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client. A member of the Bavarian parliament, not a well-known one, more a back-bencher. Tretjak knew only a few titbits so far. The man’s name appeared on the client list of some group of call girls or other, who supplied young women from the Ukraine to men for sex, and this group had now been busted. ‘Help this man, Tretjak, fix it. Please.’ This was the message he found in his mailbox on his return from Sri Lanka. It had been the voice of a minister, a member of the Federal Government in Berlin.
    Tretjak keyed in a combination and all screens went black. For a few moments more he stayed seated and stared at the big black space on the wall. It had been Kerkhoff who had, back then, helped him come up with what he later called ‘the seven commandments’ of his job. It had been Kerkhoff who had said to him: ‘what you are doing is interfering in people’s lives, interfering with their value system... you are playing fate, you do realise that, don’t you? If you want to continue doing this job, then you need firm principles which structure your action, a kind of inner constitution. A few immovable pillars, which you can hang on to. If you don’t have those pillars, you’ll find yourself at sea, and then things will turn dangerous. Not just for your bank account, but for your soul.’
    Tretjak got up, went to his walk-in closet and changed. He chose a clean, white shirt and the dark navy suit he had bought in Milan in March. He put his phone in his pocket and slipped into a light black summer coat. He did not need anything more. Pen and paper would be waiting on the table as usual.
    The bell gave off a melodic ring. And the voice on the intercom said: ‘your taxi is waiting, Mr Tretjak.’
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    When Tretjak left the Italian restaurant Osteria, Schelling Street 95, almost four hours later, he decided to walk home. It was not really warm, but the air would do him good. He paused outside the restaurant, buttoned up his coat all the way, looked up to the sky and saw the stars, despite all the pollution. For a very short moment he had a flashback to his youth. That happened rarely, very rarely. And when it did, it happened without warning, as if it assaulted him. Back then, when he was eleven, twelve years of age, a starry night had been an opportunity to escape. Then he knew that that night he could escape the misery of his existence and go away, far, far away. When he went to his room to fetch the suitcase with the telescope he had the blessing of all those who ruled his life back then. They would say something in a language he did not understand. But they said it with a smile and he realised it was something nice.
    Tretjak turned his face from the sky and walked in the direction of Ludwig Street at a brisk pace.
    The member of parliament had disgusted him. A sweaty man with a fake and at the same time obsequious expression, who had tried the whole evening to win his sympathy. Maybe, Tretjak thought, he really believes he deserves sympathy. Again and again he had outlined, for Tretjak’s benefit, what would happen if his name was associated with this group of call girls. His family, his reputation as a politician, his whole life would be damaged.
    Tretjak had asked right after the starter, ‘What do you want me to do?’ and had repeated the question twice. ‘You are supposed to help me,’ the man had answered again and again.
    During those kind of meetings in the Osteria, Tretjak always sat with his back towards the entrance. That is why he did not notice the very attractive lady in a black trouser suit entering the restaurant. Only when he got up to go to the gents – in fact, he just wanted a break from the exhausting conversation – did he notice her. She sat at the bar, long, straight brown hair, unobtrusive make-up, no jewellery except a big silver ring. For a split second, when he passed her, he had the feeling that she wanted to say something.