Kalt did not like this new arrangement with Jung. He was used to taking orders directly from Bormann, which suited him fine; they went back many years and had prospered together. But this Charlie Jung was another matter – too weak to kill his own wife, what sort of a man was that? Did he even have a Party badge? Kalt had called Bormann to ensure he really was expected to do Jung’s bidding. The explosion of anger down the line from the Wolfsschanze had made his body shake and had left him in no doubt that he had a new master.

As it happened, he did have a comrade in the Sicherheitsdienst. A cunning old Party hack, like him. If anyone could help him, then surely Horst Spahn was the man. One phone call was enough to fix a meeting.

*

Kalt didn’t like this building at 8 Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. Nobody did. It was the home of the SD and the Gestapo, the domain of Himmler and Heydrich and their dreaded legions. He found Horst Spahn in a spartan office on the first floor, surrounded by filing cabinets, his desk covered in papers. He immediately rose from his seat and they shook hands.

‘Otto, old friend, how have you been?’

‘A little overworked, Horst. Reichsleiter Bormann drives me like a slave.’

‘Well, that’s war, old chum. Same for all of us.’ Spahn put a finger to his lips, then lowered his voice. ‘You should consider yourself fortunate to be so close to Bormann. He is more powerful than ever. Some say he is the most powerful man in Germany, though I doubt my own masters, H1 and H2, would agree with that.’ Spahn burst out laughing. ‘Schnapps, Otto? Let me pour you a glass.’

Kalt knew his friend had influence, but was not at all sure quite how senior he was these days, nor even if he had a specific rank, for he wore civilian clothes. Having an office to himself suggested he had risen up the hierarchy, but perhaps it was not elegant enough for the very highest levels. The problem with dealing with Horst Spahn was that you never knew what lay behind the easy, helpful smile and the bonhomie. He would clap you on the back, laugh at your jokes, tell you he was on your side and then line you up against a wall in the yard and put a bullet in your neck. Or so Kalt had heard, and he had no reason to doubt it. For they were one of a kind.

‘A Schnapps would be perfect, thank you.’

Spahn poured two large measures of plum liquor. They clinked glasses and knocked them back in one. The SD man wiped a finger across his little bristly moustache and licked his lips.

‘Now then, old friend, what brings you from your farm up to Berlin? I thought you were a full-time pig man when not working for Herr Bormann.’