Martin Bormann was out of cigarettes. He yelled through the open door.

‘Heidi, get me cigarettes. Now!’

‘Yes, Herr Reichsleiter.’

‘And I want to know as soon as a message comes through from Jung.’

‘Yes, Herr Reichsleiter.’

‘Run, Heidi!’

He ran his hand lightly over his head, smoothing down his oiled-back hair.

Everything in his life was perfect. The Führer relied on him more than ever. Even here at the Wolfsschanze, he could order the chiefs of staff to do his bidding, and none dared countermand him. Even Keitel, chief of the Wehrmacht high command, took orders. When Bormann needed a fast navy boat for his man Jung, it was made available. Without question and without explanation.

The enemy, he now knew – the real enemy – was Göring. Well, he would get his comeuppance in time. However long it took, Bormann did not allow such things to go unavenged. But first, he had to be sure the child had been disposed of; that the last trace of evidence had been destroyed. And he wasn’t sure.

Everything in his life would be perfect if it were not for this doubt that crawled like a worm through his brain at night and stopped him sleeping. Was the girl dead? Why had Jung not made contact since that first transmission from England?

Heidi was back, out of breath, in under two minutes. She slammed the pack of Swiss cigarettes down on the table.

‘No more Luckies?’

‘I’m told they are no longer allowed, sir. Perhaps because we are at war with America?’

He tore at the wrapping, ignoring her impertinence; several cigarettes tumbled out. He fumbled for the gold swastika-embossed lighter that he prized so highly and cursed as it failed to make a flame.

‘Matches, Heidi, matches – then fill this lighter. And keep it filled!’

‘Sir,’ she said, catching her breath. ‘A message has started coming through. Just this very moment . . .’

*

Wilde stood beside Eaton and an MI5 officer whose name he hadn’t caught – perhaps because the man hadn’t offered it – keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Charlie Jung, as he had learned to call him. He was sitting at a table in a spacious loft. They had driven here to the former home of Mrs Felicity Vickery, deceased, from Kensington Palace Gardens where Jung was being held and interrogated.

Jung’s fingers were working slowly on the neat little German transmitter, which had been found hidden in a second property belonging to Mrs Vickery. The man was not well trained in Morse code, but that didn’t matter – because it was what Bormann would expect.

‘Don’t forget to tell him Vickery is dead or he’ll wonder why she isn’t sending the message,’ Wilde said.

Jung looked up with a frown. ‘I’m doing it just as we agreed.’