“Jesus,” Dillon said.

Ferguson said, “You’re obviously leading up to something.”

“Yes, you could say that. In the final debacle, when everyone fled the Bunker, by some miracle she was one of those who got through the underground tunnels and finally reached the West. She was in the hands of British intelligence in Munich, interrogated and released. In 1945, she met a British captain called George Grant, who was serving in the army of occupation. He married her two years later.”

“And what happened?” Hannah demanded.

“She came to England. He was a lawyer. They never had children. According to her interrogation reports, she’d been gang-raped by Russian soldiers.”

“My God,” Hannah said. “And now?”

“Her husband died of cancer five years ago. She lives at twenty-three Brick Lane, that’s in Wapping by the Thames. You can extract anything from these things.” He tapped the computer. “It’s a three-storied terrace house that she and her husband owned for forty-five years. The way London property has gone these days, it’s worth nine hundred thousand.”

“I think that deserves another drink.” Dillon went to the Paddy bottle.

Ferguson said, “You’re telling us that we have a woman who was a secretary to Hitler in the last few months of the war?”

“Oh, yes. Marrying an English officer and all that, she just got lost, I suppose.”

“And she would have known von Berger, must have known him,” said Dillon.

“I should imagine so.”

Hannah said, “But what would she have to say?”

“God knows,” said Ferguson. “But I think it’s worth paying a visit, don’t you?”

The Daimler left first, with Hannah and Ferguson inside, and Dillon followed in the Mini Cooper. Newton said to Cook, “Follow them.”

“Which one?”

“We’ll see where it leads.”

He phoned Marco Rossi on his mobile. “Dillon went to Roper’s house in Regency Square, then Ferguson turned up with Bernstein. They’ve all come out again and we’re following.”

“Good, stay with it. The minute they arrive at any kind of destination, phone me.”

Brick Lane ran down to the Thames, a row of nineteenth-century houses on one side, mainly renovated. The front doors opened to the street, which was the only place to park. A church was on the other side – St. Mary’s – and a graveyard. By the river, a path ran beside a low wall, leading to a jetty at the far end that stuck out into the water, a relic of the old days when barge traffic called in on a regular basis. There was a shop at the end of the street called Patel’s, the kind that had prospered under Indian ownership, a general store.

At that time of the day, there was plenty of parking available and certainly in front of number twenty-three. The Daimler turned in and Dillon pulled in behind. Dillon was first out and went to the door. There was a bell push and beneath it a brass plate.

“George and Sara Grant,” he said, as Ferguson joined him.

Dillon pressed the bell and heard a dog barking. There was the sound of footsteps approaching, a bolt being withdrawn; the door opened on a chain. “Be quiet, Benny,” a voice said. A face peered out, worn and lined, very gray hair pulled back from it, above faded blue eyes, and when she spoke it was almost a whisper. “What is it?”

Hannah took over. “Mrs. Grant?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Detective Superintendent Bernstein.” She held up her warrant card. “Special Branch, Scotland Yard. This is General Charles Ferguson.”

“We’d like a word, my dear,” Ferguson told her.

There was immediate alarm on her face. “The police. What have I done?”

It was Dillon who interjected in excellent German. “Don’t worry, liebling, we’re not the Gestapo. Information is what we seek.”

“But about what?”

Every instinct told him to be honest. “About the Führer Bunker, about those last few months, and particularly about what happened to Sturmbahnführer Max von Berger on the thirtieth of April, 1945.”

“Oh, my God,” she said in German. “You’ve come for me after all these years.” But she pulled the chain and opened the door. There was a little Scottie dog running around her ankles, yapping.

Dillon picked him up and fondled him, and the dog stopped barking and tried to lick his face. The old lady said, “I don’t understand, he never takes to strangers.”

“Oh, I have a way with dogs, ever since childhood. Benny, is it?” He handed the Scottie to her. “All we want is a few words. There’s nothing bad intended, I give you my word.”

She held the dog, looked at Dillon and touched his face with her other hand for a moment, and when she spoke it was in English. “What’s your name?”

“Dillon, ma’am.”

Her eyes became vacant for a moment. “Yes, I believe you. You’re a good man, Mr. Dillon, in spite of yourself.”

Dillon almost choked and took a deep breath. “Trust me. No harm will come to you on this earth, I swear it.”

“Then come in,” and she turned and led the way along the hall.

Newton and Cook pulled in farther down Brick Lane, close to the shop. “You stay here and I’ll take a look,” Newton said and walked back to the house. Ferguson’s chauffeur was on the other side of the road, smoking a cigarette and walking to the river. Newton quickly checked the brass plate, then returned to the car. “Sara and George Grant. I’ll have words in the shop.”

A middle-aged Indian was leaning on the counter, reading the Evening Standard. He glanced up, the shop for the moment quiet.

“I seem to be wasting my time as usual,” Newton said. “Can you help me? I’m a debt collector, and I was given an Anthony Smith as being behind in rental payments on a car. I’ve come to check the address I was given. Twenty-three Brick Lane, only it’s a Sara and George Grant.”

“You’ve been had,” Patel said. “A false address. The Grants have been there forever. Mr. Grant died five years ago, Mrs. Grant lives there on her own. Nice old lady, German, actually.”

“Is that so?”

“And she doesn’t own a car.”

“Really. And German, you say?”

“Definitely. She told me her name once. Hesser – Sara Hesser. Lived there more than forty years.”

“Another wasted journey, but thanks anyway.”

Newton went back to the car, rang Marco Rossi on his mobile and explained what was going on. Rossi said, “Stay there and I’ll be in touch.”

In the sitting room at South Audley Street, the Baron was going through some papers when Marco entered. “When you told me of your final interview with the Führer, you mentioned a secretary, an SS auxiliary called Sara Hesser.”

“Is this important?”

“It is if she’s still in the land of the living and resides at twenty-three Brick Lane, Wapping.”

“You’re certain of this?”

“Absolutely.” He told the Baron of the sequence of events. “The fact that they’ve gone straight to this woman’s house speaks for itself. Thank God this Indian shopkeeper knows her well or we’d have been totally in the dark. What do we do?”

“Nothing,” the Baron said. “If the woman tells what she knows to Ferguson, he will come and see me.”

“What do you mean?”

The Baron gave him a look. “It’s time I told you something, Marco. You know of the Hitler diary, but only what I’ve told you. You’ve never read it.”

“Yes, and I’ve often wondered why.”

“Because there’s a secret in it. In 1945, the Führer entered into negotiations with President Roosevelt in an effort to promote a negotiated peace. The idea was for the Germans and Americans to turn on the Russians, to defeat a common enemy. Roosevelt didn’t buy it – but he did discuss it. Hitler sent General Walter Schellenberg of the SS to Sweden – and Roosevelt sent an American multimillionaire and senator named Jake Cazalet.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Marco said, “But that’s the name of the President of the United States.”