It was said that his wife, Clover, accepted that there would always be other women in his life, and that his secretaries would often be his lovers. That didn’t mean his behaviour didn’t hurt.

To everyone else, he was charm personified.

The man was tall, athletic and handsome, with clear eyes and a dark moustache. He wore a smart grey civilian suit and tie, and the stem of a pipe was clenched between his teeth. A thin stream of fragrant smoke emerged from betwen his lips. ‘Mr Wilde,’ he said, extending his right hand. ‘How do you do?’

‘I’m well, thank you.’ He accepted Dulles’s firm handshake. ‘And honoured by your presence. Somehow I feel as though I already know you.’

‘Likewise, Mr Wilde.’

‘Were you just passing through?’

Dulles and Eaton both ignored the question, instead turning to the third visitor. ‘This is Colonel John Appache,’ Dulles said. ‘He’s with the Counter Intelligence Corps in Garmisch, in the mountains of southern Bavaria. We have flown over together.’

Wilde went through the same formalities with Appache. Shaking hands, exchanging the conventional pleasantries. Unlike the other two men, Appache was in uniform – US Army with the full-bird silver eagle insignia on his epaulettes. He was a couple of inches shorter than Dulles and seemed a few years younger. Wilde put him at late thirties. Crew-cut fair hair, good teeth and skin – typical US college kid twenty years on, a boy turned man without pausing to take breath, let alone change his style. Without any evidence, he found himself surmising that the colonel had probably played quarterback. He had the assurance and swagger.

‘Well, gentlemen, you’re obviously all here for a reason,’ Wilde said at last. These were big guns; Eaton was a senior member of MI6 and this was definitely not a social call. ‘Which one of you would like to explain. Eaton, you perhaps?’

‘This is a joint initiative, Wilde. I’m here as British liaison, so I’ll leave the initial spiel to Mr Dulles.’

Dulles pulled out his chair and sat down. ‘OK, let’s talk business.’

Wilde found himself positioned directly opposite Dulles, who had removed his pipe from his mouth and was cupping it in his left hand. The OSS chief smiled warmly at him. ‘I’ll get straight to the point. We have reason to believe that Hitler is alive and hiding out in Bavaria, southern Germany. We want you to find him.’

Wilde frowned in the echoing silence, waiting for the punchline. They had to be joking, of course. But they weren’t laughing. Perhaps he had misheard – or misunderstood. ‘Could you repeat what you just said, Mr Dulles?’

‘You heard me.’

‘I thought for a moment there you said you wanted me to find Hitler.’

‘That’s it. Got it in one.’

‘You want me to find Adolf Hitler?’

‘How many times do I have to say it? Yes, I want you to track down Hitler and bring him in. Clear now?’

Wilde burst out laughing. But he wasn’t really amused. His laughter subsided almost as soon as it began. This wasn’t funny. For pity’s sake, what were these three men doing here? He turned his gaze to the British secret service man. ‘Come on, Eaton, tell me the truth. This is some kind of elaborate joke, yes? Why don’t you slap me, wake me up . . .’