Wolfgang Steiner had emerged from the east and walked slowly towards Kühn, who looked terrified, frozen to the spot. From where Fyodorov was, he could tell how nervous Kühn was and he was convinced Steiner would realise something was up, but the German carried on oblivious, holding out his hand in greeting as he approached the schoolteacher.

The two men were standing close to the cellar, and Fyodorov thought Steiner must have heard something, because he peered over towards it. That was when he gave the order, and in a matter of seconds two men had leapt out of their hiding place and bundled Steiner into it.

From then on it was very straightforward. After a brief struggle, Steiner was subdued and searched before being given an injection to knock him out. His coat was replaced with a shabby one that smelt of alcohol, and he was carried to a car that had pulled up nearby. If they were stopped, he’d be a drunk being helped home by his friends.

Half an hour later, he was strapped to a metal chair in a cellar in Behrenstrasse, the effects of the injection now wearing off. Gurevich was sitting in front of him assuring him he’d be fine, though he understood he might have a headache for a while.

When Steiner asked where he was, Gurevich said he was surprised that he hadn’t worked it out. ‘The main thing, though, is that you’re no longer working for the Americans!’

Steiner looked stunned as the truth dawned, then he burst into tears, sobbing for quite a while, which Gurevich found disconcerting at first, though when it came to men realising their fate was sealed and their days were numbered, it was quite unpredictable how they’d react.

He’d left the German in his cell and returned to his office, where he rang the general in charge of that evening’s meeting with the Western Allies on Kaiserswerther Strasse and said he’d very much like to attend.

He had, he said, an important message for the Americans.

Chapter 28

England, December 1945

It was noticeable how unwell Joseph Jenkins looked. His normally florid complexion had been replaced by a greyish pallor, and he appeared to have lost weight, though Tom Gilbey thought that could have been a trick of the lighting. He thought it best in what were obviously awkward circumstances not to remark on Jenkins’ appearance as they gathered in a low-ceilinged windowless room at the American embassy in Grosvenor Square.

But Sir Roland Pearson showed no such inhibitions. ‘Are you under the weather, Joe?’

Jenkins glared at him. He was sitting between a young officer clearly there to take notes and the deputy head of station for the Office of Strategic Services, a man Sir Roland had met on numerous occasions over the past two or three years but whose name he couldn’t for the life of him remember.

‘I’ve brought you here to share a very serious development.’ Jenkins’ voice trembled, adding an odd timbre to his Southern accent. Neither Pearson nor Gilbey replied. They waited for the American to continue.