The snow crackled under my feet.

I turned into the north end of the Kreuzberg Garten and passed the fountain; it was a frozen ice-cake. Another dozen yards and there was some shadow cast by shrubs, and I melted, waiting. When the first one came past I moved into the light of the lamps and stopped him, saying in German:

"For local Control, please. I've met Pol. Spelt P-O-L. From now on they're to call off all cover, fully urgent. They can find me Post and Bourse."

He lit the cigarette I'd put between my lips.

"I shall have to confirm before I leave."

"The sooner the better," I said. "The others can stay until you've confirmed. Then call them off. I want a clear field from midnight."

I thanked him for the light and walked on, flicking the cigarette away as soon as there was a chance. Nearing the hotel through the Schonerlinde-strasse where the pavement was being cleared of snow I heard an airliner go surging up from Tempelhof less than a mile away, and turned to watch its lights.

In the morning I would have to cancel my reservation on Lufthansa 174, because it was written between the lines of the thrice-accursed memorandum that I must stay.

Naumann: the snowman. Sickert: sick at heart. Kalt: cold. Helldorf: held off. Kielmann: kill a man. Hansnig: hands. Edsel: easily.

Shuffle.

Helldorf. Sickert. Kalt. Naumann. Kielmann. Edsel. Hansnig.

Try it.

I held off, sick at heart to see the cold snowman kill a man so easily with his hands.

There were forty-odd names on a single sheet of the memorandum, each one a possible contact of Heinrich Zossen. In half an hour they were locked in my memory and the sheet was added to the pile for burning. My habit was to travel light; by morning the complete memorandum would be cremated.