The grand door at the front of the house was opening. Sunny, Emmy Göring and the two children were emerging into the cool, late afternoon air. One of the Luftwaffe officers was with them and, a couple of steps behind them, another man, whose face was in shadow.

Wilde looked more closely and the blood drained from his face. The other man was Anton Offenbach.

What in God’s name was Anton Offenbach doing here?

The only blessing was that it was getting dark and he had not yet been spotted by the little group. Wilde turned away hurriedly, moving deeper into the shadows. He affected a smile for the benefit of Guillaume. There was no time for games now, so he spoke in clear American English.

‘OK, buddy, you got me. Your choice – whose side are you on?’

Guillaume grinned back. ‘That depends, Monsieur Sable. That very much depends on what you can offer me.’

‘I’ve got no cigarettes, but I’ve got money. Is that what you want?’

‘Well, it’s a start.’

‘But first, we need to avoid those people – if any of them finds out I am English I truly am done for.’

Gillaume took his arm. ‘Come with me.’

*

Jim Vanderberg was distracted as he walked through the Tiergarten back to his apartment. Two significant events had happened in the past few hours. The first of these affected him personally; his exit visa had come through and he’d be on the train to Basel in a day or two. His heart leapt at the prospect of going home to America and seeing Juliet and the boys again, but he also felt reluctant to leave his friends and colleagues – and Berlin itself – at such a critical time, both for the diplomatic mission itself, and for the history of the world.

Word had come through of an attack on the US fleet in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, and on Americans in Manila. Many ships had been destroyed and the United States was now at war – though not yet declared – with Japan. What that would mean for US–German relations was, so far, unclear. But the implications were obvious.

With his thoughts fixed firmly on the uncertainties ahead, he did not notice the figure following him. It had become so commonplace to be tailed by the Gestapo – men in raincoats with hats dipped over their brows – that he no longer paid any attention to them. On this day, however, his shadow was not a member of the Gestapo.

It was late, well after midnight, and raining. The wires had been red-hot with rumours. Everyone in the mission had stayed at their posts, even the typists. The attack on Pearl Harbor had started about five hours earlier and at first the news coming through had been sketchy and confused. Now, though, it was all becoming clear. Roosevelt would be declaring war on Japan within the next twenty-four hours, unless Hirohito got there first.