‘Well, I certainly know that your family firm has been trading heavily in Germany for years, particularly since 1933 when the Nazis came to power.’ Wilde flung another sheet of paper on the desk. ‘That’s from the Internal Revenue Service. Details of payments made to various organisations in Germany and written off as expenses. You see that one? Carinhall Gesellschaft, two hundred thousand dollars for services rendered. There’s plenty more like that. Germany under Hitler was making up more than sixty-five per cent of all your trade, and Berthold Falken was doing the deals. And who, in Germany, had oversight and control of the ministry of economics and the Reichsbank for most of these years? Hermann Göring. He authorised the cheques and he accepted the kickbacks.’

Cashbone was speechless.

‘But then,’ Wilde continued, ‘it all ground to a halt with the war. Cashbone Oil profits went through the floor.’

Whitney had half-risen from his chair and was leaning forward across his desk.

‘Is this all true, Bodie?’

Cashbone growled like a cornered animal. A grizzly at bay.

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about – there are other markets.’

‘But not as lucrative, maybe.’

‘God damn you, Wilde.’

‘This whole plan involving Klara was nothing to do with ending the war, Cashbone,’ Wilde said. ‘You’re just Hermann Göring’s lapdog. As was poor Anton Offenbach, I’m sorry to say. Mr Eaton’s reliable sources have revealed to me that he was not only attached to the Abwehr but was, primarily, a senior officer in the Forschungsamt, the intelligence department of the Reich Air Ministry. But whereas Offenbach served out of loyalty to Göring, you helped him out in his internecine power struggle with Bormann, hoping there might be some scraps for Cashbone Oil when Germany had conquered the world. And Göring the peacemaker? More horse-shit. He was always just in it for himself, and Bormann needed to be got out of the way. Getting Hitler’s daughter across the sea to you – to use in your filthy propaganda campaign – was his way to achieve his ends. As for you, Cashbone – you were just a money-grubbing mercenary.’

The big American swung at Wilde, but Wilde saw it coming and ducked the blow with ease, pushing himself up from his chair. His own punch connected with Cashbone’s paunch, instantly stopping him in his tracks. Cashbone stumbled back, regained his footing and lunged again. This time Wilde expertly tripped him and the giant American sprawled forwards to the floor.

Wilde looked down on him contemptuously.

‘Anyway, Cashbone, you’re too damned late. Klara is free of you now – beyond your reach. You’ll never see her again. And if I ever hear that you’re so much as looking for her, I swear I’ll come after you.’ He brushed himself down and picked up his briefcase. ‘I’ll leave him to you, Mr Whitney.’

*