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the two Germans had gained the attention of the maître d’ and were being shown to the only free table, the one nearest the gangway.
    ‘Shit,’ said Harland. ‘That means they have to pass them on the way out.’
    ‘It’s going to be okay,’ murmured Griswald. ‘They’re doing fine.’ He paused. ‘Tell me about the brother.’
    ‘They’re identical twins. Our friend has made something of a name for himself as an art historian. He’s kept his nose clean, apart from the odd scandal - other men’s wives, that sort of thing. The brother is a dissident. In and out of jail, including spells in Bautzen and Hohenschönhausen.
    ‘ The high pretty houses ,’ said Griswald. ‘What was his crime?’
    ‘Consorting with demagogic and hostile elements - something of that nature. He’s a filmmaker. When he was released after a sentence served in Rostock, his membership of the union of filmmakers was revoked. We don’t know much else about him.’
    A quarter of an hour elapsed during which they heard Rosenharte describe his life commuting between Leipzig and Dresden and tell Jessie about the lecture he was due to give the following day. The conversation was moving along quite well now. A radio crackled and Cuth Avocet, hidden in the van a little distance from the side of the canal, said, ‘Are you watching up there? One of those bogies is walking over to them.’
    Harland moved his face up and down the slats. He saw a slim, middle-aged man in an open-necked shirt walking towards the table.
    ‘Jesus,’ said Griswald.

    Rosenharte placed his hand on top of hers. ‘We’re about to be joined.’ Then he cupped her chin in his hand and leaned over to kiss her.
    ‘That’s good,’ she said, looking him straight in the eye and smiling. ‘You are rather good at that.’
    ‘Thank you.’ She was not the first to say it.
    The man was within a few feet of them. He hesitated and craned his head as though not quite sure that he had recognized her then, seemingly satisfied that he had been right all along, he approached the table. ‘Annalise!’ he exclaimed, performing an embarrassed bow. ‘Annalise Schering, is this really you?’ He spoke in English. ‘It can’t be!’
    She stared at him with a look of open bemusement. ‘I’m sorry . . . do we know each other?’
    ‘The Commission in Brussels! Yes, it is you. Don’t you remember me? Hans Heise from Bonn. We worked in the same Unit in DG8, the Directorate General for Development. My office was down the hall from you.’ He gave her an indulgent look.
    She studied him, then glanced at Rosenharte, who smiled politely. ‘I’m sorry, I simply can’t place you. Which office did you say?’
    ‘The Development Directorate, under the Dutchman - Jan van Ostade. Surely you remember?’
    ‘I certainly remember him, but forgive me I . . .’ she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, it must seem rude, but I don’t remember your face.’
    He looked troubled. ‘But you remember my name, surely. Heise - Hans Heise. We used to meet at parties held by the English couple, the Russell-Smiths. I was married then. My wife’s name was Martha. Perhaps you recall her. In the summer we attended a horse show in the country with the Russell-Smiths.’
    ‘His name wasn’t Jan van Ostade,’ she said. ‘It was—’
    ‘Ugo van Ostade,’ said Rosenharte, shooting a firm smile in Heise’s direction. ‘You introduced me to him in a restaurant. I think it was at Le Tabernacle . He was drunk, I seem to recall.’
    She turned from Heise to Rosenharte, a look of relief beneath her smile. ‘Yes, exactly. And Ugo was replaced by Pierre Laboulaye.’
    ‘Laboulaye?’ said the man, now resting his hand on the back of her chair and looking up as though casually searching his memory for Laboulaye. ‘Wasn’t he the one who played the field with all the women in the Commission?’
    Exactly, thought Rosenharte. He himself had filed the report to his superiors suggesting that Laboulaye was wide open