He got dressed. His move back to headquarters meant that he no longer wore a field-gray tunic but a sky-blue one instead. The trousers remained gray, as did his cap, complete with the death’s-head insignia. He had been promoted too, so now his left collar bore the three pips of his new rank, rather than the two of obersturmführer. His right collar bore the SS runes—two lightning flashes of silver braid that made men like him stand above ordinary Wehrmacht soldiers.

His belt and holster hung on the back of the door. In it was a Walther P38, which he preferred to his old Luger, which had a habit of jamming. The P38 was a lot heavier, but then it was a lot more powerful too—it must have claimed the lives of at least twelve Russians. He put the belt on, and felt the reassuring kilogram of pistol rest on his left hip. His field-gray overcoat, which also bore the SS runes and his rank, was hanging in his cupboard. It still felt a little damp from the snowstorm he was caught in yesterday evening—he should have left it out to dry. He folded it together, and draping it over his left arm went down to his breakfast of eggs, ersatz coffee and bread.

As he stepped out onto the street, it started to snow. Strasser cursed his luck—his overcoat would probably end up rotting at this rate. There was a strong wind too, which stung his face. It was still dark and it was certainly still cold—this was no morning to go to work. Perhaps he would treat himself to an evening at Kitty’s place on Giesebrechtstrasse—Leni there would cheer him up. It would cost him a fortune, but she certainly knew how to make him forget everything else.

Berlin was still waking up. As he walked, he could see lights switching on through the gaps in blackout curtains. There were only a few cars around, mostly staff cars, their dim headlights lazily mirrored in the slushy streets. Shops were beginning to open—he passed a baker’s he remembered being owned by the Taubers. As a boy, Strasser had loved eating their bagels, toasted and covered with thick brown honey. He hadn’t realized the Taubers were Jews until their shop was smashed up, and Stars of David painted all over the shop front. The Taubers had long since left—a shame, because he missed their bagels. Still, it was for the good of the Reich that they had gone, he was told, although he had found that hard to accept at first.

He reached headquarters at precisely twenty-five past seven. He recognized the two guards standing at the front doors, who spent this time in the morning permanently saluting. He saluted them back, and walked into the atrium. White columns draped with swastika banners reached eighty feet up to the ceiling. A vast marble staircase rose up at the end, with a portrait of the Reichsführer SS, Heinrich Himmler, looking down at it.