His first mistake had been to underestimate the young woman and he certainly didn’t believe Johannes’ claim that she was the leader of the cell, giving little credence to the possibility that a seemingly meek young woman could be in charge of such a group. His interrogation got nowhere. She revealed nothing and he couldn’t work out whether this was because she knew nothing or was unexpectedly obdurate.

His senior officer suggested they should at least allow the Gestapo’s most experienced interrogator in Amsterdam to have a session with her, and as Obergruppenführer Winkler was away, the Ferret felt he wasn’t in a position to refuse. He did think about telephoning his father in Berlin and asking him to speak with Reichskommissar Seyss-Inquart in The Hague, but he didn’t want to try his father’s patience, which even he recognised was wearing thin.

He decided to sort things out himself before this could happen. He went back to Euterpestraat at midnight and ordered the guards to bring the woman to the man’s cell. There he held a pistol to her head and forced her to kneel in front of de Vries, who was ordered to reveal everything. She started sobbing and shook her head. When the Ferret pulled the trigger, she moved so the first shot only grazed her skull. He was so angry it took him another three shots to finish her off.

Only then did he realise that the British agent was slumped in the chair he’d been strapped into. When he pulled his head back, it was evident something was wrong: the man had turned grey and wasn’t breathing. The medic confirmed he was dead.

When Obergruppenführer Winkler returned to Amsterdam, he found it hard to conceal his anger.

‘I see you managed to kill two birds with one stone?’

The Ferret muttered something about the woman trying to escape, and the Obergruppenführer told him to shut up. ‘I’ve spoken with your father: you’re being moved again. Fortunately you’ll be many hundreds of miles from here.’

The Ferret stared at the ground. He felt tears well in his eyes and his throat tighten. They’d send him to the east. He’d only been trying to do his best. He bit his lip so hard it started to bleed.

Chapter 3

Germany, March 1945

The young SS officer was waiting in the doorway of Wolfgang Steiner’s outer office, unsure exactly where he should stand. It was lunchtime, which had traditionally been a quiet period of the day, but that had been when life was normal, which it was now anything but. Indeed, the very notion that people would take a lunch break was a fanciful one: for a start, Wilhelmstrasse had been so badly bombed there was nowhere to go, and then there was the added complication of there being precious little to eat.

Steiner beckoned the officer in. He was an Obersturmführer and seemed nervous, which was also something new: SS officers, even younger and more junior ones, had always manifested a confidence bordering on arrogance, even when dealing with an official as senior as Wolfgang Steiner. But this Obersturmführer forgot to greet him with the Heil Hitler salute as he entered, and apologised profusely. As he moved in front of Steiner, the light fell on the man’s face, one side of which was badly scarred. Steiner wasn’t surprised; there were very few fit SS officers of that age and rank in Berlin. The city was being run by old men and invalids.