‘No, because I know you’re not going to shoot me, Ami. Americans don’t shoot women, do they? You’re here to protect us from the criminal Nazis. That’s what all the newsreels tell us. Good old Uncle Sam, saviour of the world.’ She spat the words.

Wilde ignored her and backed further away into the wood-panelled hallway. With his foot, he pushed open the middle door into the large sitting room. He had thought before that it was empty, but now he realised that there was another door on the far side of the room and he could hear sounds from beyond. And then a voice came – a gravelly German growl that he couldn’t decipher. Keeping one eye on the woman, he moved towards the inner door.

‘Don’t go in there,’ she whispered urgently. ‘Go away and leave us alone.’

Another growl from beyond the door, this time discernible. ‘Frau Fuchs, where is lunch?’

She cupped her hands. ‘Five minutes, Opa.’

Wilde opened the door into a gloomy room, jabbing the muzzle of the M3 before him. The shutters were closed, but there was some light – the flickering of a moving image on a white canvas screen. The clicking and humming of a small cine projector was the only sound.

An old man was sitting at a large square table, laden with small objects. It was low, like a coffee table. Beyond this was the screen, which he was watching intently. It seemed to be some sort of horror film. A thin wire noose was being tightened around a man’s neck.

Suddenly, the old man turned around and Wilde saw his face for the first time. It was framed in a full, tangled beard of iron-grey. His hair was an uncombed mass of thin grey locks. He wore a pair of heavy spectacles, which he immediately pulled down his nose to get a better view of the newcomer. In doing so, he revealed his eyes – hooded, tired and icy blue.

‘Where is Bormann?’ the old man said, pulling the glasses back into place. ‘I told you to find Bormann. He is the only one who would never betray me. He will save Germany. I need him. Now!’

‘Bist du Hitler?’ Even as Wilde asked the question, he realised how foolish he must sound. What a crazy thing to ask a bearded old man in a mountain house. But not so crazy really, because of course this was Hitler. The severe downturn of the thin mouth, the slight sharpness of the nose, a forward hunch to the shoulders – all characteristics seen around the world in newspapers and films, but greatly exaggerated since the old days of triumph. Gone was the brisk Charlie Chaplin moustache, of course, transformed into a full set of grandfatherly whiskers.

But the eyes remained unchanged; the cold blue eyes.