“We have mapped out your son’s education path to replicate JFK’s. That means a Bachelor of Arts in Government at Harvard, concentrating on international affairs, followed by a year at Stanford Graduate School of Business. By then, you will be running one of the most respected and powerful corporations in America, giving you the perfect platform to fund your son’s political career all the way to the White House.”

“Uncle, I’ve always known my life was predestined, and now it seems my son’s will be too. I will do everything in my power to fulfil it.”

Bormann, the arch manipulator, hadn’t quite finished. “There’s one more thing you need to fully understand. The woman who bears your son cannot live. Her existence would pose a potential threat to the plan. Do you understand?”

Richard drained his glass and set it down on the glass coffee table. “Yes, I understand. But it will be fun searching for the perfect candidate.”

The Führer’s funeral service took place inside the Santa Teresita del Niño Jesús Church in El Calafate, in the presence of a handful of people who stood in front of the open coffin. Although the local priest was present, no prayers or eulogies were offered. Bormann had installed a large speaker at the rear of the church and, for an hour, the mourners sat and listened to some of Hitler’s prized Wagner recordings. No one spoke, and the only other sounds echoing around the church came from Braun, who cried intermittently throughout. As the final bars of the Rienzi overture tailed off, Braun and Richard stood and led the mourners outside to a small group of chauffeur-driven cars that were waiting to take them back to El Blondi.

Bormann was the only mourner not to travel back to the house. Instead, he sat in the front seat of the hearse on its fifty-mile journey to the nearest crematorium. He wanted to be absolutely sure the process was carried out to his exact specifications. Three hours later, he walked out of the front door of the crematorium, clutching a matt black urn containing the ashes of the most notorious dictator of the twentieth century.

Chapter Thirty-Three

19 January 2012

Buenos Aires

Troy Hembury sat at home in front of his laptop and placed a Skype call to Vargas. A few moments later, the two detectives were staring at each other courtesy of Wi-Fi.

“Good to see you, Troy. How’s it going?”

“Not good. I’ve just had my arse kicked by the chief of police who, it seems, had his arse kicked by the mayor of Los Angeles.”

Vargas cut in. “Jesus, Troy. What the hell have you been up to?”

Hembury took his friend through the meeting with Franklin and then gave him a line-by-line account of his dressing-down from the chief of police.

“So when you mentioned my name to Franklin, there was no reaction?”