interior Ministry official called Sigmund Mann, who was "important in the economic planning department", my attention was distracted as, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a woman who seemed vaguely familiar. I shook Mann's hand and made small talk for a suitably polite length of time, before making my apologies so I that I could spot who it was. I saw her talking with one of my fellow new arrivals, Dick Bennett from The Times.
She was young, early-to-mid-twenties probably, had the obligatory blonde hair, a figure to die for, and a face that was pretty in a hard kind of way. She was dressed in a short, dark blue silk dress, and held herself very tall. It was surprisingly hard not to stare, which immediately made me feel like an old letch, given that I was at least twice her age, even as the late-forties Cuijper; nearer three times as Ian Cushing. Moreover, I quickly realised I'd been mistaken. I'd never seen her before. And yet what was puzzling me was that there was something about her that nonetheless seemed very familiar.
"A pfennig for your thoughts," Tommy commented, moving across to stand beside me.
"I thought I saw someone I knew, but I was wrong."
"Anyone in particular?"
"The young woman with Dick Bennett."
"Ah, the delightful Fraulein Acker," he said, knowingly, "watch that one, Mikey. She can be a handful."
"Who is she?"
"The esteemed home affairs correspondent for Die Welt."
"She doesn't look old enough for that senior a position."
"Feeling ageist?" he said, with a chuckle, "she's very good at playing sweet and innocent...only has the job because someone was doing a favour for a friend, etc, etc. However, I've seen some of the stories published under her by-line, and she's very good at what she does. Don't get fooled by her appearance."
"So noted."
"Let me introduce you," he said, with a wicked grin, and led me over to where Acker was wrapping up her conversation with Dick.
"Tommy...lovely to see you," she said as she saw him, giving him a peck on the cheek, "you know I am going to miss you terribly, don't you?"
"As I will you, Marina," he answered, with mock solemnity, "my life will be poorer for not seeing you every day."
"You say the sweetest things," she said with a smile, then looked at me appraisingly, "and who is this?"
"My replacement, Mikael Cuijper. Mikey, this is Fraulein Marina Acker."
"Delighted to meet you," I said, taking her hand as she offered it. And then, as her grey-blue eyes met mine, I realised who she reminded me of. Greta von Ansbach. It wasn't really her appearance, although her eyes were very similar. It was more her mannerisms: the way she held her head, the intelligent look in her eyes. Maybe that was why, instead of shaking her hand, I ended up planting a kiss on the back of it an old fashioned gesture I hadn't used in years.
"Charmed, Herr Cuijper," she answered, with a mock curtsy, "hmm...the name doesn't sound English? Dutch perhaps?"
"South African, by way of England."
"I've not met that many South Africans. How did you end up working for the London Daily Telegraph?"
"I sent them some freelance articles a few years ago. They seemed to like them. So I split my allegiance between them and my paper at home, Die Beeld."
"So you speak Afrikaans?"
"My family were Afrikaans. I consider myself to be from both sides."
"Complicated...I like that," she said, with a half smile, "so how are you liking our beautiful city so far?"
"It's different to how I expected."
"You've never been here before?"
"I haven't had the pleasure."
"Then perhaps I can show you around in the next few days...in the interest of good press relations between Germany and South Africa, by way of England, of course."
"I'd like that," I answered, "I'm staying at the..."
"The Grand...yes, I know the schedule. I'll call you tomorrow."
And then, with a truly dazzling smile, she made her excuses to both Tommy and myself, and moved off into the crowd.
"And the delightful Ms Acker makes another conquest," Tommy said, bursting out laughing, causing me to look at him in surprise. He grabbed us both another glass of champagne from a passing Rhinemaiden before explaining.
"Think what just happened, Mikey-boy."
"You introduced me to a colleague."
"Who in the space of two minutes learned far more about you than you did about her, and fixed up a date with you. As I said, watch that one."
I was about to protest, when I heard the Master of Ceremonies call the room to attention, and everyone turned to look in his direction.
