‘Well, you won’t. He’s locked away, facing trial for war crimes.’

‘You’re right, Professor, I won’t. Because I’m not coming with you. Not tomorrow, anyway. I still have business here in Berlin. Can you do the Nuremberg thing alone?’

‘How long do you need?’

‘Two days.’

‘I’ll give you twenty-four hours, but then you follow me. I really feel we’re making progress, and we have to press it. My nose tells me Boden is the key: the SS war hero who would do anything for his master.’

Heck nodded. ‘All right. Twenty-four hours it is then. And tonight?’

‘Do what you want, Lieutenant Heck. I’m going to the cabaret.’

*

The resourcefulness of some people never failed to astonish Wilde. In the middle of the London Blitz, parties had raged around Soho and Mayfair. For many, life was lived more fully and intensely than ever before. Love affairs were more electrifying – and shorter. Music was louder and more rousing. Dancing was frenzied, and booze flowed through the night and into the day.

And here at the Kabaret Lola? How did such a place exist in the wasteland of Berlin?

The greeter at the door looked Wilde up and down. ‘OK, let me guess, you Ami?’

‘Right first time.’

‘Amis, Ivans, Tommies, I can always tell.’

‘And the French?’

‘Ah, they don’t come here. They’re too busy beating up German women.’

‘I take it that’s meant as a joke?’

‘Not for the German women it’s not. And this is my second guess – you’re not in uniform and you speak German, so that means you’re spy or diplomat. Same thing, huh?’

‘Whatever you say.’

‘And you know that Hitler was a British spy? He can take off his false moustache now, and get a knighthood for destroying Germany.’

Wilde managed a smile. The greeter at the Kabaret Lola had one leg with a pirate-style wooden peg where his right one had once been. He was tall and dressed all in black, save for a thin silver tie. He held out his hand. ‘Ten cigarettes or ten dollars, take your pick, Ami.’

Wilde gave him the ten dollars and made his way into the warm, dimly lit interior of the dilapidated dance hall. Tables were full, the air was thick with smoke, music and loud conversations. On a small stage framed by crimson curtains, a dance troupe of young women in fishnets and tight bodices cavorted with energy and promise while an ancient chanteuse in a slinky dress growled an old jazz number into the microphone. Wilde wanted to laugh. It was as if the last twelve years had never happened, as though a time machine had transported him back to the bohemian days of the Weimar Republic.