Wilde had shrugged. ‘I’ll have to take your word for it.’

He wasn’t worried, though. London had been wounded badly by the Blitz; from what he had seen this was but a pinprick in comparison.

Now he was in the cellar, waiting for the explosions to start. The extensive rooms were full of guests and staff. He took time to study the faces of those forced into this unlikely congregation. He had half-expected Offenbach to be there. But, of course, this was the night shift. Someone else would have been keeping watch on his suite. The bellboy, perhaps, or the room service guy. Or someone posing as a guest.

And then he saw a face he recognised.

It was his old friend Jim Vanderberg: the man who was supposed to present him with the package. He seemed to be looking straight through him, as though they were strangers. But then he winked, very subtly, so that only Wilde would have noticed.

*

The morning was grey and damp. From his window, Wilde looked out across the dreary thoroughfare of Unter den Linden and the Brandenburg Gate. Through the light drizzle, the only colour was provided by the slashes of red in the great swastika pennants that hung limply from the buildings. At breakfast, Offenbach reassured Wilde that the forecast was for better weather; this afternoon the sun would shine and he would see the Third Reich in all its glory.

‘It’s all the same by me,’ Wilde said. ‘My favourite time of year.’

‘Your meeting with Herr Doktor Todt is scheduled for ten. I trust that is convenient.’

He had been hoping to call in on the US embassy first, make proper contact with Jim. But that would have to wait. What had he been doing in the Adlon cellar? Was it mere coincidence – he’d happened to be there after a night’s drinking – or had he gone there deliberately to see if Wilde had arrived safely? Hopefully, he’d discover soon enough.

‘Sure, ten is fine,’ he replied to Offenbach.

‘Good. I will walk with you to the ministry and act as your interpreter.’

‘I think I’ll do well enough speaking German, but thank you.’

The waiter poured coffee. Wilde took a sip and almost spat it out.

‘What is this stuff?’

‘Ah, I am afraid it is ersatz – probably acorns or chicory. We have trouble importing the real thing. But if you care to wait a short while, Herr Esser, I am sure proper coffee will be available when you are with the Reichsminister.’

Wilde put his cup down.

‘Yes, I think I’ll wait.’

They ate rye bread and cheese with thin slices of sausage, and Wilde drank fresh milk. Offenbach, who seemed happy enough with the acorn coffee, pressed him again on his motives for coming all this way, into the centre of a war zone.

‘As I told you, profit,’ Wilde said. ‘Just like the merchant venturers of old. The further you travel, the greater the danger, the more handsome the profit. It was ever thus, Herr Offenbach.’ He cast his eyes around the hotel restaurant. The tables were served by liveried waiters and waitresses; the settings were white linen and bone china. ‘Anyway, this doesn’t seem dangerous. This feels like travelling to the heart of a great empire. And the war? That’ll be over soon, won’t it?’