The village itself was another of those exquisite Alpine resorts that had somehow escaped the bombs and shells of the war. It encircled a small, still lake, with a black-domed church at one end and the ruins of a schloss at the other extremity. Just to the east of the church there was a stone building that served as a village hall and meeting place. It was fronted by a square paved with smooth old cobbles.

Appache gave another signal and the troops began their final incursion, moving faster now, their boots silent on the dewy grass. The village was sleeping and the only light came from the torches carried by the soldiers and the merest hint of daylight across the high peaks. Wilde had memorised the map and made directly for the Boden chalet, easily the most imposing in the village, a large building of ancient, age-blackened wood – very like the one they had been to in Almrosen when looking for Jaeger the mountain guide. This house was even larger and was backed by two vast barns and a stable for a dozen or more horses.

This village looked quaint in the twilight but it was still a place where men and women worked at the age-old tasks of sowing and harvesting, tending the cows and the sheep and the pigs, sending milk, cheese and butter far into the towns and cities of Upper Bavaria.

There was no gentle waking for the villagers today. No knocking on doors or ringing of bells. The troops burst into the buildings without warning. If the doors were unlocked, which many were, the handles were simply turned. If not – if a bolt had been slotted home at bedtime – the doors were sledgehammered.

Wilde stood in the main room of the Boden house as his uniformed men fanned out through the property, pushing uninvited into bedrooms. From outside there were the shouts of men and the farmyard sounds of pigs and chickens and goats being woken and scattered. Within two minutes, Wilde’s men had brought out two women – one a striking, fair-haired woman in her mid to late forties, and a younger woman in her early twenties or teens, both in nightgowns and hastily donned cotton robes.

‘Who are you? What is this?’ the older woman demanded.

‘Are you Frau Boden?’

‘Of course I am, this is my house. The question is, who are you?’

She really was a remarkable creature, her face carved from palest marble. Her fair hair was loose and tangled from sleep, but that could not disguise her natural good looks. Not pretty, or soft, but noble and imperious, like a warrior queen out of a Wagner opera. All she needed was a horned helmet.

‘And you?’ He indicated the younger woman.

‘She is my maid,’ Ilse Boden said, answering for the young woman. ‘How dare you come into my house like this. You have no right.’