‘This and that. You know, we have not been as obsessed by the fate of Hitler as our Western Allies. As I mentioned, before, our intelligence services believe you have him in safe keeping.’

‘And I’m sure you know that is nonsense. So take me to this man Fritzsche. I would like to talk to him.’

‘But you have to give me something in return.’

‘What do you want? Money? Cigarettes?’

Minsky smiled. ‘Do I look that cheap, Professor?’

No, he didn’t. He looked very high maintenance with expensive tastes. He was one of the lucky ones in Soviet Russia, one of the ones who survived the purges and the war and had access to the good things in life. His belly told you that. How long could his luck last?

‘Go on. Tell me what you want. If it’s feasible, then I’ll help.’

‘Give me your word that you will not breathe a word of this to anyone in Berlin. Not Helms or Dulles or Lieutenant Heck. Even if you say no to a deal, that must be clear.’

Wilde thought for a few moments. Did he have anything to lose by making such a vow? It had to be worth the risk. ‘OK, I swear I won’t tell a soul. This conversation never leaves this room.’

‘Thank you, Professor. I believe you are trustworthy – perhaps too trustworthy for your own good. Anyway, during lunch you asked about my English and I told you the story of my time in England before the First World War.’

‘You said you were avoiding the Tsar’s secret police.’

‘Yes, that’s what I said. But it wasn’t true. Nor was my life as a peasant in the Steppes. I am as bourgeois as you, Professor. My father was a wealthy merchant and I was studying at Cambridge University. My set of rooms was a joy, with a college servant keeping my fire burning all winter and my nearest neighbour an earl who invited me for shooting weekends at his great house. But with the war looming, I returned to Russia.’

‘Interesting times.’

‘Indeed. I could only get as far as St Petersburg – Leningrad, as we learnt to call it – and I was press-ganged into the army, as a private soldier. That suited me fine – I had no wish to be an officer, because they always get shot first. Towards the end of the war, when I saw the way things were going, I reinvented myself. I became the revolutionary peasant Boris Minsky, a name I stole from a dead soldier.’

‘What was your real name?’