"Be upstanding for the arrival of our Beloved Führer, Claus Schenk, Graf von Stauffenberg," he said, loudly and clearly. Silence fell, until the orchestra launched into a robust rendition of Deutschland über alles, and all eyes turned in the direction of the door.
Schenk should have looked imposing, at 6'3" - I remembered him looking down on me the last time we had met - but the years hadn't been kind to him. His dark hair had pretty much disappeared into baldness, he had run somewhat to fat, and he looked tired and drawn. He also walked with a slight stoop, as if the cares of being Führer were weighing him down. His appearance was in stark contrast to the man a polite five paces behind him. Heydrich seemed taller, somehow, his long, thin face framed with short cropped hair, white now, rather than blond. Despite being a couple of years older than Schenk, it was obvious that he was in much better condition and he strode in with a confidence - or perhaps arrogance - that his successor just couldn't pull off.
That Heydrich chose to arrive in a simple, well-tailored dinner suit, albeit with a silver oak leaf pin in the lapel, signifying his final military rank as Reichsführer-SS, and was accompanied by his equally well-dressed wife, Lina; whereas Schenk felt he had to wear the uniform of a Marshall in the Wehrmacht and was surrounded by a gaggle of toadies, with the Graffin von Stauffenberg nowhere in sight; rather underlined the situation in my opinion. Schenk would never live up to his predecessor, and was likely to cause a great deal of trouble both inside and outside Germany, trying.
Cue the outbreak of Hitlergrüssen and Sieg Heils.
Being in the presence of the Führer had, of course, been covered in our induction course. It was preferred that members of the foreign press participate in the German greeting. However, it was understood, with an acceptance that hadn't even been considered in the forties, that not everyone might feel comfortable doing so. In such a case, we were expected to stand in a straight-backed, respectful stance and remain silent. Two days into my assignment didn't seem a good time to flout the rules, so I stood properly and watched with interest. Tommy, I noted, did likewise, although as I looked around the room at the rest of the Press Corps, it was pretty much half and half. And I'll admit we had to work not to get carried away by the enthusiasm around us, although my detached, more cynical side did wonder which of the two men the Germans were really saluting.
Once the formalities were completed, and Schenk had accepted the salute (because it was obviously for him, right?), talking resumed around the room. I stayed watching them for a few moments, long enough to note a terse conversation between them, before they went their separate ways. Heydrich started walking the floor, his wife on his arm, while Schenk's people set up a short receiving line where those of us who were new to Berlin could pay our respects. Even in her mid-sixties, Lina remained a fine looking woman. Still, she must have had the patience of a saint - or more likely, knew exactly which side her bread was buttered on - to have tolerated the Third Reich's equivalent of Edward VII, for well over forty years.
"You really have a thing for fine German women, don't you," Tommy said, chuckling, as he nudged my arm.
"Not at all. I was contemplating how Frau Heydrich has managed to put up with him for so long, given his reputation with anything in a skirt."
"Perhaps she knows where the bodies are buried," he answered, with a shrug, "especially given that he probably buried most of them. Come on, I should do my duty and present you to His Nibs. No handshakes. Don't get closer than three feet. Be respectful. Speak German. Think you can remember that?"
"Yes, boss," I answered, following his lead and emptying then putting down my glass, before we joined the receiving line.
It was strange officially meeting someone I had worked so closely with in the war for the first time, and I knew I had to be particularly careful not to give myself away. We hadn't exactly been friends, but being co-conspirators did breed a certain kind of intimacy. After all, if we'd been caught, we would have all been shot in the Bendlerblock courtyard together, assuming we weren't just strung up with piano wire in Plötzensee Prison. However, Tommy did a good job of adopting the right respectful tone, and I did my best to follow all the "meet the Führer" strictures. We exchanged a few words, with no sign of recognition from him, and then his aides moved me on, so that another of my colleagues could approach.
He only stayed about half an hour, until all the formalities had been concluded and he had met all of those now charged with reporting on his doings, before his aides ushered him away. Once Schenk was gone, Gottlieb von Essen took the platform and gave the obligatory fifteen-minute welcome speech, at which point the official part of the evening was declared concluded and the party began in earnest. Heydrich and Lina stayed on for the festivities, and watching him I was fascinated by the perfect example of the dichotomy of whether it is better to be loved or feared. The former head of the SS generated both sentiments, with equal amusement to himself.
