‘I’m not giving this away, Herr Offenbach. It’s all in my head. If you want it, then you must pay.’

The more he thought about it – and he had thought about this insane mission a great deal – the more he realised that his only hope of survival lay in the overconfidence of the all-conquering Third Reich. They could surely afford to give him the benefit of the doubt. They occupied most of Western Europe and were busy crushing the Reds in the east. Why, as undisputed masters of a rapidly growing empire, wouldn’t they trust a German-American bearing the promise of a great gift for their war effort? Their country was already overrun by guest workers who threatened to outnumber the locals. What could one Yankee with scholarly glasses and an academic air do to hurt them? Why not just let him go about his business and hope he gave them what they wanted? And if they treated him graciously, he would return to America with a fat contract and would speak highly of the new Germany, and denounce the interventionists and the lend-leasers.

Wilde pulled back the curtain an inch and saw only pitch-dark night. The blackout was in force here, too. Just like England.

*

Romy Dietrich knew she would die soon. She was sure that poor, foolish Father Huber had already been killed and that the men who did it would find her too. They would torture her – and when she broke and revealed Klara’s whereabouts, they would kill her. And then they would kill Klara.

She knew this as certainly as she knew her face in the mirror. An attractive, well-preserved Aryan face, wide-eyed, intelligent and afraid. Too old to call herself young; too young to die.

She was scared of dying, but even more than that she feared pain; she knew she would never withstand it. If – when – she was tortured, she would do or say anything required to put an end to it.

Romy wanted to warn Klara and her guardians. But she could not go to them in case she was already being watched. She could not write because everyone’s post was monitored; likewise the telephone exchange, which had surely already been the downfall of Father Huber.

This stinking guest house in the northern part of Charlottenburg in Berlin, close to the Plötzensee prison, would not protect her for long. The landlady was already suspicious of her. Most of those who roomed here were factory workers from France, the Netherlands and Bohemia, employed at the Siemens plants around Spandau. Why, the good Frau wanted to know, would a respectable middle-aged woman with a rural dialect that clearly marked her down as Austrian be seeking shelter here? From what was she hiding? Was she, perhaps, Jewish?

Romy denied it scornfully.

‘Look at my colouring, dear lady, do I look like a Jew?’

‘Many Jews do not look like Jews. Berlin is full of these dirty U-boats.’

‘Well, I am not one of them.’