‘I will have to take advice on this.’

‘Take all the advice you want, buddy. The fact is I hate Roosevelt’s guts, as do all decent right-thinking Americans. He’s gone way too far down the wrong road with his Lend-Lease Bill. But still, I am a patriot and it is a custom of mine to make my presence known to the local mission or consulate wherever I travel. More than that, I have an old friend in what remains of the embassy – James Vanderberg. Used to go sailing together on Lake Michigan. I don’t want him thinking I came here in any sort of undercover capacity.’

Offenbach seemed at a loss, clearly discomfited.

Wilde put an overfamiliar arm around his shoulders.

‘Cheer up, Offenbach. I’ve only just arrived – but with my ancestry, I’m one of you and I’ll shout Sieg Heil with the best. In the meantime, I could do with a long bath, a hot meal and a couple of drinks.’

He thought back to the words of Philip Eaton, the evening before he boarded the corvette for the Azores.

‘Whatever you do, Wilde – don’t overdo it. Yes, you’re supposed to be a Nazi sympathiser, but don’t make yourself a fanatic. A good intelligence officer – and the Germans have those – will spot you a mile off if you’re too zealous.’

Wilde took note.

At last the German relaxed.

‘Well, Herr Esser, your personal comfort is easily arranged. A car is waiting – and you have a suite booked at the Adlon. Everything has been laid on at our expense. But first, you must pass through customs.’ He picked up Wilde’s suitcase and steered him towards a doorway. ‘They will wish to inspect your luggage. A mere formality, of course.’

*

Wilde was impressed by his hotel suite. It had every comfort, including a fine shower and separate study and dining room. Bottles of Henkell Sekt and Margaux were waiting for him, along with a box of Swiss chocolates and a bowl of fresh fruit which, he guessed, must be like gold dust in 1941 Berlin, especially this late in the year.

Offenbach had invited him to join him for dinner in the Adlon’s restaurant, but Wilde had declined, saying he was tired and would take some food in his room. They would meet instead at breakfast.

Now he was alone. Glass of red wine in hand, he took his time examining the undersides of the tables and the wall sconces, trying to find the microphones. He couldn’t find any, but he was certain they must be there – perhaps buried in the walls or behind the skirting. One way or another, the Gestapo would be listening to him. Perhaps he should snore, just to keep them awake. At the airport, they had certainly gone through his bag with scrupulous care, taking note of the labels, asking him searching questions about the provenance of certain items, such as his razor and notebook.

Offenbach had noted the lack of any technical papers. Wilde had laughed at his surprise.