‘I swear I don’t know Henderson,’ Marc screamed. His words slurred because his tongue splashed in the blood filling his mouth. ‘I just got here. I’ve never even seen Henderson.’

‘Maybe you’ll remember something after I pull some more teeth.’

‘Please no,’ Marc sobbed. ‘I never did anything. I’m nothing to do with Henderson.’

The other junior officer came back into the room, holding Marc’s pigskin bag and damp clothes.

‘Herr Oberst,’ the officer said brusquely, ‘the bathroom window is missing. There’s nothing belonging to a boy in the house, except what fits inside this bag. He also has a large sum of money.’

The Oberst looked at the rolled-up francs, then back at Marc who was turning blue from blocked nostrils and the arm around his neck.

‘That’s a lot of money,’ the Oberst said. ‘Did you find it here?’

Marc shook his head. ‘It’s mine.’

The Oberst cracked a huge smile. ‘Not now it isn’t,’ he said, as he tucked the money into his tunic. Then he turned towards his three colleagues. ‘We’ll eat and drink like kings tonight,’ he joked. ‘I think our young friend is telling the truth. Let him go.’

Marc hit the floor with a thump as the junior officer released the stranglehold. He inhaled blood as he fought for breath, and coughed violently as the Oberst stepped over him.

‘If you speak to anyone about Gestapo business I’ll find you and I’ll kill you very slowly,’ the Oberst warned.

Marc sobbed with pain as he stared up at the four laughing Nazis. He felt idiotic as he remembered his fantasy of just a few minutes earlier. People like him didn’t command German tanks – they got crushed by them.

Unlike the Oberst, Herr Potente didn’t enjoy seeing a twelve-year-old boy beaten up, and had stepped outside to smoke.

‘Let me guess,’ Potente said, wincing as he stepped through the arched doorway and saw Marc’s bare torso covered with blood. ‘The boy is a refugee. He knows nothing.’

The Oberst rose up on his heels and shouted impatiently, ‘Herr Potente, if you are such an expert, kindly explain why your men let Henderson and Clarke disappear in the first place?’

The Oberst was a powerful man and Potente didn’t speak as frankly as he would have liked to. ‘Your Gestapo will have hundreds of men in Paris, Herr Oberst. I had just six, and I was working behind enemy lines. I regret that we didn’t succeed, but our options and resources were extremely limited.’

The Oberst dismissed the argument with a flick of his hand. ‘I must leave now. I have to find a suitable building and establish a Gestapo headquarters. You mentioned an excellent hotel, didn’t you, Potente?’

‘Yes, Herr Oberst,’ Potente said. ‘The Hotel Etalon in the eighth arrondissement. I’ve been staying there with Mannstein and the facilities are excellent.’