It was getting on for 8.45pm, and sunset was beginning to colour the sky out of the west-facing windows with an impressive array of pinks and oranges, when I was approached by a young lieutenant in SS black. His name tag read Wexler.
"Herr Cuijper?"
"Yes?"
"Will you please come with me?" he asked, politely, and immediately the hackles on the back of my neck rose.
"Might I ask why?"
"I have been asked to bring you to speak with my commanding officer," he answered, surprised that I hadn't immediately fallen into step beside him. Maybe it was the fact that he was wearing Ahnenerbe unit insignia, which rather cut down the possibilities of who his commanding officer might be.
"Is there a problem, sir?"
"No problem, lieutenant. Is your commander here at the party? Perhaps you can point him out to me..."
"He is waiting outside. He wishes a private word."
The poor lad seemed genuinely nonplussed at my reluctance to follow him. He was obviously young enough not to realise that foreigners rarely go anywhere willingly with SS officers. Still, I had to consciously remind myself that there was absolutely no reason why Mikael Cuijper wouldn't do as he'd been asked.
"Sir?" he said, his voice betraying impatience underlain with nervousness about what to do if I refused.
I took a deep breath, and answered: "Lead the way."
He led me out of the reception room into the main hallway, and then through the front door and down the steps.
"This way please, sir," he said, pointing towards the north corner of the building.
I looked in the direction he was indicating, where I could see a lone officer in SS dress blacks, standing smoking a cigarette - in apparently blatant disregard for the usual German love of health and wellbeing - and admiring the sunset. He heard us approach and as he half turned towards me, I recognised Kasimir Ritter. I hadn't seen him the party earlier, but it had been busy enough that he could well have been lost among the crowd. I certainly felt more comfortable thinking that than considering whether he had made a special trip to come to find me.
"It is a beautiful evening, is it not?" he said, amicably, as I approached. His English was surprisingly decent, with a light but noticeable accent. In our previous acquaintance, he'd only ever spoken German.
"Very impressive," I concurred, and truly it was.
He gestured for young Wexler to leave us, which he duly did, leaving me and my old adversary alone. As I studied him, I noted that he only looked about fifteen years older than he had in Berlin in the forties, even more well-preserved than myself, and he seemed relaxed.
He carried on looking towards the west, while he absently reached into his pocket with his left hand and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, which he passed to me. I took the proffered packet, removing a cigarette and lighting it, before handing them back. Then I joined him and we stood in silence for a while, smoking absently and watching as the sun dipped below the horizon.
"I trust you aren't going to insult my intelligence my saying that I've mistaken you for someone else, Major Cushing," he said, finally.
"There would seem little point, Herr Ritter," I answered, curious at the use of my old military rank. Still, I was getting the distinct feeling that that unlike when we had first met, when I had been his prisoner, he was acting as if I were his equal.
"Still lacking in common courtesy, I see," he said with a shrug, "the correct terms of address are Oberstgruppenführer Ritter, Herr Oberstgruppenführer or Sir. Or at a stretch, General Ritter, if your English tongue has problems with words of more than three syllables. You may find it advisable to use one or more of them should we meet publicly during your current assignment...however long that might last."
"You've been promoted since we last crossed paths."
"I was appointed general commanding the Ahnenerbe Forschungs und Lehrgemeinschaft at the beginning of February. It was my due," he answered.
He dropped his cigarette to the ground, stubbed it out with his boot, before indicating towards the gardens, illuminated by streetlights as night fell.
"Walk with me"
I looked around, trying to spot the Gestapo thugs who were about to arrest me, but all I saw was well-dressed partygoers ignoring a pair of guests having a civilised conversation, so I shrugged, disposed of my own cigarette butt (no doubt breaking Berlin's littering laws, but at least I had a precedent to follow), and fell into step beside him.
"Thirty-three years is a long time to wait for your...due," I commented.
