He checked that each film was properly sealed in its small metal canister and then sewed them all into the hem of his overcoat. He thought about taking a couple of the notebooks but decided they’d require too much explanation. If these films didn’t interest them, nothing would.

From the lining of one suitcase he retrieved his old identity papers, including his Parteikanzlei pass. In Munich he’d be Wolfgang Steiner once more.

He left the farm early the following morning, walking across the fields to Eggenfelden and catching a bus from there to Mühldorf.

He arrived in Munich early in the afternoon, the journey not having taken as long as he’d expected. It meant he had more time to kill than he’d anticipated, which at least allowed him to find a bed for the night.

He found a bar on Landwehr Strasse, north of the Theresienwiese, where Friedrich had stayed. It was the kind of area where the right amount of money would mean that the requirement for a guest to register could be overlooked. The bar keeper told him he had some rooms upstairs. Do you want one on your own or are you prepared to share?

Steiner said he’d prefer one on his own and handed over what he considered to be a small fortune. The room was on the top floor, more of an attic than anything else, with bare floorboards and a cracked window. The bed was hard and dusty, the sheets looked as if they’d not been changed in a while and there was a smell of mice. The bar keeper must have sensed Steiner’s disapproval. At least you’ll be safe; no one will know you’re here.

He remained in the room for an hour, but the mice got the better of him, and in any case he wanted to eat. He headed south, and on Lindwurm Strasse found a café, though that was a generous description of a gloomy, hollowed-out shell of a building with a few tables set amongst the rubble.

He sat in the corner and avoided looking at the other customers. He made a bowl of soup and some chunks of black bread last an hour before deciding to leave. His plan was to walk around, making sure he kept on the move and hoping to reach his destination once it was dark. He began to brood: it wasn’t too late to abort his trip, and the more he thought about it, the more he wondered whether he was actually insane. It was as if he was surrendering for no good reason. A plan that had been so carefully thought through in Berlin during the war – which had seemed to be so clever, and even flawless – felt very different here in Munich.

As he walked the short distance from the café to Sendlinger Platz, he felt uneasy, putting that down at first to nerves before becoming aware of a presence behind him. When he turned round, there was a man no more than a foot or two from him.