‘Dachau is the main camp and anyone is at risk of being sent to it if they publicly oppose the status quo. For Jews the situation is far worse. Any kind of trumped-up charge will serve to send a Jew to Dachau.’

His Controller puffed on his cigar for a minute or two and then said queryingly, ‘And your cousin’s side of the family tree? Any Jewish blood there?’

‘No, sir. The Remers haven’t any Jewish antecedents and my aunt is American—and not Jewish.’

He wondered whether to add that his sister-in-law was Jewish and decided against it. As Hugo worked for the Foreign Office, MI6 would already know all it needed to know about Hester.

‘And your sister? I understand she’s now living and working in Berlin?’

‘Yes, sir. Nancy moved there some months ago. She’s working as a junior reporter for the International Herald.’

‘Excellent.’ His Controller took the cigar out of his mouth and gave him a beaming smile. ‘Another useful contact, eh, Remer?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you find the cover of being an employee at Barings Bank works well for you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Well, that’s all for now, Remer. Keep up the good work.’

With the interview at an end, Max rose to his feet and made his exit.

He had two days in hand before he was due to leave for Germany again and though two days wasn’t long enough for a really enjoyable visit to Yorkshire, it was better than nothing.

As he stepped out into Whitehall he looked at his watch. The 12.10 for York via Harrogate left in just over an hour. He had plenty of time to take a cab to his Albany flat and pick up an overnight bag.

He didn’t trouble to let anyone know he was arriving because lately, whenever he did so, his mother or Adam insisted on driving down to Little Ridding to meet him from the Harrogate train. Instead he took a taxi from the station, exchanging a few words with his old friend the stationmaster before he left.

The drive through Wensleydale, the river skirting the road, was such a peaceful, beautiful contrast to Berlin it would have been easy for him to believe he was on a different planet. The sheep on the hills still had lambs at their sides and the edges of the narrow roads were thick with cow parsley and wild dog roses.

It was at times like this, loving Yorkshire so much it hurt, that he found it hard to accept he wasn’t Yorkshire-born. By birth, he was a Berliner. His passport was that of a German citizen. It was a dichotomy he’d struggled with for years and one he still hadn’t resolved, for it wasn’t as if his ties to Germany had ever been broken, or ever could be broken. His love for his father was far too deep for that to happen, and he had far too many cherished childhood memories of Berlin—his father taking him to the Tiergarten and the zoo, on little excursions to the Schöneberger Volkspark and on long day expeditions to Wannsee—for him ever to be able to view the city dispassionately.