He lay very still for quite a few minutes. He had no idea where he was, other than in a room that resembled a cell, so he assumed he’d been arrested. He was covered by blankets and lying on a mattress on the floor taking up the width of the room and most of its length. The walls were white-painted stone, and high in the one behind him was a window sending a shaft of bright sunshine into the room. Above him was a light shade with a floral pattern, which didn’t feel very cell-like, and the door in front of him was ajar.

He had the impression of having been asleep for a long while: he was soaked in perspiration, and when he raised his head, he felt dizzy but better than before. Slowly he began to piece together his last memories: the outhouse behind Hanne’s apartment; the tram to the park; the bike ride and then finding the shop; the man who looked like Trotsky – he even recalled the name Jensen; a conversation in the back room, and then… nothing.

‘So you’re awake!’ Trotsky had appeared in the room, smiling and carrying a wet flannel. ‘How do you feel?’

‘I’m not sure. Where am I?’

‘In a room at the back of my workshop. I normally keep bicycles in here. I brought a mattress down from my rooms upstairs; I was unable to carry you up. Do you know how long you’ve been asleep?’

Prince shrugged.

‘You arrived here late Friday morning. It’s now early Sunday afternoon. You have typhus, you know.’

‘I thought so.’

‘After you collapsed, I called Dr Oppenheim. He came that afternoon and diagnosed it straight away. He gave you some injections, including one to help you sleep. He’ll be in tomorrow and will talk to you then.’

‘And Browning, were you able to contact him?’

‘Not yet. It’s a complicated business getting hold of him and I wanted to be sure you were well enough. Now I can set things in motion.’

Chapter 22

Copenhagen; Stockholm, April 1943

At precisely ten minutes to eight on the morning of Monday 19 April, the commercial attaché of the German Embassy to Denmark left the breakfast room of his generous residence in Lyngby, a genteel suburb to the north of Copenhagen.

He went into the hall, smoking his fourth cigarette of the morning and resolving – as he did every morning – not to smoke more than one packet that day. He stood by the mirror adjusting his tie and listened to his housekeeper, who’d followed him into the hall.

Yes, venison stew sounds very good – thank you.

Yes, I will be dining alone – as usual.

No, on Tuesday night there’s a function at the embassy.