cleavage. Her long fingernails were turquoise, matching the colour of the suit. In her left hand she held a kingsized cigarette in a stainless steel holder. With her right hand she pecked at the keyboard of the computer terminal in front of her. Against the wall opposite were two screens covered with photographs, one of them a large portrait of Liebl, his jowls arranged into a serious and responsible expression. The others looked like a series of scenes of his bodyguards surrounding important people or blocking the entrances to various venues. Between the desk and the screens was a door which George assumed led to an inner office and the stairs to the upper floors.
‘I want to see Herr Liebl,’ he told the receptionist.
‘You have an appointment?’
‘No. My name is George Coker. Tell him I want to see him.’
She looked him over coldly before making up her mind.
‘He’s not interviewing today, and we don’t employ foreigners. Write him a letter with a photograph, references from your former employers and proof of national status.’
‘I don’t want a job,’ George said patiently. ‘Tell him my name and tell him I want to speak with him.’
She had deep-set green eyes and a small mouth with pouting scarlet lips. The mouth twisted and the eyes fixed in a scornful glare.
‘What is your business?’
‘I’m an old friend,’ George told her. ‘From Lichtenberg.’
This was a measure of his irritation. Lichtenberg was where the Stasi headquarters had been situated, and he was guessing that whether or not the receptionist knew about Liebl’s past, the mere mention of the place would bring the conversation to an end.
She laid the cigarette in an ashtray, her eyes still fixed on him, then she got up, smoothed her turquoise skirt down carefully, walked over to the door, and went out, closing it behind her. George waited, his annoyance compounded by the delay. Suddenly the door opened and the receptionist emerged, hurrying a little.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Go in. Go in.’
She pointed to the corridor behind her. On the far side was another open door. George noted that her manner had changed. Now she remained standing, closer to him, and there was something apologetic about the way she waved him through.
Liebl was sitting in the centre of a room in a big red leather armchair. Opposite him was a huge television set, the largest that George had ever seen. On the screen was a recording of two fighters jabbing at each other under the Olympic logo. George had never seen the match but he recognised the boxer Liebl was watching. Theofilio Stevenson.
Liebl lifted his hand and the picture froze on Stevenson in a characteristic pose, his arms down, his head slightly inclined, an ironic twist to his smooth features, his unshakable confidence like an aura.
‘I was watching Stevenson and thinking of you,’ Liebl said. ‘You always reminded me of him.’
‘Thank you,’ George replied, ‘but I don’t think so.’
He sat on the leather sofa opposite Liebl. There was a table in the corner beside the long windows which looked out on to a small courtyard at the back. The walls were a pale green colour, dotted with more photographs of Liebl, bodyguards, and clubs. Some of the photos were signed portraits. George guessed they were foreign celebrities, but he didn’t recognise any of them.
‘The last time we spoke,’ Liebl said, ‘you threatened to kill me.’
‘You don’t need to worry. That was a long time ago.’
Liebl made a gasping sound which, George remembered, signalled his amusement.
‘If I had been worried you wouldn’t be here.’
Liebl hadn’t changed much, George thought, except that his head was now completely bald and he was a little thinner. It was clear also that he was making money out of whatever he was doing. At the factory he used to bulge out of the clothes he wore. Now his suit draped softly round him, giving him the well-tailored air of a pink-fleshed Wessi politician.
‘You’ve done well,’ George remarked.
Liebl took his eyes away from the TV screen and looked at him grinning as if he knew exactly what George was thinking.
After reunification a lot of people had half expected the Genossi, old comrades like Liebl, to disappear, or at least to be barred somehow from the new world. A few had been prosecuted, a few of the most prominent had committed suicide, but many of them were still flourishing, in precisely the same sort of occupation they had pursued under the patronage of the state. Often, they had managed the transition by banding in cliques, small groups the Ossis dubbed Seilschaften, after the teams which roped themselves together to climb steep rockfaces. Looking round Liebl’s office, George was willing to bet that among the members of his Seilschaft there were men who owned nightclubs and promoted pop concerts.
‘It wasn’t so difficult to adjust,’ Liebl said. He shifted his balance in the chair so that he could look into George’s face. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I need a name.’
Liebl raised his eyebrows, the two bushy clumps of hair giving the impression of crawling upwards towards his naked scalp. Without pausing George went on to explain that he had a valuable object which had to be sold discreetly, to someone who would have the ready cash.
‘How much?’ Liebl interrupted.
George plucked a figure out of the air.
‘Ten, maybe fifteen thousand marks.’
‘Show it to me.’
‘No.’
George had replied without thinking. Now that he was talking to Liebl he felt none of the boiling rage which he had associated with him for so long, and he had the odd feeling that the man in front of him was somehow different, an impostor who had been substituted for the person he had known. At the same time he knew that he could never do business with the man.
‘Why do you come to me?’
‘Because you can tell me what I want to know.’
‘I know this,’ Liebl said seriously, ‘but why should I help you?’
A memory flashed through George’s mind. It was a touch, the soft smooth feel of hair, black and glossy like a bird’s wing. At the back of his mind was the crazy thought that perhaps Liebl might want to atone somehow, to make up for the things he’d done. The other thing was that they’d almost been friends at one point, and if Liebl hadn’t been what he was, perhaps they would have.
‘The same reason I used to help you,’ George replied. ‘Call it payback.’
‘You can’t threaten me,’ Liebl told him. ‘Everyone’s read the files.’
This wasn’t true and they both knew it. At the moment that the students were hacking at the Wall many of the files were burning in the courtyards of the complex in Frankfurter Allee.
‘So call it business,’ George told him.
‘Ten per cent,’ Liebl said.
Later that evening Liebl telephoned with the name of a dealer he said was reliable. He owned a shop off the Dresdenstrasse which sold antiques and memorabilia. It wasn’t far from where Valentin lived and they went there the next day.
The place was tiny, sandwiched in between a dingy pizza parlour and a video market. When the door opened it set off an electronic chiming somewhere inside, but it was difficult to tell the source of the sound, because the shop was crammed with objects, old furniture stacked up the walls, stuffed birds mounted in transparent bells, heaps of uniforms in neat piles, a giant bear skin, and a line of glass cases displaying coins and jewellery. Standing motionless behind them was a small man wearing a beard and a black Armani suit, and for a moment George had the feeling that this was another exhibit.