"If you reach my age, you will realise that time is relative. I was in no hurry. I had other projects elsewhere. I am content with my lot."
If, I noticed, not when.
"Is that why you don't look much older than when we first met?"
"Much like yourself, under that make-up, no doubt. If you had been properly educated by your father, you would know that was a meaningless question."
"Except my father died before I was born."
"And so he did," Ritter answered, with a shrug, "and so he did."
He fell silent for a moment, obviously wondering if I'd rise to the bait and ask, but I held my peace, unable to trust myself to have that conversation with him, and eventually he got bored of the silence.
"How is your son? We had a most interesting discussion in Bucharest."
"You know about him?"
"Bloodlines, Major Cushing. That is, after all, one of the fundamental areas with which my part of the organisation is concerned. I expect I knew you were his father long before you did. So how fares he? Is he adjusting to his new life?"
"Well enough," I answered, on the theory that I had no intention of telling him the whole truth.
"No ups and downs?"
"Any particularly reason why he would have?"
"A new country...abandoning everything he knew...becoming a traitor to Blut und Boden...I understand it can be hard."
"He is fine," I replied, perhaps a little tersely. In response, he just nodded, a slightly knowing expression on his face, as if he was well aware that I wasn't exactly telling him the truth. Well, what did he expect? I wasn't likely to open my heart to him given our past dealings.
"Remember me to him when next you speak with him."
He paused, then gave an exaggerated shrug.
"Oh wait, you're not expecting to be back in London any time soon, are you? And certain individuals less...reasonable... than myself would not take it well were you to contact a convicted traitor while on assignment here in Berlin."
"You seem remarkably well informed, Oberstgruppenführer Ritter," I answered, making a point of pronouncing every syllable of his rank perfectly.
"I know many things, Major. Never forget that. In fact, if I had any expectation that you would be willing to learn from me, I would teach you certain things which it would behove you to know, for your son's sake, if not for your own: about who you are, where you're from, who your father was, etc."
Another reference to my father? I'll admit that piqued my curiosity, but on the other hand, given our shared past, it was more likely that he was trying to yank my chain to get a response.
"The offer is appreciated, but forgive me if I don't take you up on it," I said, with exaggerated politeness.
"Exactly the response I expected," he said, with a sigh, "and the loss is yours, I assure you."
"What do you want?"
"I was hoping we might have a civilised conversation, but apparently that would seem to be beyond you. I'm disappointed. I was looking forward to a little good-natured verbal sparring with you, in a more elegant setting than that of our previous encounter. But apparently you're unwilling to play."
In an instant, his manner seemed to switch from affable to professional, and suddenly I was an inferior again, rather than an equal.
"So I will get straight to the point."
"Please do."
He paused in his step, turned towards me and made eye contact with me. It was like being stared down by a cobra.
"You were issued with your invitation against my better advice. Unfortunately, I was unable to persuade those in charge of the decision-making process that Mikael Cuijper, Ian Cushing and SOE Agent Astor were one and the same person. After all, how could they be after thirty odd years, when you don't look a day over forty. And so here you are."
"So?"
"So my point is simply this. When you screw up...when you step out of line in any way, I will have you arrested. I will have you thrown into a very dark hole...and believe me, I know several of those. And once you no longer amuse me, I will end you."
When, not if, this time. Such confidence.
"You would do that to an internationally respected journalist?"
"If the safety and security of the Fatherland were threatened? In an instant. Do I make myself clear?"
"Crystal."
"Then I have said my piece, and I will not pollute the air you breathe any further. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Major Cushing, and believe me when I say that I hope you have a short and uneventful stay."
He ducked his head slightly, in a half bow, and then turned on his heel and walked away towards the Brandenburg Gate. I watched his retreating back for a while, and soon he was out of sight, leaving me puzzled as much as anything else by the majority of our conversation. Once he was gone, I looked back at the Reichstag, brightly lit with music issuing from the doorway, but I realised that my appetite for further socialising was gone. I took one look back towards the west, where the last signs of the dying light were fading, and then turned and headed back towards my hotel.