‘Of course. Stalin has already been crushed. Our forces are merely engaged in mopping-up operations. Moscow and St Petersburg will be in our hands by Christmas.’

‘Good timing on my part, then. But tell me – you say you are my guide and interpreter, so why does it feel like you’re my prison escort?’

The coffee cup stopped halfway to Offenbach’s lips.

‘You are not in prison, Herr Esser.’

‘No? I’m very pleased to hear that.’

*

The ministry was frantically busy. Everywhere, Wilde’s ears were assailed by the clatter of typewriters, operated by an army of female secretaries. Civil servants, some in military uniform, seemed to occupy every spare metre of space, working on papers, maps, and banks of telephones, or rushing about carrying messages, the clump of boots echoing down the corridors. This, he could see, was the engine room of the German war machine and, appropriately, it generated something approaching the din of a battle tank at full throttle.

Once Wilde had entered Reichsminster Fritz Todt’s inner sanctum, however, and the heavy door was closed behind him, the noise all but vanished, to be replaced by an eerie calm. Todt looked up from some papers, leant forward in his chair and met Wilde’s eyes. He did not perform the Hitler salute, but offered his hand. Wilde reached across and shook it. Todt’s grip was strong, his skin rough.

‘Good day, Herr Esser,’ Todt said.

‘Reichsminister, it is an honour to meet you.’

Todt grunted. ‘Let’s get straight to business. First of all, tell me exactly who you are.’

‘I am a motorcycle manufacturer. We are called Esser Trautmann.’

‘And do you have politics? Are you a member of the German American Bund?’

‘I stay clear of politics, but it is true I have great admiration for the achievements of the National Socialists. You have done great things in Germany.’

Todt ignored the flattery. ‘Let me be frank, Herr Esser. I am suspicious as to why you are here. You have arrived in Germany at a time when your country is supplying materiel to our enemies.’

Wilde nodded. ‘That’s exactly why I have come, sir. I believe my government is making a grave error in helping Britain – and I wish to redress the balance a little, if I can.’

The German minister stared at Wilde for two or three seconds, sizing him up. Finally he smiled.

‘Then I must welcome you. And let me say first that I have ridden one of your motorcycles – before the war. The Brooklyn 650.’

‘Well, well, that really is something. What did you think?’

Talk more slowly, Wilde. You’ve been through this a dozen times in training; you know all this back to front. Calm down. The sweat is cold on your back, on your neck. Don’t let him see that.

‘A good, solid machine. Yes, I liked it. Fine construction. Given the size of the engine, I recall that it might have lacked a little power, but that would be my one complaint.’