Jay left his hotel in East Berlin on a June evening in 1977, headed for a small restaurant where he thought he might come across a man he knew. The name on Jay’s passport was François Aube, and he was in the city legally as a businessman from Paris. He sensed reconnaissance after a block and altered his direction, slowing to a stroll and stopping to look in a few shop windows. After almost an hour he was still unable to confirm that he was being followed, but his instinct told him he was. Then he glimpsed a shadow moving away from him beyond a pool of light from a streetlamp, and he immediately moved in the same direction at a quick pace, which was an unorthodox piece of tradecraft Raymond had taught him. He had been a clandestine operative for less than four years, but he was Raymond’s pr
