“And of Jake Cazalet’s father. He was a member of Roosevelt’s kitchen cabinet. Has it occurred to you how that would look? That Roosevelt, with Cazalet as his agent, actually had such dealings with Hitler? True, it didn’t come to anything, but what capital America’s enemies around the world would make of it! Cazalet would be finished.” He smiled. “I’ve held this secret for years, always certain it would eventually be of great importance.”

“It’s unbelievable.”

“So we wait for Ferguson.” The Baron smiled again. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a drink on it.”

The sitting room was crowded, not only with furniture, but with the bric-a-brac accumulated over a long life. An old grand piano stood in a corner, the top crowded with photos, some in silver frames, the largest of a handsome young man in the uniform of an army captain.

Ferguson picked it up. “Your husband?”

“Yes, that’s George. He was a military policeman. I was an interpreter. That’s how we met.” She sat down, clutching Benny on her lap. “I was interrogated, you know, by the intelligence people, about being on the staff in the Bunker.”

Ferguson nodded to Hannah, who said, “Tell us about that, Mrs. Grant.”

“There’s nothing really to tell. I was an SS auxiliary, a secretary, a typist. I was twenty-two years old. I was transferred from SD headquarters in Berlin. SD meant SS Intelligence, but I was, like I’ve told you, just a young office girl.”

“So you were there for six months? Until April ’forty-five and the final catastrophe?” Hannah asked.

“That’s right. I was a relief secretary, the most junior of all. I made the coffee, that sort of thing.”

Dillon was filled with an enormous compassion for this woman, already old and, more than that, old beyond her years, a woman who had been at the sharp edge of history, but also a woman who was lying.

“So you knew the Führer?” Hannah asked.

“Of course, but the others were far more important than me, the other secretaries, I mean.”

Hannah nodded. “And Sturmbahnführer Baron von Berger? You knew him?”

“Oh, yes.” The old lady stroked Benny’s head. “He was in the Bunker for the last three months. Wounded in Russia. He came to be decorated, and the Führer took a fancy to him, made him an aide.”

“I see. Was there anything special about him?”

“No.” The old lady said. “The last couple of days were terrible, everything was confused. Then the Führer and his wife committed suicide and we all scattered, ran for it. A lot of us went through the underground tunnels. Some of us made it. I reached the West and the Americans a couple of weeks later.” She shook her head, as if looking back into a past that she didn’t want to see. “But I went through all this with the British intelligence people all those years ago.”

Ferguson interrupted. “So you didn’t see anything of von Berger at the end?”

She shrugged. “He was there and then he wasn’t, but that was true of so many people.”

Hannah carried on. “And yet we know that von Berger escaped from Berlin in a Storch aircraft. He was a prisoner of war for a couple of years, then became a hugely successful businessman.”

“I know nothing of that. Please believe me. I was just a relief secretary, nobody of any importance.” She said almost vacantly, “I made the coffee,” and because she was old and tired and her guard was down, she added, “The Führer liked it black and not too strong. The second cup he liked with brown sugar. Of course at the end, he had the palsy. His hands shook very much and I had to pour for him. He had to lift the cup with both hands. It was very awkward when he was dictating.”

In the astonished silence that followed, Hannah said, “The Führer dictated to you? But you told us you were a nobody?”

The old woman looked at her, dazed, put a hand to her face, and Dillon, in one of the cruelest acts of his life, shouted at her in German, “Fräulein Hesser, you have been less than honest. You will speak.”

Hannah started to protest, “For God’s sake, Sean-”

But he pushed her aside and towered over the old lady. “You took dictation from the Führer, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” She was terrified.

“What kind of dictation? Explain.”

Her head shook from side to side frantically. “No, I dare not, I swore a holy oath to serve the Führer.”

Already hating himself, Dillon raised his voice and thundered at her, “What was so special? You will tell me.”

She broke then and answered him in German. “For six months each day, he dictated his diary to me.”

Hannah spoke excellent German, and Ferguson spoke enough to understand. “Dear God in heaven, Hitler’s bloody diary,” he said.

Dillon knelt down and kissed Sara Hesser on the forehead. “I’m sorry I frightened you. It’s all right now.” He hugged her. “Just one more thing. What you said about Max von Berger. It wasn’t true, was it?”

Her eyes had filled with tears. “No. He was there in the Führer’s study on the thirtieth. I was there, too. The Führer had a mission for him. To fly out of Berlin in a plane hidden in Goebbels’s garage.”

“To do what?” Hannah asked.

“Why, to save the diary. A holy book, the Führer called it. He said it must never be copied.”

Ferguson said, “The diary was completely up to date, then?”

“Oh, yes, up to that very day. I covered the last six months of the war. All the traitors, all those who let him down, accounts of everything. His attempts to negotiate a peace with President Roosevelt. The secret meetings in Sweden.”

The silence was breathtaking. “His what?” Charles Ferguson whispered.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I wrote down every word, General, and, in spite of the years, I remember everything,” which was exactly what she proceeded to tell them.

They left half an hour later and paused by the Daimler. “God, you were a bastard back there,” Hannah said to Dillon.

“He certainly was,” Ferguson said, “but it worked.”

“It was all those years ago, but the SS training never goes away,” Dillon said. “The shouted command, the harsh voice, and the response is a reflex.”

“Anyway, now we know where Max von Berger’s millions came from,” Ferguson said.

“And can’t do a thing about it,” Hannah said.

“We’re also in possession of the uncomfortable fact that in 1945, Hitler made a peace overture to Roosevelt and Roosevelt took it seriously enough to send Jake Cazalet’s father to Sweden to discuss it with Hitler’s representative,” Ferguson said.

“But, sir, if nothing came of it, does it matter?” Hannah said.

“Oh yes, my dear, it most certainly does. And the involvement of the President’s father makes it worse. The media would have a field day. Roosevelt, Cazalet and Hitler.” He shook his head. “It could do the President great harm.”

“And, at the worst, finish him,” Dillon said.

“Yes. Come on. Let’s go see von Berger.”

“I’m your man,” said Dillon, and hurried to his car.

As the Daimler drove away, Hannah said to Ferguson, “I hope the old lady will be all right, sir.”

“Yes, I’m sorry about that, but it had to be done.”

“What do you intend to say to the Baron?”

Ferguson smiled. “I haven’t the slightest idea, Superintendent.”

Newton and Cook let them leave and then followed. Twenty minutes later, Newton called. “We’re just passing the Dorchester. They’re turning into South Audley Street.”

“Fine. Hang around, in case I need you.”

Rossi switched off his phone and turned. “It would seem they intend to pay us a visit.”

Max von Berger smiled. “Well, that should be interesting.”

At the Rashid house, a maid in a black dress and white apron opened the door. Hannah said, “Is Baron von Berger at home? General Ferguson would like a word.”

“Yes, miss, you’re expected. Please follow me.”