He told the guard on the door who he was, and a senior officer was called who spoke good Russian. He was led up to the top floor, through part of the building that seemed to have taken a direct hit from a shell and had no windows and little in the way of walls.

The man whose office he was shown into was someone he’d met since they’d captured Berlin, and although there was an atmosphere of distrust, it was one born of uncertainty more than anything else.

They were, after all, meant to be on the same side.

Kommissar Gurevich said he didn’t have long; he wanted to cross back into the east before it was dark. He explained the purpose of his visit. ‘Come closer, come round here and have a look. This is them, and here… look at this map… and this photograph too.’

As he explained in more detail what he wanted, the other man remained expressionless, giving the impression that he understood what Gurevich was saying but wasn’t too sure what it was that he was asking.

Kommissar Gurevich had spotted this and took two large cigars from his jacket pocket. They were intended as bribes at difficult checkpoints, but he decided this was as good a time as any, and they had the desired effect: the man looked very impressed and asked where he’d got them from, and Gurevich said it was a good job the Nazis were like magpies, and both men laughed heartily, the tension now broken.

Gurevich explained again what he wanted, and when he had finished, he took out another cigar and placed it on the desk between them.

‘What I’m saying is that it’s as much in your interests as it is in ours.’

The other man had already pocketed the cigar and was nodding. Both he and Gurevich knew full well that if anything, it benefited him even more.

Chapter 21

England, December 1945

In the shocking moments immediately after Tom Gilbey had spoken, Richard Prince felt himself reeling, his instinct to find something mundane to concentrate on as he absorbed the appalling news. Outside, flurries of snow that had appeared beautiful and almost balletic just minutes earlier as he’d walked through St James’s now had a decidedly violent quality to them. They looked like they were in conflict. He knew how they felt.

It occurred to him that he wasn’t sure how much more bad news he could take. His first wife and daughter had been killed a few years back in a car crash; then his son had gone missing, and Hanne too. He chewed hard on his knuckles in an attempt to retain some kind of composure.

Pop in for a chat, would you, Richard – later this morning, perhaps?

On reflection, Gilbey had sounded far too casual. And ‘Richard’: he should have remembered that the man reserved the use of his first name for serious matters.

‘Did you hear what I said, Richard? That I’m terribly sorry to say that Hanne has disappeared in Austria – that town in Carinthia.’