Bormann did not like to be called here at the Wolfsschanze, but there was no alternative. He picked up the phone, his voice was cold.

‘Yes?’

‘I found them, Herr Reichsleiter . . .’

‘But, Kalt? You are about to say “but”, are you not?’

‘Two Luftwaffe officers arrived and took them away.’

‘Luftwaffe? What has this to do with the Luftwaffe? Where are you?’

‘The Schorfheide.’

‘Where exactly? That is a sizeable forest.’

‘Towards the west. Beyond that it is difficult to say.’

‘South of Templin?’

‘I would say so. I suppose there must be an air base nearby, for why else would they have chanced upon Luftwaffe officers? And I believe I saw other guards in various positions in the woods. I would say it has to be a military camp or a KZ.’

‘Idiot! Do you not realise where you are? You have stumbled upon Carinhall – Fat Hermann’s country estate. Thousands of hectares, all patrolled by marksmen and foresters who will slaughter you like game. Do nothing. Just find a guest house and call me with the telephone number. Do you understand, Kalt?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Bormann slammed down the phone. This was spinning out of control. Kalt and Brunner were out of their depth. And the name of Göring did nothing to dispel his unease.

*

‘Òu est le français?’The words, clearly spoken by a native Frenchman, sent a chill down Wilde’s spine.

There was only one thing for it. Speak German; refuse to speak French.

‘Ja,’ he said, remaining seated in front of his food. ‘Ich bin ein Franzose. Thomas Sable.’

Using very basic German, he told the man he would continue to speak in German as it would be rude to exclude their hosts from the conversation by speaking French.

Pulling up a chair, the Frenchman sat down opposite Wilde and signalled to one of the maids for beer. He gave Wilde a searching look, then laughed and switched to German.

‘And I am Guillaume – but maybe you should call me Wilhelm.’ He reached over and shook hands. ‘Guest worker, yes?’

‘Yes. I’m a driver.’

‘And I am one of the foresters. Where are you from?’

‘Toulouse.’

‘Lyon.’ He patted his belly. ‘The city of food. Look, perhaps we could speak a little French if we went outside. Good idea, huh? I don’t get much chance, you see.’

‘No. It’s warm in here.’

After finishing his beer, the Frenchman tired of Wilde’s refusal to engage in conversation and wandered off towards the door, kissing each of the maids on the cheek, which they did not seem to enjoy, then squeezing the cook’s buttocks. She gave him a look of loathing and hit him on the offending hand with a spatula, hard. He shrugged, and then he was gone.