‘That would not be for me to decide.’

‘Of course not. Just thinking aloud, friend.’ He paused. ‘But enough about me – tell me about yourself, Herr Offenbach. Are you a good National Socialist?’

If the German hesitated, it was barely discernible.

‘Of course,’ he said.

Wilde allowed himself a smile. ‘And your name – are you related to the composer?’

‘No, I am related to the city – Offenbach am Main.’ He smiled. ‘Forgive me, that is my idea of a joke.’

Lunch lasted an hour and Offenbach was crestfallen when, despite his entreaties that no one knew Berlin better than he did, Wilde insisted on going his own way. He met up with Vanderberg in the embassy courtyard, where his Packard was parked, complete with diplomatic plates, then they drove across to his apartment on the far side of the Tiergarten.

Vanderberg found some old slacks, a heavy pullover and oilskins for Wilde, then handed him his razor.

‘Cut it off, Tom – the moustache. And ditch the glasses.’

It took Wilde mere moments to shave his upper lip and then he stood against a plain wall while his old friend took his photograph with a large camera.

‘We have an excellent forger resident at the embassy. I’ll have your new papers with you this evening. Keep the Esser papers for the moment, but try to avoid the Gestapo until then.’

‘You know, Jim, if this weren’t so serious I might actually be amused by your attempts at humour.’

Jim grinned. ‘Come on, let’s go sailing while there’s still some light.’

They drove westwards. Berlin was an eerie place. The anti-aircraft guns were silhouetted against a bright blue sky; occasionally a line of tanks or troop carriers trundled by, all seeming to be heading east. In places there was minor bomb damage, piles of rubble pushed to the side of the road, but mostly the city appeared much as it must have done in peacetime, with tree-lined residential streets untouched by the horrors of war. Men and women caught buses and trams and crowded around shops; children laughed and played in large squares bedecked with swastika pennants. Street signs and plaques all used the elaborate Gothic script – a type that had always made Wilde intensely uncomfortable. All told, though, this looked pretty much like a city at peace with itself.

‘Sorry about the secret stuff back there,’ Vanderberg said as they cruised along an open road. ‘We’ve swept all the offices, but we think mikes are almost certainly buried within the walls. The Nazis would have had easy access during the restoration and refurbishment work.’

‘It suits you, Jim – all the spy stuff.’

Vanderberg laughed out loud. They were heading through Dahlem, south of the skeletal woodlands of Grunewald, towards the western extremities of Berlin. The residential suburbs seemed to be giving way to acres of barracks, closely guarded by heavily armed sentries and watchtowers.

‘War,’ Vanderberg said dismissively. ‘This area used to be a lot prettier.’ He changed the subject. ‘What did you think of Todt? Good name, huh? Sounds like Tod – death.’