Instead, the other car ground to a halt, almost at the Buick’s rear bumper, closing off all retreat. Wilde grabbed the Walther, threw open the car door and rolled out, firing towards the checkpoint sentries. Three shots in quick succession, with barely time to aim. The two men stopped in their tracks, ranged their weapons towards him and fired again. Wilde rose into a crouch, partially shielded by the wheel arch, and took proper aim. Did the Walther have six bullets? Eight? He didn’t know, but he had to make every bullet count. Once the chamber was empty, he had no more.

He loosed off two shots at the larger of the two men, who made a bigger target. The man took a step backwards and his machine pistol jerked into the air, letting rip with a stream of bullets.

Before he could range his sight on the second man, Wilde caught some movement in his peripheral vision. Three men were jumping out of the car behind them. He swivelled to see that they were fanning out and he was now hopelessly outgunned from front and rear. He felt death closing in, but at least he’d take one of the bastards with him. He levelled the Walther at the uniformed man to his left, his finger on the trigger, then dropped his arm as realisation dawned.

They weren’t going to attack him; their weapons were aimed at the checkpoint guards.

He turned towards Sunny, still in the front passenger seat of the Buick. Her eyes were wide, almost exultant, as she looked towards the guards. The larger one was doubled up, clutching his throat; even from this distance Wilde could see the blood pulsing through the man’s fingers as he crumpled to the ground.

Turning back to the three men from the car behind, Wilde realised they were familiar – the two Luftwaffe officers and Anton Offenbach. They had taken up positions now, with weapons raised and were firing on the other checkpoint soldier, who was already backing away towards the woods, firing from the hip as he went.

Wilde moved away from the car and followed the fugitive. He reached the figure of the man he had hit, lying in the road, a puddle of dark red blood around his head. His helmet lay on the road a few yards away. Wilde could see he was close to death. He wrenched the MP 40 from his feeble grip and hurried after the man’s fleeing comrade into the thin, leafless trees, but he had vanished into the darkness. Reluctantly, he turned back. The van was still there, and he saw that it was, indeed, the vehicle they had seen at the Riegers’ house in the village of Kossertheim.