Wilde shook his head, trying to take it all in.

‘I have a hundred other questions to ask you, Jim.’

Vanderberg smiled. ‘But no time. This is your stop.’

The little sailing boat moved alongside a small jetty of rotting wood. Vanderberg reached out and held the vessel steady, but didn’t tie up.

‘Here we are. Careful of these planks – just walk into the woods.’ His smile turned to a deeply etched frown, then he leant across and touched his friend’s arm. ‘God go with you.’

*

There was a path into the woods. Wilde walked slowly. After less than a minute, a woman appeared in front of him.

‘Monsieur Sable?’

‘Oui.’

She immediately reverted to English, her voice soft.

‘I’m Sunny, but you must always call me Frau Somerfeld. Talk quietly. I have two bicycles – we are riding to Potsdam. You will follow me. You know how to ride a bike, I take it?’

‘Yes.’

‘But first, remove your oilskin and put these on.’

She held up a dark blue jacket of heavy wool, the sort a working man might wear in winter, along with a knitted grey scarf and a beret. Then she handed him a pair of bicycle clips, and he fixed them around the bottom of his trousers.

Wilde obeyed her. She took the oilskin from him, then covered it in small branches and a blanket of leaves, a little way off the path.

‘Now let’s move. Ride slowly – for the moment, you’re a workman going home from Jonas Ferret company at Charlottenburg. They use a lot of foreign labour, and you are a cook in the canteen.’

CHAPTER 7

The ride was eight miles and took just over an hour on the old black bicycles. Most of the time, Sunny Somerfeld led the way along forested paths and roads, but at other times she slowed down so that he could ride alongside her. He had a chance to study her. Her manner was that of a European aristocrat, yet her physical vitality suggested a Midwestern farm girl. It was a curious mixture, and not unattractive. He guessed she was in her late twenties – perhaps a year or two younger than Lydia. Her eyes were intelligent and constantly scanning her surroundings.

The worst moment came as they entered Potsdam. A car that Wilde was convinced was the Mercedes driven by Jim Vanderberg’s pursuers was parked at the kerb. Two men leant against it, hands on pistols, studying the passing traffic and pedestrians. They glanced at Wilde and Sunny, but then their gaze drifted away.

The ride continued westwards until they came to the gateway to a large park. Sunny stopped.

‘That’s Sanssouci. You’ve heard of it?’

‘Of course. Frederick the Great’s summer palace.’

‘My neighbour. And so it means we’re almost home. I will ride fifty metres ahead. You will see me entering the house, then ride on past. In five minutes you will return. If no one is about, you will enter by way of the main gate and go down the passage to the left of the house. Prop the bike against the wall. The side door – tradesman’s entrance as the English say – will be open. Act quite naturally, look like a working man come to fix the boiler or some such. What matters is that you do not raise suspicions among my neighbours, for there are some who would happily denounce me.’