‘There is one possibility,’ I said. ‘That on a nocturnal visit to some out of the way corner of the city for sex, the gentleman was picked up by the local Kripo, beaten up and tossed into a KZ. You might not hear about it for several weeks.’ The irony of the situation was not lost on me: that I should be discussing the disappearance of the servant of the man who was himself the architect of so many other disappearances. I wondered if he could see it too. ‘Frankly, sir, one to two weeks is not a long time to be missing in Berlin these days.’

‘Inquiries in that direction are already being made,’ said Goering. ‘But you are right to mention it. Apart from that, it’s up to you now. From what inquiries Rienacker has made about you, missing persons would seem to be your speciality. My aide here will provide you with money, and anything else you may require. Is there anything else?’

I thought for a moment. ‘I’d like to put a tap on a telephone.’

I knew that the Forschungsamt, the Directorate of Scientific Research, which took care of wire-taps, was subordinate to Goering. Housed in the old Air Ministry building, it was said that even Himmler had to obtain Goering’s permission to put a wire-tap on someone, and I strongly suspected that it was through this particular facility that Goering continued to add to the ‘reservoir of intelligence’ that Diels had left to his erstwhile master.

Goering smiled. ‘You are well-informed. As you wish.’ He turned and spoke to his aide. ‘See to it. It is to be given priority. And make sure that Herr Gunther is given a daily transcript.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the man. I wrote out a couple of numbers on a piece of paper and handed it to him. Then Goering stood up.

‘This is your most important case,’ he said, putting his hand lightly on my shoulder. He walked me to the door. Rienacker followed at a short distance. ‘And if you are successful, you will not find me wanting in generosity.’

And if I wasn’t successful? For the moment, I preferred to forget that possibility.

Chapter 12

12

It was nearly light by the time I got back to my apartment. The ‘painting-out’ squad was hard at work on the streets, obliterating the nocturnal daubings of the KPD — ‘Red Front will Win’ and ‘Long Live Thaelman and Torgler’ — before the city awoke to the new day.

I had been asleep for no more than a couple of hours when the sound of sirens and whistles wrenched me violently from my quiet slumbers. It was an air-raid practice.

I buried my head under the pillow and tried to ignore the area warden hammering on my door; but I knew that I would only have to account for my absence later on, and that failure to provide a verifiable explanation would result in a fine.