He did not mention that he would be on the same flight, a fact which rather threw Wilde the next morning when he boarded the plane and saw him a couple of rows in front. Offenbach turned, and they exchanged perfunctory salutes.

And that was all it had taken. How easy it seemed, entering the lion’s cage.

CHAPTER 3

The passport control officer at Tempelhof aerodrome spent an age studying his photograph.

‘Your face is fuller in the picture, Herr Esser,’ he said at last.

‘I’ve lost some weight.’

‘It seems from the stamps that you have travelled extensively – particularly South America: Rio, Montevideo, Santiago, Buenos Aires . . .’

‘My company has business interests in those countries, among others.’

‘What of England, Herr Esser? Have you ever been there?’

‘No.’ He spoke the lie with a straight face. ‘We don’t trade with Britain.’

‘And you have not been to Germany before?’

‘Once, in childhood, that’s all. My parents took me home to meet long-lost relatives, mostly in Krefeld.’

‘But you speak German?’

‘After a fashion. My father insisted I was taught.’

‘You are not related to the Führer’s old comrade Hermann Esser?’

‘Not to my knowledge. I’m afraid I have not heard of the man.’

‘And do you know where your German relatives are now, sir?’

‘No. We lost touch before the last war.’

‘I would like their names, if I may.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you what I remember. But you know, I was six years old. I have little recollection of that time. Now let’s see . . . There were two uncles – Sebastian and Johann, both engineers like my father, I believe. And some cousins, whose names escape me. No, hang on, I remember one little girl about my age – Petra, that was her name. Petra Esser. They were all Essers.’

‘Very well. Do you have non-Aryan blood in your lineage?’

‘You mean Jewish? No, we’re not Jews.’

‘Or Slav, or Gypsy?’

‘German. Pure-bred German. Just like the Führer himself.’

The official stiffened visibly. ‘Please, Herr Esser, do not compare yourself to the Führer.’

He inclined his head. ‘Forgive me.’

The official signalled to a man in a suit standing in a doorway to the right of the passport hall. As he stepped forward, Wilde saw that it was Anton Offenbach.

‘Everything fine?’ he asked.

‘Jawohl, Herr Offenbach. He is all yours now.’

Wilde gave the passport officer a farewell nod and turned towards Offenbach.

From behind him, a last rejoinder from the passport man.

‘And may I wish you a happy birthday, sir.’

Wilde turned back. ‘Oh that was last month.’

You don’t catch me that easily.

‘Indeed, Herr Esser. I hope you had a party and nice gifts.’

‘I’m far too old for all that sort of stuff.’

Wilde turned his attention to Offenbach. After meeting him in Lisbon, he had not expected to see him again. Now he studied him intently and saw the sort of clean, well-groomed young man he had often met in diplomatic circles, both in America and London. Brushed-back hair, smooth shave with a light tan from the Portuguese sun, bright eyes and a ready smile that didn’t need to be genuine in his line of work, but managed to charm nonetheless. He might have been a spy, but he looked exactly what he claimed to be – a young attaché in his country’s foreign service.