At 5.30, they abandoned the Buick. Whether it would ever get back to its owner did not seem their concern right now, especially as Göring had probably stolen it in the first place. Wilde took the pistol from the glove compartment, and pushed it snugly into his waistband. The three of them walked at an even pace through dripping woodland paths down to a beach no more than six metres across by three metres deep, and protected by jagged walls of rock projecting into the sea.

Once they were out of the trees, the blast hit them. The rain was horizontal and icy, straight down the Baltic from Finland and the North Cape. The darkness was cut by columns of light moving slowly across the sky in search of enemy aircraft approaching across the sea.

‘We’re a little early,’ Sunny said, crossing her arms and hunching her head down against the sleet and wind. ‘So we wait again. Gott in bloody Himmel, but it’s cold.’

Wilde looked at his watch. A couple of minutes before six. The sooner they were off this damned beach, the better.

‘This coastline is constantly patrolled by land and sea. To the east, off Swinemünde, a flotilla of large warships, including destroyers, is at anchor,’ Sunny continued. ‘And here, though it is quieter, Friedrich Schmidt says the water is mined and the whole coast is fortified. But that’s OK, because Schmidt knows the channels and is allowed to go about his business – fishing.’

Wilde was looking down the beach into the black emptiness of the Baltic. He was worried about Sunny. It couldn’t make sense for her to come back to Germany, however many friends in high places she had here. Her enemy must know of her part in the events at Der Steinhof and Carinhall; the number plate on the burnt-out Horch was all they needed. Surely she would be better off waiting out the war in Sweden, or even coming to England? She might affect not have a maternal bone in her body, but Wilde suspected that wasn’t quite true. She had, after all, been pregnant three times. Anyway, someone would have to be a mother to Klara. His eyes narrowed and he wiped the icy rain from his face. Was it his imagination or was there a shadow moving out there?

‘I think I see something.’

Within a minute the shape was very definitely a rowing boat with a single oarsman aboard.

‘Is that Schmidt?’ Wilde asked.

‘I doubt it, one of his men more likely. But Tom, they are all trustworthy.’

How could she know that? He saw – or sensed – something else.

‘Ssh,’ he said urgently, lowering himself to his haunches. ‘Get down, both of you.’