‘But how will you find out where he is?’

‘I’m going to have to go to Berlin, God help me.’

Wolfgang Steiner was taking a risk he wouldn’t have taken for anyone else, apart from Hitler himself.

The Reichsleiter had been his mentor, ensuring his successful career at the Parteikanzlei. But after that night back in March at the Bauhaus villa on the Kleiner Wannsee, he owed him an even bigger debt. It was then that Bormann had revealed he knew all about his plans to escape and hide in the Rott Valley, and the fact that he’d been photographing documents. At one stage Steiner was convinced the Reichsleiter was about to pronounce his death sentence; that at any moment the door would burst open and he’d be carted away to Prinz-Albrecht Strasse, or even shot there and then and dumped in the Wannsee. But instead, Bormann had been quite amenable, even friendly. He’d told him he wanted to be part of his arrangements; that he knew many people in Berlin were making arrangements to escape, but he trusted very few of them. ‘Apart from you, of course: I’m counting on you, Wolfgang,’ he’d said.

They’d spoken long into the night, about how Steiner should get out of Berlin as soon as possible and go to the farm to ensure it was secure and that no one knew about it. Bormann wanted him to set up his own escape route from there, one that would have nothing to do with the others being organised at the moment. This would be for the Reichsleiter’s exclusive use, its security not compromised by allowing others to use it.

‘You’re one of the few people I know and trust who has the skills and the attention to detail to set up something reliable. The only matter to be resolved is when I leave Berlin.’ He’d paused at that point, leaning back and shutting his eyes, wisps of cigar smoke rising above him. He seemed to be lost in his thoughts for a long while, and when he spoke again, it was in a quieter voice, the tone less upbeat. ‘When I was younger, I went hiking in the southern Alps, in the eastern Tyrol. Did you go hiking in the Alps, Steiner?’

‘No, I’m afraid not – my asthma, you know.’

‘Really? I thought all Austrians loved the Alps – this was a particular range called the Gailtal Alps. I was with my friend Klaus, but he twisted his ankle on the second or third day so I was on my own, but that was fine. One afternoon I was on a difficult climb and reached a point where I could rest, so I leaned against the rock face and had a drink. The air was so pure I felt it could nourish me, there was no wind, it wasn’t cold, the sun shone on me and there was utter silence. It was an almost perfect moment, but then I became uneasy. I was convinced I was being watched and I looked around but couldn’t see a thing. It was the strangest feeling. You know me well enough, Wolfgang, to appreciate that I’m a straightforward man: many people in our movement believe in darker forces, but I’ve never been one of them. Then I looked up and saw a kestrel hanging in the sky just a few feet above me, its beady eyes staring at me as if trying to work out if I could be prey.