Carter wrote something down in the notebook. “Nic, if I’m going to put my neck on the line, I need to know that the source material is still around and totally safe – the birth and death certificates, the original photographs, the 8-millimetre film, along with Hitler’s medals.”

“Amanda, you have my word that every single one of Franklin’s attempts to destroy the evidence has failed. All the original materials are stored in a totally safe place. I’ll transfer the file to you now so you can show it to whoever needs to see it at your end. Then Troy and I will fill you in on our plan.”

Chapter Fifty-One

7 July 1981

Buenos Aires

There was one final task for Richard Franklin to carry out before he could return to San Francisco. He stood in the master bedroom of Martin Bormann’s apartment, staring at the fitted wardrobes. There was a strong musty smell hanging in the air, confirming no one had visited in the last two years. He felt a great sense of unease about confronting the parting gift Bormann had presented him with from his death bed.

His mind flashed back to his childhood, and images of Bormann as a much younger man flooded his memory. As a boy, Richard had idolised his “uncle” far more than his own father, who had always seemed remote and cold. During the previous thirty-five years, Bormann had mapped out an intricate plan that had its origins in the Führerbunker, in war-torn Berlin, when all seemed lost. Bormann’s genius was undeniable. He was a master of manipulation and misdirection and had planned every significant moment of Richard’s life, including the major event he was about to confront in the apartment. He had no idea what discovery awaited him, except he knew it would be of huge significance to his life and was the final piece of the complex jigsaw that Bormann had created for him to inherit.

He opened the end wardrobe door and carefully slid the line of immaculate Saville Row suits along the metal hanging rail to one end. Bormann had always been fastidious about his appearance and his shirts and suits were handmade by one of London’s oldest tailors. It was a poignant reminder to Franklin of his mentor, who had died just two weeks earlier. It only took him a few seconds to remove the fake back panel of the wardrobe and he found himself face to face with a large, grey wall-mounted safe. He didn’t need to check the combination, as he knew his father’s date of birth by heart. The lock mechanism made a gentle whirring sound and the safe door clicked open. He gently lifted the worn black leather case out of the safe and carried it over to the bed.